Had a dream about Eli Manning doing some kind of charity on a beach.

Had a dream about hanging out with Keith Richards, wanting to ask him questions about Stones albums, not being sure if he would be OK with it. I felt the glow of his presence and managed to talk to him a bit but I’m not sure what else happened.

Elaborate dreams about work. I was assigned to work on two brands one day, though in the work rules in the dream I was only supposed to work on one. The others on one of the brand teams—the copywriter, especially—got angry at me for not completing a job. It was a writing job, not editing, which also was—and is, in real life—not my responsibility. I held up a document containing my meagre efforts so far, and protested that I had this other brand to worry about. Still, I had the guilty sense that I’d dawdled between bouts of work. There was a client meeting. I wasn’t sure I was in the right place, but I recognized enough of the attendees to sit down anyway. I didn’t have a pen. At some point there was something for me to write down, and I noticed a pile of pens at the end of the table, to my left. I wrote it on a little scrap of paper.

It was the conclusion of a strange and perplexing dream in which S. and I were junkies looking to score. I was trying to get somewhere across town so I took a shortcut through a building which turned out to be a church. There was something going on there—not a service exactly, more like a Sunday school class or a rehearsal of some kind. There were musicians present, black gospel cats. I thought they might play something great, and I should stop and listen. Right then the dream became lucid—I was aware that this was my dream, and that I had control of it. Actually, I did not feel I had full control, only a certain amount of influence, depending on how hard I tried. Like I'd been dealt a hand and it was in my power to play it as best I could. So I conjured up Charlie Parker in the middle of the musicians. There he was, standing at least ten feet tall, with his horn. Then I thought I'd better give him a tune to play and I tried to think of something, "Lover Man" or something, kind of regretting now that I had to decide what happened in this dream, that I was no longer a spectator. And then it ended.

I was consuming heroin in little pebbly crystals, kind of like crack rocks, just eating them.

Someone at work took my chair. My spot was at a round table with a few coworkers, with similar tables nearby. I asked the others at my table, Who took my chair? They looked at me blankly. Then I got up, enraged, and yelled, "Who took my chair?!" Someone at another table got up and returned it, a bit contrite. I wondered whether I'd been too harsh and demanding, whether I'd violated a rule of decorum. I muttered something conciliatory, like "That's OK." I was hoping I wouldn’t get fired for being too angry that someone took my chair.

I woke up believing it was Sunday, but it was Monday.

Had a final exams dream. The school was a sprawling, multistory building I didn’t recognize. In the center of it was a room in which rested the dead body of Mr. Pride, my late art teacher from high school, naked and somehow perfectly preserved. As usual, I fretted about how I’d do, not having shown up for class, not lately anyway, not having done my reading, and not having understood much, quadratic equations for example. I perused my notebooks and was amazed at the elaborate doodles in the margins, some of which suggested entire graphic novels. I felt a pang of regret and thought, Why don’t I do these anymore?