patina culture

''that reminds me,'' she said '' that lamp over there had a blue bulb in it once. we sat in this room for thirty six hours with this blue light. and it was there because that was the only light bulb we had and i didn't realize that it was blue until i opened the shades and looked out the window and the whole world was bloody red. i was so confused and then i realized we've been sitting in this room for thirty six hours in the blue light, smoking, drinking and all the colors were totally twisted. it took a while to adjust to this strange scene outside.''

here you wake up in the morning at six or seven to the base being flipped on and madonna or 'where is my mind' filling the apartment. the blinds go down, the boxes of cigarettes get piled into the middle of the table and that 'afterparty' commences. the club lets out at six and it's always irma's place. they are building up the patina. sunshine or open air will harm the process, oxidize the delicate veils of dust and sweat and the charm will the shaken, disturbed. always night here for days in a row. onstage but hidden from the audience, the audience being only the actors themselves, veiled in the fog. then when the day is finally presented through the open windows, everyone comes out into it with this secret potion in their pocket. back on stage, the audience of the street stares with judgement, expectation, suspicion, bright in the sunlight of their reality. but the musk of the night's patina clings to the clothes, sweet and rancid, like anything here. like lipstick over a scab, electric blue eyeshadow on an eight year old girl. a wooden idol with years of blood, milk and honey poured over it in offerings. patina.