Ptitchitza u niskom letu

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust

I've moved about thirty time in my life so far, mostly in my own hometown of Zagreb, Croatia. I was eager to move out from my mother's place as soon as I could.

It was even fun in the beginning, when I wasn't bringing along all my stuff, but it soon became rather tireing exercise. It became a disgusting thing to do for me some years ago, because it would force me to re-inventorise my life, and because I could never really "expand" and customise (somebody else's rented) space to me, I had to customise my life in some aspects to the space available and its inherent restrictions.

We change. We carry memories, and there's always that poison called Nostalgia. We -- my generation(s) -- have even more things to be nostalgic about, because of all the shit the war brought.

I have a home in Rotterdam (however I feel about it now, battered and weakened and alone, it is a home), and I still can count on the one in Zagreb. How I started packing without getting physically sick of it is that I made it a challenge to get rid of, to throw away or give away as much stuff as I can.

I'm separating things into two groups: the ones I will tow to Zagreb because I may need them or I may want to need them, and the other ones that I will keep here. I have about two minute attention span in dealing with any one group of things, be it books, records, documentation, printed matter, etc etc, but I move from one heap of shit to another so some progress is being made...