Pardon my pride . . .

Lucky me, I am privileged to wear the insignia of the Village Natural without fear of persecution just because I am an artist. People tend to make allowances for much foolishness and many strange contortions and comical pratfalls when they know that one is cursed and/or blessed with the uniquely kinked P.O.V. of the creatively imbued. Non-sequiturs may fill the air like a flock of misfired shuttlecocks and gimcrack ideas being flung about cause ten-man pileups from mental whiplash, and yet all is forgiven–or at least shrugged off with a certain amount of paternalistic tolerance. I am happy to accept the adulation and well-meaning condescension of those who, collectively, constitute my fan base and oddball support groupies. This is, in fact, my due after the long years of toiling in secret at mystical labors whose total output, howsoever prolific, sparkling, scintillating, cashmere-comfy and glorious it may be, will cure nothing direr than ennui, save no one but from the disaster of blank pages, and solve no conundrum greater than to confirm-or-deny one’s concept of his favorite color. I accept the obeisance of the (albeit sparse) masses, because I like my work and because I believe in pointless beauty. Shouldn’t everyone?