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Sending Things, Finding Things

I've cleaned out my room fairly well, by which I mean I've sorted the contents of boxes into things I want to keep, things I want sent, things that can go elsewhere, and garbage.

It's probably going to be time, tomorrow, to sort the things that I want sent into categories and priorities and so forth, getting them packaged up, getting them sent out.

I have some more bowls to bring home, some slightly-bubbly lovely blue bird bowls that are unsellable because the clay decided to boil ever so little. Damaged goods, to the professional eye, but useful and pretty still to the uncritical. The potter's house gets the cracked pots, and the doctor's children have diabetes.

I still have books to sort through to have sent. I know I want to have some of them with me, but I have to pick so very carefully -- there's so little room in my room in Arizona for more books! I want all my library with me, I so very much do, but I'll have to settle for only a fraction of it. Mama said that I must have a ton of books. I commented that perhaps not -- if my average book weighs a pound, I still only have around just over a thousand books.

I want a bar code scanner and library software, to sort my books. How do I ever want that! The longing grows more intense (yet without motivation, still) when I regard my bedroom shelves and the unsorted richness upon them. Many of them are in alphabetical order. Many are not.

I have clothing to pad the corners. I have beads. I have pottery. I have Junque. I have sleeping bags. I have to figure out how I'm going to get all the stuff I want to take back into one bag and the backpack so I'll be able to manage the bus gracefully.

Tomorrow will definitely be sorting things to send. I've gotten into the papers, now, and that means it's time to stop sorting the room and start sorting the things that have been sorted out of the room.

And Mama was right. She couldn't find the opaque projector I know I had, and I couldn't either.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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