. . .The house is not so new, or so elegant. It is in north Toronto--the old city of
Toronto before it was created a supercity, where I dream all my city dreams. I am being
shown around by two women. The floor has splash stains all over the wood. I am going to
have a room in the basement.
The phone number for this house is some complicated function I don't
understand. As if this is how the women remember, or generate the number without a
second thought--but it's way beyond me. . .
. . . I am in the livingroom of the same house--there are the same splash stains on the
There is a crowd. We are talking about going out to work. The woman at the front
again presents a phone number. This time it is just a phone number, but I still can't
remember it. . .
. . . I am on a bus. I am going to work. There are buildings on both side of the street. I
am concerned, somehow, about the way I am dressed. I think I am in shorts, but I should
be more formal.
Suddenly, one of the two women in the seat behind me gives me the Globe and Mail
that she was reading as they leave. We exchange a look. I think I know her. . .