Dreamed 1994/5/1 by Chris Wayan
Big screen? Try the original 4-page comics version
I dream I'm at the San Francisco Film Festival. A strange poster catches my eye. It shows a film's star actress--but she's not human. She has a long neck, a shaggy blonde mane, large horse ears, wide-set eyes, and a rounded snout--almost exactly like the dreams I've had for years of beings called krelkins.
This filmmaker's been dreaming too! Or... maybe hiring. It's a photo, and she looks real: an actress, not a character.
On impulse, I go into that theater and sit. The film starts. The krelkin actress appears. And she's real! No make-up, no animation could manage the natural grace of that greyhound body, the clever hand-paws, the half-horse half-fox tail flagging every emotion.
Next to me, a woman starts muttering irritably. "You'd think he could make a film about real women, but no, here we go with another adolescent male sex fantasy..." One by one she voices all my (pseudo)feminist fears and guilts...
And yet, seeing my dream alive on screen makes me blush with EXCITEMENT--not just shame. As I embrace my true sexual orientation, toward weird creatures, a wave of disorientation hits me. And then suddenly... I become the krelkin.
And I feel... GREAT. Beautiful and right. I LOVE being an herbivorous, sensual, humorous, unaggressive, magical krelkin girl--more comfortable than I ever did as a human male.
Myself at last.
I stretch and wriggle and play with my new body. So flexible, I can lick my own clit! Not that I don't want to be mounted and scratched and licked and petted and praised, like anyone... but I no longer NEED another to love me. My sensuality feels solid, centered, sure.
I follow an odd, subtle scent I could never have smelled before. Leads me to a drafty glitch in space-time, a door into nothing.
I leap through. I'm not afraid: it's in the script. This is my movie. I'm a star!
And it's time for me to meet my leading man.
I trot up to a black cylindrical kiosk, feathered in flyers. They seem to be agendas or lists of principles. At the top of each paper, a title yells: Books, Gurus, TV, Lovers, Dreams, God, Leaders, Peers, Yes, No, Right, Art, Mom, Music, Dad, Film, Friends, School, Law...
It's the Moral Kiosk! Like that song by REM. Hmm... in that song someone was comfortably locked inside their moral kiosk... I'd better look.
Spot a small window in the wood wall, only half-clear of this ivy-growth of isms. Dim inside, but near the window sits a long-haired, naked Man, slender, intense: quite krelkinish. A lovely man. My leading man.
But not yet. Now, he's... a READING man! He gazes at a heavy book, titled "Moral Tales." I whisper "Hello? I've come to free you." But he won't look up, won't see, won't hear.
I sniff round the kiosk. There's a door, well-hidden under the paper scales. But it's barred from the inside. He locked himself in! The locks are six-inch disks of steel inset in the door, bordered by concentric rings of a weird black substance: shell, slate, onyx?
I can't undo them--I have some magic, but nothing to match these massive combination locks, made for bank vaults. I can only ask him to unlock--and he ignored me.
I gaze in again. His aura curls in on itself like an unborn flower. Old hurt! He doesn't trust humans; they betrayed him.
He won't open up for a human woman.
But I'm not!
I paw and scratch at the door, but he ignores me. MUST free my Reader.
I whine like a dog in frustration, begging him. Slowly, my whining turns into a song! A high, sweet how, a throaty purr, a pure soft alien croon... Find myself singing over and over:
Whining leads to singing
leads to freedom
leads to LOVE.
Whining leads to singing
leads to freedom
leads to LOVE!
And my song lures him--because it's inhuman! I'm not one of those who used him. He peers out the little window. I shake my mane and stretch my legs and raise my tail to him, showing what I offer, what I want.
And slowly, warily, he turns the dials, unlocks the Kiosk, and comes out. He stands shakily, puts out a hand to steady himself, on my back. I rub my head against him.
We're kissing and he's hard already, as I wake...
Half-asleep, confused, back in a bald-ape boy-body, I scrawl "I better start singing! The dream was so clear. Song's my path out of shyness!"
A YEAR LATER
Over the next few months I did take a voice class, but when I sang in front of an audience I got so sick from fear I finally dropped out. And yet... when I DO sing... I feel the Krelkin purring in my belly. I need to try again.
My shaman friend Mark recently told me our colleague Dee's spirit-guides left her on her own some months back--but they gave her an information kiosk in her dreams where a guide will answer any question she poses! I had several dreams of kiosks this spring, and after dreaming of Dee's LAST big vision, I suspect this too is telepathic spill-over. But she didn't keep notes on just when she first dreamed of HER kiosk...
SIX YEARS LATER
Over the next few years I DID finally stick with voice classes until I worked through my fear of audiences. Our band, The Krelkins, is finally recording our first few songs.
Dream songs, of course!
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