November 4th
Birth passing and remembrance
November 4th has been for the last 30 years, a day of convergences of stars, fate, and faith. A day of celebration in the 70ties and 80ties. A day of mourning since. But as Allen Ginsberg once told me, there comes a time when we must turn our mourning into dancing.
November 4th marks Robert Mapplethorpe’s 78th birthday. He was two months older than me. We celebrated many of his birthdays together. Small gifts, silver skulls, roaming through the Village, lunch at the Pink Teacup, dancing to our records.
In 1986 Fred and I were recording in New York. On Robert’s 40th birthday I wrote the song Wild Leaves. Robert was waging his battle with AIDS and the song reflected my great concern for the future and how to process it. Fred and I did a small demo of it but did not release it on Dream of Life, as it seemed too mournful. Instead, we recorded Paths that Cross.
Fred died on November 4th, 1994, shortly after his 45th birthday. Much time has passed but the love and gratitude I hold for having him in my life has not diminished.
Heeding Allen Ginsberg’s advice, I try to think of November 4th, not as a day of mourning but of celebration. We walk with our people and hear them with our hearts.
Beautiful, Patti. Seeing how graceful you’ve been in your life when it comes to grief and mourning has helped me in my own journey with grief and loss. You are truly a gift.
Dear Patti,
When I was seven, my mom received a copy of Just Kids as a Christmas gift from her longtime friend, Erik Friedman, who had become like an uncle figure to me. She has always been one to rip a present open–whereas I have always been gentle to not tear the paper, slowly peeling back the tape– as she uncovered the gift, I caught a glimpse of the image of you and Robert, immediately drawn to it. I don’t think she gave the book a second glance, instead giving it a home in the bookshelf in our kitchen, where it mingled for a while with her art history textbooks and novels in her native-tongue; but in my curiosity I couldn’t let it collect dust.
I kept finding myself opening the glass doors and reaching for it, feeling the weight of the memoir in my chubby hands. I memorized the cover, a photobooth square of you and Robert, and would look over my shoulder before placing a kiss on your black-and-white faces, frozen in youth. Carefully thumbing through the chapters, I inspected the words forming sentences that I was yet to comprehend, until reaching a stray photograph or art piece; becoming overwhelmed with the urge to eat the pages to allow them to live inside of me, to cradle them in my child-stomach. It was sacred to me, akin to a bible, and I wanted to be selfish, to keep this secret prayer to myself. Sometimes, though, my desperation would win and I would bring the book to my mother, timidly suggesting that she read it, hoping that through her I could gain insight— an umbilical cord, from her eyes to my swallowed paper stomach. Waving me off, she remained glued to the television as I retreated to my room, slipping the book under my shirt.
The months and years dragged on, there would often be an empty space in the bookshelf, like the gap in my gums after losing another baby tooth, and I worried some passing body would take notice, unearthing my secret. I devoted myself to reading– grocery lists, billboards, gossip magazines, milk cartons, gravestones– and my teachers rewarded my efforts, leaving higher level books on my desk each week. Despite this, my hunger for Just Kids couldn’t be sedated and I sat dutifully, tracing each sentence with my finger until the summer before I turned twelve, where it finally began to take real form.
Making my way through the book once didn’t satisfy me, I couldn’t help but keep returning to it. Slowly, through my adolescence, the book became my north star. I let the words guide me, let the ritual of rereading the familiar chapters become my prayer, developing into my own personal religion. I carry your words with me everyday, not just in my heart but also on my arm– a tattoo of a black lamb with two stars.
When I met the great love of my young life, I felt us reflecting the love of you and Robert, and for the first time I wanted to share the holy text with someone. Finding a copy of Just Kids in Urban Ore, a salvage yard in Berkley, I set to work– annotating the book to give as a parting gift to her, as we were separating at the end of that summer. I knew I could entrust the religion with her, that through it she would not only see me at my most pure form, but also see herself and where we intertwined– between ourselves and with you/Robert. During our final week together, I scored 3 tickets to your show at Stern Grove Festival in San Francisco. It felt as though everything was aligning– I pocketed my own ticket and gave one each to both my love and Erik, who had inadvertently put me on this path that 2010 Christmas morning. We covered the dirt with a picnic blanket and settled down onto the hill, surrounded by redwoods but still quite miraculously in the sun, as you welcomed the crowd.
I recently turned twenty-one, I have lived in Stockholm for the past year and am soon moving to Paris. My first thought when receiving the job opportunity in France was a recollection of your own trips there, of which I've traveled through you. The job, an au pair position, provides me with a great deal of downtime during the day and I took it hoping I could dedicate my time to writing. I have always written in some form, most notably my substack, and I am now beginning to work on my first book. You and your work have influenced me heavily, not just my own writing, but also my overall being.
Thank you, Patti.