Its a MOVING experience

There is something about the process of moving that bears proof to the human capacity to adapt.

Stage 1: Home
Here is a familiar setting. You look around to make a visual imprint in your memory of what your home looks like as you see it in all its familiarity for the last time.

Stage 2: Rupture
It takes exactly a couple of minutes for the all comfortable home to transform into the irreversible moving scene. Boxes, the ever so elusive tape and scissors that sneak off together at the first chance they get, clothes, PAPER, garbage and most importantly all those things you thought you could never live without but suddenly take on a dispensable appearance- the little box you though could be converted into a 'oh so cute' letter holder, the cool key chain in th shape of a football helmet that also doubled up as a bottle opener (I actually had one of these), the wrapper of the first candy you shared the special someone who is not so special anymore etc.etc.Chaos and disorganization are slowly sorted and packed in neat boxes and taped off. Oh the glorious sound of the tape being stretched taut over a well packed box brimmed with chunks of you life. And then of course the sinking feeling of 'did I pack that......' that warrants the undoing of the days labor in search of the small trinket that has been tucked into your purse all this while.

Stage 3: Dislocation
It is amazing how heavy a burden we carry throughout our lives and how much heavier they get as days go by. In my case my burdens comprised mostly of books and some throw away furniture. Hauling these through the streets and places that would separate you from all that is familiar, you find yourself at a new threshold. Empty walls welcome you sometimes with the telltale marks of previous homes dismantled. Suddenly all the chaos and disorganisation has found a new address. It sits perched at every empty space that you or (if you are rich) your movers found to stack them. You and your life's burdens have a roof again.

Stage 4: Home again.
I think it is the instinct for nesting. A restlessness creeps over as soon as the sweat has been cooled off by the noisy fan in the living room that you mean to talk to your landlord about. With renewed energy whose source remains a mystery to me, you find yourself creating order again from amidst the chaos. Imaginative visions that had appeared when you first saw the house are slowly realised with some successes and some disappointments as you find that the futon you so wanted in that corner does not fit in there at all, or that the 'great spot for the TV' is a room length away from the cable point. Familiar sights emerge from the many boxes and take on old places within new settings and you are home again as old stains and dust outlines fade on empty walls somewhere slowly becoming the unfamiliar again.

Writer blocked

Frankly this post is a guilt trip for not having posted for eons. I have often sat at my computer hands poised, thoughts rushing without a satisfactory syllable being produced. The backspace remains my most rubbed off key on the keyboard with the spacebar a close second. What do I write about? Hmm...a pertinent question but somehow one that never rose before.

What can be significant enough to put into coherent and entertaining language and share with the world? Initially it is an overwhelming flood of ideas that storm into the mind . But one by one the elimination process cuts down on most, not good enough, not funny enough, not defined, not cogent, not credible, not this, not that....not...not ...not. Obviously my life does not make for good anecdotes for anyone but me. The one's that do make it from the editing shears begin with great promise...a few catchy phrases, some charming sentences swirl around alluding to the glorious possibilities of the poised hand waiting to embark on a torrent of eloquence. But alas! Nothing, maybe a few squirts of jumbled words and then the hiccups and then the pen runs dry. With persistence I attempt again and this time with lesser success. Something inside has bottled up and there is the realisation: I don't want to talk about it, whatever it is. I do not want to articulate it, nor pin it up for the whole world to see. I feel naked as raw emotions gnaw at the unperturbed surface, the scab is being peeled at, the wound almost exposed, but it would take much more than a few well phrased posts to tide this storm that brews inside. It may take a whole book yet, but for now the ink is clotted ... the scab survives yet again.