between addresses

Not many know yet that I don't live at my address any more. I don't live at any address, for that matter. I'm off the map. Between addresses. Literally: I'm staying in an RV which is parked between two friends' houses. One friend invited me to housesit, when I had to get out for just a little bit. The others let me use this camper, when I needed to leave for longer. I've been here for two weeks now. What am I doing here? I can't exactly say. Looking for what comes next. Camped out in the meantime. But limbo's never been so comfortable.

It's a 22-foot breadbox-shaped vehicle. The front door is in the side. Two seats and a steering wheel take up the front end. Bed-niche and bathroom-closet occupy the back, and in the middle are a complete kitchen, and a fold-out table with two bench seats. It's cozy. It's also oddly familiar: as a kid I spent serious summer time in a camper much like this, that belonged to my grandparents. Then later my parents, following their back-to-the-lander dream, borrowed another one to live in while they built a house. Five of us stayed in that one. For nine months. I have no idea how. But for just one person in need of a little space (a very little space), this arrangement's the lap of luxury.

While it might sound strange, among the most luxurious aspects of this home-for-now is all that it lets me do without. There's not room for a bookshelf (the other seat at the table has that role), or a music rack (a few CDs fit on the console by the driver's seat), so what's here is what matters. The closet holds about 3 square feet of clothes. The mini-refrigerator seems to work on its own schedule, and doesn't hold much anyway, so for the time being I'm almost vegetarian. The stove runs on propane which has to be refilled every couple of weeks, so cooking is a small-scale effort, a little more conscious than usual.

But the practice that gets my attention here is the use of water. This breadbox's water supply is stored in a plastic tank beneath the bed. I don't know how many gallons it holds, but it occupies about the dimensions of a normal single mattress. With such visibly limited provisioning, I've tried to take thought for the resources I use. Which, as it happens, was already one of the keenest needs that I couldn't meet in my former homespace. Taking thought for the use of precious resources. Or rather, I keenly wanted not to be the only one taking thought of this. For that matter alone, I am thoroughly at home in this limited liminal space.

Every morning I get up and turn on one of the stove's three burners. On the flame goes one small saucepan of water: the first two cups are for coffee (in a press) and the remainder usually cooks oatmeal. This is replaced (before the burner goes off) by half a teakettle of water, heated up to wash the dishes. Each evening I refill the gallon jug that holds drinking/cooking water. Under the table is a 3-gallon jug of tap water for hand-and-dish-washing. Since the water supply is chemical-treated, they advised me not to use it for personal hygiene. But takes no more than a cup of water to brush teeth, and both neighbors have been kind enough to offer the use of their showers. The closet-toilet, best of all, probably uses about a cup of water to flush.

I don't mean to sound self-congratulatory. After all, it's the generosity of friends that lets me try this little experiment. More to convey the sheer relief I find at remembering how easy it is, how possible, to use so little. Depending on the online source I look at, the average American apparently uses something between 60 and 100 gallons of water per day. Trying to avoid too-righteous indignation while trying to imagine how this is even possible, I can certainly think of many moments when I too could've used less. But as an idealist, my poor-boundaried conscience has been hurting for my own actions as well as for humanity's at large. Well, here's a chance, as me only, to try and make it up to the earth. Or at least to express the wish.

Except. I came home today, and with snow falling and temperatures dropping fast, the RV's owner had decided to take the precaution of emptying the water system. To avoid a busted pipe or other consequence of the sub-freezing weather predicted for tonight. It's an understandable move, of course. But as they opened the drain and then turned on all the faucets at once, I thought, there's gotta be some kinda message here -- if not some kind of joke --from Life to me. For two weeks now I've done my sincerest to conserve, and now in a few minutes' time the result of my careful effort is undone. Although for an arguably important reason. There's gotta be some metaphorical consolation -- if not some lesson for the road ahead -- that I can derive from this. Just give me a minute.