Clarke performance events this fall in which I will be reading my prose poem “Arthur and Patti”: Now that he is dead, I am staging a series of Arthur C.
Clarke, the legendary science-fiction writer, was in residence at the Chelsea hotel all the time I was there. But we never spoke about it afterward or at any time in the future because in fact we never spoke.Īrthur C. An artist, he must have known that 3 was my magic number and made the connection. Someone introduced me to Freud, only it turned out he’d added that u for effect. Over the next two years, I met so many legends as they passed through that magical lobby. Said he needed it to seal his wife in her coffin, just in case she was hoping to testify against him. After I’d finished with that stapler, Bill Burroughs wrenched it from my hand. I asked the guy at the desk for a staple gun and used it to tattoo an image on my neck of a fallen angel. Inspiration was in the air, and it smelled a bit like vomit, only sweeter because they used air freshener. This was what it must have been like to hang out with Michelangelo in the famous Renaissance Hotel, only with a whole lot more time for self-expression. In the center, man-magician Jimi Hendrix setting his Gibson Flying V guitar on fire, the flames ceremoniously licking at the plaintive, dejected, lonely, angry butt of Grace Slick. In the slow-going elevator, Janis Joplin making out with Leonard Cohen, and Leonard busily taking notes. By the desk, William Burroughs, gun in hand, taking a piss into somebody else’s upturned umbrella. Just about any artist who had ever lived was there. Walking into the lobby of the Chelsea hotel, it felt like coming home.
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