May 8, 2006

Living on the edge… or rather, the floor

My furniture is gone. Well. It wasn’t mine. For six kind months, I lived on the furniture of a friend, who at the time was living elsewhere. But when he found his own place closer to the city, he reclaimed it. Thing is, it happened suddenly. As in, “Hey Ruby- wanna come with me to check out this apartment?” “Sure!” I said. Little did I know that my suggestion to drive around the neighborhood and check out For Rent signs would result in him writing a deposit check that night. But the apartment was perfect for him. That was Saturday. On Sunday, he showed up with the truck and loaded up his goods. He was kind enough to leave me the bookshelf (since he can get another for cheap from work) and the wine-rack, which is really quite funny, because I don’t NEED a wine rack. But it looks good there, and the glasses that Greta bought for me are hanging in it, and my two cheap bottles grace the bottom shelf.

The little desk in the corner is mine. I bought it because I needed a desk. I’m especially glad I have it now.

This whole traumatic experience has taught me to re-observe the way I think about two things: change, and posessions. First, the very fact that this change is traumatic seems just a little bit infantile. After all, I lived for an entire summer on the fly. Each day I never quite knew what I’d be doing the next, and it didn’t bother me a bit. But of course, I had a little home on wheels to retire to, with all my little supplies, my stove, my tea-kettle, my bottle of whiskey, my basket of books, my closet full of sandals and shirts. The lack of stability was controlled by me. But this sudden recent change was not brought about by me (though I certainly helped), took me back to a place in time when I was a kid and we were always on the move. Because I was a kid, I was never in control of the why or the where of each move. One month we’d be in a trailer on the back lot of a wood shop, then we lived six months in a two floor condo. Then it was out to a three house dwelling that included an out-house. Then a patch of property with nothing but a trailer, a dry-riverbed and a plot of land that was a house. I’m being conservative in outlining the number of places I’ve lived and the extremity of each situation. By the time I was 23, I’d lived in 30 places… then it just seemed tiring to count. I think I took up counting lovers instead or something.

I reach a certain equilibrium with change and stability… somewhere in the year to two-year range these days. At least when it comes to living. I proved to myself I could go to one school for four years and I proved that I could stay at one job for six. But in that six years of work, I moved every two years. The loss of my friend to the city made me begin to think of moving closer to the city as well. He’s been a bit of a crutch, being convenient for rides when we both want to go dancing, coming over to hang-out from time to time. But now I’m essentially alone out here in the suburbs, and despite my intentions to do so, I haven’t really made friends out here. People keep to themselves in the ‘burbs. Despite that fact, I’ve grown rather attached to Berwyn. Maybe it’s just the spring. In the winter it made me think of Siberia. But in spring it’s an oasis. Every patch of grass, every tree dropping seeds onto the ground, every patch of tulips makes me grateful to live here. Though I would relish living closer to my friends, to cafes, to public transportation, I don’t feel I’ve yet gotten my fill of this place… and so I may forgo change for this moment, despite the inconvenience.

Then there is the subject of posessions. I thought I had tricked myself into not needing them by putting everything in storage and taking only what would fit in the car with me. Granted, I’m still attached to the things that I took with me, and I miss a few odds and ends that are in storage: the striped loveseat, a collection teapots, all the goofy little antique glasses, my hat collection, some book or another, scores of dance shoes. But losing the things that made life here so comfortable, the perfect couch, the big TV (which I hardly watched, except for movies, and some occasional guilty prime-time), the stereo with surround sound (which I used constantly) and random household supplies that grace any home makes me feel as if I’m in transition again, rather than settled and living.

Again… I’m chagrined to realize that my trauma is related to my childhood. You can imagine that a kid who lives with a mom on the move doesn’t have much chance to lug childhood toys from one transient home to the next. At least twice as a kid, I lost everything I owned except for the clothes on my back and maybe a suitcase. Somehow, a few items managed to follow me… how my baby book and baby blanket are still in my possession occasionally fills me with a strange sense of wonder. So as a young adult, I saw fit to satisfy every urge I had for new things. I collected used junk (but only the nicest junk) and spent too much money in schlocky stores to make my home the nicest coziest place. These days I’m more apt to casually window-shop, instead of hurt with desire for pretty things, but the overwhelming need to nest has made me hurt for pretty things again, and that bothers me. I have a whole storage space full of pretty things in California. I do not want more of them to weigh me down here. Because, despite my need for stability, I see the ability to be transient as a strength.

So… somehow I shall have to find a way to comfortably live on the floor.