I was in some fancy hotel with a swimming pool at the top. There was an enclosed pool that looked like any old pool in a gym and a pool that was in a loungy setting with a bar nearby, all potted palms and chrome appointments. I took the elevator up with a Hasidic Jew. Some disembodied narrator declared that the view of the ocean, which was visible from the glass elevator and through picture windows in each direction in the swimming lounge, as though the hotel were a tower in the water, had been "adjusted" to show what would be concealed by the curvature of the earth. I took a look and saw rough waters around us and an expanse of smooth, blue water beyond what should have been the horizon.

I was getting ready to record or something, with the old band, and the act of playing the guitar actually became the act of filling in a crossword puzzle. I was holding a guitar, but when it came time to play I saw I had a folded newspaper in hand, and a pen, and the way to produce notes on the guitar was to solve clues and, as rapidly and dexterously as possible, fill in answers in the correct spaces.

I dreamt of Van Morrison somehow, of his voice, of him singing.

I was with my mom and dad, hanging out in the morning trying to get ready for school. That vague anxiety of time slipping toward the day's obligations, obviously permeating my dream from a real-life awareness that it was getting to be time to get up. I contemplated buying a Saab. It was said they got 89 miles to the gallon. I considered bidding for one on some sort of eBayesque site. Suddenly Martin Scorsese's mother was with us. That matronly lady with the curly white hair and glasses who appears in his movies. She was telling us some funny story about men and women, how they interact socially, at parties, at dinners. "The most interesting men are always the ones who expect to be disciplined by their wives," she declared. It seemed to be something she was relating from her own experience, and it also seemed to be unquestionably true. I understood it to mean that when she flirted with men at parties, the ones who flirted back the best were the ones whose wives would later give them grief for it. A strange little syllogism. "No matter how you look at it!" I responded pointedly, somehow aware that what she said related to my mom's predilection for flirting and extramarital affairs, and hoping that my rejoinder would put an end to what could turn into an awkward conversation among us all.

Seismic!

I dreamt I was exploring the pitlane at a Formula One race. No one was around - maybe it was very early in the morning of race day. I was in Red Bull's pit. I found shelves full of very technical documentation about Formula One generally and other team's cars in particular. For example, a thick volume that dissected every aspect of that year's McLarens. Diagrams, test results. This I probably dreamt of because of the industrial espionage scandal between Ferrari and McLaren. There was also an intriguing text entitled "Seismic!" and subtitled something like "Illicit Drug Use in Formula One Today."

A complex series of work scenes, many involving previous incarnations of my current company, or perhaps a sort of retrospective event, or celebration. There was a ladder to climb, to some sort of loft. A sexual intrigue.

I was at Yankee Stadium, which was a packed sand rectangle, set a few feet below street level and ringed by a rock wall around which spectators could scrutinize the action. Pat Canavan was there. The Yankees were doing well. There was a great defensive play, reminiscent of A-Rod's famous throw home over the runner's head. I was standing beside a guy who was alone, mostly minding his own business, but sort of grimacing at various times. Some others to our right began to jeer at him. He ignored them. Then sort of to spite them, I think, he made a strange and ostentatious show of eating a hot dog, eventually letting it hang turgidly from his mouth. One in the other party pulled a gun. The man's eyes widened with alarm, hot dog still inhis mouth. That's all I can remember.