...of the last few days.

I'm coming to love flickr. It's like this nonverbal stream-- I'm amazed at how beautiful many of the photos are on there. It's strange that I feel I know some people better just by their photos, when I've been reading their blogs for years.

On friday, Veteran's Day, Edie, Mike and I went to the Santa Monica Pier. I thought it would still be the janky weird run down place I remember it being, but instead it has been transformed, like everything else, into an outpost of monoculture. A mini mall on the water.

There was a demonstration there, which has been ongoing since the start of the war, where crosses are erected for the soldiers dead in Iraq. Every Sunday they read the names of the dead, and it's a sobering sight-- the beach covered in crosses, the litany of names, and a sign which reads, "If we counted the Iraqi dead, the crosses would cover the entire beach." It is impossible to be here without being reminded of the nightmare of war. I sit in the motel room, across from the Boeing headquarters and the mounds of missile silos and realize that if people were not narcotized by the sensation of driving and shopping, there would be more arson, more suicides, more vandalism-- or more pointed rage and poetic terrorism of the style proposed by Hakim Bey.

Counting backward:

Yesterday, more car numbness. Running errands. Visiting my parents. Much needed retail therapy. Now I remember why I shopped so much when I lived here.

On Sunday I saw castellucci and got a chance to have her sign her book, Boy Proof, which burryman was reading on the flight over. I was feeling a bit raw when we met up, so I have to apologize for bleeding all over the pretty mosaic table in the coffee house. Luckily, she is very good at ghost/angst management.

Later, I went to a dinner party at Edie's where they made a Thanksgiving meal. There was a cute gluten roll and vegan versions of traditional faire. It was awesome. Anita and Hector, who used to run the info-shop Flor y Canto, were there. They love London, and it was great to bond with them over my new home. I think they need to move to London where we can all start a Mexican restaurant! I laughed so hard at Bob's jokes that my stomach hurt. He had made cranberry cider and an amazing black lager which was had in great quantities. The man is a genius!

Saturday we went to hang out with stutefish and limeodor who were having a birthday bash. Neck showed up early with the (egads) Star Wars Christmas Special-- where the wookies celebrate Life Day and wait for the fascists to come and destroy the presents. It was so awful, yet I was totally into it. Watching it, you realize the 70's had a great capacity for heartache-- the sentimentalized variety. Seasons in the Sun, the carpenters, etc. The whole world loves a sad song they don't have to sing. Yeah, that could be the slogan of the decade. The download was complete with ads for the ILGWU and GM labor based ads. Man, things have changed in this country. I remember I could sing the Garment Workers Union song because of that ad.

But it was great to see Neck, who had a new scarab tattoo that was scabby and terrific. Neck needs an LJ. Or maybe he has one and it's super top secret?

The party was a smashing success-- there were over 50 people there. I was actually overwhelmed by the volume, as I've been a raw nerve for most of the trip. I ended up talking almost the entire night to a British ex-pat named Neil, who was kind of amazing. We bonded over immigrant dissonance and the finer points of a fry up. He was a wise man. We were talking about the pressures of LA-- he works in the "industry" but was apologetic about it. This self-deprecation was generous to me, and I appreciated it. I told him I realized at some point that I had to choose between success as it had been revealed to me in the lives of others around me, or I would have to ask the universe for, in the words of castellucci my own thing , which was to live in London, and write there. Neil said, you could have stayed here, sold things you'd written and in ten years you wouldn't know who you were anymore. But in London, even if you are still writing the same book in twenty years, you will have been true to yourself. You'll know who you are.

It seems fitting that this advice would have to come from a perfect stranger.

It has been nine months, I will return to London on the full moon. A solid sign that I'm finished here.