THAT DAY

I'm lying on the bed with my legs in the air doing ballet stretches with my feet, while my other end argues about lucid dreaming over the the phone with Xanthe, a fellow dreamworker. These are multitasking times.

In between calf-cramps I find myself saying "Nah, I don't bother with lucidity much. I don't NEED to know I'm dreaming. Somehow I just know I'm a shaman, and I take it for granted I can fly or turn into a fox or read the future or visit worlds with different rules, and get advice, and meet powerful beings, like that Wood Guardian I was telling you about, the one made all of bark, with the club and the staring eyes...

I just haven't had a strong enough motive to push for lucidity. I'd rather see my health improve. I'd rather stop having flashbacks to being the school punching bag. I'd rather stop shying away from women I like. If my dreams showed me a reason to work for lucidity, I would..."

Xanthe asks "What about the differences between the waking and dream worlds? Aren't they useful to you?"

I admit "The distinction between waking and dreaming never felt real to me... When I married my spirit wife, Silky and I were much like any human couple. She'd always be trying out new bodies, of course, but she was always there for me! At least... till this month. Where is she now? Is she hiding? Is she mad at me?"

Xanthe, down in Woodside, out in her garden with two wolf-dogs, picking grapes from her trellis and munching as she talks to me, for we live in multitasking times, says "Aaah, you'll find her again... or she'll find you. You always do."

And I have to admit that's true.

THAT NIGHT

I'm walking alongside a coastal farmhouse, all weathered bare boards. The yard's just teasels and dead hemlock or fennel stalks with starry umbels. Round the corner, a sheltered sunny nook between woodpile and house, with tools hung on the wall. Old boxes on shelves. I see a cat. I hesitate to touch her because of my allergies. You non-allergics probably don't realize that for me simple touch is tantalizing--perilous--as charged as sex.

A little cat devil whispers "Mmm... pussy!" in my left ear, and a little cat angel says in my right "Don't! You're allergic, remember?"

"Aw, honey, you KNOW you want it!" giggles the batwinged cat, wiggling her tail at me.

"No! Stay clean! You can dream about pussy, but donnnnn't touuuuuch!" says the angel, paws folded in prayer, demure legs crossed.

Suddenly I give in. "I'll wash my hands later!" I say, and start petting and massaging the cat.

Lost in pleasure, at first I didn't notice she was stretching. Changing. She grows to a lanky feline girl, sprawled purring on the wood. I caress her nipples, back, ass--she rolls round, spreads her legs, begging for me to pet her pussy. I slide my fingers in her and roll her clit around, and she purrs "Ohhh, yeah, pet me THERRRRE..."

And suddenly, idiotically, I blurt "CAT HAIR!"... and wake in panic.

THE NEXT DAY

Xanthe calls. I tell the dream and she laughs.

"Well! You asked your anima Silky to come back and she did! YOU backed away by waking up. And you asked what lucidity could do for you? Now you know!"

But I don't, quite. I pace up and down in frustration. Xanthe spells it out.

"If you KNEW these were dreams, you'd go ahead without fear--after all, dream cats can't sicken you! Dream-petting might even reduce your allergies while awake! There are studies saying you can desensitize your immune system..."

So I want to start lucid dreaming again. Silky dared me. And what bait! Sex, health... miracles. If my immune system can be reprogrammed, ANYTHING can.

Even shyness.

Email: Chriswayan@hotmail.com