Boxes upon Boxes

I'm moving soon.

I don't know when exactly. The house I am moving to is not vacant, and the family living there hasn't said exactly when they're leaving. Every day, I ask my realtor and my lawyer if there's a set date yet. Every day, the answer is vague. "Towards the end of the month." "You can be sure they'll be out of there by the first." Stuff like that.

Every day, the people moving into the apartment where I am now, (the new owners of the house) call to ask when I am leaving. I tell them I don't know yet. As soon as possible. That as soon as I know, I'll let them know.

I've moved a lot in the last eight years. From Boston to a farm in Vermont. From the farm to the house on the mountain. From that house to the West Village. From there to Tribeca. From Tribeca to an apartment in Jersey City. From the apartment to this house. And now to the new house.

Someone told me once that three moves is as good as a housefire. You get rid of all the stuff you've been carrying around-- the A++ book reports from Eighth Grade, the college text books you'll never look at again. It's true. I just through away the handouts from one of the most interesting classes I ever took. Figured I haven't looked at them in a decade. Why would I look at them now?

But the houses get bigger, so the furniture gets bigger. Which means the bookshelves get bigger. Which means...more books. And one thing about books: they're not light.

When my Uncle Arthur died, his sister Louise flew in from Oklahoma. His house was wall-to-wall books. (He hadn't moved in 50 years.) Louise looked at them, snorted, and said, "I always told him these things were nothing but dust-catchers."

While I was out of town, she sold all the books to a dealer for $300. He had a collection of first edition Hemingways. Heaven only knows what else. I've always regretted that I didn't get to go through the books before she got rid of them. But I just realized how many more books I would have if she hadn't done that, and in a way, that's a relief.

Anyway, I didn't want to post about books. I wanted to post about how, because I've become such an experienced mover, I decided I wasn't going to wait to the last minute to start packing. That I would pack a box or two a day as soon as I knew I was going to move. I thought that would be less stressful.

In a way, it is. And in another way, it isn't.

I am surrounded by boxes. It's surreal. I keep thinking that this would be a very good time to die, because it would be easy for my family just to call the bookdealer right now. And the furniture dealer. And -- well, that's about it, other than clothes in various shades of black and a couple of very eccentric dogs.

But it's strange to see cumbersomeness of possessions. I spend so much time wishing I had things: a Michelopoulos painting, a bust of Napoleon, better TV---- okay, well, that's it, really. Jesus. That's all I want? That should be easy enough.

Yet what I have is barricading me in. I can't stand to be at home because it's like being in the back room at a warehouse. Everything is encased in cardboard. Towers of boxes lurking ominously in corners. I catch them out of the corner of my eye-- actually, out of ANY angle of my eye, because wherever I look, there's another stack of boxes. And I want to yell, "WHAT???? What do you want from me?!!!!"

So it's just a different kind of stress. I guess there's no way around the stress of moving, however you box it up.

When this is over, I assure you, patient readers, scads of delicious, witty, well-written interesting prose. You'll say to yourselves-- "That Cupcake! Such a prolific and insightful girl! So very entertaining!"

You'll all link to me, mention me in your own posts. My readership will triple (somersaulting into the double digits!) and all will be well.

When we get to the promised land, that future where my new life will start, where I can unpack these boxes and begin again.