I can come to the party, too.

Walking down the sidewalk,
I see ___  Z and my daughter
and a few others I don’t recognize.
The space reveals itself at a point,
and later is revealed as  a Victorian house
filled with activities on every floor.
Inside, there are many people sitting around
the large main room, lounging.
A man speaks of his trip to Mexico.
Where was it?
I haven’t heard of the place, which is odd.
I begin searching through my videos,
an interlude which is relaxed but
for a purpose I no longer remember.
Am I looking for my Mexican footage?
The creative process continues.
We are going to see an improvised film
some people are working on.
At first I think it will be text, ideas,
as they huddle without cameras or equipment.
The room is filled.
Scott Webb comes in and I am pleased.
Who is it I am sitting next to and sharing
this with?  Margaux? I don’t think so but
a confident, for sure.  I duck and hide to
surprise Scott, who I don’t recognize at all.
He is heavier and bearded.  He sees me.
My friend doesn’t think he’s headed our way,
but he does, dragging his 10 year old son along, unhappily.
He thought there would be dancing.
There will be, and other activities as well.
I comfort him–  only later.
Scott wonders why HE didn’t think of that.
Later, a shift, the  dream continues.
I ask how many kids he has, four?
Two.
 “There were three but one,”
as Scott says this,
his son nods in agreement,
“just passed away.”
“Dad…..,” his son talks a bit then
says, “he was not for this world.”
I envision him as Scott tells me this,
the scene becomes gray and fades to black.
The film begins but it is not straight on the wall.
I finally get up and begin to adjust the little projector,
toy size on legs made of wobble pins.
No wonder.
I screw a wooden piece in and try to make it work,
balancing it on one of  the phone books lying on the floor.
It is not working and shifts as people watch,
including a young woman projectionist.
I hold it steady.
It moves a little anyway and the image
seems to be passing through a transparent curtain.
I wonder how they made that, cutting between
found footage so dynamically.
Thinking about my own work.
Next, climbing the stairs to meet the puddle of young
girls, making art, and their mothers, I realize that we are in
a house,  wondering how it feels to live in this kind of a dwelling?