6 February 2007
I was flying with two or three men on the way to a competition. My dad may have been one of them and may have been the pilot. The plane appeared to be open, and we were soaring in brilliant midday sunshine over glowing green alpine meadows. Then the flight, which had been marvelous, almost fantastic, became a series of unplanned, inexplicable landings that seemed to lessen our chances of reaching and winning the competition and even of surviving. Most important, though, was my desire to return to that sunny alpine flight, the feeling of which could not be recaptured.
Then I was hiding in a dark cottage with meandering halls, deep in a dense, dark forest. Although it seemed to be remote, there were men outside looking for the occupant, who was the butt of their malicious fun, but he and my parents had left by a back way as he was taking them somewhere.
Two or three men peered through the windows, while I tried to take advantage of the oddly meandering halls to hide myself. The problem was that every movement left me exposed at some window or another. There was no place to hide, although it felt like there should be.
Convinced that the occupant was still there, the men came in and found me. I felt cornered, then sexually threatened by them, even without any spoken or overt movements. I thought about the dense, dark forest around the cottage and remembered suddenly that it had seemed magically artificial, like a well-executed stage set or the product of a introverted imagination. It was not as remote, isolated, or natural as I wanted and needed it to be.