In the Massage Parlour

I have an acquaintance who owns a massage parlor on Sukhumvit Road and weirdly, I dreamed about him. In my dream, I've gone over there ... limping just like my real knee-injured self right now … to get a massage, and he tells me that he has given me a room on the second floor.

"You can come here whenever you want, just to get away and you can use it for writing."

There's a staircase (wooden) up to the room which is on the left side of the upper hallway; I don't see the right, which is dark. The room is very airy and pleasant. Someone starts to carry in a bright blue (I think of this as Mykonos blue - a Greek blue of the trim on white buildings or of the Mediterranean sky) metal thing which is a kind of wall rack containing metal cubbyholes, like a mail sorter or mini-locker. He starts to put it up and I say No, no, this will eat up the space in the room.

He says, But we took it from the downstairs hall and there's nowhere to put it up.

On the wall by the staircase, indeed I see a bright blue metal frame where the thing used to hang.

Maybe you'd prefer another room, he says. I walk up to the third floor (well, limp, actually) and right above the first room is a beautiful white room with dark wooden beams, and I like it better because there is a door leading outside, further left, to a rooftop veranda. I go out and I see that the wall of my room has a fading mural, graffiti maybe, of green and red mostly, once these were bright flowers but now the paint is corroding. The sun is warm and comforting.

I go back down to the ground floor which (being a dream) isn't the floor I started from but a big eat-in kitchen. My mother is sitting at the kitchen table. She asks me, "What is the Thai for allysergeol?" I have no clue, but a housekeeper, behind a kitchen counter, who has been making breakfast, says, "I used to take that." Then I wake up.