Dream 20020629, 8:00 AM:
Seats 113 and 114
I’m with Chris at a place that reminds me of a college campus. There are large lecture halls, and we have tickets for a theater performance that is going to take place in one of them. We have tickets for seats 113 and 114, and we are trying to find them; it seems like classes have just let out, because there are still students sitting in some of the seats. One girl seems to be in one of our seats, but then we figure out that she’s just in one of the adjacent seats. She is young and blond, and seems more like a high school kid than college.
We find our seats, with the same numbers, in two different auditoriums – in each one, the rows are split off-center, and in one, our seats are part of a long row and in the other part of a short row. I am arguing with Chris about which seats are better – for some reason I prefer the long row, because it would offer a better view. We’re talking about how one set are right-hand seats in a left-hand hall, and the others are left-hand seats in a right-hand hall. The two halls adjoin along one wall, and seem to be mirror images of each other. I remember something else about Christa McDermott and her kids, and whether they would be able to attend these events – I think that because she belongs to the same athletic club, she could.
Then, I’m in one of the big auditoriums, and there is some sort of project being graded. The professor asks for the group partners to call up their other partner – but apparently a lot of the students’ partners didn’t call them up, and they stand up so that they can do their part of the project alone. One boy who is sitting next to me has walked up to the top of the hall, and left a piece of his project sitting on the seat – it has a circular piece of glass, and a similar-shaped but slightly smaller piece of cardboard printed with blue sky and fluffy clouds, and a heart drawn on the cardboard with black marker, and the words “I don’t like it here” or something like that written in blue ball-point inside the black heart. The cardboard is wired to the piece of glass, it looks like it’s done with a too-heavy wire, like an unbent paperclip. It has fallen apart a little, and I pick it up and fix it by re-bending the wire to fit. The boy is standing up at the top of the auditorium, and I hold it up so he can see that I’ve fixed it. He seems concerned; I think he’s supposed to have it with him.
Then, students around the hall, one after another, start doing presentations. Each one involves a student singing, each of them sounding very professionally trained, as they do some arrangement with flowers and pieces of flowers. One that I remember, a girl with a very pretty mezzo-soprano is singing something that sounds like a love song, and holding a bouquet with blown orange roses and daisies; she does some movements with her hands, and then tips forward a plate or book that she’s holding, and the petals of the flowers pour onto a paper plate that is lying on the seat in front of her. The professor is walking from student to student as they’re making these presentations, and picks up a couple of stems of flowers from each one, as if to keep them like notes for grading.