everything in the house smells like gasoline this morning, i keep lighting candles with contradictory scents. it isn’t my fault, i dreamed i went to a re-enactment (found the envelope with heather’s brickhouse measurements right before i went to bed) and only about half the people knew it was fake – big plantation house, not enough staff. simon baker thought it was real, he “lived” there.. there was something about who the baby belonged to, i kept trying to tell the melodramatically distraught grey-clad governess that it wasn’t real, but there were a couple of old women in touristy sweatshirts that chastised me over and over for ruining it.
dinner was poisened. several people actually died, and several people that hadn’t paid for the dinner inclusion thought it was spectacular. gaslighting after dark, and little by little the smell of gasoline, everywhere and on everything. after dark in the yard, crickets, dew on the ground, late, rose byrne/governess with a cardboard box of rags and a box of matches, and i yelled “they’ve soaked your clothes, don’t you realize they knew what you would do?” and she lit the match and the box caught and her skirt, and i was yanking and tearing at her clothes while she screamed and i screamed, and when she was finally naked and the box blazed and i was lost between real/fake, all the people that had gathered on the lawn were clapping, including simon baker and the old women in their keds.
i punched simon baker over and over in that ineffectual girly lower-arms-involved way, but woke up before anything was resolved.
still smells like gas.