Hello sweet dreamweavers. I know you’ve all been waiting to hear whether or not I still exist. I wish I had a better answer for you, but this is what you get.
A week ago I woke up in the guest bedroom of my Aunt’s house in Hollister, California, which is a real place and not just a store in the mall. I’m still amazed by it, this ability to wake up in one place and fall asleep in another. Something close to magic. Though perhaps a little less profoundly magical when getting to that new place requires driving 12 hours in a silly little clown car with no air conditioner. 100 degree weather, and a finally-unconscious, albeit urine-soaked, cat.
Earlier, barefoot in the morning streets of Portland, compacting my life into manageable chaos. Black coffee, and I’m No Good At Goodbyes, and wait, notyetnotyetnotyet until there was no more time because if she didn’t go then I never would.
The first few hours of driving were a bit shaky, and by "shaky" I mean my actual personal hell. Mostly because I tried to kill the small animal that I’ve heretofore successfully kept alive.
For weeks, my primary concern, the thought that haunted every waking moment and kept me worrying through the night, was making sure Murphy didn’t die of heat stroke while we drove. Also wondering if she would be bitten and killed by a rattlesnake. Or eaten by coyotes. Or recruited to lead a gang of feral cats, which would rampage up and down the streets of our new city leaving disaster and dander in their wake. But that’s neither here nor there.
The solution we came up with was simple: a pressure-activated cooling pad inside her crate. Easy right? Too easy. I didn’t trust it. Unfortunately, I was also too lazy (overwhelmed? Let’s give ourselves the benefit of the doubt here) to come up with any backup plans.
That Cat was understandably upset when I lured her off the neighbor’s porch chair with promises of affection only to scoop her up, shove her into a plastic travel crate, and set off on the longest car ride of her life. She spent the first forty-five minutes bashing her head into the plastic sides of her carrier, and snaking her little paws through the wire door to grasp at the dashboard. When her yowling escalated beyond a bearable level, I pulled over to swap out the cooling pad for a litter box, because maybe it was her bladder making all of that noise. In the parking lot of that gas station: blessed silence. Back on the highway: holy god, the apocalypse is upon us.
An hour later, she was no longer screaming at me because she was too busy heavily panting. Have you ever seen a cat pant? It’s disturbing and unnatural. Unfortunately, we were now on a sweltering mountain pass with no opportunities to stop and replace the litter box with the cooling pad. Another thirty minutes and the chemical cocktail of stress, Gabapentin, and pure rage had left her semi-catatonic. Every time I glanced over she was slumped against the side of the crate, head thrown back, dramatically open-mouthed breathing. I'd tap on the side of the crate, and she'd swivel one eyeball my direction, trying to set my head on fire.
At the next available exit, we pulled into a gas station where an older gentleman told That Cat how beautiful she was while I poured ice into an empty litter box, snugged a plastic bag over it, threw the whole situation into one of my pillow cases, and wrestled it into the crate along with the cooling pad. Another dose of Gabapentin and we were on our way. Was she soaking wet at our next stop? Yes. There may have been holes in the plastic bag that was supposed to protect her from the rapidly melting ice. Did she survive anyways? Yes, and she only had the kitten sniffles for like, two nights max.
What I’m trying to say is eight days ago we woke up in our home, and a week ago we woke up in the geographic region where I was born, and this morning I woke up in this place I’ve lived for five days, which feels like forever and also no time at all. On the phone I say I live here now, I’ve lived here forever. There’s never been anywhere else. I ask her if she’s real, and she says Yes, at least to you. And that has to be enough in this place where I’m able to Be and Not Be so many things.
It’s hard to wrap a mind around. For example, I’m So Old walking through the main plazas of campus, where the Freshman are learning how to exist as human beings. They carefully arrange their bodies and faces, easing into the angles of themselves in new ways, and I have lived in this body so long now. Pushed it to and beyond so many limits. The face arranges itself these days, and I’m grateful that I never have to be 18 again. I’m also So Young in my cohort, where Mike worked construction 20 years, decided to get his MFA after retirement. Where Keenan survived retail hell, and Renee survived homelessness and worse, and I wonder what ages us faster, time or experience? That question is trite, but I’m leaving it here anyways.
I am also Sad but Not Sad. Waking up to the missing coiled tight and heavy in my chest. Waking up to the humming excitement of the unknown and discovery. Tuesday, walking to class and I’m stopped in my tracks by a tree that has grown upupup through the metal scaffolding to crown a Yield sign with a splay of twiggy branches. Somehow this is poetry. These new eyes in this new city, so hotwhite and dirty. The ability to Be or Not Be whatever I want; to grow up through the scaffolding and refuse to yield on the other side.
There’s more. Of course there’s always more. Like how my apartment is a real place, and the disconnect of seeing familiar faces in unfamiliar places, or the careful process of making coffee on a hot plate. But for now, there’s this. And that has to be enough.
I love you, little sweet peas.
-b
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