The dream

I am at MacDowell and it is Medal Day. It looks nothing as I remember -- larger, with more ornate buildings, sprawled along a roaring ocean reminiscent of Pacifica -- and the staff members don't recognize me. I go with a group into someone's studio, feeling guilty that we are invading their space. They are not around but their possessions are -- a sweater, a notebook.

The group is eclectic: an elementary-school friend, a friend who I also consider a mother figure, Adam, a few strangers. Very little is recognizable and almost nothing is mine. That which is is about to be stolen.