Closing up the house. It’s done: once again, all my life is in a suitcase.

Taking the Metro to MacArthur to meet X (the architect for the untitled national theater, and my traveling companion to SF.) We eat sandwiches at Langer’s, with old men and drag queens, and do last-minute work from the twelfth floor of his concrete-girdered loft. We prepare for Vegas, and the desert beyond.

We go to More For Less by the park to acquire ribbon for a ribbon-cutting ceremony, for our ground-breaking of the desert site for the untitled national theater, but they don’t have any ribbon. An omen of things to come, perhaps.