Monday, July 09, 2007

The end of a house is always very much like its beginning. As structures of ordinarity, banality, and daily schedule collapse, you find yourself eating take-aways; sleeping in your sleeping bag; using your mobile phone rather than the landline; living from your rucksack. Temporariness sneaks in and settles; still not the temporariness of the new place, but rather of your precarity laid bare. The illusion which was maintained so many months - in salvaged posters on the wall, in morning porridge, in music played in the early hours - in laughter round a crammed dinner table - has left your home to go elsewhere. These moments of beginning/end, like opening a telescope, are rich and dense and startling. A richness which perhaps no one can bear. The space where you spent many nights and days is stripped of traces of you: they are all in a pile of suitcases, boxes, bags. Suddenly this room can be anyone's: it's previous owner or its unknown next. But know this: your fleeting presence will remain long after you'll be gone, like the voice of an Opera singer lingering in the concert hall decades after that celebrated night.

1 comment:

Hagar said...

at least i won't have to do it in the dark. but i have been out of the apartment for several days now. flaes again. (have you heard how the wars began, benjamine bowmaneer?) i have to go prick 'em all through their ears tomorrow morning, like the tailor did. i'm still scartching hard because of the old bites. as a matter of fact it gets harder by the day. and when i get there in the morning i'll have to get some new bites. i wish i'll die in my sleep. why must housemoves be so full of... ah. crisis. i mean that's so fucking lame.

k, bye.