Working Title

Made the train trip home from San Francisco yesterday, the best overnight trip I've had. They turned off the bright overheads at night (they don't always; yes, it's cruel), my seatmate barely look up her side least of all encroached on mine, and everyone learned an ingenious trick from the woman across the isle: put your feet up on the fold-down tray, do it do it do it. It exhibits no grace or manners, and you can't stretch your legs out all the way, but who cares because it's the only thing on the damn train that creates an acute angle at the hips and so takes pressure off the lower back. I actually got a few hours of sleep, I only took one pill, and I was not in incredible pain.

When in San Francisco I almost feel like I could live there. Express is a fantastic roommate, because we know each other so well and because he works out of the home, and I will drink up all the downtime you give me. The most basic acts of housekeeping seem like miracles to him—he'd do well with a roommate, I think, if it were someone he knew well or a lover: someone to dirty enough dishes to warrant using the dishwasher, and make the occasional miraculous dinner. It makes me feel like some sort of domestic goddess just to make a quiche, so. The city is visually fascinating, although I haven't fallen in love with its social culture. The weather is tolerable—fantastic, for California. There was even a thunderstorm when I was there.

And then we come up over the mountains and down the other side, the evergreens start to fade into deciduous and it begins to rain, and the world outside is the Willamette Valley and I'm like: yanno what, never mind. There are actually a few places in the world that I would love to live, but they all look like this (verdant yellow green against wet black-brown with the spring) and they all have this heart-gripping sense of home.

If I dare try to do something foolish when walking in the door after I've been away—like, say, check my email—August will climb all over me with an awkwardness that's unusual for her and stare at or bite any hand which is not occupied by petting. My best bet is just to lie down so there are no distractions and she can throw herself against me, a black puff made solid by desperation and purr. This time I ended up with her sprawled across my chest and belly (let's face it, she's not a small cat) while I lay on my back, nose nuzzled between my breasts but her tummy up in a dignity-less feat of flexibility, and we touched each other all over until we had been painted in love (and I in cat hair).

I was going to tell a funny cat story here but, you know, I think I'll save it. What matters is that I love her. I love her so much that it feels as though my heart may burst.

And I came home to this on the whiteboard:


Best roommate? Best roommate.

That moment when you strip the bed and start laundry and almost put a book in the wash.

So I'm heading back to San Francisco this weekend, to spend about ten days with Express. I've been having some sleep issues coupled with another spike in back pain (the sort of which I don't really notice until I mention offhand to the boy that "oh, I've been in excruciating pain lately"—and you think stealth pain would be a blessing, but it just means all of the fatigue with none of the ability to treat it and a bonus feeling of utter disconnect with your own body), so I'm going into this with a mantra of "I can't hear you, I can't hear you." It's not that I won't love being there, it's that I'm afraid I'll exhaust myself just by preparing to be there and then I'll be done with the visit the minute I arrive. So I'm not doing an incredibly intelligent advance packing job, or thinking about it overmuch, but I figure I'll try not to forget underwear and this is Express: I know him, I don't need to fuss about any of this.

And it'll be a good visit.

I was down in Corvallis a week ago, and came back to a cat who for a full 24 hours would not leave me: the only time I was not obligated to hold her is when we were both lying in bed. She hasn't quite caught on yet to the fact that I'm leaving again, but she's starting to figure it out (just wait until I pull the suitcases from the closet). It is ... good to be loved. When I first moved up here, it was on a weird "I don't know if I'm visiting or moving!" basis, and while we'd talked about a cat—a cat has been my lifelong dream; of course we did—it wasn't until I actually started signing paperwork a the shelter that it hit home that I had a ... sister/daughter/dependent. I still manage to spend weeks away, in Corvallis, taking the train down to San Francisco; Dee is an angel who doesn't mind feeding a rabid food-beast (and a half: there's Kuzco, too) and otherwise sharing a cat. But I'm tethered, now—not just to a place, although I love it here (but I've lived in and loved so many places over the last few years—those are less permanent), but to a person, a floofy little cat person who climbs on and over my shoulders until I let her bury herself into my lap.

Last time I was headed to San Francisco I wrote a near identical post—hmm. Oh, except then August had just started to sit in my lap—and now I have a semi-permanent fuzzy black lap tumor, guys, you don't even understand. I fell head over heels for this cat in the first moment, but we have become kin now in a way that's easy to take for granted, the way that mostly sounds like "hey August no one cares shut up" and really means "I love you move than anything in the entire world."

The minutiae of a depressive's daily life are pretty boring, even when half her wishes are fulfilled (cat! friendship! city!). I consume too much media and think about food a lot and have problems sleeping and snuggle with my cat: it ain't fascinating stuff. And when I'm in San Francisco I'll consume more media and think about food and have problems sleeping and snuggle with my friend, who is hugely unlike a cat but I guess that's a good thing. Still it's a bit of a revelation, each time: that in the midst of being me, my life can still be this—not always, which is fine: it would exhaust me; but sometimes it's pretty wonderful.

Sympathy for Mr. Vengance + Lovecraft's "The Dunwich Horror" + sleep apparently = dreams of seemingly endless violence wherein each figure would be corrupted by some ageless unnamable force, and then be murdered by someone motivated by the corrupt death of a predecessor, soon to be corrupted and murdered themselves as next in the long chain. The visuals were very .flow, orange-red flesh and purplish tentacles, viscera pouring out of pale skin, so consider that an inspiration too. It's hard for me to describe a dream like this because it's by nature boring in concept, a long parade of deathly death death; it's not really upsetting for all that, too used am I to violence in my dreams. But there is a lot of violence in my dreams and this was all of it, over the top and with every special effect, continuing on until even the writhing tentacles seemed trite, inexorable and almost too extreme to shock—but not quite. Awesome. Dear brain: I know this lack of and/or shitty sleep thing is mostly California-related nerves, and as such I forgive you, but you can stop it any time now. I don't think Express will turn out to be a tentacle monster. Thanks.

(It's sort of hilarious how many of my dream posts contain Dear Brain letters. Dear Brain: A bit slow on the uptake, aren't we?)

Yesterday evening I began planning out my calendar as far as the beginning of November. Who am I, and what have I become? I'm a person with a calendar, and substantial plans—because while it's not as full as I would like with local events, it does have entire weeks given over to events like "Jessica in San Francisco." Have I mentioned these plans yet? October 7 through 14 I'll be in San Francisco, meeting Express for the first time. We've been friends for approximately forever (five years, I think) but never met. This is an overnight train journey and a landmark event. That trip is now soon enough that I have to begin preparing for it, which is only mildly terrifying. (Express has been busy with work and I've been distracted with my own issues, or else we'd be at incredibly terrifying by now.) I need a cell phone with a working battery, and a second piece of luggage so that I can haul down half my bedding. The pragmatic minutiae makes it seem much more real.

The kitten has taken to pawing my face when waiting for food. It's the floofiest gentle little poke, and it's adorable, and she still has to wait until six. She also walks on my keyboard, and bites my hand, and cheek-rubs my nose. My kitty is cuter than your kitty, and I don't care whether you have one. When our weather changed overnight, August became the cuddliest of cats, thrilled to see me lay down and happiest at bedtime, all for a chance at warm snuggles. Last night she fell asleep tucked into the crook of my arm and under my blanket, so warm that she stretched from a little round into a longcat, so deep asleep that her paws began to twitch.

I have these moments when I seem to snap out of the reality of my life and see it as if from the outside in; moments when, converse to the distance I find myself with, my life seems so real and it raw that it hurts. I usually find it difficult to see anything at a distance, to comprehend trends or big pictures; recognizing all of that is surreal and terrifying. I do this with Devon. He gets a short shrift, because I so often see only the limitations and sins of the present—but in those moments I can see the entire span of our relationship, and I almost drown in all those years. I find I do this with August, now. She has become a part of my daily life, my black shadow, my pain in the butt, and much of the novelty and constant awareness that I have a cat! has subsided. But then I snap out, step back, and see with painful clarity the fact that my life has changed, and that I love her the way I love the person I love best. I may be complacent about the risk, but I can still drown.

Devon and I have been experimenting with French toast when he visits, ever since he made me breakfast in bed on a whim (my whim: the request for French toast; his whim: to fulfill it, even if I was still sleeping). Two weeks ago, we burnt sugar (the first attempt failed, but the house smelled quite lovely afterward) and topped French toast with caramelized bananas and pecans. The chewy bread, gushy bananas, and crunchy nuts were a fantastic combination, and cooked bananas are so decadent that you want nothing to do with French toast for some days. A few days ago, we made peanut butter stuffed apple French toast (variations from recipe: Italian bread, thinner cut, so that the finished product wasn't quite so overwhelming; future variations from recipe: thicker apple slices finished on a higher heat for more body and caramelization). The combination was classic, delightfully salty/sweet, and decadent—I'm sold on stuffed French toast, now. Future experiments will include pumpkin French toast (as in, with pumpkin bread—and potentially stuffed with cream cheese), and peanut butter/banana stuffed French toast. Anyone with any other ideas, I would love to have them. If you're hungry now, I'm sorry. So am I.

On the other hand, the first thing I saw this morning was Netflix's circumspect Qwikster announcement, via an email from Reed Hastings, Co-Founder and CEO of Netflix, which began, "Dear Jessica, I messed up. I owe you an explanation." Putting aside the incredible stupidity of this move (and the name—Quikster, seriously?) to focus on the wildly inappropriate tone of the email: It turns out there are few things as triggering to my sleep-addled brain as the combination of Reed* and a personal, conciliatory tone. I wasn't sure if it was more insurance application information or just another college nightmare, but whatever it was my brain hated it so thanks for that, Netflix. (Yes, insurance applications are still unfinished. Yes, I am grateful for the comments and support. No, I have no spoons to discuss it.)

No rhyme or reason to any of this, I guess. Above insurance business combined with a short visit with Devon and no visit with Lyz et al. (this is not passive aggression! I totally understand. I can still be bummed, though) means that I'm still a little out of it, halfway escapist, somewhat quiet and distracted. On the other hand there is an essential rightness all around me—gray skies, a bed that smells of Boomslang, a floofy cat. It always surprises me when I find more to say about that latter, about the good—and that, I think, is reason enough to say it.

* Reed College was my second college, and I loved it there but also dropped out of school there because of my mental health; I continue to have college nightmares and phobias to this day, four years later.