I have a secret tucked in the hippocampus, its handwriting like action paint, you know? There’s a protection racket, women with pitch forks, children who’ve been dragged into war, their fathers dead, the whole ball of fire. All the sub-rosa people want transfusions or gin. Food. Recipes from Atlantis. Anything.
The Cold War. I walk around balancing the tea cup, little plates of artful strawberries–a reception, the American Embassy, 1982, Reagan howling about winnable Nuclear War, Mercedes and BMW’s glittering in the underground garage, that smug, pink, Mormon Ambassador who thinks the world is just a mosaic, nothing more, his eyes always darting to see who is next.
Planet of the Blind 