high on rebellion


what i feel when i'm playing guitar is completely cold and crazy. like i don't owe nobody nothing and it's a test just to see how far i can relax into the cold wave of a note. when everything hits just right (just and right) the note of nobility can go on forever. i never tire of the solitary E and i trust my guitar and don't care about anything. sometimes i feel like i've broken through and i'm free and i could dig into eternity riding the wave and realm of the E. sometimes it's useless. here i am struggling and filled with dread – afraid that i'll never squeeze enough graphite from my damaged cranium to inspire or asphyxiate any eyes grazing like hungry cows across the stage or page. inside i'm just crazy. inside i must continue. i see her, my stiff muse, jutting about in the forest like a broken speeding statue. the colonial year is dead and the greeks too are finished. the face of alexander remains not solely due to sculpture but through the power and magnetism and foresight of alexander.

the artist preserves himself. maintain his swagger. is intoxicated by ritual as well as result. look at me i'm laughing. i am lapping cocaine from the hard brown palm of the bouncer. i trust my guitar.

therefore we blackout together. therefore i would wade thru scum for him and scum is ahead but we just laugh. ascending through the hollow mountain i am peeking. we are kneeling we are laughing we are radiating at last. this rebellion is a gas which we pass.

em Babel, Patti Smith, G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York, 1978