Last night I encountered a dream cat with a very long neck and a body like a human fetus, gray and transluscent. I don't know what it needs or how to provide for it. Another dream years ago of a human child with eyes on stalks. It is very small, but can walk and talk "Don't you want me?" Again, I don't know how to care for the child. But I am dedicated to protecting and nurturing him at any cost! It is the function of the Guardian to protect hybrids and mutants in the vulnerable stage of infancy.

I had a little ginger cat. I found him in a field, stolen from his mother, a real wild cat. He
was two weeks old, maybe a little more, but he already knew how to scratch and bite. I
fed him and petted him and took him home. He became the sweetest cat. Once, he hid in
the sleeve of a visitor’s coat. He was the most polite creature, a real prince. When we
came home in the middle of the night, he would come greet us, his eyes all sleepy. Then
he’d go back to sleep in our bed. One time the door was closed to our bedroom — he tried
to open it, he pushed it with his behind, and he got angry and he made a beautiful noise.
He shunned us for a week. He was terrified of the vacuum cleaner. He was really a
cowardly cat, defenseless, a poet cat. Once we brought him a toy mouse and he hid
under the cabinet. We wanted him to experience the outside world. We put him on the pavement right outside the window. He was so scared. There were pigeons all around
and he was frightened of pigeons. He meowed with despair, pressed against the wall.
All animals and all other cats were strange creatures that he mistrusted or enemies that
he feared. He was only happy with us. We were his family. He thought we were cats
and cats were something else. But still, one day, he went out on his own. The big dog
next door killed him. He was lying there like a cat doll, a puppet ripped open with an
eye gouged out and a paw torn off, like a stuffed animal damaged by a sadistic child.

I had a dream about him. He was in the fireplace, lying on the embers. Marie was
surprised he didn’t burn. I said, “Cat’s don’t burn. They’re fireproof.” He came out of
the fireplace, meowing in a cloud of smoke. But it wasn’t him — it was another cat, ugly
and fat and female. Like his mother, the wildcat. He looked like Marguerite.

While she strode rapidly through the ward to the door at the other end, she was able to see that every bed or cot held an infant or a small child in whom the human template had been wrenched out of pattern, sometimes horribly, sometimes slightly. A baby like a comma, great lolling head on a stalk of a body... then something like a stick insect, enormous bulging eyes among stiff fragilities that were limbs... a small girl all blurred, her flesh guttering and melting - a doll with chalky swollen limbs, its eyes wide and blank, like blue ponds, and its mouth open, showing a swollen little tongue. A lanky boy was skewed, one half of his body sliding from the other. A child seemed at first glance normal, but then Harriet saw there was no back to its head; it was all face, which seemed to scream at her.

The dream crossed twilight between birth and dying.

Shimrod said: “Once I thought of you as a child in a woman’s body.”
Melancthe smiled a cool smile. “And now?”
“The child seems to have wandered away.”

I think she is growing up, and so begins to dream dreams, and have hopes and fears and fidgets, without knowing why or being able to explain them.

Woman's greatest ideal is a life without work or responsibility - yet who leads such a life but a child? A child with appealing eyes, a funny little body with dimples and sweet layers of baby fat and clear, taut skin - that darling miniature of an adult. It is a child that woman imitates - its easy laugh, its helplessness, its need for protection. A child must be cared for; it cannot look after itself And what species does not, by natural instinct, look after its offspring? It must - or the species will die out. With the aid of skillfully applied cosmetics, designed to preserve that precious baby look; with the aid of helpless, appealing babble and exclamations such as 'Ooh' and 'Ah' to denote astonishment, surprise, and admiration; with inane little bursts of conversation, women have preserved this 'baby look' for as long as possible so as to make the world continue to believe in the darling, sweet little girl she once was, and she relies on the protective instinct in man to make him take care of her.

I don’t want her to have a cat because she’ll end up talking baby talk to the cat. That’s the way it is, and how can a P.I. do that?

In my next life I want to be a cat. To sleep 20 hours a day and wait to be fed. To sit around licking my ass.

But I can't devote myself entirely to a child," said she; "it may die — which is not at all improbable." "But, with care, many a delicate infant has become a strong man or woman." "But it may grow so intolerably like its father that I shall hate it." "That is not likely; it is a little girl, and strongly resembles its mother.

I dreamed of you for the first time the other night. You were swaddled in a blanket and floating. Your hair was dark brown before it curled and turned blonde, just like your father's. I brought my head down to my clavicle and nuzzled you, melting a little. I told you, or did you tell me that it wasn't time yet? We are waiting for you, wondering who you will be. I've made a habit of Googling strange changes in my body in the off chance they might be connected to your existence. Too much saliva, bleeding gums, muscle pains in the lower abdomen. Every time, no matter how seemingly random, all of these symptoms are correct, connected to the making of you. I'm reminded my body is marching onward without any help from me. There is a quietness that comes with pregnancy, a humbling. I'm listening for you. I'm full of wonder. Mornings and nights, my stomach grows. It's getting colder, an election is coming. I feel you flutter underneath my belly button. I want you to see the world's potential. You feel like the world's potential. I'm driving through Manhattan, looking out the backseat window of my friend's car, studying pedestrians as they move through the city. A man crosses the street in glasses, another jogs in place, his eyes focused ahead of him. I stare at these strangers. Will that be you? I wonder. I'm in the shower, rearranging all the names I'm thinking of for you in my head. I peer down at my belly and say one of them aloud to see if it fits. Water steadily beats against my back. In that moment I can't feel it myself or the space around me. Just you. Hello, I think, is that you? My chest swells and my eyes sting with the thought that one day soon, so very soon, your presence will be real. I close my eyes and try to imagine you moving through the pixelated darkness of my mind's eye. I cannot wait to see who you will be.

The dreaming body, sometimes called the "double" or the "Other," because it is a perfect replica of the dreamer's body, is inherently the energy of a luminous being, a whitish, phantomlike emanation, which is projected by the fixation of the second attention into a three-dimensional image of the body.

But I never forgot Shosha. I dreamed of her at night. In my dreams she was both dead and alive. I played with her in a garden which was also a cemetery. Dead girls joined us there, wearing garments that were ornate shrouds. They danced in circles and sang songs. They swung, skated, occasionally hovered in the air. I strolled with Shosha in a forest of gigantic trees that reached the sky. The birds there were different from any I knew. They were as big as eagles, as colorful as parrots. They spoke Yiddish. From the thickets surrounding the garden, beasts with human faces showed themselves. Shosha was at home in this garden, and instead of my pointing out and explaining to her as I had done in the past, she revealed to me things I hadn't known and whispered secrets in my ear. Her hair had grown long enough to reach her loins, and her flesh glowed like mother-of-pearl. I always awoke from this dream with a sweet taste in my mouth and the impression that Shosha was on longer living.

From his soft fur, golden and brown,
Goes out so sweet a scent, one night
I might have been embalmed in it
By giving him one little pet.

He is my household's guardian soul;
He judges, he presides, inspires
All matters in his royal realm;
Might he be fairy? or a god?

When my eyes, to this cat I love
Drawn as by a magnet's force,
Turn tamely back upon that appeal,
And when I look within myself,

I notice with astonishment
The fire of his opal eyes,
Clear beacons glowing, living jewels,
Taking my measure, steadily.