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Patti Smith and Projections of Art.

Last night I couldn’t sleep. I laid in my bed watching the light from the street lamps outside flow into my room, projections of art being displayed on my ceiling and walls. I read before bed to calm myself from the day of interacting with girls who are struggling every moment to be better people. They inspire and frustrate within the same breath.

My room is small but mine with artifacts displayed that were once my parents’ or grandparents. I have an inspiration wall with a newspaper clipping about Robyn Davidson, the woman who trekked across the Australian desert with three camels and a dog she loved and then wrote about it in National Geographic. Then there is Frida and an old picture of my grandparents when they were young. My grandpa an artist, my grandma strong in a navy blue calf length skirt and white blouse tucked in. I think it was taken in Italy. A poem by Mary Oliver with the last line “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with this one wild, precious life.” And then there is a painting by a Turkish artist. I stumbled into his gallery in an ally with cobblestone streets in Istanbul and fell in love with his art, but more with his lifestyle.

I am reading Just Kids by Patti Smith. Last night she described the Chelsea in New York, her home for a minute. She described the moment when she was surrounded by Jimi Hendrix and artists of that stature and she realized she was not intimidated but felt she was one of them. And I understood. And I was so excited to think of the people I surround myself with and feel inspired. I’m not sure if I am expressing myself well. But there was this feeling as I lay in my patterned sheets, getting excited about my life as a writer. Because that is what I am in my small room off of Broadway looking at my past on my walls. In the slight light from the lamps outside my windows, I cut out a picture of Patti Smith and taped each corner of it on my beige wall with Robyn, and Frida, and Mary Oliver, and Gene and Dorothy Bruno. And there was a feeling of content, thinking “Ok I know what I have to do.” And I fell asleep under the projections of art on my ceiling.


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