The cat forked me out of bed at 5 a.m., so here I sit, bleary and over-dreamed. In my unconscious, I went to visit my parents and discovered that my mother had found a house she liked better, so she bought it and went to live there. My dream father told me this quite coolly, as if it were no big deal. However, I, straddling the real and the dream, was appalled. In waking life my parents are completely intertwined, even when crabby and spitting nails at one another, and they can barely go to the grocery store alone. My mother would never casually buy a house and move out, and my father would never calmly tell the tale. Where was the emoting and hair-tearing? Dream me felt like my shirt was on fire in the midst of this bizarre serenity. Waking me was puzzled about why I had gotten so overwrought about a fairly mild dream sequence.

Brains are so strange.

So here I am, awake and restless, with a sour dream taste on my tongue. This weekend I've got to move half a cord of firewood into the basement and deal with various annoyances involving insurance companies, new glasses with the wrong prescription lenses, ugly mud in the yard, and a couch that smells funny. Perhaps I should write a villanelle about repetitive billing errors, eye strain, seasonal headaches, and decrepit furniture.