The center will not hold if it has been spot-welded by an operator whose deepest concern is not with the weld… — Donald Barthelme

"Is that true," I asked, "that song?"

"It is a metaphor," said Mrs. Davis, "it has metaphorical truth."

"And the end of the mechanical age," I said, "is that a metaphor?"

"The end of the mechanical age," said Mrs. Davis, "is in my judgment an actuality straining to become a metaphor. One must wish it luck, I suppose. One must cheer it on. Intellectual rigor demands that we give these damned metaphors every chance, even if they are inimical to personal well-being and comfort. We have a duty to understand everything, whether we like it or not–a duty I would scant if I could." At that moment the water jumped into the boat and sank us.

Where is my daddy? asked the emerald. My da?

Moll dropped a glass, which shattered.

Your father.

Yes, said the emerald, amn’t I supposed to have one?

He’s not here.

Noticed that, said the emerald.

I’m never sure what you know and what you don’t know.

I ask in true perplexity.

He was Deus Lunus. The moon god. Sometimes thought of as the man in the moon.

Bosh! said the emerald. I don’t believe it.

Do you believe I’m your mother?

I do.

Do you believe you’re an emerald?

I am an emerald.

Used to be, said Moll, women wouldn’t drink from a glass into which the moon had shone. For fear of getting knocked up.

Surely this is a superstition?

Hoo, hoo, said Moll. I like superstition.

I thought the moon was female.

Don’t be culture-bound. It’s been female in some cultures at some times, and in others, not.

What did it feel like? The experience.

Not a proper subject for discussion with a child.

The emerald sulking. Green looks here and there.

Well it wasn’t the worst. Wasn’t the worst. I had an orgasm that lasted three hours. I judge that not the worst.

Went for a walk, whistling. Saw a throne in a window. I said: What chair is this? Is it the one great Ferdinand sat in, when he sent the ships to find the Indies? The seat is frayed. Hardly a day passes without an announcement of some kind of marriage, a pregnancy, a cancer, a rebirth. Sometimes they drift in from the Yukon and other far places, come in and sit down at the kitchen table, want a glass of milk and a peanut-butter-and-jelly, I oblige, for old times’ sake. Sent me the schedule for the Little League soccer teams, they’re all named after cars, the Mustangs vs. the Mavericks, the Chargers vs. the Impalas. Something funny about that. My son. Slept with What’s-Her-Name, they said, while she was asleep, I don’t think that’s fair. Prone and helpless in the glare of the headlights. They went away, then they came back, at Christmas and Eastertide, had quite a full table, maybe a dozen in all including all the little...partners they’d picked up on their travels....