Don't Forget the Margins

Tag: journey

My Life on the Couch #7

In three weeks, I will have lived in the spaces of others for an entire year. I will be off the couch so to speak when I settle into the house with a pool and roommates and a lease. In the last two weeks, I’ve slept and stored my things in Ventura, Oakland and Humboldt County, California. I’ve shared a friend’s bed, I’ve slept on a couch with a grumpy cat between my legs, I’ve slept under the Redwoods in still damp shorts after failing to dry by sundown from a dip in the nearby creek.

Bull Creek, Humboldt Redwoods State Park

I’ve landed in Portland, Oregon with a room with a door. I didn’t realize until two days ago that I had not slept or occupied space in a room with a door this entire time. Dang. I am more grounded than I have ever been. More comfortable with looking like a fool. More at ease, really, with people looking at me in the first place. Every hour is so exposed, I’ve learned to go internal.

I guess the point I’ve come to in the near end of all this is that there’s no point at all, especially in the geographical sense. I continue to not land. Maybe this has been the truth all along (I mean, I know it is)—the only real thing is whatever is right in front of me…and that can change too.

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.

 

 

My Life on a Couch #2

Physical objects. I look. I see. What’s missing? Well, so far, my driver’s license and my passport. I’ve been without identification for over a month. I lost my new wallet around my birthday. Before that, before everything changed, I left my wallet on the roof of my car. Pieces of my life in a 100 foot radius on Speedway Boulevard. The passport, still no idea where it went.

A pile of my pieces, on Mt. Graham.

A pile of my pieces, in the Pinaleno Mountains.

I drive my car hoping to not get pulled over for that broken brake light. The passenger’s side floor of my car is a cemetery of kombucha bottles, off brand seltzer cans, and disposable coffee containers. I can hear the bottles clinking every time I turn a corner. God, it’s so annoying. Every time I think I’ll clear them out, my hands are full or I’ve forgotten. That, or another to-go something or other has added itself to the pile.

The clutter is part of the transition. It just is. That’s why I’ve started to add to the pile. While I’m super tempted to clean it right this second because I cringe (CRINGE) at the thought of continuing to leave it, I think I ought to sit with the pieces of my life. So I am.

What’s here? What needs to not be here anymore? How do I position the objects that I own, that I carry with me so that I can maintain this transition?

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.