I don’t know what to make of this. I dreamed that I saw Terry Gross and her husband drive by my crumbling, canary-yellow (!), Monticello-like home on a Virginia mountain-top overlooking a major Southern highway. [note: this is apparently both dream and aspiration]. I noticed a WTJU bumper sticker on the back of their car, which inspired me to call her from a makeshift telephone up on a pole outside this rather odd and ancient construction (which featured an unusual renovation element: a gorgeous hardwood bowling alley/zen garden of a floor/story that had been added between the 2nd and 3rd floor of the house, a la Being John Malkovich perhaps?). John got on another phone extension from the base of a drained pond that he and our dear friend Richard Gilman were fitting with stereo/audio equipment before refilling it, and the four of us had a lovely and long conversation, despite the splinters I was accumulating in my hands as I slowly climbed down the rough wall.This is the part of the dream I recall most vividly, but there was so much more. Yes, I often remember detailed sections of my dreams. And nightmares, too. The one where I am a lime slice about to be squeezed into the ice tea glass of a large man in a wifebeater T-shirt, and I shiver, waiting with extreme dread on the otherwise barren shelf of a refrigerator in a kitchen furnished straight out of the Honeymooners (or my grandmother’s 1950’s basement) — ooooh, still gives me chills. I hate it when I’m an inanimate object in nightmares, worse than sleep paralysis.