I wonder if moving can really fail to be an emotional experience. Even if you're not being kicked out, you have to cycle through all your stuff, the artifacts of experience and memory, lots of things you meant to save and a few you didn't. Most of the worst shocks, hangovers from The Bad Relationship of 2000-2002, passed when I moved here in 2003. I had a relatively fresh start in coming here. I just opened a journal from that time, for the first time in years, bearing not only a psychotically skewed chronicle of the painful bits--so lacking in boundaries and resolve it hurts--but also the simultaneous descriptions of being unemployed, and of traveling in Mexico. It also hurts to read my own handwriting for any length of time: very harsh on the eyes.

I'm probably going to use movers rather than calling in all my Moving Karma (accrued by helping people move). JD's guessing it's just an additional $89 or so, since the truck just has to go a half-mile away from the final destination. Maybe I can convert the Moving Karma to dinner or frequent-flyer miles or something. It's a small fee for a big convenience, and besides which, most of my friends seem to have back or muscle problems these days, so they'd have even less fun moving my 200-pound metal shear. (I'm a little nervous about where all my garage and workshop stuff is gonna go. I may sell the shear, since I don't use it and I should be able to find another one, though I really want a chopsaw with a cutoff blade anyway; but other things, like my drill press and bench grinders, I'm keeping, and don't know if there's really room for an indoor workbench or what.)

Life is good.