1. I am sitting at a seminar table, taking a class from Lin-Manuel Miranda of Hamilton fame. I know it is him even though he is disguised as a very short woman in sunglasses and a head scarf . . . not a hijab but the sort that protected Catherine Deneuve's hairdo as she drove her glossy convertible through 1962-era Monte Carlo. He does not offer anyone in the class free tickets to Hamilton.
2. A college acquaintance tells me she's been reading my student copy of Ezra Pound's collected poems. Why, she wonders, did I write so many flippant and dismissive comments in the margins? Why do I hate everything so much? Wordless, I hunch my shoulders and accept yet another flaw in my character. [Real-life note: I do not write in books and never studied Pound in college. Also, I have no idea who this so-called college acquaintance is.]
3. I have moved to the city and am planning to rent an apartment. I walk toward a gray stone building, about five stories high, studded with rows of fat square windows. I am excited about exploring this new, unknown, empty space; but just as I'm about to open the apartment door, my dream mind switches to another channel. On the new channel there is nothing but static.
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