A Noiseless Patient Spider by Walt Whitman
A noiseless patient spider,
I marked where on a little promontory it stood, isolated;
Marked how, to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you, O my soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be formed, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

It’s been two years since I’ve lived in a city, which is kind of strange to me since I spent most of my adult life in them, trying to escape the rural childhood I’d been blessed with. I’ve always liked cities—mostly because I like to watch people going about their daily lives without really having to interact with them. I realize here in the hotel how much I’d missed that since living in New York—how much inward joy I get from looking out the window and seeing strangers just doing whatever—talking, sitting alone, taking cigarette breaks. For the past year, I’ve mostly watched alpacas and birds carry on their business—which is greatly gratifying too, but certainly different.

Sacramento is like nowhere I’ve lived and yet like so many places I’ve lived. I get a creeping vibe that I’m in Baton Rouge again, but then the freeway spreads out to 12 lanes and it feels like a massive game of Frogger and New Vice City rolled into one. The orange trees take me off-guard every time I see one and I repress the inwardly gaping child that wants to run up to some stranger’s yard and start stealing their fruit. Driving into town, we passed acres upon acres of cherry trees blossoming and with the windows down, it smelled like Heaven. Somewhere amongst all of the wonder, though, is the anxiety of finding a place to live. I regret having come here without securing housing first, but like any time I’ve moved to a new town, there’s that catch-22 of wanting to know the place before choosing a place—and how can you do that from far away? Thus, storage space and hotel rooms and anxiety. But still, orange trees…

I’m happy to be at this hotel, though, because I can work. I’m still doing my online lesson plan writing gig, and every moment I’ve been without a computer, internet and desk has just been money I was losing by not working. It surprised me to feel relief and contentment at doing the job that I often complain about for its mundanity—but then I realized that it’s much easier to think about literary themes and plot arcs than it is to deal with looking at rental ads constantly.

And so, on this gray and rainy Sunday, I’m happy to be living in Sacramento. I’ll be happier when I have my own place to call home, but for now, I’m glad to be writing about protagonists and antagonists and scanning the classified ads in the paper and to be in from the rain. Here’s to hoping tomorrow brings some sun and a lead to a new home…

So I’d been getting a little more than frantic about my move to the great Northwest–not because of moving itself, but because I really just wanted to have a landing spot. I’m joining my cousin in Northern California, but without having an apartment squared away, there was just this “unsettled” feeling. Like you’re about to fly 2,000 miles away and you don’t have a home. Yeah. Pretty much that. So I was on craigslist morning, noon and night, looking for an apartment. I’m fortunate in that my cousin is, in fact there–because looking for apartments whilst 2,000 miles away is no easy task. She could go and view the places I was interested in – so very helpful. There were a lot of postings beginning to show up, because I’m moving in the vicinity of a university–so with the school semester ending, apartments were starting to surface. The biggest issue for me, though, was finding a place with both a reasonable rent *and* one that allowed cats. My cat of 15 years died recently, and the one thing that drug me (kicking and screaming) out of the desolate depression of grief was knowing that I would get another. I’d already paid a deposit on one in California, in fact–before even finding a place to live. It was that important. Also, I’m allergic to most cats, so I wanted to find a breed I could likely be ok with–so there was that as a factor. Anyway, so I was looking and finding it really difficult to find a place that would allow cats – which strikes me as odd, because in New York, almost everyone allowed pets. My theory was that if you lived in New York without a pet to ground you, you were more likely to turn into a homicidal maniac.

Finally, I posted a “housing wanted” ad of my own, explaining that I was a 30-something female with a cat and had a job and a post-graduate degree, and blah blah blah. I got a few replies, mostly nothing I was all that interested in because it was too expensive or else they wanted to haggle over the presence of the cat. Which I found really ridiculous, because all of the ads for apartments on there make it very clear NO PETS – NO EXCEPTIONS! so why the hell would they think that suddenly they could coerce me to get rid of my cat to move into their place? Hypothetical cat, mind you. It was a little thrilling to be the one saying no, at least. “Sorry, thanks for the reply, but the cat really isn’t a bargaining point.” At least I felt like I was the one in control.

And then I got this email. It said, “Hi, I think you might be perfect for the studio attached to my farmhouse. I raise alpacas, hops, vegetables, and legal medical herbs on 5 acres of land just outside of town.”

I laughed. My brain kind of froze and I thought, “Wait? Aren’t alpacas like llamas?” So I looked them up on wikipedia. Yep. Fuzzy llamas. The absurdity of it was too much. Me, living on an alpaca ranch with some hippie type who grows legal weed. And, as my life revolves around the absurd, it just made perfect sense. In fact, nothing made more sense. I wrote back, and then called the woman. She was awesome. I mean really. Awesome. Like Willie Nelson awesome. Like the “hippie godmother from heaven” awesome.

She told me about the apartment–all redwood floors, counters, and – get this – a built-in, redwood bookshelf. Alpacas roaming about, plenty of quiet wilderness to wander in, legal herb garden, and my own little plot of land to myself. For my own garden. And she’s cool with my hypothetical cat.

The only thing that stood in the way of making this dream a reality was concerns about a car. My cousin, who made plans to go view the apartment for me, expressed this concern and I worried about it. 3 miles outside of town is fine when you can drive–but in a place that’s known for its “rainy season,” walking wouldn’t necessarily be grand. So I thought of different options. I’d saved enough money to possibly work on getting a used car there. I considered a vespa scooter – but my cousin reiterated the rain. I wasn’t sure. And also, I wasn’t sure that the place would be cool anyway. As much as I’d fallen in “godmother love” with the landlord, for all I knew it could be a dilapidated dump. So I waited, and wondered. And worried. And hoped.

The day for my cousin’s viewing came and went and … I waited. Finally, I got a call. “You HAVE to take that apartment. YOU HAVE TO!” She was on her way out the door, and I didn’t get details until the following day. It was great. The landlord rocks. The alpacas rock. It’s heavenly. And the landlord would work with me to help me with the car.

I called her and she offered to let me pay only 1/2 of the deposit now–so that I could prioritize getting “mobile,” and pay the other “just when you can.” She talked about how we’d be friends, how I’d be getting there just as everything was blooming. How it was time for the alpaca shearing and I’d see them in their “before and after” glory.

And. I. Couldn’t. Feel. Happier.

I’ve learned in my life to expect as little as possible out of things–and the more you want something to work out–the less you should expect it to. That sounds pessimistic, and I’m not. I’m just an optimist who’s had her hopes crushed enough times to at least attempt to protect myself. I may hate California. Although I doubt it. I may hate the rain – but I kinda doubt that too. Mostly, I look forward to looking at that redwood bookshelf and bringing home my new kitten… and trying out a new life and a new home.

I have this New York therapist – because in New York, you’re kinda behind the times without a therapist (it’s not just Woody Allen anymore, kids) and I have kept this New York therapist despite leaving the city a year ago–now, we just have skype sessions (modern technology is fucking amazing). So on a weekly basis, I sit down and “video-chat” with my New York therapist (which no I’m not going to stop phrasing it like that because it makes me feel cool, like “I was wearing my CHANEL bracelet.”), and I talk about my life, my confusion, my desire to not be confused about life and all the things one discusses with their New York therapist.

One of the things that came up recently was my desire for a bookshelf. And this was kinda big–for me. Because I started to realize what a bookshelf meant to me. A bookshelf means “home.”

I used to walk around the apartments I lived in, and I’d always find myself by the bookshelf, staring over the titles of the books there and thinking, “this is who I am… the person who’s nutty enough to have Calvin and Hobbes next to Plato next to David Mamet.” In my bookshelf, there’s no order except for my order–books are arranged by the subconscious. And even then, they’re hard to find.

Once, I was so broke in Louisiana that my roommate and I burned books to cook food. No lie. I was in college and our electricity went out and there was no money to get it back on. So my roommate and I sat down at the fireplace and cooked green beans in the can and tomato soup over roasting books. I made sure they weren’t books I liked, of course. That might have been the lowest point of my life. Or at least, my economy.

In New York, I hauled around the same bookshelf I had since I was 17–a cheap, fiberboard piece of crap from Arkansas Wal-Mart. Nonetheless, it stayed with me for well over 10 years–through a marriage, a divorce, a lot of heartbreaks, move-ins, move-outs, and all the rest that happens in a life. When I left, after hauling that bookshelf from Arkansas to Louisiana to New Jersey and New York–I left it. I mailed the most important books home to my grandmother and left the rest. I consider it like the fireplace fodder–except maybe it ended up in a better ends.

Since that day, I haven’t had a bookshelf. I lived in Arkansas for a summer before moving back to New York. I was determined to live in this city that seemed such a harsh reality. And largely, I succeeded. I worked as a maitre’ d and then as a bartender for 2 years. When I left again, to teach at a summer camp in Mississippi, I pretty much figured I’d return after spending the summer away.

I decided after spending the summer in the south that I was too tired of New York–I couldn’t face going back to the constant stream of people and struggle. I decided to move to Philadelphia, instead. And after a month, and Philadelphia failed, I returned. And I probably, in all of my life and all of my confusion, had never felt lower. I still, by the way, didn’t have a bookshelf.

My year in Arkansas which followed was an awakening one. I got a job as a freelancer writing online–which made things better. I started coming to terms with how and why I’d failed time and time again. I spent a year away from men and romance and all of that – which more or less sucked, but was probably necessary. And all this time, I talked to my New York therapist. My little, personal Freudian analyst. If she were Freudian. Which she’s not, as far as I know.

The concept of the bookshelf took form in the past few months, after I’d decided to move to northern California. Another big move. A new coast. And a lot of fear. And yet, I wanted, more than anything–to find a home. Not a home where I was from–because I never wanted that. Sadly. I always wished my family could have just made different choices–settled in California or Florida or New York–at least SOMEWHERE that had an ocean within reasonable distance. But since they didn’t, I was destined to live far away–wherever the gypsy in my heart took me. Wherever the lure of a bookcase that said “home” loomed in the distance…

(to be continued)

From Big Sur (and partly why I can’t work on it now, even though I’m halfway finished) — (on finding out his cat had died at home while he was gone)
“Of course he can’t know since I didn’t tell him and hardly wanta tell it now, that my relationship with my cat and the other previous cats has always been a little dotty: some kind of psychological identification with my dead brother Gerard who’d taught me to love cats and when I was 3 or 4 and we used to lie on the floor on our bellies and lap up milk–The death of “little brother” Tyke indeed.”
–Big Sur, By Jack Kerouac

So when I thought this random statement in the car, it felt strange. I don’t even know who it was addressed to–to some person who didn’t think cats went to Heaven? To someone more religious than me who would know about these things?

I then thought, “Why are you even thinking that? You don’t believe in Heaven.” And then, to stop the strange argument in my mind, I turned on the radio. Just as John Lennon sang, “Imagine there’s no Heaven, it’s easy if you try. No Hell below us. Above us only sky.”

It’s one of my favorite songs. And I thought about it as I wept, harder and harder–thought about what I really believe, and why I love that song, and why the concept of religion and heaven and hell are so wound up in conflicting feelings of resentment and disbelief and anger. If the idea of “Heaven” didn’t exist, people wouldn’t bomb subways and buildings and kill in the name of God. There would be no difference between Allah and God and Buddha and Jehova and Zeus. People die every day for religion. People kill others every day because somewhere, someone wrote that in doing this, they would become a martyr and be lifted to Heaven.

Maybe animals are the only ones who really have Heaven, then. They don’t kill in the name of some abstract concept or self righteousness.

Or maybe, I just haven’t made amends with a world that seems to be mad. Or with any God who lets children die in his or her name.

I do believe in Heaven, though. I believe it’s where all of our souls spill into another, and we are like Lennon’s song–all one world, and living in a world of peace. Java’s soul has spilled into mine over these 15 years on earth. And he’ll be there forever.