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Friday March 15, 2002, 23:30

There is something of a novelty involved in sitting in bed with a laptop, with no wires to connect you to anything. This novelty will soon wear off to the realization that I am actually in bed, a place that is usually reserved for the more pleasant things in life (that is, sleeping and sex) and have corrupted the space with the quiet whirring of a business tool. Though one could imagine that this tool could be incorporated into one, if not both of the aforementioned pleasantries, the actual implementation of such I will leave as an exercise for the reader.

Ergonomics, too, or the lack thereof.

In the past several years, I've lived in an apartment with a roommate, an apartment that I only lived in four days out of the week, my own apartment, a sublet, and another apartment that I can call my own and in not one of these dwellings have I ever actually unpacked all of my stuff. At every inevitable move I will discover a box of posters or books or toys that was never unpacked and, incidentally, never missed. And every time I will pack it all back up again and move it on to the next house and every time, the same or a different box will remain packed, unmissed.

I discovered a box of dishes tonight. It is sitting behind the dining table and though I remember bringing it here, I've never actually had the desire to unpack them and now, as I prepare for yet another move (this one to be considered temporary as I will be returning to this, the very same apartment, when my time in London is up), I have absolutely no desire to do so.

There could be something said here for the temporary nature of my life up until this point, be it through school: neatly divided into year-long segments, or be it through my start-up job, which was never really going to last more than a year anyway. Returning to New York, I was determined to stick it out. To lay down what could ostensibly be called "roots" and to, well, finally unpack all of my stuff. And, once again, one year later, I find myself deciding which CDs I am going to need to bring with me since they're obviously not all going to fit and which, if any, books I am going to bring with me.

I suppose this one is a little bit different, this move is. I am moving in to an an already furnished situation, where I will be sharing a space with another person. I will unpack the moment I get there (the last time I was in a sublet I lived out of a suitcase for three months and was at a loss every time I had to find a new pair of socks -- I am determined not to let this happen again) and I will stow said suitcase until it is time for me to move again.

But then again, this is what I said last time, and we see how far that got me. Do I have some sort of fear of staying still? That to my mind, moving along is living and staying still is some sort of... and yet that's way too dramatic for my tastes. Instead I will suggest that, until this point, I was still running off and running off to find something new and that, being the impatient sort that I am, felt that if I could not find what I was looking for in my current situation (city, apartment, whatever) then I should up and move as life is too short to sit around waiting for something to happen.

So this time, I harbor no expectations. This move has a definite life-span, if things go according to plan. Plan. It's a simple plan, with an end-month, if not an actual date. At that date, I will return to this, the apartment where I have not completely, but have started to create a home for myself. A home for the long haul, I would like to believe. But there's the catch, you see? The catch is that these thing never go according to plan, and, in fact, the assumption that there is anything even remotely resembling a plan will in fact ensure that nothing like the plan will ever be realized.

And so I will be prepared for wherever life might take me. After all, if there's one thing that I've learned in the last couple of years, it's to always keep your suitcase close at hand.

You never know what life is going to throw at you.

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