“Siftka”, an evocative name with no meaning I can recall. After I’ve been awake a while a box has been left on my front doorstep filled with this, being shoved out bit by bit.
Being shown a small portable dishwasher operated by syringe injection of water. I’m cleaning the fireplace while my dad yells at my brother Patrick in the other room, a daily ritual now. I idly wonder if this is part of him processing being a social worker (his real-life job).
Examining a big metal drum that is suffering from degradation, an appearance like my middle-eastern doumbek but sized like my big Portland djembe. It’s walls are starting to tear and it’s not holding it’s shape. I’m actually inside the thing searching for how to repair it when my wife comes upon me in the kitchen entryway, and we have a moment’s laugh as essentially I’m now wearing it like a tight dress.
Another object is a jacket made of four jackets. I have to find the right zipper to unzip turn off the drum’s automatic drumming.