Multitasking on the road

Greetings from someplace in Arizona. Yes, I am back in the brutally hot sunshine state. I guess soon every state will be brutally hot, but probably after I'm dead, so at least I don't have to live through that. This is bad enough. I'm doing my Goldilocks routine again, searching for a place that's not too hot and not too cold. Like most hothouse flowers, I require optimal temperatures to feel my best. 

I'm in Prescott, hanging out at a park with all the other travelers who live in their cars. I have figured out my wild camping routine. Wild camping means finding places to park overnight in a city. First, I search Google Earth for a park with a big parking lot. Street parking is no good. You can't deploy solar panels across from somebody's house. They will think you are stalking their children. In a park parking lot, normies come and go, doing their pet-walking, jogging, or biking thing. The ones who stay all day are people like me, the ones who would rather not waste gasoline driving all over the state just to charge up their batteries. I'm sitting in the sweltering shade of my car with a solar panel spread out on the roof. The battery that powers my fridge is slowly sipping power from the sun. Meanwhile I'm blogging. Look at me go, I'm a multitasker.

After my cross-country expedition, I still have no answers about where to look for housing. All the states I visited are lovely in the fall, but would not suit me in the summer or winter. California is beyond reach, financially, so that leaves Washington and Oregon. Both states are gloomy, but of the two, Oregon is a little less gloomy. Bright side: As long as I'm mobile, if the weather sucks, I can move on.

Happy birthday to me. I'm 68. Sometimes birthdays invite a reflection on the past year. In my case, I'm inspired to consider my entire past, the choices, events, and circumstances that led me to this lifestyle. I might add a page to my blog chronicling my timeline. I assume nobody will read it, or when they arrive there by accident, they will read two lines and quickly click away to assuage their boredom on another website. The timeline would be for me. There will come a day when I won't be able to pull together a timeline. Even now, the sequence and details of events are hazy. People and pets are fading into the mist. Certain events—my cat's death, COVID, and my mother's death, for instance—are gashes in the timeline, leaving a lingering trauma that probably will outlive me, but dates sometimes get fuzzy. 

I still can't believe this is my life. Sometimes shock hits me. The surreality of this existence flows over me like a massive wave, driving me deep, so I can't breathe for a moment. Then I surface and get on with things: Do I need water, do I need to dump trash, is my fridge powered up, do I have clean clothes, is there gas in the tank. The minutae of my daily life, just moving from task to task, getting it done, not thinking too much except beyond the next few minutes. 

There are people like me everywhere. Now I can spot them easily. Most of them aren't in soccer mom vans, but their ineptly made window covers are a clue. A rooftop box, a hitch box carrying a portable generator, a general dustiness, back window piled high with blankets... When the occupant gets out of a car and brushes his teeth with a bottle of water, spitting in the sand at a rest area, you can figure he is a nomad. 

Where do we go when the park closes? Thanks for asking. Walmarts used to open their parking lots to vehicles of all sizes. Not any more. Many Walmarts have posted signs to indicate they don't allow overnight parking of any kind, probably from all the shootings and trash. Those rascally nomads. Sometimes Walmart allows cars but not RVs and trucks. Sometimes there is a fringe of unpatrolled spaces in the wayback, where the riffraff is allowed to park. Back east, Walmarts were much friendlier to overnighters. Here in the west, not so much. However, you can almost always park overnight at a home improvement store, if you don't mind the employees who come and go in shifts all night long. After about 3:00 a.m., you will be the only car in the parking lot. If you don't mind that, for a few hours, it's quite peaceful. The other standby is Cracker Barrel, traditionally a welcoming respite for overnighters. 

In some ways, I am invisible. Older white gal in a nondescript white minivan. There are thousands of us cruising the streets of America. Not all of us live in our cars, but possibly more than you would think. In January I will find them in Quartzsite, Arizona, the traditional winter home of nomads. They will come from all over the country seeking desert sun. I will find my tribe there, and the moments of surreality will fade for a while. When everyone is living in their car, suddenly this lifestyle is normal, and it's all of you stick-and-brick folks who are the weirdos. 

Savoring the flavors

For the past month, I have made a slow boomerang across the country. I started in Oregon in early September, moving east state by state until I got to Boston, where I made a hard U-turn and started the slow return trip west. Now it's early October, and I'm in New Mexico. Arizona is just over the horizon. I could go south to Tucson or straight ahead to Flagstaff. It's not hard to decide: The temperature in Tucson today is 106°F. Flagstaff is 79°F. You pay attention to weather forecasts when you live in your car.

I'd like to say I learned some things. Probably I have, but I can't enumerate them because I've assimilated my experiences, which is another way of saying I don't remember much. Impressions, some feelings, a few snapshots, some reflections. 

For example, I've seen a lot of trucks. I don't think I fully appreciated how this nation's entire supply structure relies on trucks. Knowing this, I don't begrudge them idling their engines all night long at rest areas, because I know they are carrying the paper towels and Triscuits I will soon be buying at the Walmart down the road. 

I have a renewed commitment to not eating animals, especially beef. I saw cattle grazing in open pastures and cattle crowded into dirt pens, already half lifeless as if they knew they would soon be hamburger. I cried. 

I have compassion for the multitudes of raccoons, possums, skunks, squirrels, birds, and deer that got popped by fast-moving vehicles and then pummeled over and over until only a blood stain on the road marked their passing. I saw it happen. A hawk flew down from trees on the verge and smacked into a fast-moving SUV passing me on the left. I braked and waited to see where the bird would land. It fell into the middle of my lane. I made sure I didn't flatten it with my tires. I doubt it would have felt it if I had. I'm quite sure that bird was dead. I feel deep chagrin realizing nature and it's wildlife were here first. Humans are the encroachers. We wreck everything.

Speaking of wrecking things, some humans wreck more than others. I traveled the Trail of Tears. Now every billboard is hawking Native American artifacts, as if White settlers didn't commit genocide as they barb-wired the Plains. I could have visited museums and gift shops to see how humans have commemorated the decimation of cultures and their way of life. I'm not much of a tourist. I didn't stop.

Humans aren't all bad. Some humans are very creative. Case in point, the Uranus Fudge Factory. Cadillac Ranch. A church billboard stating "Weed love to see you" (not sure if that was a typo or what). 

Now that I'm back in the west (New Mexico), I miss the swells of dense green trees in West Virginia, Kentucky, Illinois, Missouri, and Arkansas. Who knew Kentucky was all perfectly mown lawn? Who could have imagined Arkansas was a misty green paradise? I sampled the air and savored the colors in every state I visited. And no, in case you are wondering, I did not visit any museums. I did not see any national parks or stay in state campgrounds. I wasn't a tourist. I was an explorer, a documenter of a personal odyssey. 

The logistics of this lifestyle keep me grounded in reality. Besides the challenges of personal hygiene, I have to find safe places to park overnight. Rest areas are good, but noisy. Cracker Barrel is a popular RV destination, safe but cramped. Lowe's and Home Depot are mostly good, if you don't mind workers coming and going all night. Mall parking lots are verboten: security will roust you with the knock. Walmarts are no longer consistently welcoming to travelers, having learned the hard way that some travelers cannot be trusted not to trash the place. 

Another challenge is keeping my power stations charged. Because I can't easily deploy my solar panels, I must keep moving. The power stations recharge when I drive. I ran out of power once, when I was in Minneapolis for a few days to see a friend. My fridge died. Since then, I try to drive at least three hours a day. You can cover a lot of ground in three hours. In Montana the freeway speed limit was 80 mph. In Minnesota the minimum speed limit on the freeway was 40 mph.

Sometimes I felt compelled to drive because of wildfire smoke or heat domes, even when I would have preferred to take my time. For instance, yesterday I drove six hours through three states to get to a place where I wouldn't fry. That's too much driving for me. 

After I have my final video call of the day, I will move on from this rest area. The amazing view over the craggy brown rocks and scrubby desert trees doesn't offset the stench of an overworked septic field. All around this tired old rest area are signs asking "How did we do?" and "How would you rate this rest area?" as if they know their rest area stinks. Some states have lovely rest areas, with huge tiled rest rooms that I could easily live in, if they would rent out a corner to the unhoused. 

In another few days I'll be back in Arizona. The adventure continues. 

Not missing you, Sonoran desert

I know you are all wondering what happened with the medication. Let me get this out of the way. Good news. I presented my calculations (via the message portal) to the neurologist (her assistant, actually), and begged again for help (implying it's their damn fault I am running out of pills). I think it was the plaintive line that did the trick:  "I am far from home, and I need help." Who could ignore that? The prescription was forthcoming forthwith. It only took a long walk and a long train ride to get to a pharmacy in Boston's Back Bay (one of two pharmacies the neurologist had "in their system," whatever that means.) Lucky for me, I had an escort: My sister, is an expert navigator of Boston trains.

I am now in possession of a 30-day supply (supposedly; I didn't take the pills out and count them). So my head has calmed down, and I'm once again able to enjoy my endless roadtrip. 

After Boston, I went through New York state, Pennsylvania again (but a in Kentucky. Each state has a unique personality, I have discovered. Crossing a state line sometimes means southerly route this time), a bit of New Jersey (avoiding toll roads), a bit of Maryland, West Virginia, and now I'm crossing a river, but sometimes it's just an imaginary boundary. If not for the GPS Lady saying "Welcome to New Jersey," for instance, I wouldn't have known I left Pennsylvania. But after a few miles, I can tell I'm not in Kansas anymore. 

The one thing all the states on this trip have had in common is the extraordinary lush greenness of the land (with the exception of Indiana; I only saw the northern tip so it hardly counts). The decidous woodsy forests all along the highways are just starting to change colors. I'm sure the ocean of trees will be spectacular in a few weeks, but I'm from Oregon, I've seen a lot of leaves in all stages of decay, from glorious orange boughs to yellow blizzards to slushy mushy piles of gray muck in the gutters. It's fall. Been there done that. I admit, that is one thing I kind of like about the desert. Hardly any fallen leaves. Just those damn cactuses everywhere. 

I've seen wondrous things on the eastern leg of this journey. GPS Lady sent me on some backroads, where I passed dozens of old cemeteries dating from the 1700s. Around every bend was a farmhouse with a steep roof, some in the final throes of collapse. Some were newly built mansions cleverly designed to look old, perched on the crest of a hill where the landowner could survey his kingdom of cows and hay bales. Barns in all stages of decrepitude. Truckloads of cows who (I'm guessing) would rather live than be slaughtered. Roadkill so destroyed by a vehicle, it looked like someone dumped raw hamburger on the pavement, just for the hell of it. 

I've seen many wondrous things, and I am forever changed as a result. 

It was 114°F in Scottsdale a couple days ago. Desert, I'm not missing you, glad you aren't here. 

Running to stay still

As I'm driving over hill and down dale in the green farmlands and woodsy forests of the hinterlands, trying to avoid toll roads if at all possible, I have lots of time to ponder my next blogpost. By the time I map to some Walmart, Lowe's, or rest area approximately three hours from the previous Walmart, Lowe's, or rest area, I've forgotten all the content, even the parts I wrote in my head and spoke out loud. Such is the nature of the aging memory. All that biting humor and pithy wisdom, lost. Alas, alackaday. 

What you are left with is me in the moment, trying to remember what it felt like to keep calm with the grill of a huge pickup truck inches from my back bumper. I'm just grateful to be stationary for a while, especially because here in Catskill, NY, I have a choice between a Walmart Supercenter or a Lowe's, both with enormous empty parking lots on a Sunday afternoon. Clouds have covered the sun. What a relief. It's not easy living in a mobile greenhouse. 

I bought some concoction at Walmart that is supposed to take the odors out of my car. Ha. Now I know how they get that Motel 6 smell. It comes in a can. Even with only one tiny slit uncovered, the smell is overwhelming. One thing they don't tell you about van life on these YouTube channels: You will spend three times as much money as you need to (or should) living this life, because most of the things you buy to make your life easier will actually make your life harder. You can't pack your mistakes around with you. Into the trash they go.

I don't think I've complained recently about the condition of my vestibular system. That's because I've been cured. Well, almost cured. The antiseizure med the neurologist prescribed actually started working. For the past month, I can happily say I've felt normal. I should have mentioned it, I suppose, but since when do you go around shouting, hey I feel normal! Yay. Let's hear it for normality.

Well, the happy days have come to an end. When I started getting low on the pills, I emailed the doctor to ask for a refill. I received what I thought was an affirmative response and gave the doctor's assistant the contact info for the nearest pharmacy that would have me in their system (Westerville, OH). I drove two hours south of where I wanted to be to pick up my refill. When I got to the pharmacy, no prescription. I emailed the doctor. Help! Refill! Now! Eventually the assistant called me on the phone to say no, no refill would be forthcoming. The "90-day supply" should last me until I return to Tucson at "the end of the month." 

Begging availed me nothing. 

I went back to my car and counted the pills. Then I counted the days on my calendar. Then I looked at the pill bottle. Then I panicked. Then I calmed down. Then I panicked again. I started trying to do math in my head, which is never a good sign for me, especially in the middle of the night. It took a while, but I figured out I got shorted 81 pills. My so-called 90-day supply was really a 63-day supply. I don't think she calculated the period of time during which the dosage ramped up to three pills a day. Today I have eighteen pills left. That means if I taper off to one pill a day, I will run out on October 9.

After two days of taking only one pill a day, rather than three, I am feeling the vertigo symptoms increase. Somebody put quarters in the the washing machine in my head, and it wasn't me. Here we go again, back into the swampy mess. I hope my calculations will convince her to rethink her refill refusal. She's out of the office until Tuesday. Surely she will see the light when she sees the facts. Facts are so convincing, so reassuring, right? Everyone trusts facts, even if they don't trust anything else, right? I have a feeling the response will be no, and don't call me Shirley.

The grass is definitely greener

One thing about doing a lot of highway driving: You see a lot of roadkill. Given that roadkill has been in the news lately, I have a heightened awareness of the possibilities. For instance, when I see deer, should I think, hmm, venison? I expect wackjobs will screech to a stop and scoop the carcass into the trunk of their Dodge Ram pickup. However, I don't know what to think when I see what looks like the flattened remains of a fox, a raccoon, a possum, a skunk, and what I fear might have been a guinea pig. Hard to say. After time baking in the sun, you can't really tell what it was. But seeing a fawn on the verge with its legs frozen in air saddens me deeply. I will not drive at night, mostly because I can't see well in the dark, but also because I don't want to hit anything that would prefer to live. I don't want to eat them, either.

The wildfire smoke chased me all the way across Montana and North Dakota. I did my best to stay ahead of it, running in the yellow zone, hoping it would dissipate before the red blob caught up to me. I was going to stay in Fargo, but my lungs were burning. I checked the smoke map and saw the red blob directly on top of the blue dot, which was me. It's like I somehow had attracted my own little bubble of smoke. Is that even possible? Fargo, I hardly knew you. I moved on and hunkered down at a Home Depot in a place called Fergus Falls. It was an uneasy night. The last few employee cars departed at 1:00 a.m., leaving me all alone, feeling like a sitting duck. I didn't think I would sleep. I woke when it was still dark to find my car surrounded by the cars of the 5:00 a.m. day shift. More were arriving. They got the drop on me, for sure. 

Chagrined, I scrambled into my pants, shucked my window covers, and eased out of the parking lot. Then I looked at my gas gauge. Note to self: It's better to get gas in the evening rather than in the dark before dawn. I found a 24-hour gas station nearby, which means at that hour, the pumps are on but nobody's home. I don't mind pumping my gas (used to it, California, Arizona, etc.), but I don't like pumping gas under bright fluorescent lights all by myself in the dark. When the gas started flowing, the little TV screen lit up and a man started shouting. I almost jumped out of my skin, until I realized he was hawking the services of a local bank. Sitting duck, again. 

Luckily, the only people out and about in Fergus Falls were the dozen or so Home Depot employees showing up for work before dawn. I had the streets to myself. I hit the road. Fergus Falls, never again.

If you like rolling hills and fields of green grass, yellow grass, occasional corn fields, and herds of cattle and sheep grazing under hundred-foot-wide watering machines amid scattered copses of green trees, Montana and North Dakota are for you. Montana was a bit yellower than North Dakota, with more open land, but along I-94, all the land in both states seemed to have been tamed by tractor ploughs. The beauty I saw on that drive belies the hell I know is coming. Probably soon. Snow, wind, ice, all the stuff I am desperate to avoid. 

Minnesota is green, too. So is Wisconsin. I'm gobsmacked by how green everything is. I always thought Northwest Oregon was the greenest place I'd ever seen, but goes to show how little I've seen. Oregon grass turned a dusty yellow-brown in the summer because we don't get rain for two or three months, and we have the kind of grass that does that naturally. The grass grew increasingly greener as I moved east. Is that a word, greener? More green? In sum, this part of the country is nothing like I imagined. 

I met a friend in Minneapolis. She offered me a bed for the night. I declined. We all know house guests who show up out of the blue expecting hospitality are just plain rude. She put aside her plans for the evening to take me to dinner. That was a gift. I was happy to spend the night on a quiet side street. As daylight was breaking, I headed southeast toward Madison, Wisconsin . . . Why? Just because. Why not? I've never been to Wisconsin. One place is as good as any when you have no destination. All of this is just because—all the parking lots, rest areas, Walmarts, and gas stations. It's about the journey. I'm leading a just-because life now, because I can. You probably wish you could, too. 

Oh, in case you are thinking of heading to North Dakota, don't bother to get off I-94 to see the Enchanted Highway. These gargantuan iron sculptures are the clickbait (should I say drivebait?) of an eccentric rural artist, designed to entice you to go an hour out of your way on a narrow windy road through a patchwork of green and brown fields, and you thinking, just over the next hill, just around the next bend, art, where is the damn art! I followed my blue dot on GPS out into the middle of bumfart nowhere. When my blue dot passed the spot of a supposed sculpture, with miles to the next art site, I realized I'd been conned. I turned around and called it a bust. I saw two sculptures. People I've asked said don't bother with Mt. Rushmore. I can now say the same thing about the Enchanted Highway.

I've learned that the best way to get a feel for a place is to GPS to the Walmart. Sleeping at rest stops might be more restful than bunking down on city streets or in Home Depot parking lots, but rest stops tell me nothing about the local area. I'm learning. Tomorrow I'm on my way to a town called Evanston, just north of Chicago. I have a friend there, who might be able to take time out of her busy morning to meet me for coffee. 

Outer solar system or bust

When I was an adolescent, I shared a room with my sister. A large black fly got in through the window and hung around. We named it Fred. Fred was big and slow, and he didn't make a mess. Fred was a perfect pet. One day our father visited us in our room after work. He was still wearing his senior trooper uniform and tall boots. Fred made the mistake of flying by, and our father clapped his hands. In a moment, Fred was flattened. 

"Dad, that was Fred!" we cried. Dad looked both surprised and sheepish. He probably thought he was doing us a favor. I don't recall if we had a funeral. I'll have to ask my sister. If she's still talking to me.

Despite misgivings from family, I'm firmly committed to continuing my epic roadtrip. After Portland, I headed east and then I turned north, hoping to avoid the heat wave that was coming to the west. I passed through Spokane and then crossed the border into Idaho. I spent the night in Coeur d' Alene. After the artsy energy of Spokane, Coeur d'Alene felt lacking for some reason, or maybe it was just the uneasy night I spent alone in a Fred Meyer parking lot. In any case, I didn't feel a connection to that city, so onward I went. I crossed the Idaho panhandle, winding through spectacular forests, thinking, oh boy, one tossed cigarette and we are literally toast. Note to self: avoid living in a fire zone. And on a flood plain. And while you are making a list, try to avoid earthquake fault lines, tsunami zones, tornado alley, and gulf coast hurricanes. I guess that leaves Corvallis.  

I made it as far as Missoula, MT, before the wildfire smoke in western Montana caught up with me. I checked the smoke map and saw that I was caught in a eastward drifting plume. I liked Missoula. Charming college town. I'd never live there in the winter, not being a cold weather person, but in the summer, it would be a great retreat from the Arizona heat. I would have stayed longer if not for the smoke. After two days, I left Missoula and kept going east, hoping to outrun the smoke plume, if not the heat. 

I found a place to park in Bozeman that felt pretty good. In the morning, smoke obscured the view of the mountains. My lungs and eyes were burning. I had planned to stay another night, but I was more interested in breathing, so I filled up the gas tank and hit the road, thinking, Billings, maybe Billings. 

The smoke map showed Billings on the edge of the smoke plume. Argh. I'd asked the long-suffering GPS lady to lead me to a mall, and she delivered. I parked in the lot outside the main entrance and checked the smoke map. I could have gone indoors and breathed fresh air-conditioned air along with a thousand other pairs of lungs. But what about after the mall closed? Where would I go? Assuming I wanted to avoid spending $150 on a motel room. 

It didn't take long to figure out Billings was not going to be safe, so I got more gas and resumed my route on 94 east. A few hours later, I fetched up in Miles City, Montana. The sky was clear when I got here at about 1:00. The temperature was a toasty 92°F, hotter than the Oregon coast, but not as hot as Phoenix. 

Now I'm sitting on a side street around the corner from Walmart, parked in the shade, waiting for the sun to go down, and wondering if I could get in trouble for transporting flies across state lines. 

Yes, I've unintentionally picked up a few winged hitchhikers on my journey. Usually my windows are closed when I'm driving to avoid losing my nice cool AC air. However, when I stop, when it's hot, I have to open the windows or run the risk of melting in my own juices. Right now my door is open and I've given up the fight. I've been overrun by flies. Not biting flies, not giant cluster flies, not slow and lazy flies. Just zippy little dudes curious to see what new smells and tastes have come into their territory. Yum! I have given up trying to shoot them with my only weapon:  a little plastic spray bottle of 70% rubbing alcohol. They seem impervious, and I'm almost out of ammo. It's hard to type with flies crawling on my arm and dive bombing my head. I don't know why I think my life is more important than theirs, but I'd still like to murder them. Sadly, they outnumber me, and they are fast. If only I had wings. Or some better ammo. 

Speaking of wings, I'm on my epic roadtrip, as I mentioned, and it seems some of my family aren't exactly happy with my bid for freedom. My theory is that they are envious because I'm free to travel and they are not. I'm trying not to let their fear and criticism stop me from enjoying my adventure. I imagine a rubberband stretched between me and the west coast. The further I push eastward, the tighter the band stretches. 

"Why don't you go back to Oregon?" family said.

I said, "What's in Oregon?"

"What if you get sick? What if you break down?"

"Medicare and road side assistance," I replied.

"What do you want?" they said. "What are you running away from?"

Those questions flummoxed me, so I consulted a friend to help. "Adventure and nothing," she texted.

I got back on the other text thread. "Adventure and nothing," I typed into the text window.

After some more back and forth during which I felt the box around me tightening, I finally texted, "Why don't you want me to have my adventure?"

After a few beats, the message came back: "Go, have your adventure! Have fun!" The subtext, I think, if I'm reading the faint smudges between the lines correctly is, go, have your adventure, even though I'm stuck here. Go, have fun, even though I'm not having any. 

I almost caved. I almost turned around, partly to assuage the fears of family, and partly because the smoke was getting to me. I started getting scared. Even though I know only the courageous cross the Continental Divide, doubt and fear cluttered my mind. 

Then I thought, when am I ever going to have another chance like this? If not now, when? I didn't get my adventure when my family member got theirs, gallivanting overseas. Did I worry? Of course! But I never said, don't go, better go back to Oregon where it's safe. I spent five increasingly intense years taking care of our mother. Five years during which I was blissfully unaware of all the physical maladies that would soon plague me. (Well, except for the vertigo, which started in 2015, but certainly all my other infirmities weren't yet on my radar.) 

Let's face it, sooner or later, if we live long enough, we become the primary adult caregivers in our own lives. I feel old age breathing down my neck. Decrepitude, dementia, and broken hips are just around the corner. Soon I won't be able to attempt a journey like this one. So, let the adventure continue! Next stop: outer solar system, or the Enchanted Highway, whichever comes first!

Finding myself in the now

One thing I've disccovered about living in a car is that my environment requires me to be present in the moment. Being present has never been my preference. In fact, I've gone to great lengths to avoid being present. For many years, I was a bystander in my own life. Back then, I didn't realize how great I had it—I was born in the right place (the U.S.) in the right time (the late 1950s) to loving if mostly out-to-lunch parents. I went to a mediocre public school, learned right from wrong (although I frequently chose wrong), and I had the right color skin (pale, prone to freckles). I was lucky on so many levels, but all I could see was what I lacked. In my self-centered distress, I did whatever I could to check out. 

Now, living in my car, I can't check out of anything. That is a byproduct of mobile living. I drive a lot. Checking out while I'm driving is not wise. About fifteen years ago, I had a dissociative episode while driving at night in rainy fog, and it freaked me out, but good. I did not know if I was driving a car or snuggled at home in bed. I wasn't sure I was conscious. I was not even sure I existed. I made it to the Christmas party, but that experience left a mark. Now I make sure I am parked before dark. 

Now-ness is physical. I am reminded of the physicality of my existence every time I pee in a jar or poop in a plastic bag. There is no handle to flush away the bioreality of my disgustingly repetitious human systems. I live in a perpetual hazmat zone. 

Preparing food is a Tetris game. There isn't enough room in this small space to lay out everything I need all at once. To use that thing, I have to move this thing. Everything happens on the bed, well, I think of it as a couch. The dry things come out of ziploc bags. Those must be stowed in their cubby before I can add the wet things. Adding blueberries is easy. Apples are a little more complicated, requiring a chopping board and a knife. Everything has a place, and everything has to go back in its place the moment I'm done with it, otherwise I will cave under a tsunami of stuff. The things that don't have places clutter up the aisle. I hate that. I'm gradually paring my possessions down to essentials, like a hiker packing to trek the PCT. 

On the bright side, I'm learning the beauty of now. I think it's hilarious. Now-ness is the temple of meditators, not of senior nomads like me. Well, I should speak for myself. It could be that all other senior nomads spend an hour meditating on their yoga rug before they hit the road. Not me. When I wake up, usually it's time to beat it, before some homeowner looks out their window and says, honey, that van is still there, do you think we should call the police? Sometimes I sleep at stores that allow overnight parking. I don't like the feeling of waking up to find my car surrounded by employee cars. I feel like a lazy bum. They are all in there working before dawn has cracked, and here I am rolled up in my blankets like a mole in a burrow, hidden (I hope) behind my homemade window covers. 

But this is where I am, in the now. It's confounding to be this present. I'm coping the way I always have, by pretending I'm not here, this isn't me, it's someone else living this bizarre life, dealing with the fallout of the structural shortage of affordable housing. 

The apartment manager I talked to last week said she was in the same boat. 

"I'm getting old," she said. "Sooner or later, I'll have to stop working. My apartment comes with this job. Where will I go then?"

"They need to build more affordable housing," I said. 

"They never will," she said. "They don't care about people like us. We don't matter."

I left feeling somewhat vindicated that I am not the only Debby Downer in the world, but also thinking, crap, I could be living in my car for a long time before my name bubbles to the top of a wait list somewhere. 

So, let me channel the optimist in me: I have a working car that should last a while (having spent $2,400 last week to make sure), I have money in the bank, and I have few obligations. I don't know how you would interpret these three facters, but to me, they all add up to one thing: road trip! 

Follow that pilot car

This week I've been diligently performing my role as pilot car. Being the pilot car means I'm a leader, not a follower, or I guess you could say, first I'm a leader, and then I'm the ultimate follower, after I pull over into the slow lane and let all the traffic behind me speed by. But until there's a passing lane or nice long turnout, everyone is stuck behind me, and I'm the leader. I take my role seriously, setting the pace just under the speed limit. Except on downhill grades, when with a gravity assist, my old car can get up a head of steam. 

In addition, to being a pilot car, I have other roles I'm diligently performing. For example, I've already mentioned I'm a traveler on the road less traveled. What that means is I don't tend to conform to norms. I live by another set of rules. Oh, don't get excited, that doesn't mean I am a jerk (at least not intentionally). The rules I live by have to do with things like freedom, autonomy, and independence. I guess you could call those principles, rather than rules. Rules are, like, get a good job, find proper housing, and don't pick your teeth at the dinner table. Principles are more along the lines of live and let live, let your freak flag fly, that sort of thing. 

I take my role as a nonconformist as seriously as I do my role as pilot car. When you feel called to do something, probably you should do your best at it. Hm. Well, when I write something like that, being a professional devil's advocate, I always see the loophole punched by Satan, if there is such a thing. Like, if I wanted to be a dictator, should I strive to be the best dictator I can be? Or, if I want to build a house in a sensitive ecosystem, I should strive to build the biggest bestest house I can? Hm. Clarity eludes me. I'm hot. My portable fan died. It gets really hot and stuffy in my car before the sun goes down. It's hard to think coherently, much less write. 

I drove from Bend to Portland today. I've been to Bend once before, in the early 1990s, I think. I didn't recognize the place. It looks like they took Portland and plopped it down in the high desert. Once I got outside the city limit, though, I recognized the high desert terrain. My grandfather used to run cattle on the range outside of Prineville. As I strolled along 97 with a train of cars and trucks behind me, I saw many herds of cattle, but also what looked like groups of wild horses. The land is breath-takingly beautiful, if you like wide expanses of dried grass punctuated by withered trees, dark green bushes, and scrubby brush, with forested mountains in the distance. Nary a cactus in sight. It's beautiful. It's also blazing hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter. Lucky for me, I happened along on a relatively mild day. Blue sky, fluffy clouds, not too hot once the sun came up. 

I'd forgotten how majestic Mt. Hood is coming at it from the east. That is one impressive peak. Highway 26 winds over it's southern shoulder, uphill and downhill around curves with scary dropoffs. Views of the mountain appear through gaps in tall timber. Sadly, I couldn't saunter to appreciate the sights because of the train behind me. There's not much snow on the mountain this time of year, but this road goes through the snow zone. Glad I didn't have to chain up (I don't carry tire chains), I stopped at the rest area at Government Camp. The women's restroom was equipped with two long wooden benches, I assume for outdoor enthusiasts to remove their skis and snowshoes before using the facilities. 

Last this week, I left Eugene feeling I'd done my due diligence. Not the place for me. I returned to Portland, picked up my meds, and hit the road. I took a day trip to Maryhill Museum up the Columbia River Gorge. I spent one more night in Portland, and decided to visit some towns between Portland and the coast. Then I thought, well, as long as I'm halfway to the coast, I might as well go all the way. I meandered over to Florence and stayed at the Chinook Winds Casino with dozens of motorhomes and trailers, the occupants of which (I assume) spent most of their in the casino gambling, smoking, eating, or whatever people do in a casino. From my perch on the edge of the upper parking lot, past the rooftops of cars and timeshares I could see ocean for miles. 

I took time in Florence to look at a possible low-income senior housing option I'd found on one of those apartment listing websites. The onsite manager laughed when I asked about a one-bedroom apartment. 

"We have 250 people on the waitlist, honey," she said. "Residents have to die before a vacancy opens up. It could be several years. Priority is given to victims of domestic violence."

I realized then something I should have seen weeks ago: All the listings for rentals shown on the apartment rental sites are bogus. It's all a clickbait scam. Not one of those listings has a vacancy, and most of them have closed their waitlists. On the bright side, if there is such a thing, I'm number 29 on a waitlist for a place in Junction City. That's something. Not sure what. 

I went south on 101. At Reedsport, I headed inland to explore Roseburg. From there I drove through Grants Pass, Medford, and Ashland. I spent a cold rainy night at the Welcome to Oregon Travel Center, and from there drove a long lonely road through big trees to Klamath Falls. After eyeballing Klamath Falls and finding it lacking, I moseyed on up to Bend and spent the night parked on a peaceful side street next to the Sheriff's automotive facility. 

I'm done looking for "traditional" housing for now. I've spent a lot of time and gas driving in circles in places I don't care for, just to conform to the be sheltered at all costs mandate that pervades my local zeitgeist. I'm shooing away the black cloud of despair. If I'm meant to be housed, I will be housed. Meanwhile I will keep living my life as creatively as I know how, no matter how many people I piss off, no matter how many cars stack up behind me. I lead the way on the road less traveled. Come along, if you want. Or not. You free spirit, you. 

The gift horse can sometimes tear your lips off

I'm coming to you from Track Town, USA, otherwise known as Eugene, Oregon. The weather finally cooled enough for me to leave the misty gray coastline and head inland to look for housing options in the Willamette Valley. I'm not sure this area is the right place for me, but it feels more right than Arizona or Texas. 

Every time I leave a safe haven, I feel a surge of trepidation. It's stressful not knowing where I am going to park at night. Oregon so far has been much less friendly toward nomads, compared to Arizona. The "no overnight parking" signs are hard to miss. It's clear some nomads ignore them, but I am not charmed at the prospect of getting "the knock," especially after I'm asleep. So, when I see those signs, I check the apps and look for other options in the vicinity. So far, I've been able to find places, although last night I tried three locations before I felt I was safe enough and legal enough to park without hassle.

My much-adored cousin arrived at the beach house on Monday. We spent time walking on the beach. She gave me the tour of the town. I saw some of the local sights. We talked a lot. Well, after a while, she talked a lot, and I listened. She had a lot to say. As I listened to her tell me the minutae of dividing and selling the acreage of her parent's house in Portland, I realized we had never spent that much time together, alone, just the two of us.  

My cousin did everything right in her life. She went to college, learned a useful skill, applied it for her entire career, and retired with a pension. Along the way, she married, had two kids, built wealth, and got divorced. Then she inherited some wealth. Newly retired, she now has two houses and the financial freedom to do as she pleases. Her health is excellent, she said. Perfect cholesterol, no heart problems, no osteoporosis, definitely no vertigo, and what's more, she's recently lost twenty pounds. She was triumphant that her skinny pants finally fit. If only her kids weren't a bit messed up, life would be perfect. (I'm so glad I'm a childless cat lady!)

On Wednesday, I volunteered to help her fetch a carload of firewood from a local friend's woodpile. She planned to use it in her woodstove. As she drove through the forest, she kept up chirpy patter about the houses and the people of the area. I can't match chirpiness. Little Mary Sunshine I am not. Even on a good day, I just don't have the energy. I started to feel a bit bludgeoned by her chirpiness even before we arrived at a huge house recently built on the edge of forestland. New sprinklers watered new grass. Beyond the grass was a narrow forest of tall timber. Beyond that was a view of the Pacific Ocean. 

The homeowners were outside puttering in their yard when we pulled in. My cousin turned her ebullience on them. After introductions, they ignored me. I stood nearby and looked at the trees. 

Eventually we got busy loading wood into her car. Her exuberance transferred to throwing wood enthusiastically into a wheelbarrow and then ramming the wheelbarrow up a short incline to the car. Her movements were punctuated by frequent utterances to show she was on top of it: "there!" she said a few times. "There!" I started thinking maybe I wasn't moving fast enough and stepped up my game. Then I thought, this is stupid. I'm overweight, out of shape, and plagued by an irregular heartbeat. No way was I going to keel over and have them trip the air raid siren to call out the local volunteer EMT. So embarrassing. 

I slowed to a steady pace. As we filled the car to the ceiling with wood, I made a remark about making sure the wood was secure in back so if she slammed on the brakes, we wouldn't get plastered against the dashboard.

"You always look on the dark side, don't you?" she said as she crammed more wood into the car. 

I should have made a joke at that point. If I weren't so irked, I would have come up with something goofy to show I was impervious to her mild criticism. I know she stabbed me in a loving way, as only family can do.

I can't say she's wrong. I do have some skill at playing devil's advocate. It's a special knack of mine. However, having been a school bus driver, I know what happens to precious cargo when you slam on the brakes. That is what I said.

"Oh, I didn't know you drove a school bus," she said. 

Today as I drove through the back country southwest of Eugene (yes, I took a wrong turn, but yes, it sure is pretty country), I thought about how every inch of this land is claimed and conquered by people who were smart enough to be born into wealth or who had worked a good job, saved their money, and bought land. Or who had married someone who owned land. Lots of ways to get a piece of the American dream, it seems. Unless you are trudging the road less traveled. 

"I recognize I come from a place of privilege," my cousin admitted after she described her opinion of the nation's housing shortage. She didn't blame me for my situation, but she didn't have much empathy to offer, either, which is all I wanted. Most of my friends and family wish I'd just settle for some kind of shelter and get on with life, so they don't have to worry about me anymore.

To that I would say (if I were asked), your fear is not making my situation any better. I'm beginning to realize, for most people, fear of homelessness is the ultimate existential fear. Possibly worse than climate change. 

I need to stop whining. My loved ones can't fix the housing shortage, so instead, they try to fix me. That's what loved ones do. It's the American way. 

There's a saying: You can't go to the hardware store for bread. There's another saying: Expectations are premeditated resentments. I brought my own, so I deserve what I get. 

Is the grand experiment really over?

I'm blogging to you once again from beautiful Scottsdale, where the sun almost always shines, and when it isn't, the wind is howling, the dust is blowing, and pools are filling up with scummy dead leaves. It's as close to paradise as you can get in the desert. I'm sure it will be lovely for a long time, right up until the moment when the acquifer under our feet runs dry. Until then, water that lawn! Green is the new black. 

I think I have mastered the fine art of pool maintenance. Maybe I can turn my skills into my next career, if my dizziness ever lets up. Every time I skim dead flower husks and desiccated leaves, I lean over the blue depths and wonder if I fell in, would I ever find my way back to the surface? Maybe I would choose to stay down there, in the cool deep. Two days ago, it was 115°F, so you can see how I might be tempted. 

Around the corner is a store we call "Blue Collar Fry's" to differentiate it from the "White Collar Fry's," which is located about half a mile up the street. Don't ask me why they have two stores of the same brand so close together, unless it truly is to cater to a different target audience. To me, the Blue Collar Fry's is a gorgeous store, with wide, bright aisles well stocked with home goods, clothing, pet supplies, even some furniture . . . anything you want, they've got it. Compared to the pithole ghetto Tucson Fry's I shop at, the Scottsdale Fry's is the height of upscale luxury. 

I don't have much space for backstock, so I pay more per ounce for everything than I would if I had a house with cupboards and shelves. I can't stock up on anything. It's cheaper per roll to buy twelve rolls of paper towels than it is per roll to buy two. But where would I put twelve rolls of paper towels? In the passenger seat, maybe, along with the twelve rolls of toilet paper and the giant box of Tide. Ha, just kidding. 

I use white vinegar to clean my dish and spoon. I put it in a little Walmart spray bottle. So cute. The pink spray bottle is for vinegar. I have a blue one for water, a purple one for alcohol, and a turquoise one for soap. It's so festive. I store small bottles of vinegar, alcohol, and soap under the floorboard where the stow-and-go seat used to be. It would be cheaper to buy a gallon of white vinegar at a time, but it won't fit down there in the hole. 

Same for clothes, food, you name it. You can get discounts when you buy in bulk, if you have a place to put the stuff. Got a big fridge? Fill it with cheese, go on, why not? 

Speaking of cheese, I visited a dietician last week. She was supposed to give me a vestibular migraine diet, but given that my dizziness probably isn't triggered by food, we ended up discussing my protein deficiency. 

"You only eat twice a day?" she said, shaking her head. "That's not good. You are starving yourself. You need to eat more often, small meals three times a day, plus three snacks. Six times a day. With protein at each meal." 

I pondered that news. On one hand, yay! Unlimited feeding! On the other hand, ugh, fat city, here I come.

"You don't need to lose weight," she said. She obviously couldn't see my bulging belly through my giant fanny pack. "You are going to need those reserves for when you get sick."

Uh-oh, I thought, what does she know that I don't? Is that why she's wearing a mask, is Covid making the rounds of the hospital? Why didn't they tell me at the door? Or has everyone just given up?

"I hear what you are saying," I said. "I don't have an off-switch for certain foods. Crackers, for example."

"No problem! Crackers are okay. You need the salt. Just put some peanutbutter on them so you get some protein."

In the week since my appointment, I've been pretending I can eat like normal people. I got yogurt, I got soymilk, I got peanutbutter, I even got cheese. Why not? She said it was okay. It's been fun. I knew it wouldn't last. My body rose up and rebelled yesterday, as I knew it would eventually. I have learned certain foods just don't sit right. I usually can't remember what effect they have had on me after I eat them, but I carry a residual memory of bad times. Cheese, no good. Soymilk, bad. Yogurt, yum, but not pleasant. However, I have special vacation dispensation, which means when you are not in your normal environment, that is, when you are on vacation, you are allowed to eat whatever and whenever you want. It's a well-known fact that vacation food has fewer calories than home food. 

I'm using my time here on my dogsitting retreat to finish writing a book I've been working on for a year. It's nothing great, just a shameless ploy to earn money from the experience I've gained mentoring artists who have deluded themselves into believing that the world wants to buy their art. They are a unique breed that I understand well, seeing as how I am one of them. I speak their language of martyrdom and longing. I never say your art is no good, go get a day job, even if I am thinking it. There's a market for anything, even a stupid rock in a box, if you can just reach enough gullible people and convince them this thing has value. Yes, it's a rock in a box, but for the low low price of $4.99, it can be your loving no-maintenance pet for life. 

In addition to writing (and eating, pooping, and napping), I started another car-home renovation project. I'm restructuring the shelves in the back. The quality of work is questionable (I'm using 5/8-inch mdf) but so far, it's sturdy enough, once I got the screws in the right places. Heavy as a mahogany desk but not quite so handsome. Once I anchor it down, it should outlast the car (and me), should the car roll down a prickly embankment. I might go flying, but my campstove, T-shirts, and soup cans will survive the trip intact, no problem. 

It's not a bad thing to hunker down in the wild for a while. Tis the season for laying low. I'll emerge from hiding to cast my tiny vote and then fade back into the safety of the forest.  As long as some doofus with firecrackers and guns doesn't set the place on fire, I can ride out the turmoil. I hope by the end of the year, any uneasy ripples in the American zeitgeist will be subsiding. I'll be like a packrat in a burrow. I will stick my nose out and sniff the air. If the coast seems clear, I'll mingle with the hoi poloi at fancy Frys or plebeian Walmarts. However, I'm aware half this country would like to kill me. If the grand experiment seems to be headed for the rocks, well, I'll put on my old white lady invisibility cloak, lurk in the background, and do whatever small things I can do to right the ship. 

The quest to matter

It might be human nature to want to feel significant, to know we've made a difference by existing. I remember reading stories of pioneers who transversed the plains on their way to the Willamette Valley to steal land from the natives already living there. As they urged their plodding oxen forward, they left their marks on the land in the form of cast-off detritus, wagon wheel ruts, and carvings on Independence Rock, for example. I wonder if those travelers had any idea of their legacy. Now we treasure those acts of littering and vandalism. I think they just wanted to feel like, for a brief moment, they had made their mark, to prove they mattered.

A few weeks ago I camped in a dispersed camping area southwest of Tucson. The small area was crowded with campers, trailers, and motorhomes in various states of disrepair. Some looked like they hadn't moved in months. Huge tent mansions had sprung up around them as the residents sought to expand their living quarters into livable space. The wind whipped those tarps and tent flaps incessantly. 

I tucked my minivan into a space too tiny for anything else, with bushes screening me on three sides. Just behind my liftgate I saw the remains of a campfire ring, now filled with charcoal and some trash, which I put into my garbage bag. As I inspected the ground, I came across a plastic ziplock bag weighted down by a rock. I picked it up. A folded piece of paper was inside. Of course, I opened up the bag and unfolded the paper.

A previous camper had left a handwritten note. He wrote that he had camped in that spot in early March, a month or so before I arrived. He had camped a couple months at the campsite, on his way to something else, he wasn't sure what. During his stop there, he found an excellent Mexican food restaurant, and he met a girl he really liked, apparently another camper. He noted the uncertainty of his journey and reflected on how much he had learned about life and himself by living in his Jeep. A philosopher. He left the note unsigned. 

Reading the note made me think about how easy it is for an uprooted person to feel disconnected from an established community. I haven't felt inspired to leave litter in the form of a note to posterity. However, I too feel the need to matter. 

Imagine packing your important belongings into a Conestoga wagon, buying a team of oxen, and pointing them west. Even though the trail became well established, and there were numerous routes and supports put in place to help travelers cross the plains, it must have been fairly terrifying to turn away from civilization to head toward parts unknown. I'm guessing the frustration of staying stuck in the East caved under the desire for freedom, adventure, land, a new life. Seeds to plant, heads to bust, gold to pan, whatever the impetus, it was enough to motivate those intrepid souls to put it all in a wagon and hit the road. 

My extended road trip is not that romantic. I can't claim any grand motivation. I'm just waiting out the housing shortage. 

I thought about tossing the note in my trash bag. In the end, I put the note back in the ziplock baggy and weighted it down with the rock for someone else to find. I couldn't bring myself to erase the existence of that note. That camper mattered, to me, if to no one else. 

Home is a state of mind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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. 

I will not regret the future

To avoid living in the present, which is fraught with fear to the point of frantic dissociation, I am employing a technique known as visioning (which is basically a hallucination based on wishful thinking) to imagine a brave and hopeful future for myself after I've survived my personal version of freefall. My role model for this visioning process is Tom Hanks. No, I don't mean Forest Gump, although the temptation of saying eff it all and running across the midwestern plains has a certain appeal. No, the Tom Hanks character I am going to emulate is whatever the guy's name was in Castaway.

If you saw the movie, you remember he started out as a somewhat chunky normal guy. Then the plane crashed and he ended up castaway on a deserted island. He had to perform his own oral surgery. I don't plan to emulate that part. The memorable moment is what happens between the moment he conjures fire and the cut to the god-like creature he morphed into after a few years of surviving on fish and coconuts. 

I don't plan to start eating fish or coconuts. However, I do plan to morph into a god-like creature. God-dess. Whatever. Something other than what I am now. 

I can use my time on the road as an opportunity to reinvent myself. I can be someone different. Like, really different. You might not even recognize me in two years, that's how different I could be. Minus the plane crash (or in my case, I hope, the car crash that always seems imminent), I'm envisioning myself as the svelte survivor I will be if we fastforward a couple years. 

I will be thin. I will be smarter, somehow (not sure how that would happen, but I can hope). I will be able to get up from a chair without grimacing or grunting. My nose hairs will magically recede (but not back to my legs). I will be able to eat what normal people eat without getting sick, fat, or poor. Lactose intolerance will cease to be my nemesis. My cataracts will fade, my heart will settle into a steady rhythm, my bones will firm up, and this freight train in my head will roar off into the sunset, taking the typewriter tinnitus with it, never to be seen or heard again. I might even start to wear something other than black pajamas. Hey, as long as we're dreaming.

I don't expect all this to happen without my participation. First, of course, I will join a gym, because that is what people who want to reinvent themselves do. I might even go once in a while. Next, I will become a master of butane stove cuisine. I expect to be limited somewhat by lack of refrigeration, but if the planets align properly, I'll be able to get another power station to run my tiny portable camping fridge, currently languishing in my storage unit. There's nothing like powdered eggs cooked on a skillet in the frigid morning air. Nothing like it. I'm not sure what I will do about the hair migration problem. Even goddesses are allowed to shave their upper lips once in a while, right? I'm pretty sure. 

The only hitch in my vision might be the three caped and hooded horseriders of my personal apocalypse: my health, my teeth, and my car. These three dudes siphoned a lot of money out of my bank account the past couple years. Copays and a colonoscopy, crowns and root canals, and new tires and front end work all ganged up to just about kill me. I don't expect these nasty dudes to back off entirely, but maybe if I figure out what sacrifices to perform to placate their supervisor, I might make it through another year without running out of cash. I can hope. I am totally future tripping these days, because that is where hope is. The past is out of reach. The present is far too uncertain and painful. So what else is there? I'm running forward, not looking back.

Surreality on the fourteenth floor

What was I saying last week about suffering being optional? Oh, brother. I stand corrected. Suffering is mandatory. It's the human condition. If it's not an atmospheric firehose, it's a check engine light. If it's not prunes for breakfast because cheese has ripped you a new one, it's dementia welcoming you to hell. Check your expectations at the door, get in, fasten your seatbelt, and keep your head and arms inside the ride at all times, if you can.

I whined about cold dark nights in the desert, but you don't know cold and dark until you've seen your college friend and former business partner being eaten alive by the worst form of dementia labeled by modern medicine. How come we can get stains out of clothes with a spritz from a spray bottle but we can't clean out the crap that infiltrates our neurons and causes us to lose our personhood? It's unfair, wah wah, but then again, what's unfair for the human is a triumphant heyday for the virus or bacteria or whatever the hell it is eating up my friend's brain in great big noisy gulps. 

Last week was one of the most surreal experiences I can remember. My friend's husband paid for me to stay in a guest room at the memory care facility. In some ways the guest room resembled a posh hotel room: a bathroom bigger than my studio apartment, with a huge shower; a fully functional kitchenette with a two-burner stove, dishes, and a full-size refrigerator for my full-size pizza; a queen size bed in front of a king-size flat screen TV; and a sitting room with a loveseat and a round wooden table with two chairs. The only things I lacked were a hook for my bathrobe and functional WiFi. Did I mention it was on the fourteenth floor? It was on the fourteenth floor. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over Westwood Village, and in the far distance, yes, I had a view of the Pacific Ocean, glittering in the sun. 

After each visit with my friend, I retreated to this sanctuary to cry, to moan, to berate God for turning my friend into someone I didn't know, and to beg God for mercy, that if this disease should infiltrate my brain that I be given the grace to accept it and the means to locate some fentanyl, stat. 

I've been back in Tucson for two days, and I'm still gobsmacked by the horror of what happens when we lose our capacity to think. 

There were some macabre moments of levity. She managed to tie her shoelaces to each other. Fortunately I fixed it before she stood up. On her birthday, she put a red plaid flannel shirt on inside out, so the chest pockets hung like flacid bags. It looked great on her rail-thin figure—I predict we'll all be wearing our flannel shirts inside out soon. My teariest chuckles came when her old-fashioned red bat phone rang and she answered the TV remote. The TV came on, and the phone kept ringing. 

Another time she tried to answer a flat long paintbox set. In her defense, it did resemble a really big cell phone. The phone kept ringing, so I picked up the telephone receiver and held it out to her. She started mumbling into it. I tried to take the paintbox out of her other hand, but she pulled it away and stood there with a "phone" at each ear, muttering word salad. My brilliant funny friend.

My friend is still in there somewhere—I can see it in the art she makes—but her personality has shattered. She knows something is very wrong, and she's frustrated and scared. She has a minder every morning until her husband comes to do the afternoon-evening shift. She often locks the minder out of her room, paranoid to the point of tears, complaining nobody there likes her. Almost every morning, she packs a bag, determined to escape the prison. In fact, she got out a couple times. The airtag in her purse led to her rescue. She keeps trying. The first day I was there, she'd packed all her shoes into a big yellow bag, along with a couple mismatched socks, two cashmere scarves, and a toothbrush. Whatever it takes. 

Maybe it's some weird kind of blessing that the slow-motion car crash my friend is experiencing is taking so long. The pace of the disease gives us time to accept it, to say goodbye slowly, to grieve in smaller doses that aren't as painful or shocking as they would be if she'd died in an actual car crash. If I had cancer, I would want time to say goodbye. The problem is, her body lives on while her brain is dying. She could live on for several more years before her brain forgets how to tell her throat to swallow. Is it better to be aware or unaware that you are disintegrating? 

This week I got the news that another friend, an older man I served on a nonprofit board with, has decided to have his doctor remove the medical device that keeps his heart going. He's chosen the day and time. Day after tomorrow, 10:00 a.m. ET. He's said his goodbyes. A few hours after they unplug him, he will die. He's running to meet death. How badass is that? The medical system is geared to help us survive at all costs. We compassionately euthanize our pets but we pull out all the stops to keep the hopelessly ill people alive a few months longer, even if they aren't considered "terminally" ill. It's so uncivilized to usher our decrepits off the mortal coil "before their time." 

It's all just random, a slurry of genes, lifestyle, income, and social connections that determine our lifespan. Unless we opt out. Ha. Take that, fate, God, or whatever the hell you are.

As the week went on, stopped trying to understand. I learned to respond to my demented friend with compassion and encouragement, even though I had no idea most of the time what she was saying. I looked for the nuggets of joy. She lit up at the sight of her birthday cake, and for a few moments, I caught a glimpse of the person I used to know. 

I was grateful she knew me. I hated to leave, and yet I could not leave fast enough. On the morning I checked out, I kissed her cheek, told her I could not take her with me (she had packed all her socks), and got someone to let me out the lockdown door into the elevator lobby. I took my broken, raging heart down to the parking structure, got into my musty car, and drove out of that tomb into the California sunshine. Will I see my friend again? Maybe in another year she won't know me. 

That's a problem for another day. 

Today, I live.

Suffering is optional, and your misery can be refunded

The Chronic Malcontent here, coming to you from open desert somewhere between Parker, AZ, and Lake Havasu City. I’m parked on a swath of BLM land that looks a lot like a Marscape. Just over the rocky hill to the west is the famous Lake Havasu, invisible to me because I don’t own lakefront property, a boat, or a willingness to pay for a sardine spot in a campground along the water. I’m cool with it. Seen one lake, yada yada.

Last night I found a spot on BLM land along highway 62 about six miles outside of Parker, just over the California border. More Marscape. I was going to stay two nights, but my power station was running low. Solar generation was out of the question, given the rain pelting the region, so the only way to charge the thing up was to drive. Hence, new location.

I was in a store in Parker and got to talking with a gentleman from Michigan. I could tell he was from colder climes because of his sporty cargo shorts and sockless sandals. It’s not cold here (even by most standards), but by Arizona winter standards, the temperature is just a little below normal. I feel it. My blood is Arizona thin after several seasons. I bundle up, as usual, with hat and fingerless gloves.I’m on my way to Los Angeles tomorrow to see my demented friend. I am not looking forward to being back in L.A. I was just there last April. I seem to remember swearing I would never return. Kind of ironic, given I lived there for twenty years. I suppose the city has changed a lot, although it’s still sprawling and chaotic; more to the point, I have changed. Driving in cities is hard and unpleasant. I have come to appreciate the long vistas and time to think that come with driving on the open road.

The American West has a lot of open space, which is why vehicular nomads tend to gravitate toward this part of the country. In the winter, most flock to southern Arizona to enjoy mild weather. Case in point, the dude from Michigan. He comes down here every winter with his wife and stays in various places. I got the feeling he meant nice hotels and golf resorts, because they weren’t driving a motorhome, just a little van conversion with a bed in the back for her to sack out during trips. Reminds me of my parents. They did something similar, poor-man style. Mom slept while Dad drove. I’m guessing this is in large part how their marriage survived so many years.

What have I learned on my roadtrip so far? Nights are long and dark. Mornings are cold. I need more lights. I need less stuff. The challenges are the basic conundrums of finding new routines in a new environment. Tip: everything needs to have a place, and when you are done with a thing, put it back in its place, otherwise you will not find it for days.

My brain keeps slipping gears as it tries to parse this new reality. I’m searching for meaning where there is none. I’m here, that’s all. It doesn’t have to mean I’m a colossal loser, a moral failure. People who haven’t lived a nomadic lifestyle get judgy, as if being on a continuous roadtrip is a sign of mental instability. I admit, I get mired in self-recrimination at times. This isn’t what I expected, that’s for sure, but to see it as a failure rather than an adventure is just a rut borne out of my upbringing, family concerns, and societal opinions.

I don’t believe I create my reality. Everything is outside my control. However, I do believe I can choose how I want to perceive reality, and in that sense, my choices create my experience. It’s challenging to avoid the drag of outside opinions. Everyone thinks they know what is right, for me, for them, for the world. Good, bad, who is qualified to judge my perception of my reality except me?

Meanwhile, the work of writing continues. What else is there? I’ve decided to rebrand myself as Carol B, Roadwriter. Creativity lives on, as long as there is life and breath.

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.

I feel a road trip coming on

The end of a year inspires me to look past the daily grind of living to the broader panorama of my life. Maybe you could say I'm looking under the hood to see if my engine needs an overhaul. It's barely eight o'clock in the evening here in Tucson, and already I hear fireworks in the distance. Sometimes people like to set off rockets in the wash behind the trailer. If we're really lucky somebody will set something on fire (preferably not this trailer), and the sirens will inspire a coyote chorus. Nothing says you live in the stupid cold desert like hearing a bunch of howling coyotes. 

The drawing you see here is from 1997, when I was in freefall between Los Angeles and Portland. I was trying to look on the bright side. What did I know about being homeless? Clearly nothing, judging by the insipid enthusiasm on my face (yes, that is a self-portrait, and yes, I used to have hair in those days). I was just as prone to magical thinking then as I am now, but my yearnings these days are tempered by cynicism borne of aging. It's hard to conjure much enthusiasm for adventure (or fireworks) when one is worn out from the trials of being alive. 

Oh, woe is me, I'm alive. What a tragedy. 

Being alive beats the alternative, but it's hard sometimes. The air pressure ebbs and flows, which means my vestibular system is swamped at least once per minute. The noise in my right ear is deafening. My neck aches from valiantly trying to hold my head straight, to keep my sightlines steady. When my eyes are closed, I lean to the right, so I try not to close my eyes when I am standing up. Walking in the dark is difficult. Dangerous, probably, but when you gotta go, you gotta go. I don't think this vestibular paroxysmia malady is getting worse, but it's not getting any better. I am waiting impatiently for my visit to the neurologist in February. Maybe she'll have some answers about this downed powerline in my head. It's just as possible she will tell me to quit whining and send me home. 

Home. I still hope such a place exists. I plan to continue my quest. I could give up, surrender to Tucson, admit defeat, tell myself it doesn't matter if I live in a place that doesn't feel right to me. I could just suck it up, along with my physical maladies. But with the housing situation the way it is, I can't afford even the roach-ridden gun-infested sleazebag apartment I rented the first year I came here. My options have dwindled, and I don't think it's my fault. Rents have gone up all over the nation, and low-income seniors are being hit hard. I feel it. It hurts.

I was forty years old when I left Los Angeles to move back to Portland. I had parents then. I had a long-distance relationship that quickly fizzled and morphed into another quasi-committed relationship. In other words, I had multiple safety nets, the lowest and most moldy of which would have been my parents' basement. I never really worried about being homeless. It was kind of a cool bohemian dream, to be a vagabond. The nomad vanlife wasn't a thing yet (because YouTube hadn't been invented yet), although people did travel and live in motorhomes. I remember thinking it would be cool to live in a living room on wheels. I had a vision of selling paintings of mountains and waterfalls from the back window of my peddler's art wagon. My partner at the time was equally enamored of the possibilities of the nomad lifestyle, probably because he hoped to fly under his ex-wife's radar, maybe avoid paying taxes, skip out on child support, that sort of thing. Me, I just wanted freedom. 

Speaking of freedom, I'm headed out to Quartzsite in a week to hang out with the vanlifers, nomads, RVers, and schoolies. It will be crowded. I will not be alone. I will not be lonely. I will find kindred spirits. Or I will enjoy my solitude—just one small minivan among many travelers—cook food on my butane stove, and catch up on my sleep. I'm not sure what the internet situation will be. I don't really care. 

After that desert rendezvous ends, I'm planning on visiting my demented friend in Los Angeles. She's in a place now for nutty seniors. I complain a lot about my cognitive abilities (and I'm sure I'm dropping typos in my blogposts like my mother used to drop used tissues from every pocket), but I can still think and make decisions. Not great ones, sometimes, but I have autonomy. My poor friend has lost her ability to think, just like my mother did over the last few years of her life. But my friend is not even seventy. My heart is broken. 

Well, whose isn't, these days? If you haven't had some heartbreak in the past year, lucky you. I hope 2024 is better for all of us, no matter what kind of year we had. For those of us who struggle, I offer the familiar maxim, so 1970s but still true: not all who wander are lost.