I was enlisted to take Kimi Raikkonen’s seat in his Ferrari at a Grand Prix, and finished third. In the dream, this had already happened, and I was dumbstruck by it. How did I actually steer a Formula 1 car for an hour and a half to victory? Why me? I wanted to tell people, but I was embarrassed by the extravagance of the accomplishment. Would they believe me? Who cares, I thought finally—it did happen, and that’s what matters.

A headhunter forwarded me a job opportunity working for a major hotel. It would be some business executive type job, not my thing, but tempting, maybe for that reason. The lengthy description included details about a project that had been very difficult for their team to achieve, calling it a “terse, bittersweet success.” Evidently the new hire was expected to improve on that. Also there were weird perks, like “a blonde personal secretary.” Then I was watching as a female colleague at my current job took a position there. She too would be doing very different work.

We were trying to play a Dylan tune, “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue,” I think, at C.W.’s instruction. I asked him whether a change at the end was really F sharp minor to D major seventh. We were driving somewhere in little cars, remote control cars that we both rode in and controlled from afar. I kept bumping into the car ahead of me. We had a gig somewhere, an outdoor space, like a festival. It was weird, we had a lot of technical problems, starting and stalling.

My job involved driving back and forth from two locations, offices in nondescript industrial parks. I had to be at one by 10 am. In the real world the room was cold and the wind howled outside the window, and this penetrated the dream, or interfered in it a bit. Several of my teeth crumbled in my mouth like rock candy. I spat the shards into my hand and hoped I could bring them to the dentist.

C.W. was living in Manhattan and hosting regular parties. Peter Tosh was there, sitting on the couch. He had no dreadlocks. “Downpresser Man” played on the stereo and it sounded ghostly and beautiful, some kind of dub version. I was proud that he was there. We were low on beer, so I asked C. for some money. We both ended up going downstairs to look for a liquor store.

The rebels’ manifesto needed updating. The entire section on human rights. But that would have to wait. They were conducting raids. Another water hoarder’s land had been forcibly reclaimed. He was shot as he stood on his second floor deck. He knew what was coming so he took a long drink of whisky from a bottle. He wanted that to be the last taste in his mouth I guess. Two shooters got him, first in the chest and then the head, and he tumbled down over the railing and fell to the grass below. Now we all invaded his lair, made ourselves at home. Took all his water, of course.

An ad in the campus paper claimed that Led Zeppelin was playing a run at a local bar. Each performance would feature another entire album. I told G. E. I wanted to go so bad, I said, I’d even go to In Through the Out Door night. I wanted to do it all. Meet Jimmy Page, give him a hug. But first we had to make sure it wasn’t a joke.

In last night’s work dream there were two jobs that had languished and now needed to get done.