here i am with my holographic priestess, resonating the holy weed, divinity and gracious salvation. she says in her exotic accent, 'surrender to the boxes,' but she say's it like she means it. so i try to.
'fucking boxes' i whisper in a defiant act of weakness, looking across the chaos of mission control, my beautiful floors, spilling over with towers of books, my wonderful bookcases buckle with the weight of a million stories, you see i could just have seven kindles and moving home would be painless. such a thought is sacrilegious to me, it frightens me, neurotic beast that i am, i slouch towards the boxes, unfolding a crisp fresh one and expanding it into it's form. the three dimensional space that my storage needs require. 
all my life i have been haunted by boxes, i hate them, they are associated with my movements, sudden relocations and change, horrific relationships ending, cosmic jokers pulling my strings but they also remind me of a promise i broke.
about 11 years ago i visited my grandmother in london, it would be the last time i ever saw her. she was a lovely person, a generousness beautiful wise woman whom i really never appreciated because i was stupid with youth and arrogance. i loved her very much, her and her gentle ways, i loved it when my son met her for the first time as a four year old, they sat and played scrabble very seriously together and i looked upon them sanding in the kitchen leaning against the doorway and knew they had been very old friends. yes, yes i know you are bored with my ideas about past lives and reincarnation but that's the truth, it's what i believe and know, deep in my bones and heart. it was striking to watch them play like two elegant masters who meet every tuesday for a sacred game and to discuss some solemn abstraction.
anyway later my grandmother showed me her address book, it was fat and falling apart, wads of papers spilling out swollen with ancient pages and handwritten scrawled notes. she showed me about 15 pages where my name was and the addresses i had held while travelling the world and eventually living in australia, i looked through them, even i was shocked. but the point is my poor old grandmother was sending me a few pounds every birthday, christmas and money to buy my son something, tucked away in a greeting card along with recipes and her stories about her past and i was not getting the letters because i was changing address so often.
she made me promise that i never move so i can receive her letters and i agreed. the cash was just small amounts from her measly pension, it was more the thought of a little sweet old lady sending me this stuff religiously and me not even knowing. it broke my heart that this was occurring and i didn't even know.
so we return to palm beach, sydney where i lived in a brilliant pad on the beach, only to find amongst the letters a notice from my landlord evicting me as the building was about to be pulled down. and because i'd been away for so long i'd found myself with one week to move. 
so i moved into my place, mission control, and i wrote to my grandmother telling her i had to move, only that night i received a phone call from my parents telling me she had died.
i'd broken my promise to her, that was all i could think off, how ironic, how typical that the universe play this trick upon me. anyway i have lived in mission control for 10 years, and now i am moving, surrounded by boxes again, trying hard to love it, trying hard to accept that boxes are a part of the whole experience and failing.