I’m something like a pre-teen kid, practicing in a small, hard-walled room with a mentor. There’s a fat cat on the top shelf of an empty bookcase struggling to climb up. It looks like Katie with Aloysius’ coloration. Seeing this, someone mentions nostalgia for when Lynae’s dad used to call her “his little hamster”. The mentor and I begin a fisticuffs match, and they have become invisible. I can still feel my punches land, but they are softer now, as if the mentor was made of foam.
First-person perspective, paddling down a wide, muddy river on a rainy day. It’s like the rest of the world isn’t there, just a gray wall. I’m getting advice from a compatriot walking along the shore’s path and move to the middle of the wider and wider river. Now in third-person perspective, I watch the single-person boat struggle on the outside of the flow, and go faster in the center. So fast, in fact, that it’s propelled out to sea — or at least out-of-sight of land.
I’m outside in the dark of winter with a few others, near a door back to our shared facility. There’s a strange woman who finishes her thing — a cigarette, talking to herself, digging in the mud, something — and goes back inside. I ask about her, can’t now remember the response, but a large replica of a hand-weight is then lifted into the air and gently placed on top of an old angled window, a window that’s pouring light from within the warm building.
Someone mentions that I should get in touch with Marc Fincham from Berlin. Soon thereafter, I look to my left and there sitting at an outdoor bench is Marc! No idea if it means much, but very surprising.
