Aftershow Diaries

Chapter III

Rimbaud Led Me Here 

Written in Paris — August  18, 2026

Nina Naskidashvili

It’s 37° Dante’s Inferno heat in Paris, people are fanning themselves, my David Bowie tee shirt is sticking to me. I am outside of Shakespeare and Co with 2 of her books, mostly the reason is to say hi and maybe shake hands.

— “We are sorry, but Patti plays the show tonight and she’s been signing way too long, we have to cut the line” —

I am sad for a moment, but then I remember that I will still see her later the same evening and I smile in a sneaky way.

She came out, it was the first time I ever saw her in my life, she said bye and thank you to everyone — silver-haired Pocahontas.

An usher escorted us towards the seats at the Folies Bergère, dimmed lights, everyone awaits patiently. I was excited to see that we were sitting right up front.

I had travelled alongside her through her books — from Coney Island to the ruins of Saint-Laurent in French Guiana, all the way to Rimbaud's tomb in Charleville. Thrilled that it happens at the right place, right time, in this ancient opera house created by Plumeret — the books, the obsession with music, I am here, we are in the same room, breathing the same air.

I asked myself to concentrate on storing this memory at a special place, but also much lost in the moment — breathing in her voice, making a movie in my imagination out of it, from her books and poetry. I often think of the album “Coney Island” by Lou Reed when I think of her life together with Robert Mapplethorpe, and it reminds me of my first frozen margarita there, during my first trip.

Hearing “Dancing Barefoot,” her voice radiating immense energy and warmth, makes me question how anyone can not be touched by her music?!. Then there’s “Revenge,” which is raw and vulnerable, cuts right through me. She’s wearing a poetic white linen shirt, kind of sun-kissed jeans and a black jacket that could absolutely belong to Rimbaud.

Jim Morrison led me to Rimbaud, Rimbaud had led me to Ginsberg, Ginsberg to Patti, and suddenly there I was, sitting a few metres from her at the Folies Bergère.

I could feel the temperature changing in the room as she began to read — “Everything Is Holy,” “Footnote to Howl.” Jazz of poetry.

Of all the songs, “The Crystal Ship” found its way directly to me — a beautiful, unexpected homage to the Lizard King. I wasn’t prepared for it.

Later at the Hoxton, the bar was still open, but barely, the service seemed more interested in closing the night than extending it. Patti's voice is still somewhere in my head. but so was Morrison. Jim led me to Rimbaud, Rimbaud had led me to Ginsberg, Ginsberg to Patti, All those strange roads that had somehow brought to this night, to her.

Rimbaud led me here.