Don't Forget the Margins

Tag: follow your heart

Mi Vida por El Sofá: El tercero.

When I clean up the many kombucha bottles on the passenger side of my Suburu Outback in early October, I find the missing wallet. It is underneath the passenger seat; a single place out of twenty places I checked a hyperbolic one million times. There it is. In that moment, I find part of myself. Relief. I loved that wallet. I avoid materialism but it is a treasure. The same small billfold my dad and brother have, signifying that in some way I am in gender cahoots with them, (if only it were that simple) but with an embedded mercury dime instead of a buffalo nickel. Mercury also know as Hermes, with his winged helmet symbolizing Freedom of Thought. Mercury who fathered a child with Aphrodite, Goddess of Love and Procreation and Beauty and Pleasure, named Aphroditus or Hermaphroditus. The middle space God. God of love and manifestation and free thinking. Visionary. My image. And to you all like me, ours.

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By the end of October, the car itself breaks beyond repair. Oh god— I’m a car-less, home-less not quite thirty year old who is still living on the same couch. Holly and I looked at each other the other day and wondered, had I really been there 6 months? Time didn’t fly because we were drinking, not like twenty-one. That’s honest. It flew in other ways.

 

 

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My Life on a Couch: 1st Edition

From where I sit on my borrowed couch bed right now, I can see most things I own and use on a daily basis. My life and my clothes and my books are all in paper bags. Three, to be exact, with a fourth for dirty laundry that I will clean at my Mom’s house on my way home from camping this weekend. The rest is tucked into a mix of falling apart cardboard and plastic storage bins at my Dad’s manufactured home out on acres in Sahuarita. I got it there by car. My life easily fits in my car. I just turned 27.

After a life shift—the ending of a major relationship—I decided that I’ll stop trying to land. For years of my life, if not its entirety, I’ve been looking for responsibility. For furniture. For a love in the romantic sense. For enough hangers for my dress shirts. For a “job” that pays me well enough to build something in one place. I’ve slept on people’s couches before; or their basements on a gym mat, or in a dining room with sheets for doors, in Portland, when I was 21. It was right after college and I thought “this is temporary and a 2-3 time thing.” It felt that way. But here I am again.

Holly Hall's Famous Friend Couch.

Holly Hall’s Famous Friend Couch. My first late morning.

When I told my friend who is a therapist in Sacramento that I was sleeping on another friend’s couch and that I had no plans to find my own place for a whole year, she said “What an interesting journey. You should write about it.” I guess, in its own way, or in a way I had not yet considered—it is a a journey. Even it if it feels sort of cyclical.

A hipster couch in the PNW.

A hipster couch in the PNW.

Where I am now is like the drier, more southwestern version of the same place I was at 21. Drier in many a sense. And that’s all an oversimplification. I’m not who I was then. For one, I’m not trying to be anywhere else and time feels shorter now. Like I no longer want to puzzle over things I never said out loud. I’d just rather say them. That’s vague. Home is inside me? Too cliche. The truth is that I’m still trying to understand what it means to lean on people and maybe for the first time acknowledging that it’s okay to do so.