A bunch of Christians huddle outside the door of a famous writer. They have urgent news. They're arguing whether they should go in and tell him. "We should respect his privacy." "But surely he'll want to know THIS."

This pushy side wins at last. They open the door and go in. A bedroom, doubling as his workroom. The writer's in an oversize chair, typing into a computer--with an ash-gray-white long-legged girl wrapped tightly around him, in his lap, gazing into his face. The intruders gasp--are the two of them really...?

She has shaggy legs, strangely jointed--long goat legs? Is she an actress in a satyr costume, or is she real, some sort of alien or mutant? She unwraps herself lazily as the intruders gape, calmly stands looking down on them (she's well over six feet tall--much of it leg). She bleats "Ba-a-a-a-a-a!"

Is she mocking them, or is that her language? She's naked except for the shaggy chaps on her legs--and they may be real, part of her. I'm starting to believe that. Her torso's lanky as a dancer, with small humanoid breasts. No pubic hair, bare as a goat or deer, but shaggy thighs and calves. Her bare skin all that weird ashen-white.

As she walks out past the Christians they cringe, seeing a devil, not Pan. Her confident swinging strides on those animal legs prove one thing--she's real. No actress could stride that way on stilts or prop hooves.

Now the writer turns from the screen and looks at the human intruders too. Though he's fully human, his eyes, like hers, are calm and distant as a demigod's, faintly mocking their shock.

His eyes are saying: "What do you expect? You barged in."

• Ashy skin = mourning? Funeral ashes? Just read a travel tale of India in the magazine The Sun.
• Their embrace = Hindu/Buddhist deities whose male and female aspects sit facing, entwined, eternally making love.
• hooves, gray pelt = I just read Margaret Atwood's THE ROBBER BRIDE. Roz as a kid was in a Christmas play--sheep and wise-man costumes, grubby shaggy gray. Roz is tall and fights religious bigots...
• So the faun-girl muse = the sexiness of solitude, difference, defying conformity. Communing with my soul, instead! (Latin for soul: anima.)
• Christians see her as a devil = my egalitarian training preaches "Community, good. Solitude, bad. Antisocial! Elitist!"

And not demonic power. Solitude is not a devil. Or an illness.

Solitude's your soulmate.

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