Packing, Nostalgia, Leaving it all Behind...

This is the first time in a long time that I've lived in one place and not moved all of my wordly posessions multiple times in a single calendar or school year. When I was young, this process happened regularly, an average of once every 3-4 years. So, this moving thing, I have lots of practice, I can wedge all sorts of housewares into boxes, I know how to resist the temptation to place disparate things in boxes just because they fit and how to carefully cushion breakables such that they don't. I have a fine grasp of what is worth chucking and what evokes chuckles and fond or painful memories.

I do keep a lot of stuff around [quote points, can you guess it?] specifically and particularly small slips of paper; phone numbers, quotes, recipes handwritten, bits of art or clippings. Also, all the snail mail I've ever received, postcards and birthday cards; if you've mailed it to me, I still have it. I like the permenance of it; even if I've come to hate someone I will always, always, have that first slip of paper on which his or her phone number or e-mail was jotted down for me. I like to revel in the handwriting, where we were when it was written, what pockets and wallets and corners and books its been shoved into since.

The other traumatic thing is the absolutely unbelieveable quantity of food and cooking implements I posess. Emptying my kitchen cabinets is a nightmare; one that I'm currently working on. Its doubly hard and much like packing the bathroom; there's no knowing when I'll feel inspired to steam dumplings and need the bamboo-steaming-device. Or perhaps that I'll feel a dire need to crush instead of chop garlic and need the garlic press. I left out the rasp/lemon zester/tool-thing for just this reason; to need lemon zest and not have the device, oh the horror! I believe that the illustrious cataplum has a similar problem when packing his kitchen.

Books are so nice and easy to pack; perhaps that is why I have acquired so many. They don't break, they're in helpful shapes, and many types of boxes can accomodate them. The heaviness of them I will regret in about a week, but that can't be helped. Anyone doing anything July 8, 9, 10, 11? I could use your muscles, in a bad way.

My house is a maze of boxes; the cats are reasonably distressed. Any cozy feng-shui is ruined, shattered, by these tottering walls and castle ramparts crafted from carefully though seemingly haphazard stacks. I just know I've locked something in a box that I'll direly need in about two days' time. I didn't label them; why bother? I live in a studio now, though I'm moving to a one bedroom the suburban labeling "basement. kitchen. living room. upstairs closet. kids room." seems so superfluous. If I can't find it within two days of unpacking, it obviously wasn't that important anyway.

I like the vast quantities of negative energy that I'll be leaving behind in this house; the mold-spore ridden air and the cigarette-smoke-ridden plaster walls, the sloping floor, the plumbing on the fritz, the wiring and circuitry precariously dangerous, the flooding and pooling and watery joy of each and every rainstorm. I'll miss the porch, my neighbors, the porch, the back yard that isn't mine, the porch, the nice driveway parking spot, the porch and maybe sometimes the water pressure and copious quantities of hot water.

I look forward to the catdoor in the basement, having a basement for storage, having a living room and a dining space, having my own bedroom with a door, a bathtub, the permission to garden freely in the yard, the ability to actually host guests and have a couch, to possibility of separating all the minutiae of my personal life from public space. [Interested in my electric bill? It's hanging from the bathroom door, along with my bank statements.] Also the fact that it is in great repair and far from busy streets; the cat-children will be quite happy with that. There will also be the illustrious Don Gato and his new baby kitten to play with on a regular basis.

I have more boxes to fill; this exercise in not writing about what is actually on my mind isn't precisely a waste of words, but lacks the poetry of this slow progression into adulthood of actually having a house that my parents can visit, heaven forfend, where I could actually host a family party, god forbid, where I could have friends over to dinner and not seat them on my bed, to have doors! and partitions! so that I can foster cats from the shelter. It's exciting and terrifying; I need a room mate and don't have one; my one awesome possibility is copping out on me [she's too broke] and now I need to start looking again.

Maybe I'll make a flier: Love cats? Love food? Love books? Live with all three and me on the near West side! Or perhaps: If living with a forever full fridge, cute kitties, and a library constantly expanding interests you, please contact... Maybe even: Vodka and rice cream in the freezer; garden in back and kitties on the porch. Maybe we should be room mates.