Saturday, February 25, 2017

The Knicks were in a playoff game, and winning it, thanks to a short white guy who had become an unlikely standout. I was watching the game on TV at some bar. Then the dream was about the player: he belonged to some Christian sect, like Mormonism or Jehovah’s Witnesses or something. It required him to live an austere life and to be completely honest at all times. His wife had mixed feelings about this, and it was unclear whether they were together anymore.

Bob Dylan was playing guitar on a street corner. He sang a blues. It was a you-done-me wrong kind of blues, sung to a woman. I can’t remember the first two lines, but the third was: “You better get up in your spaceship and go.”

Chris Hayes was my new supervisor at work, or teacher at school. He pointed out some distinction between Trump and John F. Kennedy. “That’s not the only difference,” I said, and he laughed, and I was pleased that I’d made such a witty remark.

The UConn Huskies women’s team was about to play Syracuse. In my dream that was the last team to beat them, which isn’t actually true. There was some fanfare before the game, because the Huskies are who they are and because Syracuse are their rivals. Various assistant coaches were recognized and stood up to acknowledge the crowd. The coaches were invited to take the remaining few minutes before the game for final preparations. Jim Calhoun was there for some reason. He huddled with the other Husky coaches and began diagramming furiously; who covers who, where they go, and so on. The scene took place in what looked like a university lecture hall, not a sports arena. I spoke from across a few rows to J.L. about how much we hate the Oscars, and he introduced me to a Dutch person who felt the same way.

Thursday, February 23, 2017

I dreamt I was Jerry Garcia, playing a gig from the middle of the street. He—I—was alone there, with the guitar but not the rest of the band. It came time to play a solo and the way to do it was to scribble quickly on the surface of the guitar with a pen. I made nonsense symbols and doodles, frantically, hoping it sounded good.

Monday, February 20, 2017

Unpleasant recurrence of the high school dream where it’s the end of the year and I haven’t attended any classes. I was late—it was past 10—and I asked my dad to drive me. I felt scared and ashamed that I had become so irresponsible. Only recently, I’d been getting to school at nine-thirty—late, but not horribly late. I remembered that at the beginning of the year, when I, along with all the others, was innocent, I’d arrive in plenty of time to fuck around in the hallways before the first bell rang. Now I was scrambling just to show my face in at least one class each day. I had only a dim recollection of the ones I was skipping. English literature, with that daunting syllabus of unread books?

Sunday, February 19, 2017

We were at a house party that seemed to last for days. There were excursions out, maybe to buy supplies. A massive snowstorm had struck the city. Trains were delayed, cars were stuck. The house became one familiar from my childhood, maybe the one we stayed in during summers in Woodstock. I saw the stairs that went from the second to the third floor, where there were two kids’ bedrooms for us. One for me and my sister and one for visiting cousins.

Thursday, February 16, 2017

Eric Clapton was going to join the Duke basketball team, despite his age. As my brother and I were discussing this, I declared, “By the way, I know this is controversial, but: Clapton is terrible!” I was surprised and pleased that my brother agreed. “Terrible!” he said. “Except for a couple of albums which were brilliant,” I added. “But since then: terrible!

Friday, February 10, 2017

I was in a weird city, taking a bus twice through a touristy district. I think I was staying at my stepmother’s. I was waiting for my brother and his family to arrive. I had some time on my hands and thought I should see a movie. Near the theater I downloaded an app to my phone that turned out to be some kind of horrible virus. It looked like an old video game that was impossible to escape. I desperately tried to turn it off and return to the home screen. There were all these other buttons on my phone, including one called a “battery reset.” Someone suggested I try that, but it didn’t work either. I knew that when I got home, at least, I could reset the phone.

Later I watched a play in which a character defecated on stage.

Wednesday, February 01, 2017

The band had a gig at some ski resort. Family were there too—Lis, her kids. K.C. was there. We were staying in a place that was owned by George Harrison. C.D. asked me if I wanted to go skiing the following morning. It seemed like a cold and unpleasant prospect, but he said George would be there. “Well, I’m not going to pass up the opportunity to meet George Harrison,” I said. I imagined myself shaking his hand and saying it was an honor to meet him, and his response: modest, polite, but maybe a slight bit annoyed that I hadn’t treated him like an ordinary person.