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Transcription: [00:31:56]
{SPEAKER name="Patti Smith"} Oh just sit there, I mean I'm not much of a. You can just sit there. We'll just.

{SPEAKER name="David C. Ward"} Ok, oh.

{SPEAKER name="Patti Smith"} I don't really have the proper technology, but that's ok.

[00:32:13]
{SPEAKER name="Patti Smith"} Um, so uh, this little song is a lit, a song I writ when I was, um, feeling unappreciated, was before I won the national book award. [[laughter]] And uh, but at the same time as I was feeling a little down, you know, my mind was already computing all the, you know, thing, ways in which I'm lucky. And one is, is this thing, I like the way you talk about it, this flow. I have had, you know, you know, I've had the, the desire to work, to produce, to write, to think, to explore, since I was very young child and that's its own reward. So, I thought about William Blake, and how this man, with all his gifts and everything he gave to us, uh, was also, a um, a victim of the industrial revolution. Here he was, uh, such a beautiful engraver, hand-colorer, doing the beautiful books, one by one, songs of innocence and songs of experience and on and on. At a time when the printing press is invented, and they can do thousands. And he becomes obsolete almost overnight. So, William Blake the poet, the painter, the activist, um, uh, the engraver was nearly forgotten in his lifetime. Had very little success and died poverty stricken. But he maintained his vision, he did his work and he did it with, uh, a certain amount of joy to his last breath. So, I think he's a very good example.

[00:34:07]
{MUSIC}

[00:34:16]
{SPEAKER name="Patti Smith"} [[SINGING]] In my Blakean year, I was so disposed toward the mission yet unclear. Advancing pole by pole. Fortune breathed into my ear obey the simple code. When road is paved in gold, when road is just a road. In my Blakean year, such a woe was schism. The pain in my existence was not as I envisioned. Boots that tramp from track to track, worn down to the sole. When road was paved in gold, when road was just a road. In my Blakean year, temptation, yeah the hiss. Just a shallow spear, roamed with cowardice. Brace yourself for bitter flack for a life divine. A labyrinth of riches never shall unwind. The tears that bind the pilgrim sack are stitched into the Blakean back. So, throw off your stupid cloak, embrace all that you fear. Cuz joy will concur all despair

[00:36:35]