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.

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.

The chronic malcontent butchers the scientific method

Howdy, blogbots. How are you holding up in this bizarre war of masked versus unmasked? Have you figured out which team you are on or what exactly we are fighting for? In light of everything plaguing human civilization, including this new plague, politicizing facial coverings sure seems like rearranging deck chairs. I can't assimilate any of the strife so I'm opting out for a while. My sister sent me an excellent video of fluffy white sheep grazing in a green vineyard under a blue sky. Have you seen it? I recommend it if you are feeling like committing murder. 

Speaking of wishing you were anywhere but here, I'm sure you are tired of hearing me whine about vertigo and ear crackling. Yep, still going on. I've had no luck treating the vertigo, even after carefully studying the mechanics of the inner ear. Just goes to prove the old adage, knowledge avails us nothing. You'd think I'd have everything figured out, considering my lofty education level. Inner ears are complicated mechanisms, and my "knowledge" is in the social sciences, not the medical sciences, which explains so much about me. Including how I've haphazardly applied the scientific method in my attempts to treat my malady.

You've already read about the many treatments I've tried, most gleaned from those helpful folks out in cyberspace, thank you, all you BPPV and ear crackling sufferers. Sadly, the only thing that reliably produces silence is immersing my head in hot water. The golden silence gained from tubbing lasts a good fifteen minutes. Not quite long enough to get to sleep but certainly better than zero. I've tried without success to replicate the conditions outside the tub by pouring hot water into my ear while leaning over the kitchen sink. I get wet but the hiss goes on. I admit, I've considered hot oil and hot wax, but I'm pretty sure that would lead to a sheepish trip to the ER, which is not where we want to be at this point in the burgeoning plague. 

Ever hopeful, I've been trying other things willy-nilly without keeping good records, so I can't really tell what might be working. For example, someone on the Internet suggested chewing gum. I went to the store to buy gum. Gum is an impulse item, found near the cash register. Who knew! Generally I ignore everything that is not related to arranging my groceries on the conveyor belt according to how I want the items to appear on my receipt. It's easier to do my record-keeping that way—the zucchini and broccoli aren't disrupted by the toothpaste and coffee filters. Nice and organized, you should try it. 

Anyway, so there I am actually forcing myself to look at the impulse items. I have no idea what I'm looking at. I see something that looks like it could be bubble gum. I don't care, I grab it and toss it on the belt. When I get home, I'm sort of excited to see what it feels like to chew gum. I haven't chewed gum in years. What a miracle it would be if chewing gum was all it took to open up my dysfunctional Eustachian tube. I opened the package and discovered what I had purchased was some sort of chewy candy. I sucked on it, disappointed, peering at the package. Two hundred and forty calories! Per piece! I spat it out in the trash and chucked the package after it. 

I refused to admit defeat. On my next weekly foray into the dangerous grocery store, masked and gloved as usual, I applied myself again to the challenge of identifying gum at the checkout line. I found some! Sugar-free, this time, spearmint flavored. That sounded good. I bought the economically priced jumbo pack, feeling rather pleased. When I got home, I peeled off the plastic, unwrapped the silver foil covering, and popped a stick into my mouth. Yum, spearmint. Weird, though, to be chewing on something that wasn't intended to be swallowed. Still, I'm not a quitter, so I chomped diligently on the wad, monitoring my ear to see if it seemed inclined to settle down.

Like a mail-in election, results were not immediately forthcoming. I tried again with another stick. Then I had lunch. About an hour before it was time to visit Mom at the nursing home, I started feeling some alarming pains in my gut. Things clenched and unclenched, as they are wont to do, I won't give you the sordid details, but I was pretty miserable standing outside my mother's window, clenching my butt cheeks while she was in her bathroom trying to unclench hers. (I am sure I have never written the word clench so many times in my life.) As I danced in agony on the pavement, I called the Med Aide on my cellphone to send help to Mom stuck in her bathroom. She got help, and ten minutes later, she collapsed exhausted on her couch. I made it home, and after another trip to my bathroom, I looked up xylitol on the Internet. I'm sure you won't be surprised to hear that xylitol can cause digestive distress among some subset of the population. It's like winning the reverse lottery. 

No more gum for me. 

My sister suggested maybe I needed a dose of negative ions. I remembered that my therapeutic light box emits negative ions (according to the manufacturer), so I plugged in the box and pressed the button. The green light came on and a slightly acidic smell wafted toward my nose. Is that how a negative ion smells?  How would you know if you were receiving a dose of negative ions? I'm asking out of curiosity. I can't imagine I'd be able to differentiate a negative ion from a coronavirus, could you?

I also heard that spices can open up sinus congestion. Ears, sinuses, Eustachian tubes . . . now I really get why those Ear Nose Throat doctors cover the territory they do. It's like a miniature version of the universe, all connected. I put some hot red pepper in my tea. That produced a coughing fit, which made tea shoot out my nose. You don't see that everyday. I hope the next time I get an ear infection, I remember to reread this blog post. I'm sure I will forget.

Well, I give up. This afternoon I sit in the dark cave surrounded by votive candles lit to honor St. Eustachian, the patron saint of crackling ears. The blinds are drawn against the heat of the day. Summer is here, more or less. It's 90°F today. We'll have a few days of heat, and I hope that will help my head stop swimming. Maybe the heat will burn out the ear infection as well. If the heat doesn't work, my last resort is telemedicine. You know what that is, right? Some kind of newfangled way to talk to a healthcare professional. Stay tuned. 

The Chronic Malcontent waits for summer

Two weeks after spending an afternoon in the ER, the maternal parental unit came out of quarantine and joined her fellow inmates in the dining room for the first time in three months. Earlier in the day, the nurse called me to tell me they were changing Mom's care plan to allow her to take her meals with other people. Mom hasn't been eating well in her room. She'd just as soon sleep as eat. Consequently she has been losing weight. 

I wasn't there to see her triumphant entrance to the dining room. I could have peered in the window but I didn't want to scare anyone. I assume all social distancing protocols were followed. When I visited Mom at her window after dinner, parental baby monitor to my ear, she said it was nice to go to the dining room but she still couldn't talk to anyone. I can only imagine what any conversation might have sounded like. Even on a good day, she doesn't always make sense. Well, who does, really. Nobody is having good days, these days.

Speaking of sense, when it comes to vertigo and ear infection, nothing makes any. I can't figure it out. I thought if I treated the vertigo, the ear rustling would cease. I studied some videos of the ear canals to see where my renegade ocotonia were vacationing. Wow, I know we studied the ear in elementary school but I'd forgotten how complex a structure it is. Amazing. And so tiny. It feels as big as the ocean when waves of vertigo sweep through my head. Who knew such a tiny contraption could reduce me to head-banging.

Three semicircular canals. Remember those? Horizontal, posterior, and anterior. Somewhere in there, maybe in more than one canal, are some wayward ear crystals dancing on nerve endings they were never supposed to see. I'm trying to think of them fondly as little dudes gone astray, enjoying a walking tour without proper permits. I'm not feeling much benevolence. It's very hard not to want to rip them out of my head like the lousy gravel that they are.

YouTube is great. People, especially chiropractors, naturopaths, and physical therapists, are so helpful, if you can endure the interminable ads. I found conflicting remedies but in desperation, I tried them all. The Deephead, the Epley, of course, my traitorous maneuver that never works, and a new one, the Barbecue Roll. I now know where my mastoid bones are, and I know what happens if you use a vibrator on them (temporary clanging bells). 

This is nuts. 

I'm trying to treat the vertigo on the theory that the ear hissing will subside, because the hissing seems to be linked to the vertigo. The hissing is rhythmic but not regular. It's as if someone is tapping you on the shoulder every five to thirty seconds, saying "Hey." More like, "He-e-e-e-e-e-e-y-y-y." For three to five seconds, a really long h-e-e-e-y. Like, hey, don't forget me, here I am, hey.

I'm a doctor's worst nightmare: the self-diagnosing patient. What did we do before WebMD? I think my Eustachian Tube needs a major overhaul. I'm ready to try the Modified Muncie, so you know how far gone I am. That's where you poke your tonsils with a finger to massage the malfunctioning Eustachian Tube opening. I'm also treating the ear infection with Valsalvas, antihistamines, nasal sprays, hot packs, ginger tea (by mouth), nasal rinses (with distilled water so I don't get amoebas in my brain), and ear lavages with alcohol and white vinegar. 

The only time I get relief is when my head is immersed in a hot tub of bathwater. These conditions are difficult to replicate sitting in front of my computer doing Zoom calls. I'm operating under the assumption that heat opens the Eustachian Tube and stops the ear rattling. Therefore, I have a new remedy in the works. It's only in the design stage so don't get too excited. It's called the Fire Turban. I don't have much hair anyway, so if something gets singed, probably my usual black hat will cover it.

I'm holding out for summer, my solution to all my problems. I've always believed summer will cure what ails me, which is why I moved to Los Angeles when I was twenty. You can imagine the rest. Usually summer starts on July 5 in Portland, but this year, summer is late, and according to the forecaster, it doesn't seem to be wafting over the horizon any time soon. Man, I need some high pressure. It's my last resort. If I don't get some relief when summer finally arrives, then I'll give up. I crawl to my doctor (virtually of course, via a telehealth appointment I'm sure will cost me $100) and I'll admit defeat. 

Next weekend is the first class of my five-week series on business tips for artists. Luckily it's on Zoom so I can keep my feet warm with my heated rice-filled foot warmers. I'm a little anxious that I will be distracted by waves of dizziness and relentless hissing in my ear. It will be hard to explain to the class if I suddenly break down weeping. Well, we either survive or we don't. Meanwhile, we are intrepid: We carry on.

Manifesting introversion

The world has gone mad. Blogger has zeroed out all my view counts. It's official. I have ceased to exist. I always suspected I wasn't real. Now I know. All sound and fury, signifying a failed attempt to garner attention. Clearly, no one cares. I guess we all have better things to do with our time now, right? Like worry about our unkempt hair. I have to laugh when I see shaggy-headed women carrying placards reading Open up the country. I need a haircut. Poor dears. It's moments like these I am grateful I am so self-contained. Not only to I do my own nails but I also do my own hair. I have the photos to prove it.

There's only one thing I want and I can't have it, so as a second choice, I have decided to see if I can practice my visualization technique to manifest something. I'm willing to start small. Manifesting stuff hasn't really worked before but I'm feeling lucky. Today, I would like to manifest some glow-in-the-dark paint. I'm not sure why, exactly. I just think it might be entertaining to have arrows to guide me around my dark apartment at night when I am wandering with insomnia.

I often wake up thinking about my mother. Usually I have a playlist running in my head, whatever I listened to before taking my nightly bath and going to bed. Last night I watched a YouTube video of the life of Cher so I woke up humming If I could turn back time. I'm not a big Cher fan; as a former fashionista, I was more focused on Bob Mackie. Still, that song seems like a good theme for an insomniac during a pandemic.

The news is not all bad. I'm heartened to see images of wild animals taking over empty roads, city streets, and yards, raiding refrigerators and busting into cars. Right on! I read that birds are altering their songs now that the world is quieter. I saw video of jellyfish in a Venetian canal. If we humans all just go away, the world will be fine. I'm willing to consider going away.

Then again, half the population would be delighted to kill off everyone over sixty. I reconsider my willingness to consider going away. I won't go willingly, I just decided. You'll have to take me out back and shoot me.

I did my part to tickle the economy by replenishing some footwear I have needed for several years. I didn't want to buy from the big mean online megastore so I bought from a different online megastore I hoped was less mean. How can you tell? I heard some American brands aren't paying their overseas contractors. This is not a good time to be poor. Hmm. Is there ever a good time, I wonder? Before I clicked the button, I gave some thought to the plight of the workers who would pick and wrap my package and the delivery driver who would drop the box on my porch, pound on the door, and run. Then I clicked the button. I could almost hear the funds draining out of my bank account into the pockets of the big online megastore.

I wonder how much my insurance rates would go up if I decided to become a delivery driver? Several months ago, I applied to be a Census taker, just for the experience. That so far has tanked; for me, I think that ship sailed over the edge of the earth. I could probably be a candidate for contact tracing training. You know, calling people to ask them where they went and who they talked to before they got sick. Ugh. Yeah, probably delivering footwear would be a better fit for me. I don't really like people up close, and I really dislike them on the phone.

Speaking of phones and people, I video chatted twice today, once with a friend and an hour later with my sister. I told my friend I thought that over the next several years, families with children (and resources, of course) would start migrating out of cities into rural farmland, seeking safety, space, and sustenance from the land. My friend listened thoughtfully and said, wow. We discussed the possibility that red counties could start turning purple. In contrast, my sister said she didn't think that would ever happen. I get the feeling she doesn't like to think about the possibilities of large cultural change. I mentioned my belief that we'd soon have robots doing personal care. She rolled her eyes. (Don't you love video chat?) I didn't tell her my other predictions about how children will learn to distrust people from outside their family tribe, or how there will likely be less personal privacy, or how new houses will be built with self-contained quarantine units.

I admit, I don't like change either. I'm still pissed off that all the hair on my legs has migrated to my eyebrows, nostrils, and upper lip. But like I said last time, what is fair to the cat is not always fair to the mouse. Or the other cat.

An acquaintance who works in the alternative wellness industry called me last week. As we were talking, I coughed. A short dry cough. Twice. Sounding alarmed, she asked me if I was sick. I said no, I just have allergies. Later in the conversation, I told her that I would be disinclined to sit in a small meeting room with a group of people anytime in the near future. Sounding amazed, she asked me why. I said because I would feel bad if I unknowingly spread the virus to someone in the group and they got sick or died. She had no response. I chalked it up to her youth.

Since then, I have asked several people how comfortable they would be going back to the old way of gathering in groups. Even my older friends are itching to hug their friends. I seem to be the only one reluctant. I guess in my case, introversion is sort of like a disease. Too bad it's not contagious. It could save your life.

Don't jump

Howdy, blogbots. I'm taking time out of stressing about my mother's impending move to assisted living to reflect on my morning adventure. Today I took a bus downtown for a SCORE workshop on social media marketing. I signed up over a month ago, not realizing it would happen in the middle of one of the more hectic weeks in my life. But I have trained myself to show up to the tasks on my calendar. So off to town I went.

I think the bus driver was new. He meandered sedately from stop to stop, easing the bus to the curb with care. He greeted every passenger with a bright Good morning! Traffic was bottlenecked at a construction mess around SE 33rd. The driver inched the bus between parked cars and oncoming trucks. At any moment, I expected to hear the side of the bus take off a parked car's left-side mirror. I held my breath until we came out the other side. At 12th, the bus driver traded places with a new driver, who adjusted his seat and mirrors and took off in a roaring cloud of dust. I guess we might have been running a few minutes late.

The bus filled up as we headed toward town. I enjoyed the view from my window seat. No rain today, yay, but not much sun either. Just a sky of hazy white clouds, the kind with the capacity to surprise: burn off to clear blue sky or sprinkle rain all day. Traffic slowed as we neared the Hawthorne Bridge. Trucks and buses haven't been able to cross the Morrison Bridge for a few years because the deck is crumbling. This summer, our city plans to fix the mess, so as of April 1, most car traffic is now diverted to the Hawthorne Bridge until next fall. As you can imagine, there was quite a traffic jam.

The bus crept across the bridge. I had a great view of the boats moored along the river's edge. I wondered what kind of people could afford the condos built along the river. I wondered how many people have been living on their boats since the housing crash in 2008. The river was calm but murky. March was the fourth wettest month on record, so the rivers are all running high.

Suddenly I heard several passengers' crying, "No, oh no, oh no, no, no!" People along the right side of the bus began energetically popping up in their seats. I was on the left side of the bus. I thought, is a bicyclist trapped? A pedestrian fallen in the road? What is happening?

The bus driver stopped the bus. "Open the door!" Some passengers pounded on the back door. They burst out the door and then I watched through the window as they grabbed a man who was attempting to climb over the railing of the bridge. One rescuer grabbed the man in a bear hug, and I caught a glimpse of a face—red cheeks, grizzled chin. I thought I saw shame and chagrin. The man twisted away from the men who were attempting to restrain him and marched unsteadily along the bridge sidewalk toward the pedestrian off ramp.

Meanwhile, multiple people were calling 911 on their cellphones to report a suicidal man on the Hawthorne Bridge.

Eventually the bus continued into downtown. I got off at the next stop and hiked up to the Courthouse at SW 6th and Main for the workshop, which was pretty much a dud for me personally. I will probably forget to blog about it, so in case you are curious, here are the highlights: no breakfast, no coffee, memorable bus ride, old courthouse, three attendees, no refreshments, obese presenter obsessed with food, mediocre PowerPoint, sales pitch for Constant Contact, ended ten minutes early, caught bus, home by noon.

The real story (besides the suicidal man) is how I could take a morning off from the job of orchestrating my mother's move to assisted living. Like I said, I do what is on my calendar. I signed up for this workshop over a month ago, long before we found the facility and started preparations to move.

Last night Mom's brain was mush. She'd stayed up to 3 am going through stuff to keep and sell in a yard sale. She was barely coherent when I brought her six more empty boxes. I was worried. Taking a morning off seemed a bit irresponsible, but hell. I can't manage my mother's brain. This morning I called her and she sounded much better. I guess she got some sleep and ate some food. I am hopeful that she'll survive this move and thrive in the new place. Stay tuned.

The chronic malcontent points out some landmarks on our trip to hell

A few days ago, as I was scrubbing just the white squares on my black-and-white checkerboard linoleum kitchen floor, I pondered the possibility that we are past the point of no return on our trip to hell, and the hand-basket seems to be crumbling around us. The journalists and reporters are not reassuring. The earth may have reached a tipping point as the climate changes, not good for us little humans scurrying around on the planet's surface. Democracy has sprung a billion leaks and threatens to founder as possibly the least bad form of government. A few days ago my car wouldn't start. I mean, all the signs seem to indicate we are on a one-way trip to hell in a hand-basket.

So, what if everything really is falling apart? Like any journey, I suppose the trip to hell will happen in several stages. Here is my guess about what the stages might look like, if you are a crazy wackjob like me.

It wasn't my fault. When something goes wrong, the first thought is, well, whatever it is, it wasn't my fault. Like mistakes were made (but not by me). Pass the buck, avoid responsibility, hide under the rock, don't admit there's dirty laundry. Pretend like I wasn't even there. That sometimes works for awhile.

Who can I blame? The next stage starts with admitting I was there, but it was someone else's fault. I'm just a hapless victim, those lousy liberals or those confounded conservatives are really to blame. Or how about those people who don't look like me, they look suspicious, with their unsettling voices and funny skin. It must be their fault!

Let me at 'em! Now that I've identified the source of my troubles, I'm one breath closer to wanting to beat the crap out of them. Or at least deny them any civility and respect. Let me take away their rights or something, keep them from being happy and healthy. That will make me feel a lot better. That's all they deserve, anyway, those people who have the gall to be different from me. They are lucky I let them live. If you want to join me, we can beat them up together. Nothing like being part of a mob to make one feel empowered and righteous, am I right?

I've got mine and you can't have any. As soon as we've trashed the other, you and I will start to eyeball each other and realize, the more you have, the less there is for me. So, no, we can't be friends. We teamed up when we had to, but now that the threat is gone, I'm building a wall. A really yuge wall.

I'm bigger than you, so give me all yours. And now that I'm safe behind my wall, and I've hoarded a bunch of stuff to make me feel wealthy and worthwhile, I realize I don't have enough, I need all your stuff, too. Plus, because I'm bigger and badder, I deserve to have more stuff. Your stuff. All the stuff. So give it to me. If you don't, I'll take it. Because I can. Don't whine.

At this point, the path forks into two options: urgency or resignation.

Option 1: I don't care about you, I've got to survive. Get out of my way! I don't care what you say, I don't care what you feel, I don't care if your children are shoeless or the planet is dying. You mean nothing to me. The future of your grandchildren means nothing to me. The only thing that matters is my survival, right now, in this moment. At this point, hell is just around the corner, but of course, I can't see it.

Option 2: I don't care what happens anymore, what's the use. If I get to this point, I've accepted my fate. I can see hell ahead of me, clear as day. I resign myself to the vagaries of the universe. I realize there is no meaning or purpose to existence, that the whole thing was just a stupid, futile dream. You can have my things. I'm giving up.

Yikes! After writing this, I have a knot in my stomach not unlike the knot I feel when I've watched the news for the past four weeks. I'm making up the stages of a journey that seems all too real. I can't get my tiny brain to accept the events and statements I see and hear daily. (And I can't stop compulsively watching and listening! Argh!)

Part of me thinks, wow, I should have been a journalist! This new world is a journalist's paradise. Another part of me thinks, isn't that a bit like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic? Nero fiddling while Rome burns? Waving my hands like I'm on Space Mountain while I'm going to hell in a hand-basket? Even journalists will go down with the ship, busily commentating as we sink beneath the waves.

Don't pretend like you know what is coming

We are barreling into a new year. This year, I'd really like to put the brakes on. Can we just freeze time before we get to January 21? Then I could pretend I've been watching a particularly gruesome and disgusting reality show. I would like to change the channel and return to sanity. Where's the BACK button on this thing?

Clearly I'm still in shock. I'm not ashamed to say it, I feel like I've been bludgeoned by stupidity. My own stupidity. All my yammering about empathy and listening, yada yada, and still I'm shocked when unhappy people express their needs in unskillful ways. When will I learn? I'm just as unskillful as the rest of us. I include you, sorry, readers. We are all in this hand-basket together, and you know where we are going.

Guilty, again! I make cynical pronouncements (like that one I just made) as if I know what is coming. I spout nonsense as if I have the inside track on knowledge about the future. It gets me every time. I act like if I just say something enough times, and loudly enough, that by itself will make it true! We're all going to hell in a hand-basket! There I go, wallowing in the wreckage of the future! I'm masquerading as a person who knows what the future holds, when in fact, I have no clue what's coming! Argh. I hate not knowing. (Not to mention the small detail about defining my terms... is there a hell? And what is a hand-basket, anyway? Whatever it is, how will we all fit into it? I have no idea.)

I hate not knowing even more than I hate my fear that good things could actually come from stupid decisions, and then I won't have the perverse pleasure of saying, see, I knew it! I told you so. Sometimes it happens that "bad" outcomes ensue from "good" intentions, and "good" outcomes manifest from "bad" actions. Despite all the stuff written to the contrary, we humans don't have a Magic 8 Ball that allows us to peer into the future, except by using past outcomes as a predictor. And if you have ever lost money in the stock market, you know that past performance is no guarantee of future results.

I get lassoed by my fear of uncertainty into believing I know what is coming. Besides the certainty of death (and taxes), does anyone know what is coming? No. That doesn't stop us from prognosticating about the future as if we have a hotline to fate. As if we are inside the mind of Secret Santa. As if we know what is in our stockings. Let me guess: a toothbrush and a Hershey's chocolate bar. Whoops, that was 45 years ago. (Good news: at least I still have teeth).

We are having a little snow day in Portland. One inch of snow and a half inch of ice and the city shuts down. The electric trains can't run with ice on the wires. The buses can't get up and down the hills. I can't get my car out of the parking lot, and walking on this ice is likely to result in a trip to the ER with a broken hip (I'm not certain, I'm only guessing, based on past experience). So here I am, hunkered down in the Love Shack, waiting for the ice to melt, bored and trying to avoid the tedious task of turning my print book into a Kindle book.

I guess it's good I don't know the future. If I knew that writing this book would be a waste of time I probably wouldn't have spent two years writing it. Even now, I can hold out hope that soon people will find it, buy it, like it, talk about it. Hey, it could happen, right? Nobody knows the future.