The process of moving can be likened to an archaeological dig. I’ve uncovered many forgotten artifacts of times long past. Some of these point to interests I had that waxed and waned: basketball cards, skateboarder clothes, drawings of weapons inspired by a sci-fi radio drama, books with addresses and contact numbers for places to send short stories, floor plan design and 3D rendition printouts from an architecture software program I received for a birthday.

There were also pages of schoolwork, some with comments from the teacher. On the grading sheet of a report rough draft, they write “The last sentence is a let down.” I turn to the last page to read that I ended the biography with a statement of his date of death.

I found also a painfully touching paper on the subject of intimacy, receiving for a grade a check +.

Many of the things in my possession I neither want to bring with me nor throw away. Still, I managed to fill three landfill-destined garbage bags full of items that were at one time considered important enough to keep. It’s a liberating feeling, in the same way that people who have had their house burn down may feel liberated due to losing their physical possessions. Even the things I’m neither throwing away nor taking with me will have a greatly reduced capacity to drag on my conscience, by virtue of their being 360 miles away in Fairbanks.

I’m taking little with me. I’m leaving behind all my audio cds and vinyl records. I’m bringing my laptop, some clothes, a passport, a towel. When I find a place in Anchorage, the government will send me the larger items. I want both of my desks; one for work, the other for play. I want both of my mattresses, the smaller one that goes on top and takes comfort to a new plateau by forming a 4-inch wide ledge for the hand/forearm to rest on on top of the bottom one.