Well somehow your email ended up on my substack subscribers list, google magic of everyone I ever sent an email to, and to my surprise you have been reading it, so you know how I am. Surprised.
Sorry to hear about the immuno thing I had no idea. It must be hard for someone as social as you.
Just got an appointment today for April 6 jabbing.
An Italian family has sort of adopted me, they own the Italian supermarket on 20th and Edmonton with a cafe and a restaurant next door. I go there for coffee and groceries because they care for me and the hygiene is excellent, not like Kawa where they don't even wipe or bus a table.
Last time I saw you, you were there with wassiname Bob? You two ignored me. Consistently. Is he still in the picture? I had a show there while trying to make a go of it with Thayre. Bob was really friendly, hitting on her while being nice to me. But then Carol Greene warned her off, saying I was hard on women so when Carol came to my show all nice and sweet, I asked her why she would intrude in my relationship that way, what evidence did she have. She was referring to you and I, things not working out, frank conversation and willingness to compromise I felt were the working edge as they are in every relationship.
Booze didn't help, I as a non-drinker didn't want to be around it any more but then I was still recovering from the death of my wife to Huntington's and after a long miserable illness like that I was grasping at any straw for affection, even if your straw was in your bottle, so that sincere communication, companionship and sex were out of the picture, I just became lonelier, so I moved on, learned to forge a closer relationship with me, and left the bored drunk art school grad 'ladies who paint' divorcees of rich husbands to find the Bob's of the world to play with.
I don't know what motivated me to write to you, seeing your name as someone who reads my blog, and the fact I moved back in my old apartment on 11th where I lived when I met you, now to do accessible stroke recovery, I suppose. The management had a record of me and were willing to rent to me, no one else was at that time, a jobless homeless crippled man warehoused in the hospital with no family and no friends to visit. That happens when your wife dies, a lot of the relationships were hers, what with me being an introvert artist.
My local art options for friendship are few, money being the class distinction, I don't meet people at the Glencoe Club or move to my cabin in the mountains to avoid pandemics and since I don't have the local moneyed friends and family the gallery owners aren’t interested in me.
One gallery owner, that picture framer guy whose father made those awful photo-realistic eyesores, actually said to me he couldn't show me as he had his family to think about. He blamed my exposure on the net in New York showing me all over the world to millions, as a threat to his brick and mortar model making me a threat to his family, that and my reputation through Carol Greene who I have met twice, as being hard on women aka you.
I am quite the Casanova art monster killer of businesses, families and breaker of hearts. But as Leonard Cohen said, I didn't even get laid. Better to say I'm a monster than to say I'm not of the heavily boozing moneyed class and certainly not one to get introduced to family.
Smear campaigns being what they are. I believe devastating is the word for that.