Relentless persistence

Sometimes when I'm walking around the reservoir at Mt. Tabor Park (my old neighborhood), I see an athlete. You wouldn't know she was an athlete just by looking at her. She's at least as old as I am, with saggy cheeks and crepe-skin knees. But after seeing her workout routine, I can only watch in awe.

Reservoir No. 6 is .56 miles around the perimeter. You can call it a half mile. The woman starts out with lunges. Not super deep, but lunges all the same, slowly and persistently, with bicep curls, all the way around the reservoir. How she keeps her balance, I have no idea. She makes a full circuit. 

She doesn't stop there. After a swig of water, she starts around again, this time with high knees. All the way around. She's not fast. I pass her multiple times as I stumble around, head down against the wind. I go counterclockwise. She goes clockwise. Each time I pass her, I feel like a colossal loser. 

After she finishes half a mile of high knees, she turns around and walks backwards, doing butt kickers. She checks behind her from time to time, so she doesn't run into anyone, but her backward glances are kind of pro forma. She can't go far off course. The reservoir is surrounded by a tall iron fence. Still, I wouldn't be surprised if she has eyes in the back of her head. I suspect she has god-like powers.

I walk around four times, just a regular head-down, try-to-stay-upright kind of walk.  Everytime we pass each other, I look at her, but she doesn't look at me. I can't read her expression. It's clear she is focused on the motion. 

Whenever I complain about my saggy butt and flabby thighs, I think of this athlete. I wonder about her story. Is she a marathon runner? I haven't seen her run. She's too thin to be a wrestler. Her bike shorts and T-shirt don't scream fashion risk taker. She's not taking video of herself, so she's not a YouTuber. What's her story?

My conclusion is, she's meditating. She's found a way to connect with something bigger than herself. I called her an athlete, but I could just as easily call her a Zen Master. A guru. A Yoda. I have a feeling if I could just get her to make eye contact, I would see a new way of being.

Meanwhile, I'm caught up in my own way of being, floundering through my days doing the next thing in front of me. The usual, you know: Working with my new PCP to find a medication that will settle my vestibular system. Keeping my car running. Learning how to use Amazon lockers. Waiting on waitlists for housing. Waking up at 4:00 a.m., vigilantly listening for gas thieves. Trying to stay under the radar so homeowners don't call the police to report an old lady  who has the temerity to sleep in her car outside their house. 

I'm really tired of hiding. I have started putting stickers on my car windows:  Artsy fartsy; Wild and free; Take the long way home, shortcuts miss the view; All cultures, beliefs, colors, sizes, ages, identities welcome; and my personal favorite, Jesus loves everyone you hate. I'm going to keep adding to my collection. If I get some money ahead, I will have my own designs printed. I have lots of ideas for stickers, mostly along the lines of How's my driving? Call 1-800-BiteMe.  

After I find out if my new med is going to kill me, I think I'll head east, back toward the high desert of Northern Arizona, where the nomads wait out the summer heat. I met a man at the protest yesterday, who said he loved Portland for its beauty, diversity, and energy. I nodded as if I agreed. No need to start a fight with a No Kings comrade, especially given the no-violence mandate. Besides, I don't need to explain or justify myself, although when cornered, that is my usual response. 

I don't trust my intuition. I believe Portland is not the place for me. I always knew I would leave. It still confounds me that everytime I left, I came back. When I moved to Tucson, I was ready to love the place. For four years, I tried. Eventually I realized Tucson was not the place for me either (see umpteen previous blog posts). 

The country is big. I've live in only big cities. Surely, somewhere in this country, there is a small place that feels right. Family and friends warn me that small town folks might not be like me. That's okay. All my friends are online.  

Having said all that, if my name comes up on a waitlist, I don't care where the place is. As long as it has hot water and no cockroaches, I'm saying yes.

Hiding in plain sight in Portland, Oregon

I find myself driving aimlessly around the city, looking for something that isn't here. Home, I guess, although I'd settle for someplace safe to park and get some work done. Portland is rife with huge parking lots, many unused, surrounded by chain link fences to keep out the bedraggled unhoused. Seeing so much unused space ticks me off. You could put a lot of tiny homes on that acreage, if only the neighbors would allow it.

I'm not bedraggled, so I can sneak around and blend in. I'm the elite of unhoused, living in a veritable mansion compared to some of the tarp and tent contraptions I've seen strapped to trees and buildings. Some of the motorhomes along the main streets haven't moved in years. The only thing holding them together is the piles of trash around their wheels. If you removed all that trash, some of these rigs would collapse into a heap of metal and meth. Allegedly. 

From an unhoused person's perspective, Portland in the spring is a sad, lonely, dirty place with really crappy weather. We had a few sunny days, but the breeze still bites. I got a bit of solar to charge up my batteries. Then the clouds rolled in and my head started churning. The relationship between weather and my vestibular system couldn't be more obvious. I wanted to blame Arizona. 

I have been doing a lot of walking, which is good. I need the exercise, and it gives me time to think. I know what you are thinking: Thinking is a highly overrated past time best left to those equipped to handle it. But I can't help it. I make sure I have my phone on me so my step app can congratulate me or berate me, depending on how I did, and then I focus on where I put my feet while I ponder my plight. 

A few documents have arrived at my brother's house. I could go wait in line at a DMV location, but that could mean sitting all day shoulder-to-shoulder with weary, irritated, coughing strangers and screaming kids (if I'm lucky enough to get a seat), only to have an employee shut the doors at 5:00 p.m., so sorry, come again tomorrow. Well, I'm sure they would not say sorry. They would say, make an appointment like a civilized person. My appointment is May 5. Do I want to take my chances, waste a day as a walk-in nobody, or wait until May 5 and waltz in ahead of the walk-ins and only waste an hour waiting for my number to be called. Decisions, decisions.

Back to walking. I used to live near a large park. If you have been reading my blog for a while, you might remember I mentioned Mt. Tabor, the extinct volcano inside Portland city limits. It's still there. The cinder cone, the tall trees, the steps, the reservoirs, the trails, it's all still there. While I walk, I encounter many other walkers. The older ones acknowledge me, especially if they are alone, and if I smile first, they will smile back. Rarely does anyone say good morning. If hikers are in pairs, they rarely look at me. If they are young, they ignore me completely, except for a few random hippie girls who probably say hello to trees and flowers, too. Nothing against hippie girls. I'm happy if anyone acknowledges my existence these days.

In this city, I lead an undercover life. Street parking is easy to find, but you need to be careful of parking in front of someone's house. Park by a fence, but not an industrial fence, and not too far away from other cars. Park on a street where there are other cars, but not so many you get blocked in. Find streets that don't have steep gutters, else you will end up sleeping in the crevice between the wall and your mattress. Watch out for streets with fast cars. Be careful of neighborhoods that have services for the unhoused nearby. Make sure your doors are locked, your windows are covered, and you don't make much noise. 

And be ready to leave as soon as it's light enough to see. 

It's easy to leave a place, but it's not always simple to figure out where to go. I don't regret leaving Portland, and I look forward to leaving again soon. Where to go is the question. 

That's why I find myself navigating back to the neighborhood, the park, the store, the streets where I grew up, where I lived with my cat, where I took care of my mom, where I packed up and left because I couldn't afford the rent, complaining to nobody, I just want to go home. 

In the broader context of what is happening in the country, my challenges are minor. I'm okay for a while. It could be worse. I could be trying to maintain a life under a mildewed tarp or a tent pitched in tall wet grass. My problem is a luxury problem compared to the existential challenges of so many people in the world. 

In other words, quit whining.

Chop wood, carry water. Speaking of which, I joined the protest yesterday in downtown Portland. Nobody noticed me, but I felt satisfied to be one insignificant drop in an ocean of determination.

Time out: The search for home hits the pause button

I left Sacramento and drove for hours toward the beach, committed to escaping the heat and smoke of the central valley. I made it to Eureka and found a mall anchored by a Walmart, hoping to park for the night in that traditional haven for weary travelers. No such luck. A polite security guard told me there was no overnight parking. Lucky for me, I had a little daylight left. I packed up, consulted the app that shows possible wild camping locations nearby, and migrated three miles to a nondescript side street that I never would have found on my own. Bless the campers who came before me and took the time to blaze the trail for other nomads. 

 After I left the Eureka side street, I stopped to do a couple video calls in Crescent City, and then crossed the border into Oregon, the state of my birth. In Brookings, I parked at a Fred Meyer, the familiar brand of my childhood. This store was like none I'd ever seen. It was like the Disneyland of grocery stores: two levels, a massive produce section, and a billion shoppers milling around and bashing each others' carts. 

In Brookings, I had my car examined for possible front end problems. I sat in the lobby, choking on the smell of rubber tires, and watched the young dude drive off with my car, trying to be Zen about it, thinking, I really need to be less attached to my stuff. 

"I don't hear anything," he said. I wanted to say, what are you, deaf? But I didn't. He assured me everything was tight, no worries, and I decided to trust him, not being a car mechanic myself (but having good enough hearing to notice unfamiliar front end noises). He didn't say anything about the check engine light, which I took to mean they only do tires, brakes, and front ends. Check engine lights are not their problem. 

I drove on up Hwy 101, through beach town after beach town, getting increasingly tired and wondering if I would ever find a place to park for the night. Finally, after traversing the length of Newport, I found another Fred Meyer. Feeling sick from driving, I entered the big parking lot anbd found it ringed with vans and cars that were obviously there to park for the night. With great relief, I backed into a cozy parking space among my fellow nomads. I nibbled something, cleaned up with baby wipes and alcohol, and went to bed. It rained during the night, soaking the top edges of my window covers, but I didn't care. Clouds! Rain! Cool temperatures!

After stopping to do my laundry in Lincoln City, I consulted my peers on the camping app, which suggested a road along the beach in Manzanita. Based on their recommendations, I parked on the verge with several other cars and sprinter vans and marveled that I had a cell phone signal and a perfect view of the ocean. Nobody bothered me, even though the next day I discovered it might not have been legal to park there after all. This is the dilemma of nomads who seek cooler temps along the coastline. Coastal states are not welcoming to nomads, probably because these states have such a huge population of unhoused. All the rich folks don't want a bunch of decrepit motorhomes and dented SUVs cluttering up their view of the Pacific. Who can blame them? They want what they are paying for. 

I'm blogging at you from my cousin's beach house in Long Beach, WA, on the peninsula, a few blocks from the ocean. The house is old and huge, decorated in vintage furniture, pictures, and knicknacks. She's left instructions for guests: check the toilets to make sure they aren't running, pack out your recycling and compostables, and spray Pine Sol around the garbage can to deter the bears. Last night at 11:30 pm the tsunami siren went off and wailed for a good two minutes. I sat there Googling "earthquake" and "tsunami near me" but found nothing, so I went back to bed. I slept for twelve hours. 

It's barely 3:00 pm, and I'm just now starting to feel myself firming up into a functional human. I didn't realize how tense and taut I was until I had a safe place to perch and rest. Once I felt safe, I turned into a quivery pile of jelly. I am trying to keep my eyes on the goal: to find affordable housing. As soon as it cools off a bit in the Willamette Valley, I'll leave the coast and get back on the road to continue my search for home.

Searching for my tribe

My quest to escape the Tucson heat this week inspired me to relocate to higher elevation. I'd noticed on the weather forecasts that Sierra Vista was consistently four or five degrees cooler than Tucson. 87°F sounded better than 94°F. Thus, on Thursday after my second PT appointment, I headed south. An hour and a half drive brought me to this small city, where thanks to GPS I found the two most important things a city can offer: a library and a Walmart. 

I enjoyed the challenges of learning my way around Sierra Vista. The city has a lovely library, in case you get down this way. I did my laundry at a funky laundromat across from Fort Huachaca. I slept in the Walmart parking lot with quite a few other nomads. I shopped at Walmart a couple times to express my thanks. 

I don't know about you, but I can only stand so much Walmart energy before I have to leave, so after two nights, I checked the map and decided to try to find the BLM camping area that I'd heard about from a guy named Tater, who stopped by my van where I was parked last week next to the currently-on-hiatus Rillito Racetrack. 

I'd been doing some van chores and wondering what fresh hell my life would conjure this week. Tater (not his real name, I hope) drove up in a dented dirty white Chevy Astro panel van. 

"Hey, do you want solar on your roof?" he asked, rolling down his passenger window. 

Starved for human interaction, I trotted over and leaned in. "I like having it portable," I explained. "So sometimes I can park in the shade and still recharge."

He got out of his truck and came around to open his side door. "I do van builds," he said proudly, showing me the inside of his truck. I hummed and nodded to express my appreciation, but to myself I was thinking, dang, I thought I was a slob. All surfaces not covered with clothes, dishes, or other detritus were filmed with a layer of dust. I know that dust.

He lifted the side of his bed to show me his bucket and bag toilet.

"I have something very similar," I said. 

"I've been living in this for nine years."

"Wow," I said. "I just started. I'm a total newbie."

He opened up an app on his phone and showed me a map of the US with hundreds of dots on it. "I've camped at all these places."

"Wow. Have you camped up in the Marana area?" I asked. 

"No, so far I've only seen Snyder Hill," he said. 

I nodded knowingly. "Too crowded. Try Pump Station or Red Rock. Red Rock is gorgeous, if you don't mind being near a shooting range. It's going to be super hot this next week. I'm thinking of heading up in elevation but I'm not sure where to go."

"There are some places near Mt. Lemmon," Tater said.

I filed that for future reference. "I'm wondering about Sierra Vista."

"Yeah, some of the best camping down that way is Las Cienegas."

After leaving Sierra Vista, I headed southwest, looking for a particular road cutting north from the main highway. I disdained the GPS lady, sure I would find my way. The views are wide open! How hard could it be? True to form, I missed the turn and ended up in Sonoita, which is one of those places you'll miss completely if you blink. I parked in an empty lot and checked Maps, which told me to turn around and go back about nine minutes. 

I eventually found the entrance to an unpaved road, part dirt, part gravel, that dipped and swerved past a sign that said "This is a working cattle ranch! Leave gates as you found them." I drove over too many cattle guards to count, over hill and dale on the winding dirt road, and somehow managed to miss the camping area again. At least, I think that is what happened. The GPS lady was with me all the way, until she abandoned me in the middle of the road with nothing in sight but grassland, scrubby trees, and blue sky. I kept on driving, thinking any moment I would crest a hill and see my fellow nomads dispersed on the land before me. Nope. 

I took heart when a Sprinter van passed me from the opposite direction. Any minute now, I thought, and kept going. After dipping through some heart-stopping gullies (thinking wow, I'm glad rain is not in the forecast), I finally admitted defeat and consulted Maps again. Apparently I'd almost quit before the miracle. Maps showed me I was only four minutes away from a camping area called Cieneguita. 

And that is where I am blogging at you right now. 

The silence is wondrous. The view in all directions is a mind-boggling panorama of yellow grasslands, scrubby leafless trees, and roaming cows. And don't forget the canopy of blue sky.

Last night a visitor came through camp. I didn't hear a thing, but in the morning I saw the hoof prints and a fresh splat of cowpie, which the flies are enjoying in between trips through my open liftgate and out my open side door. 

This morning as I was practicing the vestibular exercises the PT gave me, standing heel-to-toe next to my car, trying to balance while alternately gazing up at the sky and then down at the dirt, I reflected on my camping experience to date. I'm learning two kinds of camping: city camping (wild camping) and free dispersed camping on BLM land. Both camping styles have their appeal. In the city, I feel connected to other humans, which feels mostly good, but the downside is I have to keep a low profile. No cooking on my campstove, for example. No leaving my windows uncovered at night. Out here on the land, my nearest neighbor is hundreds of yards away. Out here, I feel connected to nature, which I think is probably healthy for me in ways I don't yet fully realize. 

Home is a state of mind

A new freedom can lead to a new happiness. So they say. I was skeptical. The hardest part, I discovered, is launching from the familiar into the unknown. However, the fear of staying stuck finally outweighed my fear of change, and now here I am, free to start a new chapter. You could call it homelessness. You could call it an epic journey of a lifetime, a quest for my heart's desire. I don't care what you call it. It's not your journey. It's not your life.

Should I tell you about the challenges of living in a vehicle? No, you don't want to hear about the sordid realities of refilling water jugs and dumping plastic bags of poop. You just want to be reassured that I'm okay.

Don't worry. I'm okay. I'm actually more than okay. I'm starting to feel like myself again. Autonomous, independent, free to make my own foolish choices, unconstrained by the shackles of a temporary life that wasn't mine. Now I'm free to search for a new life, maybe a new place, I don't know. Time will tell.

When you don't have a lot of money, freedom requires a small footprint. My mission is to live within my means; hence, the car thing. For now, it's the only way to maintain a semblance of my preferred lifestyle without blowing through the last of my savings. You might be reassured to know I have everything I need (literally) at my fingertips. I can get almost anything just by reaching for it. That's one upside of living in a car. On the other hand, smells. 

Right now, I'm parked on BLM land north of Tucson. The rain that just soaked California is now soaking the desert. The sound of rain on my car roof is oddly soothing. I peer outside my windows through a veil of raindrops. Everything is so green out here. Spring in the desert is pretty amazing. I get why people come here. And I get why they leave along about mid-May. Words don't describe how hard it is to live here without air conditioning when the mercury soars past 95°F. Living in a trailer with metal awnings was hard enough, even with AC. Imagine how much harder it is to live in a car. 

Ah, but living in one's car means freedom to move on! As long as I have gas in the tank and the engine cranks and runs, I'm mobile. Like all nomads, when the season shifts, I will drive away to cooler climes. 

So far, all my moves have been about getting somewhere so I can finally start living. Now I live where I am. This lifestyle is about the journey, not the destination. I can't get lost living like this, because no matter where I am, I'm where I belong, in that moment. Maybe home isn't just one place. Maybe home isn't a place at all. Maybe home is a state of mind rather than a point on a map. 

Fighting battles in my mind

I don't know about you (because I never hear from you), but I imagine you get weary of me whining about the ongoing disintegration of my life. May I charitably reframe it as an ongoing adventure? An epic escapade? How about a quixotic quest? An idiotic crusade? (This is what happens when I consult a thesaurus). 

My friends have varied opinions on this journey of mine, bless their hearts. A few envy me my freedom. They are saddled with stuff, people, and obligations, so I can understand the lure of this lifestyle. (Can I call disintegration a lifestyle?) Some of my friends worry for me. Living in a car in the forest is not something they would ever contemplate. I don't think they even go camping. (Actually, after that dude got eaten by a bear, camping seems like a dumb idea.) A couple of my more metaphysical friends appreciate the chaotic nature of the universe and express faith that the road less traveled is worth traveling, no matter where it leads. 

I listen to all of them.

My Phoenix friend needed a dogsitter. It just so happened I was available. For the next several days, I'm in Phoenix, serving as caregiver for a small, wiry, somewhat nutty dog with big eyes, big ears, and a surprisingly big bark. The dog and I are friends now (or at least we were until I attempted to brush her teeth), but yesterday when I got here, it was touch and go. I thought I might have to sacrifice a toe or an ankle before I would be allowed to pass. 

It's blazing hot here so the best time to go dogwalking is early in the morning or super late at night. I think the neighborhood is pretty safe after dark, but I was told there are coyotes in the area. Last night as I was trying to relax enough to fall asleep, I mentally ran through a scenario in which a coyote attacked the dog as we sauntered through the park. I pictured myself lifting the dog over my head and kicking the coyote in the gizzard. You can imagine how it would probably go down. Not like I might hope, probably. Most likely, I would not end up being a superhero. After rehearsing my moves, I realized the odds of me kicking a coyote in the gizzard (where is a gizzard, anyway?) are slim to none. However, I would not be willing to give up the dog without a fight, so if I get rabies, send me a get well card. 

This dog is somewhat eccentric. Three times today, she indicated she would like to go out into the back yard (which is concrete and gravel). It's over 100°F today. Each time, she beelined straight for the sunniest spot on the patio and flopped down on the warm pavement. Each time, I sat in the shade to stand guard (coyotes, right?), and within moments I was boneless soup in a fancy patio chair, while the dog casually lounged in the sun. I thought at first the dog had sunstroke, but no, she just really likes the heat. She reminds me of an old lady in a sauna. She sweats out the toxins for five minutes, yawns, and moseys back inside. 

At the end of this dogsitting gig, if all goes according to plan, I will take a drive out one of the highways north of Phoenix to see some of the small towns out Sedona way. My search for home continues. However, I don't think I'll be doing any camping in the national forest. I might be willing to fight off a coyote, but I'm not up for tangling with a bear. 

Still searching for home

Most days, I can't tell if I'm in my right mind or not. Some days I think, I can do this, I can camp in my car, be a nomad, go on adventures, be a digital worker, drive around and see things, and somehow magically maintain a healthy life despite not having a home base. Then I read about the challenges of getting car insurance without a fixed parking spot, and I think, I'm out of my mind. This is insane. This is disaster. I should do everything I can to avoid homelessness. There will be no coming back if I drive off this cliff.

Then I think, well, wait, other people do it. These nomad vanlifers live in their cars, or at least, they say they do. If they are telling the truth, then clearly, it can be done. So I dig around in the great brain in the sky and find out, wait a minute, some of my confident nomadic heroes might not be completely legal. In fact, their suggestions are liable to inspire my insurance company to cancel me, should I ever get in a wreck. This would not be ideal. Then I remember, my vanlife heroes make their money from naive idiots like me watching their videos. Oh, the horror. 

Last week, I was sure I could go live in the forest—you know, park my car under a pine tree, set up my internet gizmo, and write my next novel. Eat nuts and twigs, commune with the coyotes . . . hey, city girls can learn new skills. I called it a retreat.

This week, my brain retreated from that idea. I know I can live in my car, but I'm not so sure I'm up for communing with wildlife. Coyotes, bears, packrats, no-seeums, no thanks. The idea of being homeless scares the spit out of me. Homelessness is not a viable option for a person my age. Once I cross that line, I don't know if I can come back to the adult world. You might as well send me to the psych ward.

I'm planning a second road trip later this month to eyeball some small towns in Arizona. I don't think the vertigo problem is going to be solved any time soon, no matter where I am on the planet, so I'm opting to scope out possible housing options at higher elevations. Small towns, slightly cooler temps, maybe that will work. Maybe there will be a place for me there.

It's unsettling to not be able to call a place home. 

I searched on my epic road trip, I really did. I put 5,000 miles on my car in search of home. I burned hundreds of dollars worth of gasoline. I slept in parking lots. I pooped in a bucket. I really tried to find a home. Even so, it wasn't enough. Maybe I drove past the one place I could have called home, fooled by the red-tile-roofed mansions on the hills above the freeway, assuming I could never afford such a place. Maybe it was Ashland, or Indio, maybe it was Medford, or Spokane, or Bishop, or Wickiup. Jeez, it could have been Wickiup, and all I did was buy gas there for the umpteenth time and get back on the road.

I probably drove past a hundred places that I could have called home, but I was so busy dodging trucks and looking at my gas gauge, I missed them all. 

How do other people find home? Some people are lucky enough to be born in a place they consider home, but what about all those folks born into the wrong climate? Hm, what about them? The ones born in Portland who hate rain. The ones born in Tucson who hate being dessicated and wish they had been born in Portland? How do you figure out where you belong? 

I guess that is what Google Street View is for. But it's not a substitute for seeing a place with your own eyes, feeling the air on your skin, observing the clouds over the skyline, noticing the pace of cars cruising main street, noting the nods of strangers as they take you in and process your strangeness. Don't you have to see it for yourself?

You can just pick up and move, sight unseen. I did that twice. I could do it again. But this time, I want to see it for myself first, before I make the leap.

Finding the thank-you-god ledges along the journey

My friend E told me about the Thank You God Ledge in Yosemite. I looked it up and saw photos. No thanks. It's a long narrow ledge almost 2,000 feet up the face of Half Dome. Just looking at the photos makes me want to cower in the closet. However, the concept of a ledge providentially placed when one needs a respite is useful for describing my double stint at Trailer Tesserae. That's one of the names for this mobile home I'm currently living in, in case you have forgotten. Art Trailer. Artmobile. Art Box. 

I've been in Arizona almost two years. April 24 will be the two-year anniversary. After a three day 1,500 mile help-me-god trip through the desert, I landed on the ledge of Trailer Tesserae. That was before it had that name. For three months, this mobile home was a safe spot from which to learn the neighborhood and find my next perch, which turned out to be the roach-infested Bat Cave. After a year in the Bat Cave, I landed back in the Trailer, to regroup, to reconsider, to plot my next move. The plotting is starting to take shape. Last week, I told you about the shakedown cruise I took with E, who showed me how to live in my car. Camp in my car, excuse me. Let me not get ahead of myself.

For my next help-me-god trip, scheduled for mid-April, I'm driving to California and then north to Oregon to meet my siblings at the end of the month. We plan to find a nice cozy beach somewhere near the confluence of the Columbia River and the Pacific Ocean where we can scatter Mom, who for two years has been peacefully resting in ash form in a cardboard box on my brother's shelf. Sorry if I've told you all this before. I'm sure your memory is much better than mine.

I have this vague idea that along the way, my next perch (home) will manifest, and I will no longer be destination-less. I can hope. I found the Love Shack in Portland by driving and looking. Most of the great apartments are never advertised. One must troll the desirable neighborhoods looking for red handwritten for-rent signs. Miracles do happen. After successfully using a mechanic-in-a-can product last week to remedy my check engine light, I am now a believer. I just have to figure out in what general area I want to live, go there, and look for vacancies. Easy. I feel a tiny bit giddy, like a kid in an ice cream store. Do I want the Rocky Road or the Chocolate Chips Ahoy?

It's possible I'm deluding myself. Housing costs in California are far beyond my meager means. It's not likely I will have many options. Still, I'm not the boss of outcomes. It might seem exceedingly unlikely I will find affordable housing (I only need one place), but it's not impossible. I'm holding onto hope.

Meanwhile I've discovered mal de debarquement syndrome (MDDS), which is easily the most fun diagnosis I have entertained for my inner ear disturbances, just for the name alone. You have to say it with a French accent, to really get the most enjoyment from it. I give myself a new diagnosis weekly, just for the hell of it, because why not? The ENT took the easy way out by slapping vestibular migraines on my chart before she offered to poke a hole in my eardrum. I'm not saying I don't have vestibular migraines, but I also have symptoms that align with other vestibular maladies, of which there are many. While I'm thinking of it, riddle me this: How come there are so many vestibular illnesses identified and named but not studied and treated? Do researchers get paid by the name? Where's their incentive to actual find the cures? Just asking for a friend.

Another fun diagnosis I entertained last week was called persistent oscillating vertigo. I mean, what's not to love? It's chronic, it's energetic, and it's mysterious. Just the word oscillating itself conjures images of egg beaters inside my inner ears, whipping up an ocotonia omelet. Before that I was into another interesting diagnosis, known as Triple P D. PPPD. Persistent postural perceptual dizziness. That's a mouthful. It's elegantly all-encompassing. I like theories that really pull everything together. PPPD is like the theory of relativity for vestibular malfunctions. So fun.

I still don't understand the mechanisms that make my right ear crackle when the waves of whatever the hell this is roll through my head. It feels mechanical, but I have a hunch my ENT, whom I will visit in early March, will tell me it truly is all in my head and I should start seeing a therapist. And taking a benzodiazapine of some kind. Not going to happen, but thanks for the suggestion, Doc.

Guess what I've been doing in my spare moments? Since yesterday, I've been staring at a video of vertical black strips rolling slowly from right to left across a white computer screen. The instructions are simple. Make the image big, get close to the screen, stare into it, and slowly bend my head from right to left and back to center, six times per minute for five minutes. Do this eight times a day for five days, and relief is all but guaranteed. I feel as if I'm in an old episode of the Avengers and any minute now, Mrs. Peel and Mr. Steed will be swooping in through the skylight to rescue me from the Hypnosis Crime Syndicate, who seek to control humanity by altering our brain waves while we think we are watching reruns of Welcome Back, Kotter. 

When I say relief is guaranteed, that assumes I actually have MDDS, which is far from certain. I don't care. To cure myself with moving vertical stripes is free, painless, and kind of cool. I find my eyes crossing, like they do when you stare into one of those 3-D Magic Eye pictures trying to find the chipmunk in all the multicolored dots. Just when you think, man, this is totally bogus, there it is, the squirrel suddenly appears, so real you could almost pick him right off the page. After you let your eyes go back to normal, for the rest of the day you feel just the slightest bit high. 

These vertical stripes are sort of like that. Eventually my eyes cross and I can see into infinity below the edge of my screen. When I move my head to follow the instructions, the lines seem to slow and stop briefly before starting again, even though I know they maintain a steady pace for the entire video. This is evidence of how my brain is messing with my eyes, and vice versa. Throw in my inner ears, my Eustachian tube . . . and apparently my spinal column, too, and no wonder I'm on a wild ride. 

I'm so over it, but I guess it is not yet done with me. The adventure continues.

Searching for a feeling

As I was shuffling along the bike path by the dry Rillito River riverbed, I came to a realization that has helped me put another piece of the puzzle of my life into place. Let me set the scene. The riverbed is an energetic entity in this desert town. Its dry sand, green trees, scrubby bushes, and plastic garbage are home to all kinds of wildlife. For instance, last night at 1:25 a.m. I heard a coyote howling close by. It was probably in the wash out back of the trailer but it sounded like it was outside my window. Four husky cough-like barks followed by a perfect-pitch howl, five times in a row. I almost got up to go outside. Then I thought, are you nuts? I did that last time a dog barked in the wash. Do you know how cold it is in the desert in the middle of the night? I don't either, but it's not warm.  

Anyway, the riverbed is an amazing landscape. I enjoy walking on the bike path, dodging bike riders, skateboarders, and runners. During the day, the sun is warm for about two hours. The air feels great, especially if the wind is calm. Toward sundown the temperature starts dropping back toward the upper-30s, so I'm learning to walk while the sun is still high in the sky. The downside is, UV rays. The upside is, warm. I will always seek warmth. I'm somewhat like a lizard in that respect.

So, what did I figure out? Thanks for asking. 

First, let me insert this funny drawing that sums up the week. I drew this in 1998, as if I knew that today would be the day I would need it. 

There you go. Yeah, that seems about right.  

So, okay, thanks for waiting. I am going to tell you my little epiphany. 

But first, a little back story.

When I left home in 1977, I knew my destination. My friend Jenny had preceded me to Los Angeles, and there was no place else I wanted to be. So off I went to L.A. I stayed there for twenty years. 

In 1997, I moved back to Portland. Again, I knew my destination. Where else would I have gone? My family was there. It made sense to return home to clean up the mess of my young adulthood. After some time, I was recruited to be my mother's caregiver. You know the story. 

When I was set free in 2021, once again, I had a destination in mind: Tucson. I'd visited this city once thirty-some-odd years ago. I had a friend here. Actually more than one friend, it turned out, which was a good thing for me, because the first friend died. The second friend gave me a place to land, and now as luck would have it, we are housemates. Pure miraculous divine chance. (Is that a thing?)

Unfortunately for me, my inner ears aren't happy with the desert climate. The relentless fluctuations in air pressure keep me constantly unbalanced. I'm very careful, but I recognize that out here in the desert, I'm a perpetual fall risk. I don't care where I die, but this is not where I want to break a hip. There are other reasons Tucson is not the ideal home for me, but the air pressure variations are the main culprit. I've been researching almost since the day I arrived, trying to figure out where I should go next.

So, here I am, walking along the path, wondering where my next destination will be, and it occurs to me that what I seek is not a destination. What I seek is a feeling. Two feelings in one, really: A physical feeling (inner ear equilibrium) and an emotional feeling (call it . . . serenity). I can't choose a city on a map and move there, hoping that the city will give me the feelings I desire. I need to go out into the world in search of the feelings and then look around and see where I landed.

I'm not starting from total scratch, in case you are wondering. I mean, I could just hang a map on the wall, close my eyes, and throw some darts. I've heard of people doing that. It sounds like fun, but what if, once again, I end up in a place that upsets my inner ears and doesn't make me happy? I'm too old to waste time moving the possessions I still possess from place to place, as if affordable housing were hanging on trees. 

Darts on a map won't work but I do have some data, as I've shared in this blog before. Sea level is least likely to have huge changes in air pressure (except for Florida hurricanes, East coast nor'easters, and Pacific Northwest wind storms). My best bet is Florida (sans hurricanes) and southern California. I bet you can tell which way I will let the wind blow me. 

There's no predicting where exactly I will end up. It's very tempting to look at a map, study the housing opportunities in a city, and say, there, that place, that is where I will go. It worked out when I moved to L.A., but it didn't work when I moved to Tucson. I can't know how my inner ears will react until I go to a place, so choosing a place without visiting first would be . . .  I was going to say nuts, but let's just say, it would be inadvisable. 

I can hear you saying, Carol, nobody in their right mind would choose a city and move there without checking it out first. You are no doubt correct. I never claimed to be in my right mind. I'm getting nuttier by the minute. As a person who up till now has planned long, pondered hard, and taken action much much much later with great caution, I can barely fathom the idea of packing up and leaving without a destination. Who does that? Me, apparently.