Las Cruces, New Mexico. March 3 2014.
I AM PACKING to leave my winter home today, but I seem always to be packing — and leaving — and packing again.
Here is the image that afflicts me, my friends. It may be illusory, yes, but it does not seem illusory:
I AM A NEW arrival in town. Hello, hello!
There are stairs and I am running up and down these stairs. They are the courtyard stairs to my apartment on an upper floor. I fly up and I fly down; I fly back and forth. I am loading boxes up the stairs, more and more of them and other objects and paraphernalia.
I run miles, perhaps, and once I have all my boxes inside the apartment, I catch my breath only for a moment. I break out a small computer from its case, I find its cables, its mouse, I open it and turn it on, I sit hurriedly down, I type a sentence. Then I rise. I turn the machine off, I fold its cables, I find its case. I thrust it in, I thrust in its manual and its mouse. I begin to run downstairs, my arms loaded with boxes. I run up and down, I run back and forth with my boxes and other objects and paraphernalia.
I’m leaving town today. Good-bye, good-bye!
Postscript: my British blogging friend, artist and poet Anne Corr, also travels between towns, I believe. She’ll know exactly what I mean here! (See Corr’s handmade nature cards and beautiful, uniquely-crafted booklets, with wooden covers, on the ETSY website.)