Monday, November 13, 2006





I somehow doubt that Aria Antiques existed when I lived in the Bay Area as a wee lass of twenty, but the street it sits on was one I often frequented. There was a store on Grant Ave. once, its green walls lined with postcards from every era. Postcards fit my budget perfectly back then and so it became one of my favorite shops. If Aria was there at the time, it must have been too expensive for my tastes. This wonderful, weird and spooky shop had piles of these insect diagrams like the one in the window and anatomy diagrams and a map of the defense plans for the city of Paris in WWII. All of it cost far more than a giant stack of postcards, so while I coveted the graceful muscle man, I left empty handed.

The postcard shop was gone and so were my twenty-year old notions of moving to that mysterious little loop of the world. Back then, it was a place whose air felt right in my lungs, as if some pocket in my brain still held the taste of my first breath. This time, draped on the arm of my common law, there was a stench to the city that was only rarely alleviated by a whiff of eucalyptus. That pocket in my brain must have sealed itself off. I have no regret for the paths I didn't take, but there's always room for wonder.

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