Had this been a Greek myth, it would have been the magical voice of a stream I had heard, but since it was instead the suburbs, it was the magical voice of a poor drainage area, the sweet voice of the nymph who inhabits the distinctly soggy place, was what I’d encountered in my dream the previous night.
The sweet voice was exactly like dripping water –you would mistake it easily for dripping until you listened closely. The nymph thought she was alone and was speaking and singing to herself until I said some friendly words to her — which was the moment she realized someone was there and the moment I awoke. That’s how it had happened in my dream of this spot.
The wet patch just off Barton with the store in view: a large pool where the sidewalk was and the area around it too marshy to circumnavigate. “If I could only concentrate my thoughts on what I had seen in that dream I would use a better side of my mind,” I thought to myself that morning I’d had the dream, “if I could just recall the child’s voice, human but also a chorus of drips, a mystical true fairy’s voice but in my own mind, then my penchant to verbalize would be subdued, a sturdier more courageous person would emerge…”
This dream remained like an atom in my brain and perhaps Athena-like it could grow step forward, a better self. There existed definitely a firmer and clearer seeing person in myself, but I could only see it in dreams or other such conditions.
.i`` * ^ / . . . . . ` `~ 