Mar 24, 2006

a box for my brain

Boxes. They're useful. There're everywhere. Everything I own is either in or out of a box. That's how it is. If it's not already in a box, it should be. It will be. That is, if an item is not in a box, then I have failed. Because, whatever it is, it's supposed to be in a box. Believe me. There are boxes in every facet of my life. At work, everything I do requires a box to magically arrive. Then, later, when my work is done, whatever arrived in the box has to be repacked. By me. Unpacking. Repacking. Like that. All day. But these are happy work-related boxes. I like them. Though, sometimes, upon repacking work-related-boxes, I inadvertently bend or tear the top of a box. It's the folding over of the top of the box that gets tricky. Just go ahead, fold. One over the next. Four times. Like a flower. A square flower with four petals. Nice and neat. Mathematically sound. A really logical method for securing a box. I know. And I like the idea. But that last fold is a bitch. None the less, the only bad part of work-related boxes is the business at the end about folding up the top. So, I have boxes at work. And now I'm moving, so I have boxes at home. And we've been packing up my father's house. So, there's quite a few dad-related-boxes, too. They arrive steadily to my apartment. With a constancy that, though it's nice to have something to count on (like the sun rising) is seemingly without end (like outer space). The dad-related-boxes are never ending. The more we pack, the more there is. The more we do, the less we do. And dad-related-boxes are packed wholly without logic. In a manner that betrays that the people who packed them are both grieving and drunk. For this reason, dad-related-boxes may contain wildly diverse items. A blender. A loose deck of cards in a jar with a lightbulb. A plaid shirt. Erasers. A Holly Hobbie lunch box. Some crystal. Some crayons. Some bottles of lysterine. Some books thrown on top (the heavier items always placed lovingly on top of the lighter, more breakable items). Dad-related-boxes, apartment-related-boxes. They're all here, at my half packed up, box-centric, box of an apartment. In the beginning, I tried to unpack the dad-related-boxes. And I understand that I'm moving to another apartment in order to delay unpacking the dad-related-boxes. If not accommodate them. I also understand that there was a time when I would see something on my shelf, or at my dad's house, and not immediately think that it needed to go into a box. Certainly that will change.


  1. I tried soooooooooooooooo many times the other day to leave you comments on all your stories and the fact of the matter is.... I just can't get this darn Blogland thing to work with me. I miss you all the time.

  2. By the way where are you moving?

  3. I'm moving in with you.


    Actually, it's very nearby, where I'm moving (but it was fun *moving in with you* for that second, and everyone lives with you eventually, so I thought it's got to be my turn..) I can see where I'm moving from my window right now.

    I don't like to go too far. I kind of *dot* around The Republic of Wicker / United Union of the Park. Slowly towards the very perimeter. Of something.

    Because I can, Wink. Because I CAN.

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