There are five men. It feels like a battallion.
The sounds. The tape coming off the roll makes a noise like skin being ripped from flesh. The beating of cardboard boxes as they’re set up is like drums against my bones. The drill runs constantly, pulling the screws from the walls, the artwork shunted aside.
The intricate wall hangings from Pakistan fall with silent screams. I don’t want them in boxes! It’s like shutting up a person alive in a coffin! They have souls, these tapestries, the fingers of the women who stitched them for weeks and weeks. They should never ever be in the dark.
I rescue one and sneak it into the pile for shipment to Dili.
And the books – it feels worse than burning them. For all they mean to me, and to Tom – our intellectual life, and our life together. After only a year to breathe, again they will be in storage.
A few days ago I found myself thinking that I would rather just throw it all out the window than to see my things all made prisoners once more. It seems better to have nothing than to go through this process of assembly and disassembly over and over again.
The speed at which the movers pack terrifies me. It is demonic. They work like robots – efficient, unsmiling, at a steady pace – but fast, so fast. In a little more than two days, they will take apart an apartment that took us months to get into shape Continue reading