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Wednesday, Feb 24, 2021 Last update: 01-06-21
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Dali and me 1-21
We were having tea, Dali and I, at Rumpelmayers ice cream emporium on 59th street facing the park with its elegant tea tables, silver pastry trays. The trendy spot for debutants and over educated children. Yes, Salvador Dali the Spanish Surrealist painter, I and another decorative young adventurer-artist of indefinite sexual identity.

Dali liked an audience, of beauty and danger, preferably the adoration kind. It gave him a kind of buoyancy that self-acknowledged talent knows it deserves.

His distinctive moustache, dress, speech, and black cane animated the corner we were sitting in. Although I don’t remember the conversation, I vividly remember the energy of that afternoon.

His wife Gala’s invisible presence seemed to fill the room. Her mental strings, as seen in his paintings, pulling on the oddball vanity and harmless exposure that I was participating in.

The theater of Dali was on point inside this chapel of European sweets and marrons glaces.      

We were anointed with his charm.

Before departing, I was rewarded with a small card with his imprimatur on it.
A tiny flourish to my or was it his appreciation.
Thinking of its future value, I placed it in my library. I have yet to find it.

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