A year ago in mid February, I held hands with the rock goddess and bohemian poetry legend Patti Smith. It was midway through a show at the Arlington Theater in downtown Santa Barbara, halfway through my last year at college. Patti had sung her way through some of Horses and some of Banga, tantalizing us with every raspy word, and then came down off the stage into the crowd and lovingly, motherly embraced the hands and arms and bodies of her people wailing at her.
Women were sobbing and reaching out for lengthy hugs, while men leaned forward to grip hands as if to say thank you. Her presence at our peasant audience level at eye level was equal parts overwhelming and comforting. We were a sea of Patti’s people, awaiting a tangible grasp of genius that we could take back home and nurture forever.
I was seated towards the back, but right on the aisle, so when the time came and immediately after she had been hugged by an old woman with hair down to her feet, I reached out for those hands, and I was gripped back. My hand was sweating with nerves and excitement and general anxiety, and Patti squeezed them with the hold of a mother taking a child to their kindergarten classroom. (Or at least that’s how my euphoric self perceived it.) She slipped away after a few seconds, and I held onto her pointer finger until she moved farther down the aisle, embracing more of her contingency.
It was a moment of honor and euphoria, and one that made me feel spiritually connected to this lanky lady in leather from that day forth.
~
I decided to make it a habit to go to a bookstore at the beginning of each week in a new city, just to skim around the local literary fare and make use of accessible wifi. In Madrid, I was directed to La Casa de Libres, a three story bookstore on calle de bilbao with panoramic windows and a kid section with a bright purple floor.
I spent thirty minutes there skimming book titles and authors, and was disappointed to not find any english translation books alongside spanish counterparts. Mi Vecino Cervantes didn’t have an english version, nor did Es Resplendor by Stephen King. But Fifty Shades of Grey proved plentiful, in italian, english, and german. (Ugh.)
I skimmed and I scanned, picking up art books featuring Carvaggio and Titian works (oil paintings are a universal language!) and snaked over to the music section. The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan biographies laid there in spanish, nestled next to a giant square hardcover: Patti Smith Mis Mejores Canciones.
Patti is wearing that white oversized men’s shirt and is pulling at a piece of cloth meant to be a tie, and her hair is chopped in a messy bob. She is all at once stunning and masculine, in the way she pulls off so well. I opened the book, expecting spanish words.
I found spanish words.
Alongside english ones. 258 pages of lyrical poetry – Patti Smith’s whole catalogue of songs – translated beautifully in both languages and layered side by side.
A book for me to read at last! Of course it would be written by the goddess.
~
“Little sister the sky is falling
I don’t mind I don’t mind
Little sister the fates are calling on you,” she said in “Kimberly.”
To read my take on the Patti Smith concert circa February 2015, go here.
2 Responses
Janelle
What a great read! I might just adopt your policy of going to a bookstore whenever I am in a new city as well.
admin
It’s a great lowkey way to spend a morning in a new city! And it doesn’t cost a dime.