NPR was going to feature the Village on All Things Considered, but I couldn’t get in touch with Lael to tell him. Then I couldn’t tell if they HAD or if they WOULD, and I was stuck in a room without a radio. I went to the website to see if I could listen to it that way, but I couldn’t. I wondered how I’d document this brush with fame.

Lael, Kathleen, and I were living together in a two-story Riverside house built in the 1920s. The kitchen was at the base of the stairs, and the stairs leading upstairs had a parallelogram of wood over it, looking rather stylish yet guillotine-rific. Kathleen and I went upstairs where the bedrooms were, and she had me stand in a corner. “You just stand right here and amuse Lael.” Then Kat brought out a life-size blue puppet, kind of an Asian-looking man in a 1950s Ward Cleaver hat, and turned on the power to it. Every five minutes it would turn its head towards me and clap, and I’d just giggle and clap right along with the puppet. “Just perfect.” So, like clockwork, the puppet and I giggled and clapped our hands.

I dreamt that Carmody and I were on a road trip to nowhere in particular. It was night, of course, and we got to a meadowy spot. There was an accident on the other lane: a semi moving a silo, in its entirity, had toppled over. A young woman had been partially impaled by part of the metal roof. Three police officers carried her; her face was wrapped up in a pleather coat. I told Carmody that if anything should happen to me, I would prefer not to be swaddled in pleather — I like breathing.

Recently remembered dreams:

I dreamt that Afghanistan pronounced a jihad on just the place where I worked, and I wondered how in the world I was going to spin this in a positive light for the media, especially without the help of my boss (who’s currently on vacation).

I dreamt something about Jon selling T-shirts at a trade show.

Thinking in the mornings is hard, and I haven’t been sleeping well at all.

I will never sleep without the TV or CD player on again. I have learned my lesson.

I dreamt I was having dinner at a restaurant. I was perched in a high booth and could look down on most of the diners. The staff was comprised of mostly athletic-looking teenagers, but none of them seemed interested in taking my order. My silverware was dirty, so I sucked the spoon clean–mmm, month-old Haagen-Dazs. Then a scuffle broke out between the boys and knives started flying. One dark-haired boy got hit in the chest and blood started seeping everywhere. Now I was glad that no one had noticed me. Suddenly a fork got thrown in my general direction. I guess they had run out of knives, so they were moving on to forks. I ducked under the table and decided this was not a good place to be.

It was cool outside last night, so I had the window cracked. While the wind moaned and howled, it does not account for the faint screaming and shouting I heard that woke me up. I swear I heard it, though incredibly faint, and it wasn’t the wind at all.

I’ve been having a lot of dreams about work lately. None of them have been very interesting.

I will just say this–it is rather frightening to wake up in the middle of the night to hear knocking on your neighbor’s door, then realize that Orson Welles‘ “War of the Worlds” is playing. I had odd dreams when I went back to sleep. I nodded off trying to tie “War of the Worlds” to media coverage on Sept. 11.

Instead of making any brilliant discoveries, I think I dreamt I hugged Orson.

It sounds like me.

I would like to remember my dreams again.