So you filled your hands

First, some retro tattoos, and not retro the way you think, probably. ( I think she's my favorite. )

Next, the aftermath of the Great War in England.

( A natural companion to 'Over There' )

Having re-attempted silent improv last week and failed miserably at the whole "not talking" and "emoting in every way except moving your mouth" thing, I have a renewed appreciation for silent film and other wordless forms of moving entertainment. These stills pretty much speak for themselves, in terms of I want to see that and I want to tell that story. It's like the inverse of "use your words."

I was dreaming, right before I woke up, that I was at a motel/mini-mall in suburban (near-airport) England that also was hosting two people from my hometown, one an across-the-street neighbor who talked at you for ten minutes straight if you so much as said hello to him, and another the father of a guy I knew from school. In the dream, for some reason, the father neither looked nor acted like the guy I knew, and didn't share the last name of his wife and his son: his kid was a first-class asshole from fourth grade to twelfth, and he came by it honestly. I had to ask how his son was doing, even though I truly could not care less. (Last I heard, he was a cameraman on one of the trashier reality shows.)

Anyway, for some reason, my bicycle showed up at the motel, even though I hadn't brought it with me overseas. I was flying back the next day. For some reason, there was a gallon carton of milk strapped to the back. After I had ridden through the tiered gardens stretching out behind the motel, I parked the bike but didn't secure it. Then, after I had been talking with some other guests, I went to go find it and it was gone. After I woke up, before I wanted to admit it, I kept going back to sleep, frantically trying to locate the bike before I missed my flight as the setting for the dream got smaller and emptier.

I can trace where most of that comes from, which I find to be a pretty rare occurrence for me, actually.

Here's another face/outfit that fascinates me and needs a home. I'm really interested by the stole and the yellow of the dress.

( Possibly this is a queen. )

I am utterly, utterly fascinated by their faces. Also, the clothes and jewelry. Wow.

( It's all about the eye contact. Always. )

From here: I am deeply taken with this woman's face.

( Love is a catalogue of deadly sins )

Today is Mexican Independence Day, and in the little outdoor area across the street from work a mariachi band with six dancers gave a concert. It was wonderful. (To the person behind me who said that if this was a real party, they'd be doing shots right now, screw you for missing the point and being a jackass.) The costumes were incredible, with red sashes and gold embroidery and silver coins on black costumes for the men, and intense, full skirts and incredible hairdos with ribbons woven in for the women. The women wore purple, green and orange, and all six dancers as well as the singers yelped and trilled and sang and stomped.

The woman in orange took over: she would dance because she wanted to, by God. She flirted and mocked and grinned and talked back and swayed her hips, and she was so in control and mighty. The only time she was quiet and more reflective-seeming was during the second half of a love song, this gorgeous, full-throated serenade by one of the male band members. It was amazing to see. I want to know more.

Little animate dogs made of wax drippings and leftover candles

(Yes, I'm creeped out too.)