Here is Scrap #1 of some of the exploratory writing I did at the beginning of the process:
The
front door opens onto a hallway, which leads to another hallway and another,
which leads into another, slightly smaller hallway and another, each a fractal
piece of the last. And the pattern continues with minor irregularities -
elevators and stairwells - channeling into smaller and smaller spaces until
finally all of it spills onto the parquet floor of my apartment.
And
The
first days I’m there I get lost a lot.
The
first years I’m there I get lost a lot.
I walk
in the front door, which creeks like an old man sitting down slowly, and I look
up into the hallway, up through the hallway towards the elevator doors – two
for twenty floors
The
floor is marble - black and white tiles - and just recently polished because I
shift my foot to adjust the load of moving boxes balanced against my hip and my
sneakers squeak against the step and I think the sound is going to echo up and
down the cavernous hallway but instead it’s stifled, swallowed up by the space,
instantly split apart into smaller and smaller bits until nothing remains.
The
boxes are heavy and my arms hurt and my chest is tight because I already know
that I have too many things too much junk to fit in my tiny studio and I’m
going to have to throw something away.
My arms
hurt and my chest is tight because I know already and I knew it before. I knew
it when I signed the lease and I knew it when I was packing and I knew it when
I was putting things in the car and I knew it when I was driving over and
parking and unloading
But I
couldn’t decide
I laid
everything out like a guillotine queue shuffling towards the big industrial
trash bags
But
instead I packed everything into boxes and hoped that neglect and attrition
would do the job I couldn’t.