I’m in a doctor’s office for my physical examination. The chair is a dentist’s chair. The doctor appears and is radically transgender—that is, it is impossible for me to discern whether he is female or she is male. I feel a strong empathy between us. Through all the conversation, it becomes clear that this doctor would like to be my doctor but is being transferred or re-assigned or won’t be doing this kind of primary care anymore. There is a sadness in the field that we will not be able to become doctor and patient. Nothing is said, but at one point, I feel the doctor is almost near tears because of the impending re-assignment. There is resolve, however, that our exchange will be completed, the immediate need addressed, with an enema. I can’t believe that this is the nature of my problem, but I see the instrument. I am ready. And after that, I understand, no more.

In the corporate world again, again, again. Everything has been gutted, or is in the process of being gutted. The old scenario has run its course, is tired. So the stained and tainted old surfaces must, for the most part, be replaced. The publishing process is being replaced with video and multi-media production. Many of us old factoids are hungrily trolling about like cockroaches. Surfaces lead to corridors lead to conference rooms lead to surfaces, corridors, cubes, and rooms.

I’m now in an old, classic western hotel. Very heavy architecture. A lot of old red and old gold. Intricately labyrinthine. Charm. Density. Saturation. As usual, I am looking for a room, a place to open my suitcase, or to find it replaced having been lost. Round and round. There is some party, some cause, some organizing principle.

In a subplot, I am out in front of the hotel in a climbing zone. The old slants I remember well and have never seen before. Some rock climbing is the order of the day. I am accompanied by an older, cheerful, rather robust woman, and behind her, an unknown male who I somewhat remember. For our entertainment, we engage the climbing zone with me in the lead. I am exercising known practices, all reliable, for a not-so-intense rock climb. Move by move, handhold by foothold. And I am aware the climbing season has only recently re-opened. These are rocks untried after winter. I am very encouraging and assuring of my climbing party, while I test out the route. Steadily I become aware that the rocks are not reliable. The winter weathering has not been proved. I am aware that the woman is already very unsure. I take one large stone in my grip ahead, and it loosens. Immediately I inform my party that we must stop, reverse our route, return to flat ground, go around, and thus, slowly, we do.

Back in the hotel, more navigating of inchoate old passageways, constrained, tightening. In the lobby I am aware of toy models of the hotel available. I’m not sure if one has to pay, or if they are just free for the taking. A member of the hotel staff comes to call me, by name, with hesitancy and deference, “John? John? . . . John of . . .” and smiles uncomfortably tentative. I nod. There is a younger companion with me, sitting across from me. Somehow we are related, and we’re aware of this. It is unclear how we are related, and it doesn’t matter.

Transported in a limousine on the street of a magnificent city, I am in the back seat alone. Shifting clouds cover the sun in most gloriously bold, high-contrast, abstract geometrical configurations. I feel, “I should visit these regions more often.” Far beyond, at the apex of a vast avenue, the center of the city rises up, an immense, transcending citadel, with massive structures—towers, palaces, cathedrals. I relax in the back seat and enjoy myself.

I wake up and an image of a dream-mask, Edvard Munch-like, appears.