The child of work marker should rest above where the lamp lives. She likes routine. She knows the lamp. The objects don't like movements outside the repetition.

The Movement of Articles From The Grandfather's House is another story altogether. There will be say, a leviathan, where migration becomes necessary and the movement begins, slowly at first and then becomes unstoppable.

'Twas a period of Great Discovery. This period where I could not well get around on my own. The left side desperately needed to turn in its entirety, 15 degrees to the right, but alas, 'twas not allowed. The whole body was like a fish laid out on the land, but too long to the time of the fish's last notion of preservation, which was to finally remain still or to give up; hopeless on both accounts. The body was like decrepit wood, knocked about long enough to look like a terrific beak.

The body was like that forest we used to visit when we were kids, summers two to eleven at the often cold, tippy-top of New York state; the petrified rock. That was the body. And the body was as the objects, rarely moved or reposed outside of necessity. And so when it did, when they did, the movement(s) were rather accumulated and grand and they carried with them the potential for great swells of emotion. (And memory too of course, for the old or even, original location and what may have been so perfect or disheartening about the adjoining time period.

There used to be a stuffed bear there on her bed, Babi's. What became of it? (That movement was a secret. That kind of movement is both easy and filled with betrayal.)

*****

It is never too late to be born again. That event is a movement unto itself. This kind of movement may bare a less supernatural seal, as it requires the body entirely, directing things in a new light, but a resemblance is there in that this kind of movement is made by choice, but only by those ready enough to choose it. You see me moving temporarily at a new gait. The expression remains the same, perhaps numbers specific to measurements and volumes have been changed. And for that, it is not a merely a notion or spirit shift, but without that math, it could all be a trick of the hands; costume jewelry.

I carry my bags differently not because of the measurements, but that is a secret to half of this street. And thus both need and reality are questioned and at bay.

*****

The water pipe that stands so perfectly still and tall, in the corner there, bares the shadow of the windowpanes; as does the wall beside this stoic pipe, bare the exact same map. So which is which. Neither move, neither appear round nor flat. And they will vanish at the same time when the outside light becomes day, but I will have slept through it and all I will know in the morning is a pipe and a wall and any shadow map will be merely a incomplete imagining of what I see now.

*****

The first boxes of objects to be moved-against their will perhaps, but perhaps not against a pre-arranged order-were the photographic archives. There was not a headcount before or after. I myself do not know to where they have been relocated; partially or as a whole; if this move is temporary or where their final resting place may be.

The trouble with the nature of their movement is that it is speculative. And the gap between what is witnessed, believed or mostly myth, leaves a terrific variation in the fate of these objects; different versions of the story.

Abstract.

I myself did not witness the movement and I was admittedly, too afraid to ask their whereabouts. I saw merely four piles of casualties; marking four years. Only three of them bound together, the fourth left vulnerable to careless movements or a series of movements. Perhaps by now for instance, one or two have been lost to the bottom of the sofa bed. At least if there are two, the objects are not alone. Or perhaps the history enclosed has its own eternal wholeness.

Not only was there a certain disappearing act of those objects, but their house was moved too. The trusty cabinet they lived in all these years-and I say, “these” instead of “those, because a third of them have been in my years-despite sagging doors and facial scars, was the home they had been given by their late owner. This object, the cabinet, despite all it’s responsibility to the other objects, it failed to keep them in the end, were it given a choice. But empty or not, it now lived in my house. It made a great journey movement of nineteen miles, only to be stuffed with new, unimportant objects. Do not forget the violence in being taken against one's will and displaced. A constant portrayal of history on its own, just setting there carrying on because that’s the only function it has ever known.

The late owner of all these objects made the most mysterious movement of all. As I prefer to describe it, she was moved when her body and soul moved apart, one as an object left over in a bed-that only knows departures-and one that is free to move about as it pleases now.

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