I'm looking at the prospect of buying a place. It will make me a '1st home buyer'. It's difficult to overlook the allure of "buying" when the bank is offering me the world in dollar-value, given that I have some savings, and plus I've received a recent bump-up in pay. I'm thinking of different suburbs all the time. Sometimes Stanmore, then Kensington or Maroubra, but Eastlakes is good value too.
So that's more boxes, moving moving moving.
And at work, as I gaze over the supple, simmering abode of a much-loved performing arts library, where the late spring afternoon slowly draws amber rays of sun through the windows to the living library floor where patrons have left for the day, I know only too well that in a little more than a week's time the place will be carnage. There'll be butchers knives and saws and all kinds of walls will be knocked down, all to be built up again in different positions, like some perverse anxiety-dream game of Twister. Architectural contortionism.
Meanwhile, when the dust settles some 6 weeks away and all is looking like nothing ever happened, 30 square metres or so of Libraryland realestate will have been conquered over.
This is beyond my hands, except to origami archive boxes and store and pack and store and pack. Next week, with the help of a strong bunch of actor & production boys, we'll rip in hard and we'll get the job done. It's a major task to have this done in five days, to clear the space from either end of the library and to shift the large furniture - including a compactus - and all of their contents.
I feel weighed down. I'm looking forward to next Friday. After work I jump on a plane to Hobart for a few days to breathe in some fresh Tasmanian air, then fly back home to two weeks of holiday leave.
By then I won't be dreaming of work or the boxes, but I'll be dreaming of all the other things that sit heavily on my broadening shoulders.