Which Is Where We Are Now

I’m in a classroom. A black woman talks with another couple of black people.

Then she asks me “if you could be a black person, would you be one?”

I fluster at this question and say… well I’m not a black person, so I can’t be one.

Class is about to start.

There is a pool table with some brown plastic eggs and some white plastic eggs; they are all separated in half; I quickly go about matching the halves with there appropriately colored other half and put them all in the pool pockets.

A lady professor is about to lecture.

I’m in some very cool, futuristic building. It’s spacious but there is that funny feeling of wealth and possession that makes me feel like I don’t belong. The man who owns it is a silver-haired old, fit guy with loads of confidence.

Everyone, including a lot of my family, are gathered around. A large chocolate chip cookie is being manufactured in a materialization device.

This is a futuristic device about 20 feet in diameter — that’s how big the cookie is. The spacious room, then, is about 50 feet in diameter with chairs for all to sit and watch the materialization. There is a nice architecture to the place: there aren’t doors, just a curving high ceiling to softly delineate hints of large rooms.

The cookie feels like it’s my cookie… that is, everyone is interested and taking part in its observation of the manufacturing and they are welcome to eat it, still, it’s being made for me and according to my specifications; this is despite the fact that I’m in a strange building, a lot of people are a captive audience, and, though I’m proud of feeling the cookie is proper, I don’t myself like the cookie: I’m not happy with it.

Now we, most of us, informally, of each our own will, move to another room, just checking out the place. Here, another broad manufacturing table is replicating an entire neighborhood. This is the rich, silver-haired, pompous man’s creation. Ugg, it’s really mostly a golf course with some houses around the edge’s of it. That’s not good for a real neighborhood… that’s not a real neighborhood. Wait. It’s missing a path from a house to one part of the course in real life. I wonder if it can be added on: that would be my path.

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.