Waves on the beach

I'm boohooing the blues back in my hometown, Portland, Oregon. Cool but not freezing, raining but not all the time, and relentlessly gray skies. Yep. Home. I remember why I left. I wasn't crazy. I wasn't built for this SAD-inducing climate. Some people seem to like it. I saw a man talking on the phone outside his apartment. He was standing on the sidewalk. His feet were bare. 

I'm parked in a parking lot, as usual. It started out empty on a Sunday morning. Then the restaurant next to it opened and the place got swarmed. Now the brunch crowd is moving on. Security swings by every half hour. If I had my solar panels out, they would have busted me. Ha. Joke's on them. And me, I guess. No sunshine means no solar. No solar power means my fridge will be dead by tomorrow, unless I hit the road again. 

I spent four days driving and three nights contorted in the front seats of my car. I thought I could put the passenger seat back, but the floor was occupied by six gallons of drinking water. I sliced my mattress into sections and put them across the bucket seats. The ancient foam promptly sank into the bucket, leaving my butt marooned on the console. I put the driver's seat back as far as I could without shoving my fridge on the floor and fit myself into the slot between the seats and the steering wheel. I had my blankets, and it wasn't really cold until just before sunrise, so I was warm enough. But it was hard to sleep with the constant fear of hitting the horn. I managed to avoid that, but in the parking lot of a Bakersfield Cracker Barrel I accidentally bumped the lower panel and set off the hazards. Just blinking lights, no horn. There weren't many overnighters in the lot, but I wouldn't want to disturb anyone else who might be fooling themselves they could sleep sitting up in their car. 

Maybe if I were younger.

I spent the first night on my road trip on familiar desert BLM land in Quartzsite. That was only a four-hour drive from Tucson. The next day I hoofed it to Bakersfield. I realized at that point I needed to step it up if I wanted to make Portland in time to offload my boxes into their new storage home. So I hauled my stuff across the Oregon border, where I was welcomed at the Oregon Welcome Travel Center. Well, it was Friday after 5:00 p.m, so actually nobody was there to give me the free coffee the sign in the window promised. I wouldn't have taken it anyway, but it's the thought that counts.

At that point, I was running on empty, so the slog north on I-5 through Medford, Eugene, and Salem wasn't much fun. Seen through my rear view mirror, white cars with black trim look like Storm Troopers breathing up my tailpipe. Lucky for me, my car was loaded almost to the ceiling, which means I didn't have much of a view out the back. Sometimes it's better not to look.

I booked a storage unit standing outside of a storage place near my brother's house. At that point, I didn't care about price. I just wanted to unload and put my bed back together. It took me three trips with the rolling cart to pack my boxes into their new closet. I don't have much stuff left, and probably I could have jettisoned half of it. Should have. Didn't. Easier to just pack it and move it when departure time is imminent. Sort it out later. 

The two crates and miscellaneous items strapped to the roof made the journey intact. I was fully expecting to see my blankets and pillows flying out in my wake to make the driver behind me have to swerve and dodge bedding I should have donated. I did not anticipate the layer of dead bugs on the front edges of the crates. I fear my journey decimated entire populations. I'm not proud that I'm a murderer of insects, just like I'm not proud that my car uses gasoline, that I throw away four plastic bags every time I poop, and that I go through paper towels like they grow on trees.

The weather in Tucson is lovely right now (so I hear), and I might head south again after I take care of my paperwork. Swapping my Arizona driver's license for an Oregon license should be easy. Registering my car should not be too hard. Hm. I wonder if I need an emissions test. The main issue is that I need to get new license plates. Getting new plates after I bought the car in 2021 took four months, but that was during COVID, so maybe this time I'll get lucky. 

Meanwhile, here I am in the city of my birth. Portland streets seem narrower than I remembered. Maybe I got used to the three-lane Autobahns through Northwest Tucson. The streets here seem more congested. Probably Californians, buying up condos on the River and bungalows in the Albina district because their mansions burned down. Maybe Oregon seems like a safe bet when it comes to wildfires. It's raining now, but all it takes is one stupid kid with a firecracker to set off an inferno in the summer. 

As you can guess, I'm winging it. Day by day is all I can do. One mile at a time, one moment at a time. Deal with the thing in front of me, first things first, and try not to think too much about what is happening in the world, in the country. I'm sad I missed all the marches on Saturday. I drove under a couple underpasses where people were waving signs. The signs hanging from the overpass in the Medford area didn't appear to align with my values. The overpass I went under in the Salem area was definitely populated by my kind of people. I was doing 65 mph and could not slow down to wave or honk. 

I have a feeling for the foreseeable future, if we have a future, these protests will be like waves on the beach: If I miss one, I can catch the next one. 

Change is coming

I miss my stuff. Almost all my possessions are ensconced in a 5' x 5' storage unit over by the mall. The cubicle is 8 feet tall, otherwise no way could I have stacked my shelves, bins, and boxes into that small of a footprint. I marvel at how many possessions I still have, given all the moving and downsizing I have done in the past three or so years. Swedish death cleaning may be a thing, but in my case, it has not resulted in total cleaning . . . or death, I might add, so there's that.

Speaking of death, I'm feeling transparent these days, uprooted, barely clinging to something I don't recognize anymore. I just want to get away from everything, but of course, that is not possible, because as we know, wherever we go, there we are. However, I can live with myself in my own brain. What I cannot live with for long is the clamoring of well-meaning people who think they can save me. Or the criticisms of confounded people who can't understand why this is happening to me, given how white and well-educated I am. Or the judgments of fearful people who subconsciously realize their lives are one wildfire or flood or divorce away from being in the same predicament. 

I can live with my own fears, but I can't manage the fears and criticisms of others. 

Meanwhile, my dear friend from college is sinking fast into some terrible form of dementia. I don't know what the diagnosis is, but who cares what it is called when it's obvious her brain cells are exiting stage right, like rats from a sinking ship. Folding, perforating, evaporating, no idea what is happening in that head, but it is total disaster. Nothing is firing right in her brain anymore. It's utterly terrifying to witness. I could hardly sleep last night, and I'm not the one experiencing the inexorable disintegration of my executive functions. It's one thing when it happens to your 90-year-old mother. It's another thing entirely when it happens to your same-age friend. Death is staring her in the face, and she can't even find the words to express her despair. 

I'd rather have cancer, to be honest, than dementia. I can only pray to the gods of young drug addicts at the U of A campus that there will be a handful of fentanyl tabs left for me when it's time to go to the great art school in the sky. And that I remember what they are for and why I should quickly take them, before someone else does. I do not want to go gently into that big state-run memory care tenement, where I will be ignored by underpaid medical assistants and abandoned by distant family to overloaded social workers. I'm pretty sure there will be no internet. I mean, I ask you! No internet. If that happens, if I have a brain cell left in my head to make a decision, I will make a run for it, somehow, I will find a last shred of freedom. I'm not ashamed to be a silver alert. 

It's monsoon in southern AZ. It sucks, but no more than any other season here. I feel so out of place. I thought I would love this place . . . warm, dry, what's not to love? I used to chase the sun. In Portland, even as a kid, I would perk up whenever the sun came out. Clouds were my enemy. I craved blue skies. In Los Angeles, the sun was a gentle presence, filtered by fog and smog. Skies were pale robin's egg blue, like a fine china teacup. Not so in the desert. When the sky is blue, the sun is my enemy. Clouds are my shelter, even when winds are whipping up the dust and I'm dodging rain drops. I'd rather be struck by lightning than let the sun touch my skin.

The first monsoon was exciting. So energetic and raw, who knew! The novelty quickly wore off. If you've seen one spectacular desert sunset, you've truly seen them all. I have grown to hate this place. And this place hates me right back. No matter how many knuckles they have, or how gnarled their fingers, all the cactuses on all the hillsides everywhere I go have their middle fingers raised. Every last cactus in this dirty, noisy, unholy town is flipping me off. I ask you, have you ever been so aggressively dismissed by nature? I know. It seems impossible, and yet, everywhere I go, there they are, these angry bitter saguaros, telling me, You don't like it here? Go back to where you came from, gringa blanca. 

I don't want to go back to where I came from, but I know I can't stay here. I seem to have a habit of moving first and regretting later. Maybe this time I will try a new strategy. Maybe this time I will look first before I leap. Regret might follow, but at least I can say I tried my best to keep my eyes open. 

Hot in dog city

I'm happy to report Maya the dog survived her three days under my care. It was touch and go at first. The first two visits did not go well. The dog (who has mobility problems) would not get out of her "crate," which is what the owner calls the space under the stairs where the dog sleeps on a giant round furry dog bed on the floor behind a baby gate. The dog growled at me, even when I used my most saccharine nonthreatening wheedlesome voice: "Come on, Maya, don't you want to go outside?" 

By the third visit, Maya was starting to catch on. Plus, I think she was feeling some internal pressure. Even though she has a serious hitch in her gitalong, she beat me to the back door. As soon as I dragged it open, she flew past me, hunched over in the rocky gravel flowerbed, and added a big pile of stuff to the toxic waste dump alongside the house. A few seconds later, she squatted again, and then she was wagging her tail, all happy, like, yay, who are you, great, you are my new best friend! 

As soon as she realized I was all she was going to get, and that I was the bringer of food twice a day, she settled in and became positively friendly. We found our rhythm. I let her out, she did her business, and then I sat next to her bed on a soft pair of smaller dog beds (relics of her deceased dog buddy), and read news articles from NPR and CNN, aloud, because what else was I going to do? I had to do something. The owner in her instructions had suggested I "play" with the dog. I'm not sure what kind of play she meant. I looked around and saw no toys, and Maya did not seem inclined toward physical amusements, given she could barely walk. So, I thought news articles might suffice. 

I was relieved to be relieved of duty today when the family returned in their jumbo-size travel trailer and heavy-duty dusty black pickup. I gave back the house key and got a little glimpse into the lives of a family much richer than my own. Visiting their house was like visiting a zoo, to be honest. What family uses Alexas to wake them up at 7:00 am, even on Sunday? Now I know how to tell Alexa to turn off the damn alarm clock. 

Speaking of zoos, walking across the street from Dog #1's house to Dog #2's house and back five times a day for three days gave me some insight into the neighborhood. That's what, like thirty times? The inhabitants of this neighborhood are elusive creatures, only coming out in the early morning hours to walk their dogs. I never, not once, saw another person out walking on the street after 7:00 am. It's only maybe fifty yards from one house to the other, but I could see in all directions, and nobody but me, ever, walked outside. I saw a pool maintenance truck parked at the curb one day, and on another day I saw a person using a leaf blower in a yard. Other than that, the only signs of life were a few cars driving by, whose drivers usually waved at me. I wonder what they thought when they saw me, an oldish white lady in a sunhat, shuffling purposely across the street under the blazing sun. 

Even after dark, nobody is out on the streets. I can understand why. The air here is suffocating. I can almost feel the moisture being extracted from my eyeballs every time I go outside. The dark night air is velvety soft after the sun sets, but that doesn't make it dreamy and pleasant. Under the softness of the air, you know the desert is trying to kill you. 

I sometimes stood in the street and marveled at the perfect houses. I felt as if I were in a model town whose inhabitants had all been beamed up to the mothership. The lovely outdoor landscaping lights illuminate tall cactuses and agaves, looking like a set for a House Beautiful photo shoot, but where are the people? Occasionally I heard water splashing from behind tall concrete walls. I wonder, maybe you know the answer to this, do they make pool coolers to cool off your swimming pool on hot days? They should. I picture giant ice cubes. 

Every time I came back from visiting Dog #2, Dog #1 would sniff me with great curiosity. I felt a bit embarrassed, as if I were being unfaithful. I apologized to Maddie for two-timing her, but she didn't seem to mind. In fact, I think she kind of preferred me smelling like a dog. 

Dogsitting for the extra dog was not hard physical work but it required some attention to time management. I set alarms on my phone and tasks on my calendar. The consequences of missing a visit would be unacceptable, mainly because I would have to clean up the resulting mess, so I kept my eye on the clock constantly. The upshot of my vigilance was that I was exhausted all the time. These three days were a constant emotional drain, and from this experience, now I know I am not destined to be a dogsitter. 

In fact, it's time to start applying for jobs. The delusion that I can live within my means with the current housing shortage is going to make me sick and then it's going to kill me. The miracle of subsidized HUD housing has failed to materialize. Apparently, I have too much income. I'm not needy enough, or I failed to grovel enough, or something. It doesn't help that my former landlords failed to send whatever documentation was requested of them. Well, you know what they say: When one HUD door closes, maybe some stupid ass job door opens. I'm hoping. I'm not quite ready to give up on life, so I'm throwing myself on the mercy of the Universe in hopes of a miracle in the form of a job. So much for retiring to a cute little apartment in the desert and writing books. 

One thing I realized as I traipsed around this rich enclave: This neighborhood is just an upscale version of the weird Disneyland mobile home park in Tucson. The houses are stick-built solid and some of the front lawns are actual real live green grass, watered with real water, but the artifice of the lifestyle is the same. The mobile homes decorate their front gravel patches with lighthouses, metal javelinas, and pin-wheels. These guys in Scottsdale decorate their front patios with fountains, fancy lighting, and expensive wicker table and chair sets. It's Tucson with a few extra degrees of heat and a few extra zeros after the property values. 

It's all unsustainable. When every single day is over 111°F, you have to conclude that humans don't belong here. The earth does not care that you need water to survive. If you can't survive on nectar and prickly pear, then you should not be here. I can imagine a time in the not-too-distant future when the acquifer is drained and taps will stop flowing. The pools will evaporate, then gape and crack. The mourning doves will gradually move in under the eaves, despite the spikes you placed there to keep them out. Dust will collect in all the crevices of the marble floor tiles when the air conditioners break down and people and parts can't be found to fix them. New inhabitants will replace the old ones who flee to cooler climes: First lizards, then rabbits, then coyotes, searching for shelter from the sun. 

On my last nerve

During yet another hopeless search through the medical literature, at long last, I found a description of my vestibular symptoms. I could hardly believe it. I was so relieved, I almost started weeping. After all these years, maybe, just maybe, I can get a diagnosis and maybe find a treatment.

Of course, I'm a doctor's worst patient, self-diagnosing with Dr. Google, but in this case, I'm relying on academic research articles published by the National Institutes of Health. I feel confident that the sources are reliable, even if my interpretation is not.

This particular phase of my chronic dizziness has morphed from BPPV and maybe vestibular migraines (I'm not sold on that idea) into something called vestibular paroxysmia. My symptoms are as follows, in case you know someone who has this weird and annoying malady:

• recurrent (for me, that means occurring every 45 to 120 seconds, it could be different for other people)
• spontaneous (I cannot trigger it, but I can make it more intense by moving my head)
• postural vertigo (some people have rotatory vertigo, which would be the absolute pits)
• 10 to 15 seconds in duration (others might have shorter or longer duration)
• Accompanied by ear crackling in right ear (others may or may not have some kind of tinnitus)

My head is possibly affected by changes in air pressure (causing narrowing and widening of blood vessels). That is why I went on that epic roadtrip searching for a place at low elevation that might have less variation in air pressure. 

The symptoms are no longer treatable with gravity maneuvers (Epley, Foster, etc.), thus, not likely to be BPPV. My hearing is not affected except for some minor hearing loss in my right ear during an attack, thus not likely to be Meniere's. Vestibular migraines don't come in recurrent waves with tinnitus.  

Apparently it is a biomechanical problem stemming from a vascular compression of the root entry zone of the eighth cranial nerve. That means a blood vessel, probably an artery, is encroaching on the vestibularcochlear nerve and wreaking havoc in my balance (vertigo) and hearing (tinnitus). I always suspected it was something mechanical. Why else would the waves of vertigo be synchronized with the ear crackling? Now it makes sense. A stupid blood vessel is interfering with the eighth cranial nerve. 

The nerve! 

The good news, vestibular paroxysmia is probably treatable with antiseizure medication. In fact, that is how they often diagnose this illness. They give you the drug first and if the vertigo stops, then you have it. If it doesn't, well, then there are other avenues to pursue. The down side is, the drugs can have side effects, so it's kind of like testing for witchcraft by waiting for the person to sink to the bottom of the pond. Oh, well. Guess she had it. 

The alternative to drug treatment is brain surgery, but I'm not going to think about that right now. Next step is vestibular testing, coming up this week. I can hardly wait. I'm so excited. From what I've read, it's a grueling, puke-inducing experience. 

I can't disclose what I've learned the moment I walk in the door. As a researcher, I know I need to keep my mouth shut and not proclaim my belief that eureka, I have discovered the problem. I don't want to skew the tests. I don't want to influence their reports. I will let the ENT do his thing. Then, when he looks at me and shakes his head and says what I expect him to say, sorry, Carol, we think you need to see a psychiatrist, then I can say, well, have you considered this?

I don't have the energy to fight. Today the barometer nosedived this morning, a steep 16-point decline in just a few hours. My head has been going crazy. On top of that, an old friend of mine has dementia, and it's heart wrenching to see her struggle for words. Plus, the weather in the Sonoran Desert is stupidly, ridiculously, unbearably hot. You can see I have many things to ponder. Meanwhile, the train keeps rolling through my head every minute like someone tapping me on the shoulder reminding me I'm here, I'm still here, pay attention to me. 

I can't think anymore. It's late. Tonight, the moon is full and golden. The AC is resting, so it's blessedly silent in the Trailer, and tomorrow will be another day to try it all again and maybe get it right this time. 

Moving up in elevation

I'm back in Tucson after my week of dog-sitting. I'm trying to find the humor in 105°F and 7% humidity. Is it funny? I feel as if it ought to be but the joke is just out of reach. I think my brain might be overheating. At last, summer has come to the desert. The swamp cooler sitting in the gravel outside my bathroom labors mightily to hold the inside air to something bearable. The fan roars just outside my bedroom door. I'm lucky to have a burrow to be trapped in. Living in a car would be death in this kind of heat. 

My dear Phoenix friend returned from her vacation on Thursday. The next day we put Maddie, the chihuahua/ poodle/ neurotic nutcase, into the back of her Tesla and embarked on a short road trip to some copper mining towns in the Verde Valley. The temperature dropped a few degrees with each thousand-foot rise in elevation. The cactuses that I've learned to disdain gave way to trees. We got stuck in a traffic jam on I-17 (caused by somebody's utility trailer catching fire) and learned how many watts of electricity a Tesla uses even when it's not moving. Once we got past that spectacle, the highway opened back up to full speed ahead. Before long, we found the way to Cottonwood, where I had an excellent cheese quesadilla in a charming cafe. My friend enjoyed a generous humus plate. After lunch, we walked up one side of Main Street and back on the other, carrying the dog over the patches of hot asphalt. 

It was an educational trip in many ways. We both failed to bring dog food on the trip, or a dish, so we bought dog food at a Safeway and fed it to Maddie from our cupped hands. We learned how to find Tesla superchargers, a feat that required driving in circles more than once. After my epic road trip, which entailed a lot of retracing and backtracking while the GPS lady admonished me, I am reassured to know even Tesla's GPS maps don't always get it right. 

If you are one of those people who always knows where they are going, you should try getting lost once in a while. I know from extensive experience, getting lost is a great way to see a place.

We finally found a supercharger in Sedona. At last, I got to see the famous red cliffs people rave about. I didn't actually like those looming cliffs all that much. Nor did I feel those ley lines or the hoodoo energy people come here to find. The fake touristy vibe reminded me of some southern California beach towns I've seen, where nothing is authentic and everything is a show.

In contrast, I really liked the downhome simple vibe of Cottonwood. I could see myself living there. It reminds me a bit of Eastern Oregon: dry air, summer heat, pine forests, small-town charm, slow pace.

It won't cool off much tonight, even though it's dark now. At this moment, the NWS says 99°F outside. The AC labors on. Should I come out of the burrow and sniff the air? Tomorrow is soon enough. In the morning, I'll emerge to forage for food and check my mailbox, like I usually do on Monday mornings. I'll be back in the burrow before 10 am, before the sun gets too high and burns me to a crisp. 

Meanwhile, monsoon is ten days late. 

Going round the bend

Today I heard someone on a video meeting casually express an interest in moving to another city, as if that were normal, natural, and doable. As if everyone were doing it, or had done it, or will do it at some point in the future. I didn't hear any angst in their voice. Instead, I heard a sense of excitement, as if a move was an impending adventure. The exciting part, it sounded like, was the mystery of the move. Where might I go, they mused. I could go anywhere!

Hearing this person talk about moving in such a positive, almost nonchalant way made me think perhaps I've been overthinking my city search. Maybe it's not the problem I'm making it out to be. Maybe it's a grand and intriguing mystery.  

What if choosing a new city to live in really could be an adventure?

I don't know what criteria the person was applying to help them narrow down their choices. Me, my criteria are pretty simple: clean, safe, affordable, AC and heat, and internet. Oh, a place to park would be good. A lot of cities and towns meet my criteria. It's not like I'm asking for a hot tub and a butler. 

A few minutes ago, while I was doomscrolling on a social media channel, I was presented with a video about hermit crabs exchanging shells. The gist was that even if the shell you end up with is too small, too dingy, and has a hole in it, you'd better take it, because having a crummy shell is better than having no shell at all. Homelessness is fatal for a hermit crab. The last hermit crab in the shell exchange skulked into the defective shell, looking somewhat embarrassed and demoralized at failing to have scored something better. Was it too slow? Should it have put its name on a waitlist sooner, even before seeing the shell?

Wait, what? Am I talking about me or am I talking about a hermit crab? The lines are somewhat blurred these days. Is confusion really a state of grace? More like evidence of dementia.

I've been trying to come up with metaphors to explain the doings in my head. The latest metaphor is a little complicated. 

Imagine you are immersed in a big bucket of gunky water that is just over your head. Sometimes your feet touch the bottom of the bucket, but most of the time you are floating with your nose above the water. Now picture a toy train running on a track past your gunky bucket. It's a small town, so the train goes by your bucket every minute or so. Here's the fun part. Every time the train goes by, some bored kid reaches out the train window and slaps the side of your bucket. 

You don't have time to curse the kid because you are busy for the next ten or fifteen seconds trying to maintain your equilibrium in the sloshing bucket. The water slams you this way and that, up and down, from side to side. It's all you can do to stay upright and not go under. Sometimes you do go under. You feel pressure moving through your sinuses in uneven waves as you fight for your balance. While this is going on, your right ear crackles. That's the train whistle. Whoo whoo! 

Finally, the water begins to settle. You start to feel a little more normal. The crackling din in your right ear fades to silence. You resume whatever you were doing before the bucket started sloshing. 

A minute later, the train comes around the track again, and that stupid kid slaps the side of your bucket. Whoo whoo! 

This scenario describes what is happening in my head. I'm normally a pretty calm person, but I'd kill that kid if I could, just saying.

I find it difficult to maintain my focus when the train is roaring through the station in my head, upsetting the bucket and tipping my ear into bedlam. I have to admit, the noise and pressure get to me sometimes. At times, I feel like ramming a pencil into my ear, just to see what would happen, sort of a DIY tympanoplasty. The bubbly ENT I saw last year suggested we try that as a remedy for the crackling, even though it probably wouldn't work, she said, and insurance wouldn't cover it, and it would hurt like hell. 

Maybe it would hurt, but maybe it would relieve the pressure and muffle the crackling. Pain could be a pathway into something else. Probably more pain, but maybe it would at least be quiet. I really crave solitude and silence. 

How much of my physical disability is factoring into my desire to move to someplace small, slow, and quiet? Where's the adventure in this? I'm not seeing it right now but I'm sure it's here somewhere.

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.

In retreat, on retreat

Homelessness probably can be a spiritual experience for people who are supremely enlightened. I’m not one of those people. Homelessness to me says total loser, you fail at life. Instead of saying I’m homeless, how about I say I’m going on a retreat? Would you judge me any less harshly if I told you I’m going to unplug for a while in pursuit of my spiritual and financial wellbeing?

Going on a retreat is a time-tested way to disconnect from everything in search of . . . what? Higher meaning? Spiritual purpose? Lower body mass index? There’s even a thing called an adventure retreat! Who knew.

I’m in good company: People have been going on retreats for millennia, seeking whatever they believe they are missing. Wellness, connection, adventure, God. I’m not lookingn for anything fancy. I want some time, peace, and solitude so I can get back to my writing.

Of course, it’s true, I have so far not been able to find affordable housing, but that doesn’t mean going on a writing retreat is proof that I’m a colossal failure. The stock of affordable housing is low right now. It’s a structural problem, not a personal moral failing on my part. Yes, it’s a moral failing on the part of American society, and I suppose you could say I’m part of that, but seriously, as a bleeding heart liberal, I always vote on the side of the homeless. Homeowners need to stop complaining about their property values and practice a little compassion. We are all one tornado, one hurricane, one wildfire, one flood away from homelessness. If you think your homeowner’s insurance policy will save you, think again.

Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, yeah. Writing retreat. Not a failure. I could claim it as a victory of sorts. If all goes according to plan, I will be able to live within my means while being creative, productive, and maybe even helpful to others, if I can figure out how to have occasional access to the internet.

Some of my friends have expressed fear and anxiety on my behalf. I understand. Being homeless is one of their worst fears. To them, homelessness represents a massive catastrophic failure of some kind, usually on the part of the one who has become homeless. I hope my friends will remember they still have their housing. They have little to fear. They are not the ones who will soon be living in a minivan. Probably. In addition, I hope they realize that projecting their fears onto me will not make anyone safer or more secure. Please, friends and loved ones, I am not responsible for your anxiety. It is not possible for me to live my life in such a way that you have no fear.

Seeking the road less traveled was cool when I was young. Being a bohemian artist, out till all hours, sleeping on friends’ couches, mucking up strangers’ beds. I could dress as wild as I pleased, it was part of my mystique, my creative self-expression, if you will. My style. I was highly invested in looking strange, acting weird, being unpredictable.

Now I’m old, and I care very little about what others think of me. Newsflash to only me: I was never unpredictable. I realize that now. My path was laid out for me from the moment I chose art over accounting. Anyone could have seen what was coming, even me, if I’d cared to look, which I did not. Living in the moment doesn’t involve a lot of self-reflection or concern for the future. I always assumed somehow it would all magically work out.

If by “working out,” I meant living an unorthodox, creative, road-less-traveled sort of life, well, by golly, I got what I asked for. Nobody thought to ask me how I defined success. I certainly never asked myself. Success meant doing what I wanted on my own terms. Ha. Boy, look how successful I have become! By that definition, I am a total success!

The tradeoff is that I have had to be willing to give up the trappings that come with a traditional definition of success. Career, house, family, wealth. Ho hum. The truth is, I’d be living in a Ford Focus if it weren’t for the random fact that my mother died before she spent all her money. Thanks, Mom. Still miss you, by the way. Hope you are enjoying that wind-blown, shrub-lined grotto we dumped you in last month. (I’m using the word “grotto” in the most generous sense and the word “dumped” in the most literal sense.) I still feel a little iffy about how that went down, but at least you are out of the box and gone with the wind. That can’t be a bad thing. I hope someday someone does the same for me.

So, what I was I saying? Oh, yeah, retreat. I’m in retreat. I’m going on a retreat. I’m following in the footsteps of millions, it’s definitely a road well traveled. Adventures could happen, miracles could occur, disasters could ensue. Anything is possible, whether you are a believer or not.

Fear is everpresent. Some fear is healthy. I hope not to meet a bear, for example. However, other fears are barriers to living. Taking a chance means I don’t know what will happen. What’s behind Door No. 3? Will it be a bear? Will it be a broken leg? Will it be a creative life filled with meaning and purpose? I won’t know unless I open the door.

I think I'm over the desert

Have you heard it said, "When one door closes, another door opens"? What are we supposed to make of that? It's not a truism, is it? It's barely a platitude. It feels like one of those foundationless, woowoo sayings similar to "Do what you love and the money will follow." Dumber advice probably exists but I can't think of it offhand. And as long as I'm pondering doors, who are these anonymous, faceless purveyors of door wisdom, and how do they know so much about the nature of doors? 

Is it human nature to slap a pithy aphorism on a situation in an effort to understand it? Imagining life as a series of flapping doors might be useful in a glass-half-full kind of way, but claiming when a door closes, another one opens seems like bunk based on wishful thinking. Doors, paths, cliffs, holes in the sidewalk . . . We use metaphors as proxies for the options we face. Do I want what's behind Door No. 3? Do I want to take the path less traveled? How long will I spend wallowing in the messy bog this time?

Speaking of messy bogs, I succumbed to cheese this week. Organic mozarella, how bad could it be? Thanks for asking. Apparently, mildly bad, but day after day, getting more bad. Badder. I hate to throw away food, even if it is possibly going to kill me.

As I drove from Phoenix to Tucson last week, my vertigo waves started accelerating in intensity. I thought, what the heck? Is it the stress of returning to my uncertain life? It's not like being on the road was such a carefree walk in the park. Then I saw the clouds boiling up over the mountains. Since then, we've had a week of weather. Daily, my head is a swamp of vertigo waves. The crackling in my right ear is as loud as a freight train, rolling through every two minutes or less. 

On the bright side, I visited a new ENT this week. I performed more or less adequately on another hearing test and answered yet another battery of questions. I like this new ENT. He studied at the University of Portland. Maybe, if I'm lucky, I will receive some actual vestibular testing and be granted a plausible diagnosis. However, he admitted he'd never met anyone having two-minute oscillating symptoms. I can sense another MRI in my future.

I look fine on the outside, as long as you don't count my ragged hair and shapeless clothes. You have to watch out with vestibular patients. We are unpredictable. I felt the staff in the ENT office observing my demeanor. Am I a crazy anxious patient who will require counseling and drugs? Or am I calm, credible, and worth the benefit of the doubt? Patients with vestibular problems are notoriously ignorable, mainly because vestibular issues are not well understood. It's easier to tell us it's all in our heads. Just do some volunteer work, you'll be fine.

So, apart from the existential question of what is happening in my brain, the next big question on my mind is where to go next. I'm sorry to report, the subsidized housing options in Phoenix have waitlists that are one to five years long. Priority is given to disabled folks and families. The odds of me getting in while I'm still independent and autonomous are very slim. Not impossible, though. 

I could put my name on a waitlist.

But now I realize, I don't want to be in the desert anymore, anyway. I thought I'd never get tired of being warm, but now the temperature is ramping up to brutal, the AC is pumping dry air into my lungs and nose, I'm blowing bloody clots, and I can't go outside except super early or after the sun goes down. What kind of a life is this? I think I am over living in the desert. 

Maybe I'm just cranky because I can't find housing I can afford here. If the desert had welcomed me, maybe I'd love it more, I don't know. I feel like Goldilocks sometimes. Nothing is ever quite right for me. Story of my life. I keep trying to write a new story, but I always regress to the mean. I'm an introvert, I prefer to live alone, I'm an artist, I can't hold a job for very long, and I like being warm but not too warm, dry but not too dry. Somehow, at my age, I don't think I'm going to easily change.

Uh-oh, I feel a cheese attack coming on. I'll catch you next time.

Fear of freedom

During the several years I was waiting for my mother to die, I daydreamed about what life would be like when I was finally "free." Free of obligation, free to come and go, free to pick up and leave, free to say no. I had contingency plans for contingency plans, trying to manage and control how it would all go down. Of course, that is always a futile quest, but it relieved my anxiety to plan in excruciating detail for the day when I would finally be free, when I could pack up my meager belongings, and drive away from all my problems.

Well, wherever we go, there we are, so you probably aren't surprised to hear that all my problems came along with me, dragging behind my minivan like a scuzzy half-deflated parachute. I thought Tucson would be a place where my creativity could finally flourish. Find a little apartment, enjoy the endless summer, and make good use of my time to write and volunteer . . . perfect, a lovely idyllic dream. 

Tucson didn't turn out to be paradise. You've heard it all before, so I won't bore you with the recap. You remember it all much better than I do, I'm sure. I have to write it out all over again just to remember it, as if I'm watching someone else's biopic. Suffice it to say, rents are too high, summer is sizzling, and after two years, my inner ears have still not settled. This week the ENT admitted she hasn't a clue, which means she thinks I'm crazy. 

Two friends I've recently met in real life (who do not know each other) have looked at me with envy, saying things like "You could go anywhere, you could do anything, you're free." These are friends who have some or all of the elements of modern life: money, family, property, obligations, routines, and commitments. They are not free, or they don't perceive they are free. They have security, safety, resources, a home, and they feel trapped. They would trade all that for freedom. So they say. I wonder how the stars in their eyes might dim the first time they had to poop in a bucket. 

I felt trapped while I was waiting for Mom to die. And let me just say, I didn't want her to die. I wanted her to be my mother forever, because I never grew up, and I still could really use a mother. However, the hungry baby bird she turned into toward the end needed a lot of care and feeding. I knew the moment would come eventually. She was 91 when she finally kicked off. But she could have lived to 100. I would have been there, right to the end, no matter what, still dreaming of freedom and planning my escape.

Be careful what you wish for. In my irritable chafed wizened life, I didn't really imagine that unlimited freedom could have a downside. I just wanted out. Maybe if I had unlimited resources, total big-ass freedom would be heaven. Maybe someday I'll find out. In this incarnation, however, my freedom is not absolute. I have three big constraints: my health, my car, and my bank account. It's the king hell bummer trifecta of puny-ass freedom. Poor man's freedom. Freedom to drive as long as there is gas in the car and I remember to take my blood pressure pills.

In Tucson, I traded my freedom for a series of ledges on which I could wipe my brow and catch my breath. I fought off roaches and ducked bullets at the Bat Cave. Now I hunker inside a safe but stultifying gated community and dream of my next launch into the stratosphere. At this time I have no ledge to land on. All I know is, I'm headed west. As I my heart pounds and my ear crackles, I am organizing my few possessions. I'm breathing each moment, ignoring the washing machine in my head, wishing I had half the energy of my dynamo housemate, and wondering what the hell I am doing.

I just got off the phone with a friend. Maybe a ledge in the San Fernando Valley has found me, I don't know. More to be revealed. I'll keep you posted. Meanwhile, I whine, but I'm getting things done. I pulled up my britches and bought my own ISBNs. I learned how to format an epub book (for the second time) and uploaded it to a place where librarians might see it. I paid cash for two crowns (and had them installed). I defeated the check engine light with a bottle of mechanic in a can. I walked two miles without falling down once. I started my taxes. I ignored the one inch of snow and celebrated the return of 70F and blue sky. Life happens in the moment, I know. I have to stop trying to run ahead, but old habits die hard.

One way out

As I walked along the bike path next to the Rillito River this afternoon, dodging bicyclists and enjoying the winter sun baking the back of my neck, a bicyclist rode by and said, "I saw a prairie dog." He could have been talking on the phone using invisible Blue Tooth earbuds, but I assumed he was talking to me, so I said, "Prairie dog?" He was long gone but I looked around to see if I could spot something poking its head up out of a hole in the ground. The dry riverbed was wide, full of sand and scrubby trees, probably good habitat for a critter who burrows, at least until monsoon floods sweep it into the next county. 

Not five minutes later, another bicyclist rode by me and asked, "Did you see the pigs?" She sped on by before I could ask, "Do you mean javelinas?" I assumed she wasn't from around here, maybe a newbie to Tucson, unlike me, the almost two-year resident to whom javelinas are as common as possums. Ho-hum. A couple days ago, I saw a dead one on the side of the road as I was driving by. If you see one dead javelina, you'll probably see more. They travel in squadrons. After the bicyclist had gone by, I thought, there is a possibility the woman was talking about pigs on the phone with someone in Nebraska, not addressing me at all. 

I always make everything about me.

Speaking about making everything about me, yesterday was the second anniversary of the death of my maternal parental unit. The whole day had a bit of a gray tinge to it. I try not to think of her last hours. I try to remember her from before 2016, but it's as if I'm conjuring two different people. Before she moved into the retirement home, she was strong, independent, and opinionated. Dementia was chipping at her brain, though, and soon the foundation of her independence crumbled. Now the mother I remember is the one I moved into the care home at the end of October 2020, the one I saw every evening after dinner, the one I bundled up in fleece so we could sit outside six feet apart, the one I tried to keep alive even though we were both trapped with only one way out.

I went to the care home every evening, thinking to myself, someday I won't be doing this, also thinking, god, I hope I don't have to do this for the rest of my life. 

And then it was done, and now I'm here, and I need to be someplace else, but I don't know where yet.

I used to welcome the new year, but not anymore. Tomorrow is the third anniversary of the death of my beloved cat Eddie. That day scrapes a hole in my heart every time I think of it. I guess I should be thankful Mom and Eddie didn't die the same year. That would have been the end of me.

No wonder my heart stutters. No wonder I can't get my balance.

After the latest heart scan, I'm ignoring my heart, even when it swoops and pounds. I don't want to fret about it anymore. I'm not imminently dying so what else is there to do but pretend like it isn't happening? Works for me. As far as the balance problem goes, the remedies seem to be the same, no matter the diagnosis. Do I have BPPV, PPPD, MD, VM, or something else? Who knows, who cares (not the ENT, that's for sure). The usual treatments are changes in diet (for migraines), medications (for migraines, seizures, depression, and anxiety), vestibular rehabilitation therapy (to retrain the brain, eyes, and ears), and cognitive behavioral therapy (for depression and anxiety).

Adjusting my diet seems to have no effect on my disequilibrium, unless I eat processed food, which gives me migraines but doesn't affect the vertigo. As for the second option, I'm not willing to add to my meds list, period. I already feel like a drug addict. Third option: Am I depressed? I don't think so. Am I anxious? Sort of, but not to the point of panic attacks. I think anyone contemplating moving everything without knowing their destination would be entitled to feel some anxiety. As for therapy, I'm always happy to dump my problems on someone who gets paid to listen to them, but it seems like a lot of work, and I don't think it would be all that productive. What would they tell me? It's okay to feel anxious, your life is a mess? Thanks, I already knew that. The only option worth pursuing in my inexpert but essential opinion is vestibular rehabilitation. I might try to get a referral but each session with a vestibular therapist will cost me, so I'll probably stick with Dr. Google. You can bet I've been reviewing all the videos I can find, and there are thousands. 

Meanwhile, I didn't think I was much of a gambler, but maybe I was wrong. I'm putting all my money on location, location, location. I recognize that packing up and heading west might not produce the desired outcome. What I mean is, doing a geographical might not make my spinning head feel better. What is Plan B? Thanks for asking. I have some ideas, but for now, let's stay out of the wreckage of the future. 

Free falling in slow motion

Remember when Alice fell down the rabbit hole, and she fell for such a long time, she got bored and fell asleep? The lesson of that story is that waiting for any impending disaster gets tedious after a while when the disaster fails to manifest. I've been in free fall almost from the moment I arrived in Arizona. In April it will be two years. I'm still free falling. 

The descent into the unknown is shaped partly by the imbalance in my inner ears and partly by the declining balance in my bank account. I don't know what the trajectory of my inner ears is going to be, but it's not hard to do the math on the money. I need to go someplace easier on the head and cheaper on the wallet.

I'm planning a reconnaissance road trip in April. Meanwhile, I'm using my free fall time to prepare. I don't know what I'm preparing for, exactly. 

I used to scoff at the preppers. I had an acquaintance who was sure the banking system was disintegrating. Now that I think back, it might have been around 2008. Dang it, she was right! Well, I had another friend who was prepping for the end of the world in the year 2000. Remember Y2K? No? Well, I do, sort of. I have a hazy recollection that I bought a couple extra gallons of water. I did not purchase bins of food to last me twenty years and a gun with plenty of ammo. People did, I heard. I guess their bins of food are nearing their expiration dates.  

In 2021, When I was packing for my move to Tucson, I ordered some camping gear from a survival company. Now I get emails reminding me to prepare for impending doom. After January 6 of last year, I am no longer a skeptic. This survivalist prepper lifestyle thing is somewhat associated with the van life movement, which has a certain appeal to me these days given I might be doing some "car camping" of my own soon. 

I've watched enough Walking Dead episodes to know how to take down a zombie but rioting humans are a different kind of mindless monster. Would I fight to stay alive? I'm not sure. You want my house? You want my identity? It's so important to you to destroy it? Okay. Go ahead. I'm nearing my sell-by date anyway. I had my fun. I grew up in the 1960s! No polio! It doesn't get much better than that for a little lower middle-class white girl. 

I want to shift my perception. It's going to take daily practice. Instead of seeing free fall as a scary negative experience, I want to reframe it as a grand exciting adventure. The trajectory of my life has never been linear. This is just more of that. Instead of criticizing nonlinearity as a failure, why not celebrate the organic nature of creativity? I don't have much linearity in my life but I have buttloads of creativity. 

If I can achieve the spartan lifestyle I am seeking, I'll be able to pursue my creativity and do it within my means. There won't be pressure to "get a job," the single most fatal phrase an artist can hear. I hear the voices of my parents clamoring in my head right now: You can't do that! What if you get sick? How will you live? 

Begone, all you voices. I've done my job caring for others. I've spent enough time and energy trying to fulfill someone else's idea of abundance, prosperity, and success. I'm old enough to make my choices and accept the outcomes. Hi ho hi ho, live or die, it's the creative life for me. 

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. 

Don't get up in my undercarriage

 

I have an ongoing quest to lighten my load. To that end, I have offloaded more kitchen stuff to my housemate. This trailer easily absorbed a microwave, a rice cooker, and a toaster oven. I brought the microwave from Portland. It was Mom's microwave, the one she had at the Cottage. It's got two dials and it dings. The rice cooker and the toaster oven I bought when I moved into the Bat Cave. I don't know why I thought I would suddenly start eating rice and toast. Probably for the same reason I thought I'd buy orange slacks and flowered shirts, now that I'm in the desert. As if moving would make me a different person. Nope. I still eat nuts and twigs. I still wear grungy pajamas. I've regressed to my personal mean. There's no budging me now.

I have a short stack of cardboard boxes ready to offload to the thrift store next week. I can't believe I'm still downsizing. On this round, I'm jettisoning some coffee cups. I only need one. I'm letting go of a clear glass dish good for baking banana bread, or meatloaf, if you are so inclined. I think it might have been Mom's. My old beat-up $20 blender is going. My little waffle iron, so long. The coffee grinder. I'm not buying beans anymore. I'm now mixing Sprouts French roast with Yuban. It's just a matter of time before I'm stirring instant coffee with a plastic spoon. 

I doubt I will miss any of it. If I haven't used the stuff in a year, it's unlikely I ever will. Besides the kitchen gear, I boxed up a couple desk lamps I bought when I moved here, when all my stuff was still in storage and I needed to have light in the Trailer. I'm letting go of my light therapy box. Brain fog is the least of my worries given my affliction with vertigo or whatever it is. The ENT doesn't think it is vertigo. It might have been at one time, but untreated, now it's disequilibrium stemming from vestibular migraines. She made up the diagnosis based on what is popular in the medical literature, I'm pretty sure. Vestibular migraines is all the range right now. Who cares? If it can't be measured, it's not really happening. Just stick a fork in it and call it done. 

I'm in a downsizing contest with myself, it seems. How little do I need to live? I remember reading about that guy who has all his possessions in a backpack, something like forty items. He showed a photo of them all spread out on a small picnic blanket. What he didn't talk much about is how he relied on the generosity of others in order to live. He could afford to mosey around without the basic accoutrements of American life because he was borrowing the accoutrements of others. 

What are the basic accoutrements? A bed, I suppose, or something to sleep on. I didn't see a bedroll or sleeping bag, so he must have been sleeping on other people's beds. Did he have a way to store and cook food? He had a dish and a spoon. That seemed overly optimistic. I didn't see a method to keep clean, a mechanism to handle waste. He had his feet for moving from here to there, but I seem to recall people gave him rides. You can get rides when you are a social media celebrity. And beds. And cooked food. I want to be a minimalist, not a moocher.

Did that guy feel as if he had a place to be? Was that one of his basic accoutrements? 

I guess that is the part I still find confounding, that place-to-be thing. Where does a person go when they have no place to go? My worst fear used to be that I would end up living in my parent's basement. Oh, how naïve. At that time, they had a very nice basement. I've lived in basements, they aren't so bad. I'd live in a basement now, here in Tucson, if anyone had such a thing, which they don't, because the entire city rests on top of caliche, which is cement, in case you didn't know (I didn't). Not many basements here. Or lawns, either. This is such a weird place. The sunsets are amazing, though.

With climate change shaking up the globe, it might make sense to be a nomad, if I can still buy food, water, and gasoline. No guarantees on any of that, but what is my alternative? I can't afford to buy a home, I can't afford to rent an apartment. When the next viral pandemic arrives and turns us all into mindless zombies, I guess I'll just go with the crowd. Why fight it? I might be able to outrun the plague if I'm mobile, assuming my car still runs and there's still electricity for pumping gas. Well, if it isn't the virus that takes me down, it will be a fire or a flood. Or maybe an old-fashioned boring car crash. They have a lot of those here in Tucson. 

I don't have a lot of years left in me, so I don't expect my suffering to last long. Besides, suffering is optional. So they say. 

The unbearable flatness of a hapless desert lizard

Somewhere between last week and this week, I got fed up with suffering and decided to stop. I gave up bemoaning the vertigo. Instead, I'm embracing my burgeoning skills as a meteorologist (although I'm not sure how useful it is to know if the air pressure is rising or falling). This week, I got tired of thinking about my frailties and started focusing on the present conundrum, which is trying to decide if I am plotting or pantsing my latest novel. Best of all, I turned a corner on the existential belongingness problem. At one point this week, I woke up to the realization that if I have no destination, then I can never be lost. 

You might think it sounds like I've given into despair and apathy. The truth is, I actually feel pretty good, considering the uncertainty of my life, which you know has been my nemesis for a while. (I even had to write a book about it.) I think the magic remedy for me has been resuming my walks and bike rides. Even though it is still close to 100°F at sunset, it's great to be out of the Trailer, listening to the birds, feeling the stifling air on my face, and waving at the old farts, excuse me, Over-55s, sitting on their verandas. 

So here I am, making peace with Tucson. I've got one toe still in the Bat Cave and nine toes in the Art Trailer. That is what I'm calling it. Or maybe the Trailer of Creativity. Trailer of the Creative Minds. (I know, I know, it's not really a trailer. It's a manufactured home.) Next week I'll check my Bat Cave mailbox, flush my Bat Cave toilet one last time, and turn in my Bat Cave keys. The end of an era. Or as my sister says, the end of a chapter. The story continues.

I'm glad to trade the bugs and bullets for javelinas and lizards. I haven't seen the javelinas this week, but the lizards are everywhere, all shapes and sizes, skittering hither and thither on the hot asphalt roads of the mobile home park. (I'd call it the Village if that name didn't remind me so much of The Prisoner and that terrifying marshmallow Rover that swallowed people from time to time.) Given the fact of lizard season and the number of vehicles in the Park, it's not surprising that as I take my evening walks or bike rides, I see some lizards that are flat. They weren't born flat. They got that way because of an error in judgment on their part. It's usually the little ones. They get excited, I'm guessing, when a big warm car comes rolling by and they lose their minds. Even with tires moving at 10 mph (the posted speed limit in the Park), one wrong move and splat. I've thought about taking photos of the flat ones. They remind me of that book about pressed fairies that was popular for a short time in the 1980s. One of my fears is that I will find one of these little guys squashed on one of my tires. Ew. On the downside, it's sad some of these flat lizards get creamed. Their live brethren are pretty cute. On the upside, if I do want to snap a photo, they hold still quite nicely. Unlike the sunsets, which don't hold still for anyone.

Enjoying the storm

Once again, I have lifted and transported every possession I own. This week was spent vacating the Bat Cave and invading the Trailer. Well, one room in the Trailer. My presence is limited but profound. From long experience, I know how to fully inhabit small spaces. I once lived in a ten by ten square foot storefront in Santa Monica. The bathroom was two doors down the street, in a dark courtyard. Ah, those were the days. 

These days are different. With shelves, you can store a lot of boxes. Too many boxes. Even after all the downsizing of the past two years, I still have too much stuff. Maybe not the typical possessions, though. No couch, no easy chair. No dining room table. I built a platform for my bed, but I wouldn't classify that as furniture. I don't have many dishes, just a couple bowls and some coffee cups. I have Mom's microwave and a dinky toaster oven I used to toast almonds. I have hardly any clothes, because who cares how I look, not me. But I have Mom's old TV, on which I get like five channels. Yay. 

What am I dragging around with me? Shelves, for one thing. Wooden ones I built myself and wire racks I bought after I got to Tucson. What is on those shelves? Thanks for asking. The dregs of my creative life. Two flat plastic bins of art supplies. My crummy Singer sewing machine and a box of notions and patterns. A box of methodology books left over from my grad school days. Some office supplies, because who knows when you might need a lime green #10 envelope. Two big plastic bins of travel gear, collected toward the day when I finally make good on my promise of going car camping. 

Compared to the average American, if there is such a person, I don't have much stuff. But packing, lifting, schlepping, unpacking, and organizing the possessions I do have has just about ruined me. I am very tired.

So, to celebrate, I pumped up my bike tires and went for my first bike ride around the mobile home park in some months. 

Monsoon is trying to happen here in the city but it's been hit or miss this year, especially compared to last year, 2021, the third wettest monsoon on record. Morning skies are clear. In mid-afternoon, the clouds start boiling up to the south. If the wind starts kicking up, I know there might be a chance for rain. Last night around midnight a thunderstorm rolled over us. We got a little rain, not the downpour I remember from last year. 

Tonight clouds ringed the mobile home park in three directions. The only sky showing was to the west, where the sun hung just above the horizon. The rest of the sky was a mashup of bubbling white clouds, gray puffy clouds, and flat black, against which lightning streaked earthward from time to time. The rumbles of thunder were far away. I figured I was safe. So I rode my bike up to my friend's Bill's house. Is that what I named him? I can't remember. He's the one who gave me the bike last summer, in his quest to rid his mobile home of his dead wife's lingering presence. I have her bike, which she rarely rode, and her Persian rug runner, which she hated (and I love). 

Bill was glad to see me. He got his bike out of his shed, and off we went into the stifling hot gloaming. 

Did I mention Bill is 83? Bill is a tall man, but he's built like a stick. A strong gust would blow him into the next county. As I watched him repeatedly ride his bike into the curb, I asked him if he ever wore a bike helmet. He said no, but he'd thought about it. He said something I interpreted as "sh-t happens."

Well, he was right. Sh-t happens. At the end of our ride, when it was almost full dark, we returned to his trailer. He tried to ride across his white gravel lawn, bogged his front tire in the rocks, and fell over in a heap on the asphalt. 

I dropped my bike and ran over to help, praying nothing was broken. Neither one of us wore a helmet. I feared the worst. He waved his arms and legs like a bug for a moment, and then rolled over on his knees. I helped him stand up. His arms were shaking. He wobbled for a moment as we took stock. His elbow was skinned and a little bloody. His legs looked bruised, but I think those were previous injuries. 

I suggested he go inside and clean up his wound. Instead, he told me a story about what happened the day after his second Covid shot (he fainted). He told me the best remedy for a skin wound is a thin layer of Vaseline. Then he invited me to come with him to the Air Force base commissary, where I could shop and he would pay for stuff.

I pointed at his door and told him to go inside. For a brief moment, I considered going in with him, but I had already promised myself I would stay outside. I had my mask, but the inside of Bill's trailer smells like a bottle of Downey fabric softener. In other words, like a peculiarly fresh hell. 

Finally, Bill went inside. I rode back to the Trailer in the dark. I'm guessing Bill will be sore tomorrow, if he doesn't die of a blood clot or brain injury in his sleep tonight. 

All the windows in the Trailer are closed tight and covered with blinds to keep in the AC and block out the heat and sun. I can't see a thing outside. I'm back in a cave, looks like. I can hear, though. Thunder is rumbling as I write this. Usually the storms roll up from the south, curling around the left side of the high pressure bubble over the four corners. Last night I sat on a tall chair in my new bathroom, looking out the window at the lightshow. It was too loud to sleep. Tonight the radar shows the storms rolling down from the northwest, over the Catalinas. I heard rain briefly, just a light shower. It's still 95°F outside, too hot to open the window. 

Five minutes later, now it's pouring. NWS says the temperature has dropped to 84°F. Time to open my bathroom window and enjoy the storm.

 

Optimism is optional

After a year in the Bat Cave, it's that time again. Time to pack up and move. I'm ready but I'm still feeling anxious. Maybe I should treat moving like an annual pilgrimage. Some people move a lot. Not me. I spent the last twenty-four years in Portland. I was in one apartment for eighteen of those years. Moving to Tucson was a shock I'm still not over. 

It feels traumatic to put everything I own in my car and take it someplace else. I've been dreaming about unplugging computer equipment, packing Mom's TV, loading up my bed platform, stacking boxes and bins so they don't slide around and brain me while I'm driving. I don't know why I'm fretting. I'm not moving far. It's probably about a mile from the Bat Cave to the Trailer. And nobody is forcing this on me. I can only blame myself if I forget how to reassemble my computer. I think I'm feeling some PTSD from my move to Tucson last year. That move involved a U-Box, a car filled to the brim with possessions, a 1,500-mile road trip, a bad Google map, and a deadline. Needless to say, that move was fraught. I break out in a sweat when I remember driving alone for hours on I-93 through Nevada.  

I have another couple boxes ready to take to the thrift store, a few more used-up items to toss in the trash. I should be glad of the opportunity to pare a few more things out of my cold arthritic hands. It is good to own less, consume less. However, downsizing makes me sad. I know where downsizing leads. I remember helping my mother downsize. From the big house to the smaller house. From the smaller house to the condo. From the condo to the retirement home. From the retirement home to the care home. From the care home to a box currently on a shelf at my brother's house. Downsizing isn't only about letting go of possessions. It's about letting go of people. Of place. Of life.

It's raining again. This afternoon the southern sky turned black. The wind kicked up, sending leaves and trash skittering around the parking lot. Lightning flashed a few times, followed by rolling thunder. Then the rain came pelting down. It's happened almost every day this week. My neighbors and I no longer open our doors to marvel at the moisture falling from the sky. Ho hum. It's nice to feel cooler air, even though the ground will be dry thirty minutes after the rain stops. I prefer blue sky. 

My days are punctuated by Zoom meetings, planning the next novel, doom-scrolling, and getting weather alerts on my phone. Waves of grief wash over me from time to time. I have the luxury of riding the waves. I'm not at risk of flash flooding. I might be at mild risk for depression. I am missing my cat. I'm missing my mother. I am missing my old life. I used to know where I was. Now I sometimes forget where I am.

It's hard to feel excited about life when I am feeling sad. I should make a gratitude list. Let's see. The rain is amazing. I haven't seen a cockroach in over a month. The power hasn't gone out. I published my book. My car is running well. I haven't heard any gunshots lately. I don't have a hernia. See? Lots to applaud. I don't sit around paralyzed by grief. Optimism is optional. Despite my discontent, I carry on. 

Time to go crazy

I've been in phone hell this week. My old service provider got bought by a larger tech company and "upgraded" its network. My old smartphone has dementia and forgets how to communicate. It was time for a new phone and a new provider. I thought, how hard could it be? The new provider will magically transfer my phone number to the new provider and life will carry on. Oh, how naïve I was.

I won't mention the new provider because that company does not need more mentions on the internet. Not that anyone would care what I have to say. I have spoken with a dozen people over the past week or so, trying to get this new phone working with the new service. Eventually I realized the effort was futile. I gave up and said, just give me a new phone number. Within five minutes, I had a new number. My new phone rewarded me with a slew of text messages from the new provider.

So now I have two phones, two service providers, and two phone numbers. I'm not sure if I should celebrate the unexpected abundance or lament the way technology has wrecked my life. You know what I'm talking about, right? Without that original phone number, all my Google accounts will be lost. That old demented phone has to keep working long enough for me to access all my accounts that use two-factor authentication so I can either turn it off or update to a new phone number.

I almost had a panic attack thinking about it. My entire life is based on this phone number. Forget my SSN, who cares, that number has been running loose for forty years. One of the universities I attended way back when used the SSN as the student ID number. There's no closing that barn door. My descent into technological hell hasn't been sudden, though. It's been an insidious creep, like noxious weeds taking over my neurons. In my quest for success and money and connection, I've sold my soul to technology. Technology is like fire. Fire can keep you warm. It can also burn your house down.  

I know whereof I speak. I lost access to a phone number when I switched to the service provider who just got sucked into the maw of a larger provider. That was ten years ago, before Google had its modern security measures in place . . . before two-factor, before backup numbers, before recovery emails. I've tried multiple times to get into my old Google account. I still have the password. No dice. Without that old phone and phone number, I can't receive a code. Without that code, I'm toast. Google sneers at me: We can't verify that this is really you. Then it sends me an email to another account that apparently is somehow linked, congratulating itself for "protecting" me from some nefarious unauthorized access. Someone is trying to get into your account! Yeah, Google, you idiot monster I have discovered I cannot function without, it's me, trying to get into my own account. I hate you.

I'm trying to reframe all this disruption as a fascinating adventure, a riveting window into the way an aging brain adapts and flexes—or doesn't. I'm not really flexing gracefully. You know that sound your knees sometimes make when you get off the floor after doing a few half-hearted sit-ups? No? Well, maybe it's my bursitis. Anyway, I can hear my brain creaking sometimes. It's isn't as nimble as it used to be. And when I'm putting pressure on it to perform—even simple tasks like mental arithmetic—my brain cells shred into a tattered mess. I'm reminded of my mother's brain, which I could practically see evaporating in front of me. She lost brain cells the way she dropped gloves and used tissues. I learned to follow a step behind. I rescued her gloves and tissues, but I could not save her brain.

Soon I will be vacating the Bat Cave. You'd think after moving to Tucson, I'd be used to moving. I have less stuff, fewer boxes, fewer attachments. It's a physical chore, yes, but it's the mental chore that wears me down. Worse than the physical act of packing and lifting boxes, transporting them, and unpacking them, it's the wear and tear on my brain. I can't say I've felt settled here in the Bat Cave. I always knew I'd move on after a year. But living a year at a time is not a familiar pace to me. I think people who travel a lot probably get used to waking up in the night not knowing where they are. Me, I used to know where I was. On a map, I had a location. In a city, I had my place. It wasn't much, but I once had roots. Not many, but some. Mom's death severed the few roots that were holding me there in the city of my birth. Like a dandelion seed on the wind, I let the wind blow me to Tucson.

I don't want to go back to Oregon but I don't know where I'm going. Why am I having so much trouble just being where I am? Now that I've relinquished most of my possessions, I seem to be seeking a connection to a geographical place, as if that will keep me safe. I can hear my inner nihilist laughing right now. Maybe I'll be laughing soon, too. Still working on it. Meanwhile, let me offer my grudging gratitude to the technology that allows me to express myself on this blog every week. 

Fight for your right to be stupid

Actually, we don’t have to fight hard to be stupid. Everyone is doing it, in some shape or form. If you don’t mind a little weak-willed nattering from a few bleeding hearts, you can pretty much do and say whatever you want. Hardly anyone will push back on even the most egregious act of stupidity, the most ridiculous assertion, especially if it happens to align with their worldview. It’s sad that women may give up their bodily autonomy, and it’s tragic that our school kids buy our freedom to be stupid with their lives, but that is how it goes in the wealthiest country on earth. I’ve said it before and recent events seem to support me, humans are too stupid to live. The demise of the human species can’t come too soon. The planet will be much better off without us.

Meanwhile, my heart keeps beating, sometimes hiccupping, sometimes swooping, the ticker takes a licking and keeps on ticking. It’s working harder than it should, though, which has precipitated a condition with an interesting name: a predominantly opening snap. My primary care provider offered me a choice: (a) get on medication or (b) have a heart attack or stroke. Nice of her to offer me a choice.

I made my choice. Despite the terror and sorrow of living, I still want to live. I want to see how things turn out, until it’s curtains for me. Therefore, in a brazen bid for survival, I’m getting medication to lower my blood pressure.

That brings my total medication list up to three prescription meds. It feels a like a moral failing. I think I should be able to just tough my way through it. And I could try, it’s my right and privilege to be stupid, remember. Curtains might come sooner than statistically expected, but nobody lives forever. Then I think of my departed maternal parental unit, who was taking a dozen meds and didn’t think anything of it. Maybe it was the dementia, but she seemed really at peace with the reality of her failing health. She bemoaned aging, saying things like getting old is not for wimps, but she always took her meds. The only time she really got pissed off was when we took away her car keys.

I wonder who will be brave enough to take away my car keys?

In other news, I’m feeling a bit lonely these days. I haven’t seen a little dude for almost a week. Maybe they’ve all gone north for the summer. Maybe spraying poison weekly convinced them this is not a good hotel and they’ve packed the aunties and kids into the minivan and headed up Mt Lemmon. Nice to imagine. I hope the reason I’m not seeing many little dudes, alive or dead, is that I’ve killed them, but pride and hubris go before an invasion. They could be watching from the baseboards and cupboards, waiting to strike. They could be planning World War III, Bat Cave edition.

I am starting to get organized for my move back to the Trailer. Notice, it’s the Trailer now. I’m giving it the proper-noun status it deserves. It’s not really a trailer, it’s a mobile home (also known as a manufactured home, depending on when it was built). It’s a single-wide thing, long and narrow, made of fake wood paneling, Fiberglas, and plastic, and wide metal awnings on both sides to ward off the blazing sun. It’s utilitarian, clean, and safe, and it will be a good place to hunker down and figure out what comes next.