here I am trying to keep my knee off the water and the soap.  The knee adorns an ugly drying scar with fourteen stitch marks from a fall I coolly endured a month ago during installation. It is my first bath or shower since, and I am drowning in a mountain of foam the sound of which I hate especially when it gets close to my ears. Literally the kind of foam reminiscent of shiny Playboy photos from the early sixties, a perfect blonde in an ever cooling bathwater with gravity defying nipples forcing an eternal, distanced smile for a photographer who is taking his time. A smile not unlike the young hoover mothers on ads. In the morning, the froth of the Cappuccino is absurdly overblown like the bath foam. I am obviously in Los Angeles, a minute away from the beach in Santa Monica in a universe of total self-centered creatures doing the things they do, jog, bike, skate, stroll, walk the dog, push the stroller, and over and over again. Not from one place to another, never.  Something about that “don’t come close” coziness gets on my nerves, I am so out of place, I need a shrink, and I am a crack they prefer to disregard.  One does not need language here, a steady stream of hmmms and oohs, smirks and smiles would just be enough. The waiters speak like broadcasters and the nice bottle of wine we had for lunch, it turns out, is “grape wine.” I am pissing and the next urinal is occupied by one of the stars of “Lost.” Now that is real.