I'm back in Starbucks in West Hollywood, my second home. Well, my third home come to think of it, counting my apartment in San Francisco, and Ben's house in the Valley. However, I'm getting rid of one of these homes on November 19th. On that day, the moving van arrives outside my apartment in San Francisco and everything will be packed up and carted down to Sherman Oaks, and stored in Ben's garage, which is largely empty (I can also use some of my stuff to help make Ben's house more appealing to prospective buyers - Ben has never really paid much attention to interior decoration). And that evening, I'll drive down I5, leaving San Francisco for good, after twelve years.

In many ways, I've already left San Francisco. I've been staying with Ben now for not much more than two weeks, but already San Francisco is starting to feel like a different universe. Our original plan was that I'd not move down until Ben sold his house and we bought a new one. But after a week down here, we both began to feel that there was little point in my paying over $2000 per month in rent when I'm already spending so much time down here. And since Ben has a big garage that he doesn't use, we decided I'd just move down as soon as I could.

So over the last week, bit by bit, I've been deconstructing my life in San Francisco, and building a new one for myself down here. I've been doing the deconstruction from afar, which has added somewhat to the complexity of the move. For instance, in arranging for movers to arrive on the 19th, I had to go through my apartment in my mind's eye to come up with as complete a list as possible of the belongings I want to ship, and those I want to sell, donate or discard.

I've also set up a combination good-bye/40th birthday party on the Saturday before I move (Ben and I will drive down together to San Francisco the day before). Like the Queen of England, this year I'm having two birthdays: my "official" birthday, which will be the Saturday before I move, and my real birthday, which won't be until two days before Christmas, long after I've moved to Southern California.

I took more steps this week, also, to deepen my connection down here. I now get the New York Times delivered to Ben's house every morning, and, more importantly, I have an office down here now. My company keeps a few offices in an executive office building in Century City (near Beverly Hills and West Hollywood, and very near, by a complete coincidence, to where Ben works). I showed up there on Thursday morning, presented myself to the building management as a transferring employee, and they set me up with an office (with a view), security cards, keys, a parking pass, the works; all this without any proof of who I was, or that I, in fact, even worked for my company.

The view (of Santa Monica Boulevard) from my new office

In my new office

That first day in my new office was possibly the best day I've had in the two weeks I've been down here. I felt that at last I had something that was my own to anchor myself here. I mean, Ben's house is Ben's house, not mine. Now there's a little piece of Los Angeles to call my own. Although there are only three other employees from my company in this office, and they're all sales people which means they're hardly ever around, the permanent employees that run the executive offices (a floor of offices rented out to many various companies, sharing a common administration/reception area/phone system etc.) are very friendly, so the setup is not as lonely as it sounds.

And it's in a very pleasant neighborhood - at least as pleasant as an office park can be. Several blocks away, there's a large, outdoors, pedestrian mall - one of the nicest malls I've ever seen, on a very human scale. There are a couple of Starbucks, one of which has chairs outside in a kind of little grove of trees. And everybody seems pretty friendly. In the space of two days I was even complimented twice by complete strangers. One woman walked past me, and volunteered "Nice arms!". And another employee in a cafe said "I like your style!". I can't imagine that kind of off-hand compliment being offered by strangers anywhere else.

And I've found a new therapist. In my first "real" meeting (not counting the initial interview) I had two fresh realizations about my past; which surprised me. Since I'm so introspective that I thought I'd already unearthed all the developmental possibilities I was going to find. But in this session, I remembered how embarrassed and ashamed of my working-class background I'd been when I was amongst my new intellectual, middle-class friends of my teen years. And we also came up with a very plausible explanation about why I'd distanced myself from my Mother in my teen years. It was likely because of the emphasis placed upon being ultra masculine, both by my Dad and by the culture in which I grew up. Since I knew from an early age that I was gay, I was probably doubly scared of any showing of a feminine side, which is probably why I grew apart from my Mother, not wanting to be Momma's little boy.

The therapy session was gruelling, and soul-exploring, since the therapist really knows little about you initially, and you have to quickly go through a lot of the early formative experiences that you think underly the issues you're trying to grapple with today. And I can be very articulate in this area, so I found myself almost vomiting up a morass of stories, ideas, philosophies and connections. Was it my imagination, or did my therapist's eyes start to bulge as he began to think, Gee, where do I start with this one?

I'm finally starting to feel more settled down here; there's a sense of comfort, companionship, and the security of knowing that every morning will begin with Ben and I snuggling in each other's arms before getting out of bed. It continually dawns fresh upon me that this is not a short-term thing. After a decade of living alone, of eating dinner mostly alone, of going to bed alone, of having no prospect of sharing my day with someone, of being essentially alone (particularly on holidays), I'm now beginning to understand that Ben is always going to be there for me at the beginning and ending of the day. It's not as flashy a sensation as the excitement and passion of our long-distance honeymoon, but it's something I wouldn't give up for a year of fabulous sex.

We've been building new routines. We set the alarm fifteen minutes earlier than we need to, so we can cuddle before getting up. Then we reluctantly pull ourselves out of bed, to the dogs' relief (they hate watching us make out - they're jealous of any affection not bestowed on them), make ourselves some breakfast, and sit at the dining table, either reading our morning email (I've setup a wireless network in Ben's house so we can both be online on our laptops at the same time, anywhere in the house) or reading our respective papers (mine is the NY Times, his the LA Times). We're both big politics junkies, so we point out things of interest to each other; for instance, horrible hints of declining Kerry support in Hawaii, or indications of heavy early voting in Florida with its likelihood to help Kerry.

Then we drive around the corner to the nearby mall, and work out at 24 Hour Fitness. Most times, we don't actually work out together, since we use different weights and if we're using machines, we'd have to adjust them every set on account of our very different sizes. After going home to change, and letting the dogs out to relieve themselves, we set off for work, sometimes in one car (since my office is close to his), but mostly separately (since he's working longer hours than me right now). I stop off at Starbucks on Ventura Boulevard for a "venti half-caf" and, if I'm feeling sinful, a chocolate pecan tart. Then I drive up Sepulveda, over the hills, then down Santa Monica Boulevard to my office. Sometimes I'll work out a second time at the 24 Hour Fitness in West Hollywood before driving back over the hills to home, and dinner with Ben. Ah, how quickly I've become domesticated.