I put this bookshelf and lamp out to be picked up by some friends who wanted them. (I went to get breakfast and returned to find them gone, so unfortunately, my friends will not be able to have them. I assume anyone who made a lunge for them and managed to wangle them away in the space of 25 minutes probably deserves them, though.)
Moving isn't the troubling issue, exactly... though this week's SBS Comedy article is called " ". Slightly exaggerated though those stresses are, I had it pretty easy. The storage place is just down the road from me, and I didn't have a huge amount of stuff to pack, because I don't have a huge amount of stuff in general.
Maybe it's some genetic memory from the jewish side, or maybe some buddhist upbringing, but it's always been philosophically important to me to be able to pack up fast - or just walk away from stuff. There's little in life that I couldn't leave without a pang - mum's banjo, a painting or two.
I think the unsettling feeling comes from a combination of things. Having packed up my room back in Sydney at the family home when I was there for Empire, this second packing feels like unhooking myself from some anchor points. I don't know if this feeling is a good or a bad one. It's unsettled and has a little bit of that stomach lurch of being at the top of the curl of a rollercoaster, but I'm not full of dread or despair.
I've moved countries twice . Moving from Sydney to Melbourne felt like a minor hassle, with less than a carload of gear (slightly but not significantly expanded over the last two years). But I've never moved to nowhere before.
Maybe that's it. I'm free-climbing for at least the next few months. But my whole job is a little bit like that, so why not my life.