It feels good

I must admit it feels good to be back in Painterland.  I've been busy the last few days, and they were fun, but this is the place I call home.  This is where I sit at the big table and Vincent sits across from me, and James Whistler to my left, and Matisse and Picasso to my right.

Anyone of them could be sitting anywhere really.  They do not move around though.  There is a lot of drinking going on, though there are those who never drink,  there are a few chess games that are happening.  And there is me, embarrassed to be here at all with these geniuses,  I'm just sitting here and I feel like I am in heaven -I am glad to be here -I know I am a defalcator, a confidence man...

And I know they know it too.   -but they just don't care.  There is too much to drink and to eat, and marvelous arguments going on about nothing.   I am glad to be invisible in this grand company, just to listen and to watch.

And once in a while someone will stop and talk with me for a minute or two, be it Max Ernst or Andre Breton, Robert Rauschenberg, or Juan Miro.  I find them all charming, all flattering, even though the comments may not be so flattering.  They are all interested in images, in the shaping of perception, in the recall of memory.

And though I can be here only a minute or two before it all fades away in the morass of responsibilities and duties,  this visit has been golden for me.  Thank you my friends for having existed, for having lived in this world, some even concurrently with me.   Thank you for all you have created.