I went to a concert on the afternoon of a workday but my boss was there too so it seemed OK. It was a pop act in a big coliseum, a female star. I sat in a great section that had been reserved by the agency. At intermission a group of New Orleans all stars took the stage, led by Dr. John. He launched into a slow “Friend of the Devil” with a shuffling New Orleans beat. It was remarkable how well suited the song was to it. There was another musician acting as the emcee and lead singer but before the first verse he walked into the crowd asking for volunteers to sing it. I wanted to but hesitated a moment. What if I couldn’t remember the words? I thought them through in my mind, I lit out of Reno, everything. But by then he’d chosen someone right beside me. I regretted not being more confident. The person did a so-so job, I was sure I would’ve done better. Then the emcee sang a great, powerful gospel tune.

S., J., and I traveled back in time to see a Grateful Dead show I had gone to as a teenager. As we entered the auditorium I knew my younger self was there somewhere sitting with my friend Bill. I worried that if I encountered myself my entire life would change, Back to the Future style, and Jackie might not be born. 

I had surgery for some reason. It was a success but an unexpected outcome was that it made me ambidextrous. The doctor performed a sort of strength test on my arms and was dubious, but I felt it. I returned to the surgical theater, thinking I was meant to stay there. A woman was having a procedure that involved an IV connection to a dead baby, possibly her unborn fœtus. I was suddenly aware of how inappropriate it was for me to be there. I tried to exit but got stuck in a tangle of cables and stands set up for filming the event.

We were supposed to play at a big outdoor party. It was a familiar crowd of friends and rowdy types. There were lots of bikers. One of them, a woman, passed around a big glass vial of coke. I snorted from it and knew right away I took too much. I pinched my nose and inhaled so the excess wouldn’t run out my nostril. I got up and walked around. Everyone in the band was high too. Eventually it was decided we wouldn’t play after all. Some vague technical issue. We all accepted it at first, maybe even were relieved. But then it seemed stupid. We should play after all. We set up our equipment. I had a lot of trouble making sure all of the strings of my guitar were fastened around the cylinders of the tuning pegs. Finally we were ready. It was 3 a.m. But there was still a crowd gathered around us.

Two train stations, equidistant from where I stood. I walked to the one closest to my destination, at least I thought. The train was coming in and I had to run. No time to buy a ticket in the station. I got onboard and looked for a ticket machine. There was a problem of course. I didn’t have the right change, or I wasn’t allowed to buy one after the train started, or something.

I was under observation at a medical facility. I had possibly emerged from anesthesia. The doctor was asking me things but he looked skeptical. Something about me was off. I felt it, too. It occurred to me that what I was really feeling was what it’s like to be asleep and dreaming.

Mom was driving us home from somewhere. Dad was there too I think. We had to get on I-84, through Hartford. We got lost among the city streets. She was pretty sure one of them led east, back to the highway, but I wasn’t. We unfolded a map and looked. We were on foot now. I looked around to get our bearings. We were in an open plaza with a monument in the middle. There was a blanket of snow. This is the state capitol, I realized, so it shouldn’t be hard to find on the map. There it was right in the middle. We should know where to go from here.