(no subject)
I sort of find it hard to believe that the loud horror of moving is actually over.
No matter how many times I do this, no matter how well I set up, or prepare - there is really nothing in the world like it. I, by nature of desensitization, do not suffer emotional woes at the packing and shifting of my personal belongings. I have moved at least once a year for the last....just about a decade..and sometimes more than once a year. There are boxes I own, whose contents are known to me, that I simply do not bother to unpack. A year's time is not sufficient reason for the effort.
They are not things I do not love, and clearly are not needed, but I carry much of my history around on my back because my mother lacks a basement in which to put things I still want but cannot keep. So I keep them anyway.
And lift them and carry them and try to stuff them into closets or corners where they will not impede the life so rudely interrupted by the move.
I worked everyday last week and when I was not working, I was filling my stalwart little wagon with belongings and lugging them to the new place, or cleaning the old place in the hopes of retrieving my security deposit. The roommates rallied to help clean up and get themselves out and that was nice, our last few hours as housemates were pleasant, but it is not a living situation I see myself revisiting ever again. The stress of the last year, of simply being at home, was too much. Here is hoping on a bit more calm and a bit more eye-to-eye.
This feels like running on a beach does. After the shower, my skin feels like it's been worn away by sand, hyper-smooth. I acquired a small airplane engine in the disguise of a fan that is roaring happily as it fends off the heat of my attic room - attic rooms will always be the most unpleasant of partners, giving you much too much of whatever weather there is to offer. This is nothing new. I have not met the house that can stop me from sleeping, eating and using the loo. I doubt this will be it.
Now comes the furious few days of unpacking what will be unpacked...trying to place the books, find room for the clothes, make a sustainable space for myself. Then I will settle in, get to writing again...it feels like it's been a really long time. I've been llonely, no one to talk to, and in that small space, the moving and my focus on it was good. Gave me no time to worry or fret or think.
No matter how many times I do this, no matter how well I set up, or prepare - there is really nothing in the world like it. I, by nature of desensitization, do not suffer emotional woes at the packing and shifting of my personal belongings. I have moved at least once a year for the last....just about a decade..and sometimes more than once a year. There are boxes I own, whose contents are known to me, that I simply do not bother to unpack. A year's time is not sufficient reason for the effort.
They are not things I do not love, and clearly are not needed, but I carry much of my history around on my back because my mother lacks a basement in which to put things I still want but cannot keep. So I keep them anyway.
And lift them and carry them and try to stuff them into closets or corners where they will not impede the life so rudely interrupted by the move.
I worked everyday last week and when I was not working, I was filling my stalwart little wagon with belongings and lugging them to the new place, or cleaning the old place in the hopes of retrieving my security deposit. The roommates rallied to help clean up and get themselves out and that was nice, our last few hours as housemates were pleasant, but it is not a living situation I see myself revisiting ever again. The stress of the last year, of simply being at home, was too much. Here is hoping on a bit more calm and a bit more eye-to-eye.
This feels like running on a beach does. After the shower, my skin feels like it's been worn away by sand, hyper-smooth. I acquired a small airplane engine in the disguise of a fan that is roaring happily as it fends off the heat of my attic room - attic rooms will always be the most unpleasant of partners, giving you much too much of whatever weather there is to offer. This is nothing new. I have not met the house that can stop me from sleeping, eating and using the loo. I doubt this will be it.
Now comes the furious few days of unpacking what will be unpacked...trying to place the books, find room for the clothes, make a sustainable space for myself. Then I will settle in, get to writing again...it feels like it's been a really long time. I've been llonely, no one to talk to, and in that small space, the moving and my focus on it was good. Gave me no time to worry or fret or think.