I meet a young composer I think is brilliant. He plays me his newest piece. It's beautiful, though I can't recall it now (if only I'd focused on it when I woke, I might have caught at least the theme. But I had practical distractions. You'll see.)

Like many composers, he's poor. So poor he's starving--no food or money at all.

So I use my dreamer's power, and slip inside his skin for a while, curious: for I sensed he has a dark, shameful secret.

As I live his life, I learn his secret. It's nothing I suspected, nothing I've ever heard of. He's a were-pig. He turns into a pig at odd times. Constantly, in fact; often he stays human only with effort. It doesn't take a full moon, as with all the werewolves I have known. The lovely smell of garbage is enough! And he's a composer; the housing he can afford isn't on the rosy side of town.

If he's so hungry as a man, why not gorge while he's a pig? There are farms nearby, he could forage. As long as he doesn't think about what he ate, later, as a man... that could lead to cross-species bulemia.

But he hides himself when he's a pig, out of fear he might be caught and caged and slaughtered.

One day, though, he gets an inspiration. He writes up a flyer and posts it all over. "Barns cleaned free! Trash cleared, free!" Farmers hire him, he says "Okay, now lemme alone." Then he slips into hogdom, and eats all the trash!

Who says "There ain't no such thing as a free lunch"? Why, they even PAY him to gorge on luscious swill!

And so his belly fills--and his music survives.

NOTES IN THE MORNING

• Werepig = me, starved for food, sex, and money. I ate late at night after housemates went to bed. I've been editing a big file of old clip-art; up to D now, dancers mostly. Sexy. Ashamed of that appetite too? Oh, and my housemate Alder just got a new translation of "Journey to the West" (often titled "Monkey"), a wild Buddhist allegory in which Pigsy symbolizes rampant appetite. So this question of denying or indulging your appetites is on my mind.
• The beautiful piece in my dream = proof I CAN compose music! Today I heard the world debut of "Miniseries," a new classical piece, on NPR. It was OK, but I thought "Why don't I try to get my own work heard?" The dream's more critical, saying "You can write better music in your sleep! Start making music again, take your talent seriously." I've been shortchanging myself--starving my talent.

  When a real artist will do anything to feed his or her work.

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