Welcome to Oregon, now go away

When did the Department of Motor Vehicles turn into such a bureaucratic pithole? I've been to several DMV locations in the greater Portland metro area. They all seem designed to accomplish one goal: make customers wait so long they finally give up and go away. Why did I think Oregon would welcome me back? How naive. It's almost as if they resent me for leaving. Every DMV face (with one exception, the woman who took the photo for my new license) expressed the same sentiment: We told you so, loser. 

That's me transferring my resentment onto the hapless, abused, long-suffering employees behind the glass walls at the DMV. The first day, I walked in, thinking, okay, maybe a couple hours to get my license transferred and my car registered. Ha. Some locations let you make an appointment online. Walk-ins are "standby" customers, meaning you receive service after the appointments are served. My ticket was S171. The leaderboard said next to be served: S30. I'm not good at math, but even I could tell there was a long line of people ahead of me. 

I hung around for a while, then went out to my car and ate breakfast. When I went back inside an hour later, they were serving S60. It was about 2:00 p.m. The office closed at 5:00 p.m. I gave up and made an appointment. The only appointment I could get that wasn't a month out was at a far-away location for two days hence. I grabbed it.

The kind, patient GPS Lady led me to the place. I got there an hour before it opened, two hours before my appointment. Walk-ins were already lined up on the sidewalk in cold, windy rain, waiting for the doors to open. 

About 45 minutes after my appointment time, my number came up. A530. Yay. The guy behind the glass wall gave me a fake smile. It wasn't even noon. I could tell he was already fed up and burned out. I was able to apply to get an Oregon license (only $64, not a real ID because I didn't have two pieces of ID with a residence address), but I wasn't able to register my car because I didn't have the original title. Arizona doesn't print vehicle titles like Oregon does. I had the mistaken impression it could all happen online. Ha. Joke's on me again. So now I'm waiting for my Arizona title to arrive at my brother's house, so I can surrender it to Oregon and wait for a new title and license plates. 

I confess, there were moments I considered giving up. However, once you've started going over a waterfall, you cannot change your mind and paddle back upstream. In Oregon, your car registration and driver's license have to match. I'm either all in on Oregon, or it's back to Arizona, still with no permanent residence address, still not able to rent a mailbox anywhere.

It's cold here right now. It's a typical Portland spring: intermittently windy, rainy, and cloudy, with rare moments of blue sky. Day time temperatures are mid-50s to low 60s. Nights are just below 40 F. Early mornings are the worst. Waking up before the sun to frigid air is brutal. Getting up to pee in the night is no fun either. 

There are many places to park on the street for a minivan like mine. I blend. But I can't stay in one place anywhere. In Tucson, the nomads in town hang out in a huge parking lot by the bike path. Nobody hassles you when you put out your solar panels. When you get sick of traffic, you can drive an hour to get to BLM land and camp for free, work on your car, cook food, and enjoy the desert scenery with great cell signal for internet. There's nothing like that near Portland. I never thought I would miss Tucson. But for a person living in a vehicle, Tucson is Death Valley. Not possible. It's 90 F there this week, and it will only get hotter. Then monsoon, and the fun really begins. Been there, done that, turn around, don't drown. 

Portland has been overcast, rainy, and windy since I arrived last week. That means my vestibular issue is churning. It also means I can't recharge using solar. Without power, I can't run my fridge, so I put it into storage, and now my menu consists of items that don't require refrigeration. That means small portions I can eat in one sitting. Being vegetarian means no canned tuna or chicken, no chunky beef chili, no chicken noodle soup. Being sensitive to food additives and chemicals means no ramen, no cup o' noodles. I have a little ice chest, but getting small amounts of ice daily is a major hassle, not to mention expensive over time. A 7 lb bag of ice is only a few dollars, but I have to dump most of it on the ground. 

Yesterday I traded four hours of gasoline taking a peaceful trip up the Columbia River Gorge to recharge my power stations. It was a nice drive, but it would have required another four hours to get to 100% power. In Tucson, I could drag my power stations into the mall, one at a time, to recharge at the counter where the unhoused plug in their phones. The mall here has only USB ports, no AC outlets. I did a little reconnaissance to find an accessible outlet. I found one by a bench across from Annie's Pretzels. Another adventure to look forward to while I wait for my documents to arrive in the mail.

This is such a strange way to live.

Being in Portland, the city of my birth, brings up a lot of grief. Certain parts of town remind me of things I'd rather not think about. The death of my father, my cat, my mother. The schools, the parks, the roads. The city looks different, after four years away, but some things are the same: the weather, the potholes, the unhoused.

I don't regret leaving Portland. I do regret moving to Arizona, but now that I'm here, I appreciate what Arizona gave me. In Arizona, I was one of an armada of nomads. There were license plates from everywhere there, Minnesota, Michigan, Montana, on sprinter vans, motorhomes, and trailers. Snowbirds are a thing. Maybe as summer approaches, Portland will start to fill up with nomads from Arizona, and I won't feel like such an outsider. Maybe next winter, I'll sprout a pair of wings and follow the sun south, back to the desert.

Meanwhile, I lurk in the neighborhoods I grew up in, sniffing out parking spots that aren't directly in front of someone's house, on streets that aren't too busy or populated by broken down RVs and tent cities, where I can blend in and pretend I belong in that place, just another neighbor, just another visitor staying with a friend for a night, to be gone at daybreak. 

Everybody roomba!

My dogsit vacation at the Scottsdale resort is coming to an end. For the past three weeks, I've been living someone else's life. At times it's an uncomfortable persona, because I know what is coming next. However, I'm intent on being a person who is enjoying the last few days in paradise. 

Not only does this place have a stove, a refrigerator, running water, and a toilet, it also has a robotic vacuum cleaner. It's running around the floor outside this bedroom as I type this, bumping over the grout in the tiles and banging into furniture. The dog snoozing on the bed behind me appears to be oblivious. 

In addition, this Club Med housing development has an artificial lake, walking paths, and about a thousand dogs, all of whom are despised by the dog in my care. Maddie is not a big dog, and she knows it. She'll leave the bigger dogs alone, but any dog her size or smaller is fair game. She lunges on the leash with teeth bared and lets loose a barrage of insults that you wouldn't think could issue from such a puny creature. She is not a yapper. When she's pissed off, look out.

Maddie is not an obedient dog. She goes where she wants. If I happened to lose my deathgrip on the leash, she would be in the next housing development in a heartbeat. She doesn't care about ducks snoozing on the lake shore. It's the enticing aroma of old dog poop that really floats her boat. As I'm trying not to gag while I bend over to pick up her poop, I berate for the millionth time the dog owners who don't give a shit. Oh, pardon me. I mean, those loving pet parents who for some reason think their dog's poop is a gift to the rest of us. 

Curse you, irresponsible dog owners. 

The robot disk grinding in the other room just ran into the door stopper. Thwangggg! Maddie and I looked at each other, like, wha—? I investigated. The device backed up and went around it. Techology is amazing and frightening at the same time. Now the thing is banging on the bedroom door, like a 6-inch tall ankle-sucking murderer. The first time the robot cleaned, it ate a shoelace. It tried to eat the shoelace, that is. It couldn't ingest the shoe attached to the shoelace, so it came to a halt and wailed for assistance. I unwrapped the shoelace from its wheel and sent it back to work. 

I'm writing a lot on the final novel in a trilogy I started three years ago. My writing process is this: I start out as a planner and end up a total lost cause pantser. The only constraints I have are the easter eggs I wrote into Book 2, with no clue how I was going to resolve them in Book 3. I had to reread the first two books to remember the characters and find the clues I would have to address in this volume. I regret a few things. Yesterday I had a sinking realization I'd written myself into a corner. Last night as I soaked in the bathtub, I found the way out. Tubs are amazing. Showers are okay, too, if you don't have balance issues. Walking is good. Sleeping can be productive, although I never remember the hilarious plots twists and endearing characters in the morning. I have to believe my great ideas are out there somewhere in the ether, hoving around, waiting for an opening, and they will return to me when it's time.

Another disconcerting realization I've had to come to terms with is my failing memory. I used to be an excellent speller. I consistently won my 6th-grade spelling bees, the only time when I felt like a star instead of an alien from another planet. Now I can't remember the difference between its and it's. Well, I know the difference, but if I don't go back and edit my work, I don't find the errors. Like in this blog. I regularly omit articles. It's humbling, especially because I'm supposedly a professional editor. 

We carry on.

Happy holidays from the Hellish Handbasket. 

Swerving through the week

I'm blogging to you today from the windy high desert plateau near Sonoita, Arizona. If you are wondering what this terrain looks like, go watch some old Westerns. Many were shot on location here on the Empire Ranch. I've told you about this place before. It's a working ranch, which means cattle roam freely across the valley, working hard at becoming fat for your dinner table. Not my dinner table, I don't eat anything that would run from me if it could. Or kill me, if it felt inclined. When they stroll through camp, I respectfully retreat to my car. These cows are not to be messed with. 

Neither are snakes. This week, I've seen three, all doing the same thing: crossing the road in front of me. Twice I was on a dirt road, so I stopped. It seemed the prudent thing to do. The third time I was on a two-lane highway, with traffic coming toward me. I should have stopped, but chose to swerve and almost didn't live to be writing this blogpost. Next time, the snake dies. That is all I'm going to say on this topic.

This week I visited four towns: Benson, Tombstone, Bisbee, and Patagonia. Everyone said I should check them out. All four towns are within a couple hours' drive from Tucson. My intention was to escape the Tucson heat, and these places were on the way to higher elevation, so it made sense to give myself a tour of the area. Plus, one of these towns could conceivably be my next home base. As I've mentioned, I'm pretty much over Tucson. 

Each town had a unique personality. 

Benson was all about trains. Amtrak actually stops there, the woman in the visitor center told me. Trains have interested me for a long time. I grew up not terribly far from a train track, and we used to cross over the track on a viaduct as we walked to high school (pre-school bus days). I remember getting excited when I happened to cross the viaduct just as a train was coming through. That was probably more about the thrill of having a train rush through underneath me than it was about trains in general. I took a train when I moved to Los Angeles in 1977 but only because airfare was so expensive. I've never had a desire to, like, work for BNSF or Amtrak, though. So, all that to say, Benson, too small, too trainy.

Tombstone was a weird fake western ghost town reminiscent of Frontierland. The main street was dirt, cars prohibited. As I walked along the wooden plank boardwalks past real saloons, I saw small posses of gun-toting men in jeans, vests, cowboy boots, spurs, and ten-gallon hats. What's more, they all seemed to be wearing badges, which you know can't be right. There have to be some villains in town. Sure enough, I found one. A long-in-the-tooth badge-wearing cowboy (transplant from Minnesota) invited me to dinner after his shootout comedy show. I guess the few dames in town (identifiable by their straggly show-girl dresses) had turned him down. He must have really been desperate to ask me out. I smoothed the front of my stained smelly t-shirt and politely declined. Tombstone's great tourist attraction is the shootout at the OK Corral. I don't care for guns. If I were willing to put on a costume (preferably spurs), I could probably get a job in Tombstone and live in the nearby trailer park next door to Lonesome Cowboy. No thanks.

I was really curious about Bisbee. Bisbee is purportedly all about art, and I saw quite a few galleries when I dared to look at anything but maneuvering my car up and down the steep narrow streets to find a hidden parking lot to spend the night. I could see the attraction of the place. It's picturesque, unique, and charming, despite the fact that a couple played their stereo in the car next to me for two hours in the wee hours of the morning. However, Bisbee to me was all about the massive crater known as the Lavender Pit Mine, a wound left on the land by the copper mining industry. I felt deeply disturbed coming around the bend just outside the historic town and seeing that yawning hole. It did not make me proud to be a human, to know I have benefited from the copper that was blasted out of innocent mountains. No, I will not be moving to Bisbee, to be constantly reminded of how I have been part of the descrecration of the land. 

Patagonia (population 800 for the past 100 years) was about mining and ranching. The visitor center was closed but I stopped in a mining office that had a sign in the window welcoming visitors. The mining enthusiast there greeted me eagerly and told me all about the mining still going on in Patagonia (not strip mines or pits, no these are all underground, with a smaller-than-700 acre footprint, easy on the environment, you betcha). Not gold, copper, or silver. No, nowadays, zinc is the new gold. And manganese. We need zinc and manganese for electric cars, apparently. It's the American way, tear up the earth so we can smelt it down to power our excursions into the country where we destroy more pristine habitat in our quest for peace and quiet. 

Up here on the cattle ranch, sitting out of the wind in my tin can fossil-fuel burning minivan, looking out over the vistas at the cattle roaming slowly through the grass, I can almost see the attraction of ranching. My grandfather was a cattle rancher in Eastern Oregon, so I could claim a slight relationship with ranching (although I claim no affinity). I used to want a horse. I don't remember ever wanting cows. Or sheep, goats, pigs . . . I'm a city kid forced into a weird car camping adventure by circumstance. I really like camping up here on the Empire Ranch, but I don't think I will be choosing to live in Sonoita or Patagonia or some other ranching mecca. 

Writing and drawing, blogging and mentoring . . . these activities can happen anywhere I have an occasional internet connection. I can't imagine being a cattle rancher who happens to write fiction on the side. Nor do I see myself as a writer who keeps a few head of cattle. I can imagine taking a train to Boston to see my sister, but don't expect me to be the sleeping car attendant. Along those lines, I don't reckon I'll be out panning for zinc or manganese anytime soon.

So, here I am again, learning by process of elimination where I don't belong. It's useful, but it's a lot of work, to choose a home by crossing every other place off the list of possibilities. If I live long enough, I might actually find the place I'm looking for, if such a place exists. One thing for sure, I will not up and move to a place I haven't thoroughly checked out, and that means shopping at their stores, printing my car insurance ID cards in their libraries, and sleeping in their Walmart parking lots. You don't really know a town until you've slept in your car on a backstreet with one eye open, waiting for the knock.

Some things don't change

I was sifting through my hundreds of raw source drawings, created over many years of sitting in meetings trying not to argue, cry, laugh out loud, or fall asleep. I'm old, so I've been to many meetings. That means I have many drawings. Almost all of them were drawn on lined journal notebook paper, so the quality is terrible. I do my best to clean them up and downsize them so they don't take forever to download. As I was scrolling through the list, looking for today's selection, I came across this one and realized, hey, that's right. I've been homeless before.

Looking back from the ripeness of old age, it seems to me that being homeless when you are young is way cooler than it is when you are old, wrinkled, and slow. Being a young bohemian has that hipness factor, or it could. I never had it, I was always the pathetic person my friends felt obligated to help by lending a couch for a night or by buying me breakfast. I still have some of those friends. Amazing. 

Eventually I figured out a way to exist in the world and started paying my way, until old age, poverty, and the shortage of affordable housing caught up to me. Rather than burn through the last of my savings, I have opted, as you know, to downsize and go on an extended road trip until something changes. I'm open to whatever. Maybe the housing supply will catch up to demand (hey, it could happen). Maybe I'll win the lottery (unlikely, considering I don't play). Maybe I'll roll my car and it will all be over. 

Meanwhile, life goes on and I'm doing my best to live it with style and panache, but within my limited means. If you've read this blog (which nobody does, so I feel free to say what I want), then you know I've downsized into my minivan, which I fondly call The Beast. Well, no, I haven't named it yet. Van lifers often name their vehicles. I have a little philodendron in a clay pot, which I have named after my mother. But other than that, this vehicle is as yet nameless. 

I'm currently parked in a parking lot outside an outlet mall somewhere near Tucson. I opted to vacate my peaceful campsite in the desert because we are getting some rain and high winds, and I don't want to get trapped by a flash flood. I'm not worried that I will be washed away, but it will take a few days for the water to evaporate, and I do worry about getting stuck in the mud. So, hence, parking lot.

I won't stay here for the night. It's not a level lot, for one thing, so I would end up sleeping on the floor. The main reason, though, is that there is a carnival set up at the top of the lot behind me. Earlier in the day, it was quiet. I thought, great, how fun to have a ferris wheel to look at but no crowds. Surely they won't open in the rain. Well, don't call me Shirley, because at 4:00 pm, the fair opened. Families with little kids have been streaming past my car, heading toward the source of the pounding music. I have my window covers up on that side, but I peek out from time to time. It's pretty, if you like carnivals. To top it off, every five minutes or so, a freight train rolls through on a nearby railroad track.  

I'm going to cut this short so I can drive back to Walmart or to Cracker Barrel or Home Depot or someplace where I can blend in with all the other ubiquitous minivans, pickups, and SUVs. Judging by the quantity of reflectix in windshields, I think lots of people are living in their cars. 

Wandering but not quite lost

I’m writing to you from Bureau of Land Management (BLM) desert land outside of Quartzsite, Arizona. BLM land out here occupies many square miles. You can drive forever on dirt roads, although the further you go, the more you need four-wheel drive. My city minivan would not survive most of those roads. Being a sedate older person not looking to drive off a cliff, I keep to the flats not far out of town.

I am parked about a half mile from the freeway, near a shallow wash and a copse of scrubby trees, about one hundred yards from a herd of half-million dollar Prevosts towing toy haulers. Earlier they were racing their toys around the desert landscape. Now the happy campers seem to be setting off fireworks. I don’t know why people bring their entire house with them to go camping. On the other hand, nights in the desert are dark, cold, and endless. I suppose it helps to have heat, cold beer, and a big screen TV.

Yes, it’s a bit chilly in my car at night, but I’m not complaining. I hear Portland is 16°F, with snow, freezing rain, and high winds. Other parts of the country are suffering extreme winter weather as well. If that is your situation, I’m sorry. Especially if you are living in your car.

Speaking of living in a car, I am not living in my car. Yet. I’m on my second official roadtrip, on my way to Los Angeles by way of Quartzsite, AZ. I have found my tribe here in Quartzsite, but in true apanthropist fashion, I don’t want to have anything to do with them. I got my name badge at the RTR, saw the interiors of Sprinters, cargo vans, and minivans designed by some proud nomads, and listened to a woman in a long gauzy skirt make noise, oh excuse me, soothing healing sounds, by pounding on some large bronze shields with a fluffy mallet. I left as soon as I could.

I did not grown up in a camping family, so camping is a mystery to me. My mother camped with her parents and brother. Then she married a non-camping enthusiast and had four kids. It’s not that my father lacked an adventuresome spirit. He had a boat for a while, a 24-foot Thompson with a throbbing stern drive. He took me out on the Columbia River Slough once. We broke down. A nice lady in a little motorboat towed us back to the dock. Then on the next outing, he hit a half-submerged log and busted the sterndrive. Soon after, he sold the boat. He never talked about it, but I am guessing he was sad the dream ended the way it did.

I never wanted a boat. Neither have I had a hankering to camp. I like to hike, but not if I have to dodge snakes or climb over boulders. I was born and raised a city kid, which is why being out here in the open desert freaks me out. The quality of darkness outside my covered windows is more than I can bear to think about. When the wind scoots under the car, I feel a momentary change in my heart rate. Every little rustle could be a packrat eating my wires. A couple nights ago a storm blew through and carried my tarp and welcome mat into my neighbor’s campground. Anita from Missouri. She parked way too close to me, so I befriended her in self-defense. Widow, two kids, long-time camping enthusiast. I vacated to a more peaceful location the next day, which is where I am now.

I can see why people buy bigger and bigger vehicles. This minivan is a very small space, crammed with way too much stuff. If I were inclined to claustrophobia, I would never be able to do this. However, I’m fine with MRI machines and small minivans. I will probably wake up in my coffin and go ho hum. Not really. I hope to donate my body to science and avoid the entire coffin thing.

I feel somewhat like a pioneer might have felt. Did I bring enough food? Can my oxen pull this wagon? Will my solar panel charge up my Jackery or will clouds get in the way? Where can I dump my trash when the transfer station is only open three days a week? Will I have enough cell signal to get phone service, and how close am I to running out of my monthly quota of data? You know. Pioneer problems.

Why do some people glorify this lifestyle? It’s homelessness. You should have seen the interiors of some of those rigs. They looked like garbage dumps, festooned with fake ivy garlands, carpeted with Persian rugs and fake vinyl plank flooring, and reeking of incense, cooked onions, and poop.

After seeing all that stuff, I am more determined than ever to continue my commitment to downsize. I sense I am headed off a cliff of minimalism. It’s been a gradual slope at first, but the incline is getting steeper as I am coming to accept that I cannot maintain a life full of stuff. I feel a mild panic attack lurking just out of reach. Time to pee in my bucket, turn on my heating pad, and hit the foam rubber. Happy trails.

Creating a new reality

Darkness falls fast in the desert after the sun sets. Twilight doesn't linger. During the day, I imagine the little dudes snoring in their cozy nests under my kitchen countertop. I wash my dishes with an eye open but I feel pretty certain the kitchen is mine. Until dark.

In the evening (I imagine), the little eyes flutter open, the tiny mouths yawn, the little wings buzz, the skinny legs flex and stretch. I imagine the little dudes are eyeing the exits, which are entrances onto the vast stage of my kitchen counter. They probably poke each other: Who is willing to stick out an antenna? You go first. No, you go.

I have laid down some serious napalm in the form of insecticide spray. I have mined the place with sneaky bait traps. My last line of defense is diatomaceous earth spread around nooks and crannies, around the baseboards, and around the bed like a barricade of garlic. 

I don't think the little dudes drink blood, but I think of them as tiny vampires. They are fast and almost invisible if they pose in place. As soon as an audacious dude makes a move, my anxious eye spies it, my hand reaches for the spray bottle of rubbing alcohol, and in sixty seconds, the little dude is on its back, antennae wilted, tiny legs pistoning in the air. 

I don't like killing things. I'm sure I'm going to hell. But my consolation is the little dudes will all get there before me, if I have anything to do with it. I keep my spray bottle near to hand the way some angry people tote their AR-47s. Anything that moves in my kitchen is fair game. I don't care what you are.

This apartment building was built in the mid-1970s, and I think the countertops are original to the 1960s. The architects got a good deal on this stuff, I'm guessing, most likely because it fails to fulfill all the performance obligations of a mediocre kitchen countertop. First, the white background is speckled with dark irregularly shaped and placed spots of various sizes, scattered tightly like a reverse field of stars. Some speckles might even be a little glittery, but most are some shade of dark gray, if you don't count the handful of light brown cigarette burns left by former tenants. What this means in terms of the battle raging for kitchen supremacy is that it looks like the countertops are teeming with bugs. (The speckled counters surround the bathroom sink too but I haven't seen any little dudes there yet. Not much to eat there, unless they get a hankering for Colgate.) 

Second, the speckles aren't flat, they are just slightly raised, almost embossed into the surface, which I'm guessing is some sort of particle board, judging by how it is crumbling underneath the edges around the sink. Particle board and moisture are natural enemies, and moisture always wins. This slightly raised surface means I can never be sure the counters are clean, not without nuking them with bleach, which is really bad for the air quality in the Bat Cave. (Did I mention the Bat Cave has only one window?)

If I were to try to see the battle from the bugs point of view, I would say, wow, how lucky are we to live so close to a smorgasbord of aromas and flavors! Talk about the promised land. The embossed nature of the surface gives us good purchase for skittering. The plethora of crumbs and tidbits and drips left behind by a human with bad eyesight means some fine midnight brunches for us. And if the sneaky human flicks on the light and catches us manging around the stove, well, we can either run for our lives or freeze behind something and hope we don't get caught. How fun is that! It's a little dangerous at times—we lost Uncle Manny last week, and Junior Number Twelve hasn't been seen in a while. But what a life of luxury!

From my human point of view, I am constantly creeped out after dark. I didn't see any action for a few nights and naively thought I might have won the kitchen wars, but then last night I saw two full-sized dudes lurking around the so-called clean dishes, and I realize I'm fooling myself. You can't win this kind of war, not even if you raze the place to the ground. It's like I'm living on stage in an auditorium. During the day, the audience is snoozing, head to toe, spooning in their nests among their multitudes of eggs. As soon as darkness falls, every seat in the auditorium is filled. They are watching me with unblinking eyes, waiting for me to shut off the light. Soon they come creeping out of their hidey-holes to dance on the stage.

My eyes see the speckles on the kitchen counter, bug out, and kick my brain into fight or flight mode. I peer under things and between things, pointing a flashlight, pounding the counter. If I see something move, I launch a frenzied attack. I spray the bug and watch it kick until it expires, feeling just slightly sad and guilty. If it falls into a pile of diatomaceous earth, I let it lie there, covered in white dust, desiccating, a constant reminder to its brethren: This is what could happen to you. Each dead bug is my equivalent of a head on a pike. I don't think it is working as a deterrent, though, and it's really more like I don't want to clean up a bunch of little white-dusted corpses. It's just gross.

I'm starting the downsizing process again. I'm putting essentials in big see-through plastic bins. I know, plastic! Argh. Cardboard boxes are getting filled up with clutter and taken to the thrift store. Cardboard and clutter, both good hiding places for bugs, are now verboten. I'm getting as much up off the floor as I can. I moved the bed six inches from the wall and surrounded it with a dusting of diatomaceous earth. I sleep like a princess on an island. 

While I'm washing dishes and listening to my refrigerator breathing like Darth Vader twenty hours a day, I'm reflecting on my current housing situation. I'm trying to make home not be a geographical place but more like a state of mind. I don't have experience with this. My sister the world traveler does, I think. She learned early how to pack light and settle loosely. Me, wherever I go, I'm always lugging a sewing machine, a power drill, a bunch of art supplies, and ton of other stuff . . . and that's after downsizing and moving to Tucson. I can pare down some more, but at some point, I will reach the dreaded moment where I must let go of all my security blankets and pack what is left into my car. I have until the end of next August to find my new state of mind.

 

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.