Why is that when a person is all screwed up, not knowing what's in front of him let alone in back of him, there's a line of men begging for a date? But when he opens his eyes, sees things, including himself, for what they truly are, there's not a decent man in sight?

I went to the park to read Rilke's LETTERS TO A YOUNG POET before starting a new painting. I had left my canvas blank on my easel in the kitchen with only the stripes of sun creating an image, had opened but screwed the cap back on, and left the commotion of the painting, the sun, and the crimson for letters, shade, and solemnity in the park.

I was lonely and wanted to revel in my solitary affair. My fantasy quickly ended as I approached the dog-infested park. I started to leave, but before I could completely turn away, a Rottweiler approached me and started trying to hump my leg as if I was a pink poodle. At least he wasn't biting. Finally, I heard someone scream weakly, "Alexander, Alexander... goddamn it...Alexander." A gray hared man, not someone you would presume to have a Rottweiler, pulled the dog away from me.

"I'm so sorry," he said, trying to control his dog as he was dragged away by the four-legged bully.

"You need some help!" This was not a question.

Now I could see he was about sixty-five and could easily be hurt, so I took hold of the leash. I engaged my domineering voice and demanded for Alexander to heel. Fortunately, he obeyed.

"Oh, thank you. My name is Frank and my irresponsible twit of a brother left this Kong of a dog for me to take for the weekend. He said it would be no problem, but I've never been so abused."

I laughed, which at first took him off guard, but then he could see I was laughing at his charm. "Can I help you home with him?" I offered.

"Oh, would you please? I think I would actually start to cry if he got away from me one more time."

We walked to his house, which was a large post-modern box. Gray, like his hair, and squared. All the angles were straight and when I tumbled inside with Alexander, I couldn't believe my eyes. A Liechtenstein welcomed me into the hallway and as I came around the corner, original Warhols cluttered the TV room walls. More and more modern art was found in all the rooms. Sculptures of all sized decorated the hallways, including several Calders. I turned to him, "Who are you?"

"Frank DeAbello. A one time artist who realized he was bad so he started collecting." This comment scared me. The whole deal scared me. I had to go. I clearly liked this man, but he was sixty-five and an art collector. If I asked him for intimacy, surely I would be construed as using someone again, and wouldn't I be? It was time for me to be honest with myself. I only saw advantages to getting to know this man and that had to be wrong.

To his surprise and disappointment, I quickly excused myself.

As I walked home, my own disappointment could not go unnoticed. I wasn't quite sure what I had done wrong, but my soul was clearly saddened.