I FEEL Compelled TO WRITE TO YOU,

Blog to you, whatever the case may be, to hopefully bring to your attention, that a certain fraud has been enacted upon me, against me, or you, us, whomever. Like a lost scene from Orson Wells seventies film essay ‘F is for Fake’, I feel I’ve been drawn into an elaborate deceit by a man I assumed to be a good friend.
Allow me explain. In 1977 or early 78, I don’t recall exactly, Jan Galligan (the appointed so called leader of Workspace) and I headed to Manhattan, (setting out from Albany) in his yellow (was it a Ram) van on one of our, by then, regular weekend art junkets. On this occasion, according to verifiable sources for I don’t actually recall this myself, we dragged along friend/musician/composer Jim Sande (sorry Jim) and planned to sleep on the floor, as was the usual, of the writer/photographer Robert Sietsma’s east 14th St. tenement apartment (between C and D near the old ConEd power station and just a few doors from the best bialy shop west of Bialystok).