I'm in the general store of a small inland town. Ranch land. People mostly look Native American; a reservation? Where AM I? Don't know the local language--the few signs in it look like Lakota, maybe. Sure not Navaho or Hopi. And the land's too sagebrushy. I think I'm farther east than I've ever been--out on the High Plains.

On a rack, I find some odd postcards by a local artist. Trains blended with landscapes. Like...

Dry prairie and a marsh with herons. Night is coming on, but the dark is physical, a cutout silhouette--the black Boxcar of Night, rolling along the Horizon Line, with its great dark dream-eye logo. The eye that see the big picture, the dark picture--what the day eye misses.

A snaky micromesa shaped like a steam train, with little talus slopes to the stony railless trackbed. If you're on THAT train, you need to crawl out a window. Going nowhere fast!

But the cardbacks don't say whether the artist dreamed 'em. Too bad! They don't qualify.

And then I wake.

Wrong again!

NOTES IN THE MORNING

Silly me. They are dreams. They do qualify.

• ACTION: Draw and post 'em to the World Dream Bank. They asked to be in! Which is curious. My conscious wasn't lucid, didn't know it was a dream; but the dream itself, the artist, knew very well, and quite reasonably submitted them to the editor of the World Dream Bank! This conscious notion that the unconscious is unconscious, when the unconscious is conscious, demonstrates just how severely the conscious is unconscious. Well, maybe your dreams are stupid and your conscious is the smartypants. But not mine. And I have my doubts about you.

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