Latin American Politics: 11:40-12:30, MWF

In some dreams I am a lioness and alone I trek through the jungle among rustling waves of green. As I explore the dark steaming depths, I stumble on a clearing. There are things I recognize but that should not be there, and I know the names for them though I am a beast of the wild. There is a table, an old typewriter, a box of necklaces, a pile of clothing, a string of colored flags with strange writing on them. I know what all of these objects are, and I am suspicious it is part of another consciousness hidden somewhere in my cerebral cortex. Cerebral cortex? I must have heard that on television. Television? How do I know about television? I paw at the typewriter, a clumsy attempt to record this scene, these thoughts. But my paws are too big for the keys and the letters are curved symbols I cannot read. The paper is damp with wet air, the ink won’t stick.

The air cools, the green fades, the leaves blur together and fuse into flat darkness. The clearing clears and the musty smell of wet earth becomes the stale smell of unwashed laundry. I awake on all fours scratching at my typewriter.