OTTERS DON'T FAKE
Dreamed 89/10/15 by Chris Wayan
I'm taking an art class in Silicon Valley. I worked today at home, on two computer pictures, but I can't decide which to show at the class critique.
|ID FLOWERS, a dream of a giant blue flower full of monsters from my Id--except that I though my monsters were kinda nice.||OR||PATH, a dream of two happy little critters who led me off the human spiritual path onto their own, which is: play.|
|Showing either one will feel like stripping naked. They're my dreams, and very revealing dreams. I can't choose. Exhausted, I go to bed.|
I wake up in bed to find fur tickling my nose. Funny, rough fur. And... it's breathing. In bed, crawled in next to me, is the biggest otter I've ever seen!
A girl otter. She snuggles up. So warm and furry... I get turned on! I slide into her... and start fucking her.
She doesn't say anything. I feel guilty--crave reassurance that I'm pleasing her--reassurance from an otter, when I don't even know if she can talk!
But then... suddenly I accept the obvious. "If she didn't like me, she'd snap at me and LEAVE. After all, everyone knows... otters don't fake!"
So I let myself be an animal too, and crawl all over her, and hang onto that wonderful fur, and rock and thrust inside her, and come so fiercely I nearly faint.
I fall asleep again, holding my mate.
I wake up alone in bed. The otter's gone.
But she left a realization. The otter fucks who she likes, when she likes. Well, I can paint what I like and show what I like. I have to please me, not my classmates. If they don't like my art, too bad!
So I show them BOTH dream-pictures.
And they freak.
Not about my dreams. Nor about my art. They go ballistic about my making art with a computer.
"Computers are soulless!"Their critique of the machine they love to hate goes on and on. No one says one word about my paintings.
"Computers are anti-art!"
"Computers are evil!"
Wait, I forgot. One did. Our teacher did. He denies they ARE paintings--you see, they're not paint, but ink from my printer, and I didn't paint them, the machine did. An artist's brush is an extension of the hand, expressing the artist's ideas and feelings. But computers aren't. So my paintings aren't paintings!
My pictures, in front of them, don't exist.
I needn't have worried about showing intimate dream-images--about baring me. They can't see them, or me, at all.
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