Mr. Eliot also happened to make a brief appearance in a dream I had a few nights ago. He was pouring forth from the English prof’s mouth in the form of "Ash Wednesday," while the prof herself stood on a ladder and removed Christmas lights from the old house’s roof with the help of Kim from Miss Saigon. For her part, the prof was multi-tasking admirably. She never once lost her balance or dropped the lights, and she spent the entire time enthusiastically babbling Eliot with her accustomed head-spinning volubility that sounds like Finnegans Wake on speed. This continued for quite a while.

Eventually, I somehow ended up at the school on the one acts’ opening night, which is actually tomorrow, without the foggiest idea of which character I was playing or even which play I was in. Onstage, Dakis and Joff’s play had almost finished, while Pippi Longstocking look-alikes dangled their striped legs over the side of a bed and an enormous Slovakian woman chased after a genie in the hope that it would bestow on her the ability to sing better than Aunt Jemima.

I honestly didn’t know the woman sang at all, but I let it pass, though I did feel obligated to lecture the genie and his client about Lot’s wife. The next play was about to start when I finally wandered into the dressing room. No one seemed to have a clue who I was or where my costume was. The only person in the room was Gilberte, who instantly ceased combing her hair and proceeded to scream at me until I left again. I passed Lucentio on my way out.

Those two are still coupling in the infinite. Someday, say the other dramamates, in about fifteen or twenty years, they’ll stop caressing each other’s thumbnails and become parents of the two most virtuous children who ever walked the earth. Children with absolutely gorgeous hair, awesome artistic talents, sweet voices, undeniably amiable natures, and possibly the names Adam and Eve.

My dream ended after I ran past Lucentio and heard the littlest Gorgon keening in his room, a sign that usually precedes a sleepwalking episode. Normally, I’m the one who bolts down the hall and mutters him back to bed before he starts puttering with his closet door or the vents in the bathroom. This time, I never did make it, as I was unable to move anything save my eyelids. It was just a tad disconcerting. I stayed that way until Medusa had dealt with the littlest Gorgon and gone back downstairs. I must have gotten in touch with my muscles eventually, but I can’t remember when.

The Gorgons, alas, remain the same as ever, albeit slightly more enculturated. Again, I’m not sure if I should congratulate myself or bang my head on a wall.

The other afternoon, the little Gorgon stuck his head into my room, pulled an awful accent out of the air, and exclaimed, "Strut, sir!" to which I automatically replied, "What, sir?" and so on. Suffice it to say that the lad makes a terrible English fop, but he seems to find himself hilarious. Not a pleasant combination.

Fifteen minutes later, the littlest Gorgon came traipsing down the hall, tossed a silly face in my general direction, and cried, "Hey! I’ve got a social disease!"

Eh bien. A few showtunes never hurt anyone... really.

I should be researching child labor right now. Bah. Apathy’s staying the night and we have some catching up to do. Most of the senior class seems to be affected as well, including my disgustingly studious research partner. I found this out in the library when, after devoting twenty minutes to random chatter, I gathered a few books and tossed them in the table. My dear partner glanced at them, tapping her fingers on her meticulously organized and color-coded binder. "I don’t want to work," she said.

I stabbed a finger at the impoverished newsboys gracing the cover of one book. "Neither do they!"

The poor girl and everyone at the table laughed for about five minutes. Senioritis, seniorities. Maybe its not so bad; if nothing else, its an extremely useful excuse.

Then the TOK prof, who has the uncanny ability to be in three places at once, galumphed over to frighten everyone further and inform me I should go on a talk show.

All in all, I think I’ve accomplished quite a bit in the last few days.

Adieu.