THAT EVENING

I'm hot tubbing with my friend Leona, out on her back porch under the stars. Candles, feathers, ferns. Feel a bit awkward since she may be attracted to me, and I'm not to her. She's as big and drastic as an orca, and I'm a skinny little poltergeist.

I tell her my dream Starhawk the Witch, full of shamanic images, generally pro-witch, but highly ambivalent about Starhawk's emphasis on groups and collective action. The dream hinted some of us have to go it alone, whether or not it's good feminism.

Leona laughs and laughs. It turns out she knows the real Starhawk, and says my dream is true, and cuts deep: "She's a bit of a fast-food witch; she needs to be the star."

Of course Leona's catty about everyone. Our mutual friends in Psychodrama? Debra is "just a little chippie. She came to group in jeans split at the crotch and sat with her legs spread so you could see her blue panties." And Tara is "the wicked witch in your Starhawk dream," and my best friend Mark is "intimidated by your art and dreaming," and Greta is "a drunk"...

And me? "You need to work on your nervousness. You're seeking a soulmate, and that's legit, but frankly, sex is just incompatible with the spiritual life, so I wouldn't bet on gettin' any..."

Oh.

THAT NIGHT

Leona's hanging an art show, but she's changed--slender, good-natured. Oh! She's my anima, Silky! I help hang her show, and she finds me some free frames. I like her art--colorful and funny.

Now the artshow is atop a huge building, like a crag over a low but vast city, like LA. It's election time! Political tables and booths crowd out the art. I must give a speech soon. Feel nervous. I oppose the bland, pro-development incumbent, Dianne Feinstein. I support Tara--she's radical. Also sexy! But the Election Board, though they're supposed to be unbiased, are grilling Tara, mercilessly, calling her a slut, till she's in tears and says "I'm leaving." She's in a pale blue leotard; pulls on dark blue jeans that are torn at the crotch, to the point they're really denim leggings...

I meet a bird-man with a hawk-feather pattern mottling his face. I suspect he's a political hawk too. I oppose more military spending, so we may be opponents.

My boss appears, and warns me "File these library catalog cards, but do it more carefully. You failed academically and socially because you're in a hurry--sloppy. It shows even in your filing." I slow down, shaken that she thinks sloppiness has wrecked my life.

Silky reappears and talks to me while I file. She's an actress and painter, but she's unhappy about my failures in career and romance--areas that should be easy for me. Angry with me for self-sabotage--after all, as my anima inside me she suffers from it too if we have no money, no girlfriend, no fame. As she cries and tells her troubles, I hold her tight and stroke her, soothe her. I love holding her, she turns me on, but I hide it. Silky's still mad at me for sabotaging myself.

We're in my childhood backyard now. At last Silky cries herself out. Now more sad than angry, she turns into a huge dog, in fact a wolf, and curls up under a tree.

A Bluish Businessman appears, limping from a thorn. I pull it out for him.

In exchange, he gives me Sensible Advice: "That wolf is dangerous, stay away!" And a chorus of his blue-gray buddies chant "She's a hellhound! She's a bitch!"

But I recognize these gray men! A patient of Jung's dreamed of blue-gray businessmen, dead but still riding little cars...

Deadness, huh? Dead Suits, now there's a group to trust!

I go back to grooming sad Silky, looking for stickers and thorns; but they couldn't penetrate her thick fur in this form. She rolls over, baring her belly to me, and I stroke her. She's melancholy still, but... why shouldn't she be? I have been sabotaging myself, and it hurts her too. She has a right to pout. Really, she's been pretty patient with my sabotage...

Some hellhound!

It's hot, so I set up an umbrella. Struggle with the catch--it tends to pop loose, so the shade collapses on us. Astonished to find no mechanical clasp at all--just half a dozen fridge magnets! Unbelievably flimsy.

Oh, wait, this isn't an umbrella handle, it's the tripod for a movie camera. We're filming the sequel to POLTERGEIST, and the camera I'm working on isn't just the main viewpoint, it's a CHARACTER.

You see, in our sequel the camera filming the movie gets possessed, and becomes sentient, and goes mad and runs around on its tripod, shooting what it wants, editing what it wants, cutting the other actors out when it wants...

This is the gimmick underneath our whole film. Way more potential than the haunted TV in the first Poltergeist film.

But with just magnets holding the camera to its tripod, the poor poltergeist's head'll fall off during action scenes! It's just not linked firmly enough. I clean the magnets and align them in tight contact to strengthen the link, but it's still too weak. It's a nerd poltergeist, barely connected to his body, prone to losing his head!

Our hellhound is just fine, thanks... but our poltergeist needs a serious redesign.

NOTES NEXT MORNING

• Election board attacks sexy figure = Leona puts down Tara and Debra, then goes after me!--says "give up on sex." Well, Leona may be sincerely wrong... or sniping because I don't chase her.
• Bluish businessman's warning = I'm reading Jung, and Kathleen Jenks (a Jungian); they both warn not to indulge your anima's moods. But MY anima tells me plainly she's moody mostly about my self-sabotage; if I just quit hurting myself, she seems eager to be productive and happy--and her cheerful art backed up her claim.
• The haunted camera, only held to its tripod by magnetism: Me. My soul's held to its body only by "magnetism"--sexual attraction! The hope of finding a soulmate. Most physical pleasures are risky for me, due to severe allergies--travel, food, drink, drugs, even just parties and clubs are often toxic. There just isn't much to hold me on Earth but the fun of sex and the hope of love.
• ACTION 1: Indulge my body, to connect better with it. Don't worry about depression--just pull out thorns! My mood's naturally sunny, when I'm pain-free.
• ACTION 2: Ignore experts in suits. Jungian or not.

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