After insomnia: strange dreams. I worked in an institution that was a maze with cafes and shops. To enter, one had to strip in a DRs office, wear a hospital gown, and then was given a box lunch of paraphernalia. Apparently, I was leaving said institution because I hugged everyone I passed in the hall and said: if I don't see you, goodbye. Heather Sweeney was married to a cartoon dictator. Amy Arenson made jewelry with beach glass. A table was littered with flower buds. Someone remarked: everyone's poetry here is too much in the head.

It started like a typical teaching anxiety dream--I had an hour to prep for the first day of a class I forgot I was teaching--but then a glowing woman sat down beside me and started buying me lovely coffee drinks, and every drink also gave me several extra hours. It only took us a few minutes to determine that my whole class would be based on using cooty-catchers to organize your writing and get rid of writer's block. The rest of the time we just flirted and talked about the really interesting book she was writing.