When I came back from Paris in 1998, I brought with me a stack of drawings and paintings and two gifts for Sylvie; an antique green glass fishing net float and and an antique green boule ball. I told her they were new green worlds, but of course they were also a joke about potency and my balls. She said to me, “You go to Paris and bring me back green balls? Why couldn’t you have gotten me a hand bag?” It’s just like a woman. You offer her a metaphor for your manhood and she demands a metaphor for the womb. You can’t win. But it’s fall again and the Osage oranges are falling in the park. I saw them yesterday on a long run, but everything had been smashed by a mower, or malevolent children. I ran back this afternoon on way to the vet for more dog drugs. I could only find two and it put me in mind of Paris.
