This be the story what changed my whole life — some background info here might prove enlightening:

'Twas the summer of 1984, and I had been working my ass off as the Head Buyer for the "World's Largest Art Supply Store" in Soho, NYC. The "environment" at Pearl Paint Company was just a shade shy of the Schmata Business (otherwise known as the "rag trade" or more generously as the "Garment Industry" — a notoriously cutthroat and "creative" business). To give you an idea, my boss would routinely offer me the benefit of his wisdom — when I was first finding my feet in the buying business, in order to provide me with confidence, he attempted to communicate to me that, as the head buyer for the world's largest art supply store, that I had some clout in negotiations with sales representatives. His way of communicating this was to tell me that "Hey, dey'd blow ya in Macy's winda if you askt 'em to!"

My work days there were consumed with staring at big, fat binders filled with green ledger pages that were, in turn, filled with the names of thousands of products, and inventory and order numbers for each product. Row upon row of products, column upon column of inventory, order, inventory, order. On 1/2/84 we had 12 of this, I ordered 5 more, now I've got 10 in 2/4/84's inventory -- how much to order this time? Write it in the next column and move on to the next product. Hundreds upon hundreds of products. Those are the aforementioned binders behind me in this pic of me in my domain:

It was tedious work — mind-numbing and unrewarding. If not for the free (or heavily discounted) art supplies and the meager salary, I could not have survived my life in Manhattan.

Before long, I knew I needed a way to get the hell out of the city on my days off, in order to maintain sanity. And so, when I was offered a beautiful Honda motorcycle for $600, I bought it in a... well a New York minute!

When vacation time came around, it was time to take my first big bike trip. I packed up my crap and rode off into the north country, up the coast, first to Boston to see a cousin there, then up the Maine Coast, eventually across to Vermont to see another cousin, then up to Montreal and finally back to NYC again, where I promptly tendered my resignation and enrolled in college to finish first my Bachelor's degree, then my Master's.

The following story was largely responsible for my decision to make such radical changes in my life. It was written near Bar Harbor, on the beautiful, serene Maine Coast. I pulled around a curve and spotted a deserted beach that somehow called to me. I parked the bike and hiked down a short cliff to an outcropping of rock that seemed like a good place to sit and chill for a while. I indulged in a puff or two of "the substance" I just happened to have in my bag and just sat for a while. I pulled out my little red, faux leopard-skin notebook and began to write. First thing I wrote that day is posted here.

I, sadly, was a smoker at the time, so I lit up a legal one, and saw a man come walking around the northern curve of the coast with two old dogs. What you are about to read was an entirely imaginary encounter I had (I should say imagined having) with that man.

The very moment I finished writing the line "I work with numbers like my father before me," I almost fell off my rock! It is difficult to explain the impact that the realization of what I had written had on my poor, tired mind. It was like the line leapt off the page, into my head and back through my hand to the page again, into an infinite, shrill feedback loop, a hall of mirrors in my mind. Suffice it to say that the realization of having written that, and the sheer, naked truth of it was simply as profound as anything I've experienced before or since in my life. I still don't remember writing the last lines of it, but, there they are.

And nothing has been the same ever since.

Well, that's a whole lot of introduction - a lot longer than the story! It's a simple little thing, but it changed my life. -g

The old lumbering oaf of a dog has to drag its back half along with little cooperation. His master looks up when he sees me coming.

"Why are you smoking here, boy?"

"Well, sir, it's a hard life in the city - it's hard to get away from it."

"So you brought some of it here?"

"Inadvertently, yes."

"Well, take a look, son. Your not there now."

"Thank you, sir. I know you're right. What are you doing? Digging mussels out of the tidepools? Is that how you make your living?"

"Do you always think about everything in terms of dollars and cents?"

"Yes, sir. I suppose that I do. I work with numbers, like my father before me."

"Well, to answer your question, no. I'm just gathering a little dinner."

"What's it like to live around here?"

"It's a quiet life. Serene, you might say. Wife and I've got a little place over that ridge. Can see the islands from up there. Got a large garden and the ocean for food. Oil lamps, wood heat, entirely self sufficient. No lawyers, no doctors, no mortgage left - all paid off. Very very few numbers."

"Sounds unbelievable. What do you do for culture?"

"I read - a lot. I'm a sculptor."

"Oh yeah? What medium?"

"Wood mostly, wood and sometimes assemblage with found materials."

"Representational?"

"Sometimes, son, but mostly internal imagery."

"Don't you ever want to show?"

"Son, I think you've been in the big city for too long. Dollars and sense, dollars and cents. Look, son: I do my art for myself and my wife. For me, that is enough."

"I envy you."