The mythical turtle is dream logic for the occipital bun inherited from neanderthals, and the green man is his uncritical servant. He floats in the border of the bicameral mind, half conscious of the abstract air above and half dreaming of the chaotic waters below.
He is patient and amicable but tired, and a bit scatterbrained if we’re being honest. Though he compulsively transforms chaos into order and often vomits forth entire worlds teeming with color and life, he insists these are mostly accidental side effects of an influenza he just can’t kick, perhaps on account of the excessive melancholic humor in his cold blood. Some have said this is because he always sees the sharks circling in the depths, grinning as only apex predators have the right to do. When they get too close he retreats within his shell—but what else can he do? After all, he is only a turtle and not very brave.
Like his ancient nemesis, the spider, the turtle knows the trickster who lies from behind the mirror, because he straddles the wall with one foot in reality, and one eye in a dream. (Be wary that water only reflects from above. You may peer into the depths only to find someone a great deal less introspective looking back!) He understands that man reaches out for the fruit of the tree of knowledge and recoils from the tree of life. The turtle sees that a man will rather suffer Hell everlasting than look at the snake who was raised up in the desert for all to see, because that would mean admitting to himself and everyone that the poison runs in his veins too.
I am the turtle. You can ride on my back, for a while. But take heed—I can’t save you from the storm that’s coming. (At least it’ll wash that dreadful spider off my shell for a bit, you wouldn’t believe how much it itches.) Anyway, if you see any promising ground, you might try your luck. Just look out for the sharks.