I had a dream last night. In it, my daughter, granddaughters, and I lived in a three story stucco mansion with only two toilets. One was backed up, and the one that worked existed in a corner of the upstairs. When I was finished in the upstairs bathroom, I exited into an open Frank-Lloyd-Wright-type-of corridor/open room with decorative art with absolutely no merit or style. I looked at the bare white walls, the checkerboard white and black tile floors, and then at the beige carpet running the length of these corridor areas. But along the floor of this hallway running the length of the upstairs was a never ending green celery. Not a stick, mind you, but a never ending thing.
I awoke thirsty. I drank some water, lay back down and closed my eyes. Again, the celery. Outside, odd Spanish style patios with some kind of bean ivy, it looked like it should be Pablo Picasso’s house. But inside, the celery. Everywhere. Never ending strands from the doorways down the corridors. Always green, no blanching.
And no peanut butter. Is there a message behind the dream or am I just strung out on celery?