I live in a crooked house

Everything tilts and angles; changes daily. I need to prop my feet at one end of the tub to not slip into the drain. I am adrift in a mass of Montreal smell, touches of new air, the touch of strangers. It is wondrous.

I am exhausted. I'd forgotten how much I hated moving. Not to mention some trouble I had this time around: movers not showing up, moving truck w/flat tire and no tow truck large enough to repair the damn monster, and, with the truck delay, everything was pushed ahead one day, leaving two very frightened cats alone in an Ottawa apartment--frightened even more the next day by forcing tranquilizers down their poor little trembling throats. Pushed ahead a day, my old landlord shows up at the apartment and kicks me out, leaving me, the cats, and a pile of stuff I'd yet to clean up, out on the front porch. I will not be thanking him in ANY of my books.

I am Alice. In a strange new land. With lots of good beer, good wine. Great bread. I have yet to leave my little hovel of a neighbourhood. There is a great city awaiting. I am unpacking boxes. I am living in boxes. I have box cuts on my arms.

I will never move again.

I remain,