When I return from a long early shower, the musicianship class is moving from marketing to promotion.

At the reception, my mother urges me to take a bite of the brisket Courtney Love has on a styrofoam plate.

A rhino named Natalie.

A wake for my grandmother, a month after her death. She lies in a pod, built into a panoramic chamber, her corpse just long flaps of skin. Then the pod closes and I am ushered back in to the party.

She shoots herself. Once for show, and once for real. And after she shoots herself for real, she shoots you.

At the shore, I'm combing the surf for mammals taken in by the tide. First a stray possum, then a few kittens pawing out of the wet sand. And behind a sandbar, submerged in shallow seawater, the possibility of a grandmother.

I walk by a continuing education school where an algebra lesson is underway. The sign outside says: "Regular class: $95. Isaac Asimov, $150." "Might as well spring for the Asimov," I think to myself.

A red-headed friend sings an anthemic folk song. "It sounds so simple," I say, "but it's nuance all the way down." Most of the songs on her album have faux-naif redundant titles like I WAS A SRIROCCO AT THE ROCKY ROCOCO BAR BEFORE COCO CHANEL WENT CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS. The demos have already been animated with fast bright talking woodland animals. She leaves for the Obama speech but sends a handwritten note inviting me to learn the songs so I can tour with the band.

A classmate bikes by and yells, "Truce!" I give him the finger and walk into a poetry seminar. The professor is at the blackboard. I dictate a stanza that ends, "Together we could rule the world."

At the high school assembly a hippie-looking man steps up to the mic to ask a question. "I am Cheeseburger Jesus!" he begins. I move on to the next symposium.

Grandma got pregnant again.

In the first of man investments he must believe to be recoupable, a San Francisco tycoon has rented me a rehearsal studio across from the Dudley Co-op, complete with railroad kitchen and upright piano. So I begin to gather some instruments for my first double bill: Jascha vs Jascha.

Before I can load out my music gear on the steps of the public library, I am drafted into service on a Soviet passenger train. At each stop I switch cars, but the scenarios of compulsory service are unlimited.

As my hair grows long, I try to recall the term for thinking two things at once.

Loren shows me a little box on the floor that serves as a sort of AutoTune for the baroque musician. After setting the key and pitch, one can chose from a dozen kinds of tuning: just intonation, Pythagorean intonation, equal temperament, wolf temperament, etc. Then when you plug your electric viol into the box, he explains, no matter how out of tune you play, what comes out is purely consonant. Brilliant, I say.

At the art cult, which I assure my friend Jesse we are just visiting for the evening, everyone is paired up and made to look identical, then set loose on the dinner party. Jesse drives back up the hill to his recording studio, while I am swept up in the action. I stay for several weeks, becoming more and more curious about the ultimate aims of this band of gypsies, and worrying that my straight demeanor will cause the the others to assume I am planning to betray them to the public. When Jesse returns, restless to get back to his final mix on the hill, I can tell that I have already been converted.

Hiking back out with my parents and brother, who explains his theory of natural selection in meticulous detail, until I get it. Wearing only my undershirt in the trailhead parking lot, I spot a cop car.

Driving a city bus home along mountain roads. I'm the only passenger, sitting about halfway back on the left, but I'm also the driver. It's an exhausting task, this backseat driving. After taking the wrong fork I am forced to stop at a steep rest area. That's where I see a long and knobby beaver, exhausted, splayed out in front of the coach. He fidgets, not quite dead from exhaustion. This is my pack animal, I think, as the other buses gather below.

Step away from a marathon art party to join my brother at a well-lighted ATM. It's actually more of a slot machine, with a deck of old cards stashed where the deposit envelopes should be. As he locks in a solid win, I wander past a storefront that has been rented to promote a forthcoming novel by a Salvadoran writer. I pay it the highest tribute I can muster at that moment: urine.

The only passenger in a silent jet that must circle around the block hundreds of times to burn off fuel before it lands. On each circuit we pass through the breezeway of a white mansion where a conference is underway. I have been invited to speak.