The plane landed after flying over some land, where it was clear and sunny, and then some sea, where it was snowing, then raining, and you could see huge waves crashing. I gathered my things, remembering to take S’s bag. We ended up in some nondescript pub. There was a dart-like game going on, where you threw things at targets arranged around the ceiling of a side room. Many of my friends from home were there, as was Mick Jagger. It appeared he’d decided this place was his local, and coming here was a way to reconnect with real people in the real world. I held the object that you threw in the game, a small, plastic thing like a die. I was to give it to Mick, who stood in line for the next game, but I was too far away. “Michael! Michael!” I called. He didn’t respond. Finally: “Mick! Mick!” He looked up just as the object I’d thrown landed stupidly beside him. Virgil Van Dijk was also playing. Someone said he was a prime candidate for Speaker of the House. It made sense to me. Great athlete, popular, tall. I wanted to get more drinks but S was concerned I wouldn’t be able to drive home. “Just one more,” I promised, and set out into a maze of bars and stalls to look for something. The place had a signature drink, a kind of lemonade thing, but I decided I wanted a Guinness.

I was on a plane and I thought of the Twilight Zone episode where William Shatner sees a monster on the wing. Then it started to happen, except I was watching it like it was a movie, a longer, scarier remake starring a trendy young actor. He was on the phone in his seat trying to get work done while the beast was doing its thing outside.

I was contemplating a job with a realm of new responsibilities, mostly financial—signing off on this or that. There would be opportunities for corruption. Would I stay on the straight and narrow? I thought yes.

We’d bought a two-story house that was coupled with a 747 jet, kind of like the Space Shuttle was when it was ferried around the country. The jet was attached to the roof upside-down and at an angle, as though it could take off, tear the house off its foundation and flip over so the house was on its back. Otherwise it was a very nice house. I tried to rationalize the presence of the airplane. We’d never use it of course, but it was a curiosity. Maybe it would be interesting for Jackie to explore.

The band got involved in flying. It started when J. T. began playing a flight simulator video game I guess, and everyone else did too. But then again C. D. did pilot small planes for a long time, didn’t he? Got his license pretty early and flew when he could. But then he got a gig flying commercial jets, first in short trips and then in longer and longer ones. I knew I wasn’t going to be a part of it. And now C. D. would be gone for three to six months flying around the world. He took all this cash he’d saved up out of a book where he kept it and was gone. Could the rest of the band play some gigs during that time, I wondered? I hoped so. There was nothing else to do.

A group of us had gotten together and we were eating, drinking. I grew bored and drew a picture of an airplane, copied from somewhere else, the back of a little brochure maybe. Three-quarter view from the rear, climbing slightly. It became a picture of a horse.

I was on a plane that needed refueling. It landed at an airport and taxied to a far-off spot where other planes were getting fuel. I wondered if it would all blow up.

I reconnected with my old friend S.A. I knocked on the door to his parents’ apartment. His dad answered and said he’d get him.

I was at a McDonalds with Mick Jagger and his girlfriend.

I was on a plane to somewhere with J.T. On the tarmac I took pictures through the window of other planes, the sunset. I wanted to post them to Facebook but I was using my camera, not my phone. I found it had a feature that allowed me to email the pictures to myself. I tried to type out my email address with the little arrow controls on the back of the camera but it was incredibly difficult. When I finally sent them I noticed I was being charged $3 each time, by the airline or the airport or something. Fuck it, I figured, but I was annoyed.

We were supposed to go to Washington, DC but we landed in St. Louis. In the terminal, in the confusion, I realized that I’d left my black bag on the plane. I doubled back to see if I could get the people at the gate to let me back on.

We took a trip from somewhere in the Gulf States to Syria to Paris. We realized we couldn’t take Syrian Airways because “Bashar Al-Assad runs the country.” Sara was wearing a headdress and her face was painted light blue.

Later I took a psychedelic drug, and as has happened in other dreams I felt it coming on very, very strong. I was tripping like crazy.

There was a plane that went down in a terrorist attack. A few passengers survived, and one of them wrote a poem about it. I read it, and was deeply moved. Then I was on the plane as it prepared for flight. Or maybe I was just watching.

We were coming back from somewhere, riding in a van or a school bus, the family and maybe some others—my dad and brother, maybe. We drove past a demonstration of Ferrari Formula One cars, and I was sorry we hadn't known about it, that we'd gone somewhere else instead. There were two cars, driving around a track with banked turns. We watched for a while, amazed by their beauty. They turned into fighter jets. I tried to take pictures and videos of them as they flew past. It was hard to pan fast enough to keep them in the frame. Also, my camera was just a little disc, about two inches in diameter. It was hard to hold it steady between my fingers. There was an indicator when it was shooting video, a flashing symbol, but it wasn't working reliably. At one point a jet flew high, directly overhead. It hovered for a moment and then flew straight down, right at us. I thought I got a video. It crashed near us, causing God knows what damage and loss of life. Apparently the pilot was suicidal. I wondered how often that happened. I imagined how the pilot might have been able to change his mind, to pull up at the last moment and fly just off the ground, scaring people but not killing them.

There was a flying object low in the sky, not really a plane, but something like a blimp with wings. It began to do slow loop-the-loops. Often in my dreams, the planes crash. Not this time.

I had been in Vegas for a few days and it occurred to me that I had not gambled at all—I had not once sat down at a table, nor wagered on a game, nothing. I felt vaguely proud, but also perplexed. What had I been doing there? It had been some kind of event I think, possibly work-related, but also involving friends.

Toward the end of my dreams I wondered about the motivations of Islamist terrorists.