backforthmenu Archetypes. I’m usually in a sort of trance when I drive home in the afternoon. Sometimes I have to try real hard to not react harshly to all the foolishness going on around me. Not to become foolish myself. By the time I reach P.V. Blvd., some 10 minutes into my drive, I’m starting to come out of it. Starting to wake up. It’s usually about 5:35. Today there is a sportscar before me, in the obvious red. Inside is the back of a beautiful woman’s head. She’s biding her time at the light by tossing her full, long, curly black hair and glancing into the mirror at herself. I imagine her perfect hips in a short silk skirt, slipping in the leather seat, just so as she tosses. She is woman. Not housewife, not mother, not girl. Woman. Like the man in the huge, heavy dualie pickup to my right is man. Tanned, muscled, sunglasses. Tanktop and perfect hair. He is his mighty truck. He does not sit behind a computer. He does not do laundry. He doesn’t care about taxes or dept. Man. I look over at him. He’s staring at her too. 9/1/98