Not good

    but not terrible. Dad fell last night in Margaret's kitchen and couldn't get up. She called me a little past 10 and I went over and got him up no problem. Somehow he had cut his hand while trying to get up, unfortunately. The blood on the floor was more than a little alarming, but he's fine. I don't know what the nurses at dialysis are saying today about the cut on his hand, though.
    Given that unsettling experience, I wasn't expecting to sleep well, and this expectation was met. I went ahead and played rock n roll, but very quietly. Dreams were almost unprecedentedly odd. There was this deal where I was in Brighton (where I've never been) only it was in the United States, specifically Chicago (where I've barely been), also Valencia, Spain, and also it was in the mountains. I don't know if I was watching a movie or bi-locating, but there was an episode in a hotel restaurant of great prestige, where I or the person in the movie was sampling the specialty of the house, the Governor's Salad, which was a plate of shredded carrots. There was also a special dressing, which was more carrots and some onions.
    But I was walking in the park, which was totally denuded and orange, like Valencia when I visited there and they hid the river. I was wondering when the grass would grow back, but then I had to climb a mountain and when I got to the top, I was at the entrance to an Elevated station. Or possibly the hotel with the carrot salad, I don't know. But the street was something Britishy, like Victoria Street or some such. My sleeping brain gets around.