Gail was driving a car. While driving she was reading a story she wrote. It said, "Although 90 percent of Americans prefer white meat on a turkey, but on a turkey, only 30 percent of the meat is white. The problem is how to meet 90 percent of the people's desire with only 30 percent of the available product. The story went on to tell of Thanksgiving meal fiascos in a pretty way, and was mixed in with a newspaper article about drunk drivers. I had to memorize a part of a Shakespeare play for a dinner party. I didn't know if it was a performance or just entertainment for us. The guests at the dinner party. I was memorizing the part I was in. I was doing a part with a guy next to me. He was foreign. He said he could do 120 drawings of objects but he could not make a painting. I told him about a painter from high up in the mountains. He told me the name of the country. It started with a "P" or an "E." I couldn't remember it. For the performance or dinner party, there was a round cement table in the center. In the middle of the table was a porcelain bowl, set into the cement with designs inset. Then it gradually became cement. The leaves and grapes in cement--the design on half of the circle. I painted it all pale green. Then the paint could be wiped/peeled off the porcelain, but stuck to the cement--to the leaf designs--and you could peel it off a little and it looked like the leaves were in motion. It was my job to set the table--a fancy table--with glasses for red wine, white wine, bread dishes, butter dishes. I set the table but then realized I had forgotten to put the tablecloth down, so I put it over the dishes and glasses. The guy said he could pour the red wine if there were glasses on the table, but (that) I'd forgotten and there were no glasses. "Sure there are," I said, "they're under the tablecloth." We were on a train. ME and Corinne--when Corinne went to sleep on the train she was a woman from another time who always wanted coffee. She wanted sticks of chewing gum too and I had some in my pocket. There was a little boy on the train. With his mother but all by himself. He knew everything--you could tell by his eyes. He never spoke--there was no need for him to--everything was in his eyes. His mother went to sleep. He strayed from her. He stood close to the doors--watching them open and shut--knowing something in his eyes--a slight calm mischievous smile on his face--but everything in his eyes. His hair was the color of mine. It was curly too. His mother knew he was suppose to get off by himself at one stop--and so he did--she was barely awake. He was alone now. His mother had fallen sound asleep again. He walked calmly down the platform and while the doors were open, he came back into the car ahead of us. I had to keep sight of him. Everything people knew of him or expected of him was wiped clean. The train was his world and he was everything. I knew this little boy was the key to light and life and everything anybody could ever want--because of his eyes and the energy they emitted from the little boy. Detached and immersed, at the same time. I was mesmerized by the little boy and at all costs could not lose sight of him. There was an artist whose art was to cut out pieces of the road with a jackhammer and/or chainsaw. The dean of the college was upset when he went in somebody's room and saw a piece of the road on the wall. The artist would cut his squares 4, 5, or 6 feet square from the sides of the road--where the white and yellow lines were painted. The artist, he/she liked the wear and tear on the paint on the pavement, where the paint wore off the top of the small pebbles in the road, and the energy of skid marks next to the slow-painted solid stripes--worn down by many years of cars driving on them. When I came up I saw the forklift and a square of the road cut out, but still in place--I knew the artist had been at work. A farmer in a pick-up truck stopped to talk to me. I was worried he'd call the patrolman about the road, but he was stuttering and stammering was all that came out. He was trying to pick me up. I didn't know how to operate a forklift. If I could get the slab of road onto the forklift, I knew I could figure out how to drive it, but the road was too heavy and I knew this. The farmer didn't even notice the road missing.