I'm still on my moron-mood, the most futile makes me angry. I'm really in a bad mood. The 2 women of my life has to pay the price of my attitude. Fortunately, one of them knows how to pretend not to understand me, the other one is bouddhist.
"what the? Where is my black pencil brush?"
"She...? But it smells..? She peed on my tax return..?"
At the same time, I read "Caravan" from Sfar
, an astonishing paper-blog/diary.
"Say, kwailo, wasen't it YOUR turn to wash the dishes?"
Finally, I end drinkin' in a pub, complaining about myself and "redoing" the world
"See... I'm missssing a friend to t-talk about comics to... a sketching f-friend... Hips!"
"But in Hong Kong, there's NOTHING!"
"I'm just a f-fuckin' lonely Ass!"
Before I get completely drunk, I try to sketch the musicians, jamming on old blues/rock themes.
They told me they work in an ambassy in Barcelona, and went in Asia for vacations. I spend the night with them.
(He looks even more depressed as I am)
I sketch, I don't think anymore. I empty my head and my glass as well. I observe and re-create the universe in my sketchbook. I am God, do not mess with me.
I become misanthrope, and want to smoke.
Finally, the spectator's faces fascinate me. I drip my brush in my Guinness glass for the wash tint; the bartender laught and suggest a glass of Bayleys for drawing the shadows.
The last discussion, Tim tell us he spent 70 days in jail in South-Est Asia for drug dealing. We look at him just like he survived Midnight Express
. He has such a strong accent, I can only understand 1 word on 20...
I finally go home at 1:00 AM, I diden't hear Waiyim's phone calls, she was about to ask the cops.
I really feel a moron.