Howdy Blogbots. How are you doing? Have you ever wondered how time can seem as slow as summer and yet also be as fast as a flash flood? Time is clearly malleable (but not by me). I know I get the same twenty-four hours every day, not more some days and less other days. I know it's my perception that shifts. It's like my assumption that I stand at the center of the universe and everything revolves around me. It's erroneous, I know, but darn hard to shake.
Part of me thinks, this better be one hell of a great apartment, considering how difficult it has been to wrangle it into being. I'm past the point of frustration and headed into the great hilarity beyond. Can this be happening? This can't possibly be happening. Yet, it seems to be happening. What a joke. Har har.
Speaking of getting bored with the same old, one word for you: sunsets. At first I was entranced with the Tucson sunsets. I photographed them endlessly and sent sunset-of-the-day photos to my siblings and friends, who responded with polite appreciation. After a while, I realized I might as well have sent them the same image every day, because every sunset looked just as amazing as the last. I hate to admit it, but seen one, seen all.
Same with flash floods and the rushing Rillito River. I could hardly believe my eyes the first time I saw that tree-lined dry riverbed flowing bank-to-bank with muddy brown water. I filled up my phone with a gallery of photos and sent some to my siblings and friends, who were equally amazed that a rushing river could suddenly appear out of nowhere in a dry desert town.
Not so dry. The wettest July on record, I guess, given that we've had thunderstorms and torrential downpours almost every day for the past month. At first I was leery of opening the front door. The wind howled and lashed the trees. The rain pounded on the metal awnings. The energy was overwhelming. The second time, I ventured down the steps. The third time I took my phone out into it and tried to capture the lightning without getting killed. Now I wake up at 3:00 a.m. and groggily think, oh hey, is that another thunderstorm as the thunder crashes overhead and the rain hammers the roof. Ho hum. I bet the Rillito is full. Cool. Maybe I'll check it out later. Or not.
My first sighting of a javelina got my heartrate going. It was dark when I saw a mysterious shadow crunching in the gravel next to the neighbor's little red Toyota. I was properly astounded when I recognized the porcine silhouette. My second sighting occurred a couple evenings ago as the sun was setting in yet another glorious display. I was about ten minutes into my hike around the trailer park when a fat brown peccary sauntered across the road barely ten yards in front of me. I froze, wondering if I could outrun the creature if it happened to point its tusks at me. My hesitation delayed my second thought, which was, phone, get my phone! It took me long precious seconds to dig my phone out of my pocket so I ended up photographing the javelina's porky brown hind end as it moseyed between trailers toward the dry wash out back.
I enlarged the photo and put a red circle around the hind end so you could maybe just discern the dark hind end of the javelina from the dark shrubbery around it. I sent the photo to my family. My sister responded with gratifying amazement and a little bit of concern for my safety, which is always nice to hear. Then she asked me when am I moving, again? thus reminding me that I perhaps have better things to do than photoshopping red circles around the butt of a javelina.
I've (metaphorically) jumped off a cliff into a new city and here I am, frozen in midair, not know if or when or how I'm going to stick the landing. I'm repeatedly bombarded by novelty. After a while, I have to wonder, is there anything new under the sun? Now I find my amazement in realizing I'm on my way to becoming jaded by fantastical Tucson. Wake up! New day, new sunset, new critters to admire. The sun is going down. No thunderstorms on tap to boil up and rush down the mountains at me. Time to go see what's outside.
