With a soundtrack by Billy Joel.

The only thing that displeases me more than people who don't keep appointments is moving.

I really, really dislike packing my life into tiny boxes. I hate it for the reason that I have too many things, and that I cannot decide which things should go in which box. It's very difficult for me to sort through my mass of commodities.

For the first time in my life, it's not just a question of choosing what to leave at my parents' house and what to take with me, but a question of what I should put in storage. Some of this is simple enough. For the three weeks that I'll be squatting at Mom and Dad's in the quiet hamlet of Crockett, I won't need my futon, my profusion of alcohol paraphernalia, my TV, DVD and VHS players, or the entertainment center on which they sit. I also won't need plates and dishes and toiletries. Those amenities are provided for me where I'm going.

There is, however, an extremely difficult choice in deciding what clothes to bring. I am a costume designer. I have an obscene amount of clothing. I rifle through my closet here and have already decided to purge it of a few things. I have rid myself almost completely of long skirts. But what do I see fit to lock in a shed for a month? Winter clothes are obvious. But there's really no need for me to bring home every dress, shirt, pair of pants, pair of shoes, skirt, top, or jacket I own. And the idea of limiting my clothing is really unsettling. I mean, the reason I have so much random crap is the following mentality: "This peice is really unique. And besides, you never know when you're going to need a bright teal 1950s-style diner waitress dress." You really just never know. This is mostly just a giant inconvenience in my eyes.

What really tears me up is knowing that I have to lock up all my books and journals and a good deal of my writing instruments in storage. I know I won't be using them when I go home, so I understand the necessity of this, but the idea of locking these things up, knowing that I won't be able to grab a book of the shelf and read or reference a poem in conversation, this is maddening. The quills, though, I could never bear to lock away in storage. Even more than some of my favorite clothes, these things I cannot have outside of my immediate care.

Not to mention how stark my room becomes when it is stripped of things. The room just looks . . . sad. Even hotel rooms put cheap art on the wall to give us the comfort of commodity. We all need a few decorations to brighten our sad lives.

My only comfort in all this packing is knowing that these things will not remain away from me for long. In July, I get a new apartment that will be so much less sad than this stale little room.