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| Wedding Day ~ 1980 |
Café ‘Ino
“My yearning for him permeated everything – my poems, my
songs, my heart. We endured a parallel existence, shuttling back and forth between
New York and Detroit, brief rendezvous that always ended in wrenching
separations. Just as I was mapping out where to install a sink and a coffee
machine, Fred implored me to come and live with him in Detroit. Nothing seemed
more vital than to join my love, whom I was destined to marry.”
Changing Channels
“I changes your batteries, I say pleadingly, so change
the damn channel.”
Animal Crackers
“Returning to my room, I bundled up and had tea on the
balcony. Then I settled in, giving myself over to the likes of Morse, Lewis, Frost,
Wycliffe, and Whitechapel – detective inspectors whose moodiness and obsessive
natures mirrored my own.”
The Flea Draws Blood
“He journeys until
he collapses half starved in a square where a benevolent widow of a famed
violinist rescues him. She tends to him and slowly he regains his health. In
gratitude he makes himself useful. One evening the young man watches her as she
sleeps. He senses her husband’s priceless violin buried in the pit of her
memory. Deeply coveting it he picks the lock of her dreams with her own
hairpin. He finds the concealed case and triumphantly holds the glowing
instrument in his two hands.”
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| Patti Smith with her dad Grant |
“My father claimed that he never remembered his dreams,
but I could easily recount mine. He also told me that seeing one’s own hands
within a dream was exceedingly rare. I was sure I could if I set my mind to it,
a notion that resulted in a plethora of failed experiments. My father
questioned the usefulness of such a pursuit, but nevertheless invading my own
dreams topped my list of impossible things one must one day accomplish.
In grade school I was often scolded for not paying
attention. I suppose I was busy thinking about such things or attempting to
untangle the mystery of an expanding network of seemingly unanswerable
questions. The hill-of-beans equation, for example, occupied a fair portion of
second grade. I was contemplating a problematic phrase in The Story of Davy Crockett by Enid Meadowcroft. I wasn’t suppose to
be reading it as it was in the bookcase for third graders. But drawn to it I
slipped it into my schoolbag and read it in secret. I instantly identified with
young Davy, who was tall and gangly, telling equally tall tales, getting into
scrapes, and forgetting his chores. His pa reckoned that Davy wouldn’t amount
to a hill of beans. I was only seven and those words stopped me in my tracks.
What could his pa have meant by that? I lay awake at night thinking about it.
What was a hill of beans worth?”
Clock with No Hands
“If I write in the present yet digress, is that still
real time? Real time, I reasoned, cannot be divided into sections like numbers
on the face of a clock. If I write about the past as I simultaneously dwell in
the present, am I still in real time? Perhaps there is no past or future, only
the perpetual present that contains this trinity of memory. I looked out into
the street and noticed the light changing. Perhaps the sun had slipped behind a
cloud. Perhaps time had slipped away.”
“Not all dreams need to be realized. That was what Fred
used to say. We accomplished things that no one would ever know. […]
when I found I was pregnant we headed back home to Detroit,
trading one set of dreams for another.
Fred finally achieved his pilot license but couldn’t
afford to fly a plane. I wrote incessantly but published nothing. Through it
all we held fast to the concept of the clock with no hands. Tasks were
completed, sump pumps manned, sandbags piled, trees planted, shirts ironed,
hems stitched, and yet we reserved the right to ignore the hands that kept on
turning. Looking back, long after his death, our way of living seems a miracle,
one that could only be achieved by the silent synchronization of the jewels and
gears of a common mind.”
The Well
“My brother and sister and I were born in consecutive years after the end of World War II. I was the eldest, and I scripted our play, creating scenarios that they entered wholeheartedly. My brother, Todd, was our faithful knight. My sister Linda served as our confidante and nurse, wrapping our wounds with strips of old linens. Our cardboard shields were covered in aluminium foil and embellished with the cross of Malta, our missions blessed by angels.”
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| Linda,Todd, Kimberly and Patti Smith; Kimberly is younger than Patti by 10 years |
“My brother and sister and I were born in consecutive years after the end of World War II. I was the eldest, and I scripted our play, creating scenarios that they entered wholeheartedly. My brother, Todd, was our faithful knight. My sister Linda served as our confidante and nurse, wrapping our wounds with strips of old linens. Our cardboard shields were covered in aluminium foil and embellished with the cross of Malta, our missions blessed by angels.”
Wheel of Fortune
“The train ride was uneventful, with no Alfred Hitchcock
special effects. I reviewed my plan. I desired no major experience save to find
fair lodgings and the perfect cup of joe. I could drink fourteen cups without
compromising my sleep. […] I sat at one of the small round tables and lifted
two fingers. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but the men all did it with happy
results. I wrote incessantly in my notebook. No one seemed to mind. The next
slow-moving hours could only be described as sublime. I noticed a calendar
tacked over a sack of overflowing beans marked Chiapas. It was February 14 and
I was about to give my heart to a perfect cup of coffee. It was presented to me
somewhat ceremoniously. The proprietor stood over me in wait. I offered him a
bright smile, grateful smile. Hermosa, I said, and he smiled broadly in return.
Coffee distilled from beans highland grown, entwined with wild orchids and
dusted with their pollen; an elixir marrying nature’s extremes.”
How I Lost The Wind-Up Bird
“I got a message from Zak. His beach café was open. All
the free coffee I wanted. I was happy for him but hesitated to go anywhere, as
it was Memorial Day weekend. The city was deserted, just the way I like it, and
there was a new episode of The Killing
on Sunday.”
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| 2014 with Haruki Murakami |
Her Name Was Sandy
“In Mid-November I flew to Madrid […] I was sitting at
the bar, having lukewarm coffee and a bowl of marinated beans warmed in
possibly the first microwave ever made, when I realized some guy had sidled up
to me. He opened a well-worn oxblood wallet to reveal a solitary lottery ticket
with the number 46172. I didn’t get the feeling it was a winning number, but in
the end I paid six euros for it […]
When I got back on the bus a few passengers told me I
paid too much for my ticket. I told them it didn’t matter and if I won I would
give the money to the dogs of the region. I’ll give the prize money to the
dogs, I said too loudly, or maybe the gulls. I decided the winnings were for
the birds, even as the people were discussing how the dogs would righteously
spend it.
Later at my hotel I heard gulls screaming and watched as
two of them plunged toward the recesses of the tilted crown of the great roof
outside my terrace. I believe they were conjugating or whatever bird fucking is
called, but after a while they were silent, so either they were satisfied or
had died trying. […]
The winning lottery number was in the morning paper. Nothing
for the dogs or the birds.
- Do you think you
paid too much for your ticket? I was asked over breakfast.
I poured some more black coffee, reached for some dark
bread, and dipped it into a small dish of olive oil.
- You never can
pay too much for peace of mind, I answered.”
Vecchia Zimarra
“Leaves are vowels, whispers of words like a breath of
net. Leaves are vowels. I sweep them up hoping to find the combinations I am
looking for.”
Mu
“I had yet to settle on the books I would take. I went
back into the basement and located a box
of books labeled J – 1983, my year of Japanese
literature. […] I traced my son’s scribbles on the endpapers of a library copy
of Yoshitsune, and reread the first
pages of Osamu Dazai’s The Setting Sun,
whose fragile cover was adorned with Transformer stickers.
I finally chose a
few books by Dazai and Akutagawa. Both had inspired me to write and would serve
as meaningful companionship for a fourteen-hour flight. But as it turned out I
barely read on the plane. Instead, I watched the movie Master and Commander. Captain Jack Aubrey reminded me so much of
Fred that I watched it twice. Midflight I began to weep. Just come back, I was
thinking. You’ve been gone long enough. Just come back. I will stop traveling.
I will wash your clothes. Mercifully, I fell asleep, and when I awoke snow was
falling over Tokyo.”
“Do not cast your
boat on a river of tears”
Tempest Air Demons
“I had no books to read and there was no in-flight
entertainment for the five-hour flight. I immediately felt trapped. I flipped
through the airline magazine featuring the top-ten skiing resorts in the
country, then occupied myself with circling the names of all the places I’d
been on the double-spread map of Europe and Scandinavia.”
“Nothing can be truly replicated. Not a love, not a
jewel, not a single line.”
“We want things we cannot have. We seek to reclaim a certain
moment, sound, sensation. I want to hear my mother’s voice. I want to see my
children as children. Hands small, feet swift. Everything changes. Boy grown,
father dead, daughter taller than me, weeping from a bad dream. Please stay
forever, I say to the things I know. Don’t go. Don’t grow.”
Road to Larache
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| with Paul Bowles, in Tangier, Morocco, in 1997 - photo by Tim Richmond |
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| at Jean Genet's graveside, in Larache Christian Cemetery, Morocco - photo by Lenny Kaye |
Covered Ground
“ The sky was clear save for a few drifting clouds, and I
followed them back to northern Michigan on another Memorial Day in Traverse
City. Fred was flying, and our young son, Jackson, and I were walking along
Lake Michigan. The beach was littered with hundreds of feathers. I laid down an
Indian blanket and go out my pen and notebook.
- I am going to
write, I told him. What will you do?
He surveyed the area with his eyes, fixing on the sky.
- I’m going to
think, he said.
- Well, thinking
is a lot like writing.
- Yes, he said,
only in your head.”
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| Jackson and Jesse Smith, at their paternal grandfather's funeral in Detroit - photo by Patti Smith |
How Linden Kills the Thing She Loves
“Stunned, I can only bow my head. I meld with the racing
mind of Holder desperately trying to interpret her actions, foresee her future.
My empty thermos remains by the bed wrapped in the ominous atmosphere of
episode 38. It is not long before I am confronted with the cruelest of all
spoilers: there will be no episode 39.
The Killing
season is over.”
Valley of the Lost
“Some things are called back from the Valley.”
“Some things are not lost but sacrificed.”
“Do our lost possessions mourn us?”
“Why is it that we lose the things we love, and things
cavalier cling to us and will be the measure of our worth after we’re gone?”
The Hour of Noon
“We seek to stay present, even as the ghosts attempt to
draw us away. Our father manning the loom of eternal return. Our mother
wandering toward paradise, releasing the thread. In my way of thinking, anything
is possible. Life is at the bottom of things and belief at the top, while the
creative impulse, dwelling in the center, informs all.”
“I believe I am
still the same person; no amount of change in the world can change that.”
“Home is a desk. The amalgamation of a dream. Home is the
cats, my books, and my work never done. All the lost things that may one day
call to me, the faces of my children who will one day call to me. Maybe we can’t
draw flesh from reverie nor retrieve a dusty spur, but we can gather the dream
itself and bring it back uniquely whole.”
M Train © 2015 Patti Smith
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| photo by Claire Hatfield |
“Mine is the M train that I perpetually ride. It’s more for mental train, mind train. It’s—we all have it, you know, our continual train of thought.”
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| Gone Again (album cover - photo by Oliver Ray) |
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| Patti and Fred Smith |
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| Patti and Fred 'Sonic' Smith |
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| Willows, Saint Clair Shores- photo by Fred Smith |
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| polaroid photos by Patti Smith |
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| 1980-94 (22501 Beach Lake St Clair Michigan) |
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| Jesse Smith and Jackson Smith with their mum Patti |
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| Jesse and Patti Smith |
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| Fred |
Frederick
Hi hello awake from thy
sleep
God has given your soul
to keep
All of the power that
burns in the flame
Ignites the light in a
single name
Frederick, name of care
Fast asleep in a room
somewhere
Guardian angels lay
abed
Shed their light on my
sleepy head
High on a threshold
yearning to sing
Down with the dancers
having one last fling
Here’s to the moment
when you said hello
Come into my spirit are
you ready let’s go
Hi hi hey hey maybe I
will
Come back some day now
But tonight on the
wings of a dove
Up above to the land of
love
Now I lay me down to
sleep
Pray the Lord my soul
to keep
Kiss to kiss, breath to
breath
My soul surrenders
astonished to death
Nights of wonder
promise to keep
Set our sails channel
the deep
Capture the rapture,
two hearts meet
Combined entwined in a
single beat
Frederick, you’re the
one
As we journey from sun
to sun
All the dreams I waited
so long for
Our flight tonight so
long so long
Bye bye hey hey maybe
We will come back some
day now
But tonight on the
wings of a dove
Up above to the land of
love
Frederick, name of care
High above with sky to
spare
All the things I’ve
been dreaming of
All expressed in this
name of love
© 1979
Farewell Reel
(This little song’s for Fred)
It's been a hard time and when it rains, it rains on me.
The sky just opens and when it rains, it pours.
I walk alone, assaulted it seems by tears of heaven,
And darling I can't help thinking those tears are yours.
The sky just opens and when it rains, it pours.
I walk alone, assaulted it seems by tears of heaven,
And darling I can't help thinking those tears are yours.
Our wild love came from above, and wilder still is the wind that howls like a voice that knows it's gone, ‘cause darling you died, and well I cried, but I'll get by,
Salute our love and send you a smile and move on.
So darling farewell, all will be well and then all will
be fine,
The children will rise strong and happy be sure,
Cause your love flows and the corn still grows
And God only knows we're only given as much as the heart can endure.
But I don't know why, but when it rains, it rains on me
The sky just opens and when it rains, it pours.
But I look up and a rainbow appears like a smile from heaven
And darling I can't help thinking that smile is yours
The children will rise strong and happy be sure,
Cause your love flows and the corn still grows
And God only knows we're only given as much as the heart can endure.
But I don't know why, but when it rains, it rains on me
The sky just opens and when it rains, it pours.
But I look up and a rainbow appears like a smile from heaven
And darling I can't help thinking that smile is yours
“since I was little, all I wanted to do was fall in love
with somebody, my main thing in life was to have a boyfriend who I loved and
who loved me […] The hardest work you can do is to achieve a wondrous union.”
(1979
in a conversation with Todd Rundgren)
My Madrigal
We waltzed beneath motionless skies
All heaven's glory turned in your eyes
We expressed such sweet vows
Till death do us part
We waltzed beneath God's point of view
Knowing no ending to our rendezvous
We expressed such sweet vows
Till death do us part
We waltzed beneath motionless skies
All heaven's glory turned in your eyes
You pledged me your heart
Till death
do us part
© 1996
