Carson had the day off, so after I finished dealing with anxiety and making arrangements to not be at work today, and took a very long nap, he and I walked over to Sanamluang, on Hollywood, for "the best noodles in town," according to the letters printed on the awning. I love this neighborhood, with its mix of decrepit, crumbling houses subdivided into apartments, and rash of neon in indecipherable Thai loops. I asked if we could look for a certain house, one I recently read about, where the Black Dahlia was supposedly killed. It's right around the corner from Carson's house, as it turns out, an eerie replica of a Mayan temple, overgrown with tropical plants. Carson wanted to look through the gate, but I got creeped out by the house's sinister, fortress-like demeanor and the deep red curtains visible in the upper story windows, and declined. I bought him a watch with a wide, orange band at a little boutique called BZEZZ, or BZazz, or something like that, where tiny Asian women tried on high, wooden-heeled shoes banded with fluffy, sequinned flowers and bargained over replicas of French handbags.

Carson had an appointment later in the afternoon, so I took a nap, then cleaned the apartment. It's a familiar feeling, moving about all my old possessions, and Carson has arranged them in a way similar to how we had them. The cleaning started because I noticed that the decorative plate we had over our kitchen sink, which always needed dusting because it was near the stove, needed dusting. So I washed it. Then, I figured I should do the dishes. It was like an acutely mundane version of "This is Your Life" put together by a producer with access to none of my friends, but all of my household goods. "And... do you recognize this silver-plate spoon engraved with an L?" "Oh, my god, I bought those cut-crystal tumblers on eBay in 1997!"

After I washed the dishes, I thought I should wipe off the cabinets, as well. And then the refigerator looked a little dusty, so I cleaned that, too. Maybe being surrounded by all my old belongings creates some kind of energy that sets my arms in motion, even though I've never lived in this apartment. It's like my life in an alternate universe. I recognize the silverware, but the cupboards are filled with strange, elaborate groceries. It's as if a stranger did my shopping for me.

Carson's still out, so I took a walk outside to see if I could find a beer. I love walking through Los Feliz at night. In one big, mock-Tudor block of a house, I could see a bald man coiling a whip. Next door, silhouettes of Rococo chairs denoted a dining area near the window, and I could make out framed portraits of smiling kids in caps and gowns displayed on the walls. I walked through the parking lot of the Clown Room, and up the street to the liquor store. The groceries there are even different, with odd, brightly colored liquor, and bottles of Pilgrim's Pride egg nog bearing delicate gold lettering and scenery out of a Currier and Ives print. Maybe it was Pilgrim's Progress. Anyway, it's not in season, so I bought a Pilsner Urquell and a Diet 7-Up, waited in line behind a guy in a black satin Viper Room jacket, and paid for the goods.

On the way home, ha home--exactly. On the way back to Carson's, I noticed the crowd in Sanamluang, the rush of cars on the boulevard, panel trucks idling in parking lots, a store named "1000 of Things." I imagined living in the many apartment houses with colorful names. "I live at the Coral Reef," I said out loud, trying it out in a casual way, "I have an apartment in the Normandie Riviera."

It's easy to look in and imagine people's lives, to get a sense of home without entering the scene. It is harder to grasp that sense of home and know it's real.

Star of the day. . .Steven Hodel