I am with my deceased father in some kind of lofty like space - we're are doing that fun, gymnastic astral stuff - leaping up to the ceiling and flying around. Then, we settle down in this kind of hotel lobby, like the Algonquin? and he is showing me a velvet-covered phtograph album, very Victorian. Inside the album in a Harry Potteresque mode are sepia toned old photographs of my great- grandmother and other women. The photographs are moving like miniature movies-they are also in a hotel lobby environment having tea. My father seems to be suggesting that the answer to a secret - or something very important-is located within the motions of these people. I am striving to have them hold still, to understand what is going on.
the next day arrives in the mail a phtograph taken at a family reunion three months earlier-- which I had completely forgotten about.
I'm in Coney Island under the train tracks picnicking with "mental patients" as the clients referred to themselves. We are only eating roasted red peppers. I break away from them and walk under the tracks in the shadows. There are stores and stalls here, it feels like a foreign city's bazaar sector. A man steps suddenly out of the doorway of "A xerox store" and gestures me inside. A radio is playing tango music and we start to dance, as bendable as rubber bands completely attunded. I hand him a palm-sized book on butterflies which contain poems and say: "all of these are for you."