Moving and Removing

February 25: We're moving out again, my husband and I. It's past midnight, the pick-up truck arrives tomorrow dawn but we're barely halfway through with packing up stuff. We should be panicking by now but for some reason, are going through our chores breezily while listening in random rotation to a whimsical mess of New Wave, J-Pop, progressive rock, Aimee Mann, and whateverelseisonthemp3player and editing work-related stuff in between.

Times like these remind me of the time when I was a kid, when my little nuclear family would change houses and neighborhoods every other year or so. It was because of this that I came to associate my childhood past not really with a single location, but with a litany of sites and journeys and people I've met across the way. That, and lots of cardboard boxes and packing tape.

It's a busy week ahead, the calm before another monsoon. But temporary solace surprisingly resides in strange comforts. I wish I could suspend and extend these crazy, transitory spells of time where, ironically, all things are again simple and clean and quiet, when one world ends where another begins.