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9/3/2010 Cabin Day #1: 0 (zero) words

Loading stuff up in the van to take to the cabin I worried that the neighbors would think I was moving out and leaving Delia. Maybe that worry was just a projection of my own discomfort over making time alone/away a priority. Because there aren’t good models affirming pursuing time alone away from home unless it’s to do regular work that regular people do in the midst of whole bunches of other regular people. People who desire as much time alone as I do are widely regarded as unhealthy freaks or suspected of having other motives besides a simple need for solitude. Whatever the reason, I wanted to keep running back inside to hug Delia and get reassurance that whatever I‘m doing it‘s not what it might look like to the neighbors.

*****

At the cabin the wind blew and I wondered how come the skinny tall trees here don’t fall down. I amazed myself by not being annoyed that there’s a daycare with kid sounds a block away. I felt the sun on the back of my neck. I gazed at the crescent moon with breakfast around noon. I scratched up my arm and the back of my thigh on blackberry bush thorns. I figured out where I can stand and lie in the cabin with the blinds open without being seen by the girl in the big house or the people next door. I made a note to buy a couple of curtains to further hide myself when desired in those couple of places where I can be seen. I caught up on all of the pooping I didn’t get done while we were away from home for three nights.

I started to stop thinking about how to get down the ladder from the loft  (how do I mount it under the slant of roof? Do I turn around and climb it back down or just walk straight forward like I’m going down stairs?). I lit a candle. Then I blew it out when we left to get gas, but only $15 worth because we’re almost out of money until Tuesday so we didn’t reset the mileage on the odometer because our fuel gauge is broken/stuck on full.

*****

Things didn’t go exactly as planned, meaning I didn’t have time to plan to make things perfectly prepared.

Want to read more about Day One at The Cabin? I’m hiding the minute details after a break so as not to bore or overwhelm folks who don’t want to read about my zero word count day:

What I did have time for was to remind myself things don’t need to go perfectly, especially not right off the bat. And the more I relax and enjoy letting the day unfold, doing what feels right in response to the moment, the more goodness I’ll get out of it instead of fighting to be “productive” trying to prove this isn’t a waste. Struggling against myself to prove my worth isn’t the fucking point here.

I made a couple of trips to move in a few things. Here’s what I brought to the cabin:

• Bathroom things including hand soap, one roll of my favorite toilet paper, some lotion that smells like lemon butter cookies, and an aqua hand towel
• One tiny wooden folding table/tv tray thingy (temporary until we can get another desk-like thing or table in here)
• One tiny wooden folding chair
• One square pillow to smush between my ass and the wooden slats of aforementioned chair
• Kitchen things including three spoons, four mugs (one of them oversized and colorful, good for a small green plant but right now being used for compost, right now consisting of tea dregs), a tiny saucepan/measuring cup for boiling water, dish soap, half of a new blue sponge, one dishtowel, a shiny half-size pail for berry picking, some unmatched socks to use as rags for cleaning up/wiping things down (the previous renter left some dusty build-up), an almost-empty spray bottle of lavender-scented cleaning solution
• a bedraggled fern in my favorite black pot Delia gave me back in the fall of 2002 (at the time she gifted me it held velvety orange pansies)
• All of our scarves we rarely wear to hang as textured colorful stuff to touch and stare at. Actually, I *am* wearing one now. It’s heathered purple ombre ranging from light lavendar to dusky plum and the fluzz from it gets all over the place, including the corners of my mouth.
• Shelf things including a dictionary (no internet here to look things up), Elements of Style, two floppy remnants of yellow legal tablets minus the cardboard backs, two empty notebooks, a tooled red leather-bound journal I started writing dirty stories in over nine years ago that I was going to auction off (one copy only!), a tiny blue leather-bound sketch pad, three decks of tarot cards, four books about tarot (but no, I don‘t use them for “fortune telling“ or “believe“ in them like that), a tiny plate-holder/display thingy where I prop up an inspiring picture (or tarot card), my Magic: the Gathering card collection, color crayons, a Barbie coloring book, three poetry chapbooks, and other assorted how-to-write-books books that make me look like your average middle-aged poseur.
• Colored file folders containing a select few story seeds and bullshit ideas I’ve had in recent months.
• Writing utensils including waterproof blue and brown pens (for the blue leatherbound sketchpad intended as a field notebook), a red felt-tip, a cheap blue stick pen (my favorite), and my newest cheap Parker fountain pain, another Vector I got off of eBay, medium nib, plus a bunch of refill cartridges in Washable Blue stuffed into my little Elvis-reading-letters tin.
• A box of Kleenex (so glad I brought it because I seem to be allergic to something in here)
• Loft things including a kidney-shaped lap desk, ratty (but freshly laundered) orange blanket for use as a base layer between me and the carpet (strewn with dead moths and spider legs – I picked up some of them and threw them out the window, but hauling a vacuum up here would just be silly), pillows hijacked from our guest room bed, two sleeping bags, my favorite flowery bedspread I’ve had since my FIRST apartment in 1995, and a soothing heavy lap-cover thing with quilt squares filled with lavender (generously given by our friend I should ask to be my Al-Anon sponsor).
• Food including a stash of luna bars, freshly ground peanut butter, a shitload of tea, soy creamer, a box of granola, and three dry instant soup mixes.
• More middle-aged girly shit including relatively safe little candles, votive candleholders, essential oils (lavender, a relaxation blend that smells like wet green forests, a stress relief blend I’m almost out of but isn’t for sale anymore, and some crazy “woman’s balance” blend), a tealight holder with little stars crescent moon cutouts with a warmer on top to put those essential oils in.
• A fancy-looking oblong cardboard box containing four jars of ink (green, blue, brown and red) and a twisty glass pen that sucks ink into little spiraled ditches on a bulb above the point.

*****

Mostly I did everything very very slowly on day one. Exactly the way I naturally want to move, attending to each little thing and reminding myself how very much I have (and how little of it I need). I lined up nine Republic of Tea tins on the edge of a shelf, most of them almost empty. I sniffed some of their insides, considered which flavor I’d like to refill first if I could only refill one (answer: All Day Breakfast). Then I moved the three tins on the right over to the left of the other six because it looked better that way. I mean, it looked better to me (meaning it made absolutely no difference whatsoever). And I like shifting things around like that. I could do it all day, but rarely let myself. Plus it’s more fun to shift things around in a cleanish almost-empty space, thinking about what criteria to use for determining line-up of like things. Alphabetical? In order of frequency of use? By color and design? Nobody was watching or waiting for me so I took  my time.

*****

Things could have gotten off on the wrong foot when I forgot the creamer on trip one, so my perfect morning cup of tea was less than perfect, but I didn’t freak out about it (see how therapeutic this cabin thing is for a crazy person like myself? I DIDN‘T FREAK OUT ABOUT NOT HAVING MY CREAMER!!). Instead I discovered that I like sitting in my doorway eating breakfast with my feet out on the step. I was very hungry at this point because I’d waited to unpack and slowly line things up on shelves before I boiled my water which took much longer than it does in our electric kettle. Because I like everything to be as close to perfect and comfortable as possible before making my morning tea, that‘s why I had to put everything away first. And because I’m superstitious/paranoid that these first few days are going to set the tone for everything else that happens at the cabin; too many teatime distractions early on could forecast long-term failure. Part of getting The Cabin, though, is to stop letting asshole thoughts like that dominate my life.

I took out the glass pen and jars of ink, using them for the second or third time in all of the years I’ve owned them (ten or eleven years, I think) and scribbled the date, some trees and a blackberry vine in my field notebook with the green ink. I made it look all fucked up by adding some blue ink for sky, just because I wanted to dip the glass pen into the blue ink.

On the next page I drew little turds of dog poop with my brown waterproof ink pen and noted my decision to park on one side of the road rather than the other dog-poop lined side. I like to record some of the lessons I learn.

I read a different perspective on my current favorite (for at least six months now) tarot card, the eight of pentacles/disks. It reminded me to be patient with myself and my growth, to be persistent, to protect myself while my work proceeds slowly, and made me feel good about getting out the glass pen and jars of ink and drawing dry pieces of canine feces.

I figured out that I’m not interested in investing money to buy a mattress or futon at this point, but speakers to play new age music became important enough that I ordered some (charged to my high interest Dell account) and put an electric skillet at the top of my private wish list.

I went home for an early dinner with Delia after she spent many hours working hard at webwhoring, then I came back to the cabin. Just as it started getting dark, she called to say she felt like getting out of the house and was thinking of walking over.

Yes yes yes yes yes.

We had tea and mulled over lighting and furniture possibilities for the cabin. The loft needs a lamp of some sort. Where should we put the new speakers when they get here? At least one cozy chair might be in order. Could we stick one of those fold-out bed-chairs in the triangular space made by the ladder?

I showed her my sketch of dog shit.

You probably wouldn’t even know those are supposed to be pieces of poop if I hadn’t told you they’re poop.

She’s a good girlfriend so she said, “oh no, honey – I could tell that’s poop even if you hadn’t told me!“

We made fun of the audio book we tried to listen to and thought it might be worth another try in the loft. Delia executed her perfect imitation of the narrator’s Irish pronunciation of “puhTAYtohe”. I think she should make her waffle iron live here.

Somehow I want to be able to squeeze my mom and sister and brother-in-law and nephews (or a few select duos of friends) in here with Delia and I for a dark-outside meal of sausages, eggs, French toast, waffles, and bacon with real maple syrup drenching everything, all warmed up. Maybe we bundle up in our coats, put on all of these velvety scarves I hung up in here, and take steaming plates of food outside to the deck, surrounded by glossy green leaves of Oregon Grape while a light snow falls. Maybe we could pour the maple syrup into the snow to make candy like they did in Little House in the Big Woods.

I’m happy and certain this is the kind of living I’ve been meant to do forever. Only not living here full time because then there would be a whole overwhelming bunch of living and working stuff in it. Or I’d have to get rid of all that other living and working stuff and I don’t want to. I love my other work, too. And am meant to do it forever also.

Recount: two crappy pictures with ink blobby notes in blue journal