Dear Body,

Good morning, you ramshackle old house. You cheated me. Yesterday you were tautness and coordination, the efficient machine of a swimmer. Today every bit of you aches out my age. My back is an intricate sailor's knot. Two awkward bumps have been cut more prominently into the flesh of my arms, and they squeal with every movement how they don't belong. My legs, peppered with bruises, are killing me to walk. The joints at my hips and knees can't process electrical signals from my brain very well. I feel a bit like an old marionette who sat in a box forgotten for 30 years. All my strings have somehow been criss-crossed and a few of my limbs were crumpled askew.

Still, I staggered down to the porch just now with a cup of coffee, book, and cigarettes in tow. I'm not all that angry at you, body. You served me well yesterday. Everything's in this apartment now even though it's a mess. I have a whole week to settle in.

I read on the couch for a few minutes and had a smoke. The air was still with the promise of more rain, and nobody moved on the street. A few cars passed nearby, their engines a distant roar, a big cat's lullaby. Sunday took me into the palm of its hand. My brain relaxed into the humidity.

Today, if you cooperate, a few of these boxes and garbage bags will be emptied. I'll make this place into even more of a home and less of a lair. No going back to the cave-living of Chestnut Hill from now on--this is it.

I'm definitely going to test out my new bread maker. I was able to find the manual online, and the French bread recipe's simple. I'm almost out of bread now, and I'm going to bake a loaf for the neighbors too. What a night last night, after a full day of work. I left for bed early, at around 9, and everyone was understanding. Still, just 5 or 10 minutes after I locked the door, there was a knock on it. "Julia?" Alex called in, "I know you're going to bed, but I just wanted to let you know that we have wine, and if you want some, you're welcome to it." I thanked him and passed, but yes. Life is beginning. I love it here, and everything so far--even with all the car trips and all the heavy lifting, even though you hurt in a way you haven't in at least 10 years--has been full of promise, everything indicates that more than being worth all the effort, this could really be something great.

I don't wanna jinx it. I don't wanna jinx anything. Like I stated yesterday, I'm weirdly superstitious on this point. But goddamn. Sisters, don't you know. There's been a lot of of Montreal in this blog lately. And alsoalso, Florence and the Machine touches on the feeling a bit.

Alright, you. My coffee's already lukewarm. I think Alex's son (Yakob? or Jacob?) is watching cartoons of the old Warner Brothers variety. Muffled dialogue and the occasional intrusion of characteristic music--always tuba-heavy, always a little insidious--are coming through the ceiling. A leitmotif. If Oliver reads this, he'll be proud. The music that always plays when Bugs Bunny's being pursued by Elmer Fudd and is just about to outsmart him.

Time to start the day. I'll lurk in bed a bit longer, and then I'll throw a few ingredients into a machine. Soon the smell of baking bread will be everywhere in the apartment.

Body, you've done what you had to do. At least for today, hurt as much as you need to hurt. You've earned it.

Love from your animating consciousness,
Julia