I am a man of the world, having had, by an estimate I once made, more than fifty-four women and having visited more than twenty-five countries. I can say that I have seen women undress themselves in every way that it can be done. I have watched the curtains part on every variation of the final act. And yet, only a small number of women have enticed me by merely removing their sandals.
A byproduct of traveling internationally is that, by default, I am exploring the way people communicate and interact. When am out in the Latin Quarter in Paris or the barrio of Lavapies in Madrid, am dealing with other languages, different ethnicities and cultural codes and norms than those that I am accustomed to, despite my proficiencies in certain languages. Some time ago, when I first began networking and trying to expand my creative horizons beyond New York city, I thought words were the most important thing. After a chance encounter in Paris with a lovely Moroccan woman in Châtelet, spending 48 hours with her, winding our way in conversation utilizing French, Spanish and English (with her adding Arabic into the mix just so she could laugh at my blank-stare response) I now know words are not at all that important. There is a universal language that hearts whisper to one another, at a frequency that human ears cannot detect. Sometimes I find people who I feel are really close to my heart, and it's not because of the words we have spoken to one another...
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