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.

Comments

Windy Coffee. [part 1]

Fulya was looking at my sketchbook the other day and remarked that she liked the random sketch that I had made of some girl that I saw walking along with a little plastic cup of coffee during the wind storm a few weeks past. As I still have some small pieces of very good watercolor paper [that I had sized to be used for some small frames I had collected but did not have anything to put in them yet], I thought that perhaps I could transfer a little sketch to a little piece of paper to play with techniques. Namely the layering of water colors. Something that I know I have been working on a lot, but practice makes perfect. I also wanted to see how using my new mechanical pencil filled with blue graphite would work in hiding my lines as I initially worked. I forgot to take a picture of the transition between not having the girl inked at all to inking her and starting the background. I was having a hell of a time trying to figure out a setting in which to put her. At first I was th

Spending a day off in Portland: a visual voyage.

A study in the red brick of Portland. It has taken us a little while to get our footing here in Portland. In order to do grocery shopping we have found that there isn't an easy route to just go by a supermarket, but instead it becomes a meander around the peninsula and an exploration of the few small grocery stores. Regretfully these little shops are not all near one another and we have since devised a meandering route around town that begins in our area of large apartment complexes (a couple of large hotels converted to apartments). This town is full of restaurants, but since this town is based on tourism many of these restaurants aren't for the people who live here and less so for the pay that we make living here. After nine months we seem to have figured out a few holes in the walls of Portland though that go against this trend. Omi's Coffee Shop. - Jessye reads from some Architectural Digests that were hiding under the table. I think we have finally found our c

French underworld tattoos at the turn of the century. The man sports a tattooed mustache intended to foil the prohibition of facial hair in the Foreign Legion. The World of Tattoo by Maarten Hesselt van Dinter. I can only dream of being anywhere near that combination of badass and crazy. Though at that point the Foreign Legion was probably still the best place for criminals to get their record cleaned so perhaps he is as well quite legitimately scary upon all of that. I find myself flipping back to this page time and time again to romanticize the French underground from around 1900. Give him an accordion, a beret, and some braces. Prostitutes who could easily kill you if you ever come up short and tattoo the names of their ‘actual’ lovers between their breasts, close to their heart. Tattoo ‘Je mother fucking t’aime’ in a tattoo cursive along my collar bones.

High Contrast Grey.

Search This Blog