8am Malibu.  Cleaning the house.  This is my true vocation.  House cleaner and rent collector.

I rearranged the downstairs apartment so it now looks rather chic.   Loved it.  Love it.  I wish I lived downstairs and out of this huge loft.  The greatest thing and the worst thing about living here is the view.  It is magnificent, consuming and exhausting.  There is no escape from the view.

The days pass uneventfully.  A humming-bird flew into the sitting room yesterday so I gently caught it and let it free.  Lunch with Andrew and the Little Dog in Santa Monica on the beach.   Long conversation with Jake which began as I pulled onto the 10 going west and ended a few meters from Las Flores.  30 miles of conversation.  We are going to have friendly fun in Europe.    Dinner with heavily pregnant Jen and Trevor at café Habana.  I ate a pork chop.  Am cutting out all white flour from my diet this month as a ways and means to look good for my arrival in Paris.  Trevor told me that he lost his temper at some lesbians and their three off leash dogs.

Spoke with Georgina in Whitstable whose daughter Sophie was having a good old laugh in the background.   This time next month I will see them all.  Get to join in on the joke.

I felt vulnerable after speaking with Georgina.

It is hard for me to show how vulnerable I can be to anyone.

I remember eves’ dropping on a conversation my stepfather was having with my mother when I was a small boy.  He was explaining to her that he was finding the written component of some work related conference he was attending very challenging.  It was the first and only time I acknowledged that he was capable of vulnerability.   His slight, whiney voice proof that this monster of a man was anything other than granite tough.

This day next month I will be in NYC.  The following day we will be in Paris.  July in Paris.   Perfect.

What a fucking disaster LA has been for me.  A total waste of time and money.  Against nature in every way possible.  Intellectually bereft.  Creatively barren.  No hope of happiness in this monstrous place.  The only thing going for it:  the weather.  The fucking weather.  Another beautiful fucking day in paradise.

I suppose it would help if I went out more.  Like I used to? Hang out at the Chateau, Soho House etc. or simply called people I know would want to hear from me but I am winding down, getting ready to leave.    Everything is in order.  Bills paid.  Off I go.  Time to leave.  Time to pack my bag and dog.