Last night I dreamed I saw Laura Elrick and Rodrigo Toscano, except it was Reverse Day, so Laura introduced herself as Rodrigo and told me that I should have called Rodrigo "Laura." Rodrigo however had introduced himself as "Paulo" or possibly "Paula," so he was clearly playing Reverse Day in a different way.
When I met them, I was rushing, I was late! It was the campus of a great university, full of affluent young people and tall solemn trees, at which I was a peon! (Sort of like my life, except USF has more parking lots, less heritage, less trees.) In the halls, I saw Rodrigo; in the dream he had my job and I was amazed at how clearly he was intructing the students about the process with which to develop their work (what an insipidly Freudian detail! Of course, in reality Rodrigo doesn't teach school, and certainly not Freshman Composition, although his poetry, in its political aspect, no doubt has a pedagogical dimension.) I was very impressed; he seemed to me to be a Great Communicator. He rushed off, and then rushed back, and told me to speak to Laura. I said his name, and that was when he corrected me to say he was "Paulo" or "Paula."
Laura ("Rodrigo") told me I had not gone to the large group reading at which I had been scheduled, and that I should rush there quickly. It was at the Administration Building. I tried going. I rushed around through various areas at the college. I could not find it. Finally I was at an outdoor market, where various poor people, mostly of Caribbean origin seemingly, were selling what they had in the middle of one of the college's solemn and green guadrangles. I picked up a large green cookie; it was crumbly in my hand, and I ate half of it in a few bingeing bites. It was chocolate broccoli. I didn't know how to go back and teach my class, nor did I know how to go forward and read my poems. I also picked up a bruised nectarine and enjoyed the way the skin of it slumped inwards at the light touch of my fingers, making my hand slightly wet. I waited in line to pay.
Earlier in the night, and this one is a little sketchier, I dreamed about Jessica Smith. First, I was in the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, and there was a machine installed, with a computer monitor and keyboard and flowers all around the monitor and Jessica's face on the screen. Then, later, I was in a similar garden in Manhattan and again, a second machine, monitor and keyboard crowned with flowers and Jessica's face, and I typed, and the machine responded. These were Jessica's garden poetry outlets. I was lost in the second garden, so what I typed were attempts to get directions. I received puzzling poetry in response, so I tried to use that as directions and became more lost. Finally, I followed a dog out of the garden--it was a black, skinny dog.
There was more, but I can't remember.