Julian Schnabel and Ian Schrager

I spent a couple of nights with my lover at the Gramercy Park Hotel, NYC, Schrager’s collaboration with Julian Schnabel — painter, filmmaker, now, interior designer. I found the space intriguing. What was it — dark, deeply scented of burning...

Rather lonely here, noting the stacking of messages from me. I’ll leave it at that, then. Reach, if any needs allow, for aid; reach, if any calls are heard, to offer it. I’ll practice what I preach. wishing warmth, all >...

Expansions in wandering . . . notes to a friend

Out there, a heron calls its rattling, croaking call, which reaches far back in time — a sound so distant in the symphony of the world that, perhaps, it recalls the auditory recoil of the time of the dinosaurs. Water drips from the madrona, old gnarled curling...

Crossroads

Isn’t it so that every movement is the nexus of a crossing guard? One element, one lover, comes to an other — and they twine, rooted. One path way, one road, to another and there is some thing new, seen There, at the point that this crossmark signs, the...

been there, done

Hi and good morning. An intense week — surely for all. I was just here, in the office — seems like. And now I’m back again. Actually, my plane was late, about 10.30pm, the police came on the jet — and NOT for anything to do with me, as I...