Years after the initial
dream of that post-war roadside stand, I dreamed of the soldiers coming to it
at night in a time when the war still raged, so I lay the groundwork here.
I flash-dreamed the
bloody goat's head with the chicken-feet poking out from under it, with a vague
sense of other horrible things in the design.
And I knew, somehow, that the chickens lived.
Why would the dreaming
mind make a mandala out of such horrific ingredients? A warning that the Shadow, overstuffed with
repressed material, rapidly approached a perfection of ugliness that needed
dealt with before too late. A suitable
warning both for Headmaster Wallace Weatherbent and for myself.