Yet Another Instar

This place is monolithic. Everything has been decontextualized. It is a bacterium trying to live with one gene after another missing from its genome and heterochromatized into a cardboard UPS shipping box. Oh, I wish I had the time and resources to continue this game until every gene but the barest housekeeping functions is inactivated, but the moving trucks come Tuesday afternoon, and that is an hour and a half away in -I have baby to take care of- time. The new place is a cipher now. It is a few keys needing to be copied and have monkey labels applied to them. It is the reality of a crazy landlord and a wonderful walk to one of three coffeehouses in my future. All around me though, are projects I completed, thinking I would be able to enjoy their status as finished in something approximating my old age. This thought drove me to do them, but in hindsight, each one of them was an intellectual exercise akin to years spent writing poetry. These poems float across my field of vision every few hours or so, because packing means delving into hidden corners and finding memories stuffed away in corners, or mailed back to a person from their parents, in an attempt to clear their own corners. Why they do this, house-owning parents, I do not know, but I have carried stuff in my hidie holes for other people, and some of this stuff will be orphaned with the new tenants of this place. The thought of them changing their mind, and leaving me to pitch this place to the bank as -yet another forclosure story- is both liberating and terrifying. One one hand, my new status as overseer of this place is terrifying, on the other hand, it fascinates me. In what way would I become a crazy landlord. I can hear them, the moving trucks, the moth crawls out of the cocoon, the bee chews out of its brood cell and into an open sunny world. Yet another instar. Yet another.