which, in general, should lead to the revelation that i am not, in fact, in oxford at this specific perceived point in time. well. but in any case, clearly i am to be found in a mass of comforters in a bed (specifically my bed) in a house in the woods on a mountain somewhere in northern california, usa. because, apparently, that is exactly where i am.

california smells good. it is full of imaginary wildebeests. also, my cat. but what am i doing here? well, of course i can be doing nothing but reading kafka and translating old english poetry. which is also what i do in oxford. nothing else can be expected of me. there has been some occasional cookie baking with marginal recipe perusal. delicious food! you excite me. i would dance with you if it were not disrespectful to the dead. it is! it certainly is... i have been led to believe that it would be disrespectful.

oxford. what do you say about that narrow place? it's certainly squeezed between two things. facsinating! pantsless women! foxes! people shouting JEALOUS or alternately JANICE in my face! i've still got enough new york left in me to avoid flinching! i just walk by it! oxford confuses those implanted instincts. which caused me to be accosted by some man on broad street with some book full of some pictures depicting death in iraq. i think he wanted my bank account number. i would have just kept walking if oxford hadn't confused me so much! but really i can't begrudge it. it's fed me on sausages and falafel and all the good things.