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.
(Photograph of Lisa Lyon by Robert Mapplethorpe chosen because I just saw an exhibit of his work at MALBA, along with my first Argentinian hipsters. Claps all around.)
Commence GCHAT conversation with Rony regarding selling part of your body to buy an apartment in Buenos Aires…
Rony: hey there
may I ask you an ignorant question, pls?
me: yes, of course
Rony: why don’t women sell their eggs?
why is it so expensive?
me: it’s like a lot of hormones
Rony: I’ve never understood that
me: you have to “harvest” them
it’s really Gattaca and disgusting
Rony: ie scrape them out
me: you have to do hormone treatments for like 6 months
me: and they make you act like a lunatic
Rony: I want my sister to do it
I will arrange it all
and act like an agent / pimp
and take 40% commission