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The porn shop for girls

Posted by on April 18, 2005

Yesterday I went home, Pleasant Hill home, dad and the Moms home, Molly dog home, bees in the garden home, home-cooked meal home, driving home. How can I sell my car? Afternoon sunlight plus exceeding the speed limit is gold. It made me miss the suburbs, because even though I can walk to the bagel shop and the video shop and the flower shop and the hardware shop and the dessert shop and the clothes shop and the shoe shop and the burrito shop and the porn shop for boys and the porn shop for girls any time I want, I don’t really. All that much. Whereas in the suburbs I can drive and drive and drive, even though there’s nowhere especially to go. Driving means singing, too, which I can no longer do on the bike since I got the new head-fitting, acoustics-dampening helmet. I never thought I would miss my Parkinson’s head.

I saw my grandfather too, always a bittersweet pleasure, except the pleasure part, and except the sweet part also. The Sicilian used to talk about and to his grandfather in a beautiful way, but then his grandfather sounded like Henry Miller (do you recall). I always admired that, their relationship. When I talk about my grandfather I wrap up into a tight beetle shell, old womanish, downright mean. I want to be someone who holds blood ties sacred, and while I am making wishes I wish I was someone who swept the floor more often too, because our dust bunnies are Harvey-sized now. I struggle to be a good (clean) person. The Moms does it so effortlessly. But then, she has a cleaning woman, so maybe once a week too someone comes in and cleans her head like Mrs. Darling does for the children in Peter Pan.

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