Have fun staying poor. Apparently that is a meme in the bitcoin world, a member of which I am not, in case you were wondering. Selling virtual art through nonfungible tokens seems like a Faustian bargain. Artists deserve to be paid for their work, yes, maybe. But do we have to sacrifice the health and well-being of the planet (and humankind) in the process? Maybe we need to redefine what we consider art. For example, artists have spent countless hours trying to replicate the phenomenon of sunlight on a lake. Now that art can be turned into an NFT, thanks to the massive computing power facilitated by coal-fired power plants and natural gas, is that really what we should do? What if, instead of auctioning off NFTs of sunlight on a lake, we simply appreciated the actual sunlight on a lake? Just a thought.
I can hear you saying, rock star tour! But Carol, what is that? Thanks for asking. You know how musicians go on the road with their music? They start out sleeping in Volkswagen vans, occasional motels, and decrepit cab-over RVs and eventually graduate to 40-foot long, 36-ton Prevost mansions on wheels? They travel from town to town, stage to stage, building community and selling CDs? Right? I don't have a community or a CD to sell, but that's okay. You gotta start somewhere. In about nine months, I'll be starting my rock star tour.
I've got the van, and this week, it's running well, no lights clamoring for attention, no bells clanging in my face. I drove it to Tempe this week to fetch a cheap mattress from IKEA. It was great. The two-hour drive going north was blocked by a traffic jam a few miles from my exit and I didn't even mind. The air was warm, the desert mountains were beautiful, and the radio played oldies from the 60s and 70s. Returning south was even better. I sang aloud until the station faded to static, feeling happy for the first time in a long time. I like the Bat Cave, despite the little dudes, but it doesn't feel like home. I'm just passing through.
I get the feeling I'm not the only one. Tucson feels like a temporary town, as if it were built for filming a western and will be dismantled after the shooting wraps. Many of the homes here in the west part of the city (at least along the main thoroughfares) are trailer homes, parked in communities on land that belongs to absentee landlords. By definition, these abodes are temporary. Big Tonka Toy trucks move these prefab buildings out of one park and into another. The "homeowners" own the trailer but not the land it sits on, which is how landowners get rich. These landlord landowners farm out the landlording to property management companies, who get rich by pandering to owners and exploiting tenants.
Some mobile home parks are like little Disneyland villages. The roads are paved, the homes are painted in appropriate desert colors and lined up neatly to the grid, the palms and saguaros are trimmed. White gravel front yards shine in the sun, decorated with ceramic figurines and pinwheels. The main clue to quality is the presence of an iron gate across the entrance to the park.
Most mobile home parks here on the west side look like they were settled by a caravan of squatters running on fumes. They parked their vintage Airstreams in haphazard rows and let the tires go flat. These parks are a mixture of abandoned RVs, travel trailers, and mobile homes arranged randomly as if placed by a blind crane operator. There are no gates or yards. In some cases, there are no roads, just paths of dirt and dust barely wide enough for a pickup truck. Awnings are bent or missing. Windows are broken and patched with tape. Trees are scarce. Some of the little travel trailers look like they are one monsoon away from blowing into Cochise County.
You can tell who has money. The residents who live in the pristine mobile home parks head north for the summer. Someone picks up their mail and flushes their toilets. The lifers are the ones living in old travel trailers that will never travel again. They are stuck here year-round; summer or winter, going nowhere.
Life is a temporary condition. Moving on is a time-honored human endeavor. I'm warming to the idea that I am a temporary resident of a temporary town. Blowing through in slow motion. Pausing for a year to savor the wildness of this place, and then letting the wind blow me someplace else. Fun, eh? How many people get to pretend to be rock stars? I'm thanking the luck that birthed me in this place and time. Not everyone has the privilege of choosing how and when they leap into the abyss.
