Casablanca
︎︎︎ Jon Leon
︎ August 16, 2022
Sometimes I close my eyes and picture the streets and I can't remember if it was the Blick Art on Market or the Blick Art on Canal or if they were the same place or if it was Pearl Paint. Was it San Francisco or New York? My memory is burnt. It puts me in a harbor town. There's crazy energy to it, like I don't know, beyond all. This song "Tugboat" comes on and this Romanesque arcade flashes yellow and red and the wet streets glow and ripple like Live Girls. Yea, the place I'd like to be is before now, before today, and all this talk about Europe, gin joints and exile because they won't accept us here. No, this was before all that, when you were like a Giallo model in split shadow, smoking all night through double-breasted dreams, stroking the hair from your face. Style never runs out of style does it, but it goes into hiding. They forget so easily what we never had to remember. That it's one continuous reference here. I'm dying for a drink. Any kind of drink. Any kind of place. Where did you go to? How did we do what we did?