Winter, whose last breath began here yesterday, is forecast to continue until it froths at the mouth with characteristic New England spittle snowfall tomorrow. For a season on its death bed, its strength exceeds expectation–vernal equinox be damned. The wind, its notes sustained and hollow, lends itself to juxtaposition with the tranquility of our apartment, a tranquility often enhanced by the observation of four cats lounging.

Hearing the wind from within brick walls, without feeling the motion of air across skin, may give rise to a sensation similar to what one experiences when looking out the window of an idle train to another alongside it that begins moving, casting doubt as to which train remains still. Similarly, one may provoke the sensation by sitting cross-legged in a chair and focusing on either of the lower legs, potentially introducing an ambiguity concerning which leg each lower portion actually belongs to. Such situations as these confront the brain with seemingly incompatible sensory information, which it is then charged with reconciling. The attempt to achieve concord, in turn, evokes the sensation referred to. What’s curious is that achieving concord rarely settles the matter. The illusion of sensory incompatibility is a hydra that cannot be slain by the discovery of a rational explanation. It is always present, and, for as long as it enjoys an audience with the mind, will delight in ensuring that the attempt to achieve concord remains an inconclusive, flip-flopping effort of futility. For example, consider the trains once more. Even after an observer decides correctly that it is their train that remains still, a conclusion reached owing to the absence of any sense of acceleration other than the visual suggestion, how easily may they slip into the sensation that their train is the one in motion! It’s clear, then, that there exist two options in dealing with the concord conundrum, and that the choice depends on one’s affinity for, or dislike of, the hydra. Those who wish the beast could be slain should cease to ponder the matter as soon as the concord is reached, whereas those who find the sensation positively tickling have only to oblige the hydra with a soapbox.

Despite its age, or perhaps because of it, I’ve never had reason to question the structural integrity of this 19th century firehouse. If anything, the howling wind, and its inability to penetrate, contributes to an impression that the building has an inveterate strength. It doesn’t creak in the night–it just feels solid. The cats, of course, pay the wind no mind. One of them, curled on the bed and immersed in dream, begins to coo. Her whiskers and paws spasm intermittently. Years ago, she suffered at least two seizures, so when she later wakes without incident, leaps first to the floor and then onto my lap, it is with some relief that I greet her.