This book I'm reading

is called "Just Kids" by Patti Smith. Did you know she was deeply involved in love with Robert Maplethorpe? It is so beautifully written, complex and simple juxtaposed against each other. The union of style and subject is breathtaking. The prose is one long poem.
Right now, which is of course long ago, they are living at the Chelsea hotel in a period of extended magic. I have seen the Chelsea from the outside, getting a ride from my Dad after spending the weekend with him in New Jersey, back to my apartment in Manhattan. As we drove through Chelsea, I knew where we were but didn't-my father was born with the ability to negotiate the streets of Manhattan via car while I was only able to travel with confidence on foot-I told my father that this was the neighborhood I hoped to move into. Because it is lovely and calm and exciting and perfect, graceful and restrained. I had nothing but confidence that it was in my future, so comfortable did I feel in my murky plans of wanting to.

Now, though I have no direct desire to live in Chelsea, I feel that exact same thing. Complete confidence in my murky plans of wanting to. It is impossible for me to articulate what it is I actually want or if my future happiness depends on my application and commitment to action or in the systematic reduction of desire. Yet I sit reading in my basement bedroom in Lewiston, Idaho, a place two years ago I did not know existed without a feeling of contentment but with complete confidence in my murky desires.