Tuesday, July 17, 2007
I wake up every morning from terrible dreams to the smell of urine. It is real and thick. I am still groggy from that slow surfacing from the subconscious depths and I think it must be the dog, who maybe isn't adjusting to the move. I tell myself I'll deal with it later. The sun is just rising; I go back down.
I wake again, to the sound of The Partner's alarm clock, and the smell is gone. There never was one. I've checked. Our sheets and our floors are unoffensive and unstained. There is no sign of anything amiss, and my recollection of it is tied only to bad dreams. I leave the whiff of memory there and don't think about it again until I sit here to write. And even the act of putting words to a screen, which usually helps me understand things, does nothing. I don't know why my dreams stink.