David Stuckey

In the middle of Madrid I found myself alone at a jazz club. The only thing American other than me were the Marboros people smoked in-between conversations. An order of Jameson neat was answered with a pour worthy of kings. I noticed a man staring and returned his glare with a tip of my glass. As the whisky ran through my body I let the music surround my night. I flirted with the gorgeous waitress that had the skin of Egyptian sand. Waved off the bartender that offered to top off an already heavy drink. Whistled to the familiarity of a Coltrane tune being played thousands of miles from where a man named John found the true meaning of a love supreme.

And then that same man. The one that had kept his eye on me. He tapped me on the shoulder and spoke with a broken English that fixed my buzz so that I could understand his words.

He said: "The artists are sitting over here....come?"

That night I sat with artists of foreign lands but common hearts.

This page is a symbol of that night. The links are my artistic offerings like those kind souls offered themselves to a stranger. Through words, I hope to bring all types of people together, sitting and sharing at the table of life.