Mystical dreams about questing after a large white animal are such a trademark of myth and fantasy that they’ve jumped right over archetype and into cliche. White stags. White buffalo. White whales. White elephants. It’s a sign, man. And if I were a somewhat flakier type than I am, I would be devoting serious thought to what the dream I had t’other night of attempting to free such a beast from its durance vile meant, laying plans for my spirit journey into the wilderness, and possibly painting a giant portrait of my dream creature as a method of spiritual enlightenment.
And if anyone can explain to me the significance of my dream of pursuing a great white walrus (across a grassy field, no less, and into someone’s basement) I may do just that.
On a mostly unrelated note, Spring is trying to sprung here, even though it’s supposed to snow Thursday, as further proof that Minnesota is a cruel and capricious god. This means the birds are calling. There is one bird. I have lived here for nine years, and I still do not know what this bird is, but it makes the same, monotonous, two-note call over and over again “Tweeeeee-huuuuuueeeee. Tweeeeee-huuuuuueeeeeeeeee.” No squawk, no rawk, no happy chirp, no mourning dove cooing that’s cute-at-first-but-then-you-want-to-hit-it-with-a-rock, just “Tweeeee-huuuuuueeeeee.” I know nothing of birding. My birding life list has maybe a half dozen entries, and two of ’em are pigeons. What is this monotonous twee-huee-er?!