If dream is memory, then the written dream is memoir. So the author believes, at least, as he invites you to join a guided tour of his own dreams, narrated by his subconscious mind. One by one, these short bursts will tell the story of the author—who he’s been, who he is and even how he must die, for that is also part of memory. This is a looking-glass world that features jarring dreamscapes, such as an island where fat banana haikus grow on trees; a tea garden in Japan where he is overmatched in a bone-crushing judo contest; an autumnal glade where a spinning necktie quilt wants to shred him; a perfect tree that sheds dew into his eyes in an act of reverse crying; and a wet promontory he must cling to for dear life. Witness for yourself how he becomes a rope, and see the lake where his ashes are scattered by grandsons in a very, very orange situation. Record your dreams, he seems to say, and record yourself in the process.