[Passage from my journal, 5 August 1997.]
Slept badly as things turned out. Woke up about the time my brother came through and I went downstairs and talked with him a bit. Tried to go back to sleep but didn’t make it; I think I started working in here on my May 1974 journal transcript, and watched Newhart, and drifted off to sleep.
Awoke abruptly hearing the dogs barking wildly, and things crashing and falling about. I got up, saw the house was in considerable disorder, and headed downstairs. I wasn’t going fast enough so I leaped up and flew the rest of the way. Somewhere in here it occurred to me that I had to be dreaming, so I made an effort and woke up.
Things looked better this time; things in the computer room were undisturbed though the monitor seemed to be tuned to nothing in particular, as the screen was nothing but static and white noise was coming from the speakers, but I went downstairs anyway; I could still hear the dogs barking. It occurred to me that the dogs shouldn’t be here and that this too must be a dream, so I made another effort and woke up again.
This time the house was silent and empty; no dogs and no sign of any disturbance. I went downstairs and sat down to stare at some tv; maybe I looked at a Brett Butler comedy routine or something. Things get a little vague in here but the next thing I knew people with cameras and lights and wires had invaded the house; they were getting ready for Dana Carvey to host Saturday Night Live from here which was fine with me; I was looking forward to seeing it, but every way I turned there were signs up indicating that each door was an entrance to some set or another, and as I was in my bathrobe I wasn’t too keen on possibly emerging onto national live tv unexpectedly. At this point I woke up to find myself lying on the green chair in the music room, watching a Dana Carvey special on the Comedy channel. I think it was about three in the morning. Went upstairs and got a couple more hours of sleep; I don’t remember any of my dreams. Thank God I think.