Voy a ser sincera: esta entrada no es objetiva, me es imposible serlo con el libro de Patti Smith, Just Kids. Y me es imposible porque me encanta Patti Smith y si escribiera algo más que estas líneas, sonaría a panegírico. Sólo decir que el libro vale la pena por lo honesto e intenso, por ese olor a New York en los setenta y por esa juventud aventurera y creativa que podemos ser. Me encantaría tener el libro de Judy Linn ahora, caerá tarde o temprano.
We were walking towards the
fountain, the epicenter of activity, when an older couple stopped and
openly observed us. Robert enjoyed being noticed, and he affectionately
squeezed my hand.
"Oh, take their picture, "said the woman to her bemused husband, "I think they're artists."
"Oh, go on," he shrugged. "They're just kids."
Inside it he inscribed a few lines of poetry, protraying us as the gypsy and the fool, one creating silence; one listening closely to the silence. In the clanging swirl of our lives these roles would reverse many times.
He transformed a ring of keys, a kitchen knife, ot a simple wooden frame into art. He loved his work and he loved his things. He once traded a drawing for a pair of riding boots (...).
I was both scattered and stymied, surrounded by unfinished songs and abandonded poems. I would go as far as I could and hit a wall, my own limitations, and then I met a fellow who just gave me his secret, and it was pretty simple. When you hit a wall, just kick it in.
Will you write our story? Do you want me to? You have to he said no one but you can write it. I will do it, I promised, though I knew it would be a vow difficult to keep. I love you Patti. I love you Robert.
