I'm in a small school auditorium or cafeteria. We are all looking for pictures for when my mother was 5 or 6 years old. My father points to a picture of when I'm (looks like Lydia), a baby and says, "Maybe keep that one because you look like her." I see another picture, a "graduation" picture. A crowd of people are in a semi-circle. I see myself, right in the center of the curve. I'm wearing a blazer jacket, shorts or a short skirt and furry knee boots. I note that my legs are pretty good looking. I see a man near me that I feel warm about. I look at the legs of another girl. Her legs are skinny with large knobby knees. I think, "Oh, how could she wear a short skirt. Isn't she embarrassed?" Then I look at a letter written by high school boyfriend Nate, only the name "Julian" is on the envelope. I decide not to read it because I didn't like him. Up on the stage, are puppets, little dogs, and one is playing the drums. There is a scrap book that is fur lined. I feel it. It's very soft and nice. The room is crowded. I'm laying on top of a round table. "Dad" is somewhere near. A guy comes in. I wave my book at him and say, "Come join us." He says, "No, I'm Mark, the Home Ec. teacher, and I came in here to tell you that our class starts in a few minutes. I'm going to be a hard nose about it and insist you leave." I say, "Well, I'm here for a math class. We started at noon." People start leaving. He looks at the book in my hand and says, "Oh! Dreams. Not me! They are too intelligent!" I say, "Because they tell you so much about yourself?" He says, "Too much!" I shrug my shoulders. He's not got the right attitude. I want to learn everything. I see a book in his hand. It has a picture of a building. I say, "Oh! I've been there. I've seen that building. Where is it?" It is white, stone and ornate, with many carved 'gargoyles' and lions on it, iron ornate fences, etc., one story long. A woman looks at it and asks what the book is about. He says, "Architecture." I think the building is in another state. He says, "It's an agriculture building." He then says, "It's written by a rheumatoid. I say, "Ya, a lot of them write books. I'm going to, too." I go to a shelf of books like in a library and look at them.