One Indian summer day we dressed in our favorite things, me in my beatnik sandles and ragged scarves, and Robert with his love beads and sheepskin vest. We took the subway to West Fourth Street and spent the afternoon in Washington Square. We shared a coffee from a thermos, watching the stream of tourists, stoners, and folksingers. Agitated revolutionaries distributed antiwar leaflets. Chess players drew a crowd of their own. Everyone coexisted within the continuous drone of verbal diatribes, bongos, and barking dogs.
We were walking toward the fountain, the epicenter of activity, when an older couple stopped and openly observed us. Robert enjoyed being noticed, and he affectionately squeezed my hand.
“Oh, take their picture,” said the woman to her bemused husband, “I think their artists.”
“Oh, go on,” he shrugged. “They’re just kids.”
——
Just finished “Just Kids” by Patti Smith.
I teared up many times reading this book for many different reasons. Either because it was so touching, so inspiring, honest, her words so beautifully capturing and describing people and places that have influenced me greatly… then … at the end … I cried for Robert, for Patti, for their love, for the loss. In the middle of a café in Brooklyn I just all out bawled and left, forgetting the rest of my americano.
Such a raw treasure and a well-written treat. An account of true life.
