I was having a party. Someone had some pot. A weirdly thin, hot-burning joint. I took it and put it in my mouth and lit it with another joint that came from somewhere. I held it a good, long time and as I exhaled I felt high right away. A few people marveled at how much smoke I took.

"Yeah," I said, "I'm so high already my hands are sweating!" My hands were sweating like crazy.

Later, some drunk people began to fuck with some things in the house. It was my house, or more properly my parents' house. But it was, in fact, no house I'd ever lived in. People discovered some priceless housewares from Czarist Russia, things like silver salt shakers, that were packed away in the dining room. They were unwrapping them from their delicate, embroidered cloths and putting them on the dining room table. I don't know if they were going to take them or what. I was trying to contain the situation.

Later, someone stole a whole roast turkey. I felt greatly injured by this, personally injured. I discovered that it was stolen by Jay H., a notorious ne'er-do-well from my hometown. I felt a bit sorry for him then.

My dad had a book of poems by Kris Kristofferson. The book was inscribed to Kristofferson by my dad and others; the opposite, for some reason, of what you'd expect: that the book was signed by the author. It occurred to me that I'd missed my chance to add my own name to this important artifact and I resolved to do so. I paged through the poems first. One that caught my eye looked something like this:


T#% G*(s S@@t)ti!n S^%o!e

S@@al!e"! D#i$sc0u*^6t %e#er, c0&nd@y a^d c)g#@ars
S@an4d%wi%he3, s4ea!ks 9nd m$!re
C(h3ips, s9!oda, p~etze9s a7d 9as

I was at a concert. At first it seemed like a Dead concert but then it became some lame jam band. A waitress circulated with a tray of snacks. The band performed a version of "The Music Never Stopped" that featured a rapper. I was concerned about the location of my bag, which contained my laptop. Someone had moved it but everything seemed to be there.

I was somewhere else. It was a football Sunday. I saw flashes of games and scores on TVs overhead, like at a sports bar.

I was talking to Jay L. about his military days. Then he was driving a car and I was in the passenger seat. Some family members were in the back - possibly Jesse, possibly Sally. Jay become confused and sleepy and began to lose control of the car. We were accelerating and veering to the side. I told him to let me have the wheel, let me use the pedals. His foot was entangled and I couldn't get past it to step on the brake.

When It Exploded There Were Some Who Died

Chris W. was operating some kind of program for kids where they'd show up to his house - not his current house, some dream house - and he'd take them into the woods. It was unclear what was to happen there but it seemed like a powerful educational experience. I decided to join him one day. I showed up at the house as the kids were gathered in the driveway. Mike R. was there too. We walked down a path and bit by bit the kids melted into the woods. This did not seem to be cause for concern. Chris, Mike and I manned a makeshift stand beside the path, from which I suppose we could give guidance to passing kids. We also apparently had things for sale. One kid came by asking for a CD of Buddhist chants to meditate to. We didn't have that but I recommended a recording of the Tuvan Throat Singers. "Not Buddhist, though, right?" I said, second-guessing myself. My teeth were chattering for some reason.

We had a van with us - though at first we had been walking - which we had parked at the edge of the woods. Someone had left the hand brake off and it was rolling backwards down a road that led down into a town square. It crashed into a building. My perspective shifted several times: I was in the building, I was a detached observer, I was responsible for the truck. It was full of explosives. After it crashed into the building, actually penetrating the wall, there was a horrible pause before it exploded, when the people in the building thought they were safe but I - being responsible for the truck - knew they weren't. When it exploded there were some who died and some who survived. I imagined myself as someone in the building, seeing the truck coming, running out and to the side to save myself. Fortunately, the building was occupied by Nazis. I didn't need to regret their deaths.

I was at the Eagles game being played today, the wild-card game against the Vikings. It was in Philly rather than Minnesota. I sat at a bar perched over one end zone and ordered Johnny Black on the rocks. It was difficult to discern what was happening on the field. McNabb appeared to fumble, yet the crowd cheered. Later, an Eagle scored in the far end zone, possibly Brian Dawkins after an interception. At times I was on the field, able to scrutinize things closely; for example, the thin dusting of snow half-concealing the "Eagles" painted in the end zone. At the bar, I ordered another drink. The woman bartender said, "Johnny wants to make sure you're for real," or something to that effect, which I understood to mean "Am I a fan?"

"Just watch me, you'll see."

The Vikings recovered a fumbled kickoff for a touchdown and now it was 7-7 at halftime. I wandered around the stadium and saw Mark B., an old schoolmate from Storrs. We exchanged pleasantries and I walked back toward the bar.

I was signaling my father from some sort of platform or parapet overlooking a river. He lay on the shore on the other side.

Something was wrong with my lighter, the Zippo I inherited from my mom. It was sort of coming apart, and it wouldn't light. There was plenty of gas - I could hear it hissing out the nozzle - but there was something wrong with the flint or the wick, or both. Suddenly it sparked, and the gas that had been expelled caught fire. The flame ran up my chest and neck and along the left side of my face. I frantically tried to put it out.

My dad was ailing and yet he was driving somewhere with my brother and me in the car. At a certain point he became incapacitated - not exactly unconscious, but suddenly unable to operate the car. I reached over from the back seat and did my best to steer us to safety, asking my brother to step on the brakes. We managed to pull off the road into a strip mall parking lot in our old hometown, Storrs, Connecticut.

We were indoors suddenly, with other people around us. My dad was slipping in and out of some kind of trance-like, near-death state. Someone asked him, "What's teap?"

"It's peach-flavored tea," he replied authoritatively. I viewed this as a sign that his mental faculties were still strong.

Then he began to describe a fancy dish he'd had, or seen, or was anticipating eating, which consisted of five kinds of small shellfish impaled on the spokes of a kind of radiating fork. He called this dish the "hand of god." My sister-in-law Amy was there and immediately corrected him, saying that in fact "the hand of god" was a phrase used to describe a controversial soccer goal scored by the Argentine player Diego Maradona in the 1986 World Cup against England, in which he deflected a ball into the goal with his hand.