Sunday, 2 January 2005


i'm moving house soon. (almost made it to one full year at the same address - short by a 3 weeks; so close!) (first time so long in one home in 3 or 4 years - since the 80s redbrick townhouse where we lived across from anne wills + her sunbed; glory days.)

And this time i can't take everything with me. I'm moving house and to a new job, and I'm winding up the underpaidslavelabor stuff they call freelancing. It's enjoyable to get rid of stuff - household and otherwise. But then there are my books.

I have been sifting, sorting, piling; flipping, skimming, remembering. Reading. Re-reading.

(piles in what was the study)
There are more than I thought. (thousands![grin])(tsk [frown]; vanity.)
And they are more than I thought. Beginnings, becomings. Worlds, selves.

They are, to me, 'Blood, that euphemism for what moves in us.' (A. Michaels). How to choose what to take, what to leave behind?

Maybe it doesn't matter. This has always seemed a little chilling, but maybe it's true: "It is the future we must look to," said Constance. "It is useless to pursue the past." "It is needless," said Audrey. "It will pursue us." (I. Compton-Burnett)

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