Well it's not like I'm going off to die, but it's sure emotionally taxing doing all the things necessary for the big move.  I'm finally starting to move junk out.  Some of it I'm outright giving away.  Other of it, those things which I think have a higher value, I'm selling to individuals or pawn shops for flat out cash.  I'm desperately trying to limit what I'm taking to one bin, one luggage of clothing, two smaller bins, and a filing cabinet.  All of this sorta kinda will fit neatly into my car (see picture of model).  Everything else, well, veep!

This is how the car will be packed.  Container-style methodology.

It's an emotional process.  I've accumulated videotapes and pictures of family and friends; creative output such as comics, essays, and other writings;  testaments to incredible accomplishments, general correspondence, undelivered love letters, undelivered crazy love letters (which I prefer to think of as passionate since they never actually led to charges, thank goodness), trinkets; and, buckets and buckets of technical stuff like connectors, wires, webcams, and so on.  Holy cow what a mess.  I'm sorting all of this out and have to determine what among it all will pass on to the "take bin", and what of it will go to the other bin.  It's a sentimental journey of consideration - cuz a lot of that stuff defines me to this very day.  It's not a great thing to have to pick and choose among such tokens, especially when you get right down to it and know that, for all practical purposes of space, none of it should go. 

One thing I will have, for as long as I can pay for it, is a connection to the web via laptop.  I traded in a new PC for a new low-end laptop.

Technology defines me, too.  And it's the scariest thing in the world to be letting go of stuff that I know I will not be readily in position to own outright again for up to several years from now - maybe.    When I give up my DVD player for 20 bucks this month, I'm giving it up for good.  In no time soon do I see being able to trot on into a Best Buy and slamming down 50 bucks for another one.   

Set to Reset?

In effect, I'm rebuilding life from scratch in just the attempted move.  Whether this works out in the long run or not, nearly everything I've accumulated over two decades is going.  I have to observe, the parallels between beginning life here in Florida as I did in the late 80s, and beginning life in NYC as I will now, are brow raising.  The common tract goes along something like:  Stay with relatives (check), get a job (pending, but looking good - get a crappy one if necessary to get money rolling in), get out to what will, at first, probably be a really weird living arrangement (even when I get a job, a bonafide apartment is still three to five years off given what must be thousands of dollars on hand to put down, no prospects for a co-signers on a lease, and, a personal bankruptcy on record.  Therefore my first "place" beyond my launching hosts will, in fact, likely be a "weird situation" - boarding or something.  If NYC is filled with anything, it's weird situations). 

That's how it all played out when I came to Florida and thus it appears poised to play out up there. I rather look at this as a game I played once to learn, and, now, will play smart to win.

Maybe I'd Better Take Karate Lessons

That peppy sentiment aside, I'm trying not to think about what happens if nothing happens.  Nothing as defined by, say, two months and I'm still ascared of boarding a subway on my own or I don't even have a blip of a start date (my aunt wisely considers that I might even hate the city, though I'd have to lift my head from the battle of survival long enough to notice).  In this case I have a sum of money in my head that I figure I'll need to reserve for a bus ticket to someplace else.  The Consumerist article would coach against this because the mindset is no retreat, but I have my dignity and the comfort of my hosts to consider.  The what-ifs, therefore, are terrifying but motivating.  I suppose the idea of being a "wanderer" is kinda cool, like Jewels was thinking about near the end of Pulp Fiction when he declares he's going to "wander the earth".  But that's only noble if you know karate and you're always encountering some smoking chick who needs your help against her evil landlord/boss/ex/crazy in-laws, or whatever.  As Vincent retorts to him, something like that is really more about being a bum.   And, in any event, I'm the kind of guy that really needs a home base even if I porcupine out in various jaunts. For better or for worse, that's how I'm setting up NYC.  I guess I'm going to have to use the fear.

Somebody let me know when it's safe to open my eyes!