Moving is like childbirth in, perhaps, just one respect: the results tend to make the traumatic difficulty of the event itself fade in memory. I’m speaking out of school, of course, as one who’s only watched childbirth, so take that for the half-baked notion it probably is.
I’ve now moved 22 times in my life, and still I’d nearly forgotten just how horrible are the all-night packing marathon, the days of weary anticipation, the inevitable last-minute throwing of shoes into a box alongside motor oil and a copy of Ulysses.
Stuff, I’ve decided, is a curse. You need it, but how much of it? When is enough too much? (Right about now, it turns out, in my case.) There are necessities: food, books, records, a place to sit, lots of guitars. Give up having interests, and you’re all set: food, couch, TV, maybe a computer, one of those dual-beercan hats. But heaven help you if you decide you need tools, bicycles, weights, skis, a sailboard, paintings, any kind of “collection,” recording gear, and more than two of pretty much anything.
I may grow into the soil of my new locale. They may never get me out, unless I sell everything and start over.
Who knows? Maybe I’ll even get some sleep now.