Last week seems so glamorous compared to this week. Last week we had the electrician in and the rustic farmhouse with trusted gardener in our headlights. This week we only have boxes.

Yesterday I scored two empty paper boxes at work. Today I took them, filled with books, to our storage unit. Every day I take a few boxes filled with books there. Every day I discover more books that I cannot bear to part with.

Thank god for books in my life. If you grow up a weirdo kid in the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas, pretty much your only choices are lots of books or lots of really hard drugs. By the time we were old enough to drive, legally or not, I started having friends who had killed themselves going ninety miles an hour over the edge of a mountain road, too fucked up to steer, too fucked up to care. Books got me out of that place alive.

But hauling them in boxes to the storage unit every day -- I have to admit that it is definitely not glamorous. The electrician will be back on Wednesday, though, so that will add a little spice to the week. We still have not heard more from the rental agent about the rustic farmhouse with trusted gardener. Ah, Italy!

I dreamed last night that Jonathan and I were trying to escape from some bad guys by flying away in an airplane made out of a cardboard box. It flew just fine, but we were having trouble fitting inside it -- not enough leg room. 

I think I am spending too much time with boxes.