A Moving Scene
There is nothing I find more moving in the world than actually picking up and moving. Because when you move, all your stuff gets wrapped in puckered cloth and tied up with miles of plastic tape. And suddenly it’s a fascinating work of art. You come to see that these are not movers clomping through your home, but conceptual artists, and you finally understand Cristo and wonder, hmmm, maybe he started out as a mover.
One thing I’ve learned about moving: lots of stuff gets boxed and then forgotten, until the next move. How do I know this? As it turns out, I’ve moved before. And I will admit that I’ve stood by and watched things get boxed even though I knew full well that I would never take these things out of their dark tombs, until it would be time to move again and therefore time to open the dusty box that arrived all those years ago to see if there’s anything inside of interest. Or simply have it moved again without bothering to look inside.
I’ve seen how boxed items can sit on a shelf for years, decades even, which someone is paying for. Not as a line item per se, but paid-for by virtue of the space that your boxed junk is occupying in a corner of your attic. That space may feel free, but it’s really not. According to a dry-cleaner I went to a few times, “Nothing is free!” The dry cleaner posted this sign because apparently someone had asked her to sew a button on a blouse, but didn’t expect to pay for it.
Well, before you know it, you’re dead and your kids have to hire a guy to come and dispose of all those precious 1940s commonplace wall sconces you were unwilling to part with so they can sell your old cranky house. And after opening boxes and looking at all the rubbish therein, everyone has a good laugh, even the junk removal dude. And then they start to weep bitterly because it turns out that you really were a pretty good guy.
There’s a bad novel in there somewhere.