I am traveling. I have borrowed Aunt Rosalie's car, a Thunderbird, 1979. It is a big Cadillac-like car, very powerful. I have some trouble managing the steering because it is so very sensitive and responsive to the slightest touch. I keep moving suddenly toward the other lane. The trunk has a special device to load heavy luggage and I use it for my power wheelchair. I think happily that I could get me one of these and then have the fun of a sweet fast car and be able to take my wheelchair. I stop now and am in a room with a piano, a black, shiny grand piano. I am auditioning for a very important director. I sing a blues or jazz like Ella Fitzgerald or some excellent singer. A star, an excellent singer, is also singing. We do a duet for part of the song. I sing well and with power. Then the song is over and I go over where some friends, or maybe strangers, are. One of them asks me what happened in one section of the song where I seemed to have no energy, or I was depressed. They were very serious and asked me if it was because the other woman and I were talking and the other woman confided in me that she can't have children. Did that mess up our timing because we got so depressed? I say, "No not at all. Sure we talked and it was sad. But what messed up my timing was the fact that I was so scared and in awe of the caliber of talent at this convention or contest." Really fine musicians are here and I was afraid they'd laugh at me or wonder how I even got into the contest, I was so inferior. The other chuckled that I can't even see my own talent, because it is obvious to them that I am comparable to the others.