My home is going, Dave. I can feel it.
I have lived here for almost twenty years, longer than anywhere else, even my childhood home, and now I must move.
When my mother first saw my apartment she told me I should leave at once; it was so damp I’d get sick. But I didn’t. It was home.
Leaving would not be so bad, perhaps, if I could move my things from one home to the next, but my new home isn’t ready yet and all my stuff must go to storage.
Every day I move a little bit more into an inhuman warehouse.
I don’t live here any more
I suppose that is a good idea, but now the denuded apartment feels very unfriendly. It isn’t a home any more.
It feels that I’m slowly tearing up my life and replacing it with — well — nothing.
First the books went. Books are easy to pack, nice sturdy rectangular blocks, so a good way to start. Then the pottery, pottery is more trying, each piece must be individually wrapped to avoid breakage. I have a lot of pots.
Each object is examined and evaluated. Is this worth keeping? Would Goodwill like it? Dare I give that to the Empty Bowl or is it too ugly? Can I recycle it?
Some pieces have memories. She gave that to me. Should I keep it even if I never use it just to remember her? Do I want to remember her?
I feel I am evaluating my past, my life.
I search for an ounce of meaning in the hundredweights of boxes I have packed. I have no accomplishments of value, no children, no lover. The world is doomed by climate change and the gospel truth is a lie. Camus said to laugh at meaning and claimed to be satisfied by “cries of hate”, but I haven’t his fortitude. Voltaire tells me it is necessary to pack my boxes, and that I can do.
If I have regrets, then I’m not working hard enough, I suppose.