As often happens in my dreams, I found myself in a surreal high place, with no idea of how I got there or why, but with the impression that it was my home.

A potted plant sparked a memory, only I did not know if it was an old gift from a former lover, or a new gift from a long-ago one. I hoped for the latter.

I had to wash my clothes in a queer machine that was silver and turned like a drum, or perhaps like a dryer. I filled it with clothes. Because I had only a few things left and there was a mysterious sense of urgency, I overfilled it. It was on a slope, and clothes and perhaps water tried to tumble out with the pull of gravity. Then it abruptly retreated uphill on a wire-and-pulley system; by what agency I do not know.

I had to lead a pregnant woman, J., down from this aerie via very steep, uneven steps made of books. Because they could fall over when stepped on, it was extremely precarious. At one point, we had to step up, which was even more dangerous.

We came upon a very narrow, short step, and I knew that if I stepped onto it the books would scatter, and I would fall. I appealed to people in the library I could see far, far below, but they replied only that they did it all the time. What happened next I do not know.

A flash of lightning, perhaps combined with a sensation of feeling cold and restless, woke me up between 3 a.m. and 4:30 a.m. Before or after that, I dreamed that I was staying with an aunt (not an actual one) and that there was something uncomfortable about the situation, despite the appearance of a serene household. This was undone when a sheriff’s car, light flashing, raced up to the house. I was shocked because I could not imagine why. I saw my aunt then, who told me triumphantly that she had obtained a court order to remove “her” and her daughter from the house, “her” proving to be a sister-in-law. I did not know in what way the woman was offensive, but the angry face of a man appeared in my mind, and I thought, “He must be my uncle; he will be angry, and I don’t want to witness it.”

I was in the garden leaning over some ground cover when I spotted a chick that had soiled itself, with the down missing from the dirty area on the right side. It appeared to be ill. Not knowing what to do and being afraid of scaring it, I held up my finger. To my surprise, it readily hopped up onto it. It seemed to be preternaturally intelligent and to be trying to tell me something. I took it to a man, probably a gardener, who cleaned it. I returned it to the same spot in the ground cover. Later I found it soiled again in exactly the same way, like it was a sign.

This was to be my last day at my aunt’s house, and I found out that everyone had been looking for me urgently because my father had become sick and had been placed on hydrogen. I couldn’t find him anywhere, and I couldn’t think of what was wrong with him that hydrogen would treat. It sounded serious. I felt scared, both that something would happen to him and that the situation was so odd that I hadn’t known he was there and I couldn’t picture him.

I came to an area in the house that was like a nightclub. The Beatles and an Indian group with one of my former roommates were below me. He and I started to talk about another roommate, but the Beatles chided him for talking to the customers.

Their act involved what they said was a magical Eastern practice of placing people into bags, hanging the bags up, and setting them on fire. I didn’t want to watch. Despite myself, I could see a woman in a bag as clearly as if it were transparent, not opaque, and she appeared to be unharmed somehow. It was too surreal for me, and I had to leave.

I began to look for a bathroom and only then realized how large my aunt’s place was. I found jewelry and other shops, and a salon. Then I discovered my aunt and uncle’s private quarters, where I hoped I would not be caught because I was under the impression that I was not to know about the extent or nature of the property or where they lived. The quarters had portholes, and I began to wonder if this weren’t a cruise ship rather than the New England house I had thought. Now that I had an idea of its size and weirdness, I didn’t want to leave. I also worried vaguely about my father; I still had not seen him. I was afraid of what I might find.

I was at what appeared to be a family party, only I didn’t recognize the family. As it was dusk, I wanted to go out for a walk or bike ride, but a woman who was not my mother — perhaps an aunt? — kept warning me to be careful. I had to leave.

I found the men in the shed watching television; again, they didn’t seem to be my family, and my dad wasn’t among them. The shed itself was unusual because it had windows like a car. I began to wonder how the old shed, put up almost 40 years ago, could still be around. When I went out and walked around it outside, I saw that it wasn’t the shed; it was the van, but there were overhangs over the windows. It had to be more spacious inside than out.

This made me look up at the clouds, as did some others. I saw that one area was off white or yellow, in the shape of a lacy butterfly. It looked like a coincidence, but soon the whole cloud changed into a complex pattern of lacy angels that could not be coincidence. It was apocalyptic. The conversation turned to the names of the four principal angels, and all I could think was, “Gabriel,” as I watched the lace cloud in the dusky evening sky.