I love house-sitting. I love to step into someone else's place.There is energy here that is different from my own. All the books are lined up on the shelves and I can read them if I like. I don't have to worry about deciding anything. All the decisions that need to be made have been made already. I just have to safeguard, the order that has been established, the routines of the house: dog walks or plant waterings, I need to know which windows are locked in what way, how the door locks, the little things that are peculiar to someone else's house. There is always a normalcy I feel in other people's houses that I don't in my own. I also get to experience a different neighborhood. This one is near Lake Merritt. So there are birds, and trees and there is water nearby. This neighborhood is much quieter than my own, just off telegraph about a block from People's Park.
My places always feel chaotic. Sometimes, like right now- the chaos is evident, everywhere. Too many papers, books and too much clutter. My tiny apartment is overcrowded- we are three in a one bedroom apartment and it's all close and a little hard to breathe in. Sometimes the place I live is tidy and the chaos just mutters underneath. I always leave these spaces I house-sit determined to change everything. To make my space peaceful and kind feeling. To sort the chaos and increase the space around us.
The best part of this house sit is the dog. She greets me with an abandoned delight, with a dancing, happy, tail wagging affection and we end up on the floor, in that moment two creatures, one human, one dog, tangled up and laughing, or making grunty dog sounds (who does which?) and I am completely at home, as I can only be when I'm with someone who sees me and takes me in as one of her own. This dog is a rescue. I am a rescue too of sorts. I understand that certain things frighten her for no apparent reason. Certain things frighten me for no apparent reason. We do well taking walks together. Good company is hard to find.
I found out last night that she likes being sung too. Long songs that tell of her bravery, mad skills at ball catching and wonderfulness. She likes the songs that end with you are a rock star the best. When I sing at home my cat folds his ears back and looks tortured. I do have cat guilt. I love my cat. He always knows when I've left him to spend time with a dog. He gives me a long wounded "how could you look" and turns his back to me until I am forgiven.
This place is a writing place. A writer lives here. The air is thick with words.There are metaphors in the refrigerator and adjectives sitting on all the book shelves. There is the sense of possibility here that words will be written today until I am in that zone where my ink stained fingers grip the pen tighter and I race to get all the words down. I like that possibility. First I am going to feed the dog who is dropping her orange ball at my feet as I write this until I give it a kick and she races after it all long limbs and determination. The whole world becomes that ball. I am jealous of her one pointed focus.
The dog knew all of her secrets
or
There are no ghosts in this house. Only...
or
She knew _______ when she saw_______
or
I've never been at home or I've always been at home
If something sparks you- go! If nothing does, what story does your body tell you today. What do your hands have to say, your hips, the small of your back?
May this day be good to you and your writing.
No poem today. The dog wants to play.
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