by Lisa Alber
I’ve always loved the idea of an Atlantis. As a child, I believed in a lost land filled with warrior women, fantastical creatures, and, oddly, sparkling white Art Deco buildings. I yearned for this land to ascend from the sea floor in all its soaked and degraded glory.
In my 20s the notion of Atlantis turned in a Jungian concept — an archetype that symbolized the murky depths beneath the surface sheen of human consciousness.
As a storyteller, I’m obsessed with the murky, the submerged, the hidden. In some ways, my novels represent my own mini-Atlantis, having risen up from the dark recesses of my unconscious mind where things can be quite scary indeed. For example, I’ve been thinking about a novel I may start writing next year. Here’s the premise:
What if a women with the power to heal was also a sociopath?
Jesus Christ meets Ted Bundy, female style. That’s just so wrong on so many levels. But so right for a story.
Was Bundy a sociopath or a psychopath? I don’t know, but the fact that I’m curious about the clinical difference between the two types of crazy tells you a helluva lot about what resides inside my own private Atlantis.
Yesterday I got to thinking about all this because of a REAL LIFE Atlantis that arose after 25 years of submersion. In reality, the waters receded, but whatever. I prefer to imagine the ravaged village of Epicuen, Argentina, heaving itself up with skeletal, bleached tree limbs pointing the way.
Check out these images. What does this spark from your murky Atlantis?