I have to "babysit" or assist a quack. He's withdrawn and somewhat helpless. I take him home with me, the old duplex Howard and I lived in when I was pregnant with Dovre. The only place to sleep is on a roll-away bed in the living room. I lay down beside him. I have my back turned to him. I'm aware of my body, some what tense. Behind he's paralyzed, he can't feel me. He wants to hear music. He asks me to put on a record. I get up and look on the old card table. There are albums all over it. He gets up (walks stiff and holds hands stiff), and points to an album and says, "Oh, go ahead and play it, and get it over with. Then I can hear what I like." I look at it, Old English Madrigals. I say, "Now, I'm tired of it," so I find the jacket to put it away. "What do you want to hear? It's O.K. I'll play it." I'm called to the phone. My sister Lydia asks what I'm doing at the old place. I say "Oh, it's O.K., I'm just here for a day or two, then back to my new house." "Oh, I'm glad, " she says. Then Bill E. is outside the window. I follow him. Now he's a woman, going dancing. He's wearing a bright yellow dress. In order to dance, since he's/she's paralyzed, there are two suction cups like tassels on her breasts that are attached to a glass sheet. She ungulates around being supported by those cups. It stretches the breasts and I think, "Ugh. That must hurt. But at least she's getting out and having fun." I am pleased as she's not being withdrawn as much now.