“Her house was her house, just as his was his. Inside of which a person had to face his problems alone.”
The thing about my house is that I am never alone here. Even when A and C are gone, this house still has an alive pulse. This place is a jungle, one of the old roommates said when I was moving in, it’s wild here. She was wearing a big shirt and cooking an egg on the stovetop in the pan we have that is laughably small, a pan just big enough for frying one egg or toasting one tablespoon of sesame seeds. She was soon to move out; I would be taking her place. So many people have lived here, slept here, written here, taped poems onto the walls. I wonder sometimes if the house could speak if she would speak only in verse, lines like these from those friends who’ve lived here: all things lose their form, / sift into tinier parts and this shouldn’t bother me, /except all my fears are of small things ; My teeth are daffodils. / I cover them with a palm when I smile. ; I guess I’m a glutton for ruin, / weeks of rationed sunshine. ; And outside, the rain assembling / like bones in a dream.*
Wild, wild, wild, the cat, the squirrels in the walls, the bugs that find their way in, even the food in the refrigerator sometimes seems still alive, as if at night it is all moving. P, the cat, now spends her days curled up on a white bean bag chair in the living room, hardly moving, as if she, too, can feel the quarantine sludge. There was a time when this was not the case, not the case at all. There were the weeks when she was in heat and she would pace the house yowling and yowling with desire. We didn’t let her outside then and she would climb into the windowsill and press her yellow nose to the pane. She had exhausted every corner of our house looking for a mate and found nothing. The best she could hope for was the that outside world would somehow come greet her through wavy glass. I had to install a lock on the inside of my door to keep her from pushing into my room in the middle of the night, knocking things off my desk and bedside table, pawing at my head. At the time I was exhausted by her screaming and the breaking of things, but now, it seems so stunning that we got to see her in a state of such strangled need. I have been P so many times in my life. I have wanted so many things in my life.
Once, two winters ago, the door opened in the middle of the night during a snowstorm and two birds seeking shelter found their way inside. One of my housemates was sleeping somewhere else and the bird perched itself in his room. We had two cats then, P and F, and they both purred and swatted at the bird. In the morning when we woke up and padded downstairs, we passed this open room and that was when we discovered the wild scene happening on top of a mass-produced quilt. Downstairs, a whole band was sleeping on the living room floor. They were on their way from Tennessee to some next venue somewhere. We’d eaten curry with them and played games in a circle the night before. It is not uncommon for our house to have fivesixseveneleven people sleeping inside. That a place I live can accommodate so many is something that never fails to make me feel rich, overflowing. Later, the band left, got back on the road. Later still, one of the bird carcasses appeared, a mass of feathers and bones at the doorframe of one of the housemate’s rooms: a gift.
Yesterday, I saw P walking back home to our porch with white feathers in her mouth. They stuck out under her whiskers and she walked proudly. I am shocked, always, by how much she can look like a lion, her shoulders rocking back and forth as she walks, predator in miniature. I felt lucky to have seen her as she is when she goes out into the world outside of our house. It felt like a golden privilege to see the life she lives without us. Sometimes the house must breathe and live and stir without me. I spend many of my nights at another house these days and when I return in the mornings I can see the detritus of lived life. Tea bags and orange peels and blankets kicked into new configurations. It is comforting, to feel that the house and the people and the animals are still alive in my absence. I see that P hides her feathers behind a planter on the porch and I do not stop her and I do not take them from her hiding spot then or later. It would be rude, anyway. Her hiding spot is her hiding spot and she must face her problems alone. Sometimes, we will wake to dead voles on the porch from her and somehow, that still will seem a sign of life. There once was another live animal out here fighting.
The other night, B and I lay in bed and a storm flashed. Early spring and I’d changed my bedding to be just a light quilt. I was a bit early in my estimation, hadn’t predicted the week of frosty evenings that had cropped up and we were cold, snuggled against each other. Another alive thing in the house, tangled up together and outside, the rain assembling / like bones in a dream.
*Lines from the above are from these poems by these poets:
all things lose their form, / sift into tinier parts and this shouldn’t bother me, /except all my fears are of small things
Landis Grenville, “Conversations with Bees,” Gulf Stream
My teeth are daffodils. / I cover them with a palm when I smile.
Sean Shearer, “Conor Oberst,” Jubilat
I guess I’m a glutton for ruin, / weeks of rationed sunshine.
Aimee Seu, “Young,” Boaat Press
And outside, the rain assembling / like bones in a dream.
Michael Dhyne, “A Beginning,” The Adroit Journal
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