I am in a classroom. I am making something artistic, using a paint brush. I am seated because a man teacher is lecturing. I look up to see him looking at me disapprovingly for doing something else while he lectures. I continue painting but then stop. I put the paint brush on the edge of a desk. Then I see that large globs of yellow paint are dripping off the brush. I don't know what to do, so I put my hand under it to catch the globs as they fall. Now I have a messy hand full of paint. I look around and see a box, under a daybed. I put it there. I'll save it for another young woman to use in her project. Now some other man is announcing that this session was taped by NPR. I say to the teacher if I'd known it was NPR, I'd have written a real poem. (meaning the one I read I'd just casually written, it wasn't a really good piece of work.) I see I have black oily stuff all over my hands and I try to clean them off. I want to help this young woman do her project before I leave. I want to talk with the teacher before he leaves. I am attracted to him. He then walks out and I feel disappointed. Later a woman sits next to me and I realize she is the teacher. I'm not as interesting in talking with her.