(06/02/90)(naptime) A man and I are going to paint portraits of people. He's an artist and very good, but I can see people more deeply. And even though my pictures are more primitive, they "say" more. I am picking up my pile of pictures and things I'd done before as a child and young adult. I see a cat cut out of poster paper. My mother comments on how cute it is, and how well I can draw, in a surprised tone. Now the man and I are doing portraits of a woman. I make quick, dramatic strokes and come up with an interesting, arresting picture. I use black paint. I see her between two men in the portrait, so I'm painting her relationships I just "somehow" know about. She likes the artist's rendition better. Now the group wants to go on a scenic river raft ride. We get into two boats. We are on a street, not the river, and then we turn right and peek through a narrow opening at a raging river. I say, scared, "This one is too big for us. This isn't the right river." But we choose to go anyway, even though we can't see around the bend and we can hear the thunder of the falls in the distance. And then it's too late, we ride the river right up to the edge of the falls and manage to park on the flat land edge, safe, but it doesn't look like we can get back home without help. I get out of the boat and I interrupt a man and a woman talking and I feel guilty, but I also say, "I need a hug." He looks at me blankly and then lightly hugs me as he continues to talk to the woman. I ask several others for hugs. They just stare at me blankly. I feel rejected and alone and sad.