LETTERS 

The writer was anxious to meet with Nancy, the woman who listened to his dreams. Whenever he had a particularly painful dream he took it to the woman Nancy who lived along the flats, behind the old factory whose windows had long been shot out by the neighborhood kids. Nancy had a storefront but inside there was the sense of wonder and magical incantation as if, at any moment, the little room would fall away into the widest expanse of spectral night and she and the writer would float through the stars and chat about the astounding dreams humans were capable of.

So, what is it this time writer? Astronauts on television talk shows? Sleazy gambling parlors that have you and the missus trapped? Old school principles who turn into ghouls? Armies of Asian girls who want to play baseball games?

'Nancy, I had a dream about a woman character I have been thinking about....'

Ah, interesting, let me have it.

'It really doesn't have a story or plot to it. But, when I woke up I wrote down this description of it.' The writer took a piece of paper from his pocket and spread it before him.

She was stripped of her necessity and inner hope by circumstance and then ruthlessly rebuilt herself during this dream through a variety of ambitious social forms. Each step was a calculated one. During the dream she becomes bloated on parodies. Even her compassion is so huge and universal as to be meaningless. She wants to save the world and yet is quite willing to sacrifice her own children, her own flesh and blood to her ambitions. Somewhere along the dream she is destroyed.

Nancy paced a little bit with a hand under her chin. She was a dark and gnarly woman with veins protruding from her veins.

Writer, she said, you are afraid of an inane culture that derives its vitality from imitation. You fear it because it will lead, in the end, to a society of cruelty and violence.

The writer wasn't sure but trusted Nancy. He had told her long ago that women must be free. 'It's utterly crucial Nancy. Women have rarely been free in the world and perhaps they will demonstrate something useful for the future.'

Sometimes, writer, what appears magnificent and wonderful to the thirsting spirit becomes something worse than enslavement.

---

David Eide
November 3, 1999
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