Last night I visited another Library You See In Dreams.

This must have been an academic library, because it was the haunt of grad students. Many grad students. Who lived there. On a vast subbasement level, innumerable grad students had carved out living spaces for themselves, forming library furniture–shelves, book carrels, whiteboards and the like–into rough territory-defining areas around cots. Their personal items were stashed about like a refugee’s household goods.

I was visiting. I was looking at the books. But naturally, I didn’t want to disturb anybody’s stuff. There was a shelf piled with folio-sized red hardbound volumes, worn at the corners. They held maps from World War II. I really wanted to take one down, but the shelf was currently forming a wall around one of the grad students’s cots. The student in question wasn’t there. Feeling like I was intruding, I tiptoed around their stuff, and got down the book.

Having my treasure, I tried to move out of the area, but knocked into an enormous duffel bag propped on the cot. The duffel bag hit a book carrel, which hit a floor lamp, which collapsed onto a whiteboard, which rolled across the tile. I tried to start picking things up, but the book carrel moved further and hit something else. In the quiet of the library, the clatter seemed deafening. People were looking at me. I knew that that untold numbers of grad students were ticked off at whoever that fool was making all the noise. At any moment the person whose stuff this was might appear.

Then the dream shifted.

I was a Marine on some island during World War II. We were preparing for a Japanese attack. Apparently we knew the enemy thought we were in a certain position atop a ridge, so we had shifted to a different position, some ways to the west, and dug in.

Each of us had been issued their own individual small mortar. I crouched beside mine, holding a shell. At that moment, I saw the enemy artillery open up in preparation for the assault—but they were uselessly bombarding our old position. We braced for the infantry charge to follow.

Just then Mr. Wallee wandered into our lines.

He was a portly Japanese gentleman in an elegant suit and a Van Dyke beard. He greeted us kindly, chatted with us, gave us a ribald Japanese comic book. Apparently he was not with the enemy forces. He claimed to be a traveler, enjoying this Pacific isle.

All the guys liked Mr. Wallee immediately, but we still had to assume he was a spy. The enemy might have sent him to detect our new location. It seemed ridiculous that they would try such an unusual ruse, but maybe that sheer ridiculousness was part of the idea.

I was detailed to take Mr. Wallee back to the battalion command post, where he would be transferred to the prisoner of war system. He was offended that anyone would assume he could ever work against his Marine friends, protested his innocence, but came with me anyway. As we proceeded to the rear, I wondered if there was some classification kinder than P.O.W. that he could be given. Mr. Wallee seemed too civilized a man for such a vicious war.

Was reminded this morning of a dream I had in the spring of 2009:

I, along with a party of dreamfolk, had been kidnapped by a group of cannibals. But these cannibals were not so banal as to simply murder and eat us. Instead they forced to run an elaborate and deadly obstacle course. We weren’t supposed to get through it. They intended for us to succumb to one of the lethal hurdles within, so they could fall upon our corpses Sawney-Bean style.

But somehow, miraculously, we made it to the end. The cannibals were waiting for us at the finish line. We assumed they would be furious at being thwarted and braced for an assault.

But no. They merely congratulated us. They seemed impressed. Then one of their number, a dwarf, raced among all the survivors, dabbing our hands with a pastry brush dipped in skin-soluble LSD.

Was this a new trap? Would they expose us to horrible things so we would tear out our own eyes in the depths of the worst of bad trips?

Nope! Again, much to our surprise, the cannibals showed us hospitality. They brought out colorful toys and children’s books. We all had a happy psychedelic time.

Nothing bad happened. Once we came down, the cannibals, apparently considering us prime talent, invited us to join them. They offered us brochures and VHS videos on how to kill and eat human beings.

I declined, though politely. I still didn’t want to risk angering these homicidal manics.

Then I woke.

I found myself in an Japanese-occupied 1940s American city. It was a setting akin to Philip K. Dick’s The Man In The High Castle, although in this dream the war was still ongoing.

I left our apartment to run errands. There was steel foundry nearby. I could see the showers of sparks as battleship armor was forged. Then in my hand I found my grandfather’s copy of Battle Stations, a book that, in our timeline, the U.S. Navy published to commemorate their victory.

What was I thinking? Why had I brought this outside? If anyone noticed I had such piece of American propaganda, it would mean arrest and execution for myself and my entire family. I tried not to panic and immediately turned toward home, praying no one would notice the title.

Our apartment was located in an immense skyscraper–so immense that there was time, during the elevator ride up, to show propaganda cartoons. The car I was in was filled with people, including several Japanese soldiers. Everyone was laughing at the cartoon, laughing at the ridiculous Yankees being defeated by the Emperor’s troops. One of the soldier was standing right next to my hand holding the book. Would he happen to look down? Would he notice this criminal piece of subversive literature?

I held my breath and counted the floors until I could get out…

Last night I dreamed of an Armenian-American woman of the early 20th century. She was in her early Thirties. She was angry. She was angry because her ex-husband had just died and left her millions of dollars.

An odd reason to be angry? But you must understand: she had left her ex-husband, who was a nationalist leader in the American and global Armenian diasporic communities, because he was controlling, abusive, and philandering. At some point she grasped he had groomed her from a young age to be both a leader in the cause and his wife, and became disillusioned with both his cause and him.

Now he had bequeathed all the millions he had raised from Armenians worldwide to her personally. Not as an institution–as an individual. She could either take the money as her personal fortune and use it selfishly, or she could use it for the intended purposes. She could not bring herself to do the former and she knew he knew she couldn’t. From the grave he dragged her back to the Armenian cause and chained her to it. She was furious.

And she took it out on her new lover, Harrison Ford. Or an early-20th-century Armenian-American man who looked like Harrison Ford, let’s say.

Then the dream skipped to her late ex-husband’s battles in World War I. He had raised an Armenian-American unit and led it against the Turks. The scenes were anachronistic–the Turks were using arrows. But then the dream shifted to a World-War-I-era film style, sepia and flickering, showing the unit’s victory parade into Paris. Except they showed up in their gas masks, to the horror and confusion of those lining the streets–until they whipped off their masks to reveal it was the brave Armenians all along! Then everyone laughed and cheered.

(That was all. Dreams don’t usually provide coherent narratives. There was no end. I like to think The Angry Woman took up the mantle of Armenian leadership, but in ways her late ex-husband did not foresee and would have strongly disapproved.)

I have visited several libraries while asleep.

An academic library, a tall reading room faced with granite, lined with wooden shelves surrounding dozens of blonde wood reading tables, matching chairs, all occupied by students mumbling like monks. Tall windows flood the place with light. In the corner stands an octagonal circulation desk, busy, above which a spiral staircase leads to unseen galleries.

An urban library, housed in a Brutalist concrete skyscraper, the narrow windows set back in bays like arrow loops. A dingy elevator opens onto the fluorescent-lit seventeenth floor, home to beige stacks of the middle LC letters, crowded with people of every variety pursuing their passions, investigating, creating, learning.

A municipal library in a cavernous basement, sheet metal shelves far above eye level. To access the topmost books, one must wheel over a flimsy staircase and stand tiptoe on the uppermost rung, reaching heavenward with fingertips for the prize, risking losing balance and toppling to smash one’s face open on the footworn stone.

All these places and more—second-hand bookstores with piles of wooden crates, rummage sales with tables of paperbacks, rows and stacks and piles of broken cellophane dust jackets, half-cracked spines and rounded corners, the musty irreproducible smell of old books. Each one bearing potential, a hope of knowledge or insight or that cryptozoological thing called wisdom.