not-home (a transition)
At first it’s all I can notice, that I’m not home.
There are two dogs here and while I saw a girl stoop down and beg for them to come to her, they came bounding over to me later in the night — because I smell like dogs, because I had just eaten dinner, because they sense that I need to touch their fur in order to feel the home inside of myself.
The twin bed tilts so that my head is lower than my feet. Heartburn.
They have tea, but it’s black and herbal. I go to buy green tea and there’s only one kind and it’s not organic.
I stare at the spigot of the shower and see the mold and bacteria and whatever makes white and gray gunk grow over the holes. Not my shower.
On the first night I ask if I can have a glass for water for my room. There are no glasses — there are some, but you have to leave them in the cafeteria. I can buy a plastic cup for $2, but they’re out. I find a styrofoam cup in the studios and nearly sweat with happiness. Water whenever I want it! It’s unfiltered, straight from the tap, full of chemicals probably, and the styrofoam is leaching out into the water. My friend gives me her $2 mug and I feel so much warmth and love, my own mug, I can carry it everywhere, and I try not to think about the bisphenol-A in its plastic lining.
I know the bedroom has been cleaned, I’m pretty sure the sheets are cleaned, but there are dust bunnies that hop when I open and close the door. I get down on my knees with wet toilet paper and wipe down the rim of the room.
The writing studio building is new and it smells like acrylic rugs off-gassing glue and fire-repellent spray. The first day I have a headache and so break the rules, opening a window to get out the smell. The lights are fluorescent and they buzz when I turn them on. I leave them off and write in the dark, a pillow stolen from my bedroom to prop up my spine.
And see this is how I’m a snob. People are starving and people would be so glad to be in my place and I’m worried about the mold in the shower inserting disease into my lungs that kills the baby. I’m worried about the not-home handsoap and how it gets into my skin. I’m worried I’m using too many paper towels because I pee every fifteen minutes and have to wash my hands each time.
Maybe it’s part of being an artist, having a sense of place and space and being particular about things — a sensitivity. But my friend who is an artist can happily nap on a yoga mat on her studio floor, while these days–these days in particular, i swear–I need my pregnancy pillow and the sound of the ocean to help me sleep.
But yesterday for a few minutes at a time I forgot about the stinky carpet and I didn’t feel the need to paint the walls. I just wrote. I homed in on the beautiful parts–there are so many beautiful parts, this place is gorgeous–and for moments at a time forgot completely that I wasn’t home. I made progress on my writing, printing out drafts and editing and writing lines that felt like they opened more doors than they shut. I read more in one day than I’d read in all the previous week while we were traveling. Transitions are difficult, especially because I’m too particular, but I’m getting somewhere now.
