Every residence in Denver has a moniker.
They’re not as effective as addresses for the bankrupt U.S. post office when forwarding my mail, granted. Nonetheless, each bears the stamp of an essence, energy and experience outside the scope if any functioning or subsidized government-sort body.
On the eve of the bext move, let’s line ’em up, those residences since July:
1. The Motel I Couldn’t Leave. 3 weeks. Thank you unresponsive craigslisters with housing ads.
2. The House of Wincing (not Windsor). 2.5 mos. Mother-daughter duo more dangerous than two pissed-off cobras in a basket.
3. The Rampager. 2 weeks. Crazy. Irrational. Mildly psychotic. Changed locks on me in a snowstorm, rendering me homeless, not to mention sleepless on my first day at the job. Traumatizing.
4. The House of a Man of God (or Not). 2 months. Lifted me out of homelessness, for which I’m deeply grateful. A man of his word, or God’s, he was not, despite claims to the contrary. Another case made for anti-religion.
5. The House of the Deceiver and (Her) Believer. 2 months. In earth credo, (my) intelligence and intuition can’t hold a candle to a person of deceit, manipulation and charm. None is blinder than he who will not see. Time to leave.
Where are my people in Denver?
6. to be ‘monikered’