A Hollywood musical stars a cute young witch who can fly. Around Christmas, some friends pay her to dance (which she loves) in the lobby of a bank, dressed up as one of Santa's elves. I'm not sure if she realizes they're using her as a decoy, while they rob the bank! She's naïve at the very least: her vague morality's based on blind loyalty. If they want her to dance, if they want to rob banks, it must be okay: they're her friends!

In comes the Old Witch, in bright lipstick, short skirt, and high heels. There can be only one glamorous witch in these Hollywood musicals, so she, who's been a star, a femme fatale, knows she's being ousted by this ditzy ingenue--as she once ousted an earlier sex goddess.

But she's not going down quietly.

The young witch is dancing on a table. The older witch leaps up to face her with brutal grace, and starts talking. Granite truths, painful lessons from an old goddess to her successor. (Old means... 40? 35? This is Hollywood, after all.) She says "You'll be worshipped, and seen as a symbol for both love and sex... and expected to be perfectly beautiful... they'll shower you with cash, but strangle and block your dreams." The bank workers and customers, even the robbers pause and stare. It's so naked... what movies never admit.

Suddenly a wild boar bursts into the bank and runs across the set. Slams into the table holding up the witches, and smashes it. Ignoring them, the beast charges straight at the thick brick wall, and runs smack through it, leaving a ragged boar-sized hole.

The table collapses under the witches, but they stay just where they are--three feet off the ground, locked in confrontation, too intent to bother with mere mortal gravity. The Old Witch stretches one long leg, starting her dance warmup. Feels like a gunslinger toying with his pistol--and not just because she hints at a coming shootout. She's toying with us, the audience, as well. A Hollywood film, and the Old Witch is not supposed to be the sex bomb--but when she raises that leg above her head, she's naked under that dress. The young witch follows suit, matching her stretches move for move. But she's in green tights, not naked. Still sexy, but can she compete with a woman who's willing to break the Code itself?

Cut to a reaction shot from a silver-haired banker, a vigorous sixtyish man. By the light in his face, he's in love... with the Old Witch! She's his soul-mate!

She's done it--beaten her anointed sucessor. Held her stardom.

With a paradox. For, verbally, she's warning her rival "Stardom forces you to an animal level. You need room to rise above that." Yet below the waist, she and her rival are having quite a different conversation... and elfin cuteness doesn't stand a chance against her raw, reckless sex.

Against abandon.

NOTES IN THE MORNING

My housemate Linda was talking yesterday about her body--she's insecure, doesn't think she's sexy, her breasts are too small. She's dating other guys, who I think treat her badly. She wore just a shirt and tights showing off her legs up to the crotch. She looked so sexy. I'd love to be her boyfriend. She never thinks of me that way, I'm just her confidante... and I'm too shy to push.

And the dream warns... I have to. Not for her. Linda's not my soulmate. But to find her, I have to bare myself.

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