I was master of all I surveyed, albeit what I was surveying consisted of two bedrooms, a bathroom, a living room and a kitchen. 907 square feet of living space positioned above a bar on Walnut. There’s also the hallway, but I wouldn’t necessarily call it living space.

The day before I and some friends moved all my stuff, or nearly all my stuff, from the old place into the new place. I was now surrounded by boxes, the contents of each vaguely categorized in black sharpie on the top flap. Admittedly, I had marked many of these myself, and later discovered that having the word “Kitchen” on the box was a level of detail insufficient to rouse any memory of what, specifically, might actually be in the box. Indeed, writing the word “Kitchen,” or “Bathroom,” or “Bedroom” on the box flap only ensured the box found its way to the kitchen or bedroom or bathroom.  This lack of detail also ensured that, in the end, it was up to me or others to explore the contents, remove those contents, and place them in appropriate receptacles somewhere outside of the box.  Somewhere outside of the box.  It was a process. An imperfect process.

Now, a day later, whilst laying in my old bed staring at the walls in my new bedroom, am randomly struck by how little artwork I actually possess, and wonder how much it’s going to cost to remedy that situation.  The twelve-foot ceilings allow for a lot of wall space and for some reason the walls look more bare with every box I unpack.  Perhaps that’s because, at least in my new bedroom, I’m down to the lowest level of the boxes, the ones that are actually sitting on the floor as opposed to the ones sitting on top of the ones actually sitting on the floor.  I imagine that, as I get to the lowest box, my eye is at some point forced to look upward, away from the previously stacked boxes, and this is when I notice…that I need more things to hang on walls.  The tall, white, empty walls.  Does Amazon sell tapestries?

Frighteningly, there’s a whole other bedroom filled with more boxes.  Boxes I haven’t touched except to find the litter scoop or a screwdriver.  It is my belief that I will, someday, be unpacking the last box, and that by then that box would have been closed for so long that I will have forgotten its contents, and be surprised, and hopefully pleased, by what’s been hiding inside of it.  Perhaps it will be full of items that I’ve already, by necessity, replaced, but I’m ninety percent positive that it will still contain a treasure or two, or three.  I’m ninety-three percent sure it will contain things I didn’t even know I possessed; things almost mystical for what they once meant to me.  And I’m one-hundred percent sure I’ll remember why I held onto those things, lugging them through one iteration of my life to the next.  I look forward to emptying that last box, if for no other reason than to reveal the floor beneath it.

It is also my belief that by the time that happens I will have lived in the new place long enough that it can no longer be considered the “new” place.  It will just be the place.  Or, more accurately, “my” place.  By then I will have had a party or two.  By then there will have been dinners, movies with popcorn, arguments over politics, doggie accidents to clean up, and naps on the couch.  And sex.  And love.  If I’m lucky.  All these things will permeate the walls and fill the space for me, and the artwork and tapestries I hang to break up the vast sea of white will become nothing more than a backdrop for everything else, a backdrop for what’s really important.  If I’m lucky.

Now, here in my old bed in my new room, the dog is asleep next to me and the ceiling fan is producing a pleasant, white noise.  The three of us seem content, especially the dog.  In this room I’ve got just two boxes left to unpack.  This does not have to happen now.  This doesn’t even have to happen tomorrow.  I’ve got time.  If I’m lucky.  For now I’ll take a cue from the dog.