Tuesday, May 5, 2009


252 Pearl St. [my old apartment] at its most zen.

I am apparently not an adult.

Stuff I took with me when I moved out:
5 boxes of books [currently in storage]
2 boxes of sketchbooks/journals
1 box art supplies
laptop, speakers, extra monitor, 2 hard drives, ipod
2 Rubbermaid bins full of clothes
1 backpack + 1 bag of climbing gear
1 box of camping gear
2 towels, 1 set of sheets, 1 down comforter
furniture = 1 ikea table + 1 easel + 1 desk lamp
1 box 'kitchen supplies'
[cast iron skillet, coffee bean grinder, french press, coffee mug,
2 travel mugs, spice collection, 4 bottles of wine]
dishes/silverware/pots/pans = none

This is probably some sort of neuroses, but the process of packing, purging, and moving feels incredibly cathartic for me. It's almost as if moving officially signals the end of an experience....like now that I've moved out of my place, I am truly finished with architecture school at MIT.

I just have one sinking feeling...other than the extra letters after my name, I'm not sure how much life progress I've made in the last 5 years.
5 years ago: just finished school, opted for a few months in India over a 'normal job', then moved to an organic farming community in the middle of nowhere; stayed with my boyfriend and his roommate in Portland, where I worked at a flower shop and did a lot of rock climbing.
today: just finished school, opting for a few months in Israel over a 'normal job', moving to a kibbutz in the middle of nowhere; currently staying with my boyfriend and his roommate in Somerville where I'm working at a gym and doing a lot of rock climbing.


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