it’s late, and i’m packing again, this time, alone. no other person there to nag, to argue, perhaps we should get rid of this, etc etc. tonight it’s my DVDs and CDs, the few that survived the digital purges of the last decade. the Criterion Collections, mostly, and the albums of bands of friends and acquaintances.
i start poking through The Double Life of Veronique. i bought the Criterion Collection when i was still living in Massachusetts, and i’ve watched it a number of times since then but never delved into the copious extras. i thumb through the booklet and start to read the lengthy critical essay in it before i realize i’m simply not up to it right now. TL; DR.
it’s the last thing to go in this particular box, right on top, and i briefly consider switching its position with one of my less precious DVDs. The Royal Tenenbaums, maybe. i remember wear and tear of previous moves on my possessions and really don’t want anything to happen to its delicate, still crisp packaging.
i remember buying it at Newbury Comics, probably on a Friday night, in the suburbs of Boston, in that first heady year of love that even the disappointment of everything that came after can’t dim. i was so fucking happy just to be going to a stupid strip mall and browse DVDs. that brief window of time when grocery shopping, when going to mechanic, all that stupid every day stuff, was just absolutely the greatest thing.
i carefully wrapped The Double Life of Veronique in two sheets of paper towel before laying it in the box and closing it up. i wondered when i would see it again. who i would be. where i would be. would i open the box in my new house, the house i bought like a grown up, and see it, and remember this night of raw, live, open nerves.
i hope not.