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2001-03-06

Last night I had a dream in which a blind woman figured. I can�t remember any details. This morning, as I stood on my back steps looking out at the unremarkable snowfall, I fell to pondering the dream and realized, at once, that it must have come because when I was getting into bed last night, the enormous cat under whose prone form I was attempting to slide lashed out with his tail and it slapped my face, across the eye. I said OUCH and then I squeezed myself in next to him, but another cat was lying at the foot of the bed so I couldn�t stretch out. Then she moved, and I was so happy, I said THANK YOU LOUISE, and the next thing I knew she had her butt in my face and was pushing her head under the covers.

I keep flashing back to the final moments of last week�s episode of Ally McBeal�the only moments of the show I saw�when Anne Heche, inexplicably flapper, strolled along the least authentic simulacrum of a Boston sidewalk ever committed to film (there were middle-aged people sitting on the "brownstone" stoops), fighting back tears. All at once, she seems to trip upon a frost-buckled paving stone (and I thought, Well actually that IS authentic) but of course it�s one of her character�s tics�Tourettes, just like the curvaceous Robin Tunney is supposed to have in Niagara, which I haven�t seen. But back to our flapper with the cornsilk hair which feathers adorably around her cloche�s floppy brim, back to the moment when she seems to stumble, and throwing out one hand to steady herself, kicks up a heel, winces, and walks on�this feat, this fusion of acting and comic ballet, is as I say one to which I keep flashing back.

These days, I find myself pulling my mind away from the doors of departing trains of thought�daydreams, outlines of impossible projects, complicated notions about what other people are thinking�with a firmness which is new in me. And while part of me (a smaller part of which my sister has successfully dissuaded) would love to �follow-up� the binx�s recent (but surely not final!) posting of my scariness to her, instead I send her bales of hugs and handshakes (as always, EVER) for her pains.

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