Once, as I ascended the subway at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, a young black man wanted to sell me a Mother's Day gift---But I'm not a mother, I said. Then give it to your mother, he called after me. I don't have a mother, I called back. Give it to your grandmother. I don't have any! God bless you then, he called out.
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| Threshold demons, Vienna |
But now I'm mothering a novel, what a demon on the threshold fights me. Who are you? Prove it! A grizzled flying monkey screeches with laughter, pounding the ground, lifting off in flight only to snap at me as I approach my neglected novel. Where have you been, then, if you are the mother? Darling, I call out to my novel. Your mother is trying to get in, but this bastard says I look too old to be your mother! Encouraged by some imagined receptivity on the other end, I taunt back: Come, monkey king, let's dance. Let's make up, my imaginary terrorist, my angel-wrestler! Let's go!
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| San Francisco and her flying demons |
So the threshold monkeys circle, but let's catch up a little. It has been awhile since I mentioned San Francisco, where I spent almost three weeks. I'll throw in a few vignettes, to commemorate her.
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| Sidewalk art, Oakland, CA |
