My life in boxes

As I unpack my boxes in my new home, I have been rediscovering records bought in soho shops that no longer exist. The contents of these boxes are shadows of a former analogue life, leaving an imprint like the shadows left on the wall when I removed my paintings. I like turning over the books and records, the memories marked over them - the ring from a coffee cup (i confess when at uni the books mostly served as coffee mats rather than actual reading material), or the sticky residue on a record from djing under a damp tunnel. But I wipe them clean and place them on the new shelves ready for some new memories to accumulate.

What will digital memories look like? A scuffed phone? A scratched laptop?

I'm trying not to feel nostalgic for my beloved flat with the Rear Window view of a beautiful 1930s block full of hard working architects. Over the many years, I would never tire of watching, imagining what their stories and dreams were. The lone guy working until 2am night after night. Did he have a love at home waiting for him or was work his whole life? Was he working late so he could write his future booker prize winning novel in peace? When two would work late together I'd imagine their slow build up to falling in love. And when a pizza delivery came at 7pm I knew that meant they had a deadline for the next day. I wonder if they ever wondered back, and watched the mini tv sets opposite them. Did they see my stomach gradually swell in profile and then the blurry feeds in the middle of the night? As I packed up my last box I paused and thought about walking over and blurting out a goodbye, but realised they would just look at me like i was a mad woman. After all, best not to burst the bubble, best to keep it as it was, a dreaming urban landscape.

So onto my new home and new neighbourhood...goodbye Hoxton, goodbye Bethnal green. Goodbye loopy and lovely neighbours.