There are rows of tables that hold sound mixers, and projectors that shoot onto screens. On one screen, I am moving, dancing, when my work is being read aloud. An interview gives my bio, somewhere saying, I teach at L. And I do not. What you must claim is your place. I know that what I am arguing for is as hard to identify as the pressure point of morning gasses, sleep in the eyes, a stiff and hurting back, but what I do realize is that, in the end, I have to get up and move forward.
“You Suck,” is what I say as I walk across a warehouse space to see D.L. in the dream. She is busy in a corner working on her own material, watching a screen, looking up at it, focusing on her internal self, mining the self’s projected composition. Her actions are a reminder to me to keep doing me. Do You – she seems to say. J.K. is in the dream, and he’s urging me on, too. And since he’s chosen the opaque, the oblique as a primary mode in his writing, I listen.