Traveling gypsies live for the nonce at a small house in upstate NY. There are wild animals, and stormy weather surrounding them. I am visiting. There are so many things to do and people to see, once again I lose track of time, and stay too long. I have to rush to a train in a long dark tunnel. I miss my plane because I can't find my ticket.
I have a baby who must be carried, and I worry how to pick and choose what I can take with me. I pack bags full of needless trinkets and toys. There is one puzzle that will set me free from the pursuit of the law. I am running from the law, because of my association with the gypsies. The puzzle is a game that I entice them into playing. I can demonstrate how to solve it but I never win.
There are long hallways and secret shortcuts to attics and basements that do not exist. I share a room with my sister, Mary. She shows me an elaborate way to open the upstairs window properly. It is like a dance. My bed is always moved and rearranged when I get home each night and I re-assemble everything in my room over and over each time I come home to sleep. There is a party below in the back yard. There is a band.
(I wrote all this illegibly in a notebook after waking from fitful sleep and vivid dreams. That post turkey-day double dessert and double espresso, at work.)
