Catalog of Dreams


Dear Eugene,

I am not too sure if this is the right way to have your neighbors find new respect for you, but here I was, shooting for the stars, if only those eight feet off ground, and with a laundry mesh over my head.  I liked the smell.

You are a home owner; you can see the pain in the humor.  I am sure you have done something more ridiculous than this.

If there is a different catalog of dreams for every season, my summer catalog is surely full of bugs.  Last year a swarm of bees decided to build their nest between the walls of my garage.  When I served them an eviction notice they decided to send their strongest four to go kamikaze on me.  I wasn't an experienced fighter then--and who would know their sting could actually go right through garden glove?  Let's just say their coordinated simultaneous effort was precise, efficient, effective and I was miserable.

I didn't blame them.  I was trying to kill their whole family after all.

Early this year, at the tail end of winter, I sealed up their entrance.  And I sealed up other cracks and crevices that could become new possible entrance when spring comes.  Two full tubes of sealant.

But of course how do you seal up every narrow fissure on your house's exterior?  Sure enough this year they found a new home, not too far from where they went cosy last year.

I hope we could find a peaceful way to coexist, but by the way they worked on that corner I am sure it won't take too many new mornings to turn my house into one that's "flowing with milk and honey."  They might think this is their promised land but I beg to differ.

Super Soaker, I said to myself, no need to go thermal nuclear on the poor things.  The alternative is pressure washer and/or chemical weaponry, and they will be forced into a distasteful exegesis of overblown eschatology.  Not healthy.

It was actually fun, in a sick way, of course, but not more than shooting balls of animal with your finger on your phone.  I hope the bees know my special concoction of soapy water with "Icelandic Springs" smell dish detergent is a way to say whereas this is personal it was never meant to be maleficent.  One needs to go down when it is his time to; but to go down smelling good is a true luxury.

I think I am ready for rain and wind.

Yours, Alex

Comments

  1. UnknownAugust 12, 2018 at 9:06 AM

    Dear Eugene,

    “If there is a different catalog of dreams for every season...”

    In the summer before my graduation from UBC, I had an aggressive schedule tailored solely to complete a 6-unit philosophy course within several weeks & to work part-time for extended hours in the glory of academic & monetary pursuits. My summer catalog of dreams shaped by my accomplishments & ambitions would essentially deny me any personal time or space to smell anything of luxury. In fact, I would have likely mistaken any floral masterpieces in the gardens along my way as wallpaper.

    One late summer afternoon, I decided to try something I had never attempted: cook dinner to surprise Mom in her brief absence from home before her return later in the evening. My plan to stir-fry tofu could integrate some fun in my summer catalog of milestones. This feast of love would be presented on a plate of lightly carmelized tofu paired with the zing of tangerine & ginger. On a pan, I poured a generous amount of cooking oil & dialed the stove top temperature control knob to the maximum. I added extra spoonfuls of oil in the heated pan.

    In a flash of “overblown eschatology”, sparks from the boiling oil instantaneously morphed into lethal flames, which leapt beyond the confines of the stove towards the kitchen ceiling. I splashed cups of water from the adjacent sink to stop the grease fire, which consequently intensified. I screamed in resolute surrender.

    Like a superhero, my sister, Beth, who was several years younger than me, bolted into the kitchen, assessed the crisis within a few blinks & snatched a box of baking soda from the cabinet to extinguish the fire. It worked! The stove top was veiled in white powder; above, black smoke stained the walls & ceiling. My catalog of dreams in the rapture & rhythm of summer - to impress upon Mom the tentatively emerging portrait of my evolving identity & sense of independence - was shredded in self doubts & shame.

    Within the next hour, Mom returned home, entered the kitchen & paused momentarily before unleashing her sentiment of failed expectations towards me. I did not remember in detail the words of fury & alienation exchanged between us but I recalled subsequently showering with scented soap comparable to “Icelandic Springs” before driving to UBC for my night class.

    “One needs to go down when it is his time to; but to go down smelling good is a true luxury.”

    In Spring after this incident, upon my UBC graduation, I thought I would be ready for rain & wind in anticipation of different seasons in adulthood with expanded catalogs of dreams - only to discover later more infernos in which dreams would be redefined inexplicably in order to be deemed as fragrant in true luxury.

    Yours, Kate


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