Smith Patti - Acid for the Children: A Memoir

Certain names and identifying details have been changed, whether or not so noted in the text.

Copyright 2019 by Michael Balzary

Introductory poem, Innocence, copyright 2019 by Patti Smith

Cover design by Albert Tang
Jacket photograph by Elaine Berkovitz Cunningham
Cover copyright 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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First Edition: November 2019

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Manimal
Words and Music by Darby Crash and George Ruthenberg
Copyright 1979 Crash Course Music
All Rights Administered by BMG Rights Management (US) LLC
All Rights Reserved Used by Permission
Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC

Beverly Hills
Written by Roger Dowding and Keith Morris
Published by Irving Music, Inc./Plagued Music

Lyrics from the song Yes, Yes, No by Thelonious Monster used with permission from Bob Forrest

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ISBNs: 978-1-4555-3053-3 (hardcover), 978-1-4555-3052-6 (ebook), 978-1-5387-5128-2 (signed edition) 978-1-5387-5129-9 (special signed edition), 978-1-5387-5130-5 (special signed edition)

E3-20190917-DANF

Always and in all ways, infinite thanks to my infinite girls, Clara and Sunny, who taught me what love is.

*

Dedicated to my sister Karyn, a better writer than I will ever be.

**

To Kurt Vonnegut Jr. I apologize for the semicolons.

I love you all

You little gray horizon

You little cold wet feet

You little whooshing car

You little creeping bobcat

You little cold and hollow wind

You big breaking wave

I breathe you in

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Innocence

in a pitiless hand, may fall as a dying leaf

yet fate laid a finger upon a swaddled babe

born on the Australian mainland

from the tree of life he sprang, a wild thing

light-footed, kinetic, a twist of sweet breath

that for good or bad, magnified limb on limb

he cooed, baited and fished with his father

then plucked, flew above the River Yarra

to America, to Rye, dream catcher rumbling

signing the sky, dusting himself off, towering

providence assigned him an instrument

that in his hands formed a spectral voice

a color wheel spinning out of control

then returning, as a boomerang returns

to its burning center, its creative heart

the leaves of his life did not die but sang

page by page ciphers tracing the young

caravan, the raging backdrop, the litany

of faces blessed in the name of music

once in a vision there were bonfires blazing

he danced around them, dressed in his ages

innocence to experience, hungry for it all

flea the child, the devouring adolescent

with open arms, in a frenzy of gratitude

-patti smith

E thiopia, I yearn for you, I aspire to you, to feel you again reminding me who I am and what I am for. Your common sense reducing me to a sobbing wreck, tears of relief, a river of caring flowing down my tired cheeks. The smell of Ethiopia, of khat leaves, dust, and coffee, filled me up as soon as I arrived, satiating and reviving me, making me full of emotion and clear of vision to see the most beautiful people Ive ever seen. Their houses breathe fire, their food heals you from the inside out, and their music (the thing that brought me there) makes one little Flea lurch out of his chair and vibrate like a hummingbird. Descending into ancient churches carved out of subterranean stone, then boarding a bus with a group of fellow musicians, riding through the open hilly countryside, laid out on the roof of that bus, eyes full of sky rushing by, hills growing to and fro, and women with buckets on their heads sashaying to the rhythm of their lives. Ethiopia embraced me, kept me safe, danced with me, and gave me coffee and cake.

During an adventure there in 2010, my friends and I found ourselves in a small church, down a dusty road in the town of Harar. Three elderly women sat upon a modest stage, colorful fabrics draped over the landscapes of their dark wrinkles of age, one holding a tambourine, the other two with their clapping hands, they percussed and sang for us, the songs they have sung for a trillion years, from the birthplace of humanity. They sang without thought, like breathing, they calmly accessed the deepest connection to spirit, their music echoing around the room, funky and hard as I could ever imagine. I was so moved by them, absolutely blown away by how good it felt, and the organic beauty of the situation. After they finished, a young woman amongst our group, Rachel Unthank from the north of England, stepped up to sing an old traditional English folk song. She sang it crystal clear and true, it was so fucking deep, and my river widened and strengthened even more as I felt the truth of my purpose reaffirmed once again, the strength of these two different cultures expressed so profoundly through the highest of human endeavors.

Like the moon looking down upon us without judgment, with that maternal and melancholy Mona Lisa smile, the elderly women looked on with bemused countenances. For them, the heart-wrenching beauty of Rachel Unthank, which awoke my spiritthat was normal. People sing. But those resounding voices reminded me of who I was, for what purpose I existed, and the beauty of it leveled me. Tears are not a sad or happy thing, they mean you care. Im a wimp who cries too, so be it.

All my life has been a search for my highest self and a journey to the depths of spirit. Too often distracted by the competitive world, and tripping over my own foolish ego feet, but driven by the beauty, I keep trying, and I stay the course, trying to let go and feel the truth of the moment. This burning thing inside has kept me always curious, always seeking, yearning for something more, always on the endless search to merge with infinite spirit, using whatever tools are available, and it has taken me into wild situations in my life, including bizarre and self-destructive places, cuz I have not been able to understand it or control it. However, it burns and burns, and I learn, I learn. My greatest hope is that, as I am compelled forward, this book will be an integral part of my journey. I have no choice but to let the wild inhaling and exhaling of the godzzz push me relentlessly ahead, and to always surrender, come what may, to the divine and cosmic rhythm, on and on, to the break of dawn