packing, and more packing. Theoretically, the movers do a lot of it, tomorrow - but one still has to sort things so that they can process them. Somewhere when I wasn't looking my photographs of moving out of 962 have shifted from the commemorative to the documentary, although this still is, in many important ways, a record - a melancholic record - of how the sun falls into the bedroom in the late afternoon. It lacks, though, the sound of Pop Goes the Weasel being played for the 72nd time that day on the itinerant ice-cream van; the ambulance sirens; the helicopter; the cars remembering to brake just in time at the stop sign (or to inspect the ex-yard sale items that, yes, we did drag out to the side of the curb - the really nasty things, anyway); the two guys next door fighting; the dog more or less next door howling in despair; the mariachi music (or, the last couple of days, Michael Jackson songs) playing loud on car radios; Josie opposite using a vacuum cleaner on her car that's so loud that one thinks that it must be some kind of warning siren; the little girl opposite practicing to be the youngest ever winner of American Idol (she does, indeed, have a stunning voice); her elder brother Albert screaming; the sound of an old supermarket cart being propelled down the street by someone looking for discarded bottles to put in it; firecrackers (we're nearly at the 4th of July); skateboarders; car alarms; and miscellaneous human shouts and squeals. There's a lot that photographs can't show.