Outside the door of a famous writer, a bunch of Christians are huddling. Arguing. They have urgent news. They're arguing whether they should go in and tell him.

"We should respect his privacy."

"But surely he'll want to know THIS..."

The pushy faction wins at last. They open the door--without knocking!--and barge in. A bedroom, doubling as his workroom. The writer's in a corner, in an oversize chair, typing into a computer--but wrapped tightly around him, in his lap, gazing into his face, is a long-legged, ash-gray-white naked girl. The intruders gasp--are the two of them really...?

She has shaggy legs, strangely jointed--long goat legs? Is she an actress in a satyr costume, or is she real, some sort of alien or mutant?

As the intruders gape, she unwraps herself lazily, calmly stands looking down on them (she's well over six feet tall--much of it leg). And then bleats "Ba-a-a-a-a-a!"

Is she mocking them, or is that her language? She's naked except for the shaggy chaps on her legs--and they may be real, part of her. I'm starting to believe that. Her torso's lanky as a dancer, with small humanoid breasts. No pubic hair, smooth as a goat or deer, but with shaggy thighs and calves. Her bare skin all that weird ashen-white.

She walks out. As she passes the Christians they cringe, seeing a devil, not what I do: Pan. A female faun or satyr.

Her confident swinging strides on those animal legs prove one thing--she's real. No actress could stride so comfortably on stilts or fake hooves.

Now the writer turns from the screen and looks at the human intruders too. Though he looks fully human, his eyes, like hers, are calm and distant as a demigod's, faintly mocking their shock.

His eyes are saying: "What do you expect? You barged in."

NOTES IN THE MORNING

• Ashy skin = funeral ashes, mourning? I just read a travel tale of India in The Sun magazine; mentioned a funeral.
• Their embrace = Hindu/Buddhist deities whose male and female aspects sit facing, entwined, eternally making love.
• hooves, gray pelt = I just read Margaret Atwood's THE ROBBER BRIDE. Roz as a kid was in a Christmas play--the sheep and wise-old-man costumes were both grubby, shaggy, once white but now gray. Now, grown up, Roz is tall and fights religious bigots... Baaaa!
• So the faun-girl muse = the sexiness of solitude, difference, defying conformity. Communing with my soul, instead! (Latin for soul: anima.)
• Pan, faun, satyr = Pan was the Greco-Roman god of nature, fertility and sex; fauns and satyrs were similar local spirits. From Pan and satyr we derive "panic" and "satire". And the dream knows it.
• Christians see her as a devil = my egalitarian training preaches "Community and humility, good. Proud individualistic solitude, bad. Antisocial! Elitist! LUCIFER!"

And not demonic power. Solitude is not a devil. Or an illness.

Solitude's your soulmate.

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