I went back to high school for some reason—maybe I hadn’t really ever graduated, but this was unclear. I took an art class and one assignment was putting on an art exhibit. I was nervous about this and unsure how it worked—was I supposed to set it up somewhere, should I invite the other students? I kept trying to track down my teacher to ask her but I never could. I tried to call or text her but my phone’s interface grew abstract and bizarre, not allowing me to tap or type anything to dial or send.

I was being interviewed for a desirable job at a startup that worked in natural language recognition, like my old job but current, possibly AI-related. There was another candidate with me and I understood we were competing for the same position. The interviewer wrote some things on a whiteboard and asked us to react. One word in particular was ambiguous. “We need to understand the context,” I declared. The man seemed impressed and I thought I’d gotten the better of my rival. I was shown around to various departments and asked to sit in on a meeting. The employees were classic startup types from way back when: young, attractive, privileged. One woman told me with a wink that all of this was a joke and I should get in and grab as much of the funding money as I could. Still there was a plan afoot to take over the world, like there always is. The CEO and the higher ups were discussing when they could finally get the product launched, get it into market. The end of the workday dissolved into people hanging out, a kind of party. No one told me where to go or what to do, or whether to come back tomorrow, though I felt somehow that I was in; I was now one of them.

My college grades came in. As expected I was failing two classes that I never attended but got a 93 in the third. I wondered if I should just drop out. Or might it be possible to go part time?

We were charging up a hill, shouting over and over, “There is no God! There is no name!”

I was in a kind of musical congregation, not a band but a kind of club, everyone setting up and getting ready to play. The leader was a guru type. “There is no ego in what we do!” he said, gritting his teeth. I looked around and thought it couldn’t be true. I was getting ready to play a Tom Waits tune, testing my guitar. They were sure gonna be impressed.

I was with a dear old friend, watching David Bowie perform in a large indoor venue. At a certain point he walked offstage and wandered through the crowd, smiling and greeting fans. I believe he was performing “Moonage Daydream” at the time, and taking breaks between verses to interact with us. Suddenly he was in front of me, almost as if he’d sought me out. We had a brief conversation. I declared that he looked good for his age, better than me, and I was younger by the way. I was embarrassed by the mundanity of my remarks and struggled to think of something better, something clever. I wanted to clasp his hand but he held me by the wrist, a gesture both of intimacy and rebuke. After he wandered off I turned to my friend and noted that Bowie, quite androgynous at this stage, resembled my aunt. They shared a similar gaunt, bony face, and thin lips. And something in their personalities too—but only in the dream. Bowie continued performing and meandering through the crowd. At the end, as we exited, my friend pointed out that Bowie had sung “Ashes to Ashes” after interacting with me and I was puzzled and dismayed that I hadn’t even noticed. In fact I could hardly remember anything he’d played. What was wrong with me?

Bowie was outside too, performing to a small group on a concrete plaza. Again I was near him, and he addressed me from time to time. He lay on large, ornate cushions of Middle Eastern or Arabian design. He twisted and gyrated, posing for us, singing some and talking some. We were all in awe that such a star would share his space like this, would make himself available to us. I wanted a picture of him up close to prove this really happened, something I could show people. But I sensed he would object. Finally I raised my phone and tried to press the button. Nothing seemed to happen. Bowie looked at me unhappily. Disappointedly. I shook my head and told him no, no, I didn’t do it! I didn’t take your picture, I swear!

I was roommates with an influential Hollywood writer.

Dream about my childhood friend S. W. who's been in a coma most her life. She had graduated college, possibly with a degree in plant science. Something to do with tomatoes. I gave her a ride home. Or she me.

I was driving around my hometown, the little roads winding through the woods. I was on my way home. I thought about how I often have dreams about how to get home, whether by car or on foot, which roads to take and where to cut through the woods. And I thought about how it always seems impossible to cut through the woods in these dreams.

A young filmmaker had created a movie called “Kid K.” The title character was a miniature child, a few inches tall but living in the normal size world. He had a miniature car he drove around to deliver miniature newspapers. Somehow it was recognized as a work of great beauty and poignancy. Then I was in a house, a kind of vacation cabin in the woods, with a group of people, maybe high school classmates at a reunion. There was a competition going on. It soon devolved into bitter feuding. The goal was to create something, and to prevent others from doing so. We broke into teams and mine entered a side room. Steel shutters appeared and closed automatically over the door and the large window into the main living space. It seemed like I’d conjured them out of my imagination, which of course I had. It now felt like we were in a horror movie. Creepy, supernatural things were happening, objects flying around, a sense of imminent darkness and danger. My team was preparing a tribute movie to “Kid K.” It seemed like the right thing to do.

There was speculation the 2024 election had been lost due to Republican plants at the Democratic Convention. Somehow they’d muddled the messaging and fucked up the proceedings.