Maybe it’s time I talk about Possum. I debated between doing this today, and between finally digitizing some of my fiction. Truth be told, I wanted to wait to write this for a little bit, but for some reason I feel it might be time.
I will give a faster account and perhaps engage in more depth in the future if I feel it is warranted. When it comes to this subject, I feel that further engagement would be warranted. But I’ll start with the real basics at least, the key points I remember.
There is so much I want to say, but will have to leave out for some semblance of brevity.
On April 17th, 2023 I had my final exam for the semester of school. The class was Programming Languages, a third year course at the university for students in the computer science program. The class seemed to combine some knowledge we’d experienced in previous semesters. The exam asked us about algorithms involving triangular matrices, regular and context-free grammars, and we had to read snippets of Fortran code. Looking back, it was a fairly broad scope for a course.
I remember our course project was creating a programming language like they might use on Texas Instrument calculators. We weren’t writing real complex programming languages, but I’m proud of the work I did anyways. Especially because I did it all by myself. I never talked to anyone in that class. I’ve talked to people in computer classes before, but that class was one of the ones where people didn’t really say much. This is more common among computer science students, I have found. The course project was for groups of three people. I did it all alone, and I did it well. I remember the countless days I spent working on it. The code was written in Scheme. I had to implement a compiler from scratch and everything that goes into a simple programming language.
I felt bad walking out of that exam room. I didn’t know it at the time, but I passed the class. I think it was because everyone did as bad as I did on the final exam or worse. It seemed like a lot of the material on the exam was not actually covered in the course. A lot of the computer instructors I have met at this university were rather poor.
I walked home from the university after that. It was warm outside with snow on the ground. The snow was melting and pooled on the sidewalks making puddles I had to avoid. The walk home would normally be 20-25 minutes for me. I live on a residential road that leads to the intersection that goes to the university. I made a stop at a grocery/pharmacy store on my way back and bought face wash.
I may have done this subconsciously because right next to the grocery/pharmacy store is the liquor store I used to go to every day. Buying face wash was my way of avoiding that, perhaps. At this time, I would’ve been just nearly 5 months without a drink.
I went straight home after that. and put the face wash in the shower. Then, I read from the Programming Languages textbook, trying to piece together how well I did on the final exam. After that, I started cleaning the apartment.
The apartment was always very tidy in a homely sense. You walk in the door and have the kitchen to your left, the dining table to your right, and the living room in front of you. Also to your left, right past the kitchen, is a hallway with two bedrooms on the right and a bathroom on the left. At the end of the hallway is a storage closet.
Everything had it’s place here. There were a lot of things occupying each area, but they were put away and out of sight. Except for one area. The larger bedroom was completely empty except for a desk and a shelf. The carpet was vacuumed, the windows were cleaned, and the closet was cleared.
I was looking for a roommate.
No matter how clean the apartment was, I had to spend extra time cleaning it today because I had a viewing. I wasn’t too glad it was on a day that I had an exam, but I scheduled it that way. I burned some candles while I read the textbook. I played piano and bass. I watched King of the Hill. Frankly, the day escapes me. I remember the things I did, but not the order.
I was in the process of writing a song that I have not released. Many of the songs I write go unreleased. This particular one was almost good enough, but I decided after nearly completing it that it was too unmusical. The music was good enough, except the last phrase repeated twice too many times. I was not sure about the vocals though. It starts off about a guy singing “I don’t want to live anymore” over and over again in a sort of homage to annoying dance music. The chorus is an instrumental polymeter. The drums are in 4/4 and the guitar and bass play in 7/4. The song is in two parts. After the second chorus, we go into a groovy blues line with an almost rap-like vocal line where the guy expands on trying to find a reason to live. After that, there is a piano section followed immediately by a long solo section which concludes with the guy saying he found a reason to live within himself with the inital line repeated in a major key.
So, that song was something I worked on for hundreds of hours. I will release it one day, but not for a little while at least.
I passed the day doing the things I found myself doing, until dinner, when I made a cheesy pasta dish. It was shortly after this that I turned the lights correctly, blew out the candles, received a phone call, and made my way down stairs.
The apartment is on the third and top floor of the complex. Nobody lives above me and nobody lives below me. I also only have one neighbour as my apartment is next to the stairwell. It really is the perfect apartment, especially for the price.
The phone call I received was from a woman who had an obvious accent that I couldn’t place. She told me that she believed that she had arrived at the apartment. I told her I would let her in. I walked down the long way thinking she, like most people who viewed the apartment, would have arrived at the front door. My apartment is the farthest one from the front door, however, so I always use the back door. She had gone to the back door though, and I met her and her dog by the tree in the yard.
“Pay no attention to the dog.” She said.
I did not look at the dog. We introduced ourselves and I took her up to the apartment as I told her all the points I wanted to tell. The dog rushed my cat a little bit, who I forgot to keep in my room. She gave the dog a lot of treats as she was training her. The dog was young, a new adult, just like my cat. She seemed to like the apartment, but had some reservations. She expressed that it might not be the type of place that would work for her and the dog, but she’d think about it. She talked about her Russian heritage. I expressed that I would be more than willing to, after living together for some time, help out with the dog. I wanted to show to her that I would be an easy roommate to get along with because I think that is true. Part of that might have to do with my desire for connection, but I think another part of that is that I’m a respectful and understanding person.
I don’t have any weird things that I stickle about. I expressed this to the woman who viewed the apartment. A lot of people renting out apartments or basement suites had weird conditions on which they would rent. No smokers (not ‘no smoking’ literally ‘no smokers’) no drinking (because the landlord didn’t drink), no pets including betta fish or simple tank animals. I dislike the things that the renters I heard about did, and I wanted to rent based on actual humans interacted with each other.
If you’re sharing a space with somebody else, it is for both of your best interests to become friends. And you make that very difficult when you tell somebody what they can’t do in their own home.
The woman who viewed my apartment ended up invited me to an open mic event the upcoming Wednesday, which was two days after she viewed the place. I came at 7:00PM, when it started and thoroughly enjoyed my time. I saw her band play. She played the violin, very well too, which I knew as she had told me when she wanted to rent that her job was a violin instructor. I played a song that I wrote for more or less solo piano.
The thing about playing an instrument very well, is that the average person probably can’t tell unless you’re playing something obviously technical. But when you’re playing something folksy, for example, the average person might not be able to tell the particulars. How can you tell an incredible musician when they are playing something easier? They play it flawlessly, AND they hold back. A good musician will want to prove themselves all the time. A better musician will know to hold back when the song calls for it. That’s one dimension by which I could tell this woman was very good at violin.
We sat next to each other that whole night, roughly three hours. We stayed until the close of the night. We talked about simple things that people who just met each other might talk about, especially those with similar interests. I talked about her formal music education, and what she listens to. She asked how long I had been playing. We left very shortly afterwards as we only really had time to talk after the open mic ended and the cafe closed.
A few days after the open mic, she scheduled a second viewing of the apartment, which I happily, and nervously, obliged. Happily, because I was glad that she still considered the apartment. That meant she liked the place and, more importantly, liked me. Nervously because I knew that this meant I was likely going to have to get close to another person, and another woman. For all that I crave close human connection, it scares me because I am reminded of how every person I was ever close to has abandoned or left me.
She came bearing gifts of friendship chocolate. I made us coffee and we sat on my shitty futon and talked for a while. I showed her the laundry room on the first floor and the mail room which she hadn’t seen yet on account of being responsible for the dog. We continued a conversation that I recall seemed to ebb more naturally than I had anticipated. We talked about work and school. I remember she talked about her parents and how how her dad had interesting politics. She remarked that she was apolitical, she couldn’t listen to or understand politics, which I appreciated. Because it’s not that people are too invested in politics, it’s that people are too enveloped in one political ideology (especially in universities). To hear that she thought more about things that matter or make a difference was a nice change of pace.
The next night, I believe, was when she made her decision. She decided to move in. I knew then that something major was going to change in my life. Every day, she moved some things in the place with the help of one of her bandmates and owner of the cafe at which the open mic took place.
The owner played the flute in her band and owned the cafe with her daughters who all helped her move in. When it comes to talking about Possum, these people I think are very important. She says that Possum is like family to her. She has extended this to me as well. I feel undeserving of being called family though. I don’t know why. I guess I’m confused as to why they would consider ME to be family.
On May 2nd, she had moved everything in and spent her first night. I remember the night before I had cooked Cajun chicken breasts and vacuumed. She had moved in some tea that day that was very strong and calming and I had drank that while eating the chicken I made. I remember thinking of it as my last night with the place to myself, which has been mostly true. The smell of the Cajun seasoning I used was powerful. I used it to make quesadillas shortly after she moved in and I’ve found it to be a meaningful reminder to me of how much in my life I value. I remember where I came from perhaps and it doesn’t scare me (maybe a little) but makes me feel hope.
We spent a couple weeks testing the waters, seeing how well we got along. I would get up in the morning and study a little bit in the living room. She would take the dog out for her daily run. Sometimes I put music on. She might return and do some work from home or art work. She is also an artists, which I haven’t mentioned as there is so much to be mentioned about Possum that I would not be able to keep it straight. Sometimes, we talked, sometimes we did our own thing.
I tried my best to give her space by doing things that needed to be done and taking my time. I needed to get groceries, so I’d hop on the bus and go to the second closest grocery store and take my time picking things out. I went all the way downtown to pick up some shirts as I figured I could use a few new ones. A few times, I would just go on walks.
I remember one particular day very shortly after she’d moved in. She left with her bandmate adopted mother to pick some groceries from a store. Housewarming, I think was the occasion. She said she would be heading into town and that I could text her if I wanted anything from there. She had a beautiful blue dress on. I don’t know how these things work, but seeing her that way left me unable to think straight. When she left, I had a sort of internal crisis. I didn’t know what was going on. I felt unsure if it was a good idea for us to live together with the feelings that I was feeling. I wondered if it would make me an unfit roommate in ways that would be difficult for me to see.
I decided to take a walk. I hopped on a bus going in a direction I hadn’t gone in before. It took me to a neighbourhood I had no reason to go to. It was far enough away, a little more than an hour walk back, if I stretched it out. So that’s what I did. I got off at the furthest stop and read my textbook at a Tim Hortons with a coffee before I started on the hour plus walk back.
Yes, now you know. I initially did not want to talk about places in my first post. But now I’ve done it. I’ve gone and named Tim Hortons as the coffee spot. You now know the country in which I live.
I was only in for about twenty minutes, during which Possum texted me asking if we had cooking oil. I told her we had olive oil. It felt like the first real roommate grocery-planning we had ever done.
At this point now, I need to take a tangent break. As I was writing this (I’ve been writing for a couple hours now), Possum asked me about it. I told her about how it helps my mind to go through things in my life and see what I feel and what it might mean. I gave her an earlier example about how I wanted to be a good roommate and how I think most renters are setting themselves up for disaster when they try to control what people do in their own homes. I think part of my desire to do so comes from my yearning for connection. Possum has it too, she admitted. I told her I go on way too many tangents and that the few people who read this are probably not terribly happy about it. She said I should start labelling each tangent “Tangent 1”, “Tangent 2” etc which I found funny.
The point of this tangent, before I got distracted on that tangent, was that looking back to the time when I saw Possum in her blue dress and I felt conflicted between desire, admiration, and the need to be a courteous and professional roommate, I remember how much anxiety I felt that early May. I am still prone to feeling that way. Very prone. But I also feel supported. There are no doubts and no reservations when I express my terrible, sometimes ugly, feelings. It’s hard, I imagine, to listen to me sometimes. You can probably tell from reading this. I feel very grateful is what I suppose I’m saying, and I think I’m a better person than I was nearly a year ago.
When I returned, she had been back for a while and was making a ramen type of dinner. It smelled very good. I ended up restringing my bass and likely read later that night before bed.
There was a pattern we ended up doing before bed that I found to be very comfortable. Sometimes we watched something together. We watched a show I don’t exactly remember the name of about a bunch of kids that are half people and half animals. They’re all different animals and some people want to help them, and others want to hunt them down. It’s set in a post-apocalyptic Earth. I remember it quite vividly. We watched that and then later we would talk for a long time before we went to bed. There were a few nights like that. Some, we spent up talking until 2:00AM before we finally went to sleep. I remember she’d show me some weird music and funny videos, and I’d show her funny videos, and we’d talk about our childhood and growing up, and friends we had. We made tea. It’s crazy to think about how simple it is for us to get along and perhaps that’s something that people take for granted. When you live with someone long enough, maybe sometimes you forget how miraculous it is that they are in your life; you forget how fortunate you are. I forget that sometimes. I aim to minimize that. I think it’s impossible to never forget. But I can remember to remember more. It’s good for you and also for them.
Some nights we watched the Sherlock Holmes series with Benedict Cumberbatch and the guy who plays the main guy in the first season of Fargo. I don’t know why I don’t remember his name. I might be really bad with watching movies and TV. We watched that often, and ended up finishing the series. It was Possum’s second time watching it as she saw it back when it was a thing I think in 2013 or something like that. Now we’re starting to get into the latter part of May as Possum moved in. We are more comfortable with each other. I had been joining her sometimes on her walks to the cafe in the morning. She’d bring the dog and run her in the fenced off area by the cafe. She’d kick the ball and the dog would fetch it. I’d do it too. We’d talk as we did it. Sometimes we’d do our languages as well. She inspired me to pick up Spanish again through Duolingo on the phone. Eventually though, I started learning Russian instead.
One time, she wanted to pick up some grow lights for her plants before work. She invited me to join her. I wanted to see the plant store and figured I could pick something easy to grow. We sat on the futon talking before we left and our arms touched. She didn’t move. our arms were touching each other and that was okay. I felt warm in that moment. When we left to see the plant store and I dropped her off at work, I said goodbye. She did too. While I was waiting for the bus ride home thinking of her, I realized that I think she likes me.
There is a small castle made of garbage near the university I go to.
The university is situated atop a large valley. Below is a river splitting the valley in half. On the side of the city with the university, there are plenty of residential neighbourhoods with gas stations and schools and parking malls; on the other side, is the rest of the city with the industrial and commercial areas, the college, grocery stores, and everything else.
But in between in that valley is something that not many people are aware of. It’s not hard to find, if you know where you’re looking.
I asked Possum about this, but she had never heard of the garbage castle. So, we planned on May 21st, I would take her there, and we would see the sunset at garbage castle.
And that’s what we did. She looked beautiful with her dress and her hat and I wore the homeschooled kid style that I feel I was never able to shed.
There are two levels to garbage castle. We climbed to the top one and couldn’t really make out the sunset, but it still felt right. She looked at me in a way that I’m sure she wanted me to kiss her. But I didn’t know for sure.
We decided to walk towards the direction of the sunset. We climbed up the valley into the neighbourhood as she told me stories about parks in Russia where old ladies would pick all the blueberries, the bears would starve, and the park rangers would get mad, or something like that. As we walked along the neighbourhood, it began to grow dark, so we started to make our way home. We kept running into cul-de-sacs and thought it was funny. Eventually we got really close to almost being home. She told me about an imaginary friend she had as a child that helped her deal with moving across the world. I found it touching.
Once home, we watched the Sherlock Holmes series. A night prior, our arms were touching as we watched it, as the dog had chosen the side of the couch she usually sat on. I asked her if she was okay sitting so close to me. She said she was. I told her that I liked it.
That night, she brought it up, and said that she liked it too. I asked if she wanted to be closer. So we cuddled on the couch, and I put my arm around her. She said she didn’t want to rush into anything, as she had before. I concurred and we left it at that because it felt right. Eventually, we put some sort of Three Musketeers movie on the background as we drifted off to sleep right there on the futon. The next day, we made steaks to welcome her into her new home.
MyShelf 