Charles' house was built on a communal property purchased by him and a group of friends that had remained close since childhood. There were a few houses dotting the area; surreal outdoor kitchens and washrooms, minimal electricity, gardens that flourished like small forests. A true caricature of self-sufficiency.
The house he took us to was just off the property, overlooking a lake whose water was as still as stone. Inside, we were bombarded by peaceful connections and good energy. Everyone in the house sparkled, but nobody could match the ambivalence of Charles' excited serenity.
In all honesty, I felt tremendously uncomfortable in the house - certainly the opposite effect that the hosts had hoped for. Their beautiful outlooks and presence reminded me of who and what I wanted to be - and, yet, was not. This night as the beginning of a long journey towards realizing how poisoned my soul was; how my spirit had become torn through years of alcohol, debauchery, and over-indulgence. Could they feel that? Were my convoluted insecurities seeping out of my mind and into theirs? It was obvious that these were some of the least judgemental people on the planet, but somehow that made me more vulnerable. I didn't deserve to be placed as an equal, I was feeble in comparison - confused, ill, and mentally malnourished.
I put the neurosis on the back burner and tried to enjoy the rest of the evening. The walls of the house were garnished with guitars, long paisley tapestries and candles; the stove of their kitchen accompanied by a pot simmering with succulence. Dinner was prime, a myriad of different curries - vegan and strictly home grown. The healthiest meal I'd had since my last visit to Scrib's house back on Vancouver Island.
After dinner, the hosts realized how tired we were and introduced us to the tiny mattress that was to be our bed. This mattress, cramped into a mezzanine behind the staircase to the second floor, was in part responsible for my further decline into insanity. Once we'd unpacked our bags and bid Charles goodnight, we readied ourselves to sleep.
"I want the mattress," Squanch whined.
"Uh, I was gonna say we could share it, but okay…"
We'd spend the week prior cuddling every night. Even if our bond had fallen out, I saw no problem spending a night back-to-back sharing warmth like decent people. Instead of pressing the subject, I rolled up a bed sheet for a pillow and lay down on the hardwood floor while she snuggled up with the thick dusty blankets and pillows that Charles had provided. I'd been well acquainted with concrete mattresses for much of the last year, so I wasn't too upset. I nuzzled my bed sheet and drifted off to sleep for a few hours.
In the midst of some fantastic and ludicrous dream, I was awoken by Squanch shoving her paws under my head and pulling out the bed sheet I was using as a pillow. Irritated as I may often be, I'll rarely get angry, but this was enough to push me over the edge. The energy in the house was too pure for me to feel comfortable blowing my top and screaming at her, but my agitated grumbling got the message across. Her complaints of being cold were lost to me because
A) Her jacket was right fucking beside her. Put that shit on, retard.
B) if we'd just shared the mattress in the first place then I wouldn't have had to use this stupid bed sheet as a pillow and she could have used it and kept her jacket off if she wanted to.
I grabbed it back and told her to kindly put her jacket on before fucking off.
The next morning, we graciously (for the most part - Squanch remained silent and stupid-looking) thanked our hosts over a breakfast of bagels and hit the road. One of Charles' roommates left me with a name - Jelly - to look up once we'd reached our destination in Halifax, a passing pleasantry that I figured would never amount to anything.
It was an hour long walk to the highway, and I spent much of it nose-deep in a book that Charles had offered me - a translated memoir of an Asian dude's life after the loss of his family. When I wasn't reading, I was fantasizing about dipping off the road and hiding in the underbrush until Squanch finally gave up looking for me and wandered off to finish the journey on her own. I'd grown tired of her infinite idiocy. Her three-year-old philosophical ideas and repeated inquiries exhausted me; I took to ignoring her but refrained from jumping off the road and bailing on the journey. After all, I'd promised I'd take her all the way.
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