Everyone was dressing to go to something for a writer who was very sick and either did or did not know it. I kept telling all the writers, poem and prose writers, that her writing was like a big negative thing that sucked people into it. I was screaming this. Some people didn’t like me because I said this. I offered to take anyone who wanted to the service for the writer who was oblivious that it was a service for her. There was a mother and daughter who were very large and the daughter decided to ride with me in the open car. Air was very important. I could see that parts of her body stuck out and showed beneath her clothes. She wore a long black skirt that gathered at her waist and still I could see one of her bones.
I was wearing many different patterns and finally took one off in the
form of a scarf. I felt more all together after that removal. We walked
up and over the hill past the people at tables and through the gate that
was on the street side. The fence down low was like a picket fence,
only more colorful. Once we got through, that left us on the outside of a
rail fence that still had bark on it and had the natural shape of tree
branches. We finally got to the car and it was red. The poet who didn’t
like that I talked about the sick girl’s negativity squinted slightly
when he saw me, to avoid me. That was the last I saw of him.