last night we went to the clubhouse for sunset with two copies of t.s. eliot's play, the cocktail party. the sky was going from brevity storm purplegray on the northwestern to fuschia to magenta to oxblood, the temperature & low glowlight perfect on our drowse skin. we each had to read the part of three characters, which proved awkward when one reader had to act all parts in a conversation for pages, throwing accents back & forth. the dog tramped, kicked up soft brown dirt for her shape hole, eventually settling in the dust. but first filling our shoes with the good clubhouse earth. she raged up & down the hill after other bad dogs here, after a covey of quail there. comments on existence, on the devastations & impermanence were made, our mouths sounding out eliot's words like those coming straight from my own. characters giving one another the advice to wait, to just Wait. & I'm learning to. after the first act the northwestern portion had changed to some expensive purple, and breeze whipped around the sagebrush. down the slope, stopping at the plateau to view villa norte & the bare green foothills & the lazy citylights. caught my hair & tossed it around. we ate salads & scapes & cheese, and I opened windows and made myself naked in the mufflenight. I awoke at 3 am & since can't write read some hemingway stories, passing out before flicking through darkness the chitinous body of some invisible bug. I heard sounds & managed to fall into a waterfall of dreams. o to be the satisfied one, once more.
