I visit a museum with my friends. But the guards make me check my shoes at the door! No one else has to. But mine have goofy blue and purple polka dots painted on. Clearly that makes them art. And we can't have art in the art museum.

When I leave, I ask at the check-in counter, but they deny having my shoes. Walk out barefoot, feeling conspired against. Oh, they were ratty old shoes, but they were MINE. For a minute I feel resigned to walking across town barefoot. But we're in a building boom--construction everywhere. Rubble, rebar, splintered wood, nails & screws. Even if I don't hit broken glass...

So I turn back to the desk and insist they look again, hard. No. At last I find them--not in the check-in pigeonholes, but their lost-and-found bin! Oh, thanks a lot, guys.

Put my ridiculous polka-dot shoes on with relief and leave, thinking to myself:

"Now THAT'S sole-retrieval!"

NOTES IN THE MORNING

• Polka dot shoes: real. I once found some perfectly good shoes by a dumpster. Fit me perfectly. I kept them. I painted in them. Paint dripped on them. Inadvertent polka dots! I decided to make a virtue of that and painted more--big blue and purple translucent conical warts. Because... why not? And then everyone wanted to know what political statement I was making. Non-artists are peculiar creatures.
• The museum: recently I returned to college to finish a degree interrupted by long illness. For months I was busy with paperwork, scholarships, schedules. I'm just starting to pay attention to my dreams again. To my soul.
• Construction: messy times of personal change & reconstruction. This is one for me, that's for sure.

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