. . . . in which i am painting with sophie . . . though she has demonstrated that she can create images that are exquisitely detailed and austerely beautiful, she chooses nonetheless to paint with large, cumbersome tools as if designed for a toddler . . . she creates an abstract image with broad washes of colors, suggesting pinks, yellows, turquoise . . . i am trying to paint and realize that i have painted over one of her drawings of the former kind and am struck with guilt . . . .

. . . . in which i am going with a team of people to gather some mysterious, clear liquid that comes out of the ground . . . there are four of us - sam, myself, a baby and a man without a face . . . sam performs the task while the rest of us gather around . . . the liquid comes from a pipe on the sidewalk, like a tiny brass fire hydrant, and a nut must be unscrewed in order to get at what is inside . . . sam does this as i advise him on the best way to get this done . . . it comes off and the clear liquid spills slowly out onto the ground . . . sam has brought a laboratory flask and begins to capture some of it . . . while we are waiting the baby plays in a pool of the liquid and we pause to consider if it is safe for them to do so . . . nobody knows the properties of the liquid, which could otherwise be water, that we are collecting . . . .

. . . . 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 . . . .

. . . . in which i am wandering around an old school building, looking for a piano. there used to be one here before. i have to crawl into this tight space through this door. i am going round a long corridor, clockwise. there is a black gentleman who i seem to know. he points to a poster showing different people at different stages of development. he asks me which experiences more pain. suspecting a trick question, i point to the enlightened ones at the top. i am wrong, and try to reason about it. he is now gone, i’m outside and looking for him. there is a patch of grass that two women are tending. i understand that it is a garden i started but have not kept up with. the mint has overgrown, but it is still beautiful. one of them asks if they may take ownership, and i encourage them to. i go looking for the package i have set down. i remember holding the felt from the bottom of a chair in my hands. i left with the image of alan singing to me, just his head, as if i am watching a music video, the colors are contrasty, very blue and red, and alan has two mouths, upper and lower. he sings from the lower one. he is conveying something spiritual to me, as i listen to the accompaniment, which reminds me now of stairway.

i am . . . petting george, stroking his big round striped belly, so fluffy as he writhes on the ground, the other cats circling, more aloof, george is the friendly cat, smooshes his face, such a precious moment, craving cats, great comforters, like gretel when grandma died, no cats after gretel followed . . . a special relationship, understanding, afforded just a few moments here, hoping the girls will take their time, no rush to get to school, i wish someone there would be this friendly with me, why is it just george? why are people so mean and selfish? i guess george wants my love, but that is OK he means no harm, what if a kid was like this? new friend . . . i hope you will be here tomorrow, and the day after, do you know how happy you make me . . . .

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