So suddenly, the Advil PM has quit working.  I will up the dosage, I think, since I don't know what the dosage is.  One liqui-gel capsule, though, just doesn't have the kick.  I am usually pretty sensitive to drugs, but I did not sleep so well last night.  I did, however, dream.  I remembered that I had while making coffee in the dark.  The night before, I dreamed of a woman whose face I can clearly see, a face that is an amalgam of people I do not or barely know.  She is a redhead like the model I shot with on Thursday but not her, a redhead with the temperament of the Irish jockey on the HBO series, "Luck."  In the dream, we had been together long enough for my heart to be breaking that we were drifting apart.  That was the dream.  We sat outside in a little front yard garden someplace that is not where I live, some idyllic place, knowing how sad this drifting apart was.  Why am I dreaming such sad things, I wondered in the morning?  Why would I put myself through such misery in my sleep?

Then last night, the face was intimately familiar.  It was the face of an ex-girlfriend, the Prodigal Girl who lives in New York.  All night, it seems to me now, she was in my dreams, once a figure of longing, now someone it was sad not to long for any more.  The death of longing, I guess, which is somehow worse than drifting apart.

So Jesus Marimba, what is in store for me tonight?  I must change my life, I think.  Surely photographing women day in and night out is working some ju-ju on my psyche.  "Good," some of you might think.  "That's a just reward."  If you only knew, though, what a sweet boy I am.  There is nothing like that going on, nothing to be mad about.

I think it all began when I was talking with my gypsy haircutter, the little Russian Jew who is due to have her baby soon.  I've been getting my hair cut by her since she was single, young, and fun.  Now she is married and pregnant, so of course all our conversations have changed.  On Friday, while she cut my hair, I told her about the model who kept me up, with whom I went to a late dinner and who came back to the studio to drink whiskey until I complained I had to go to work in the morning.  She told me that I was stupid and that I had no game.  I told her that it wasn't like that, that we were just drinking and talking, but there were three women in the room, all from other countries and cultures, with the heavy accents of those who came here after their teenage years, and they said I was silly.

"A woman wants a man who can take charge."

"That's not me.  I can't stand rejection."

"You need game."

I don't want game.  But that is the root of my nightmares, I think.  They've cast some gypsy's curse on me.  I will try sleeping with garlic and wolfsbane under my pillow.  I'll let you know how that works out.

I was in the studio yesterday working on some new processes and listening to this.  As a boy with his first car in a cracker village, I drove as much as possible as far away from that life as I could.  And this is what I listened to as with the wind in my face, I dreamed of escape.  It should be the opening song to tonight's episode of "Mad Men," I think.  It is a pop representation of all that culture had to offer, from a time when established movie stars were changing their hair styles and wearing love beads and Nehru jackets on t.v. talk shows.  I was in love with Brazilian music and places I'd only seen in movies.  Monte Carlos.  Sao Paulo.  St. Moritz.  St. Tropez.  I'd read about them in Playboy magazine.  This was the sound of Playboy, I thought.  It was the way the rich experienced the era.