I was in the studio the other day, looking for something as always, and a certain configuration of cloth - a small pile of rags, actually - spoke to me. Not a word so much as a gesture. I couldn't quite make it out, but it was gentle, insistent. The pieces below are somewhere in there too.
And, although my eye says "YES" my heart is still a clenched fist until they dry and maybe get ironed.
All this angst over a dream, which may have been a nightmare.
I could blame it (the dream, not a possible dye fail) on wallowing in the Madmen finale and trying to match everyone drink for drink, but those of you who know me also know that that would be nonsense. Still, I was pretty smashed after watching both the show and the encore.
I want to write more about Madmen, but I don't want to be assassinated by some random fan for spoiling it for them.
Besides, I won't write a lick until I find an image of Don stepping out of what I think was a '69 Chevelle SS 454. I didn't know where to look first as he took off the helmet.
It was always about the car.
Back to the nightmare.
Heisenberg, his mask perched over his glasses, sweat running off his face and fumes coming from his hazmat suit like vapors from hell, leaning across the teacher's desk and intoning.
"If you warm that bile with blood, better make damn sure it's royal blood and not that damned monkey juice you are so fond of!"
I knew exactly what he was talking about!
(note to self. don't forget what H said about the soywax and soul windows)