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The Writer's Muse

Dreamed 12/7/1996 by Chris Wayan

Dream: an ash-gray female faun, found making love to a writer in his office. Is she his muse? Click to enlarge.


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." A female faun on a rock ledge grins and stretches on tiptoe. Dream character, by Wayan. Altered photo of model named Irah?

NOTES IN THE MORNING

I know what triggered this dream. Yesterday I stayed in, writing--I wanted to catch up on my dreams. There's power in this!

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

Solitude's your soulmate.

Sketch of the writer's muse, a female satyr.


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