Last night's movies.

I'm traveling on foot with two young Asian women, sisters, through a wooded wetland. We are on a journey or mission of some kind, and it is one we make frequently; indeed, it appears to be some sort of "Groundhog Day" type loop. I have known this for some time—all the events that happen are familiar, like unusually strong déjà vu—but my two traveling companions have not been convinced. Thus it is surprising when—just as we're clambering on tree roots up the bank of a rivulet—upon hearing a quest-disparaging or "Beware!" comment from a laconic observer, one of the women responds with, "You always say that. Shut the fuck up." (This is a direct quote from me, earlier in the script.) Her sister protests the use of vulgar language, but maybe she's just aghast that her sister has seemingly bought into the "this always happens" theory. The whole thing is vaguely reminiscent of this:

A late night television talk show has Carroll O'Connor playing Richard Nixon. He is giving a monolog while riding on some sort of barrow or tiny food cart. The piece is meant to be folksy-amusing, not an indictment or inveighing; Nixon's ghost's rehabilitation has apparently been complete and successful. I wonder whether they are using historical footage of Nixon with O'Connor's face CGI'd onto it. I try looking at his neck but cannot tell. In retrospect it didn't look anything like Carroll O'Connor, so maybe it was Anthony Hopkins—or perhaps Tiny Attorney from the Venture Bros—playing Carrol O'Connor playing Richard Nixon.

No matter, because now I'm on the cart, which travels autonomously and is a very gentle ride despite its apparently rolling over unpaved earth. It takes me through sprawling parkland in which thousands of hippies cavort in that particular hippie way.

[And I should know.]

It is the same area through which I have walked many times to get to Not Quite the Philly Folk Fest, with a decided aura of middle-ground between civilization and hippiedom. I am, alas, still in my business attire from earlier in the day, and I feel like an intruder (despite taking off my shoes and socks, rolling up my pant legs, and unbuttoning my shirt). Nobody pays much attention to me either way.

Finally through the hippie park, I'm trying to find Newark, Delaware, and in a misty early morning I travel northbound along a ridge which appears to overlook the town to the east. I am surprised by the clarity with which I can pick out all the major landmarks of Main Street, as if these 2- and 3-storey buildings constituted a skyline. I see the Deer Park, Old College, various Main Street businesses (including the State Theater, I will have you know).

But the view looks too pristine for a misty morning; I begin to wonder whether this is real or an illusion. Sure enough, as I get closer, I see that Daugherty Hall has been replaced with Cinderella's castle from Walt Disney World's Magic Kingdom. So much for reality.

Next I am on the National Mall (which looks suspiciously like a busy boardwalk) and there is a stage set up with a huge jack-in-the-box character who is spouting scathing, politically progressive criti- and witticisms. (Don't ask me how this is done; it's played by a human male but the head coming out of the costume is way too large to be a regular human head.) I hang out for a long while listening, amazed (and heartened) that such a prominent voice of dissent is permitted to declaim in the public federal space of the nation's capital. Later the jack-in-the-box guy goes away and another performer takes over. I notice the performer names are written on a wall behind the stage. Later I ask Pat Françoise whether she's aware of the venue on the National Mall. She is, and she's similarly enthusiastic.

I am in a gift shop having a political discussion with—for all intents and purposes—Alec Guinness as Prince Faisal in Lawrence of Arabia, while we're both looking at books and geegaws. At one point he relates a quote and says, "Your Jesus said that." Later in the discussion he quotes again, followed by "Aristotle said that." I ask, "Not 'Your Aristotle'?" He replies, in that inimitable Alec Guinness way that means, "Ha! I am amused because you don't even know you're being condescended to": "Aristotle belongs to everybody."

While speaking with Faisal, I have been looking at an oversize glossy pamphlet with photos of Katharine Hepburn in various film roles. It seems to be about the glamour of her costumes, as the emphasis is on color photos. Some of the pages of this pamphlet come loose, so I arrange all the pages as nicely as possible and put the pamphlet carefully behind the others on the display, where it won't be noticed. Meanwhile, I either hear or remember my mom (who is played by my mom, not Katharine Hepburn) discussing Alys Capet, though she pronounces it "Allay-iss" after the spelling "Alais" from "The Lion in Winter"...

...which I am suddenly in. Eleanor frets that Henry will be home soon and no one has warmed his slippers for him. Indeed, slippers, jumpers, various clothes for warmth are sitting in a pile, damp and snowy, littered with straw—a mess, really. We are in a parlor in, I assume, one of Henry's castles in Normandy—not Chinon—but it's also my Grandmom's kitchen. A fire is burning in a sort of chiminea or censer in the center of the room. One by one I put Father's clothes next to the fire, but I clearly don't have enough time to dry them out and warm them. One jumper catches on fire briefly but having put it out I can find no evidence of damage. Anyway, too late! Henry has blustered in to the entry hall with two of his other sons. As I go out to them, one (Richard?) hails me and makes small talk, while Geoffrey (I suppose) works at a kitchen counter, buck naked. His ass is ungodly beautiful. Vinnie Marino beautiful. So beautiful it makes me wake up.