I dreamed I was on the shores of Brittany reading Le Monde. It had an interview with Jean-Paul Sartre, who was apparently still alive. And annoyed with us all. "All these centaur sightings are a flight from WHAT IS. They show BAD FAITH toward reality! Today, Man (sic) will turn anywhere to soften the hard fact of his (sic) own responsibility--he'll imagine all sorts of gods..."

Then I looked up, as this woman waded slowly out of the sea. She was slightly translucent, wave-colored... like jade. Halfway, I thought "Aphrodite!"

But she kept coming out--and disproved Sartre. She was a centaur.

She said "I come from the New World, the Hemisphere of Dreams, with news for the Old. But first... let me catch my breath. I crossed the Abyss, rarely rising to breathe, so I wouldn't get harpooned by Existentialists."

I knew the feeling. Tired of being jabbed by self-appointed realists telling me I can't exist. What's realism's gift to history, anyway? The bloodiest century in sixty million years! Emily Dickinson was right:

Those--dying then, Knew where they went-- They went to God's Right Hand-- That Hand is amputated now And God cannot be found-- The Abdication of Belief Makes the Behavior small-- Better an ignis fatuus* Than no illume at all--

(*ignis fatuus = "foolish fire", a faint light leading people astray in bogs; also called foxfire or will o' the wisp.)

While drawing the picture, I realized I'd seen the start of Centaur Girl's transatlantic journey in a dream years before, when I was sick, lonely, poor, in despair. I wondered if I'd EVER be socially, sexually, or spiritually open--able to love. Well, my dreams answered. I dreamed of a delicate-looking cat-girl who set out for France, across the Atlantic, on an 8-foot sailboard--and I knew she'd make it. I'd make it. My shy, solitary self was not so fragile after all.

No, the pastel is NOT Michael Jackson after a fresh round of plastic surgery. That strange-eyed face is a blend of two Vogue models, and the water/drapery came from a third photo, but not Jackson, okay? Besides, back when I dreamed this, not even Michael Jackson looked like Michael Jackson.

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