A dream of a catacombe filled with antiques.

At an old château we wander the grounds to find part of the building old and in ruins, but an arch over head has a skull inbeded in it. Marking a catacombe.
We open the cellar doors and decend. Pictures of pop culture line the way. Once down in the catacombes it appears as if everything is arraged like an antique mall. Little stalls of funiture and little trinquets. I find some little fabric button looking this. One of the people with me remarks their name and starts to take them off of the index card they have been placed on. I don't recognize the word that the other person used. I ask him and he repeats it. One of those things that perhaps only exist in dreams. Vaguely French. He goes on to explain that they are little buttons that are pinned onto one's collar as decoration.
I comment that we should try to sell most of this stuff in a garage sale.
I then come across a tall dresser with a small collection of asian figurines fornicating on top. Like the ivory figurines in Chinatown, San Francisco.
Someone outside tells us that we need to get going and we all start to leave the catacombes, but I run back quickly to grab one of the figurines for Jessye. I go past the tall dresser to see if there is another little treasure to be taken and I notice that there are some small windows. Something to climb out of if the cellar doors are locked on me.
I turn back around to get the figurine from the dresser and hopefully get out before the cellar doors are locked on me. I notice another human shadow on the ground next to mine, but as I quickly turn around I see that there is no one else around. A voice that I can't make out starts to speak and I am stuck in place. A ghost in the catacombes.
I then wake with a jolt.

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New Birth.

Hey. C'est moi. It has been a few years. Since I last discussed into the void here I attended grad school for architecture at the University of Washington, finished the Master's program by the skin of my teeth, graduated into a global pandemic (I would not recommend this), gave away most of my worldly possessions, and am now flâneur-ing around Europe on the slim budget of my life savings. Allow me to reintroduce myself : I am the artist, Gaston. My interests include ; architecture, sustainability, art, vintage fashions, antiques, and flâneries. All while consuming massive quantities of tea. “I know where I'm from, but I don't know where I'm going.” I recently heard this line at a video playing at the Tate Museum in Liverpool, and it rang strong in me. In the film Casablanca, when Rick is questioned on his nationality he responds that his is a “drunkard,” insinuating that he has renounced his American nationality for that of someone who owns and runs a bar. From ...

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The Toulousian Painting.

I sneak in a mirror reflected reference photo. While we were in Toulouse we ducked into a nice little salon de thé that to me felt like something out of a 1940s representation of Europeans in Africa. Probably just the French dealing with the heat of the south. While at this place I noticed a girl sitting alone at one of the tables reading on her phone. Perhaps surfing the internet, perhaps reading a book, I couldn't quite tell as it was in Asian characters. I would guess that it was either Chinese or Japanese. In such a beautifully intriguing place I found it to be somewhat odd that she would pass the time ignoring her surrounding to immerse herself in her phone. I remember they also had nice restrooms. The girl then left and we stayed a bit longer sipping on our drinks, which if I remember right were not actually tea but something cool to counter the heat of Toulouse. Taking a breather in the hectic nature of our vacation. It was one of those towns where I ...

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