Oh, just yer friendly neighbourhood antifa-run removals firm. A fully professional service at a fine price, with the added bonus of knowing you’re providing work to people who punch fascists. If you need to move house in Malmö, then seek out Frasses Fulflyttar on the Farceborks, and probably on other social stuff too. They come with my recommendation, for whatever that may be worth.
So, yeah: I’m in a new apartment now. Said apartment lacks internets at present, so I’m at the office, catching up on four days of email and letting the swivel-chair give my back a rest… I always forget how physical packing up your life can be.
Packing once more… a process made somewhat easier by not having unpacked much of it since the Big Move, four long and baffling months ago. Also made less traumatic by the fact that I’m moving less than a kilometer from my current location, to somewhere I can settle properly for at least a few years.
But nonetheless, bollocks to packing your life up into boxes. Too many memories of too many desperate short-notice moves back in the day, of never really unpacking because you knew you’d be loading it all into a friend’s old beater of a car or, at worst, a purloined shopping trolley for the repeated treks across Velcro City to the next temporary abode… those memories run deep. They shape who we are, what we do—for better and for worse.
Selah—the path runs on, and so shall I. It’s what I know.
It’s not news that if you successfully follow your heart, people who thirty years ago advised against it will reappear quietly but persistently at the edges of your career. Back then, all they wanted you to do was what someone else did. Thirty years later, all they want you to do is what you were doing then.
science fiction / social theory / infrastructural change / utopian narratology
