THAT DAY

I'm building a page on the World Dream Bank about a Salvador Dalí painting of his wife dreaming--the buzzing of a bee got instantly magnified into a threat from other furry, mid-air, gold-and-black critters. Bigger ones. Tigers!

It looks like corny late Dalí, all showmanship no substance... but as I read his interview about the piece, I find he put some serious thought in--I just disagree with most of it. Dalí was a Freudian; Freud makes me roll my eyes.

Wonder if Dalí will prod my dreams into sending me flying furry cats...

THAT NIGHT

I'm on a driveway in the Mission, in front of two open garage doors guarded by a golden tabby cat. Who can talk.

I'm curious about her powers and ask "I've seen you fly... could you always, or did you have to learn, like I did?"

"Yes" she says serenely, feline-ambiguous.

I flirt: "Fly with meeeee?" and dance a bit on all fours, my forepaws in a rhythmic pattern, forward-back-side-side. Simultaneously (telekinetically?) I pull down the garage doors so we can feel free to fly without leaving the garages open to thieves.

I levitate a bit to show I was telling the truth about flight. I'm no effortless flier--it's still work for me--but the exercise feels good.

She watches quietly but doesn't cat-dance with me... reluctant to fly?

Or maybe she just wants to play another way. I push past my shyness, reach out and pet her. She rolls over, purring, baring her belly to me, and wriggles in bliss.

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