Welcome to my slo-mo life

Welcome to the slow motion life of inadequate internet. Haven’t we become accustomed to a certain pace when we surf the Web? Pages load. Maps function. Emails appear. Buttons work. I thought my happy day had arrived when I saw the box containing the modem outside my door. Within minutes I was connected and jockeying for my place on the World Wide Web. However, there’s a kink in the line somewhere, probably right outside my door, judging by the bent cable that comes from somewhere and disappears into a hole into my apartment. After several days complaining via slow-motion chat to the internet provider reps, they finally broke down and agreed the problem was on their end and a technician will arrive next Friday.

I’m not complaining, really. I didn’t think I would get internet here until mid-October. The schedule got moved up when I got the address problem straightened out. Apparently, it takes longer to get internet installed in an apartment occupied by another tenant who already has internet. Who knew.

Well, actually, the address error has not been entirely resolved. The internet provider and the utility company seem to have accepted the new address and adjusted their records accordingly. The property management company, however, hasn’t shown any willingness to make an address correction. I’m trying to be patient. Perhaps they are still working from home. Perhaps they use a third-party vendor to manage their online content. Perhaps they are kind-hearted simple folk who move at a pace different from my own.

I’m expecting in about six months to get a notice saying, well, Carol, it was really nice of you to pay rent for that other tenant all this time, but when are you going to pay yours? It seems like such a simple thing, to acknowledge the error and resolve it. They may be well-meaning, but from my one-sided perspective, this property management company looks like it is run by a bunch of incompetent nincompoops. I’ve recently noticed a desire to use that word nincompoop in my writing. What do you think? Did I choose the right word?

Just when I seem to be circling the drain, the universe brings me something to chew on, something to occupy my mind and my time so I don’t completely implode. Last week, it was the address error. This week it was getting online. In addition, I’ve had a sizeable editing project, which has kept my mind out of the tailspin and helped me focus on being helpful. It is good to focus on something other than myself. I admit, I have wanted to tear my hair a few times.

I dreamed I was hanging out with Mom at her condo, helping her get organized. She sure had a lot of stuff, in real life, and in the dream. Accumulating stuff seems to be a favorite pastime among some Americans. Having just downsized and moved long distance, I am loathe to accumulate more stuff. Nevertheless, I went to Home Depot and Target and got some things to organize my space. My personal rule is never to buy anything I cannot lift and carry myself, so the things I bought fall into one or more of these three categories: they are small, they are plastic, or they can be disassembled into manageable pieces.

After I got my new shelves set up, I sorted through the contents in the boxes and plastic bins I brought with me in my minivan and shipped in the shipping box. Almost all of my clothes fall into one or more of these three categories: they are torn, they are stained, or they are fleece.

I have distilled my options to one of the following mutually exclusive categories: keep it, donate it, or toss it. I guess I left out a fourth category: set it on fire. In fact, I’m starting to realize that burning it down and starting over is metaphorically pretty much what I’ve done over the past six months. If you strip out the emotion, what I did was efficiently and effectively execute on an action plan I’ve had in place for about five years. No room for grief, no room for fear and anxiety, just sort it out, pack it up, move ‘em out, get it done.

If you are human, though, you know that emotions are sort of like your old dog Sam. It is easy to banish Sam to the backyard and tell him to go pee, but it’s very hard to keep him out there once he remembers that being inside is where the food is. All I can say is, I’ve been dealing with Sam this week.

After muddling through some weepy moments, I eventually reached a point of grace, in which I realized nothing is all bad or all good, that life happens to us all, and whiners never prosper. Once again I have the opportunity to embrace my life philosophy that emotions don’t matter all that much. Only actions actually have some influence on outcomes. Screaming because the property management company has failed to meet my expectations doesn’t hurt them. They clearly don’t care about customer service. Screaming only makes my voice hoarse.

I will continue my action plan: to nudge, poke, prod, remind, and cajole, all the while doing my best to be friendly, courteous, and reasonable.

I don’t need to burn it all down to start over in this new city.

Two minutes or less

Sunday mornings are a good time to drive around Tucson. I like to combine errands, so in addition to learning the city, this morning I planned my trip so I could drop off my recycling. I found the police station at Miracle Mile and discovered they only recycle glass there, not paper and plastic, so I headed east on Grant, which turns into Kolb, then left on Speedway and remembered the address of the East Tucson City Hall from my previous trip a few weeks ago. I dumped the contents of my two little wastebaskets into a humongous dumpster, making my tiny contribution to the delusion that I’m somehow doing my part to keep a few scraps of paper and cardboard out of a landfill.

If I wanted to be in a booming business, I think the trash disposal business would be the place to invest. There won’t be a lack of business for the foreseeable future, and even if the entire marketing machine comes to a standstill because of a global catastrophe, the landfills will be full of useful items, some of which will never disintegrate. If I had some vacant land away from a bunch of neighbors, I would glean useable items from the waste stream, sell them to artists and home decorators now (before the apocalypse), and sock the essential items away for later—I’m thinking of the tools, the sturdy plastic containers, the building materials, all the stuff you would need to survive without electricity, internet, and Starbucks.

You need a lot of space for a landfill and a space to sort and glean. A warehouse. An aircraft hanger, maybe. After the apocalypse, planes won’t be flying. We’ll strip them for parts and use the fuselages for shelter. After we clear out the dead bodies. That’s assuming it was a plague that decimated the population. Ha. I read too much science fiction. This scenario also assumes I will be one of those left standing. Human history repeats until there are no more humans: I’m referring to the continual bloody fight over scarce resources. We think we are so civilized, so polite, but really, the ones with the power and resources want more power and resources and they don’t care much who they trample to get them. There’s never enough when the mission is to safeguard your genes, your tribe, and your way of life. As usual, those of us without will always be struggling to get a little more than our fair share.

Last week, the theme of my life was, where the heck am I, really? No, literally, I mean, what the heck is my address? Apparently I signed a lease to rent an apartment that was already occupied. I remember I questioned the address on the lease, back in August, but the apartment manager swore it was the right address. You’d think they would know their property address, right? It’s the address on the lease and on the payment portal where I sign in to pay my rent. A month and a half later, I now have discovered I’ve been paying rent, utilities, and renter’s insurance on someone else’s apartment. How surreal is that?

Action is the magic word. I got busy to keep from screaming and tearing what little hair I have left out by the roots. As far as utilities go, I think I’ve got the problem straightened out with the power company. I’ve called the insurance company and updated my renter’s insurance. The internet provider might be coming next week to install internet in the actual apartment I’m living in, assuming the modem actually arrives in the mail and I’m able somehow to retrieve it. I’ve sent an email to the property management company advising them of the situation and requesting they update my lease with the proper address. I don’t think that is too much to ask, do you?

Meanwhile, if I recently gave you a street address, please discard that information.

This weekend I’ve been organizing the Bat Cave to suit my lifestyle. I can’t make holes in the walls or ceiling, but I have managed to hang some things using that blue sticky gunk that peels off without leaving a mark. Last night I hung up the plastic strips of photos I made for Mom when she was on lockdown at the retirement home. If you’ll recall, I hung strips of photos outside her window until there was barely room to peer inside to see if she was awake on the couch or dead on the floor. When we moved her to the care home, I transferred all the photostrips to her new room. She enjoyed looking at the pictures of her friends and family, evidence of a long life well lived. She laughed when she spotted Radar and Klinger among the family photos.

Now I have the photostrips on my wall. It’s bittersweet to see the photos and remember how and why they were created. It’s been a tough time, for everyone.

This morning I organized my hokey pokey closet space (put your right foot in and shake it all about). It’s actually pretty good sized, for a studio apartment. Bigger than the bathroom. When I look at the bins, boxes, and hanging clothes (most of which are acrylic fleece), I feel some regret and chagrin that I spent so much sweat and money moving that stuff from Portland to Tucson. Even now, after some rest and reflection, it’s overwhelming to imagine getting rid of anything. Four pillows, crammed in a plastic bin. What if I need them to, I don’t know, make a bigger pillow? Do I need these four sets of flannel sheets? I hear it gets cold here. And that lovely rarely used turquoise polyester “down” comforter given to me by a work friend--what if I have to live in my minivan? I will surely rue the day I gave that comforter to Goodwill when I’m shivering in the trunk.

Nope, stop. Have you heard of the concept of sunk costs? All the time, energy, sweat, angst, and money have already been spent and cannot be retrieved. Keeping stuff I don’t need, won’t need, or might need some unknown day in the future goes against the circulatory nature of good living. Rainy days do come, we can’t deny it, but I have plenty of gear for the downpours, and in a flash flood, the less I have to carry, the better. Four pillows and a plush turquoise comforter won’t float me downstream.

I went through the hanging clothes, boxes, and bins and starting culling. Now I have five small cardboard boxes of stuff to donate to a thrift store. I balked a little when I realized I paid money for those cardboard boxes, but then I reminded myself of the principle of sunk costs and the law of circulation. It’s never too soon to lighten my material burden. Call it Swedish death cleaning.

If you had two minutes or less to evacuate, what would you grab on your way out the door? Last week I had occasion to consider that question for myself. A text appeared on my phone from an unfamiliar number, telling me to evacuate the apartment because of a gas leak in the building. Alarmed, I poked my head out the door and sniffed. I smelled no gas. I didn’t see anyone milling around, and I didn’t hear any voices. Given the apartments are all electric, you can imagine my skepticism. I texted back to the unknown person, “Can you be more specific?”

The texter responded with a street address and range of apartment numbers that included mine. I looked around and wondered what I would be sad to lose if the place suddenly exploded. I put my laptop and gear in my backpack and put it in my car, hoping the car would not blow up along with the building. Then I grabbed my phone and fanny pack and keys and started walking around to see what I could find out.

The apartment property here is divided into two sections. The managers refer to them as “complexes,” although I think that is a pretentious label for eight buildings that look like parts of a Motel 6. Nothing against Motel 6, just saying. Eight units per building, four up, four down, with external staircases. Both “east and “west” complexes have four buildings each. Both have dinky pools in between a couple of the buildings. Each building has its own set of mailboxes. Each has its own trash dumpster, although ours is slightly larger than theirs (and neither side recycles or composts). The parking area wraps across the back of both apartments and surrounds three sides of the west complex. You drive in on the east side of the west complex and are supposed to drive out on the west side, although nobody does. People drive in and out both driveways to get to the street. So far, I’m following the arrows on the pavement, but I’m sure at some point, I will cave and seek the shortest path to the exit. Both entrance and exit are guarded by electronic gates that don’t work.

What’s really odd is that a tall cinderblock wall divides east from west, breached only by the back parking area and a walkway from the parking lot to the west pool. I don’t know how this came to be. The buildings were clearly built at the same time by the same developer. I surmise there was a family feud among the owners at some point, inspiring them to split the entire group of buildings into two compounds, east and west.

After locking my door, I walked along the parking lot in the back, came around the corner of the west complex, and saw a modestly sized truck with the words “So and So Gas Service” on the side door parked outside a laundry room I’ve never used. Ah, gas dryers, I guessed. Some guy was sitting in the truck, looking bored. I didn’t see any tenants milling around. A man and woman came out of Building B and sauntered to their car.

And that, my dear Blog Readers, is how I came to learn that after living in this apartment for a month and a half, I didn’t know my own address.

I have since learned the name of the texter. I’ll call her K. She’s the new manager of this property—both sides, I assume. I wanted to ask her about the weird two-complex thing so I ventured into her tiny air-conditioned office and introduced myself. I didn’t stay to chat. She was clearly harried.

“You aren’t the only tenant this happened to!” she said. Apparently the address error had propagated across other leases signed since this property management company assumed management of this place. Now a lot of things need to be unraveled and repaired.

On the bright side, now I know which meter is mine. I know where the power breaker is. I think I’m reasonably certain now of my street address. I mean, how certain are we, ever, really? I’m glad I didn’t get letterhead printed. Not that I would, but you know.

I’m curious about something. I have yet to meet my alter ego in the west complex. Should I walk over there and introduce myself, ask if they perhaps have seen a modem addressed to me? Should I reassure them that the power company has reinstated their account and express my hope that the temporary disconnect didn’t cause a hit on their credit score?

Life trundles on, until it stops. Meanwhile, I’m giving some serious thought to what I would take with me if I had two minutes or less to evacuate. I encourage you to do the same. Not to make you crazy. Just as an exercise in self-analysis. It's always good to know what we value. 

The Chronic Malcontent tries to work a program

Last night the power in my apartment went off just after 3 a.m. I woke up when my fan stopped. Dead-of-night silence is inordinately loud. I wandered around in my dark apartment with a flashlight, peered out the window, and soon realized the power was out in the neighborhood. I woke up my phone and looked up a power outage map. Yep. A red square in the center of Tucson for some reason had no power, and me smack dab in it.

Not having power is similar to not having internet. Both feel indispensable when I don’t have them. However, during summer in the desert, you really need power more than you need internet. I went back to bed—or what serves as my bed, call it foam rubber pad on wood platform, bed for short. When I woke up in the morning, I was glad to see my digital clock blinking red. Like magic, the power had been restored.

If I had internet, I would do some sleuthing to discover the cause, just because it would be interesting, just because losing myself in surfing the Web is a delicious distraction from reality. The cause of the power outage was probably some drunk driver downing a utility pole. It happens here a lot. On Saturday nights, drunk drivers crash into all sorts of things—trees, fences, power poles, bicyclists. My friend likened Tucson to a third-world country. I am inclined to agree. We could blame the vortices swirling around the Santa Catalina Mountains. Whatever the cause, the energy in this place on weekends reminds me of being eighteen on a summer night, drunk out of my mind, riding in the car of my handsome boss, also quite drunk, and laughing hysterically as we narrowly avoided ramming a parked car. That’s Tucson. Needless to say, I am not eighteen anymore.

Speaking of distractions, I drove up to Phoenix this week for a visit to IKEA. I thought I might feel anxious about driving. I haven’t done any distance driving since April when I drove the 1,500 miles from Portland to Tucson. However, once I got on the I-10 freeway headed east, I could feel my limbs relax. I was glad to be on my way out of the city, any city. For a few minutes, I daydreamed about what it would be like to have a bedroom, kitchen, living area, and bathroom neatly tucked into the cargo space of my Dodge Grand Caravan. Then I immediately started fretting about how difficult it would be to actually live the van life in the desert southwest. I’ve seen all the videos. The daydream dissolved as reality returned.

IKEA was big and blue, sitting in an enormous flat parking lot under a sizzling sun. Cars nuzzled tightly around the building, leaving the outer reaches empty except for the spaces sheltered by the shade of a few scrawny trees. All taken, of course. I parked in the open so I could find my car again, covered the steering wheel and driver’s seat with my reflectix windshield cover, and hiked to the enormous blue building in 111°F heat. At the entrance, I passed through a veil of water mist, a failed attempt to provide some cooling, and then I was inside.

In the bright atrium, I paused to get my bearings. I pulled out my list. The wide staircase to the showrooms rose in front of me. Should I ascend to dreamland? Not this time. Already overwhelmed, I decided to bypass the showroom and go straight for the crack cocaine, that is to say, the so-called marketplace, hidden behind a generic door under the stairs.

Within two minutes, I was hyperventilating under my facemask. I haven’t shopped like that in many years—I mean, intentional, purposeful hunting and gathering for non-essential items. Shopping frenzies are an artifact of my past. Instead of feeling energized at the endeavor, I felt sapped. Pillows, textiles, bedding, rugs, lamps, argh. Too much. I kept my eyes on my list and navigated the arrows on the floor, keeping my distance from other shoppers, many of whom were maskless.

I used to shop at IKEA once in a while when I lived in Los Angeles. I remember being enchanted with the place, all the myriad décor possibilities, the potential for self-expression everywhere, color, shape, and function, the intersection of everything I loved. As I shuffled around IKEA this time, I wondered what had changed. Was it IKEA or was it me?

Today’s IKEA seemed darker, dustier, smaller, and less enchanting than I remembered. I blame Covid-19. Nothing seems good anymore. The place seemed dingy, dimly lit in some corners. Displays seemed half-hearted, noncommittal. Many shelves were empty. I soldiered onward, finding everything on my list, or reasonable substitutes. I wasn’t all that choosy. A couple rugs, not my preferred color, but good enough. A few bathmats. A little square rug for the closet. A couple cheap floor lamps. A coat rack. A bar stool for my breakfast bar. I didn’t spend much and felt pretty satisfied with my haul. I would have bought more if shelves had been stocked.

Of course, I have changed too in thirty years. I’m wearier, mentally and physically. Plus I’m sort of done with accumulating stuff. I just got done doing some serious downsizing, so buying more stuff seems like a major slip in my downsizing recovery program. Did I tell you, I’m a founding member of Accumulators Anonymous. I’d been doing so well. Sleeping on a foam rubber pad on a wood platform is part of the recovery plan. Beds are so forever. Until they aren’t; then they are so hard to get rid of. Although, now that I think of it, tenants in my apartment building have been dumping mattresses out by the dumpster. Every week, there’s a different mattress, along with the random vacuum cleaner, ripped recliner, and broken big-screen TV. Someone comes and removes them, like elves in the night coming in to do your laundry. Is that a thing? No? Well, we can hope.

Anyway, mattresses. Maybe they aren’t as hard to get rid of as I think. Still, I’m trying to think long and hard before buying more stuff, even cheap plastic stuff. Well, especially cheap plastic stuff, because although cheap is tantalizing, plastic is bad. It’s a depressing thought to realize that the items I purchased from IKEA, and the plastic in which they came packaged, will outlast me by centuries.

Another month to go until internet. Meanwhile, I am enjoying my new IKEA purchases while battling flies in the Bat Cave.

What makes a place home?

I am happy to report I’m starting to feel more settled in my new apartment. My sister texted me to ask if I felt “happy.” She put it in quotation marks, as if it is an unreachable state, something to be aspired to but never attained, like a dress size zero. I wrote back that I felt content. No quotation marks.

It sure is nice to be reunited with my stuff, even if it is in boxes, bins, and bags. Time to get organized! Over the past couple weeks, I’ve spent a chunk of money on shelving of different types. A four-shelf chrome wire rack now organizes all my travel gear behind the door and provides a great place to hang my television antenna. (So far the only broadcast channel I can’t get is CBS.) Another smaller wire rack now holds Mom’s dinky senior-friendly microwave, although I haven’t used the appliance yet. In fact, after living without a microwave for the past four months, I’m not sure I really need one. Maybe when winter comes, if there is such a season here, I will find it useful for heating my coffee.

Most of my home furnishing expenditures have been on wood. I love wood. Using cheap store-bought, assembly-required fake wood laminated cubes and some wood planks, I built a colossal writing desk with overhead shelves to hold all the paper goods I insisted on bringing with me to Tucson. (Ridiculous use of cargo space, but whatever, it’s done now.) I decorated the top shelf with a display of paintings, framed photos, and ceramic creations made by a former high school art teacher, long deceased, bequeathed to me in a roundabout fashion and carefully packed for the trip across the desert.

This studio apartment has a built-in divider separating one large room into two smaller spaces. The “bedroom” area is somewhat larger than the “living room” area. There is one door and one window. The window is large, but screened, so the view onto the parking area is gray and indistinct. However, passersby can see me sitting at the window staring out at them. I know this because my next door neighbor to the east waved at me as she walked by with her little terrier, returning from the dog poop area. That was nice. That she takes her dog to poop in the designated pooping place, I mean, instead of letting it poop anywhere. Also, nice that she waved. I waved back, of course.

The front room is for cooking, eating, and watching TV. The back room is the nerve center, the inner sanctum, the working space. It’s also the sleeping area, but I consider the bed to be an afterthought. The main focus in this area is productivity. There are no windows in this area, which means there are long stretches of blank wall space, perfect for setting up long work tables. There’s no light back here, either. It’s dark, which is why I’m calling my new home the Bat Cave. However, there are plenty of electrical outlets and no shortage of lighting devices.

Abundance! I now have two large work surfaces. The one to my left is for my desktop computer, speakers, and printer. Right now, that computer is not connected to the internet, which means it functions as a really big jukebox.

This new desk is designated for writing and artmaking. Sitting here, I feel at home. My laptop fits perfectly. I have my gizmos and knick-knacks holding my office supplies at my fingertips. Directly in front of me is a photo of my mother from late last summer, before we moved her from the retirement home to the care home. She’s smiling, illuminated by the setting sun, clearly happy to see me. She needs a haircut. I photographed her through the window from my vantage point in the bushes outside her room. Covid was a thing we thought we could outlast, back then.

I sometimes divide my memories into before and after. Before the death of Eddie. Before Covid. Before we moved Mom into the care home. Before she died. Before I moved to Tucson. These milestone moments are ledges on which my brain gets caught as I mentally freefall into the future. It’s easier to look back, I suppose, than it is to imagine something that doesn’t exist yet. Although, my memory being what it is, the past seems as murky as the future.

Speaking of murky, before I forget, let me update you on the story of Bill, my eighty-two-year-old friend at the trailer park. I called him on Friday night and told him I was coming over and wanted to return his CDs and go for a bike ride if he felt like it. He was amenable, so I drove over as the sun was setting. He invited me inside. I politely refused; I said I was allergic to fragrances, which is the truth. I didn’t mention the overpowering stench of his aftershave, recognizable from several feet away, outdoors.

Soon we were riding along the park roads. At his request, I was riding to his right so he could hear me out of his good ear. As usual, the sunset was spectacular. Every sunset in the desert is spectacular. Ho hum.

“I owe you an apology,” Bill said. “When I asked you for a hug, it wasn’t meant to be a romantic hug. We do a lot of hugging in my family, that’s all it was.”

I thanked him for the apology and said my family didn’t do much hugging. I told him he didn’t do anything wrong, that I took no offense, and that I was glad we were friends.

When we returned to his trailer, he said, “I have something for you.” I waited outside under his carport, watching rabbits gallop across the white rock lawn. Pretty soon, Bill came out carrying a large black plastic trash bag.

“My wife bought this for the hallway,” he said. “It’s a rug. She decided she didn’t like it after all, she said it was too much.” I’m guessing the rug has been in a closet for a while. I wondered what he was feeling as he jettisoned his dead wife’s possessions. I didn’t ask. He opened the bag to show me the corner of a low-pile Persian-style rug in earthy colors, mostly rusty red.

“That’s lovely,” I said truthfully.

Now I have an attractive runner rug in my work space. Not that I needed a runner rug, but I like the colors, and it really spruces up the place. When I walk across it, I think of Bill and wish him well. I also think of his wife. Now her legacy will live on in my interior design and color scheme. Good thing I got the rug before I make a trip to the IKEA in Tempe next week.

I think I mentioned I checked the mailbox here at the apartment. It was crammed full of mail, most of it destined for recycling. Some of it needed to be returned to sender, for example, a check from the U.S. Treasury for $300 for the child tax credit payment. I sorted through all the personal mail and counted mail addressed to seven different people. I am not sure if they all lived here at the same time, but I’m guessing a few did. Judging by the number of debt collection notices in the stack, I’m guessing the tenants had made a strategic decision to stop checking their mailbox. Who needs the aggravation, right? Elizabeth H., Danielle B., Christian O., Delores L., Sage A., Rachel G., and Carolina C., I hope you all will find peaceful resolutions with your creditors. Carolina, I would gladly forward you the two issues of Cosmopolitan you missed; however, the stench of the perfume inserts has proved to be too much for my sinuses.

Mostly, this apartment is great. I am continually amazed at how clean and dry everything is. I see and smell no toxic mold. There’s more than enough room for me and my stuff. The water is hot and plentiful. It’s a very civilized place to spend the next year while I figure out whether I should stay or go.

The main problem is flies. House flies come in under the edges of the window screen. No worries. Big flies are easy to shoot down with alcohol. This morning I taped up the edges of the screen with black duct tape, so I expect to see fewer house flies soon. It’s the no-see-ums that are the real problem. I am blotchy with red bites on my hands, arms, and legs. The females are tiny invisible nasty biters, attracted by carbon dioxide, intent on slicing my skin and suctioning my blood so they can perpetuate their abominable species. I can hear them whine sometimes, if they are near my ear, but I rarely see them. They are the epitome of stealth: fast, small, almost silent, and dangerous. I’m setting out cups of apple cider vinegar, hoping to entice them to reveal themselves, and I’ve got fans blowing in hopes of disrupting their flight paths as they are homing in on my breath. I don’t know if a mosquito net would be a tight enough weave to protect my exposed skin while I’m sleeping. I would gladly take mosquitoes any day. Calamine lotion is on my shopping list.

In addition to the annoying indoor neighbors, I have occasional moments of frustration with human neighbors who like to crank up the bass on their music devices. There is something about that visceral vibration that triggers my misophonia. Luckily, the neighbors with massive car stereos don’t hang out in their cars for hours on end—it’s still too hot. I can hear the booming receding into the distance as they navigate the speed bumps on their way out of the parking lot in their sporty loud cars.

The next-door neighbor to my west probably doesn’t realize how high the bass level is on her stereo. In fact, I can’t actually hear her music. I have no idea if she is playing country or rap or Bandera music. Only the bass comes pounding through the wall. I have imagined knocking on her door and asking her to turn the bass down. I’m pretty sure she speaks English. However, the conversation that might follow is more than I want to pursue. I just don’t have the energy to explain my request. It’s less social pressure to just endure. I find relief by passive aggressively bouncing a rubber ball off the wall we share. She can’t hear it, but it lowers my blood pressure a little. My final remedy is earplugs, jammed deep.

Oh, the last thing. I still have no internet here, and I don’t expect to get connected until mid-October. I’m paying extra to my cellphone provider to use my phone as a hotspot, and I’m using the wi-fi at the library for tasks that don’t require a secure connection. I go back to the trailer to do video meetings. It’s inconvenient, but not impossible. However, I’ll be glad to get back online from the comfort and privacy and security of my own space. Once I get internet access here, I think I might be able to call this place home.