Suddenly
Friday, May 09, 2008
Spring has put her spores into me. Suddenly, it's women; women everywhere; co-workers, customers, out on the street, hanging out of windows with their white lily-pad arms exposed. Light fabrics, rippling, dresses, and I see they're looking around; kind of astonished, blinking in all the gaudy daylight savings; they're horny, too! What convergence! And here's one now, in a sort of silky blue dress, swelling beautifully in places, draping in others, honeyish tangerine hair, and what is she reading? The latest Richard Kern. Eew, yes, but it turns me on! She's young, too young. Too young? Maybe. At 35, am I in her demographic? Does it matter? But she puts the book back, traces an unadorned finger along the stack, a real sensualist, this sweller, this draper of ghostly maritime fabrics. She's going away. So much for demographics. Fortune favors the bold, son, etc etc... But wait! She's turning around, she's coming toward me. Get it together, pal; guten tag, madame, willkomen, bonjour, bonsoir. Hi! She'd like to know, could I recommend a good book along the lines of Tom Robbins? Oh be-puke my heart. Tom Robbins? Really? Yet she smiles at me, this one, and who among us is perfect? I recommend the universally applicable Portis without trying to make a big parade out of it. But wait, let me show you. Perhaps I'll usher you towards the "P's" and gently guide you with my hand at the small of your back. Silence! No touching. Just...here...let me just work my way out of seat and...grunt, puff!
Oh fuck, what is this, this stiffness? Huff. And in the front of me, what roundness! Boof! And the elephantine wrestler's stance crowding all my limbs? The bigness everywhere? It's...I do believe I'm fat! Oh, gigantism in springtime! Utterly thwarted! Muffled! Pinned by fat! What can I do but waddle this beauty over to the "p's," puffing, paunchy, unproud. Here is your Portis, lady. But she wants more. Again with the smile, very sweet, sort of pansy-rural. She wants to know, what in my opinion is best of all books? The answer to that might be Don Quixote, madame, but the true answer is immaterial. I cannot give you the hardcore springtime loving you deserve. It would be like playing billiards with one massive ball. Yet I try, such is the indominability of the human soul when faced with years of chocolate and meats, skies full of lonely eating. I think I say Don Quixote. She says she'll definitely be back. And what does she buy? Mircea Cartarescu's sexy Nostalgia. Oh skulls! Death! Sex! My sweet, I would wrap you in velveteen folds like fresh ice cream, if only my arms were not balloonish meatloafs! That will be sixteen dollars and thirty six cents. No we do not offer a student discount. Bye bye, now. Bye Bye.
I have been doing pushups and situps ever since. Little springtime fragrances come through the window, irritating me. I go running.
posted by Greg Purcell @ 5:19 PM,
