now accepting applications for moving fairies

I'm looking around my apartment, at all the books, the dishes, the crap I've collected and stuffed into this tiny space.
I love to unpack, to be in new places. but I wish I could gather everything in a table cloth and carry it over my shoulder to my new home- shake out the cloth, and presto! be done with it. I've been sick with a stupid cold for the last five days, and it's making me do crazy things like go to bed early instead of starting to pack. maybe all the sleep I've been avoiding in the last few months is catching up with me at last.

I'm listening to an out of print Al Green recording someone taped for me years ago, and it's making me think of other lifetimes, other apartments, mysteries, infatuations, stories, dreams. I can't make sense of any of it.
Perfect time to reread some Samuel Beckett, maybe.

(Speaking of SB, I recently heard that he used to give Andre the Giant rides to school, because Andre was too big for the school bus, or something like that. the thought makes me teary-eyed, it's so perfect, beautiful, surreal.)

"And this evening again it seems to be working, I'm in my arms, I'm holding myself in my arms, without much tenderness, but faithfully, faithfully. Sleep now, as under that ancient lamp, all twined together, tired out with so much talking, so much listening, so much toil and play."
-Beckett, Texts for Nothing