Shelter — I’m laughing at the use of that word.
The house I just sold back in the Midwest I could not buy here, in Marin County, for oh, close to a million. Maybe more. That’s more money than I have for spending on a house.
Now I knew that before getting here but I am just now getting to know it. P says that it’s just a number, now, and it’s all relative (to what he’s earning, and so on, but I am not – yet – earning more), to forget the $$. Some days that’s easier than others. Some days it strikes me anew as downright ridiculous.
For example, we were looking at a house (to rent: we’re just going to rent first before jumping in) and our host indicated a place beside the fireplace in the kitchen where a large rock rested on the hardwood floor. The rock, she informed, marked the area where we should not walk as there is structural damage underneath the floorboards (moisture, termites — two reasons slated) and we could fall through. How many thousands of dollars per month should one pay to rent such a place, really? My answer: zero.
We have looked at some odd things. A “unique” house turned out to be part of a church, the other part of which functions as a Buddhist meditation center, which might not be so bad (it would be quiet, right?) if it weren’t that in one room exists a door with a large window leading to the center’s kitchen, covered by a flimsy curtain. Oh, and the yard — a beautiful yard, granted — often serves a role for the Buddhists’ activities, including weddings.
I’m not in a place in my life in which I want to plan out when I might be outside. I want to be out there, writing, sitting, dreaming when I want to.
If I want to sing, play rousing gypsy music and dance, if I want to shriek (at P?) I don’t want to have to be thinking about those souls trying to meditate. I want to set that thornbush afire, not add another inhibitor to my living.
So the search goes on for the right place, for the suitable place.
This is what I’ve been doing for about two weeks now, scooping Craig’s List ads, responding, driving by, sometimes viewing inside. It’s a kind of a trance. I feel unable to concentrate on much else.
And I wonder about what’s next after the shelter thing is settled.
I start to worry.
I worry that I can’t write right now: I think I should be able to write NO MATTER WHAT. If I’m a real writer. I should.
Oh, a should. That’s right: I want to lose my personal religion.
