I had a dream the other night in which it turned out that my apartment had a second floor all this time, which I discovered while talking to a friend about how I’d peeked into my neighbor’s unit (when they happened to leave the door open while they were cleaning) and I noticed a staircase leading to one of the turrets that’s visible from outside the building. The friend I was talking to then pointed to a staircase that had magically appeared right beside me and asked, “Don’t you have a second floor?” And holy crap. I did. And after seven months of living here, I was more than ready to put that shit to use.
But when I went upstairs, I found not only a massive bedroom with an equally massive bathroom; it also turned out that both had already been lived in and were pretty musty, but I might have shrugged these relevant facts off in my embarrassment at not even knowing I had a second floor. They were also connected to other rooms, rooms that just kept extending into more rooms that looked like reconstructions of places I’d slept or lived in from both a distant and not-so-distant past.
It all felt weirdly familiar until I made my way back to what was supposed to be “my room”, in which I had to climb over a mountain of empty Red Horse bottles just to get the the moldy mattress. In spite of all that, it didn’t even hit me that, “Holy shit, the last person who lived here must have drank himself to death like Nic Cage in Leaving Las Vegas,” instead, I thought, “I don’t even like Red Horse,” and “Hey, free mattress!” Because I don’t know, even if this may be some grim warning of future battles with substance abuse or loneliness or the unstable definitions of home, the only thing that seems clear is that my subconscious doesn’t take dreaming too seriously, so why should my meatspace self care.
Today was good. Both Pancake and Piglet were readmitted at the shelter, then went to see Patricia Eustaquio talk at the Vargas Museum, then ordered a battery for my laptop. I’d show you what I wore, but I’m still wearing it, so I guess that defeats some weird purpose of trying to prove that there’s actually any difference between what I wear to bed and what I wear everywhere else (there’s usually a difference, but not today).
And then there was one – Potato, pictured here: the tiniest sweetheart, my little love, will go and join her brothers, Pancake and Piglet, at the shelter next week, after the hair on her belly (shaved to make way for spaying) grows back and she gets a little fatter.
For adoption inquiries, you may contact Cha or Loren at the Philippine Animal Rehabilitation Center, at (+632)475-1668. Potato was part of the PAWS fostering program, where volunteers open their homes to animals in need of hand-rearing or sheltering before they’re old enough to be neutered and integrated into the shelter population.
Alice Sarmiento 