The Super Bowl had just taken place and there was that Monday-after-it feeling around town. People were talking about how the winning quarterback—I think it was Tom Brady—had done or said something regarding Nike. The events of the game had perhaps become mixed up with the ads somehow.

I was running to catch an MTA bus, except that it wasn’t New York City, it was more like Paris. The bus came at the top of a hill and went down toward a river, like the Left Bank goes down toward the Seine. As I rode it I realized I was hungry, and could eat anywhere I liked; I wondered where I could find great food; probably not along the big boulevards, I thought, but more likely in the side streets somewhere.

My bags were in the aisle. Three waiters who worked for the bus in some capacity got up and walked to the front, stepping over or around the obstacles. They leaned out the bus door and picked up glasses and bottles from tables on the street outside, and did so with acrobatic flair, like those showoff bartenders. Then I was sitting at a table with the waiters, and Jake and Kevin were there, and we talked to them about having gone to school in London back when there were riots in the streets.

I was in London, where there was some talk that they’d switch from the pound to the dollar. (It seemed like a terrible idea to me.) In a pub, something was playing on TV about a horse race. It then appeared that the broadcast was a replay of something that had happened right outside the pub, and then the screen became a window, and the corner of a horse racing track wound around the outside of the pub, elevated like a train track to second-story height, with the building on the inside of the corner. The pack of horses galloped by. In its midst were two official-looking people, a man and a woman, who were running alongside one of the horses and trying to guide it, as though it were going astray. They wore the sort of uniforms that airline check-in attendants do. They could not control the horse. It and two others bolted toward the window. I still understood that this was TV footage of something that had happened in the past, so I wasn’t worried. The horses crashed through into the pub and amid panicking customers. I wondered how many people were hurt, or died, in the catastrophe. I stood in the bathroom, which was off to the side and therefore out of harm’s way. I wondered if anyone had been lucky enough to be there the moment the horses had crashed in.

I was in some kind of work meeting or orientation session. It wasn’t for my actual job, it was for a new job in an unfamiliar setting. Jason Greene was there. While someone spoke to us he and I made eye contact and greeted each other with a nod. The speaker was describing something and called me out as an example. “Pat, let’s say you wanted to smoke some pot,” he said. I gave a thumbs up and everybody laughed.

CW enlisted me into some strange, intensive music instruction experience that took place over the course of a day in a campground in the woods. We were there more or less as a band, although CD was not there and JT was there only intermittently. There was the sense that this was a kind of cult group, that they were authorities in some kind of esoteric knowledge about performing music.

Dreamt CW and I decided to form a new band, a serious band that was really going to make it this time. Maybe with a political bent. I thought the band should be called When or Now, but I didn’t have the chance to tell him.

A dream about supernatural events, including the presence in the bright, blue sky of a large cruise ship. It sparkled in the sun, meandering this way and that. JP was with me. We observed the ship and both knew it was somehow an omen of great things.

Dreamt I met Mark Webber and some other Formula 1 driver, maybe Jaime Alguersuari.