INTRODUCTION

This dream needs an introduction. Are you always yourself in dreams? Not me. But usually, whoever I am, at least I stay whoever I am!

Not in this dream. In this dream, first I was a butler in mad Count Coyote's castle, reminding him to eat between painting his dream-visions; then I traded souls with the French maid, who's really an undercover detective trying recover the Count's stolen paintings; and then I swapped souls with her girlfriend, a lesbian freshwater mermaid...

In each incarnation, I got closer to the truth about the Count's missing dream-art. It looked like the Pervert Pope stole it. Censorship? Us mermaids don't stand for THAT! So I set out with my underwater camera to catch the Thief of Dreams, so I could marry my true love...

Is THIEF OF DREAMS true? Yes. I can't swear to every detail--my dream recall's good, but not word for word! But I lived in this castle, I knew these people, I saw these events. This tale is not fantasy, but biography.

Dream biography.

Who steals dreams? Have you wondered? I don't -- not anymore.

One night, I dreamed I was a butler named Dirac, serving a rich madman, Count Coyote, in his castle in the Alps. Twice a day, I climbed the spiral stair to the Count's art studio, atop Wind Tower, with its twelve arches open to the air, looking out over the lake.

DIRAC: Sir... Yvette made you supper. You must eat!

COUNT COYOTE: Ah, thanks! Just set it down. Such a dream I had, Dirac! I must paint it all on the silk, before it all fades!

The Count's painting a vertical silk banner, with a sea-serpent dancing in the water, above, and deep below, a mermaid in what appears to be an aquatic stage-dressing room, before a make-up mirror, removing a large dragon-mask from her head, to hang next to the others, on the wall. Dirac hovers, staring at the mermaid. The silk, thin and translucent, glows like stained glass.

DIRAC: She's lovely, sir -- who is she?

COUNT COYOTE: Ah, Dirac... I met her in a nature reserve, where water-dragons danced. I strayed from the tour, down a forbidden stair, lured by a green light below. The stair curved down to a sea-cave half-full of water, glowing with filtered light. In alcoves, round the room, mermaids sat on shallow ledges, awash, removing their costumes: dragon wings and spines and heads. I blurted "Dragons aren't real?" And then realized... mermaids are!

A pale and wild-haired mermaid swam up and spoke to me: "The Great Ones ARE real!" I knelt at the water's edge. She reached out a webbed hand, clasped mine, and stared deep into my eyes, and said: "I've met them. They're busy with deeper things, that's all! So WE play dragon, for you, up here in the shallows... and if we dance long enough, beautifully enough, then... our spirits fill the shell! We BECOME dragons!"

I woke certain it was true, Dirac. We put on masks, we act, we play! But then one day... we ARE.

DIRAC: Oh, sir -- what a vision! Though, some of us... I'll never be a mermaid, let alone a dragon!

COUNT COYOTE (murmuring, as if to himself): Not so, old friend!

Dirac takes the empty tray down the spiral stair. At the foot, he meets the maid, Yvette, leaning against the stone wall, in the classic uniform: short black dress, white cap and lace apron. She's slender, her black hair pulled back in a ponytail. She widens her eyes in an unspoken question...

They both sigh... then laugh a little, wryly.

DIRAC: Any sign yet of the stolen art? (Thinking, aside:) I'm sure she blames me! The butler always done it!

YVETTE: I'm afraid not, M'sieur. The police say there was no break-in. They suspect one of US! (Thinking, aside:) Poor m'sieu Dirac! He blames himself so! If only I could tell him he's not a suspect. But I mustn't blow my cover!)

Yvette sighs and takes the oval tray the back to the kitchen. Old Dirac watches her go with longing in his eyes.

DIRAC: She's so patient with the Count! A loving heart... (He paces, muttering...) I know the staff -- I should spot the thief! How I'd love to impress Yvette. If only this were a Romance, not a Whodunit! (He pauses, staring into a mirror.) No... she'd still overlook a shy old man. She's young, fair, deep in love... Ah, would that I were!

Suddenly, his reflection in the mirror looks suspiciously like the Mad Count.

COUNT COYOTE: Mind what you wish for, Dirac--you may get it!

Something winged emerges from Dirac's head and skims through the arch, after Yvette. She gasps and drops the tray with a clang. Her eyes flutter.

YVETTE: My... my soul's migrated! Dirac's memories are gone. I recall only... Yvette's! I... AM Yvette! But... is HE a soulless zombie now?

She turns to stare at the butler, who walks off, looking calm and happy.

YVETTE: Hm... guess not...

Yvette looks down at herself and twirls around the room on her little black shoes, apron and ponytail flying, the white wing and the black.

YVETTE: Wow! So now I'm Yvette, here to find who's stealing the Count's art. Well, if I'm a spunky girl detective now, let's do some legwork! Mmm... nice legs to work on! I LIKE being Yvette! Oops -- focus! THINK!

She leans on the stone still of an arched window and looks out on the lake, chin cupped in her hands.

YVETTE: When I came here, I disliked the Count -- letting us care for him like a baby! Lost in his dreams... and neglecting his county! But his dreams are stunning, painted on those silk banners. His art funds half the county's programs -- maybe the thieves want to cripple those, not get rich. After all, his art would be hard to fence--anyone can recognize it. Profit? Or... POLITICS?

At the foot of the tower, a cloud of dust. Barking. Excited, even hysterical barking.

YVETTE: Oh, no! Has the dog found a body?

Cursing, she pulls away from the window and runs breakneck down the stairs.

YVETTE: Castle, Mad Baron, buried secrets -- what is this, a GOTHIC? Whatever that is down there, it better be a clue to cut through this mystery... 'cause if it's a Moldering Corpse®, I'm out of here!

As Yvette races out the door, she passes the magic mirror.

HER FLEETING REFLECTION (whispering): Mind what you wish for.

Yvette kneels on the lawn beside a fair-sized pit, which the count's dog, a retriever, is steadily enlarging. At the bottom, a handle protrudes from the earth.

YVETTE: A... a sword? It looks ancient! Yet it shines...

She doesn't mean it's clean. It isn't. But around it shimmers a field of distorted ripples as if it's scorching hot. Yvette squats in the mud-pit and touches the handle. It doesn't burn.

YVETTE: The... Sword in the Mud? So who am I, King Arthur?

She grasps and pulls. The sword, a gently curved scimitar, slides easily out of the earth. On impulse, she spreads her legs and raises the sword high above her head.

YVETTE: I hight Sir Yves, Knight of ye Tower Round!

A medieval bard, or at least a man in soft boots, tights, and a medieval doublet with puffy slashed shoulders, and playing a lute, strolls up the lawn. But he wears modern glasses, and he's playing jazz.

THE BARD: My! A programmable dowsing scimitar! Quite a find...

YVETTE: Detective Sergeant Gaughan!

THE BARD (winking): Oh, no, milady, you do mistake me. A humble Jazz Gypsy am I, spreadin' the gospel of Django Reinhardt... call me Tim!

YVETTE: Uh, yes sir -- I mean, "Tim." Sir, I know a scimitar's a curved sword like this, but... Dowsing? Isn't dowsing how witches find water? What's that got to do with swords or... or programming?

The bard, or detective, or whatever he is, sits on a stone bench by a sundial, and twangs a bluesy little number on his lute, which, close-up, looks to be half guitar. A... galoot?

THE BARD: Well, most water-witches do prefer hazel wands. But a PROGRAMMABLE dowser, whether sword or wand, can find water, gold, blood, even individual people! An excellent addition to your crimestopper's toolkit!

YVETTE (holding the sword up so the dog eagerly climbing her leg can't reach it): But... I don't know how to use it!

THE BARD: Just ask the sword. With that you won't need backup... I mean, a bard! Happy hunting, Yvette!

And he strolls off across the grounds, plinking and plunking his way between trees like some echolocating land-porpoise...

YVETTE (still a bit stunned): Witches. Hazel wands. Ask the sword. Uh huh... Ah, what the hell...

She steps back into the kitchen and raises the sword. Fixing her eyes on its lofted tip, she says...

YVETTE: O sword... find the art thieves! Or the art... or the body! (Muttering, she adds:) Jeez, I feel silly. (The sword comes alive, swinging round to slap viciously at the door of the refrigerator. It pulls Yvette into a roundhouse swing, knocking the toaster off the ledge. A savage vertical hack demolishes the blender. Yvette's eyes widen in horror, and she roars...)

Yes. The microwave.

And the stereo.

And the hairdryer.

And the..

At last, we find Yvette hatless and disheveled, sitting on the floor in front of the skewered TV. She's growling.

YVETTE: You really are magic, aren't you, sword? But your medieval makers never imagined the complex energy fields of modern life...

She sighs and gets up and grabs a broom and sweeps the debris into a corner. She toes the scimitar, hesitates, then shoves it into the pile.

YVETTE: Sword... you just can't hack it.

Fists clenched, she pushes her way out the main doors with their fleur-de-lis emblems--or are they stylized clovers--the club suit? Is this a house of cards? No matter now--Yvette leaves it. She walks into the woods. She takes her time and muses aloud...

YVETTE: Clues, clues... visions in a tower, like Yeats or Robinson Jeffers... or Jung! Service, castle, mirror: Snow White? Dog, sword, crescent sword, Islam. Wizardry fails. The butler didn't do it... but who?

The path opens onto a lawn sweeping down to a clearwater cove with a small wooden jetty. Yvette walks out to the end and sits crosslegged, staring at the lake.

YVETTE: who steals dreams? Why? Do they lack their own? Or do they hate the Count's message?

A long, low boat, mastless and motorless, is being poled across the lake by a young man in a brown robe. Near the prow stands a white-bearded old man in a crimson robe and high bulbous red hat. He points straight at Yvette, and the boat swings around.

PATRIARCH: Lo!

YVETTE (startled): What... what the hell's the Patriarch of the Lake want with me? I'm not even Orthodox!

She stretches a long bare leg and pokes her toe nervously in the water as the boat slowly nears. Open at the front and covered with a low arched cabin at the back, it looks like a slipper, or a paramecium. On its prow are eyes. On its side is inscribed: THE SOUL.

THE PATRIARCH: You and I have matters to discuss.

YVETTE: We do?

The novice poling the boat brings it to a halt by the pier. His pole has small crossbars and a loop at the top, forming an Egyptian ankh. The Patriarch reaches up and Yvette helps him onto the pier. As the novice steps forward to follow, the Patriarch turns and points at him.

PATRIARCH: This is PRIVATE, novice! Stay... sit! PLAY DEAD!

The novice looks hurt, but turns, sits facing away, and puts his hands over his ears. He knows the drill; clearly this isn't the first time. Yvette looks shocked.

YVETTE: That was a bit harsh...

PATRIARCH: No, my dear. Necessary! He lacks discipline. And this is for your ears alone.

YVETTE: (aside) At last, a break. He knows whodunit! I can feel it.

PATRIARCH: Closer, my child...

He slides in until his voluminous robe half-surrounds Yvette, and his beard prickles her neck. She waits for the revelation. It comes. His tongue enters her ear. One hand scuttles around her waist and up under her dress, while the other gropes at her breast. Yvette thrashes loose, raising her fists...

YVETTE (snarls): YOU PRICK!

NOVICE: (roused by her shout, even through plugged ears) Ma'am, are you all right?

YVETTE: Uh... yeah. Just got some bad news... (She turns and grabs the patriarch by the beard, shoves her face close to his, and hisses:) Listen, you ear-suckin' weasel! A lot of folks like that kid BELIEVE in you. For his sake, I'm not rippin' your lips off... but I'll be watching. Harass one more girl... and you're dead.

PATRIARCH (the strangest mix of desire, arrogance and loathing in his voice): Maid, know your place! I'm here to save you -- I know where you slake your lust... what you plan to wed! MONSTROUS!

YVETTE (grinning fiercely and waving a finger in his face): It's legal in Coyote County, so get used to it!

THE PATRIARCH (wheels and steps down into his boat. As the boat glides away, a parting shot): It won't be, if the Mad Count FALLS, girl!

NOVICE (faintly, as the boat recedes into the distance): God help you find the truth, ma'am.

Yvette, shaken, lies on her stomach on the warm wood pier, elbows on the edge, and lets her mind drift. She finds herself thinking of an ancient tropical swamp. Smoking volcanoes loom over the trees. Long-neck dinos rear from the water. A sluggish, clumsy, armor-plated fish heaves into view: a Patriarch Fish! Lobe-fins, long beard, and a red swollen phallic head...

YVETTE (sourly): Unchanged in 200 million years...

She starts idly kicking the pier with the tops of her feet, and finally sits up and trails one leg over the edge again till her toes dip in the water.

YVETTE: Well, he certainly has a motive. Means? No problem, he has groupies for that. Opportunity? Mm, save it for later--the real question is: where does he hide it all?

The ripples from her foot conceal something rising beneath the pier. Stealthily, two spiny ribbed ears, like fish-fins, break the surface. Suddenly the creature bites Yvette's toe. She lets out a loud whoop.

YVETTE: You!

She stands up and tears off her lace apron, throwing it in the air. For a moment the waist-straps and shoulder-hole spread and loop to form a sign we've seen before: the Egyptian ankh.

She peels off her dress and stands naked a moment, then leaps off the end of the pier, clasping her knees midair.

YVETTE (screaming): CANNONBALL!

A huge splash. Confusion underwater: Bubbles and a wild fan of black hair and pale scales and pink skin, mingling. The bubbles clear to show Yvette kissing a girl with fins for ears, and scaly gold-green legs fused into a long dolphin tail.

At last, they rise to the surface so Yvette can breathe. Holding hands, they watch the castle on the hill, reflected in the cove to form a green diamond. As they swim in to a small beach, they start talking about the case. Claire rests her head on Yvette's hip and strokes her breast.

YVETTE: I miss you up there... it's the weirdest case.

CLAIRE: Any suspects at all?

YVETTE: Well, I THINK it's the Patriarch.

CLAIRE: No proof?

YVETTE: No.

Claire slides her hand under Yvette's chin and pulls her head round till their eyes meet.

CLAIRE: So why's my fiancee kissing her suspect? Wanna call off our wedding?

YVETTE (stroking Claire's nipple): I was investigating.

(She pulls Claire's head up to her breast, and adds) He was groping.

(She leans over to kiss Claire's breast as her hand strokes the pink fold hidden among Claire's golden scales, and murmurs:) THIS is kissing.

Claire's long slender tail arches up between Yvette's thighs

CLAIRE (eyes closed, gasping as Yvette's tongue enters her): Oh, Yvette... (she wriggles round till her head rests on Yvette's thigh and she too can lick dreamily) Mmm, sexy thighs...

YVETTE (giggling): Aw, who else do you know who even HAS thighs?

They roll and play at the water's edge like sleepy seals...

MUCH, MUCH LATER

Yvette sits exactly at the waterline, stroking Claire's spiky seaweed hair.

YVETTE: I just wish I could track him unseen...

CLAIRE (playing with Yvette's feet in the water): Your toes are amazing. Wish I had 'em!

Unnoticed, their reflections simultaneously whisper:

REFLECTIONS: Mind what you wish for!

CLAIRE AND YVETTE (suddenly clutching each other, shaking, eyes squeezed shut): I feel dizzy!

Yvette's ponytail suddenly whips up as if alive, and out of its end shoots a white-winged girl who dives into Claire's spiky head just as a finned green angel leaps from Claire in a desperate arc and dives in Yvette's forehead.

Claire opens her eyes. My eyes.

CLAIRE (dreamily, stunned): I... I'm Claire, a fresh-water mermaid. I love Yvette -- we'll marry as soon as she solves this case... (shakes her head and settles in) so I better get on it! Yvette, the Patriarch's on the lake -- he's mine! You learned what route they used to get the art out of the castle -- if any.

YVETTE: If any? There has to be one!

CLAIRE: Love, you're a detective. You'd find any logical answer. Now me, I'm a magical thinker...

YVETTE: Oui, Mademoiselle Mystere!

CLAIRE (snorting): I'm not saying till I see.

She rolls into the water and sets out for the depths.

CLAIRE (brooding as she dives): Yvette underestimates him. I saw him once without his novice to pole the boat. He just pointed -- and the Soul obeyed. He may be a bastard, but he has power!

A memory unfolds: a starry Van Gogh night, the boat in the cove below the castle, and standing on the deck of the soul, a red robed man grinning as a faint trail of light arcs from the art studio atop the tower down to his waiting arms.

THE PATRIARCH (crooning): Come to Papa...

And they do. Silk banners fall like flower petals...

CLAIRE: If he can command the Soul, why not Count Coyote's dreams? They're light as silk... But where does he hide them? He can't sell them...

Claire approaches and underwater crag with oval glassy eyes. Windows. Home! She slips through a round mouth into a light green grotto, lined with treasure nooks. Hats and combs and toothbrushes hang from driftwood branches.

CLAIRE: Besides, he already has money! (She rummages in a nook so deep only her tail appears) I think it's about... power!

Claire wriggles backward and emerges with a yellow underwater camera on a cord in her webbed hand. She sets out into the lake, camera bumping at her breast.

CLAIRE (humming): Ohhh, I'mmm just an unnnderwater tooourist...

She passes under a yellow fisherman's raft. She can hear faint music above. Not an experienced angler! The bobbing lure attracts Claire a moment, and she reaches out to yank it. A little devil mermaid appears over Claire's left shoulder and tugs at her left ear-fin.

DEVIL: Pull it!

A finny angel pops onto her right shoulder and caresses her cheek.

ANGEL (whispering in Claire's right here): No time!

Though she normally finds dousing idiots almost irresistible, Claire fights off temptation and swims on, staying low, among the rocks, until she reaches a sort of pass. Beyond, a shallow lobe of the lake stretches past visibility, a tan sand plateau scattered with eel-grass. Above floats the Soul. But what should be a sleek whale-shape is transformed. Brilliant ripples of color like a dozen lurid legs writhe around the hull.

Claire glides under its shadow. Her own skin and scales glow with strange colors as the sunken banners surround her. Rippling birds, tigers, unicorns, mermaid-angels, and exquisite monsters... She spreads arms and whirls in wonder. And then practicality sets in. The legend of the Sunken Cathedral has come alive around her... but it's done with stolen goods. So Claire swims through the magic forest, clicking her camera steadily.

At last, she surfaces at the stern of the boat. The acolyte gawks at her pale breasts and sharp fish-eating teeth.

CLAIRE: Hi there. Did you know your Soul has a lot of stuff stuck on the hull? I think it's holding you back.

NOVICE (gulping): I'm forbidden to listen to your kind...

CLAIRE: Wow! I heard your boss was homophobic, but --

NOVICE: You'll seduce me in to drown! Already I sense your allure...

CLAIRE Seduce you? Wow, I'm flattered. Really. But I'm, uh, engaged. I just noticed your hull...

THE PATRIARCH (thundering over the cabin roof): Risking thy SOUL!

NOVICE (clapping hands around his head like a scared monkey): Forgive me!

THE PATRIARCH (pointing at Claire and roaring like a prehistoric beast): In God's name, monster, BE GONE!

CLAIRE (clicking a shot at the waterline, Patriarch above, loot below): You will. Soon.

THE NEXT DAY. THE DOCK.

Yvette lies on her stomach with photos spread before her while Claire hangs by a claw from the piling, examining a handful and sighing.

CLAIRE: They all have smudges in the upper left. What did I do wrong. Are they ruined? I'm not used to land technology...

YVETTE: Oh, your thumb-claw just blocked the lens a bit. These are great -- you nailed him!

A LITTLE LATER. THE DOCK.

Dirac and Yvette watch as a large policeman and the Undercover Bard drag off the Patriarch, who's cursing a blue streak.

TIM: My!

POLICEMAN: And him a man o' the cloth!

YVETTE (calling, too late): Uh, you forgot his hat!

She picks it up and carries it onto the pier, where the Novice is staring at Heaven, shouting...

NOVICE: Why, God? Why did he do it?

YVETTE: Kid... I guess this is yours, now.

NOVICE: But I'm not worthy to fill his hat!

YVETTE: But that just proves it! You're humble...

DIRAC (chiming in): Honest... kind...

CLAIRE (popping from the water and resting naked beside him): And wise! You resisted all my wiles! (Sonorously) You pass the test--you have been Chosen!

She slides back in the water before she cracks up laughing.

DIRAC (solemnly raising the red hat of office over the Novice's head): Allow me, sir...

Yvette walks back to the beach, to cuddle and privately confer with Claire.

YVETTE (pointing accusingly at Claire): Wiles, eh?

CLAIRE (eyes modestly shut, clawed forefinger pointed at her breast): I'll have you know I'm ALLURING!

NOVICE (back on the pier, on his knees) Let me not fall into pride, O Lord!

DIRAC (walking up and bowing to Claire and Yvette): I wish you joy. Happy endings for all!

CLAIRE (whispering to Yvette): All? All Dirac has is a doomed crush on YOU! He's a sweet guy, if he'd just get out of that tower! I'll throw some cousins and dryads at him! (Loudly:) Oh, Dirac! There's a friend I want you to meet at the wedding. (Privately, to Yvette again:) A friend or twelve!

DIRAC: I... I'd be honored, Mlle. Claire.

DAYS LATER. THE WEDDING.

Yvette stands thigh-deep in the cove, in a fetching white swimsuit, while Claire rears from the water beside her. They wear matching diamond rings. A brawny merman with spikes down his back and toothy grin is officiating. A pale-blonde, younger mermaid holds the bouquet. Dirac, in tophat, tailed coat, and surfer shorts, is talking to a couple of leaf-haired women. Detective Sergeant Gaughan is strumming a wedding march. On shore, Count Coyote himself is painting the scene, next to the Novice, excuse me, the new Patriarch.

CLAIRE AND YVETTE: We do!

THE MERMAN MINISTER: You may kiss the brides!

Two merfolk leap over the happy couple like exuberant dolphins, splashing the crowd. As the dog leaps into the water, and the brides kiss...

NOTES IN THE MORNING

• A mystery that's not mysterious at all, where the chief suspect hardly even tries to hide the crime? When a dream-plot seems illogical, maybe you're mistaking signal for noise. If "whodunit" is obvious, maybe, just maybe, the dream's point is something else: whydunit? When I sabotage myself, do I really know why? Or do I just think I do?
• The thief of dreams... I was raised to distrust men, though I am one. Hard work to unlearn that! So the Patriarch shocked me--his words and deeds echo my stereotypes of men. Dreams usually critique my biases, not confirm them! In fact, this guy was so extreme, I got suspicious: is he really "patriarchy"? Despite his name and phallic hat I keep thinking of the slang term for clitoris: "the man in the boat." Is he pure, gender-free lust? Then why not Bill Clinton, or even Mae West? Why a religious nut? And what a strange hybrid he is--half judge, half urge.
  But I think I know this Patriarch. I have two conflicting spiritual sides: one's pure Count Coyote, a sweet, all-embracing mystic... but as a kid, I was a harsh little moral judge. And the Patriarch sure judges--except his own urges! He's no outraged Puritan, that's just a cover; he's hornier than any of the art he censors. These days, he can't block my creativity, so he tries to keep it hidden, unmarketed and unprofitable! His waking tactics? Cause panic and illness when I try to show or sell my art! So my unshown art drags at my soul like barnacles, instead of flying free in heaven's air.
• Transmigration... Who ARE we, dreaming? Most dream-theories say your dream-self IS you -- your ego always stars! What if that's false? Here, "I" hopped from person to person, with their memories, their wishes... Who is this migratory I? And I was comfortable serving, not leading as the ego wants to. In the political struggle between artist and censor, Count and Patriarch, I was neither one.
• The count had a message for me. I've been solitary lately, and nagged myself to get out more. I call myself shy, a social retard... but my dream paints me as simply focused. Productive. Even (gasp) PRACTICAL! The Count's art-sales funded social programs in the dream--implying that creative isolation can "bankroll" personal and public progress. Geekitude isn't all loneliness. It's elbow room, too.
• The tower echoes the stone towers where Jung, Yeats, and Robinson Jeffers wrote their visions; but I dreamt this tower after reading Patricia McKillip's "Harpist in the Wind." In that book, Wind Tower's the refuge of a dreamlike god who'll die if exposed to the world. I dream of this tower often now: when I need time alone for visions. Or survival!
• The sword... the Balkan wars provoked this caustic view of both Christian and Muslim orthodoxy as archaisms whose swords find and smite evil in ANYTHING new--lightbulbs, blenders, free love, free speech! Yet, trouble though the sword was, I asked for it! As Yvette, I wished that the dog would dig up something "to cut through all this." He did. It did! All. A lesson there! I got the magical certainty I wanted... but it was maladapted to modern life.
• The Patriarch's boat... the "Soul" was like those reed-thatched fishing boats in old Chinese art. But isn't it also curiously vaginal? It even has silk banners for pubic hair and a sort of clitoral hood -- with the Patriarch standing in as the clit!
• The mermaid... America loves butch--in both sexes. I'm way femme--men ARE from Mars, to me--though I'm trying to open up. My dreams usually lead the way! But here, in THIS dream, male archetypes fail me, one by one: Towers, swords, men (even my detective boss can't solve the crime). I succeed only by diving still deeper into femme: nourishing, serving, becoming a Maid, then a MERmaid, seeking a vaginal boat, then jailing patriarchy and marrying a lesbian. As Claire, I echo the mermaid actress in the Count's dream: I play a dragon-role! I'm wily and scaly and pry a hidden hoard out of my rival--a hellfire-spouting dragon! Or I'm a knight in shining (scaly) armor, who frees a maid from captivity and weds her, and lives Happily Ever After. (I told you I was femme...)
• A confession. When I dreamed this, I was dating a woman who'd been raped. Cocks still scared her. She was comfortable with me above the waist, but got nervous below, treating me like a mermaid: only human above the line! Dreaming I was sexually harassed helped me understand her. I'd like to say this helped us live Happily Ever After, but it wasn't enough. She triggered MY old traumas, too. In the end, I left. I'm alone now. Or... am I? I married a girl inside me. A scaly girl. With a clue.
• Photo note... My thumb-claw partly blocked the lens, so all my shots had a blotch on the upper left. I think this small blind spot means my leftist upbringing still blinds me to a few knee-jerk issues (I'm slow to criticize feminists for example) but, the dream reassures me, they're marginal blots: overall, my view's clear--I face the truth now.

• The Patriarch is the Hierophant or High Priest.
• The castle is the Lightning-Struck Tower -- with the Count's wild dreams as the lightning! This card symbolizes revolution--intriguing, for the Count is both an aristocrat AND a social radical.
• The dog is from the Fool's card: animal commonsense. "Instinct picking up the key..." I guess that makes me, Yvette, the Fool; but then, I've always suspected that...
• Claire? All bets are off! The Priestess? The Queen of Cups? Or is she... a Knight in shining (scaly) armor?

• Earth, pentacles, body, senses: the forbidden dragon's cave where the count meets a living treasure. And, of course, digging for the Sword in the Mud!
• Air, swords, the mind: Wind Tower, built on dream-income... And that hyperactive scimitar!
• Water, cups, heart, feeling: dowsing, the lake, the mermaid, the soul-boat...
• Fire, wands, spirit, intuition: the Count's creative fire, the dragon-wannabe he meets in her lair, and the Patriarch's hell-fire! And hazel wands, and the modified fleur-de-lis on the castle door. Oh, and of course the Egyptian ankh: the sign of life.

A 2017 NOTE

Twenty years later, my dream of feminists fighting to expose a lying, thievish, blustery groper who abuses his powerful office seems less mystical--or even personal. It's just the daily news!

And what does that imply about your dreams now? Are they really about your psyche, as Freud and Jung thought? Or are they warning signs from still further down the road?

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