Moving soon to another part of the city, needing to pack early with the life rush, crush of everything I want to do and everything that’s asked of me, I first take down the walls. Tea tins and tchotchkes, wrapped in ragged tee shirts I can’t bring myself to throw away.
If I kept it before Canada, it must be keeping me.
Gutting the closet of old Cons and costumes, ice skates and skeletons, books about being a better writer producing works, plays about being a better failure, I feel great. Moving is a drag but a grand reimagining. When I look back on where I’m at now, it’ll be fond well fond enough, I guess, but I am glad to leave.