Dreamed I was in high school. I had a ton of weed that I had been selling and the place was on lockdown. There were cops all over the place.

I can’t remember why I wasn’t able to flush it down the toilet, but that was out of the question. There was a sort of relaxation room with a convertible futon couch in it and I thought the stash might be safe there, so I hid it between the lower slats. It was still visible from the front, though, and everyone had seen me go in alone so they would know whose weed it was.

Eventually things loosened up and they let us go outside. There were cameras everywhere. I was out back for a while, where the yard connected with a bike path that ran along the river. There was a screen of trees not far along, so I pretended to jog until I had entered the protection of the screen and began to bury the stuff. But then I saw that there were dogs and thought better of that plan.

I went back to join the rest of my peers, and the principal was waiting, talking to the group. He was a real-human Principal Skinner. The cops had been searching bags. I stuffed the baggies down the back of my underwear and crossed my fingers.

In the end, no one was the wiser and we all got to go home.

Dreamed I went to a resort with Mum and Dad. It was in an oasis in the desert, in the centre of a great ring of trees and earth. There were dark men on dark horses singing songs. The hotel was limestone with tall, bare walls, massive doors and great pillars throughout. Every room was hung with white linen.

There was a sulfur hot spring with cloudy azure water. The water was warm, but even though the sun shone clear in the air the air above the pool was breezy and cool. I swam for some time before I realized I had Sean’s phone in my pocket, but I laid it out on a rock in the sun and it was fine.

Dreamed sometime last week that I was driving up a mountain in a red convertible. As I approached the summit, a beautiful German town came into view. There was a white church with a red steeple and beautiful golden bells and a bouquet of beautiful half-timbered buildings. The skyline was silhouetted against the setting sun, flanked by twin snowy peaks.

Johannes told me that it was the most beautiful town in Germany, but that its citizens were the rudest and meanest.

Dreamed I was sleeping in the woods by the side of a road. I had just awoken and Tupelo and his long-lost brother were snuggled with me in my sleeping bag. Across the road, there was a man in a leather swivel armchair talking on his iPhone. I didn’t trust him, so I got up.

I was in a city that I thought was New York but looked like Copenhagen. Jerah was walking with me and we were both late for work. I was carrying all my “camping gear” (actually a bunch of small electronics and music equipment) with me in a big grey duffel. I also had my Korg MS2000 with me.

There were green wire chairs installed around the city to facilitate a sort of charity relay. Someone should occupy the chair at all times, and volunteers were trading off on the hour. I saw an empty one, so I sat down. Not long after, a college kid approached and apologized for being late. She said “let’s take the shot” and I told her it was too early to drink, but she explained that she meant we should take a photo, so we did.

Jerah and I continued walking for a bit and the rising sun shone gold on the buildings. We stopped in the street and set up the keyboard and played some music. I didn’t know why the keyboard was making sounds without an amp.

A young Korean girl who had just moved to America and who had been walking behind us stopped to listen. A little crowd quickly gathered. She said “I can’t believe this hasn’t gone wiral” (meaning “viral”) and we explained that this kind of thing happens all the time in America. “This is just what it’s like here,” another onlooker confirmed.

When I got to work, Maurice informed me that I had finally been assigned to a real desk. I was going to be working on the GameStop account.

Dreamed that Emily, Jacob, Eric and I were all trying to fit clown car-style into a Smart Car. We couldn’t quite make it work.

Then, Dark North was trying to catch a train into Manhattan so we could play a show. Glenn got on a train going in the wrong direction and we were separated. Someone had to get there to set up, so Michael waited behind for Glenn to return while Emily and I went on ahead.

From the train, we passed over miles of dense deciduous forest with row houses peeking up over the tops of the hills. The sky was white and the city crawled up into it, black and spidery and still.

A woman on the train brought me a scroll filled with names and handed me a $5 bill. She said it was part of a class action lawsuit brought against the MTA for the Asylum Train, and that everyone who had ever ridden in New York got a piece of the settlement.

The Asylum Train was a steam engine at the turn of the 20th Century. It was carrying hundreds of passengers including several dozen of the West’s best dissenting minds—authors, artists, scientists. Shadow powers conspired to have the train diverted into a tunnel that, at a walking pace, would take years to traverse, with walls so close that escape through windows was impossible. The caboose had no door.

The passengers thought they were entering the Holland Tunnel. They were trapped for three years on the train. Girls emerged women, many men died or went mad.

I took the $5. I didn’t know what else to do.

Dreamed I was in line to check in at my regular salon. I had been going for years.

I had been waiting for a while because the line was long, but when it came to be my turn an old posh woman with a dawdling toddler in tow shouldered in front of me.

I told her it was my turn. She said she had an appointment. I said I did too. She said something dismissive that I don’t quite recall, and I told her that even rich assholes have to wait in line. She huffed off and the clerk signed me in.

I was in the chair, in the middle of a deep-conditioning treatment, when a team of officious pantsuited women with leather-wrapped iPads and stern faces materialized. The Managers. One blonde, short, in a grey ensemble with long hair worn down her back, the other tall and dark with her hair done up in a tight, tidy bun wearing wire-rimmed glasses. The latter seemed to be taking notes.

My stylist scurried to the wall like a frightened mouse seeking shelter. The women informed me that I was no longer welcome in their salon.

When I asked why, the slightly more fascistic-looking blonde informed me that it was because I had insulted the woman with the designer brat. She had complained.

I explained to them how she had thrown her weight around and that anyone else would have done the same; that I was a regular and had been supporting their business for years. The blonde shifted uneasily, smoothing the hem of her skirt. She disagreed.

I told her it was a disappointment and a fucking shame that after nearly a lifetime of loyalty that my patronage was being reduced to a bottom line, but she remained unmoved. I could practically see the dollar signs in her greedy little eyes.

I asked if I could I at least finish my appointment. In slow motion, a glob of conditioner detached itself from the end of my twisted up hair and landed in an unappetizing bitter splat on the gel mat below.

She begrudgingly agreed, clearly doing me a favour.

The Managers clacked smugly back to wherever it was they’d came from—presumably some designer panopticon from whence they could observe and correct all putrid instances of humanity that would dare to blossom in their pristine establishment.

My stylist returned to the chair and apologetically finished up my hair. He did a great job.

Dreamed this a few nights ago, but couldn’t get it down until today.

I was in labour and bleeding everywhere. In the dream, the blood seemed normal. I wasn’t having contractions, but I knew the baby was coming.

I went to the hospital where they had a room waiting for me. It was rectangular and ran lengthwise parallel to the building with the entryway in the middle of the wall and a window just opposite the door. The head of the delivery table, which was basically a bed, was centred against the right-hand wall. There was a picture on the outside wall above the bed, but I don’t remember what it was.

The nurse didn’t seem to know what to do. She showed me around the room but wasn’t sure how to make me comfortable. We sort of milled around for a while, but I got sick of it, so I went into the waiting room.

The waiting room was a huge 70s olive green monstrosity with a drop ceiling and fluorescent lighting. There were rows upon rows of conjoined chairs like the kind you find in airport terminals. I sat down in one of the middle rows next to a table. There was a Vanity Fair magazine on it, so I read it.

Then I had a contraction, so I went back to my room.

The nurse was waiting with the doctor. The doctor was the same one who examined my eye in Brittany when I’d scratched my cornea. He had put a big white quilted bedspread on the delivery table, and I was worried it was going to get messy. He said it was fine and not to worry. But he couldn’t figure out what to do with me, either.