Patti Smith

my favorite angel

I saw Patti Smith last night. She stood, hand on the mic, hip rocking forward and back and forward. Glowing nimbus halo of white hair cascading into braids that looked alternately witchy and childlike. She growled, she grinned, she spat. She hooted, she howled, she crooned. Her hands gestured like doves. She was a seventy-eight year old woman who embodied all her past selves: punk poet, muse, lover, mother. She wore a flappy black vest, an iconic white t-shirt, an oversized black jacket, stompy boots. She looked badass and unconcerned with sex appeal, while frankly sexual, that rocking hip said, I still know what the night is for.

She held our fragility and strength in her voice. She sang about our longings for healing, peace, our fears for the future, our pain, our desire to make a better world. Her kids were there, the ghosts of her past loves were there, and we were there, witnessing, much of the audience also grayheaded, heading into the later stages of our lives, and she singing us, broken and strong all the way.

Sketch from when I saw her read in 2015…

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