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There is a magnolia tree behind this house that has yet to bloom. Inside, Dakin sleeps on the couch, and the dishwasher murmurs its whirring repititions. America snoozes, in parts, and I am for the first time in years witness to the slumber. I am remembering things I was unaware I'd forgotten.

This morning there was banging. The neighbors upstairs were rushing around to leave their apartment, but they were being about as subtle as polka. Granted, I was hungover. The previous night (and the night before, for that matter) were spent drinking pinot noir and PBR with Dakin and his Seattle friends (note: please ask me personally about the folks he introduced me to). Needless to say, the stomping did not do much for my crummy disposition.

Six years have passed since I was in America.

But some back story: I took the Amtrak from Vancouver to Seattle two days ago, and I'm just now recovering from reverse culture shock. It's taken three nights of booze and smokes and three nights of new news and a few new "hey yous." A few crazy bitches and too many scumbags. I've gone from jet lag to sleeping bag, from footpath to sidewalk; rubbish to trash can; trolly to shopping cart; fag to ciggy. When I passed through immigration to board the train, I told my Odyssey story to the clerk who replied unfazed: "Welcome home. Glad you have you back. First car on the left."

I was reintroduced to the States and it was like picking up an old, sick habit and finding you really enjoyed it. The moon is rising over the houses next to me. Two blocks away a couple is laughing, and I suddenly realize I've been missing America's turbulence:

We are junkies at the airport. Smoking. Drinking. Standing and weaving. We are on the verge of being detained, the knowledge of our incarceration barely registering: our audience will not tolerate weakness. We have no class. We are not the English, their dignity clinging like names to their disparate tongues. We are neither France nor Spain with histories as dynasties and families like feuds. We are not the sore of sequestered nations (call it what you like, there are among us the conquered) but rather the festering wound in mid regen. We are the major chord. We are the Lazy R but we are in Russia. We are the terror and the terrorist. We are fat. We are Jewish. We are Indians among Indians. We are racist and ignorant. We are brilliant and the definition of compassion. We are drunk on Sunday afternoons and we are in love with the idea that we might just live forever. We might beat this one after all. We are the furious and terrifying notion of perpetual energy. We are the chilling notion that when the wine wears off, we might just keep going. Breakfast, anyone?

I love us.

The tree behind this house will bloom, but not tonight. Tonight is for the toast. And tonight the toast is to recollection, may it remain.

Hello friends, it's good to see you again.