I once saw a production that summed up a true hell of endless repetition. It was a high school play, but exceedingly well acted, or maybe the material was just good. In any case, a group of people find themselves in a room together and can’t make out why they are there and why they can’t get out. It is a stranded island but inside one large room. Over the course of 1 1/2 hours, the occupants of this room bicker and argue themselves back to the beginning of the play.

Another image of hell is the pour guy given a sieve to move a mountain of sand to another spot just ten feet away.

I have a new scenario to add to my hell bank: packing up a house that seems to have a neverending stream of things.

I know, I know, the best part is sorting through and getting rid of stuff. That principle doesn’t seem to be in effect here. It takes 15-20 boxes of packed stuff to produce one not-even-heavy thrift store box (because I won’t get rid of any of my books). I am carrying around my past – my beads, and batts of undyed wool, doll-making supplies, guides to the trees of the sierras…

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