As of September 1st, I'll have moved four times in just over four months. I am becoming a pro at wrapping my most precious treasures in last week's newspapers and tucking them safely away in cardboard boxes borrowed from the local grocery store. I take great pride in making the most amount of possessions fit into the tiniest possible spaces. For me, packing has become an art form. A favourite game. A jigsaw puzzle of my life.
My newly acquired packing skills also carry some drawbacks with them as well. For one, it seems that my life spends half its time in transition, stacked in the backseat of a car, driving down a 400-series highway, moving from one house to the next, being unfolded only to be refolded again. And consequently, I've lacked ties to any one place for these past four months (or longer, if you really want to get specific). My high school bedroom has become a storage space (and a waiting room) for a bigger move. My current room was only ever half-unpacked because I knew another move waited around the corner. Bags and bags of favourite shirts and dresses are starting to collect on a boyfriend's bedroom shelf, which will only make the next move that much more tiring.
But (but but but but but!) in mere weeks, the neatly packed boxes waiting for me in three rooms across the GTA will finally come together again when I move into my new (and hopefully somewhat permanent) house. My most loved treasures will breathe a sigh of relief as I tear the tape off those cardboard boxes and set them safely around my room. Walt Whitman and Ernest Hemingway will find each other on my bookshelf. My closet will radiate 1960s glamour. My favourite boots will be lined up in a row, ready to conquer Fall '08. Bird necklaces will fly off my wall. Painting will occur because the room will feel like home. And New Order will be playing in the background.