Friday, April 22, 2005


number twenty

In the process of moving out and saying goodbye. 543 words.

[NC]—Oh man, I hurt. It’s that kind of thing where the outside hurt and the inside hurt sort of hold hands and complete some existential circuit of full ache. I finished moving most of my house yesterday. I mean, with the exception of the things in the fridge, a plant, and a whole lot of garbage, everything has been loaded up into mom’s car and sent off to storage at her house. Everything else is slowly getting rammed into a menagerie of luggage to be hauled along with us on our long trek to the Mexican border. What is laying around me now are just the odds and ends: pillows and blankets, some pens, a toolbox, and other stuff that might or might not make it into the final cut.

Already, I am giving away things that I saved because I wanted to have them, not eventually, but right now. Things like my desk lamp, my clothes hangers, and this giant box of discontinued Kinko’s paper are all going to the first person who will take them, or the garbage, and any inner protest regarding the loss of things I love just gets swept up in that full ache.

It is hard to leave; again, in the inner and the outer sense. Tom showed up yesterday to help move what felt like two tons of cinder blocks and a desk to the back of, luckily, a two-ton truck. Nix was here the whole time taking pictures of the art that we have been drawing on the wall for years now. On the outside, I scraped and pounded myself (and Tom), heaving solid mass down the stairs and out the door, baked in the sunny day; and us both just already tired from a world of work this month. On the inside, Nix clicked away at an unfinished—but striking, still—art project that I thought I was going to get to enjoy for years; working with the certain knowledge that it would be painted over by the landlord once I’d vacated the premises. This inside feeling compounds in proportion to the things I take outside. I look around and every moment my home of the last, what, eight years or more, is wasting away to an unlived-in and vacant husk.

It’s hard, I see. I reassure myself that I take all of the great times and things with me in my little menagerie of mental luggage as memories, but the whole world of breaking down and shipping out is hammered home in this one moment when my pains align. While I have all along realized that it was gonna be tough and emotional to leave behind all of my friends, I forgot to prepare for seeing my home empty, undone, waiting for the last few blows to render it some landscape alien from the setting of all those things that happened here.

So, on the outside, I can put on a band-aid, and start hauling pretty good things to the side of the road. Phil, who buys me dinner and distracts me, helps me with this stuff that remains. Inside, Anne is sweeping up the last things before I leave, and I feel very little besides this even kind of hurt.

Quiet Reading Room

This is a quiet reading room. Often, I find it is uncomfortable to digest long tubes of columned text directly off a computer screen. This journal is dedicated to the collection, percolation, and ultimate integration of my personal experiences. Subjects that I want to examine and then talk about--sometimes talk a lot about--€”are presented here. This central content can tend to thousands of words, maybe millions. I was afraid that readers were leaving the presentation boggled, spinning, googly-eyed. Or perhaps when confronted with twenty-four inches, or yards, of monitor sprawl they were just giving up. I am not even certain that I have necessarily solved this inevitable content problem of modern information enjoyment, but here is what I have done.

After long and highly scientific routines manipulating double-blind control- and test-subjects, peer reviewed journal publications, and hours and hours of hands-on experimentation, I have crafted this quiet reading room. There is no scientific way to control the length of the articles I write, but careful handling can somewhat soothe the contextual presentation. In other words: I have dropped the traditional speculation about lexicon, and attacked the question of the matrix itself instead. Brilliant. After years of diligence what I eventually crafted is this reading room.

The walls are contoured to relax instead of constrain; the paper is made to soften instead of reflect. The light is dimmed--just so--€”to prevent strain, angled to prevent umbra, and color-coded to soften harsh red lights and deepen wimpy light reds. There is nothing I can do to control aural environment, but my recommendation is that it should be kept quiet. About ambient sound: these entries are probably best read as far as possible from emergency vehicles, preferably from beneath the muffler of a vintage fire fighter pilot's scarf, puffy old duvet, or snow that is still falling.

My theory is that the wide web world is filled with potent and material opportunities that are just too difficult to digest for many people to take part. Enjoyment of this stuff is regulated to the routines of crawlers and robots at the peril of humankind's peaceful future survival. In an attempt to delay this likely outcome: welcome to this quiet reading room. It is for people like you to relax, kick back, and hate my content for better reasons than the dizzying vertiginous specter of its lousy dpi presentation.

Return to Previously

About Mr. Cavin