I was participating in some kind of discussion panel at work, with the rest of the agency watching. It took place in some weird building, not our workplace, maybe an elaborate, old hotel. As the others in the group carried on I felt self-conscious and guilty for being silent. Surely I’d be scorned for not participating. I had to say something. The facilitator polled the panel on the question of whether we should continue to make use of Monty Python’s services in our work. There were twelve of us and eleven voted yes. I turned to the man who’d voted no. “What, are they not funny enough?” I asked. Somehow this seemed extremely clever, and there was chuckling from the others and the audience. “Or maybe they’re too funny?” I added. This comment was perceived as more brilliant than the first. Everyone laughed in appreciation. I was proud of having spoken up so wittily. I’m not sure how the other guy answered, or if he even did.

I went back to high school for some reason—maybe I hadn’t really ever graduated, but this was unclear. I took an art class and one assignment was putting on an art exhibit. I was nervous about this and unsure how it worked—was I supposed to set it up somewhere, should I invite the other students? I kept trying to track down my teacher to ask her but I never could. I tried to call or text her but my phone’s interface grew abstract and bizarre, not allowing me to tap or type anything to dial or send.

I was being interviewed for a desirable job at a startup that worked in natural language recognition, like my old job but current, possibly AI-related. There was another candidate with me and I understood we were competing for the same position. The interviewer wrote some things on a whiteboard and asked us to react. One word in particular was ambiguous. “We need to understand the context,” I declared. The man seemed impressed and I thought I’d gotten the better of my rival. I was shown around to various departments and asked to sit in on a meeting. The employees were classic startup types from way back when: young, attractive, privileged. One woman told me with a wink that all of this was a joke and I should get in and grab as much of the funding money as I could. Still there was a plan afoot to take over the world, like there always is. The CEO and the higher ups were discussing when they could finally get the product launched, get it into market. The end of the workday dissolved into people hanging out, a kind of party. No one told me where to go or what to do, or whether to come back tomorrow, though I felt somehow that I was in; I was now one of them.

My college grades came in. As expected I was failing two classes that I never attended but got a 93 in the third. I wondered if I should just drop out. Or might it be possible to go part time?

We were charging up a hill, shouting over and over, “There is no God! There is no name!”

I was in a kind of musical congregation, not a band but a kind of club, everyone setting up and getting ready to play. The leader was a guru type. “There is no ego in what we do!” he said, gritting his teeth. I looked around and thought it couldn’t be true. I was getting ready to play a Tom Waits tune, testing my guitar. They were sure gonna be impressed.

I was with a dear old friend, watching David Bowie perform in a large indoor venue. At a certain point he walked offstage and wandered through the crowd, smiling and greeting fans. I believe he was performing “Moonage Daydream” at the time, and taking breaks between verses to interact with us. Suddenly he was in front of me, almost as if he’d sought me out. We had a brief conversation. I declared that he looked good for his age, better than me, and I was younger by the way. I was embarrassed by the mundanity of my remarks and struggled to think of something better, something clever. I wanted to clasp his hand but he held me by the wrist, a gesture both of intimacy and rebuke. After he wandered off I turned to my friend and noted that Bowie, quite androgynous at this stage, resembled my aunt. They shared a similar gaunt, bony face, and thin lips. And something in their personalities too—but only in the dream. Bowie continued performing and meandering through the crowd. At the end, as we exited, my friend pointed out that Bowie had sung “Ashes to Ashes” after interacting with me and I was puzzled and dismayed that I hadn’t even noticed. In fact I could hardly remember anything he’d played. What was wrong with me?

Bowie was outside too, performing to a small group on a concrete plaza. Again I was near him, and he addressed me from time to time. He lay on large, ornate cushions of Middle Eastern or Arabian design. He twisted and gyrated, posing for us, singing some and talking some. We were all in awe that such a star would share his space like this, would make himself available to us. I wanted a picture of him up close to prove this really happened, something I could show people. But I sensed he would object. Finally I raised my phone and tried to press the button. Nothing seemed to happen. Bowie looked at me unhappily. Disappointedly. I shook my head and told him no, no, I didn’t do it! I didn’t take your picture, I swear!

I was roommates with an influential Hollywood writer.