I just finished reading Patti Smith’s Just Kids. Like literally five seconds ago. If I don’t write about it now, I’ll never write about it. It don’t think it made much of an impression on me. Although last night, I had a dream that I was watching Patti Smith give a poetry concert in some kind of long, empty hallway. I’m just kidding about the hallway. I wrote that to sound more dramatic. All that I can remember from the dream is that I was there. She was there. The space we were in, twenty minutes after I’ve woken up, is now empty. That’s how it goes with dreaming for me.
In any case, Just Kids, in case you haven’t read it (and you probably have, I feel like everyone but me has), is about Patti Smith, and her relationship with Robert Motherwell. I just wrote Motherwell.
But I meant Mapplethorpe.
It’s kind of a sweet slip.