Thanks for posting even when you’re on tour! Thanks for telling us a bit of the background story - I love that there lived someone in the house before who was keen to keep it as it is and found you :-) :-)
Hope you enjoyed Copenhagen and Malmö - I know both places quite well but haven’t been there for a long time.
Too often, I hear about, what I would call sacred spaces, demolished and developed over. It’s heartbreaking. I’m delighted to know that you are keeping Arthur’s “sacred space” from becoming just another place. Wonderful. The pictures are awesome, too.
Lovely, lovely. Im reading Rimbaud for the first time & your ‘tour’ & stories & his words as I read, bring it all to life as if he lived in the present moment. Thank you.
Waiting for the pharmacy to open to get my shingles vaccine. It's been 6 months of this infection, off and on again, leaving after days of wrapping it in mud & herbs & oil. It leaves but my arm holds it's memory like the body holds the memory of trauma again and again, faded then alive, itching mad, searing pain that begins to not feel like pain because it's always there below the surface or above, bubbling oil sheened tight heads, whispering plotting against the cells that reject it. Calm down immune system guard- stand down. It's only self, not the enemy. I blow on my wrist that i just took from it's itchy mud wrap, blowing on the clock to pass along the minutes before my skin erupts again. There is an end to this moment. Everything is temporary including this body, this disease, this country, this stress, my child's drug abuse. This life outside these walls, cross the river, swim south. No barcodes on my arm before i leave, holding me back, keeping me in disease. New paths new doors; big ones, little ones, pink ones, green. It will all unravel and knot again. The trees know how to survive, how to thrive outside these walls. Walls will fall eventually but i can't wait for the dust to settle. I will stir my own dust, break my own walls, leave this slow boiled horror show. It's not set, drawn, and quartered- I'm alive and free and i will not be contained, constantly bandaging my skin, waiting for fleeting relief to salve my mind til the next bout of post-colonial breath of air before the next wave of attack rushes over my body again. Soul ratification claws from under my skin, tearing joy in a constant vigilant mantra... Don't scratch- It's all in your head- it's not real.... It is real goddammit! It's so real and so painful. This pain this body this disease this state of Kansas who wants to erase all of us trans and gender non-conformers from existence. This culture is killing me. It screams murder isolation fear pain in a cristian national suit of death. Oh no, it won't get me - i'm strong, i won't scratch. It doesn't itch, doesn't bother me, survivor rah rah rah kill you stronger makes you, makes me. Open pharmacy- i can't take it anymore must itch must scratch itch must leave country; plant veggies do art write read learn love dance with doggie but it's still there Not in my head. It is all around me; toxic sick murderous culture. boiling. hot. jump frog jump.
Bathing in Copenhagen sounds amazing- even just the sentence shows you are coming from such a different. refreshing reference point from my own. I can imagine the farmhouse even without photos. I can see it and go there in my head- i could ride my bike the 20 or 30 miles to town when i was a teenager. Maybe Rimbaud's mother did that, thought of escape instead of taking care of siblings and serving her authoritarian father. She married to get away from that life to Rimbaud's father. Who wouldn't? I can imagine being her, running away. What a reconciliation she must have had after inheriting the farm and having Arthur come home to recover and write. Amazing ritual to reuse the tragic events to create a new house of the rubble- Will we use the rubble of the past 531 years of colonial mind fuckery to create a new world? Don't buy the land, just squat with the goats. They won't ask you to leave if you are foraging alongside them, planting a garden to feed them from. They really like kale but supposedly it's not good for goats, a little won't hurt though. Grow berrries and bamboo; build a small hut out of it where you can bring your typewriter and create your next book. There is an open ended possibility of living there, weaving it through your long hair, becoming a pheasant to forage and graze.
What an education on Rimbaud and Joan of Arc. It is a relaxing stream through the bamboo to hear your vivid descriptions and generous words to bring us into your world. I breathe it deep to escape my own current existence. I could listen to you all day but the pharmacy is open now. I want to tell the 16 year old midwest bag girl at the store who asks me who Patti Smith is after reading my shirt so many things... I want to tell her that she yells to ignite the fire in peoples hearts that she nourishes young despairing ears when she sends out a video telling them not to give up, to hold on, that it will get better. How she is an icon ,a force of strength and rebellion and smashing walls of hatred. How she passes her voice and power and truth to all of us who hear her and dance joyfully to her outcries- "If i can't dance, i don't want to be a part of your revolution" ~Emma Goldman... I want to show the bag girl and the 69 year old checker pictures of Patti's words written on the walls of the Casa Azul, Frida's house in Coyocan, tell them to go there and open their eyes to art to culture to life. I would tell the young thing to get out of the country to break free. But alas, i can only tell myself that; the young one wants a quick reply as she hands me my bag of discounted produce, forcing me to say the dreaded response, ending in my telling her to "look her up".
Thank you Patti for this beautiful introduction to Rimbaud. I’ve had a hard time getting into poetry in the past but I already feel engrossed in this subject. It’s the way you tell it. I loved hearing about the land, seeing that photo of you as the happy shepherdess. Ooh, that blouse too, the colour is gorgeous. I hope you had a wonderful concert in Copenhagen.
Really enjoyed your introduction, Patti. It’s extra special to get to know him through you. It’s so lovely that you became the steward of his house and land. I hope the goats greet you next time you are there.
Thank you, Patti. I hope you have good concerts on your travels. It is wonderful how you are now the shepherd of Rimbaud's land. Thank you for the photos too.
Thanks for posting even when you’re on tour! Thanks for telling us a bit of the background story - I love that there lived someone in the house before who was keen to keep it as it is and found you :-) :-)
Hope you enjoyed Copenhagen and Malmö - I know both places quite well but haven’t been there for a long time.
I like the color of the shutters, & the stonework. How amazing the house still stands like a proud old man with head & heart full of history.
A perfect intro to Rimbaud for someone like me who is new to him.
I found a Modern Library edition of Rimbaud Complete at my neighborhood used book store! I was so excited.
Love your Happy Shepherd photo! 🕊💙📚🎶
Too often, I hear about, what I would call sacred spaces, demolished and developed over. It’s heartbreaking. I’m delighted to know that you are keeping Arthur’s “sacred space” from becoming just another place. Wonderful. The pictures are awesome, too.
Thank you for this introduction to Rimaud and for taking care of the land. What a gift to be able to listen to you x
I loved to know how you came to buy Rimbaud’s land!
Patti you are a life teacher
And so amazing
Lovely, lovely. Im reading Rimbaud for the first time & your ‘tour’ & stories & his words as I read, bring it all to life as if he lived in the present moment. Thank you.
Rimbaud was remains my most treasured French poets. I can still Recite the first page of “Une Saison en Enfer” by heart.
Waiting for the pharmacy to open to get my shingles vaccine. It's been 6 months of this infection, off and on again, leaving after days of wrapping it in mud & herbs & oil. It leaves but my arm holds it's memory like the body holds the memory of trauma again and again, faded then alive, itching mad, searing pain that begins to not feel like pain because it's always there below the surface or above, bubbling oil sheened tight heads, whispering plotting against the cells that reject it. Calm down immune system guard- stand down. It's only self, not the enemy. I blow on my wrist that i just took from it's itchy mud wrap, blowing on the clock to pass along the minutes before my skin erupts again. There is an end to this moment. Everything is temporary including this body, this disease, this country, this stress, my child's drug abuse. This life outside these walls, cross the river, swim south. No barcodes on my arm before i leave, holding me back, keeping me in disease. New paths new doors; big ones, little ones, pink ones, green. It will all unravel and knot again. The trees know how to survive, how to thrive outside these walls. Walls will fall eventually but i can't wait for the dust to settle. I will stir my own dust, break my own walls, leave this slow boiled horror show. It's not set, drawn, and quartered- I'm alive and free and i will not be contained, constantly bandaging my skin, waiting for fleeting relief to salve my mind til the next bout of post-colonial breath of air before the next wave of attack rushes over my body again. Soul ratification claws from under my skin, tearing joy in a constant vigilant mantra... Don't scratch- It's all in your head- it's not real.... It is real goddammit! It's so real and so painful. This pain this body this disease this state of Kansas who wants to erase all of us trans and gender non-conformers from existence. This culture is killing me. It screams murder isolation fear pain in a cristian national suit of death. Oh no, it won't get me - i'm strong, i won't scratch. It doesn't itch, doesn't bother me, survivor rah rah rah kill you stronger makes you, makes me. Open pharmacy- i can't take it anymore must itch must scratch itch must leave country; plant veggies do art write read learn love dance with doggie but it's still there Not in my head. It is all around me; toxic sick murderous culture. boiling. hot. jump frog jump.
Bathing in Copenhagen sounds amazing- even just the sentence shows you are coming from such a different. refreshing reference point from my own. I can imagine the farmhouse even without photos. I can see it and go there in my head- i could ride my bike the 20 or 30 miles to town when i was a teenager. Maybe Rimbaud's mother did that, thought of escape instead of taking care of siblings and serving her authoritarian father. She married to get away from that life to Rimbaud's father. Who wouldn't? I can imagine being her, running away. What a reconciliation she must have had after inheriting the farm and having Arthur come home to recover and write. Amazing ritual to reuse the tragic events to create a new house of the rubble- Will we use the rubble of the past 531 years of colonial mind fuckery to create a new world? Don't buy the land, just squat with the goats. They won't ask you to leave if you are foraging alongside them, planting a garden to feed them from. They really like kale but supposedly it's not good for goats, a little won't hurt though. Grow berrries and bamboo; build a small hut out of it where you can bring your typewriter and create your next book. There is an open ended possibility of living there, weaving it through your long hair, becoming a pheasant to forage and graze.
What an education on Rimbaud and Joan of Arc. It is a relaxing stream through the bamboo to hear your vivid descriptions and generous words to bring us into your world. I breathe it deep to escape my own current existence. I could listen to you all day but the pharmacy is open now. I want to tell the 16 year old midwest bag girl at the store who asks me who Patti Smith is after reading my shirt so many things... I want to tell her that she yells to ignite the fire in peoples hearts that she nourishes young despairing ears when she sends out a video telling them not to give up, to hold on, that it will get better. How she is an icon ,a force of strength and rebellion and smashing walls of hatred. How she passes her voice and power and truth to all of us who hear her and dance joyfully to her outcries- "If i can't dance, i don't want to be a part of your revolution" ~Emma Goldman... I want to show the bag girl and the 69 year old checker pictures of Patti's words written on the walls of the Casa Azul, Frida's house in Coyocan, tell them to go there and open their eyes to art to culture to life. I would tell the young thing to get out of the country to break free. But alas, i can only tell myself that; the young one wants a quick reply as she hands me my bag of discounted produce, forcing me to say the dreaded response, ending in my telling her to "look her up".
Thank you Patti for this beautiful introduction to Rimbaud. I’ve had a hard time getting into poetry in the past but I already feel engrossed in this subject. It’s the way you tell it. I loved hearing about the land, seeing that photo of you as the happy shepherdess. Ooh, that blouse too, the colour is gorgeous. I hope you had a wonderful concert in Copenhagen.
I just love your little messages 💕
Thank you Patti ❤️
Really enjoyed your introduction, Patti. It’s extra special to get to know him through you. It’s so lovely that you became the steward of his house and land. I hope the goats greet you next time you are there.
Thank you for your lessons - - I just love you 🥹
So cool that you have been entrusted with this house Patti! What an honor that is!🥰
Thank you, Patti. I hope you have good concerts on your travels. It is wonderful how you are now the shepherd of Rimbaud's land. Thank you for the photos too.