Dream of: 31 August 1989 (2) "Poetical Nature"

I was sitting in the back left corner of a large classroom filled with what appeared to be college students. I wasn't sitting in a chair, but on something made of white enamel which looked something like a bathtub connected to the wall. Only it wasn't a bathtub, because it didn't have sides, just a bottom. I wasn't sure if I should be sitting there, but I saw two people sitting on another one over to my right and there was also a fellow sitting there in this one next to me on my right. I had a blanket or sleeping bag which I had wrapped around me so I wasn't directly touching the enamel, but the other three were sitting right on it.

A woman teacher stood up in front and began talking. She was probably in her late 50s, but she looked very fit. She was thin and energetic. She began telling us she wanted us to write some kind of poem or story and she began giving us some kind of scenario in which to place the action of the poem or story. I picked up one of the pens lying in front of me and I began writing. But the pen quickly gave out and I picked up another one. The same thing happened with this pen and I picked up a third one. When it also didn't work I finally picked up an orange pencil and began using it.

I quickly wrote down what the teacher said, but I had the feeling I was missing something because it was a little difficult to hear her way back there in the corner. But as she talked, I realized she was just giving us a sort of outline for what we would be writing and we would have to fill in the rest. Suddenly it occurred to me I could use the dream which I had last night for what I was writing. The dream had to deal with being in Russia and also had to do with writing poetry. I thought it would be highly original to use the dream in this way.

Meanwhile I earnestly tried to write down everything she said. I felt good about being there. It seemed as if I were about 20 years old and was a young poet just beginning to learn how to write poetry. I was dressed mostly in black, which seemed to symbolize my poetical nature.

I kept writing but felt as if I had missed something. I turned to the fellow sitting on my right and asked him what the last thing was the teacher had said. I wasn't sure if I was allowed to ask someone else. He seemed like Craft (a former junior high classmate). He took his pencil and touched my face with it below my eye. I turned from him and looked up at the teacher. I wasn't sure if she saw what he had done, and I worried she might be angry.

I raised my hand and said I hadn't heard what she had said. I pointed to a loudspeaker on the wall from which some light music has started coming, and I said it was causing me not to be able to hear. She wrote the last thing she had said with chalk on a chalkboard, but it was still difficult for me to figure out what it said.

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