I am about to move...again. The horrible feeling has taken over, tonight actually. I have too much. I should get rid of stuff. But I can't. It makes me nauseous thinking about what I have to pack and it makes me nauseous thinking about getting rid of any or all of it (mostly books though). Someday, so the fantasy goes, I will have a huge house that I will never have to move from and that I can store my own library in. (Hence the fantasy part, as I'm sure you can readily see.) I think I know, deep in my heart of hearts, that this new place (which we are buying) is not _the_ place, but rather _a_ place. And as _a_ place, I rather like it. Not too big, not too small, capable of housing kids, hardwood floors (in one room anyway), etc. It is a five-year place, or something less if I decide that I want to go to Harvard for post-graduate school, or if Harvard decides that they want me for post-graduate school. Or something like that.

Hamlet had 'words, words, words,' and I have 'books, books, books.' And it's all so overwhelming. The desire to become a Zen Buddhist monk is never stronger than when moving. But alas, that too wouldn't work - what to do with the books? Last year, I made a goal to publish something before the end of the year. It worked. I was published, if only in a minor way by an associate, but it was a goal set and met. I need similar such goals. I wrote an excellent 12 pages of a new comic and am working on treatments for several more. But I'm also a burned out, yet thriving, teacher, and angst-filled new husband, a father-hopefully-soon-to-be, a nervous-and-worried son, and a poor friend to some amazing fellows who probably shouldn't put up with me (and may stop if they are rational). There's got to be a book in there somewhere, or at least a short-story, maybe even a poem (though my talents don't lie in that particular area).

Bon voyage Polly - ps: drink tea every morning and things will be alright.