The curious effect of a parallel minor on a Sunday afternoon

cards
Lying on the couch listening to Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations, and though I did not notice drifting off, I got lost in an odd dream—

In which my mother was my roommate. A flaky and flighty one at that, nervous-making.

In which a small, featherless chicken lived in the tank with the fish. It did not swim, it walked; had fewer thoughts than fishes, if that’s possible. “What are we going to do with it once it’s too large for the tank? It’s going to be soon,” and she ordering food for it by the kilo online. (Metrics in there, why?)

In which there were two dogs of a sudden, who preferred to sleep on the carpet whose coloring matched their fur, according to an announcement by my weirdo roommate-mum. I’d never seen them before she said this, but I recognized them, of course.

In which I kept coming across forgotten oddities (a favorite dream occupation), knickknacks, inexplicable garments— just weird shit made by artists and friends. One: a small box of cards designed and letter-pressed for the teaching of nonsense. From which relevant (again, if possible) details kept falling out, as they’d been die cut to do just that. So little bits of cardboard, lost meaning, filling the bottom of the box. Nonsense confetti— no doubt scheming to avail itself of my room-mum as an ideal dispersal vector (some holiday glitter had already done the same earlier).

A number of other things i can’t place. A small tricorner hat which we attempted to fit onto each member of a random menagerie of toy figurines. None of which it suited (disappointment).

All utter nonsense, and all of it made some kind of sense while I was there, if only through struggle. (I’ll put that down to Beethoven.)

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