I keep the animal-girl inside a ring of Japanese screens. No one knows her, hid amid the dance of cranes. Docile, she never tries to leave, though she could easily; I leave a lad- der to climb in and out of her sumi-e corral. She looks near-human, but her mind cares little for ape-speech-- what she loves is touch. And a kind voice. Sex. A song. When I turn on the radio to bouncy sixties rock she's so excited! Squirms & little cries. Then I climb down to her. I've dressed her in a flannel vest, ballet leg warmers and a pleated little skirt. I don't flirt. Grab those naked thighs, pull her to me. She snuggles to belly, wriggles under. Pulse-rush makes my ears thunder. Thrust into her like a cat, rear-mount her hard and quick. Our cries are hidden under the boom box beat. Both come fierce and soon. And then. I pull away, climb the stile naked slick and slack. Turn off the magic music, dress, and breeze through day as if no thing occurred! Leave her dreamy relaxed, to curl up and purr to sleep--pet girl-- housepet. Won't leave her pen. Not even waking till I'm hot to use her again.

NOTE IN THE MORNING

• Who is she, accepting such limits, such neglect? My own body! Until something happens as intense as sex or agony, I simply neglect it. And then wonder why I get sick so much!

NOTES 33 YEARS LATER

• Sickness, neglect: I was chronically ill through the 1980s and early 90s--bouts of gut pain like endlessly recurring flu. I eventually deduced it was an undiagnosed infection causing severe gluten intolerance. Only close observation on my part--the exact opposite of the neglect displayed here--eventually led to a diagnosis and healing. And by "eventually" I mean decades, when it could have taken only months... had I focused.

  I was told not to focus. Not to bother. In the 1980s, Western medicine tests for food allergies and sensitivities were garbage--though they didn't tell you that. I was told firmly a skin test proved I had no food sensitivities or allergies. So what was it? Doctors generally dismissed all hard-to-diagnose cases like mine as 'hereditary' or 'psychosomatic' or that great catch-all, 'stress'--letting them evade responsibility for diagnosis or cure.

  "Do your parents bug you?"

  Oh, is that a common cause of pelvic inflammation and intestinal bleeding?

  "Could work be stressing you out? Could you cut back?"

  I worked half-time (all I could handle) in a library; about the lowest-stress job on earth (lowest paid, too).

  "Have you tried mood elevators?"

  Sure, and they did nothing. Because pain and inflammation aren't moods.

  I cured myself only when I quit trusting my doctors, and tested what they'd told me, and found all of it false.

• Why post this embarrassing sex dream? To show that even a sex dream that feels good (and this did) and is consensual (and it was; she could easily have climbed out; but neither of us knew any better, knew any better life) can still mean trouble--and that trouble may not be sexual. It's obvious that nightmares of frustration, humiliation, stalkers or rape are warnings of real trouble. But it's also true of non-nightmares like this, where exciting sex distracts from deep neglect.

  Fond as I was of her, hot as our trysts were, I knew in the morning... this was a warning.

World Dream Bank homepage - Art gallery - New stuff - Introductory sampler, best dreams, best art - On dreamwork - Books
Indexes: Subject - Author - Date - Names - Places - Art media/styles
Titles: A - B - C - D - E - F - G - H - IJ - KL - M - NO - PQ - R - Sa-Sk - Sl-Sz - T - UV - WXYZ
Email: wdreamb@yahoo.com - Catalog of art, books, CDs - Behind the Curtain: FAQs, bio, site map - Kindred sites