Talisman

A dream. A mountain girl in a weathered schoolhouse. She is pretty and plain of clothing and hair, unbothered by fashion, blocky of build but not ungraceful. Her teacher is a poet laureate, a Shirley Jones kind of disciplined beauty with cropped hair and regal cheeks. The dame is sure of her talent only so far as others revere it.

Two gents, white haired, patient, sit in the classroom, observing the girl. One tells the other he is captivated by her writing. Both speak of her as of the Christ in second coming. The first man is certain that, when her writing ripens, she will be a master. Her thoughts are otherworldly, her words natural as her hair, pure as her mountain skin.

There is more adventure. The young woman would rescue her kin in a helicopter over which she has ungainly control. It becomes clear she is a kangaroo! -- loping, flatfooted, tail a-thwap against the hardtack earth in her cumbersome rush to save the weak. I awaken early to this sweet image of birth and recognition, duty and innocence, torch passing and gravitas.

I often dream less hopeful. I flee the nights' calamities, I search for burning answers. I wake up spent. Is the mind a reflection of the world? Jung's collective underworld, perhaps? Is a savior coming? Is she here, evolving? Are we not as doomed as nightmares, in the mind and in the news, portend?

Stay tuned to the sub subconscious. She will lope across this dearth and save your soul.