The Bayou

At a mall, a plaza, running a quick errand with Jenna, me driving her in the van, through winding countryside, curvy roads, to a place I have not known, and then, in a mall of sorts, thankfully up high, looking out a window, on a platform, the architecture feels old, so old, solid and from an era outside of time. I am only eyes, looking out, looking down to the street, which is not there. Instead, a white-capped river, muddy and torrential, flows from right to left, licking the top of the sidewalk that I'm watching on the other side.

On the sidewalk, ugly miracles happen--a wolf is chasing a sheep, the sheep bleets and jumps into the water, thrashing, the wolf swimming after it, and other tsunami images of floating hubris, humans and animals and structures tossed like crutons in a wash of angry river water. These are the new archetypes: 911 burning buildings and Tsunami dreams. We are the first generation to have them. We will pass them down, Jung be damned.

I watch the action as merchants push carts down the sidewalk next to the angry river's edge. Another wolf emerges and charges a german shepherd, domesticated dog no match for the wild dog. I look to the left, where am I, place changes to billboard and I see the sign: Bayou, and another: Louisiana. I take Jenna back into the tourist shop, and we look for trinkets that say Louisian on them because she has never been to this state. Candles. Ceramic bells. Spoon rests.

And then I woke up.

George reminded me of my dream at naptime today.