Boxes, Boxes, Boxes, Boxes...
Ah, so here I am at New House (where the furnace is broken--ack!), pausing. I came here yesterday to help my Oma and Opa move in, so now the house is full with yet more boxes and partially disassembled furniture. I must say, I am tired of boxes. Boxes should really unpack themselves.
I have been unpacking a lot of my stuff--books, mostly. That was actually fun. I felt like I was getting presents, discovering books that I loved in these boxes. "Octavia Butler books!" I shouted. "
Bel Canto!
Mockingbird! Ooh, look at all these anthologies!" And it's lovely to see them all arranged on their shelves--and to have a new bookcase, so that they all have shelves for the first time ever. I love looking at the spines of books, all the different colours and fonts, the names of authors and stories. They make me feel grounded.
Now if someone would just like to take care of those boxes labelled "Miscellaneous" and "Everything else" and "Random crap," that'd be great. I know what's in those boxes--I put the stuff there, after all--and it makes me afraid. Very afraid. So maybe I'll just go unpack my Oma's books instead...
I'm also pondering what sort of course I need to create for myself. Something interesting and enjoyable, something smart. Something doable. I'm actually thinking about doing something on YA novels, simply because one of the professors that I liked and who liked me (and who gave me excellent marks) specializes in children's literature. YA fantasy novels, perhaps? Hmm.
