For those who have been inquiring, I am, at the moment, about half moved in to my new home. Half of my books are currently piled on the floor in Hamilton, and the other half are packed away awaiting their removal this weekend — excepting my tiny collection of Jonson’s works, a few books I’m currently reading, or which I naively hope to read in the next four weeks, and a few with which, for one reason or another, I can’t bear to part, even for three weeks (yes, yes, I have an addiction).
I currently have about me my summer clothing, Hero and Leander, and four years’ worth of notes, articles, and papers to sort through (and dispose). And a number of boxes. This does not make for any sort of comfortable nor productive work environment (there have been long days at the library and various coffee dispensaries lately).
I’m pleased that I’ll soon have a furnished apartment. In the mean, I miss my shelved books. And my French press.
Here’s some pictures. Not many. Empty apartments are sorry-looking: