Woke up this morning with Elmer Fudd singing David Bowie's "Let's Dance" in my head. Elmer was doing a little dance, sending out a come hither little stare from his bulbous cartoon head, his hunters hat at a rakish angle.
Know that a whole days mood can often be dictated to what I wake up with in my head, I knew that on some level I was fucked. Typing this now, hours later, the mood is not eradicated. The mood of chaos, heated creativity and the bizarrely comical mashed up together into a steaming mass of dream.
Could this be an omen?
A sign that my brain really does need a masseuse?
The whole week is packed, with signings, writings, conventionings and drivings, so the chaos theme runs true. But there is an odd Fuddy/Bowie thread running through it all that disturbs me no end.