We were staying in a treehouse. It was part of an elaborate complex, high in the sky, spanning several trees. Other people we knew were staying there. It was for some kind of occasion, but I can’t remember what. A calamity occurred, possibly a hurricane. There might have been a fire. As a result, all the ladders to the treehouses were destroyed. No one could get back down. We waited and wondered when we’d get rescued, and how. Maybe helicopters? Eventually I found myself back on solid ground. I don’t know how I got there. But there was one woman still stuck up there. She’d lost her mind and you could hear her prattling on to herself, like a crazy upstairs neighbor.

PC and I had joined with a group of other people to rent an apartment for a semester of school. The idea was to save money and concentrate on our studies. There was a TV that wouldn’t work right unless you paid for it, by putting money into it I guess, the way pay TVs used to work at bus stations. If you didn’t pay it made an awful staticky noise that got louder and louder until you turned it off or fed it money. We wanted the TV to work so we could watch Yankee games. There was something the matter with A-Rod in the dream, not what’s really wrong with him but something parallel. There was great doubt as to whether he’d play again, whether he’d be any good. He’d been struggling with some kind of all-consuming injury, something that seemed not just physical but maybe spiritual. Crowds of reporters descended upon him as he emerged for spring training, ready to practice and to test himself for all to see.

Frustrating morning dream about some dreary task that never got done, that I had to plan for and accomplish before moving on somehow.