Lying across a seat at the back of a bus, I'm getting head from a small nondescript woman. Wherever we're going it's cross country. I sit up and look around and realize the bus is full of people. Behind me is Cian Nugent and a fat hirsute man dressed only in a pair of purple mesh underwear. This is never going to work.

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Behind Grandma's house near Lover's Point. Someone else is there, maybe Aaron Sheppard. The houses in the neighborhood are larger and more spaced out than I remember. Less trees. In the back yard there is a small cottage that is missing an entire wall so that you can walk right into it. Inside is a lounge chair, a cheap rug and decorations, a shelf full of cosmetics and an old stereo. Fixed income pleasures. The floor is littered with flashy garbage and CDs out of their cases. I can tell that she's just been painting her toenails (blue) although she is nowhere to be seen.

I start to wander away down the side yard to find a place to pee and decide to do it on the wall of the neighbors house. Looking at the wide expanse of tongue and groove boards (the side of the house that faces the water) I realize that it doesn't have any windows, except one that is small and opaque. Suddenly aunt Helen emerges from this house holding an acoustic guitar and announces herself by strumming it once loudly - a strangely mutated Sonny Sharrock-style interval. I look at her hands and she is fretting with one finger pointed down over the top of the neck like John Fahey does at the climax of "Wine And Roses." She smiles at us.

Now I'm behind the house on Crocker and a seemingly endless throng of cross country runners - all Scandinavian girls, tanned and muscular with numbers pinned on their chests - begins streaming around the side of the house and fills up the back yard, totally overwhelming me. As one runs past me I notice that there is a look of determined agony on her face. I open the back door and maybe thirty or so of them flow into the house. I run amongst them up to the front to let them out again. I can see thru the window that the rest of them (what seems like hundreds of girls) are heading back towards the street via the opposite side yard. I need to coordinate with my mother as to how we can get these women to flow right. It's like herding sardines.

"Walls of flesh..." Why not rivers?