John Walker's Electronic House

by on Aug.13, 2004, under The Rest

I have so much stuff.

Just stupid amounts of stuff. My completely wonderful mum came down today to help shift a couple of giant middle class people carrier loads of stuff to Jonty’s flat. (I’m not ready to say “my flat” yet. I think it will take my computer being located there before I can say that). And finally I appear to have made some sort of dent into the stuff volumes.

It was mightily depressing, shifting across about 900 boxes of DVDs, CDs and books with Jonty the other day, to come home and find it didn’t look any different. At least the removal of some serious furniture gives me some visual victory. Of course, it also causes my lounge to look mortally wounded, gutted, weirdly barren. A lived in space has a sense of life, and I’m taking that away, bit by bit… Oh no, I’m murdering my flat.

Of course, I’m also creating some life at the same time – but it isn’t the same. Moving into an already alive flat, it’s not the same as creating a new life from scratch. It’s not unworthy work, however. Chrissy gave the place a near-lethal garrotting as she left, ripping out vital items of furniture and electrical equipment, leaving it bleeding and weak. Jonty can only do so much, his patching of the wounds holding the place together, but it’s no long-term solution. The life stolen from my current home can go towards saving the new place. Wow, it’s kinda beautiful. Sniff. I think, somehow, it’s all going to be ok.

If only I could stop procrastinating, faffing around, and actually get on with this packing. At least now, while I’m piddling around reloading websites that I know won’t have changed their contents since the last time I reloaded four seconds ago, I can allow myself the thought that for, at that time at least, I’m not murdering anything.

flat death

Oh no, but that means I’m instead like some sort of sicko crazy serial killer, who likes to draw out the murder of his victim, finding solace in ensuring that the grizzly destruction of life lasts as long as possible. I don’t want to be him! Make it all go away, I don’t want this any more!

[clicks heels]

There’s no place like home! There’s no place like h…

Oh no. Sinister new interpretation of the phrase.

Spiralling downwards.

Or if we’re more honest, writing lots and lots of complete rubbish instead of sorting out the mountain of rubbish all around me.

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