I’m in a rugged place, away from town, in the wilds, in a substantial and well-built get-away place. There is a gathering, of the living and the dead, with whom I actively converse. At one point I walk outside and get involved in a discovery. I find a tall, shallow, derelict closet attached to an outside wall. There is a padlock, but the key is obviously hanging below. I unlock the door and remove the lock. Inside, I find some materials that, of course, I think I might use in sculpting. The materials are dense, black, in layers that are dissolving into a strange tar-like mass. But midst this heavy matter my fingertips feel differentiated surfaces, edges. As I leaf through the layers, I pick up some shaped entities, including some finely formed silhouettes. With these, I think I may recognize the high style of an artist-friend with whom I am close. I get completely absorbed with excavating and sorting through the layers, confident that I have plenty of time before my departure. I have a ticket to Paris. I take a break to step back inside the house to join the repartee around the table, bright exchanges about Paris. Everything is going so well. When it occurs to me that I have—to my ultimate horror—in fact mis-reckoned the timing of things. I must get into gear immediately and move pronto to pack and get going if I am going to catch my flight. More and more, It dawns on me that it is very iffy, even if I move super-fast, that I am going to make my flight. I have somehow, inexplicably, skipped a groove. No more deliberative sequence. I start making quick, nitty-gritty decisions about packing. I absolutely hate this. I thought I was way ahead of the game. Now I am in pretty near panic mode. It seems no matter what moves I must now make, I may not be able to high-tail it to the airport in time. Working, working, working. Sorting, packing. No more conversations now. How did I get into this situation? This trip is important. I am not clear about why. I wake up—back into time.