We moved all this junk on the weekend, mostly because we suddenly bought a new house a week and a half ago and so suddenly had to have our old house clean and tidy.
Look Ma! A moving van full of what the home decorating industry calls "clutter." But which consists, I think, of all the things that make up a life: heaps of books, dog-eared and spine-split.
My high school English essays.
Picture frames that looked promising, once...
Except maybe for the George Foreman grill thing-y in the foreground, from my mum's buy-gifts-from-the-TV phase. Foolishly designed & hard to clean, it made it through three brunches and three post-brunch-clean-ups before it was tucked away.
[Why are you moving it at all, you ask? Because it is destined for a humdinger of a garage sale in the the spring, that's why...]
Flatteringly, the rental truck was wheezing louder than we were as we made our way the six blocks from the Spence Neighbourhood to Wolseley.
I've carefully NOT packed the notes on my sadly neglected manuscript, thankfully due at the end of December.
They (they being my unfailingly-supportive-writer-friends) say that this neglect will mean good things when I finally can stop living lightly in the old house (i.e. when it sells) and move into the new & newly-cluttered house. And can use my writing days, to, well, write.
I have also kept track of which box the books of poetry for December's poetry column in the WFP have gone into.
I also know where the lawyer/banker/insurance agent/real estate agent papers are. That's all.
More later! (And thanks to M. for letting me steal another image...it hasn't been the greatest six months for image-making, I hafta admit.)