THAT EVENING

I see a TV documentary on 19th Century women who found work on trains. The first mass wave of working women, years before many offices or factories would hire them. A way to escape family constraints.

Dalziel, a BBC mystery. A foxhunter's murdered. The Master of the Hunt's sexy daughter is an activist sabotaging hunts, but they both seem to want to keep their quarrel high-minded. Would she kill? But someone did...

Then a show on the last Neanderthals. Bones found in a Spanish sea-cave hint they led hard hungry lives and died out between 28-25,000 years ago, in a long cool spell causing a drought in Spain. Revealingly, the sea cave where they'd survived a quarter of a million years wasn't taken over by Cro-Magnons; prime living space, yet it stayed empty for millennia. Just unlivable! I can't see why--all that seafood! Starving amid abundance. Maybe without pottery to store and carry fresh water, trips to the nearest creek were just too long or hazardous...

THAT NIGHT

I'm a guard on a transcontinental train, here to ward off hungry desert raiders and onboard stowaways filching buffet. Forgivable: they're not human invaders but fox-folk: innocent thieves. No clue what humans mean by property. Propriety. A bauble's gleam, a sexy scent, a snack? Grab whatever lures; ignore society. Prey today's their way. For tomorrow's never brought them more than sorrows: they're refugees from Foxican civil war. Lope the dust to seek ape-asylum. We are Charged to throw all foxes off, but our mute guard-custom is to look away, let foxes ride roofs and in boxcars, unless they steal; and not all do. Although their joy's desert-tarnished, still, foxes glow. Lovely, lively, lithe. Allure. But O our regs are harsh: for staff, all sex is banned! True, none of us obey that relic of the Nine- teenth Century, back when our lonely line was spiked across desert, when female staff were new, vulnerable, asylum-seekers too; slipped Victorian leashes, fled domestic war. So guards who frown at me for flirting with That lissome vixen with the golden eyes Leaning out for breeze between her thighs, All discreetly tryst. Yet do their pairings last? Their monkey affairs are a mere Mile-High Club, as we mount the Great Divide. Must I heed their, er, railing?. Purity's a myth! The Regs are dregs of our lost home: the Past. Call me a sex-iconoclast; I say all law flees the past.

NOTES NEXT MORNING

• Railroad employees: those first female train workers had to fight Victorian rules assuming girls are weak, dependent, victims.
• Obsolete railway regs: I was trained, by an over-feminist mom, to see women as victims--not free adults!
• Hungry thirsty nonhuman folk: the Neanderthals' last stand in Spain, starving (or dehydrating?) amid abundance.
• Foxican civil war: current Mexican struggle against drug cartels?
• Foxes: old slang for hotties. May also mean guiltlessly following appetites as foxes do. [2016 NOTE: It might also be mocking Donald Trump for slandering Mexicans as thieves & rapists, but I dreamed it over a year BEFORE he mouthed off.]
• Beautiful fox sneaks onboard: that sexy foxhunt-saboteur, on Dalziel. She followed her bliss!
• Her appearance: probably inspired by a lovely fox-courtesan I saw online, drawn by Bewilde (Bridget Wilde)--see right. The dream's whole dusty desert palette echoed her drawing--cream, fox-russet and periwinkle blue.
• WARNING: Despite all the work I've done to dethrone my Railway Authority, I still treat women as vulnerable, unfree; I hesitate to come on or even flirt.
• ACTION: Ignore your old training. Admit who you like, and act on your likes. Anything less demeans both women and your own desires.

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