There was a time when things mattered so much more.  I could convince myself that living in coffee shops and pubs was the most important part of my work, because it was there that I could have the most essential conversations.  These would be the kinds of talks that fueled my energy to get back into the cave I lived in and work until all hours of the morning.  It was a hard and furious work, because I thought I was supposed to be hard and furious.  I had all sorts of philosophical questions that were always running at full speed from the back to the front of my mind, all day and all night, and I perceived myself like the Hermit card in the tarot deck, always looking for answers in a very lonely search.

It’s hard to trace back to those days, when I’m finding myself spending more time at the best restaurants in Manhattan, enjoying a moment that passes, and not feeling like it’s up to me to chase it.  I don’t have to capture the conversation in any kinds of permanent mental pictures that will help me get the moment back later, when I’m creating.  The words still come, of course, and inspirations still flow through me like I’m always just waking up from a dream that I can still remember.

I met the most curious person in my life at the time when things were at their peak for me.  I thought it was a peak, because everything I made came to some kind of light, on paper or in another conversation.  He looked like a mad poet, and he spoke like an angel, but he surprised me when I discovered he truly had no plans.  Or at least, no master plan.  He could perform tricks with napkins and cards, and all the women were enchanted, and all the men were jealous.  But he had another card, a secret card, that was an invitation to a Magic Theatre that I’d never seen.  But once I walked through that door, nothing would ever be the same.