I had an odd dream last night. I was on a road trip with my uncle in an ugly Ford Taurus. We were moving incredibly fast though, through fields of smooth cut grass berms we couldn’t see over, zooming around curves. I felt the centrifugal force quite strongly and asked my uncle to slow down. We then stopped along the way at some weird technology center. We started wandering the grounds, alternately sure we were there to attend some conference and just stopping along the road to find a place to sleep like it was a motel. We then stumbled into a kind of precocious children’s school on the grounds, and we agreed to talk to the teacher there and try to write an essay or poem or something but we were having a very difficult time of it. We spent many hours trying to compose, each of us separately, a good essay or poem. I noticed I was working with line ruled paper and a nice, somewhat heavy silver pen, both long lost items from my childhood. The bell rang and we had to turn in our writing which wasn’t finished at all. Then the teacher did an analysis of our work and the work of her three other students, three young women, one of whom was suddenly my friend Ruthbea. The teacher berated all of us for the terrible quality of the poems we had written, then talked about how renowned she herself was at this, and talked about how she would be coming out with a new book soon. Then her three sudents started in with silly, fawning, accolades to curry favor with their teacher. I was disgusted by the transparency of it, but the teacher seemed to respond well to their sycophancy.