Peter and I decide to drive to Albany so I can read at an open poetry reading hosted by Pierre Joris (this sentence is odd in so many ways compared to my life). We arrive at the reading, and the site consists of several rooms. I'm shown to a tiny room where the reading will occur. The room has taken stylistic notes from the film "Brazil." There's a claustrophobic feeling, amps and wires everywhere. And I notice that there is so much equipment, there's no room for an audience. I'm told to read in that room by myself, and that I should note that I won't be recorded despite all the technological implements.
Afterward, as some sort of payment for reading to myself alone in a room filled with amps and wires, we're shown to a more expansive room that looks like a restaurant with a large raging fireplace. Many strangers wearing x-mas sweaters are gesturing and eating. Pierre Joris invites us to eat the only meal offered: "Medieval Jousting Breakfast."
When I wake up and tell Peter the dream, he asks if the meal consisted of large turkey legs swung overhead and root vegetables. "Omelettes, we had omelettes," I tell him.