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mallorys_cameraDreamed I’d been tapped to be part of the leadership cadre for some absolutely fabulous group that was going to save humanity.
I had absolutely no idea how I’d been tapped to be part of this group except then someone told me, Oh, So-and-so read that article about the Well that came out in The New York Times last week and said, Her! She’s the one you want.
Part of saving humanity involved having long meetings in a series of detachable chambers that were scattered like boxes all across the fabulous countryside. The chambers all had these enormous beds and glass walls, and I remember looking at one and thinking, Well, this is very inconvenient. How can you have sex with those glass walls? Everyone will be peering in.
There was a lot more to the dream. A whole subtext in which I wanted to take a vacation from being a leader but part of being a leader involved owning a lot of dogs, and I was anxious because nobody could love or care for the dogs like I could.
Also, Jean-Luc was in the dream. And his teeth were all black and abcessed.
So, Patti Smith…
I’m not exactly sorry I went. But punk has never been my thing, so I can’t say I enjoyed her performance. And I certainly did not enjoy the drive there and back through a dark and stormy night that made familiar roads look and feel like byways into zombie apocalypse.
It occurred to me when I took the wrong turn off one of those awful Kingston roundabouts and got stuck for five miles on an unfamiliar road, and the half-moon taunted me through the clouds, that I could have stayed home where it’s warm and dry and has Christmas lights and just imagined what it would be like going to a Patti Smith concert.
And maybe next time I will.
But I liked Just Kids a lot.
And Patti Smith is an icon! (Maybe one or two of the carbon dioxide molecules she exhaled during her enthusiastic performance coulda made it into my lungs, right?)
Plus I feel duty-bound to support all famous Pattis and Pattys and Patricias and Patrizias in every public endeavor! I will be first in line when the murder movie about the eeee-vil Patrizia Gucci (played by Lady GaGa) comes out! Solidarity, sisters in name! (Note that I do not extend that same support to Pats.)
Actually, you know, the most interesting thing about Patti Smith is not that she’s a punk icon who hung out with Robert Maplethorp in his formative years (a photographer about whom I feel highly ambivalent), or fucked Sam Shepard (a playwright about whom I feel highly ambivalent), or held Allen Ginsberg’s hand while he was dying (a poet about whom etc. etc.) but that for all her much-vaunted fiery, independent spirit, when she got married, she entered into the most traditional, submissive relationship with her husband you could possibly imagine.
That’s actually something I’d like to know more about.
###
On the venue today:
Finish the damn Remunerative Project. (I came oh-so-close yesterday. But it still needs about an hour and a half of work.)
Finish and send Stegner Fellowship application.
Tromp.
Go food shopping.
Clean the Patrizia-torium in preparation for upcoming flu shot/COVID booster double whammy malaise.
I had absolutely no idea how I’d been tapped to be part of this group except then someone told me, Oh, So-and-so read that article about the Well that came out in The New York Times last week and said, Her! She’s the one you want.
Part of saving humanity involved having long meetings in a series of detachable chambers that were scattered like boxes all across the fabulous countryside. The chambers all had these enormous beds and glass walls, and I remember looking at one and thinking, Well, this is very inconvenient. How can you have sex with those glass walls? Everyone will be peering in.
There was a lot more to the dream. A whole subtext in which I wanted to take a vacation from being a leader but part of being a leader involved owning a lot of dogs, and I was anxious because nobody could love or care for the dogs like I could.
Also, Jean-Luc was in the dream. And his teeth were all black and abcessed.
So, Patti Smith…
I’m not exactly sorry I went. But punk has never been my thing, so I can’t say I enjoyed her performance. And I certainly did not enjoy the drive there and back through a dark and stormy night that made familiar roads look and feel like byways into zombie apocalypse.
It occurred to me when I took the wrong turn off one of those awful Kingston roundabouts and got stuck for five miles on an unfamiliar road, and the half-moon taunted me through the clouds, that I could have stayed home where it’s warm and dry and has Christmas lights and just imagined what it would be like going to a Patti Smith concert.
And maybe next time I will.
But I liked Just Kids a lot.
And Patti Smith is an icon! (Maybe one or two of the carbon dioxide molecules she exhaled during her enthusiastic performance coulda made it into my lungs, right?)
Plus I feel duty-bound to support all famous Pattis and Pattys and Patricias and Patrizias in every public endeavor! I will be first in line when the murder movie about the eeee-vil Patrizia Gucci (played by Lady GaGa) comes out! Solidarity, sisters in name! (Note that I do not extend that same support to Pats.)
Actually, you know, the most interesting thing about Patti Smith is not that she’s a punk icon who hung out with Robert Maplethorp in his formative years (a photographer about whom I feel highly ambivalent), or fucked Sam Shepard (a playwright about whom I feel highly ambivalent), or held Allen Ginsberg’s hand while he was dying (a poet about whom etc. etc.) but that for all her much-vaunted fiery, independent spirit, when she got married, she entered into the most traditional, submissive relationship with her husband you could possibly imagine.
That’s actually something I’d like to know more about.
###
On the venue today:
Finish the damn Remunerative Project. (I came oh-so-close yesterday. But it still needs about an hour and a half of work.)
Finish and send Stegner Fellowship application.
Tromp.
Go food shopping.
Clean the Patrizia-torium in preparation for upcoming flu shot/COVID booster double whammy malaise.
