There was a national writing cabin, but it burned down. The Obamas had a new one built. It's beautiful and amazing. Sometimes people cry there. It was one of the first things they did when he got into office. Pres. Obama said put (the large amount, forgetting the number) on the credit card and tell them he said so. This was back when he was really popular and could do such a thing.
I'm considering renting a writing cabin and holding a retreat. I'm thinking about announcing it and inviting other writers, but there's one poet who I'll lie to and say we're all full if he asks to join.
I'm in the backyard of my childhood home. I'm playing fetch with the new owner's dog. If I don't throw the ball far enough, across the dirt road into the neighbor's yard, the dog won't bother bringing the ball back. I don't tell the new owner that I used to live here. I don't want to creep her out and make her think I'm obsessed with the place.
I'm looking online at Vermont writing cabins. I see one that advertises it's gourmet kitchen appliances. It looks nice with triangular hallways. The windows have sheepskin coverings. It looks very warm. I wonder if it'll be too warm for when I'm there. My sister thinks it'll be too hot. I say that sometimes it's really cold. I remind of her a recent blizzard. I ask, weren't you cold? She says no. She's acting like she's never cold.
* * *
I'm with a group of ragtag poets. A pudgy, long-haired man is in charge. We're getting ready to go. I go upstairs to get my books, 2 copies of Your Ten Favorite Words and 6 of God Damsel. I realize that I grabbed Rebecca Loudon's Cadaver Dogs instead. The colors are kind of similar. I consider trying to pass those off as my own, but go back up and get GD instead. I take out the books I'm done reading in my messenger bag. I leave in some I think I might read later. I meet the group, the leader has malevolent plans. One of the poets follows him -- the rest of us, not so much. We're on a field being approached by a group of children rugby players. The leader poet starts cursing their dogs and wants us to join. I say I'm not wishing anything bad on dogs. I turn to the kids and say something like "what are you looking at?" I (and the rest of the poets) keep walking. We're going to break into some kind of lab, one of the poets is going to sneak in and have some kind of experiment done on him. I know what's going to to happen, he will die unless I go against the leader and pull the poet out in time -- which I know I will do because I'm in love with him. We're going through a stairwell. We see the status of things. Kilroy is now at 10.
* * *
I walk up to a table under a canopy. I'm going to have dinner with a former teacher and his wife. I talk to them about their tireless work and suggest they do too much. I mention another poet who over-exerts herself and isn't really appreciated. There's a a young male poet here. It's raining and much of it is coming into the tent. The young male poet holds an umbrella over my head. Then I hold my own umbrella. We talk about what a bummer it is that it's raining on our big dinner. The rain slows. I notice the poet's baby. Every time I touch the baby, he cries. I ask if the baby doesn't like to be scratched and the poet says he does, but clearly not when I do it. He hands the baby to another poet. The baby is happy and calm with her. There's something about me the baby doesn't like.