I had gone into a small store in Portsmouth, right about where the old Russell Glass Store used to be. It seemed the store was now some kind of small restaurant and I had gone in to buy something to eat. It also seemed that my mother had dropped me off and that she would be coming back to pick me up.

Once I was in the store, I was surprised to see Tindall walk in. Tindall looked young, as if he might be in his late 20s, and he appeared to be in good health. He didn't notice me, and after he had sat down at a booth, I walked over to him. I was very happy to see him, it had been so long since I last saw him, and he seemed happy to see me. We both greeted each other with large smiles and began talking. I told him we needed to get together and I chided him for sticking to himself too much and not getting out enough. He acted as if he didn't have time to go anywhere anymore, and I asked him what he had been doing that kept him so busy. I was surprised when he told me he was working on writing a comic book.

I knew Tindall had always had artistic skills, skills which he had never really developed; but the thought of his writing comic books had never even remotely occurred to me. However now the idea made good sense to me, in fact it seemed like the perfect thing for him to be doing. I asked him if he read many comics, and he rather disdainfully said he didn't. I told him I had a whole stack of avant-garde comics which he might like to read; but he almost seemed offended by the idea, and he said he wasn't interested. I told him these weren't just ordinary comics which I had, but that some had fantastic art work in them. Still, he seemed completely disinclined to borrow any of my comics. I questioned him more about when he hoped to publish his comics. He said something about it being a "five year risk," indicating he expected the project to take around five years before he would actually publish anything. Finally he stood up to leave, indicating he was in a hurry to get back to his work.

As he headed for the door, I followed after him, suddenly remembering something else which I needed to tell him. I caught him and blurted out that Buckner was also writing comics. Tindall seemed incredulous. I told him it was true, Buckner had been busy by himself trying for quite some time to write a comic, but he hadn't yet been able to put it together.

Suddenly it occurred to me that perhaps Tindall and Buckner could collaborate on a comic: Buckner could write it, and Tindall could draw it. My imagination went even further, as it occurred to me I might be able to also work as a writer for some of the comics. And suddenly I knew what could be the source of my writing: my dreams.

This thought of turning my dreams into comics was suddenly quite fascinating. I had been working on writing my dreams and turning them into a book; but now, the idea of the dreams being written like a novel, with no pictures, seemed terribly blasé. In fact, it was hard to imagine that dreams written like a novel would even be readable. Illustrating the dreams in the fashion of a comic book would be much better. It shouldn't be that difficult. I even began picturing to myself how such a thing might be accomplished. For example, I envisioned turning my little encounter here with Tindall into a comic. I could vividly see how I could have a picture of Tindall sitting in his booth as I walked up to greet him. Above the picture, just as in a comic, I would have written the background information of how I had happened to run into Tindall. Then in the box with the picture, I could have the dialogue with Tindall in a little balloon.

For the first time, I now realized just how well dreams lent themselves to being written in comic book form.

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