While in a large library, I suddenly began thinking I should write a biography of my father. I thought that a biography of any person could be included in the "National Archives" and that my father would probably be pleased to have his biography placed there. After all, no one in our family had ever had their biography written, so he should be happy to have it done. I noticed a large book on a shelf which I thought might have some information on the "National Archives" and I thought I might look at it later.

I thought a bit of my father's life; there was so much I didn't know. For example, I didn't know when he had lost his virginity. That would be an interesting story to ask him about. I would also need to obtain some dates. I thought he was born in the 1930s. Since I was going to talk soon with his mother Mabel, I could gather some information from her. I could even write a biography about her. But writing her biography was probably going too far. Perhaps I would just write a chapter about her in my father's biography.

I would also have to write about how my father had met my mother. I was beginning to see that by the time I finished, the biography would be rather copious and would take quite a bit of time. Should I actually do it? It seemed as if I were already writing something, but I couldn't remember exactly what. Then it came to me: I was writing my dreams. When I thought about it, I didn't see how I could write both a biography and my dreams. Perhaps taking on the biography was too much; perhaps I should just stick to writing my dreams.

As I pondered, I exited the library onto the street and immediately encountered my mother. As I started walking along beside her on her left, I had the feeling that she was simply strolling around and not going anywhere in particular. Although I was happy to see her, her inactivity irritated me. She didn't appear to be accomplishing anything with her life, and I launched into an ardent diatribe against her. She seemed to listen patiently as I told her I felt she was wasting her life. I sputtered, "I'm ashamed of you."

She asked me what I wanted her to do. I told her to just do something. I told her she could write something for example. She could even write stories for a woman's magazine like Redbook or Woman's Day. Of course writing wasn't the only thing she could do; she simply needed find something which she herself wanted to do. I said, "Look inside yourself."

By now other people were walking near us and I thought some might have heard what I had said. My mother had obviously heard because she winced visibly. It was as if she had heard those words, "look inside yourself" before, and she disliked the sound. She seemed either incapable or unwilling to do that, and she didn't seem to appreciate the suggestion that she should.

As we walked, I noticed a woman standing on the sidewalk to our left talking to a few people. I stopped for a moment to hear what the woman had to say. She was only about 1.5 meters tall (probably in her 40s) and wearing a dark brown dress. I quickly realized the woman was an elected representative from this district. Seeing such a person out there talking on the street surprised me; but as I listened to her, I realized her intention was to get out and meet people from her district ... she had come out on the street to do just that.

At first I was turned sideways so only my right side was toward her, but when I realized I wanted to hear what she had to say, I turned around and completely faced her. By now a small crowd had begun to gather. As I listened, I realized I didn't even know the name of the legislative representative of the district where I lived. I didn't even know how to find out the name. Could I ask the woman? ... would she tell me?

I tried to remember what district I was in at the moment; I thought I was in Brazil. I tried to place in my mind what part of Brazil I was in, and I envisioned a map of Brazil. At first I thought I might be in northwestern Brazil, but then I decided more likely I was in southeastern Brazil.

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