— sketches from a dream about clothes…
Two men, 40-ish, gobbling food in a rural dinner. Country folk all around them. These cats are obviously not from the area. One of them more than 6 and a half feet tall and was picking through a bag of clothes.
“At any point, you don’t have to do this,” the shorter man told him.
“At every point, nobody has to do anything. I don’t care about the law of zero. I care about dreams, and reinventing Capitalism, and bringing corduroy back, Holy, Mother Theresa!”
“Don’t say that,” his light-skinned companion with the tweed jacket implored.
“Why? She’s a real person.”
“She’s a saint now.”
“Even better,” the man with the clothes said.
The other diners began to give them looks, wondering what this madman and the rapper dude were doing in their town. The one who was yelling had a scroungy salt and pepper beard and feral eyeballs, the other one had bandages on his arm and a Russian fur hat. There was a peculiar blending of styles, culturally, ethnically, seeming both old and young at the same time, to the point that the identifier meant nothing. What are we really, but hungry or fed? Either way, they didn’t look like they belonged. Which meant that they were perfect for the times. What with everything changing…
“Are you ready to go back to Los Angeles?” The rapper asked.
The one with the beard shot back, “Not until I’ve made L.A. notice I’m gone.”
Their food came and they both studied at their plate of eggs and bacon and hash browns with a 19th century French hangdog look. Outside looked like rain.