Avoiding the Subject of the Devil

A silly gaggle of writers gathered tonight to hear about Tasmania. No devils were mentioned, like so many other elephants in the room. Limpid, pale people dined on abalone, shells shining bright to catch the spotlights, particularly when someone accidentally would walk in front of projector that was displaying various images from the island: all sorts of sheep and nude statues and abstract art and modern wallabies. The wine flowed as the conversation droned on, and I flittered around, on the outskirts, playing with a piece of cheese, like the mouse that might scare the elephant, so many devils inside.