I hate moving.
The Bunker is my studio in Marin County. It's the size of a one-car garage, finished out nicely by the owner who originally wanted to lease it out as office space. A narrow staircase leads to a basement I use mostly as storage space. It is amazing how much junk a person can collect. I had no idea moving the contents of the Bunker was going to be such a hassle.
The idea of moving is never fun. It is well known that relocation is a top-three stresser for people, right along with death and taxes. So I know it's going to be a major headache.
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| The junk is piling up. I hate moving. |
The only saving grace behind a move is that it provides an opportunity to fill up a dumpster with unwanted junk. That tennis ball I saw in the parking lot, which I thought at the time would be a nice desk ornament, goes to the dumpster. The used artist stool, en plein air easel, and ugly second-hand frames are being tossed. The dozen large burlap coffee bean bags I collected from the coffee shop I will keep; they are like works of art, after all. I try to keep in check my tendency to collect junk. It's clearly not working.
To make the move easier I rented a small storage unit. Storage facilities are creepy. When you visit, it's like entering a mausoleum. Cool, quiet, calm, eerie. We all collect junk we will never use. I think most people are hoarders. They don't admit it. Like me, they hate moving, too. Storage units are junk magnets.
I'm glad I have the time. Moving is hell when you are under the pressure of having to meet a deadline. I have a three week window to get things done. Time is on my side for a change, if I don't waste it. Tomorrow I'll make another run to the storage unit and hope I have room for that old soccer ball I found while walking a trail in the foothills of Mount Tamalpais.
