I flick my attention back across town and up … and I see you, Pippa, hiding in your bed beneath the duvet, although it’s only early evening—hiding in your high-rise, hiding from your life. I’m sorry for the pain in you: my gentle enjoyment, at our picnic, of the relaxing quality that comes along with your depressiveness has given way to a real sorrow in me that you should have to bear such a condition.
Happy music plays in the distance somewhere. Dead-eyed, you throw off the duvet, revealing that after yesterday’s chic purple blouse you have returned to your signature outfit, in the form of a clean white sweatshirt with matching white sweatpants. You rise from your bed, float across to the curtains and out to your balcony; the window-door swings shut behind you with a faint squeak. Below you the streetlights flicker on, glow red and brighten to a yellow-white. You murmur something voiceless at a plane flying by. The blue sky dims; from your right, above the ocean in the east, creeps the night. Miles out to sea a lighted ship floats north and you want to be aboard, up the coast to the lights and the spires and the towers of New York, and then to elsewhere.
You can’t feel me merely tuning in, and I can’t give you any hypnotic treatment because you can’t see me now. Still, let’s try projecting a quick piece of fun at you, just in case you can somehow catch something of it. I wish it could be more, but here we go: can you hear the air mew, as if a thin choir sang behind the night? “Is there anybody out there?” you wonder. OK, you’re not far off, there; so concentrate, Pippa, listen harder… But no, you cannot hear us. Pippa, we are cats, ranged around the space across Sewall Avenue—in trees, on the grass, on porches and balconies and chimney-stacks—a pussy-cat epiphany for you alone! I’ll pretend you can hear us serenading you, a hundred pussy-mouths singing loud for you. And next, can you see us, maybe? A private light fills this space, designed just for you, and you peer down towards us, as it happens, and we watch you… But no, you cannot see us either. I wish I could report that your mouth falls open, that laughter lights your face, that your ears feel like wings and your smile warms the night; but I can’t.
I haven’t the heart to go snooping around in the corners of your mind and the corners of your bedroom, hunting down your mysterious weasel, even though I know it must be hidden somewhere in your mind, and probably somewhere in your apartment too, right now…
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