Khomeini inna taxi, honey...

I am standing by the throne of Henry VIII. I am there to co-write something clever over one page in the king's own book, and he is to furnish the authority while I the wit. I am realizing this is strange because he has command of several languages while I'm still working on my first.

But he is not that monarch of long ago; he is withered and old now, and his competence and faculties are withering - so much so that he resembles Ayatollah Khomeini . I reach down to his face to try and smooth his chin to more nearly resemble a royal for his portrait to go on the book jacket. He expects it, although he seems not altogether pleased.

Now I am waiting for a bus. The station more nearly resembles a parking garage, and this is one corridor on one floor. A van enters, and has great difficulty in turning around to go on out again. I should have known this, I think. How would a full bus ever serve this station?

As the van is positioned, I realize I won't be riding. Perhaps I will walk. Maybe we all will, all us leftovers. After all, it's not really that far.

We set out. There is a pretty young lady and an older man takes charge of her, to mentor her. I think we will not all remain together as we go forth.

One objective I have is to photograph my old home grounds, the house I lived in when I was about three to six on East 4th St. I want to film the actual position, as the house is long gone and there is a fast food joint there now. Where once the house stood at 719, there is a parking lot. I think it's important for me to have a memento of the spot where I lived when I was so young.

I don't have my cap. I always have my cap. I don't know where is my headgear. How can I have forgotten my cap? I always have my cap when I'm outdoors, but I don't have it now.

I stride off down 4th St, bareheaded.