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So, I slowly laid my head down on my wadded up coat, mindful to keep the aching knot on my temple from hitting anything, and drifted off to sleep. I dreamed of small shinning objects swept up into deep chiasms and then into rivers. Rivers of all kinds, rushing, rushing, rushing past; the great thunder of their passing deafening, deafening until I didn’t hear anything at all, deafening unto a great void of silence.

Dreams are funny things. For instance I once dreamt that I had found a lost toothbrush. The next morning I woke up and found it right where I dreamt it would be. This would perhaps be more impressive if say, I dreamt the location of my lost diamond stud earring my grandmother gave me. I mean, a tooth brush? No great loss. It wasn’t as if I had been tearing the house apart for weeks, searching though vacuum bags, and horror or horror, dumpster diving for that last trash bag discarded that night before, searching for that wayward tooth brush. Now diamonds are a whole other story. Still, I’ll admit that I was pretty excited about finding that toothbrush in the morning.

When I awoke from my broom closet dreams it was to the smell of pastries baking and something else much less pleasant. There was sunlight careening though the open closet door and falling across my face and my hair that flowed like a river across my cheek and onto the floor. That is what I first saw when I opened my sleep drugged eyes, my hair running like a river along the ridge of my nose and then out of sight to the floor.

My first coherent, if I may be so free with the term, thought of my renewed wakeful state was, I really need to change shampoos. I’m a bit inconsistent when it comes to hair products. For a while I was on the perfect shampoo and conditioner quest. I scoured salons all over Seattle looking for that perfect combination of function and pretty scent. For a while money was no object, $25 for this 12 once bottle of shampoo you say? No problem. But then as all good things must, the adventure was over. I was frustrated in my quest, and could never discover the elixir that numerous TV ads had led me to believe existed. At the end of the day my hair was just hair and in fact not possessed of any supernatural protective powers, unable to perform any great feats of strength or even to imitate a waterfall. And so frustrated and disillusioned, I then became a creature of impulse, picking up whatever supermarket brand possessed the most alluring packaging. But on this occasion I woke up and took one deep breath, scented by my very own hair and thought, what shampoo makes my hair smell like an old mop? Whatever it is, it needs to go.

I had other unwelcome discoveries in those first few moments. As it happens I am allergic to mildew, well, and dust for that matter. My whole life I get one good whiff of mildewy camping gear (I mentioned that it rains occasionally around here right?) or one musty book and I’m set off and running with what I like to think of a quite an impressive sneezing attack. Sometimes, if I get a nice long exposure I’ll start sneezing and won’t stop until I’m drugged up on Clariton and in bed. I actually once got sent home from school on account of a particularly strong sneezing attack. And if you’re impressed by that I’ll have to tell you about my Great Uncle and his lethal case of hiccups sometime.

So it is no great surprise that on this occasion, with that particular mildewy smell pervading my nose that I began to sneeze, which in turned caused my head to hit, rather painfully, the mop that had somehow come to rest on a large bump that was presently marring my temple. In fact, it was the handle of this very mop which seemed to have dislodged the closet door on its descent to the hallway floor. The hallway, where at the very moment, someone, presumable the early morning baker, came along, laden with frozen scones, and tripped on that damned mop, causing it to smack with some force on my injured head. I did shout out, I’ll admit. I’m not too proud. But it’s doubtful that the baker heard me through his rather impressive diatribe of what can only be described as truly foul words. I’ll tell you, don’t trip a baker unless you’re looking to broaden your vocabulary.