Moving out and moving on.

It’s official. I signed a six-month lease today and will be giving country living in Georgetown a shot come April 15. Well, that’s when the lease starts, anyway, although my lease at the Hellhole at Turtle Rock doesn’t officially end until May 6. As I listen to the slamming doors, shrieking children, the screaming parents who are worse than their shrieking children, what I can only assume is the sound of bodies being dragged up or down multiple flights of stairs, the incessant revving of the engine being worked on in the parking lot, the screeching of tires on Anderson Mill Road, and the unctuous, velvet-lined indifference of the leasing assistant whose thin veneer of solicitude fails to bely the extent to which he clearly does not give a shit about the fact that I live across from possibly The Worst People on Earth (rivaled only by the champs with whom I share a bedroom wall), I know I’ve made the right decision to spend what in the end will amount to thousands of dollars to extricate myself from the Nucleus of Suck.

My new neighbors will include a horse named Handsome Ransom, a donkey named Pedro, some chickens, and a kick-ass landlady who, nine years ago, after spending her entire life as a city slicker, decided to realize her girlhood dream of living in the country and riding horses. Once the Turtles from Planet Hell have bled me for as much as they can (which is fully how I expect this to go, and if I’m wrong, I’ll own up to it and make it public here that I was), my rental money (for the next six months, at least, and hopefully forever, because property management companies are Satan and I am done, done, DONE with them) will factor as part of this wholly impressive individual’s retirement plan instead of subsidizing, like, an evil corporation, man.

Of course this means a new WordPress site is in the offing, because, while it’s been a good run, this blog has served its purpose and really isn’t relevant anymore. I’m not on the road, and I’d like to have a more cohesive thematic focus than look what my cat did today or here’s what was playing at Supercuts. Not that these subjects aren’t eminently worthy of documentation, but surely they can be examined within some greater framework, such as what it’s like for a lifelong city slicker to eject herself from civilization (all right, so that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the idea), primarily because it’s not civilized, and take a stab at being a country mouse. All right, I may have to abandon the Supercuts thread. But you get the idea.

For further details on this upcoming project, stay tuned, stay tuned. 

Things to be excited about.

·         Trying this lentil soup recipe (since I have burdened myself with a lifetime supply of red lentils and possess limited ardor for them).

·         Quoting myself relentlessly (friends only!).

·         The prospect of moving to the country for six months (in the event of the realization of which, I will be starting a new blog to document the experience, since, let’s face it, this whole road tripping theme doesn’t exactly apply anymore).

·         Li is coming to town! Weekend after this one! BFFs, BFFs!

·         Daring to hope for a book doctoring from someone exciting.

·         The idea of publishing (via traditional circuits or, more likely, since novellas are unmarketable in the U.S., self-publishing) and promoting my changeling novella of yore.

·         Dodie Bellamy’s (revelatory!) the buddhist. 

·         Library school! Maybe I’ll get in, maybe I’ll go.

It’s good to make lists like these when you are bleary-eyed from being up too late (again) and carrying a thorn in your heart (which is slowly falling out, if you will only let it, and stop holding on).

Red heart balloons.

On a recent Sunday afternoon walk I took a picture of a cluster of red heart-shaped balloons tied around the black bars of an iron fence. The light is dwindling and the shadows across the dead grass are growing ever-longer. But the light that remains is the more brilliant for that, rendering the patches of grass not dead a deep emerald. I set the image as my cellphone backdrop. Those hearts speak to me: the way they, though fettered, bobbled buoyantly in the air; the way their frail being could be summarily eradicated with the prick of a malicious pin; the way they served as a bright, shining beacon on a dreary Sunday. I haven’t passed that fence since. The balloons have probably been removed or deflated. I’d rather not know. I’d rather remember them as they were in this moment. I’d rather remember how I was in this moment. 

Happy anniversary, Spartacus the Cat.

Today is my third anniversary with Spartacus the Cat, who came bursting (well, more like cowering, but he’s come around since then) into my life three years ago when I spontaneously decided to take him off the hands of the lady who was fostering him. She was working at the Idaho Humane Society and took him home because his prospects of survival were not good due to his social anxiety.

It was not love at first sight; when I went to meet him, he of course hid. To be perfectly honest, I was a little put off by his neurosis, and unsure what to make of the fact that he called to mind nothing so much as a furry gargoyle.

I’ve come around since then. Three years later, I can’t imagine my life without him (and Meep, who came around that summer). He’s been an unfailing source of comfort, companionship, and unconditional affection through a stretch of difficult years. Spartacus and Meep changed my life; if it weren’t for them, I’d most likely be writing this from South Korea, where I’d be teaching English.

I won’t pretend  I’m not ambivalent about my derailed career plans and impaired ability to vagabond about the globe in the long term while my darlings live out their days; truthfully, sometimes I wonder what the hell I’m thinking. But, at the end of the day, I wouldn’t trade my cat family for the world and I’m grateful for the joy, and yes, I’ll say it, because I am a crazy cat lady, and I don’t care how it sounds—love—they’ve brought into my life.

I love you guys!

Journeys, destinations, and crazy cat lady rantings.

Up bright and early, brimming with plans, prospects, and mad dashes for hope and the future. The thing about cabins is that although they may be made from trees, they do not grow on trees, at least not on the outskirts of Austin. All is not lost, however—there are some options out there, some of which, if not literally cabins, seem like they might be bearable until it makes more sense to sever myself from civilization in earnest (if this will ever make sense, that is).

Or maybe I’ll throw pragmatism out the window, hightail it to the Colorado mountains, and reenact The Shining. Again. Since this is what I more or less did in Boise, without the panoramic views or quality solitude.

We shall see.

The thing about seeking things (which I believe is the root of travel: to seek out new places, experiences, people, ways of seeing the world) is that the search puts you in touch with the Longing For Things, whether that be solitude, or love, or connection, or peace and quiet, or purpose, or, or, or…the way that the smell of food seems to make people hungry (I wouldn’t know—as Li says, my ole factory is shut down). There’s something to be said for being put in direct, visceral contact with the Longing for Things: for the process of trying to meet these needs and for the simultaneous awareness that often—almost always?—it is the Longing and corresponding search that are the pleasure and point of it all.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, the journey is the destination, man.

And all of that.

In other news, Meep has become a regrettably picky eater, eschewing various flavors of wet food without any discernible pattern (on the blacklist are the chunky salmon Fancy Feast that comes in the lime green can and a certain stripe of Friskies’ seafood pate—Mariner’s Choice, I think? Or maybe it’s Mariner’s Catch). Well, she has a right to have preferences, I thought, and tried to accommodate them by whisking away the offending flavor and replacing it with a more acceptable variety.

The problem is that I only use half a can per serving and she refuses to eat leftovers, either cold or reheated to room temperature in the microwave. Plus, I still have the offending flavors to use up, which is fine, because Spartacus has absolutely no reservations about any flavor of wet food, fresh, leftover, cold, or at room temperature; his only qualms lie in the fact that there is never, ever ENOUGH of it, EVER. But, since Sparty only gets a half-can of food per meal as well, and since I have been busting out two separate flavors per meal, trying to accommodate Meep’s aversion to certain flavors AND to leftovers, half-can after half-can of wet cat food have been accruing in plastic zipper bags in my refrigerator, which is becoming cluttered and unappetizing. I finally had to put my foot down this morning; when she refused heated-to-room-temperature leftovers of a flavor that yesterday had been perfectly acceptable, I had to say “this isn’t a restaurant, Little Missy” and direct her to the kibble, my Guilty Single Mother complex burning a hole in my conscience all the while.

I think I have a better inkling now of what my poor parents went through with my own picky eating tendencies.

Also, look! Since this post has devolved into still more musings of a Crazy Cat Lady, here’s Sparty enjoying his Christmas present from his Aunt Amy! Thank you, Aunt Amy! 

The mighty hunter stalks his prey.

 At this point, Meep had become the prey (again).

I want no part o’ this apartment.

So I quit it! I gave my sixty-day notice—which technically qualifies as a lease violation—on Tuesday. Why? Because I hate it! This is a crummy, beige, noise-besotted hellhole in which beasts masquerading as neighbors bare their barracuda teeth at good behavior, sink their serpentine fangs into each peaceful moment, and gore basic human decency, etiquette, and awareness with their bloodstained tusks and angry horns. In light of the fact that if you are miserable and have any say in the matter (First World, whew!) and choose to do nothing, you are choosing to be miserable, this move (upward, downward, or lateral) makes sense.

The thing about doing something like this—taking bold and decisive action when your default mode with respect to decision-making is Mosquito Trapped in Amber—is that it tends to open the floodgates. This is simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying.

It raises all sorts of questions, for instance: what now? Why am I here (in this case, I refer to my literal location rather than the Meaning of Life, although if you happen to know the Meaning of Life and are inclined to pass it along, then please, by all means do)? Why would I be anywhere else? What am I doing with my life? Have I allowed the Onus of Responsibility to fetter me unduly? What does responsibility mean, anyway? Responsible to whom? I’m responsible for myself, of course, and my cats. I feel a responsibility to the people who care about me not to give them evitable cause to worry. But perhaps I’ve mistaken stagnation for responsibility. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with being a roving Vagabond Gypsy Cat Lady and running, running, running like something’s on my tail (and I ain’t talking stripes).

It’s entirely possible—and even likely—I will secure something livable in Austin. But right now what sounds ideal is living in a cabin in the Colorado mountains—or in the forest somewhere rainy and chilly—with nary a neighbor in sight. Maybe just go totally Walden for a year—and hyper-document the experience of course—and see how it agrees with me. If I love it, then awesome, and if not then I return to civilization with a fresh perspective on its draws and drawbacks.

Is this the responsible thing to do? Probably not. But maybe it’s what I need right now. And, after all, my primary responsibility is to myself.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to keep my options open. I’m applying to library school, hatching some writing and self-publishing schemes (or the inklings thereof, at least), and I’ll also look into livable Austin situations too.

Should you care to sort out the bothersome mess of What I Should Do With My Life, suggestions, ultimatums, and exhortations are welcome here. You could of course also share similar experiences and struggles of your own. 

Austin Saturday II: this time it's personal.

So, the original idea was to venture to Esquina Tango to hear Argentine folk music, but I ended up joining forces with Kristina at Threadgill’s (another Austin institution I can check off the bucket list, but alas, why do I keep forgetting to bring dear Shutter Island?), and it was a crisp, brisk neon-lit evening, replete with gravel underneath my shoes and a fire pit, and we invented The Unicorn, destined to be the next dance craze to seize the nation, and I drank too many beers, including a black lager from local brewers Live Oak (which I kept wishing to christen a live lager from Black Oak brewers), and I bought Shakey Graves’ children’s book (which is actually for grown-ups), and we renamed him Shakey Bones, on account of this calls to mind a jaunty, dapper dancing skeleton, which seems apt, and the young and old congregated, the bright blue neon notes of the Threadgill’s sign pulsed in the cold night, and the air crackled with that distinctly Austin energy, and it turns out melancholy can be sublimated with the help of good beer and the Unicorn Dance, and thus another Saturday—this one more successful—came and went and ceded the floor to a bleary-eyed Sunday: too hot, too hazy, and rendered leaden by the heavy ticking of  borrowed time.

In other news, I am now the proud owner of www.thereisnodealsporto.com (go here for the tentative mission statement) because I want to relocate to WordPress, and I need to breathe new life into my blogging, find a theme, a cohesive focus, pull my gaze from my navel and fix it elsewhere, but where, but where? Food, travel, rage, reflection—the themes that have been posited. Not sure what to do with this site, or if it will amount to much, but it’s mine for the year. Who knows? Maybe I’ll buy another domain name and begin collecting them. It would of course help to learn WordPress first.