the killing moon

i got a boxed set of italo calvino novels cheaply online. i never had a copy of one i didn't leave at an ex-girlfriend's house.

...he feels envy toward those who now believe they have once before lived an evening identical to this and hwo think they were happy, that time.

something struck me about the idea of a kiddie pool, the slavenness of an afternoon spent nearly naked in its shallowness, its walls of thin polymer creasing under the load of the neck, the shoulders, the knees, the hot dog in one hand and beer in the other. johnny suggested to phil he attempt to buy beer using a driver's license we found which, in 1998, belonged to a 16-year old. instead he fell asleep on the floor. we had a spicy vegetable soup flavored with goat meat and chiles anchos, recipe on a hunch by ruth, after i mentioned to her in passing the versatility of the chile ancho, after she remembered the goat meat in the freezer wrapped in white butcher paper bearing the inscription "martha," which was the goat's name. we learned a new game involving dominoes called eighty, duylinh fell asleep on her turn and we cut it off with the score sitting at 5-4, the bread forming a bronzed and calcareous shell finely cracked by a minutiae of networked oily crevices by the same expansion that drove the poppy seeds and wisps of powdered salt further apart, conceding that it is too late to play the games of old men. we found a series of uses for the kiddie pool. one is an attempt to use it as a boat in the larger pool without getting too wet, for it deforms with any maldistribution of weight. another is throwing the huge stuffed duck into it from the balcony, careful not to let the duck land in the pool's waters. we tied a nylon cord about its ankle to save time on retrieval. during all this there was but an iota of interest separating me from this and lying on the couch, allowing the onions to burn because i forgot them. blogging gives the comfort that events may become nostalgia in the same day as they came to pass, since the blogger would like readers to believe that they have once had an identical evening, and they were happy then...