Masks

The face behind the face, the mask that becomes analogous with time present, the idea that we are always impersonating ourselves, even when we think we have removed the mask. Another one hides behind it. And so on. Impersonators impersonating impersonators. Why all the tears? When will it ever end? My reflection is clouded silver where the mercurial silver peeled off the back of the old beveled mirror like madrone bark. It’s like looking into all those banks of mirrors at the Exploratorium, mirrors looking into themselves ad infinitum, that greeny distance of rain, a portal into another world where any dimension is possible, even time. Once again, our lives have become too structured—even at the tail end of this pandemic, we are busy filling our dance cards. Did we not learn anything under sequestration? Sometimes it’s nice to shut the merry-go-round off, let the ponies run free and become someone else’s nightmare. Hooves on the pavement at midnight, my nemesis, the ponies on walkabout again, me running down the road in my nightgown and the ponies wily as coyotes, always just out of reach. The cat wants in on the conversation but she can only sing a one-note aria. Breezes coming in from the west. Storm brewing at last.

8/15 Mill Valley Library non-fiction workshop with Sarah Broderick