Friday, January 30, 2015

The Psyche of Patti Smith

After my day in Chicago I packed up the puppet and we were on our way back to New York city. The flight was short and sweet, the apartment seemed happy to see us, and the place feels more like home every day. My vast number of journeys last year earned me some flight privileges that I took advantage of: to travel with two very heavy bags so I could bring back a number of books. I unpacked, ordered dinner, and promptly passed out so I could begin my next three-day week.

Which also included Patti Smith.

A few months ago on my computer.

“Sara, this is happening.” Link to Patti Smith concert in New York.

“Excellent.”

“We should go. Let’s go.”

“Okay, I’ll buy a ticket.”

I buy a ticket.

“I have a ticket. Do you have a ticket?”

“Not yet but I am going to get one!”

I shake my head. Oh, Psyche, how I adore you, dream of you, love you desire you –distant muse, sweet friend, a strange companion who cannot be changed by time or distance. You are neither less nor more, but just who you are, always, never ending, Psyche. Someday we will both be dust, but somehow whatever it is that is the bond between us will still be that.

A few weeks before the concert.

“I bought a ticket”

“Just now? The show is in like three weeks!”

“I know. But aren’t you glad I remembered?”

“Actually, I’m pretty surprised you remembered, I admit it.”

“I’m so excited, I’ll see you there!”

The day of the concert.

“I forgot my credit card that I used to by my ticket.”

“Okay?”

“They won’t let me into the show unless I show the credit card?”

“Dude, what?”

“I’m going to have to buy another ticket!”

“Dude, what? Just call the theater it will be fine.”

“Tickets are 200 dollars now. I don’t know what to do.”

“Call the theater and get on the freaking train.”

“Okay, I don’t know what to do!”

Sigh. I love that woman.


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