An email from a friend in Montreal:
"My friend in Toronto told me he met someone interesting this
weekend. Was it you? :-)"
Instances of such occurrences seem to be on
the rise. I attribute this to the fact that "Vodka Ice" is incredibly disgusting, but somewhat less so than expected.
I wandered about the "Home Depot" shortly
before noon, exercising more restraint than
I ever knew I had.
The streets here are still too disorienting
to drive coherently on.
I've finally gotten used to the way
recycling/compost/yard waste works, and I'm
thrilled that it's not all just huge bags
of waste.
Last night I was sitting in his lap, on the porch, puking my fears into the thick air.
Mr. Pyke was listening to the sound of the city.
I went inside to play with my plampilot, finish hanging up the last of my stuff, practice one or two poses of the right-elbow-block for contact juggling, and read another few pages into a magnificent novel.
Anything to keep moving.
To me, the city was still a wall of noise, nothing but cars that are still too big, too angry, too wasteful, the people still too cold and too strange.
Today, the lady in the drugstore laughed musically when I explained what I was looking for in a hair thingie, I managed to do a right turn on a red traffic light after MUCH urging, and I finally got my North/South East/West relatively straight.
Maybe not too long from now, I will learn to discern the real music beneath yesterday's terrifying roar.
Survive? 'course I will.
It's the learning to love part I'm still working on. But I'm getting better at it with every maniacal morning grin.