Sleeping out of doors. A festival of some kind. As ususal I'm supposed to play but where is my gear? Everything is soiled, squalid and confusing. Heaped bedclothes in a clearing. Dusk or the kind of diffuse, snowy luminescence that Jake mentioned at Pinecrest last week. Open air structural coverings similar to Pacific Islanders' huts but modern in style.

Some girl makes a remarks to me about what nice fingers I have and then F walks up from behind. Oh God, I don't want to hear it from him again.

Then I find myself in my old room in the attic. A-frame, claustrophobic and full of familiar people but without any of the adolescent posters that I used to have up. It is very dim. I push to the back and when I get there something happens that upsets me. Not sure what. I turn around abruptly and try to leave. At the door to the stair is Andrew Jenkins with some other guys. He starts to joke with me and I don't take it well. I start to trash the place, a full-bore tantrum.

Outside now, crying hysterically. Everyone is watching me and it feels almost like a performance. A bearded psychiatric doctor in a white coat approaches with a clipboard and starts to pinch my face. Some kind of treatment.

I realize that the stairs to the attic room are gone and that it's door actually opens directly onto the front garden where I'm standing. Scott Smitherman comes out and and explains that I just tore Matt Buckelder's hat and that I need to go home and fix it on my sewing machine. I try to tell him that I don't have a sewing machine, much less do I know how to use one. I say I'll just buy a new hat for him but this is unsatisfactory. Back inside negotiating, I want to talk directly to Matt. I look down and there is Becky Smitherman curled up on my couch. She is young again but still wearing glasses and she looks beautiful.

Smoke hanging in the air against rugged hillsides. Big Sur, Laurel Canyon, or the summit of The Grapevine.

Next, I'm waiting around at the SF apartment. Picking something up? I go thru a stack of records in the living room but in a perfunctory way and nothing jumps out at me as being especially important. I'm tempted to look in the bedroom (does he still have that Les Paul?) but I don't.

After a while the room is full of half-familiar people and I realize that I am naked. As I gather up my clothes off the floor I make up some excuse as to why I prefer to wait undressed.

Suddenly, I'm in class. A special ed room but I'm a student there. I'm late and all of the students are already seated. When I find my seat I have difficulty taking it because it's legs sink into the floor of white gravel. I fall over backwards. The solution that comes to me is to assemble one of the wheelchairs that are lying in pieces to one side of the room. As I struggle with its complex, elliptical parts I notice that big Daniel Zuniga is there. Stoic as ever but none of his compulsive headbanging. He sits still in a wheelchair with a partial cage restraint, wearing an orange sweatsuit decorated with fine golden sigils.

I'm dressed in a coverall pica suit and arm splints. Sensations of physical smallness. Running away I shout: "I don't belong here! I went to UC Berkeley!"

Field stripping two weapons in a strange house. First a lightweight nine millimeter pistol and it takes a while to tell if it's loaded or not. It isn't. Admiring the glistening double helix in the barrel. Spacing out, almost falling asleep for a moment.

Then a strange telescoping automatic. A voice calls out from the other room to explain that it has some pieces missing. It sure does - an entire side of the housing is gone and I can see the interior mechanism. It seems insubstantial and cheaply constructed. Who is it in the other room? Male? Female? I get the impression that they are taking a shower.

Hypnogogia: Jack London's Square bathed in otherworldly light. More of a feeling than anything else.

Walking on a gray beach somewhere on the West Coast. I never thought of Ben Brown as a beachcomber but there he is strolling along, unkempt in a corduroy jacket. The sand is littered with broken clam shells. Looking closer I see that some of them are intact but when I go for them they burrow away deeper into the sand. On my knees, digging with my hands I start to worry about injuring my fingers.

I get one and pry it open with my Case knife only to realize that it's actually an oyster and that the meat has been covered in sand. Looking around I can tell that everyone expects me to eat it. I put it in my mouth and try to convey to them that it tastes good. They are doubtful.