when she died everything else died with her

late to the party and sit with josie aubergine and his hot norweigan woman while david and the boys play. she says "he's making all the women horny! the whores are coming out!" and laughs because she's drunk. when the set is over we vault between the cold porch with views of mount tam and 2/3 of all the constellations i know, the open bar, and the dance floor. the level of general schmoozing quickly rises from orange to red to danger. we are the youngest people at this party by a cool decade or two on most counts and holding it together better. thick rope swing hangs out back, you can't swing far enough to really get a thrill, but it takes some serious thigh stamina to stay mounted. some drunk fifty year old won't stop pushing me, "i never grew up," he says, "what a turn on," i think. two bona fide cougars inhale a small mountain of coke in the back bedroom and aren't to prim to share if you're interested. the norwegian and i alternate between dancing and talking shit, laughing like naughty children. plastered young woman makes a photo shoot out of david and i, then decides that we're buds and tells me that she will name her firstborn "cortezar" after mortal kombat and her ex's dick. if there is any excuse for being completely oblivious to the existence of one of the most amazing latino authors of our century, i guess mortal kombat serving as your go-to cultural influence is one of them.

we tire of barney and the gang and drive south to denny's, where we sit for an hour and a half playing with our respective grand slams. SLAM IT UP! the menu suggests. who can resist? get back to oakland at four and sleep between waves of stange and nostalgic dreams. in one, i read an old novel for the second time, sobbing. i can see the page and read all the last few paragraphs before waking up. did i invent a novel in my dream? was i subconsciously deeply impressioned by a novel i read in my youth? only snatches of the words come back to me: silk-grass, eel-grass, the glassy water, when she dies everything else died with her. teary in my dream, dry-eyed on waking.

slow morning and afternoon with ann in berkeley, i bake russian tea cakes and we drink english breakfast in the sunny living room while she reads for book group and i read one of allison's art books. i feel spoiled and new in an old way.