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חזרה לחנותפטי סמית, המוזיקאית, המשוררת הרשמית של הפאנק והסופרת, מחברת רק ילדים המצליח שתורגם לעברית, בממואר מקורי שבו חלום ודמיון משמשים בערבוביה ויוצרים פסיפס מרתק של שנה ששינתה את חייה.
לאחר סדרת קונצרטים לכבוד השנה החדשה באודיטוריום פילמור (The Fillmore) האגדי בסן פרנסיסקו, סמית' מוצאת את עצמה צועדת לאורך חופי סנטה קרוז. משם היא נודדת במערב ארצות הברית, חווה את השינויים של מעגל החיים - אובדן, הזדקנות ושינוי דרמטי בנוף הפוליטי של אמריקה - פונה במחשבותיה למקומות זכורים מהעבר ולאתרים מדומיינים, ופותחת עשור חדש בחייה עם תקווה לעולם טוב יותר.
Following a run of New Year's concerts at San Francisco's legendary Fillmore, Patti Smith finds herself tramping the coast of Santa Cruz, about to embark on a year of solitary wandering. Unfettered by logic or time, she draws us into her private wonderland, with no design yet heeding signs, including a talking sign that looms above her, prodding and sparring like the Cheshire Cat.
In February, a surreal lunar year begins, bringing with it unexpected turns, heightened mischief, and inescapable sorrow. In a stranger's words, “Anything is possible: after all, it's the year of the monkey.” For Patti Smith - inveterately curious, always exploring, tracking thoughts, writing the year evolves as one of reckoning with the changes in life's gyre: with loss, aging, and a dramatic shift in the political landscape of America.
Smith melds the Western landscape with her own dreamscape. Taking us from Southern California to the Arizona desert; to a Kentucky farm as the amanuensis of a friend in crisis; to the hospital room of a valued mentor; and by turns to remembered and imagined places - this haunting memoir blends fact and fiction with poetic mastery. The unexpected happens; grief and disillusionment. But as Patti Smith heads toward a new decade in her own life, she offers this balm to the reader: her wisdom, wit, gimlet eye, and above all, a rugged hope of a better world.
Riveting, elegant, often humorous, illustrated by Smith's signature Polaroids, Year of the Monkey is a moving and original work, a touchstone for our turbulent times.
Venice Beach, city of detectives. Where there’s a palm tree, there’s Jack Lord, there’s Horatio Caine. I checked in at a small hotel near Ozone Avenue, not far from the boardwalk. From my window, I could see the young palms and the back entrance of the On the Waterfront Café, a good place for lunch. The coffee arrived in a white mug decorated with an engaging blue starfish floating above their motto—Where the Brew Is as Good as the View. The tables were covered with dark green oilcloth. I had to keep swatting flies away, but that didn’t bother me. Nothing bothered me, not even the things that bothered me.