No I am not in some sort of crazy time wrinkle back to the early 1990s when I was studying Art at Kelvin Grove, and No this is not a dissertation about the artworks of this somewhat strange character, but the last couple of weeks have slid away in such a surreal fashion that my mind is drawn back to him.
For a while I was fascinated, almost obsessed, but I don't want to discuss the drugs or mental diseases which might have propelled his hands to scoop up his mustache in such a way as to interfere with his view of the world, or to guide his hand to draw and paint and build his wonderfully mad or intuitive or purposefully vague and controversial pieces.
Nope, as I am clawing my way out of the drugs and the pain and the blistering festering mess of the last 2 weeks I am reminded of his fascination with melting clocks.
Cos that's how I feel time has gone the last 2 weeks.
It has slipped by and melted away.
Apart from last Tuesday when I definitely needed to be in Brisvegas I have not pushed too hard to do anything or be anywhere or see anyone, and you know what? The world has rocked along quite nicely without me interfering.
Bugger! And there was me kidding myself that I am indispensable.
For a time anal sod like me, to have lost a couple of weeks that is quite something.
And the real bugger of it is that whilst we say 'lost a couple of weeks', well that implies that you might stumble over 'em while you are rooting around in the bottom of your wardrobe looking for your slippers cos the nights have finally become a little cooler. Yeh it implies that if you find 'em wedged in an old recipe book, that you can just get 'em out and smooth 'em down and then they are good to go.
But sadly they are are already gone, like a fart in a highwind.
And really the last 2 weeks have been so shitful that even if I could get 'em back, I wouldn't fucken thank you for 'em.
I am very pleased that the Shingles train didn't pull in to this station while we were away. Now wouldn't that have just been shitty? And I am pleased that the weather has turned cooler so that the festering mess has not had to deal with waterfalls of sweat - where's the antibiotic cream when you need it? and I am pleased that I have enough fat clothes to hide the swinging titties whilst bras are out of the question. And I am very pleased that Steve is hanging in there, cos truly he must be bored out of his fucking gourd wondering if today is the day he needs to call the ambos and have me committed.
Yep the very idea that Dali is where my mind has ended up during all this shit, is an indication of what a precarious grasp I have had on things.
Onward and upwards.... I bloody hope so!