I am at my son's house (he's black). I play a violin. At first I just play random notes. I realize I am remembering how to play songs and my son is impressed with my skill. Then I go to visit a friend. I am an old black man. My friend and I stand in front of his place, an old hotel. He says, "Why did you call me out here?" I said, "Because I wanted to tell you what happened without anyone else around because I can't tell you without clenching my fists." Then I go to a pile of my belongings and choose two small "windshield" paintings I'd done to give to his wife as a gift. I notice that I'm a good artist. I'd drawn a picture of some woodland creatures. We go upstairs. I knock open the door. Lots of some family is in there. I introduce my spouse and two sons and apologize for being so many. The wife welcomes us. I see her sewing; she has three sewing machines. Ginny points out some dresses and blouses she made hanging in an open closet. Her stepson picks up something for her. I say, "I must go catch the bus," but first I see a group of people dancing. I stand limping on the sidelines watching. Ginny looks at me compassionately. Skip and Cheryl are dancing. He looks at me, staring at my limp. I glare at him until he drops his eyes. Then I see the bus; it's full. Then I remember I should dye my newsletter green. I try to do it quickly, it only spots some places. I get frustrated. (It isn't going to look good, as usual.) I go catch the bus, putting two important small packages in my pink bag.