Dream

The dream is always a variation of the same theme. Last night it was spraying disinfectant all over the neighbor's veranda to kill the germs and smell from cat crap. The night before, it was spraying an anti-algae spray in the "pond" in front of the the old Hotel Como to keep the algae and lichen from the lake infiltrating the rowboat area and eating the wood of the ancient rowboats, now seriously in need of several coats of paint. Before that, it was a giant can of bugspray in the tiny kithenette connected to the even tinier studio apartment at the back of the hotel because giant cockroaches, ants, and silverfish had staged a coup near the tiny refrigerator and were threatening to annex the brie and the grapes. And, before that, it was the cloying smell of father's aftershave used as an air freshener to cover the odor of decay that swelled forth like some massive sneaker wave, beginning at the hollowed out spot beneath the floorboards of the bedroom he had shared with his lover for years and years until, one morning, the poison finally worked and he just didn't wake up. That particular tableau of the theme seemed to occur more than any of the others and it was beginning to work. He began to research slow acting poisons on the internet.