Moving, Day the First
As anyone who has done it recently knows, moving sucks hard. Imagine the thing that sucks hardest in the world--a lamprey porn star who needs to make the rent--and multiply that by ten, a hundred, a thousand, and you have moving in the dead of the south Florida summer.
We moved today. And we will move tomorrow. And we'll probably keep moving in some fashion or another for the next six months or so, because that's how long it takes to get enough boxes unpacked that you'll say you're done even though you've left that box of high school yearbooks you've carted around for the last 20 years unpacked, just as you have the last five times you've moved, when you've come to the realization that there really is nothing glorious about Renèe's brace-laden grin and spiky blonde hair with brown roots, or about the fact that after 17 shots at Olan Mills, you still looked like a dorky teenager because you were, in fact, a dorky teenager.
I will move that box around with me until it crumbles, and when it crumbles, I will place it, whole, into another, slightly larger box, and continue to carry it around with me, because it contains the nametag from the last food service job I worked, the first poem I ever had published (in my high school magazine), cassette tapes of my radio show--the Blues Excursion with Big Poppa Love Monkey--even though I don't have a cassette player anymore, dice, letters from my mother which I occasionally mine for poetic content, razor blades, a deck of cards which may or may not be complete.
On the plus side of this move, our internet service was transferred just as ordered, the electricity only required that we hit a switch in the main breaker room, and while we have not met all the neighbors yet, the ones we have met have been cordial to friendly. We have not even begun to unpack the boxes and boxes of books--the other thing that writers never abandon, no matter the expense. We'll leave behind heirlooms before we leave behind our signed copies of poetry by people we don't even like, but who we saw read in graduate school and felt obligated to support.
Tomorrow will be mostly cleaning and grabbing the last objects from the last place, with both of us likely limping from the chafed thighs we earned today by sweating through our shorts and loading box upon box into a massive U-Haul, and then into our new home, where they wait, expectant, to be arranged and rearranged until the next move, which will suck hard, hard as that lamprey short a few bucks for the week's rent.