A man with a red passport is a perfectly good reason to resent the Atlantic Ocean. 

After a weeklong jaunt to London, I am back in Los Angeles again.

On the flight there I thought about the contemptible ways men end relationships with women they do not deserve, like David Lynch breaking up with Isabella Rossellini over the phone. On the flight home, I thought about cult leaders and how easy it would be for the right man to recruit me into being his concubine wife.

While in England, my sister finally became a citizen, the weather was suspiciously pleasant--not so grey and leaky, and thanks to the lovely people of Hotel, I had the opportunity to read my story 'Dismember Me' at a sweet little bookshop in Peckham after a number of very impressive poets read their work in accents not at all like mine. And, to divulge too much information in a coy-but-cryptic way, in the grand early-oughts tradition of the online diary, I ran around drinking wine with a man who I like and that was a very good time. 

Two books were waiting for me in Los Angeles. The first, a fresh copy of the new Clarice Lispector translation, The Chandelier, which I could not be more excited to read for my two-woman book clue; the second book, a vintage copy of The Forbidden Garden by Ursula Curtiss, the pulpy little novel that inspired the psychobiddy film "Whatever Happened to Aunt Alice?" Reviews quoted say "Good shiverer" and "Gives you a shivery shove." The first line of the book is "Mrs. Marrable buried Miss Tinsley on a leafy yellow day in October." I am in for some treats. 

Who knows when I will get back to New York again. Soon, I'm sure.