[This will be ongoing for the next few days]
1.
Listen to the Silver Jews in reverse--starting with the new albums (that you probably only listened to a few times anyway) and go back, back, back to the early, ramshackle stuff that was recorded on, basically, a glorified answering machine. This will ensure that when you've boxed up all your stuff and only the small, uncategorizable things are clouding the corners, you will feel like you did when you lived in Virginia--and you'll trust yourself because you trust that guy.
2.
Number 1, like all my sentences these days, are proposal for a life experiment.
3.
Keep saying the word adventure. You want to come out of this with a new definition for family life. With so many competing definitions, you have to learn how to unlearn swiftly and radically.
4.
Things to pack last (learned in unpacking): salt, coffee and coffee maker . . . [expand as needed]
5.
Push boxes. Run for 20 minutes as fast as you can. Order pizza. Push boxes. Eat it. Live of/in/by the body.
6.
Run out of steam as the boxes choke off your air. Give up this thing you couldn't make live. Try a new space in the morning.
7.
Topped . . . by . . . Rufus . . .
Sunday, August 2, 2009
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