I was at some strange event with my family, seated in an indoor coliseum. It seemed like a sort of religious revival. At one point the emcee walked through the stands with a microphone, getting spectators to join in on a song. I feared he’d put the mic to my mouth, and he did. “I don’t know the words to this song…” I sang.

Then there was a big party, and lots of my old high school classmates were there. Others too. Some current friends. Mike R. was there. It seemed to take place in multiple suburban homes, possibly where we grew up. It lasted all night, and then there was the awful prospect of cleaning up the mess.

Then it was a band dream. I was writing a song called “Weekend.” It went like this:

It’s the weekend

And my dad is suffering from Crohn’s disease

The chords were distinctive, suspended chords with pull-offs. In the dream the song was poignant and beautiful.

I was driving around with Mark B., listening to music. A very funky African tune came on. He said it sounded like a famous tune by a particular musician—I can’t remember what name he cited, but I don’t think it was anyone in real life. I noticed he was right, and said it sounded like a slowed-down remix. The tune was “Ja Funmi” by King Sunny Adé.

I was weeping over the death of Jimi Hendrix. The one thing that really made me cry was the riff he plays at the beginning of "Like a Rolling Stone," right after he says, "Excuse me for a minute, just let me play my guitar, all right?" I kept thinking about that riff and kept crying because it's so beautiful.