Was it '90, '93? Even during peak tourist season, Versailles is a place where time is almost transparent, those powdered wigs and minuets still linger uneasily within its finely manicured grounds. Funny thing about time (at least as we understand it), one day you're drinking brews with your buds, the next, it's twenty, thirty years down the line and (if you're one of "the lucky ones") you find yourself doing whatever it is you happen to be doing.
Someone once asked Miguel Pinero (a compatriot of mine who lived a much harder life, and frequently rose to much greater heights) how he'd like to be remembered, and he replied something to the effect that once they got past his life, he just wanted people to read his stuff and say, "Ya know, that motherfucker could write!" I long ago abandoned any idea of fame and fortune, but I'm still not past the occasional daydream where a few of my images somehow, someway survive to the end of the century and unto someone's hand or screen, and with a wry smile on his or her face, some future denizen of this planet proclaims "This fucker had an eye."
Hey- it's my daydream.