Avocado trees

When you fall asleep at the base of the avocado tree, does it take you home? 

Something about these ones in the dream told me no. The roots went elsewhere. They were propagated wrong; stolen, and put in bad dirt. I could see the way they weaved, thick like highway lanes. I wasn’t fooled. 

In one way, we were here to review art, or learn from it - one of the two. We broke into groups of four and chose four pieces. We were to study each of them and discuss. There was a watercolor on the Holocaust in dark blues and purples. There was a book. I got stuck in the book. With 22 minutes left in our allotted time, I hadn’t made it past the first page. The text was set in the late 19th, early 20th century style, and the ideas behind the words were that war and art go hand in hand, that art comes from death and to be an artist is to wish for others to die. I cried in the dream because it felt true.