Before all this began, there was December of last year when I wanted to be Arthur Rimbaud and I stood in the corner of a bookshop, where I was becoming a ghostly regular reading a ‘Season in Hell’ and wondering what it would take as carols played soft on the radio. It was Christmastime.
Rimbaud did this once to me before. He brought about a resurgence a few months ago after I read ‘Credo En Unam’ which feels like some erie song of the Gods and we humans living as mirrors of each other. I seek to know Rimbaud as many have done before me. Patti Smith and Dylan. So I stand in the lobby like Patti did in my own Chelsea Hotel among the ghosts and its crimson walls at Christmastime.