My daughter and I are moving at the end of the month and I must say that trying to pack while supervising this incorrigible Supreme Court and the nation's immigration laws and, next, its entire healthcare system, all the while keeping track of Mitt Romney's stunning ineptitude, is, well, a bit much.
We're moving only a few blocks away--going downmarket, I think they call it--and I've organized our coming, short migration with remarkable efficiency, if I don't say so myself. Nonetheless I feel much like G.K. Chesterton in his magnificent essay on the moving experience, in which he's in a chair, at a table, and all around him strange burly men are systematically emptying his environment of material familiarity until, finally, you got it, they remove the table and chair, too. I'm nearly there myself.
Alas, Mr. Chesterton was wittier in his animated description of this dreadful business of moving, and though he brooded mightily over the decline of Western Christendom, at least he didn't have the U.S. Supreme Court and his nation's very survival to fret about, now did he.
I must go. An empty 16"x16" cardboard box is summoning me.