White everything, White dress ( Leger), white car, white curtains. Silver white Disco ball hanging over the dance floor at the club. She is talking and bossing around. I see through her whiteness though. Long ago, she had been a beauty, as they say, her lips full, lacquered red, but now her two front teeth showed an unattractive gap, an overripe squished grape mouth. Could have been sexy at 20, was raunchy at 45, the dream, like dreams tend to do, only hints at what is behind the veil of truth.
I know her from somewhere. I don't like her. She seems unkempt in her white bandage dress, the raven hair way too 'old skool' (just saying it that way makes me cringe with embarrassment, but that's how she would put it), the usual American fashion faux pas. Faux pax I almost wrote. Ha.
This woman in the white dress and the putty colored skin, she rules her husband, my lover, with the iron fist of a victim: mostly drunk, often needing to 'talk it out with someone', constantly sporting bloodshot eyes from crying over spilled milk. By definition she is righteous. By default she has the power.
I make fun of her but like G_d, she is a looming presence most often showing up inappropriately.
I will fight her alone, thank you.
Just so you know, I am not afraid. Not daunted. Dreams are like that. 'I am driving the white car here, not you', I think to myself. I am in control. I have a plan.
This is what happened then. I bewitch her with my favorite string of words - they fall off my lips like the delicious lies and truth cocktail one works a lifetime to create and she - as if besotted - gives over her secret garden in a snap. Ecstatically, might I add . How did I do this? It's almost ridiculous. Shit, had I known it was going to be so easy I wouldn't have waited so long. Suddenly the master blaster of me comes out, pardon the pun. Who knew. Well, I did. The power of words are the Ace in the Hole. I shrug my pretty shoulders. I mean, she gave it up just like that.
She is a crumpled, satisfied flesh heap sitting slanted in a straight back chair in the ante-camera where there is but one light bulb and a whitish green paint job. We have left that building.
At the world party, I am in position on stage right and center, steadfast in my revolution/evolution, on one knee ready to shoot my magic dust from the stolen (white) rocket launcher into a sea of eager expectant dancers. We are one. But not the same.