Drafty
3.9.26
I had four posts in draft form, all different. Deleted them all. They were nonsense. I read back over the last few attempts and let them go. The stories of my life are no longer synching up. My beloved has a serious health problem that in the few weeks since it was discovered has changed everything.
Here I am in the roofing house again, much as I left it over three years ago . . . I did come back a few times in the intervening and poke around a bit. Yes, Petaluma Parade weekend, ouch. Last year when I came to load out the sound equipment for the Saw Festival I camped here two nights, swept up and pulled some things out. It’s not in bad shape, all I need is some acrylics and brushes. I am somewhat surprised at what I left rat-safe in the filing cabinet: books, magazines, canvas panels, frames and glass. Many things I have no room, or need for, artograph, light box, four bags of LP’s. I did NOT find the big sketchbook with handles that I so want to see.
Woodrat built a tinker-toy nest of bamboo skewers and forks, and some scraps of paper, in a crate, a foundation of plastic bags at the bottom. I pulled it all apart and tucked it into a grocery bag, might write “free rat’s nest” on it.. I swept, used the leaf blower, wiped glass, rehung prayer flags. It’s a delightful little space. I think I’ll be here again.
There were a lot of things Art needed help with. He’s so skinny. I brought beef stew for the weekend, raw butter and grass fed ground beef for the freezer. He gets food delivered from the school Monday thru Friday. I made cauliflower soup and veggie juice in the Ninja he had in storage, never used. Built fires in the wood stove in the cold mornings.
We had a few deep talks at the table, eating stew, him taking his remedies, sorting unopened packages and mail. A circuit breaker had failed and broke, he can’t get it to come out. He has someone who can fix it, so I rerouted cords and plugs and got the porch light working, installed a power strip in the kitchen, got the ceiling light and light over the sink working, and plugged in appliances. Wedged two metal plates under the kitchen sink outflow pipe under the house to stop the drain from leaking all over, ew.
48 hours, Saturday to Monday, I’ll leave sometime after noon. He called me an angel. How much do I owe you? No, dude, you fed me and emptied my bucket for three months after I broke my ankle. You don’t owe me.
He slept and napped, I puttered in the RH and did his laundry and camped in my van, OMG I could hardly get the pop-top up, it has been so long. I am so at home here, the things I thought I had lost forever, my parking space, my studio, all is as it was when I left in abject misery. Who else knows his habits, his quirky home and proclivities? Only I. On the way here I saw a free box and picked out a pillow for Westy, immaculate white, with a bird embroidered in navy, burnt orange, teal, ochre, a Bird of Paradise, a Phoenix, a rebirth. If only for now. Yes, so mote it be.
Ratholm
11.5.22
Again with the Canyon Rats! A crazy scene when I went out to the wood pile and found three 5-gallon buckets of stickers I had carefully organized and placed on their sides so the water wouldn’t get in were EMPTY. Who would take them? Then I noticed a large tinker-toy-like assemblage on top of a nearby stack and realized the Wood Rats had taken them all and made a shelter. Oh shame, I didn’t get a photograph! before taking it all apart and whisking the buckets of sticks away in the square wheel cart for safe-keeping. It was quite spectacular. They must have been so happy to come upon a fine selection of sticks so conveniently left for them. Sorry guys! Off you go to the Woods.
I had to jump up and leave when Art started spreading Bondo on the music room floor. Oh dear, the smell! Sometimes I wish for a quiet, peaceful getaway. Quinn’s too-bright lights next door keep me awake nights. I have a hard enough time with the twitchy legs and all. There is so much light that I can make my way out to the parking lot and my van, tucked behind the big abandoned box truck, and attempt some sleeps there. Then I realize, Oh! I have a home!
I was mostly packed out anyway. Roofing House is buttoned up for the coming Rains. I brought my silk dress and Martin bass and books home for the winter. So here I am alone on a Saturday night, total peace and solitude in my tiny studio apartment with a private yard and a redwood tree. Except for, again, the bright freaking backdoor light of my nearest neighbors, which I have hidden behind a big ugly brown tarp hung from the trees.
We had heard that Huey White died in October, at 93 years old. Art called Al to touch base with him–his wife said Al had died in February! We had tried to take Al out to lunch last year but she wouldn’t let him go because Covid. Now he’s gone anyway. What a shame.
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