:::beyond flying monkeys:::

From a hand-written letter dated 27 December:

Walking home after church today -- walking from the angkot to our street, I mean; we're not that close to the chapel -- the little lane outside our house was full-up with little barefoot children, all shrieking and clapping to the music of two youngish boys playing pots+pans drums and a broken tambourine. With a monkey. This is all pretty normal except wait a minute, stop the presses -- have I told you about organ-grinder monkeys here? How they tumble and cartwheel with a chain linked tight to one leg and how maybe I should feel sad and/or bad or at least feel that inner Jane Goodall rise up inside me but oh yeah: did I mention they also have a baby doll's face strapped to their heads, with the eyes pulled out so they can see through the painted lids, the synthetic blonde curls tumbling over their little grey monkey ears that stick out over the chubby white doll cheeks held up against their nose with elastic cords? Because that's all true, too. And it's ever so much more terrifying than Flying Monkeys. These poor creatures are the new stuff of my nightmares, the scenes that flash in horrible night-neons across my dreamscape. Animal rights aside, I cannot stand it. I can't even look at it. But one of these days I'm going to have to be brave enough to at least get a picture, if only to cure others of their Wizard of Oz phobias -- there are far more scary things out there, my friends.