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.

Dream about my childhood friend S. W. who's been in a coma most her life. She had graduated college, possibly with a degree in plant science. Something to do with tomatoes. I gave her a ride home. Or she me.

I was driving around my hometown, the little roads winding through the woods. I was on my way home. I thought about how I often have dreams about how to get home, whether by car or on foot, which roads to take and where to cut through the woods. And I thought about how it always seems impossible to cut through the woods in these dreams.

A young filmmaker had created a movie called “Kid K.” The title character was a miniature child, a few inches tall but living in the normal size world. He had a miniature car he drove around to deliver miniature newspapers. Somehow it was recognized as a work of great beauty and poignancy. Then I was in a house, a kind of vacation cabin in the woods, with a group of people, maybe high school classmates at a reunion. There was a competition going on. It soon devolved into bitter feuding. The goal was to create something, and to prevent others from doing so. We broke into teams and mine entered a side room. Steel shutters appeared and closed automatically over the door and the large window into the main living space. It seemed like I’d conjured them out of my imagination, which of course I had. It now felt like we were in a horror movie. Creepy, supernatural things were happening, objects flying around, a sense of imminent darkness and danger. My team was preparing a tribute movie to “Kid K.” It seemed like the right thing to do.

There was speculation the 2024 election had been lost due to Republican plants at the Democratic Convention. Somehow they’d muddled the messaging and fucked up the proceedings.

We were watching Mark Mothersbaugh play a solo gig at a very small venue upstate, maybe the dining room of a bed and breakfast. His name wasn’t his actual name in the dream, it was Phil I think, but it was that guy from Devo. He and his band played a set of four songs, each one long and distinctive and represented in a row abstract visual panels, maybe projected on the wall or maybe in my mind. When the set was over he declared he’d play them again in reverse order, and the panels were reversed. He did something else to them too, played them slower, or played them country, or something. S., J. and I were in an adjoining room but we could still hear. I went out into the main space to see. The crowd was mostly kids, as at a birthday party, and they were dancing in circles as kids might do. A few parents ringed the space. When the set was over everybody cleared out except the band taking down their gear. I looked for Phil. He approached me. I felt awkward to be prone in bed, in my bathrobe, as I was in real life. But he sat beside me, apparently not noticing. I was proud that here he was, talking to me. He addressed me with some familiarity, as though he’d seen me before and expected me to be there. He spoke sadly of a woman who’d just died, a musician. He assumed I knew who she was but I’d never heard her name, and felt foolish. I nodded solemnly. I wanted to tell Phil I’d seen him do that weird show at the New Music University—it was actually NYU, a few years ago—but I forgot his name was Phil. Was it Phil? It wouldn’t seem right to tell this anecdote without addressing him by name. We walked in silence through the room and I left to rejoin my family.