Patti Smith, Virginia Wolf, Dessa, Some of the Women Who Write.

“The habit of writing thus for my own eye only is good practice. It loosens the ligaments.”

I recently discovered Patti Smith.  Of course, I have know of her for a long time.  Thought she was some punk rocker.  Had no idea about her life experiences, the fact that she actually knew some of the artists I have been obsessed with at various of my life like Allen Ginsberg.

Reading her talk about her beloved black coat - given to her by an artist, poet friend who did not have a birthday present for her - I wonder, was the friend Ginsberg?  

Birthday present.  I read her comments on turning 66.  Think about Buz Murdock and the road.   I smile, I remember Buz Murdock and how much I loved that TV show as a kid even.   Route 66 - Patti thought about route 66 as she turned 66.  I am turning 66 - finding that paragraph about her thinking of turning 66 made me smile. 

Back to the black coat.  Patti talks about putting on her black coat birthday present and taking her notebook and pen to her favorite cafe to write.  I get it.  I too want to wear my favorite cloak, coat, sweatshirt, sweater and go to my favorite coffee cafe with my notebook.  

The quote above is from Virginia Woolf  and is self explanatory.  I too have a habit of writing for my own eye and it may be that no one ever reads any of this. 

Even as I often thrash about the need to write something of substance I do continue to write in my Morning Pages paper notebook, this blog,  a OneNote book and Dairo.   Is that enough?  All seems so inconsequential and without purpose.  

You've already been here before, you know how this goes.   Dessa.  Another women of songs, poems, my chaconne.  Rhythmic pattern repeating, deeply moving and comforting.  We live chaconnes and quietly see, observe from afar.  But close enough to fade in, but above the fray.  How the tides rise, the wind blows, the trees sway.  Part of, embedded in my chaconne. 

A North Dakota junction.  It seems familiar.  I remember, I see the two lane blacktop, hiway a dark ribbon through the summer burnt tawny prairies, hills, bluffs.  A Bodmer landscape.  I a part of, it felt right, affinity, but not sure why.   What made Joni remember that junction?  Soundtrack of my life, our lives.   I can see it so clearly, feel the hot August sun.  Always hot and dry when I was there.  But I know can also be stark, bitterly cold.  Now I think of Father Damien, pressing the snow, to wash - really a woman. 

Where are all of these women?  I have known, know wonderful, powerful clear eyed, old souled women.  Real and created by other women, magical.  I have missed them, forgotten them though they are never far away.

I could list them, name them knowing they are part of me, the fabric that covers me, holds me up, is a tent in the wilderness.                       

So I write because all of the women I have known do, or are part of the story.