Well, I'm in the middle of it. Moving, that is. The first part of moving which is the horrendous task of Packing. It's awful. It looks like a cyclone has moved through this apartment. A cyclone that's packed some boxes and then strewn everything else randomly about the room. My sister could barely stand to spend two nights here to help me out, she doesn't do chaos. I say I can handle the chaos if I have even a tiny corner of order: like keeping my bed free of junk so I can drop in the midst of chaos and take a nap, or the couch free so I can sit and watch tv when I've done enough packing for a bit.
Part of me has this desire to throw away more than ever actually makes the trash bags I've been filling. Who needs decorative items: Native American pottery or Chinese enamel or Blue Willow porcelain? Who needs 15 boxes of books and CD's? Who needs a stash of 10 boxes of yarn?
Who needs a jewelry armoire full of jewelry and several boxes of jewelry too ugly to sell & jewelry making supplies as well? Who needs boxes and boxes of knit and crochet patterns tucked away in magazine racks?
Apparently I do, and I have the boxes to prove it. But I can feel the specter of old age getting closer and I'm not sure whether I'll be glad or sad when it actually arrives and says "You're too old to be lugging all this crap around! Ditch it!".
I can't get myself to throw or give away books, unless they're total trash and I didn't connect with them in any meaningful way.
My sister was packing books for me, and she came across my coverless paperbacks of The Lord Of The Rings, one of which was from 1965, the others from '66 or '67
and I still remember it as the best Christmas present I ever received. She said, "You don't really want to keep coverless books do you?" and I said "Yes" without explaining. I have a sentimental attachment to those books, to those very copies. I have newer copies to read, but I have to keep the old ones, too, I just do. They were so important to me as a child.
More later. I have to go---pack.
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