The Talking Pussy
Wherever I go, I carry a pussy with me. How do I carry it,
you might ask, but I assure you I and my pussy are not the same thing
so carry it I must. Asleep or awake, depending on who else is in the
room,
the pussy talks to me. Quietly of course, so as not to attract attention
or disturb the peace. And honestly, much too honestly, really.
I am so glad when those who hear it pretend not to. Or perhaps they
imagine
they are only hearing things. On rare occasions the pussy gets carried
away.
Then it sings off key or starts composing poetry. Of course, most don't
suspect
(or so I hope) that it's the pussy and not I who sings, or how difficult it
is
to carry a pussy everywhere I go, much less listen to the running
commentary
when all I wish for is silence. A little relief. I've even sought medical
advice,
but the doctors insist the pussy is all in my mind. I need only stop
thinking
about it, and the pussy will vanish forever. But I keep wondering:
if the pussy is in my mind, then what if my thoughts leave first?
And if I have to pick between a pussy and a brain, which will it be?
After all, how can one choose between a player and her flute?
The sea below and the sky above? And who am I
to command the waves: "thus far and no further shall you come.
--by Nin Andrews
