A couple of comments on my last post generously avoided dumping on me for not liking most of today’s popular music. I will take that as a gentle gesture of gracious avoidance and will do the same for you.

I listen to Fresh Air, the Terry Gross interview program on NPR. I download it to my iPod and listen as I walk. Recently she had on Patti Smith, who was a good, close friend to Robert Mapplethorpe, with whom she once had a relationship before he chose his gay self as the way to go, but they remained fast friends to the end. When Mapplethorpe lost his lover to aids (I forget this name), Smith wrote a song to comfort him and the song became a solace to many grieving gay men as they lost their own dear ones and it was played at many a funeral, something Smith had not anticipated.

Then Terry played the song and I couldn’t understand one word. I had wanted to relate to this song for my own historical reasons but Patti’s singing style got in the way. Terry had played several other songs so I knew Patti’s style was bombastic but I expected to at least relate to the content, if it had only been clear to me. Patti herself gives a great interview, is centered, intelligent and articulate but I can’t relate to her music. That’s a good reason why I would think twice before accepting a pact with the Devil to be 18 again. Eighteen in today’s world? What would I say? Who would I talk to? Talk about LONELY.

This reminds me of a Halloween party I attended a year after Jay died. I wore my White Witch outfit with white make-up, theatrical eyes, wig, etc., and white/silver ballet clothes, silver shoes, silk cape, broom with glitter, my true age totally masked. Several foxy young men crowded around me and I was speechless. How, I thought, am I going to pull this off? I gently excused myself before I could put my mature foot in it.

Then Terry and Patti discussed Mapplethorpe’s photos. He had done some very brutally explicit photos of sado-masochistic subjects including mutilation/torture of male genitals. Patti at first was distressed but, when she let go of her personal aversion to brutality, realized they were brilliant. I won’t, however, go looking for them so as to perhaps hang a print on my guest room wall for those visitors you never want to see again. Well, come to think of it, perhaps I’ll get just one and drag it out when I need it.

Yes, indeed, when it’s time to go, I may well be ready. (Strike that. I’ll live on a desert island if I have to.)

xx, Teal