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Rating: Until 10 days ago, I didn't know who she was or that there was a writer named Kathy Acker, then I discovered she was also a poet, musician, and screenwriter, but those are other stories; let's stick to the first definition.
While searching for something else, I stumbled upon one of her books, downloaded it, and read it while my wife was shopping at “Kiabi” for our grandchildren, and I stayed parked in the car waiting to then head towards “Pittarello” where she would squander more savings on several newly arrived summer shoes for herself and her sister with my credit card…
Her real name was Karen Lehman Alexander, she was born in New York, and the new surname she took from her first husband at only 19 years old, while from her second husband (musician and composer) ten years later, whose last name was Gordon, I don't really know what she took from him… I only know that she eventually died in Tijuana from breast cancer, she was fifty years old.
It's said that her narrative style was strongly influenced by William S. Burroughs, and indeed, reading this very short book, which consists of about fifty pages, one can see that (as long as you've already read something by Burroughs, of course).
In short, Kathy catapults us into a New York dated 1979 where, in a few moments and a few pages, we relive situations seen through the eyes and frenzies of a rather messed-up girl, where among drugs, prostitution, nighttime paranoia, she is in constant search of some sexual satisfaction accompanied by tenderness that she seeks out and insistently requests from an old love of hers, namely a high and well-endowed saxophonist with latent erections, how it will end, you will only find out by reading it ça va sans dire.
I only know that during that reading, zot I let myself be drawn in to the point of entering and exiting those lost rooms where jazz, punk, sex, and various powders filled them for a few or many fleeting moments and nothing...
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