I swear to god, my brain is making its own dopamine again.
Or, if not, something is going on. Do dopamine levels effect the vividness of one's dreams?
Whatever the cause, I've taken to quite literally stashing my stash - in a place so inconvenient it would take me close to an hour to retrieve it. And have been rewarded by R.E.M. sessions of wonderously baroque plots, fluid continuity, epic duration and occasionally explicit erotic content.
Tonight's was a doozy, involving cars, 2 places of employment, co-workers past and present, at least 3 cities, 2 languages, Laura, my extended family and many friends, some long since passed beyond the confines of my life.
I won't bore you with the details; dream are notorious for entertaining no one but the dreamer.
In some cases, however, the bare essence of someone else's dream can have a strange appeal ...
One of my co-workers has the hots for my girlfriend. At the very least, "A" has been more free with hugs for Laura than for myself, and nevermind that I, not Laura, provide her ("A") with occasional back-massages, to alleviate her lumbar problems when they get especially bad.
But I digress.
Thursday morning, "A" caught me at the coffee maker.
"I have to tell you about the dream I had last night."
I carried on grinding recently-roasted beans but indicated I was listening nonetheless.
"I was with you and Laura, up north. We were camping and you and I had sex."
"Really?" I said, letting the grinder come to a halt. "A" is gay and, regardless, this wasn't what I had expected to hear from a co-worker. (Later, when I told Laura, she wondered if it had been good sex; I wished the question had occurred to me in the moment.)
"A" nodded. "Yes, and then you must of told Laura. At first she seemed fine with it, but then you disappeared and suddenly we were on a beach and she started throwing sand at me. She kept on throwing sand until I was covered in it, it was getting into my eyes and my mouth.
"Then she started throwing rocks at me and I knew she wasn't as okay with you and me having sex as she'd pretended to be. It was one of those moments where you know you're going to die."
"That was quite a dream," I said, wishing I had something more inciteful to offer. Instead, I offered up one of mine from some years back, when I had had marvellous sex with my mother (in the dream, Gentle Readers! In the dream!).
But I digress.
I was less surprised by A's dream - by their nature, dreams are not necessarily appropriate - but by the fact "A" felt she knew me well enough to tell me about it.
4 or 5 years ago, my sensitive and thoughtful then-girlfriend Darcy, with all the subtlety of her Saskatchewan birthplace, suggested I needed new sheets. Despite my dislike for having my flaws pointed out, I had to agree. My sheets were threadbare and dingy, at least a decade past their questionable prime.
And, some time after that relationship ended (not because she suggested new sheets, though the way she did it was an indicator of problems to come), I found myself in a department store with the intention of purchasing linen.
As often happens in such situations, my blood-pressure soared as soon as I entered The Bay at Queen and Bay (sue me: that's where the bloody thing is). Nevertheless, I persevered and found my way to the linen section. Where the prices shocked me and the endless selections paralized me.
Long story short, I left empty-handed and I continued to sleep on the same old, steadily decaying, sheets for the next half-decade.
Shortly before this Christmas, I came into possession of a marvellous down-filled duvet. A white, down-filled duvet no less.
As we all know (and if you don't, Gentle Reader, take a lesson), down doesn't take well to cleaning - my thinning down-filled parka is proof of that.
Laura suggested a duvet cover was in order and I agreed.
A couple of weeks later, I had done nothing about it and the duvet was already yellowing in spots (I blame them.
Laura agreed she would pick me up after work on Wednesday and she was as good as her word. We walked through drizzle and soon found ourselves in the bowels of The Bay, wandering the linen section.
Amazingly, my blood-pressure stayed near normal, and I found myself calm, cool and collected, as we examined the merchandise on offer - and for this I blame Laura!
Well, laden with linen, we emerged into what had become a downpour, complete with thunder and lightning. Laura had some extra time to kill and we proceded to my place, where - dare I say it - a wonderful (if far too brief) time was had by both.
I screwed up at the Bay and had to make my way back there - alone - after work yesterday. The fitted sheet was the wrong size and had to be returned.
I exchanged it for one that I hope will work, then hopped on my bike and made my way through the drizzle to the Bishop and the Belcher for a couple of beers and some writing. Managed to make a start on an essay on Why I Hate Fantasy that I think will find its way to the new version of my website in the not-too-distant future, as well as to work towards the end of Thomas More's Utopia - like all utopia's, an essentially facist dream of peace, order and good government.
But I digress.
I was delaying because I had an appointment with the theatre last night and had no intention of going home only to go back out.
I settled into the back patio, now covered and tarped for the dwindling number of smokers among us, and I listened with some dismay as the drizzle turned to all-out rain and the temperature grew noticeably colder.
By the time I unlocked the machine and attached the lights, winter's chill was clearly nearby.
I cycled along Queen to Bathurst, then turned south and made my way over the Queen Elizabeth Way to Queen's Quay where - after some difficulties I found City School - and also found that my rear tire had sprung a leak.
I cursed that fragile technology as I locked the bike then found my way inside, with only moments to spare.
Gentle Reader, I had entered the concrete walls of alternative secondary academe for the first time in many, many years!
Did I mention that Laura's drama class was putting on a show for parents and, er, friends?
Somewhat to my surprise, I not only enjoyed Laura's performances, but the whole thing. Rather than "a play", the performance was a series of sketches, some more well-developed than others, which allowed each of the players some time in the spotlight.
There was a fair modicum of talent, more than a little wit and a lot of joyful enthusiasm on offer. More than once I have, with a much emptier bladder, paid to sit through lesser offerings. I laughed a lot, shared pleased grins with Laura's friend Irene and had no regrets whatsoever that I had come, nevermind the unridable bike waiting for me outside in the cold, cold rain.
Afterwards, Laura and I shared perhaps 20 minutes astride a damp, concrete pile outside the school, then she caught her streetcar and I rolled my broken machine all the way up to King Street before I caught mine.
Some of you may remember that early last year I bit the bullet and filed my back taxes, some 11 years' worth.
A couple of months back, on a Thursday, I received information about the first five of those years. Revenue Canada, it seemed, owed me close to $2000.00.
The next day, I received another letter from them. It seemed that all of that money was being transfered to the Ontario Student Loan people who had not, after all, forgotten about me.
Wednesday, I came home to a happy surprise in my mailbox. My GST rebates for the same time-period had at last been processed. Another $900 or so had been put towards the loan but, in a separate envelope there was a cheque for $599. My linen was more than paid for!
Today, my mailbox (speaking of which: where the hell is this month's Harper's? It irks me to see it gloating at me from the newstand while my subscription copy is being stained by some bloody postman's peanut-butter and jelly! But I digress) held another 6 or 7 envelopes from the tax people.
My returns are now up-to-date. Somehow, despite having had taxes deducted at source by my various employers over the years, I find myself owing about $1600. Yes, that's right. Sixteen hundred.
Why that GST rebate was not applied to the debt is beyond me. And, no doubt, in another couple of months, I'll receive another GST rebate.
With one hand they giveth, with the other ...
In other news, it's now 5:3
This post better prove to have been worth it.
Thank you and good night.