Which Is Where We Are Now

I live up near the Canadian border. I’m standing in a large line for something like a bus. There is a couple of people next to me speaking French. The woman talks to the black man. She’s in line for a Canadian passport. Then she talks of a special passport for a small region of Canada called the island of Good, though it’s just a region. The passport declares she has the rights of a citizen when shopping in that region. This island has this special passport for economic reasons. It’s mutually beneficial: it’s good for their economy and it provides foreigners who work in the vicinity access to goods that might be otherwise hard to come by. I make a mental note to apply for to those two passports.

Margrave was teaching an art class. In the school, I see a beautiful poster for it. Something like “Express yourself”.

I go down to the school basement. I’m enrolled to take classes with young people. They are wizards with a Harry Potter feel to them.

The next scene I remember is my station wagon skidding around — something like a PT cursor and a woody — having just left the main road full of battle. The dogs were safe. The back door and a side door ended up flung open.

I look around for spirits because I sense they are with me… as if we must have been working together or I’ve already seen proofs of their assistance. There, off from and behind the left-hand side of the car, was a golden spirit. She looked like a collection of gold ore, was human-sized, perhaps on the tall side; even her wings were of heavy ore. And when I say ore I mean rough, raw, lumpy, dark with chunky flecks.

The scene then jumps to her shutting the car doors.

“You’re going to have to get moving,” she says. To my pleasant surprise she stays, hanging on the outside of the passenger-side window as I turn around in the woodsy cul-de-sac and I pick up speed.

“You are going to have to learn Greek.”

And that was fine, because I was taking a class for Greek at school. I’ll just study extra hard. What a great feeling to be watched over this way. There was this familiarity of working together for good, casual, friendly work. The tiny, pesky, red, man-sized demi-dragons were making their course around the bend and my fairy casually, and with straw hat flapping in the wind, courteously departed.

I give a black man a ride. He tells of how he first arrived here from overseas. How he wasn’t given of the funding promised him when he arrived, so he had to make do.

We arrive at the doctors office. We sit down in the waiting room. Just then he gets to the part about ten-thousand Chinese with a thousand dollars between them. He becomes distraught; I get choked up. I think to myself, how am I going to be a good doctor if this gets me unsettled?

I’m called to the back. It’s a pleasant back hallway, reminiscent of a hospital hallway. I’m nervous and incredulous these folks are accepting of my taking a doctor’s role without any training or knowledge. I peak into an office room. In a small part of the room, I see a quaint sign with a medical serpent emblem saying something like psychic studies. This reassures me. I’m called to see a patient. This will be interesting.

As I walk down the hallway, a woman walks beside me and hands me a book. It’s white with metallic blue letters and a simple golden snowflake (a hexagon with lines continuing out). She thanks me for the book. I don’t understand what she means. “You and Chelsea and Elsie (the two doctors here) wrote it.”

Hmm. I look at the writing a couple page back from the bookmark and the conversation we are having is in the book. This gives me a good, wholesome feeling — a special, cared-for feeling.

Somehow we are turned around. Elsie comes into to see the patient just as I was about to begin with him or her.

I go to the lunchroom with the woman who gave me the book. It’s more significant than a lunchroom: there is a feeling of home and that this is the center of many cultural activities; still, it’s normal-sized.

There is a nice, wide table of unpolished, comfortable wood. The woman and I have a seat. Doctor Chelsea sits across from us. There is a feeling that a presentation is going to begin, but the atmosphere is that which precedes a family member presenting to a family without any feeling of business obligation.

Elsie sits down besides me to my right. Again, there is a family feel here, one of immediate acceptance, as if we’ve been doing this together for a while, or, it’s the comfort of being happy with what one does and being involved with a thoroughly solid and good and wholesome practice. Elsie settles in as though she’s about to tuck into a good sandwich. “Oh, mom’s here too,” she says with a grateful nonchalance.

I’m the director of a high school play. The play is being held in an amazingly vast and spacious theatre, much bigger than any professional theater would accommodate. It’s very professional and high class. All or most of the seats are taken, despite the hugeness. I’m looking at this from above.

In the same wise as this detached hovering, I’m beginning to walk down a very long and spacious hallway. It’s equally well appointed with shiny hardwood floors. It’s here I consider myself as an actor rather than director. I remember trying out and acting for the high school play Working. I realize it’s not a matter of talent: talent is honed over many initiatory experiences. The ability to remember lines, itself, is something that an actor learns over the repeated exposure to the demand of memorization. So, it made sense for me to give a try for a little part and for a director to inquire about one’s resume as a matter of course to get a feel for whether the heft of experience meshes with the heft of the role.

I’m beginning to approach the front desk after walking, floating, down this long immaculate hallway. I feel myself become nervous as I hover towards it, anticipating a face to face with a beautiful clerk; yet, I abstain from going to the front desk. I go ahead past the desk right into the backroom where the hotel owner is. I disregard a feeling of entering into great danger. My brain seizes, processing what I’m about do to: I strangle the owner.