The kitchen window had been left open all night in a blizzard and now there was snow all over the sink and counter and windowsill. I was trying to make breakfast. I noticed that I’d broken an egg onto a saucer which I’d placed on a lit burner. That’s not going to work, I thought. Suddenly the stove was enormous, ten feet tall, and I wondered what I was supposed to do to use it.

I walked out of a store in a strip mall, it looked like the one in Storrs that had the A&P and Oscar’s and CVS. It was snowing. JL was there. A few other people. RS, one of my neighbors growing up, was there too. A small propeller plane pulled up to pick us up. As we climbed aboard I thought of the weight distribution—you have to distribute the weight evenly in planes like that, like we had to when we flew to Viecques in real life. As I took a set in the back I wondered whether my side—the right side—was too heavy. I also wondered how dangerous it was to fly like this in the snow. I wondered what it would be like if we crashed, those horrible seconds of anticipation and then the impact, which I could almost feel in my mind. It was a moment of brutal pain, then nothing.

I went to the Monaco Grand Prix with Dad. It was held outside of town, up in some hills somewhere. In the dream it was 2007, the year Sara and I went, and when Dad was still alive, but I also knew it was now, years later, and the passage of so much time shocked me and made me sad. I thought, what have I done in that time? And then I thought, Jackie was born.

We were staying in a treehouse. It was part of an elaborate complex, high in the sky, spanning several trees. Other people we knew were staying there. It was for some kind of occasion, but I can’t remember what. A calamity occurred, possibly a hurricane. There might have been a fire. As a result, all the ladders to the treehouses were destroyed. No one could get back down. We waited and wondered when we’d get rescued, and how. Maybe helicopters? Eventually I found myself back on solid ground. I don’t know how I got there. But there was one woman still stuck up there. She’d lost her mind and you could hear her prattling on to herself, like a crazy upstairs neighbor.

PC and I had joined with a group of other people to rent an apartment for a semester of school. The idea was to save money and concentrate on our studies. There was a TV that wouldn’t work right unless you paid for it, by putting money into it I guess, the way pay TVs used to work at bus stations. If you didn’t pay it made an awful staticky noise that got louder and louder until you turned it off or fed it money. We wanted the TV to work so we could watch Yankee games. There was something the matter with A-Rod in the dream, not what’s really wrong with him but something parallel. There was great doubt as to whether he’d play again, whether he’d be any good. He’d been struggling with some kind of all-consuming injury, something that seemed not just physical but maybe spiritual. Crowds of reporters descended upon him as he emerged for spring training, ready to practice and to test himself for all to see.

Frustrating morning dream about some dreary task that never got done, that I had to plan for and accomplish before moving on somehow.

I was in some building, a cross between an office building for work and some kind of school building, with dormitories on some floors, classrooms and offices on others. I waited for the elevator to go up. The doors opened and an unconscious man fell out, his body curled fetally across the threshold. I took him by the shoulders and looked at him. Blood was coming from somewhere. I shouted over my shoulder at some people, “Call 911! Call 911!” full of purpose, feeling like I was doing the right thing.