The main dancer deconstructed her costume for us. She had fluffy sea-foam green shoulder wings and a black and gold shimmery black cloth with odd clasping salamanders(like the knight of wands). They were mechanical and alive. Outside in the clearing, blue and gold belly dancers whirled for a moment. The storefronts in the street below seemed smaller and less important than the packed earth and the embankment that I prepared behind. Somehow I had forgotten my book of poems. Someone had a large book that had one of my poems. I also had a thumb flip book of poem like scribbles. I nervously read scraps from this aloud until I was handed the large book. It was written in dream script, clear until observed, then it wavered and was small; hard to read. It was full of onomonopeisms and I read them in a musical lilt. Then there was a fire to the left and downstairs. We left carefully with not urgency, but I did have a warm cake in a bag which I could feel as we left.
For the play there was a book and it was in someone elses’ hands. I was impatient. I could see my full three names written in it. There was highlighting. I tried to scan to see if there was a big part I had to do. I couldn’t even read the tiny writing or remember what the play was about. I went out and snatched some bits of garbage or kid’s toys off of the floor. It was time. The play was beginning. Out on the stage I got the dreaded feeling they were already talking to my character. I forgot everything. “Is there a big thing I am supposed to say?” I ask, thinking I can fudge the part about toast.
“Yes, sixteen!” You say walking away. “Doth ……” You are incomprehensible. I am awakened. &~~
I am on a beach island. Some special event is drawing the attention of thousands of religious people: there are monks, priests, and nuns, of various creeds, in different colored robes. Everyone was facing the shore, but now they are rustling about, perhaps preparing to leave. I missed whatever event transpired. I found a stack of tourist maps for the beach, on them is written the words “Caucasian Map”; there are two different kinds, one for 2010/11 and another for 2008/09. I grab the most recent, but I don’t keep it because it seems useless — in it there is only a photograph of the shoreline, and it’s not a very good photograph. I don’t understand what the map could possibly be for — it isn’t a birds-eye-view of the shoreline, just a snapshot. I put it back on the rack and weave my way through the countless robed people — though I don’t know where to. ♨