A and I are finally driving down the Atlantic coastline. It is so different from the Pacific and today we have a strong wind and the sky is slightly overcast. My head is turned toward the water, and sometimes I see slivers of it as we pass houses and vegetation that blocks my view. Then we drive along a bay and up on a hill. I had expected a nicer yard at least, but everything seems to be a little haphazard. A few cars here, some garden tools there, grass not tended to. We park the car, and I look once more out over the bay. We're at the edge of the bay out on a small peninsula. The hotel stands there, with a dark and mildewy look to it. Inside we check in and begin our walk to the room. At some point we walk up stairs to the second floor and begin walking through what seem endless rooms and hallways, through small areas with kiosks and information booths, and then on through more hallways and past even more hotel rooms. I begin to wonder how we would ever get out in case of an emergency and start looking for exit signs. I find some signs and calm down. There are other ways out.

Now I am on a boat tour on the bay. The water is choppy and I wonder if I will become nauseaus, but I don't. I sit low in a covered small tourboat and everything goes well. But the weather is now grey and windy. I feel melancholy.

L (a student) sits in a room and looks at a painting. Then he says: 'I really admire screenwriters who don't realize their own genius.' I say: 'Oh really?' He nods and explains: 'They are the most genuine types of artists, the ones who don't think they are anything special - they don't realize their ingenuity.' The painting depicts a mountain range with different dark shades of black, brown, grey, and reddish brown. A lowland is seen in the foreground with some very pale and wintery green colors. Perhaps a sliver of water somewhere. The painting might be 18x24 inches in size. I am both surprised and fascinated that L would say such a thing. I really did not know he was interested in those kinds of things nor that he was so articulate and insightful.

It's P's wedding and Joan Collins and holding a speech. I can hear that Joan has no freaking idea of who P is but she still tries to make the speech meaningful and heartfelt, without any trace of luck. It becomes pathetic. I whisper to A that P probably will get a kick out of this and that it will if nothing else be a good wedding story.