. . . . in which i am sat in a seminar led by alan and mimi, somehow immune from the ongoing pandemic . . . . there is something reminiscent of school, the tables and chairs and the way they are laid out . . . . alan works his way around talking to each of us individually . . . when he comes to me he offers a number of options . . . i choose “mystical” and he proceeds to cover the surface of the table with fine salt crystals and gives me a handful of dried pink flowers . . . i scrunch the brittle fibers in my left hand while grasping at the salt in my right, letting it fall through my fingers . . . .

. . . . in which i travel to an unknown place just south of portland to see luna . . . she is in a house in the woods next to a blue lake . . . finding this hidden place of tranquility both surprises and calms me . . . i feel profoundly that i belong here, this is where i must live . . . .

. . . . in which i am wandering around an outdoor performance space with my bicycle, looking for a place to sit. the options all resemble narrow, diagonally slanted car parking spaces. i am aware of the cumbersomeness of my bike and, as i look around i continue to narrowly miss opportunities as the spaces fill around me. i was too polite to claim the first one. i see ian who announces that sophie is coming with her hair in a bixby roll. and she does . . . before long i find myself on a train to mythical scotland, all out of proportion . . . the line between the map and reality indistinct . . . .

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