Losing sight of normal

I've been a nomad for a little over a month, skulking mostly around Tucson. The plan was to stick around for the month of April for a series of vestibular therapy appointments, and when they were done, I'd be cured and free to move on from this dusty windy incinerator. You might have noticed it's May now. I received my discharge summary from the PT (in short, nothing wrong with you, nothing I can treat). I have one more medical appointment tomorrow for a different issue, and after that I can adventurously seek out Walmarts in other cities. That will be fun.

What is wrong with this picture? 

No, I don't mean that picture. I mean, the picture of me getting used to (looking forward to?) finding new Walmart parking lots to sleep in. Is that normal? I don't think that is normal, but I can't be sure anymore. Nothing seems normal when all my routines have been obliterated. 

You've heard of the story about the frog in boiling water? The frog didn't get into the kettle while it was boiling. No normal frog would do that. No, the frog was just lounging in a kettle of water, enjoying some quiet time. Then, some mean human came along and turned the heat up under the kettle. You can imagine. Gradually the water got warm. The frog enjoyed it at first (mmm, jacuzzi). By the time the frog realized it was about to parboil, its spindly little legs were too weak to let the frog jump out of the kettle. Hence, lunch. 

Humans do something like that, too, according to the psychologists. Supposedly when our living conditions deteriorate gradually, we adapt to these conditions instead of changing them. By the time we realize we are effed, we are too effed up to escape. Boom. We are lunch.

It's not a perfect analogy to describe my situation. For one thing, I saw my living conditions deteriorating from a long way off, and I took action to mitigate the worst of it before I ran out of resources and had to give up. Second, and maybe more to the point, where would I "escape" to? A subsidized senior housing complex over by the I-10 freeway? Even if I wanted to stay in Tucson, and even if I could get onto the waitlist, I would rather live in my car. Who wants to live in a tenement building full of tottering old folks? (Said the tottering old folk). I just want my freedom. Is that such a surprise? I totally understand why houseless people prefer tents to institutionalized shelters. 

Speaking of tents, no. It's over 90°F outside. I'm coming to you from the food court inside the Tucson Mall. It's one of the few enclosed malls left, and let me tell you, I am super grateful for this mall and its covered parking area. Some of the Tucson libraries are nice, but their hours are limited, and they would not appreciate me jabbering on Zoom calls. The Mall is not ideal, but maybe it's my new normal, to be sitting at a table that is too tall for the chair, shaking out the pins and needles in my arms every few minutes. I'm learning to let the waves of noise wash past me with the hordes of shoppers, all of whom seem to be pushing their children in little red plastic cars that make fake motor sounds. It's the new normal. I sleep in a Walmart parking lot next to a road that turns into a race track on Saturday nights. I can new-normal my way through just about anything.

Next week, I hope to get out and up in elevation to beat the heat. I hope I can find some free camping on BLM land, but I'll settle for a new Walmart. Then I'll breeze back through Tucson, pick up my meds, and head north for a few weeks of dogsitting with the fabulous little maniac dog we call Maddie. That's the plan, anyway, unless conditions turn me in a new direction. 

Searching for my tribe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have something very similar," I said. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Chronic Malcontent wobbles into nomad life

My younger brother used to be able to shoot down house flies with rubber bands. That takes some real skill. I don't have that skill. I resort to a spray bottle of alcohol. That used to work well on the house flies in Portland, even the great big ones. 

Here in the Southern Arizona desert, flies are hardy, tough little addicts. Alcohol just excites them. At least that is the way it looks to me. It's possible they are being replaced at the rate I shoot them down, like mercernary infantry who don't care if they live or die. It's possible the carpet is littered with carcasses, and I'll find them at some date long into the future when I do a deep clean on this little caravan. I hung a sheer curtain over the open doorway. It's folded over at the top, and multiple species of flies have congregated at the top of the fold. How they got in there I have no idea. What they are doing there is less of a mystery. I assume they skitter back and forth at the top of the fold because they are seeking the exit. Aren't we all.

Speaking of exit-seeking, I had my first appointment with the physical therapy suggested by the neurologist. We got off to a rocky start—I had failed to notice that one of the three pages I was supposed to fill out had more information on the back (in my defense, the other two pages were blank on the back, and I hadn't eaten anything since evening the day before, fearing she might be putting me through some shenanigans that would motivate me to barf.) Anyway, I think my OCD desire to finish filling out the form mollified her somewhat. She could tell I was a good student.

I was with her for almost two hours. I answered her questions as best I could. She did tests on my vestibular system (obviously not trusting the neurologist's diagnosis), and I'm glad she did her own tests, because as it turned out, she reached a different conclusion. Or rather, she reached no conclusion.

Finally we sat down in opposite chairs. She tapped my knee. "You don't have BPPV," she said. "Your eyes are steady. No nystagmus."

"Okay," I said.

"And I don't think you have vestibular migraines, either," she continued. "Vestibular migraines come like an attack, triggered by something, like food or bright lights. You don't have attacks."

"No, mine is more like waves," I agreed. "Every minute or so, with the ear crackling. Like a downed powerline in my head."

"In my eighteen years of therapy practice, I've never seen anyone like you."

"Oh," I said, feeling both special and bereft. 

"I can't treat you for BPPV," she said. "However, I have one more test I'd like to do, if you will come back one or two more times."

I nodded, picturing my calendar, which had two PT appointments per week for the next month. 

When I mentioned the schedule, she sighed. "The scheduler that day was new. Somewhat overzealous." Then she tapped my knee again. "I don't think you are crazy." 

"Uh . . . "

"You aren't making this up. This is a real thing."

"It is to me."

"Besides the vestibular paroxysmia, there's one other possibility. You might have Triple PD." 

Having read all the literature, real and fake, I knew that PPPD is a catch-all diagnosis that practitioners use when a patient has had a vestibular trauma and can't seem to shake it off. Over time, the patient develops anxiety, fearing the onset of the next attack, and the anxiety seems to keep the vestibular system constantly on edge, leading to chronic imbalance. 

"That is treated with antidepressants," I said. I was thinking to myself, I don't have anxiety, but some of the medications the neurologist mentioned were both antidepressants and epilepsy treatments. Maybe something could be negotiated.

"I agree with you, it makes sense to try the antiseizure drugs to see if they work on the paroxysmia. It's too bad this neurologist is new," she added (news to me). "It's so hard to get other doctors to read reports sometimes."

I'm guessing my future self is going to have to do battle with the neurologist, or maybe try to find a second neurologist who might be open to prescribing antiseizure meds. However, it helps to think the PT might be in my corner. We can hope.

Meanwhile, I'm out on BLM land in a place called Red Rock. The saguaros are incredible. The flies I've already described. The wind knocked over my solar panel, my little outdoor table, and a half-gallon of water, and now it's trying to pry off the blue tarp I bungeed to my car to block the blazing sun. From the inside, it looks like I'm inside an aquarium, except for the incessant flapping noise. I was hoping the wind would die down so I could leave the tarp up all night, but I don't think I can sleep with that going on, so wish me luck, I'm going out to battle the flies, the wind, and the tarp. 

See you next week.

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. 

Got my oil changed and suvived to write about it

I'm always shocked when my car speaks to me, but I've learned to listen when the horrible chime jangles my nerves to tell me something needs attention. Most of the time it's the dreaded check engine light, the bane of my existence. Once it was an issue with the gas cap not being closed all the way. Recently the message in the odometer window was "low tire." My car plays coy, though. Not going to tell you which tire is low, ha ha, you figure it out. Given the weather had turned cold, I suspected it was all four. I am now the proud owner of a tire inflator machine. So fun. 

I'm glad my car has enough of a brain to tell me when something is wrong, rather than shutting off with no notice and leaving me stranded, as has happened with cars in my past. They did the best they could. I'm sure someday if I live long enough I will have a car that actually talks to me. Not like that car in Knight Rider. I'm thinking more along the lines of My Mother the Car. I can just imagine my mother being reincarnated as a 1994 Toyota Camry. Nothing fancy. She would say "I need an oil change and Jiffy Lube is having a special, but don't let them sell you an air filter because I don't need one yet, and you can do that yourself." 

My car has the brain of an infant savant, more or less. It doesn't speak, but it makes noises that get under my skin, particularly that gruesome chime. I hate that sound. When my car dinged a couple days ago as I was firing it up to go shopping, I was confused at first, because the check engine light was blessedly dark. Then I saw the message in the odometer window: oil change.

According to the sticker dangling in the corner of my windshield by the last oil change provider, I should have had another thousand miles, but I stopped patronizing that shop because I finally figured out, after thousands of dollars, that they had taken advantage, and not only that, they smoked weed as a group in the back of their shop, which is right by the bike path where I frequently walk. Nothing against those who indulge, as long as they aren't working on my car while they do it. Anyway, I found a new mechanic in the neighborhood. So when my car told me it wanted new oil, I went there.

Sadly for me, the gray clouds that had threatened to explode finally did, which is good if you like rain, as we often do in the desert, but this rain was the kind I know from the Pacific Northwest, that is to say, the kind that moves in and squats over the city like a brood hen trying to hatch a cold dead egg. In the desert, I've come to know the nature of monsoon, the weather phenomenon that boils up out of nowhere, destroys the place with lightning, hail, wind, torrential rain, and flash floods and then evaporates, leaving you wondering what the heck! This week's rain was not like that. The radar showed Tucson under a huge green splat, which meant it was going to be raining for a while.

I drove to the mechanic and dashed through the rain to the office. I was greeted by a surly middle-aged man who reluctantly agreed to do the oil change on the spot (well, within three hours) and what kind of oil did I want? Like I would know the answer to that question. I said, "You are assuming I know the answer to that question." He looked at me with that long-suffering look I've seen on countless sales reps' faces over years and years of me not trusting that I know more than I think I do. Finally we figured it out, and pretty soon we were getting along. 

"Are you going to wait or are you going walk around the mall?" he asked. 

"Oh, I'll go hang out at the mall," I said, like an idiot. I had a raincoat. How bad could it be?

I'd forgotten it was a few days until Christmas. I don't pay attention to the holidays, except to be annoyed that they encroach on my routines. I guess I assumed yet again that everyone else was like me but you know what happens when we assume. I headed off in the rain toward the mall and soon realized I was way out of my comfort zone. Even on a good day, malls are trying to kill me. During this Christmas shopping season, a sense of desperation and panic hung over the whole retail neighborhood. The streets were jammed with SUVs all trying to turn into the mall parking lot without getting T-boned by oncoming traffic. Pedestrians had no chance, but what choice did I have? Sit in the waiting room? I chanced it. 

I wandered the edge of the wide parking lot past the empty Sears store, crossing the traffic lanes near JC Penney, and meandered past REI and the Container Store, loathe to actually go inside the mall itself. As I stumbled over curbs and puddles, I got the bright idea to walk up the street to Best Buy. I needed new headphones, and it wasn't too far away. On a good weather day, it would have been a pleasant stroll. Not today.

Between the rain and the speeding cars, I was a soggy ragged breathless mess by the time I got there. Unbeknownst to me, my raincoat had lost its ability to repel water, so I was drenched through my hoodie sweatshirt through my T-shirt through my tanktop to my skin. My sweatpants, so cozy just an hour earlier, were soaked from the knees down. I was half-blind from glasses covered with raindrops. Lucky for me, not expecting to have to walk very far, I had worn my thirty-year-old waterproof Merrell mules instead of my sneakers. Thus, although tired, my feet were warm and dry. 

I made it to Best Buy, found the things I needed, and ventured back out into the slogfest. No letup in the rain, no letup in the traffic. If anything, both seemed to be growing more intense by the minute. At the intersection between me and the mechanic's shop, I made sure to press the walk button. With my eye on the walk sign and the opposite curb, four lanes away, I watched for oncoming traffic making a left turn in front of me. All good. 

Lucky for me, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the huge black monster truck making a right turn as I stepped off the curb. I don't think the driver saw me, at least, I hope that is the case. I hate to think they made that dangerous turn on purpose. The holidays can make people do things they would not normally do. I can be magnanimous now, given I lived to write this blogpost. 

I stopped walking and let the truck blast by in front of me, close enough to touch. I had time to admire enormous rugged tires. I wasn't thinking at that moment, oh, nice tires. In that moment, I yelled and gestured, which felt pretty good, actually, since I rarely yell and gesture. I dashed across the street and made it to the far curb unscathed, calcified heart valve pounding. 

As I continued my walk, I was gifted with more opportunities to yell and gesture, this time at the drivers who sped through the standing water, drenching me as I walked on the sidewalk. If it hadn't been so miserably uncomfortable, it would have been hilarious. I could have been starring in a rom-com. Hapless hero facing conflicts before achieving the goal of happiness, which in my case was getting back to my car alive.

I returned early to the mechanic and sat shivering in the waiting room scrolling through my phone like a zombie. Eventually my car was ready. Now I know the holiday spirits were looking out for me, partly because I survived the walk to Best Buy and back, but mostly because the mechanics didn't find anything else wrong with the car, other than the obligatory notice to get my fuel injectors cleaned. I'll wait until my car tells me its time.

Happy holidays from the Hellish Handbasket. Hope your new year is better than the last.

Happy holidays from the Hellish Handbasket

Here we are again, heading into another holiday season. It's not my favorite time of year, because 75°F is still too cold for this hothouse flower. And because grocery shopping is twenty times more difficult. And because one of my preferred radio stations seems to have sold its soul to the Christmas music devil. And because one of the neighbors here in the trailer park gave me a little loaf of banana bread and a baggy of Chex mix and I ate them both in ten minutes. For all those reasons [urp], this is not my favorite time of year. But what do you expect from a self-proclaimed chronic malcontent?

I'm kind of over the malcontent thing. With all the troubles in the world today, it seems pretty self-centered to act like my little dramas are so important. I may be heading toward houselessness, but at least bombs aren't falling on my head. I mean, we need to keep things in perspective. Yes, I ate the entire loaf of banana bread but that constitutes dinner, and tomorrow I will do better, because the banana bread is now gone. 

I'm learning the only way through these strange days is to keep my head down, focus on what I can do here and now, and not get enmeshed in other people's drama. Some people like drama. Just because I got weary of self-made drama and let it go doesn't mean other people have to do the same. Drama can be fun and exciting. I used to be a drama addict. Now, all I have to do is remember that one of my close friends has dementia, and another friend's mother just died, and I get back to right-size. Good things happen sometimes. It's not all bad. I mentioned last week I didn't get that job I had applied for (which probably would have changed my life, at least for one year), but I had some editing work this week. I keep showing up for life, and somehow I keep on living. So weird. 

Meanwhile, I continue to write a story a day, why, I'm not really sure. You can't really call them stories. More like . . . scenes. Musings. Little upchuckings. Sometimes I have an idea of what I want to write. Stories come to me while I'm out walking. That's fun, trying to see if I will remember them by the time I get home. Other times I open up the page and stare at it. Classic writer angst, right? To bemoan the blank page? I don't really bemoan anymore. As long as it's not the white screen of death, I'm good. I just start typing. Kind of like how I'm writing this blog right now. Wow. So meta. 

Here are a few holiday wishes from the Hellish Handbasket. I hope this holiday season is joyful for you, or at least not miserable. I hope the weather doesn't totally suck where you are. I hope the suffering you might be feeling doesn't drag you down into depression. I hope your family doesn't criticize you too much and if they do, that you have a safe place to hide out with a good book. I hope you can experience the holiday lights, the aromas, the shoppers, the music, without going completely insane and wishing you could hibernate till spring. Please don't poke your eyes out. Please don't overdose on oxy. Please don't eat an entire loaf of banana bread at one sitting. Be kind to yourself, just for a few days., till this thing is over. We'll get through it together. Then in January we can commiserate when winter really hits the fan. 

Autumnal terror in my cold old bones

I know we are supposed to like fall, the time of harvest, first frosts, shorter days, and piles of golden leaves. In another world in another time, if I were another person, maybe I would enjoy this season, but to me it's just a stupid cold prelude to the stupidest coldest season of all, which, of course, is winter, my eternal nemesis.

I hate being cold. 

I'm blogging today from Scottsdale, wrapped up in fleece, sitting at a long imitation farm table in the wooden-floored kitchen (wooden floor real, not fake) looking out the open patio door at a blue pool. The pool has a fake rock fountain that comes on for a couple hours every morning around 8:30. It's a little too loud to be peaceful. It sounds more like a dam has burst upstream and the flood is coming. 

The sky is blue, the sun is shining. You'd think I'd be happy. For a chronic malcontent, there's always something not quite right. Today, it's the wind. The forecast calls for a "breezy" day. The wind is whipping up the trees and bushes, howling above the sound of the overly loud fountain. Tiny yellow leaves are flying like dead gold flies onto the rippling surface of the pool. Underwater, a weird black robo vacuum cruises the pool bottom for what, algae? I don't know. It resembles a slow moving shark. This place is like the set of a horror film. It looks enticing on the surface, but when you look more closely, you see danger lurking behind every overly manicured honeysuckle or potted palm. 

It's never a good sign when the sky is so blue and the wind is so relentless. It's a form of cognitive dissonance, that nature could be so beautiful yet so unsettling. I feel ancient terror in my bones. Right now, I want a cave. A nice dark quiet cave with a roaring bonfire at the entrance to ward off the evil spirits.

A pool guy comes to clean the pool. Yard guys come to mow the lawn and trim the hedges. House cleaners come to clean the house, which is probably why I can find no spray bottles of cleaning fluid anywhere. Apparently they BYOB. Bring your own bleach, something I failed to do. When I was packing to drive here, I thought, I won't need my bottle of Clorox, right? Surely someone who owns a house with a pool is well-stocked with bleach in a bottle. 

Early this morning around 3:00 am, I woke to find Juno's enormous head snuffling on my leg. She rubbed her drooly jowels on my leg, my blanket, the couch. I shoved her away. I knew what she wanted. She was trying to see if I would cave and feed her early. She's cunning in the way dogs who are food motivated learn to induce sleep deprivation in humans. But for me, the long-suffering, easily manipulated human caregiver, I can't be sure that she isn't feeling a need to go outside to pee. Even though she went three hours before, I know how unpredictable my bladder can be, and neither Juno nor I are young pups. So I get up, put on my slippers and bathroom, grab the USB-rechargeable light wand that I carry to illuminate six feet of the yawning dark expanse of backyard lawn, and I go stand by the patio door, waiting for her to follow. 

Juno flops back on her plush round bed, smirking. I flop back on the couch, resigned to being gaslit by a dog. This is my final dogsitting gig. I never imagined it would be so debilitating to live the life of a dog. It's hard enough living my own life. 

Ah, finally, the fountain has subsided for the day. Now all I hear is that relentless desert wind. It's nice to sit in a proper chair to type. However, the chair is too low for the table. Even sitting on two pillows is not enough to keep my shoulder muscles from screaming. My leg feels better, though. Pain is like body hair in the way it travels around, from back to butt to leg to rib. Pretty soon Juno and I will go outside and sit in the sun to warm up. I'll sit on a fancy patio chair, and Juno will lay across one of her many big fleece dog beds. We'll listen to the wind in the trees, soak up some sun, and catch up on our sleep.

I am thankful this house and yard are not my responsibility. As long as the dog is alive and well when I leave tonight, my job is done. I will clean the bathroom and kitchen sink and take out the trash I have generated over the past four days. I will pick up the most recent pile of dog poop. I will replace the cushions on the couch that has ruined my back. As soon as I know the pet parent's plane has safely landed at Sky Harbor, I will put the key under the mat and head off into the night. 

Trial run for a new life

I finally made it to the forest outside Flagstaff. It’s as beautiful as I had hoped. The trees are tall and piney. The grass is green, sparse, and full of weeds. The fire road to get to this campsite is flat and well maintained. Best of all, the temperature is in the low- to mid-70s. After the heat of Phoenix, I was ready for a shot of cooler air.

My dogsitting job ended on Wednesday. I spent Wednesday night in a Home Depot parking lot, almost ready to cave and call my friend to rescue me with her AC. But I toughed it out with the help of a USB-powered fan, and in the morning, I was ready to hit the road to Flagstaff. To celebrate my long holiday weekend of freedom, I stopped for coffee and a chocolate croissant at a Panera Bread. Yum. When I got back to my car, I opened the back liftgate, planning to get a cord to recharge the fan. As I was lifting the heavy gate, it wobbled in a highly unusual fashion. There was a loud pop, and a quarter-size piece of metal shot off into the parking lot, right in front of a passing car. Then the full liftgate weight was in my hand. The liftgate strut was hanging untethered.

I slowly lowered the liftgate on the dangling strut, wondering, what the heck, what now? I picked up the piece of metal that had been airborne. The metal bolt appeared to be sheared clean through.

The driver who saw the piece of metal fly off pulled up and asked me if I was okay and could she call someone. I just stood there, looking at the metal bolt, unsure what to say, feeling my coffee and chocolate croissant turning into water in my bowels. Finally, I thanked her and said I would call my nearby friend for help, knowing even as I said it, I had no such intention. I had memories of calling people every time my car broke down: my parents, my boyfriends, my brother. No way was I going to give up my freedom to eff everything up in my own stubborn way, even if it meant I had to cancel my camping trip.

The lady left. I lifted the gate and looked at the strut. I couldn’t tell quite how it was attached. Another bolt? I poked at it with some pliers but could not get a grip. I got out my phone and looked at a video about replacing the struts on a Grand Caravan. Not helpful.

Next, I looked up car repair places near me. I thought I might be able to make it someplace close by, if I drove really slowly. Images of my stuff flying out the back of my car flitted through my mind. I would be littering the road with all the stuff packed at the very back of the car: my electric tea kettle, several boxes of nose strips, cellophaned wrapped N95 masks, and beat-up baggies of power cords, not to mention my favorite quilt. The terrifying prospect of losing that stuff (and littering, I'm from Oregon, remember) made me feel a bit like barfing, but I didn’t see that I had much of a choice. The car repair place was only a few streets away. I let the GPS lady guide me. She took me straight to an apartment complex. Apparently this car repair dude was working out of his apartment. I tried his number. No answer.

I pulled up Maps again and found another place, a tire repair shop. Their website said they also handled “car repair,” and that fit my situation. I had a car in need of repair. I drove gingerly to the tire repair place. I parked and walked over to the office door. It was locked. A woman was standing on a grassy verge watching some guy moving tires around a shiny gray car.

We got to talking as women do when they are standing outside a car repair shop. I explained my predicament. She said she didn’t think they did car repair there, and anyway, there was only one guy working, and he was working on her car, which she’d brought back for a second time because they had sold her a set of four tires the day before (for $1,300) but failed to balance them, and what’s more, they were dirty. I made sounds of empathy. Clearly, she needed someone to witness her frustration.

Then she pulled out her phone and looked up the Dodge dealer over by the Scottsdale airport. It took her about five seconds to do what would have taken me fifteen minutes. I thanked her and wished her luck with her new tires, got back in my car, and set my GPS lady to lead the way. She did, although it was pure luck that inspired me to make a left turn when she said “make a slight left.” Slight. Ha.

In the dealership parking lot, I pulled around a bunch of cars, and maneuvered among some more cars, and finally saw the service area, which didn’t look too busy. I pulled up and a guy wearing a soft-brimmed hat came over. I showed him the broken bolt, and he backed away.

“Let me get a service advisor,” he said. What was he, I wondered, some sort of pre-advisor? I didn’t ask, I just said okay.

In a minute, a tall guy came over and took a look.

“I can’t replace these struts today,” I said. “I just need you to take this thing off so I can get back on the road.”

He grabbed the strut and gave it a turn. It popped off, like a hip joint coming out of a socket, and just like that, I was able to close the liftgate. I made marveling noises so he would feel properly appreciated, like, ooh, big strong dude, thank you for saving my weekend. I can’t play a damsel in distress anymore, given I’m over 60, but I am learning that I can play the old senile lady. Young dudes seem to appreciate being appreciated.

“Come back when you want to replace those struts,” he said. 

Feeling like my Dodge had dodged a major big-dollar bullet (every time this car breaks it costs me a minimum of $1,000), I managed to back out of the line without hitting anything, which now looking back was a total miracle, considering my car was packed almost to the roof.

At last! One more thing to do, fill the gas tank, then I would be on my way to my camping adventure!

I found a gas station just a couple blocks away. I pulled up to the pump and shoved my debit card into the slot like I’ve done a hundred times before since I’ve been in Arizona. Declined. What! I tried debit, I tried credit, I tried my business debit card, all declined! That was a first for me.

I went inside and paid cash, wondering if my bank account had been hacked and drained and I was now destitute. Dang it! I made a mental note to call the bank once I got to my campsite, assuming I had cell service.

Then I proceeded to enjoy a lovely drive into the mountains. I forgot all about my troubles. The car performed without a hiccup, which for me means cruising along at 63mph being blown off the road by everything but the slowest towed trailer. I passed the turnoff to Montezuma Well, thinking it would be nice to stop, but it was 100°F and suspecting the magic would not be quite the same the second time around. I kept going, wondering when the terrain would turn to pine forest, and then I crested a ridge, and there they were, evergreens! 

I braved traffic in Flagstaff and took the turnoff to Highway 40, also known as the old Route 66. I had directions to a camping area not far off the highway. To my surprise, I found the fire road with no problem. The red graveled road wound past some homes, an old quarry, and some logging sites, and then I spotted the first travel trailer, parked in a clearing 50 yards off the road. At last! Campers! 

I drove a little further, seeing more vehicles parked in the trees. It wasn’t even noon, so there were empty campsites to choose from. I took the first one that seemed level. I backed my car under a pine tree, turned off the engine, got out of my car, and took a deep breath of 7,000 feet high forest air. Then I called the bank and did a little whining. The bank lady reassured me, everything was fine, no cause for alarm, probably it was that one gas station. My bank is 1,500 miles away, so it’s not like I can just pop in for a new debit card. Fingers crossed.

I arrived on Thursday morning. The clouds rolled in Thursday night and kept on rolling overhead in waves, all the way to Sunday morning, when they finally parted, revealing blue sky. Friday and Saturday, intermittent rain, rain, and more rain. Some thunder, some wind, lots of chilly air. I definitely got my fill of cooler climes. Meanwhile, my two little power stations were draining as I recharged my phone and used my laptop and waited for some sun so I could test out my solar panel. Yes, I am the proud owner of a heavy glass foldable solar panel! I know. So exciting.

I’m happy to report, the solar panel worked. It took all day today to charge my power stations, because big white puffy clouds kept obscuring the sun, but eventually both my power stations were restored to 100% power. I felt like singing.

The weekend has been peaceful, despite my power anxieties, and despite the off-road vehicles, dirt bikes, trucks, and cars going by on the road fifty feet from my car. Despite the freight trains going along some tracks over by the highway. Despite the gunshots coming from shooters doing target practice in the forest . . . yep, I kid you not, and it’s loud. I’m pretty sure they are firing guns for fun. It’s been going on intermittently all weekend. If they had wanted to do harm, they have had plenty of time to come along and shoot up all the minivans, RVs, and travel trailers parked under the trees. I hope they will stop when it’s full dark.

I had only one visitor, and that was today. Ranger Brian was stopping at each camp to warn us that even though it’s been raining more or less nonstop for three days, there is still high fire danger, and we should not be having campfires. I have no problem with that rule. I’m not at all sure I could make a fire with wet wood, even if I wanted to. My RV neighbors to the north fired up their campfire the moment they pulled in, so I’m sure Ranger Brian gave them a talking to.

Nights in the forest are very dark. Dark and cold. I don’t have enough light to work in here after the sun goes down. I will have to pull out my headlamp. Last night I went to bed at 8:30, because what else is there to do when it’s pitch black and you aren’t sure you have enough power for one more day? At 10:30, something woke me up. The inside of the car was gently glowing. I looked out the window at the sky and saw a partial moon dodging the clouds—the remnants of the super blue moon. I tried to take a photo through the window, but all I got was a big white dot surrounded by some little whitish dots, which I figured out later were raindrops on my window.

Tomorrow I must break camp and head back to Scottsdale to resume the second portion of the dogsitting job. Back to AC. Back to electrical power. Back to triple-digit heat.

There’s lots more I could write about, like the conundrum of a condition I’ll call camping constipation, like the problem of too much stuff in too little space, like the real possibility I may have to do more car camping in the not too distant future. But that can wait.

Oddly, the most marvelous find of this trip is a fully automated, noncommercial Flagstaff radio station that plays the best classic rock songs I’ve ever heard in one place. I’m accepting it as the gift it is.

Change is coming

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

July in the desert

July is one of my favorite months. Almost everyone I know was born in July. Well, not quite "almost everyone," but a lot of people, both friends and family. Happy birthday (today!) to Bravadita, friend from Portland. Happy birthday to Phoenix friend C.S., which depending on the day could stand for Crystalline Seeker, Cranium Savant, or Cranberry Sauce. And don't let me forget my big brother R., who no matter how old I get will always be older than me. May you all find peace on your special day, maybe with a little cake or pho or ice cream. My mother's birthday was in July, too. I'm hopeful she is enjoying her favorite dessert, key lime pie, in a heaven somewhere where calories don't set you up for an apple-shaped heart attack. 

If your birthday is in July as well, I hope it's a good one. Meaning memorable for happy reasons, not for stupid hot summer weather reasons. For example, I hope you aren't in Southern Arizona right now. Or parts of California, New Mexico, or Texas. If you are, I'm so sorry, but welcome to the Heat Dome. Again. 

Three years ago, I experienced what happens to a mobile home when the air conditioning goes out. I survived through the miracle of soggy underwear draped over my head and shoulders. So, when the AC went out again last week, I was ready. But you can only take so many days of breathing hot air into your lungs while the wet tanktop on your head drips water all over your keyboard.  Evaporative cooling loses all novelty after the first long searing sleepless night.

When my housemate found out the AC was well and truly broken, we made plans to vacate while we waited for the back-ordered part. In a way, it was a relief to discover that it wasn't a structural problem with the trailer. I'd feared the windows or poorly insulated walls were to blame, but no, it was just the stupid coil leaking coolant. Very expensive to fix, but fixable, eventually, after all the other suffering folks ahead of us receive their replacement coils and get back to the business of living in the desert.

I can understand why people come to the desert. It's pretty nice at certain times of the year. But how many hot summers does it take to make you realize it is stupid to stay here? For me, it's three. But where do you go to escape the summer heat, I ask you? If a heat dome can bring 116°F to the Pacific Northwest, traditional snowbird summer destination, then a heat dome can pop up anywhere. Greenland? The Arctic? No place is safe. We didn't evolve to live underground, but that might be our only hope someday, if you can call that a hope (see the Silo series). Lucky for me, I'm nearing the end of my life, so the amount of time I have left to suffer will be relatively brief. If I were in my twenties, I would definitely be marching on Washington. 

After a week of doing the frog in the gradually boiling pot of water thing, I traded the hot trailer in Tucson for a room in my Phoenix friend's big house. I feel like a critter in a burrow. The walls are thick in this mansion, the windows are double-paned. As long as the power holds out, I'll be cool as a cucumber, spouting my palaver for my anonymous blog and plotting my next novel. It's easy to assume I'm safe here. Do you ever think about the power grid going down? Do you worry that when you turn on the tap, it will be dry? That when you press the thing on the fancy fridge, the motor will grind but give you no ice, neither crushed nor cubed? Woe is me when that day comes. Choosing to live in the desert is like waving a red cape at a bull who is standing three feet away. Like, why would you do that unless you had something to prove? 

Or no place else to go. 

Maybe someday humans will evolve off planet and find paradise worlds with year-round tropical breezes, where the native fauna poops malted milk balls and the rivers run with aspartame-free Grape Nehi and Orange Crush. I hear there are billions of worlds in the Universe that could support life. Maybe we could each have our own, terraformed to our own personal preferences. I know what kind of world I would wish for, and it wouldn't be pink. 

Anyway. What was I saying? Right. Happy birthday. 

Moving up in elevation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile, monsoon is ten days late. 

Free falling in the California desert

Greetings, Blogbots. I hope you are well. I am blogging to you from the lovely town of Rancho Cucamonga. At least, I think that is where I am. Can I really be sure? The map says this is where I am, but I’m feeling a little out of body, which I think is normal for a person on a road trip with many detours, wrong turns, and back tracks. All I can say is, thank you for a patient GPS lady who never yells at me even when I fail to follow her directions.

I’ve been on the road for seven days. It sounds kind of romantic when I say it like that. “On the road.” There is nothing romantic about being homeless, and that is what this resembles. Unfortunately, unlike a true homeless person, I tried to bring everything with me, which means I’m spending a lot of time rearranging boxes. It’s been a learning experience.

So far, I’ve spent a night parked at a casino, a street in Venice, a residential neighborhood, a grocery store parking lot, and a rest stop on I-15. The only location that gave me pause was the street in Venice, parked between two campervans that had clearly not moved in some time. I’m guessing only street cleaning day forces them to vacate their prime location just blocks from the beach. Does parking near the beach make up for living in a car? Maybe when you are young. If you are under 40, it’s a bohemian lifestyle. If you are over 60, it’s down and out in Venice, California.

The weather in Tucson was just getting hot when I left. I drove west in lovely sunshine and hit a wall of gray clouds about 30 miles east of San Diego. The clouds followed me north. Venice was cold and gray. I drove up the PCH to Oxnard and Ventura, dodging rain drops. On Day4 I walked out on the Huntington Beach pier, huddled in my jacket and warm hat, hoping it the clouds would blow out to sea with the oil tankers. On Day 5, I headed northeast, desperate for heat and light. On Day 6, I spent about five minutes in Las Vegas, long enough to know I hope I never have to go there again. Today is Day 7.

What have I learned? First, I learned it’s okay to drive in circles, to get lost, to take an exit to avoid traffic jams or just to see where it goes. It doesn’t matter where I go when I have no firm destination and loose timetables. Second, wild camping in the city means I can’t heat water on a butane stove to make my coffee. Starbucks coffee is not great, hot or cold, but you do what you have to do. Third, meeting friends for food will eventually make me sick, fat, and poor. Finally, I learned that going up in elevation is not good for my head.

I learned other stuff, too, but I’ll save those tidbits for next week. This is just to let you know, I am alive, somewhere in the low desert suburbs of southern California. I hope you all have a good week.

Who cares to admit complete defeat?

Dumb question, right? You would say, gosh, Carol, nobody, if you put it like that. But what are we talking about? Defeat is the flipside of success, and both defy definition. After you've seen both sides and all points in between, what does winning or losing, defeat or success, have to do with anything?  

Speaking of winning and losing, yesterday I stood outside the chain link fence at the Rillito Race Track, twenty feet from thundering hooves. What a unique way to spend a Saturday afternoon, standing in the blazing sun trying to get my phone camera to focus through a chain link fence. A big dude in a sweatshirt trotted by just inside the track as the horses were going down to the gate. He saw me and yelled, "Miss, no cameras." As if I were a person who knew how to use a smartphone camera. Jeez. I should be so lucky.

Each thirty-second quarter-mile race is followed by thirty minutes of track grooming by a fleet of noisy trucks towing farm implements, so it's a long wait between races. I wilted after one race. As I baked and tried to get my camera to focus, I wondered how many of the racegoers were betting? I had no idea. I never heard loud cheers or groans from the stands, and leisurely racegoers in blue jeans and cowboy boots seemed to arrive and depart at all points during the half hour I stood there, as if winning or losing or even watching the track didn't matter. Maybe they came for the hotdogs, popcorn, and Mariachi music. 

The race track published the results of the first race day on their website. March 12. Temperature: 75°F. Track condition: Fast. Two horses were in the doghouse: Izanami veered in sharply after the start, jumping the inner rail and losing its rider, and Zinmagic shot the backside gap and unseated its rider. The stalwart stewards of the track reviewed the race and decided each horse caused its own problem and placed both horses on the Stewards’ List. Not sure what that meant. Probation, probably. One step from pony detention.

Today I walked 2.5 miles along the bike path to the sun circle. It's a Stone Henge kind of structure, surrounded by scrubby desert trees, prairie dog holes, and housing developments. There was no sun at the sun circle. We seem to be stuck in a cloudy, cool, windy pattern. However, to make up for the lack of sunshine, there was a man named Ken, who was resting on one of the brick seats next to his fat-wheeled bicycle. He saw me and launched into a story about the soltices and how the light comes through openings in the standing brick columns and shines across the circle onto columns on the opposite side. I rested my legs and listened to my new friend natter about sunlight, wishing we had a little more sun and a little less wind, and when he started telling me about his parents and their high school yearbook picture, I took my leave and walked the 2.5 miles back to the trailer.

Is it really complete defeat? I think just continuing to publish this blog means I have not given up. This blog is my Kilroy was here, my lifted leg, as it were. This blog is my modest contribution to the zeitgeist of existential angst over bank meltdowns, too much snow, and not enough civility. Yes, I read the news. If I had more money, I might actually care. Meaning if I had more to lose, if I had more skin in the game. However, I rarely rant about anything beyond my all-encompassing preoccupation with self. I'm in a closed loop of fretfulness. My main fear these days is that my brain is permanently broken and nowhere on the planet will the barometric pressure be stable enough restore balance to my inner ears. 

Am I winning or losing or somewhere in between? Is it possible to know? 

On a geological scale, we are all losers. Blip, and we're gone. Who cares? People in the future will not know most of us existed, except in aggregate, nor will they care. They won't know you, they won't know me. They won't miss us at all. However, on a spermatozoamaniacal scale, we are all winners. After all, we are here. The proof is in the pudding. And there's no denying somebody is pooping in the bed, and I'm pretty sure it's all of us. 

Now is it time to admit complete defeat?

Failing to plan might not be so bad

It might be spring. It's hard to tell, weather is a variable phenomenon here in the desert. Last week it snowed. Today it was 75F. Wet or dry, it's a great relief to feel warm. However, humidity is low, as you can tell from the artist's self-portrait. I need to drink more water. 

One sign that it might be spring is the changeable Rillito River. I walk along the river bike path almost daily. Yesterday, to my surprise, the Rillito deadended in dry sand at Oracle Road. I mean, it simply disappeared, just soaked straight down into the dirt, leaving plastic bottles, tents, and shopping carts high and dry in the channel. I'm not used to seeing rivers just vanish into the riverbed. If the Willamette did that, Stumptown would go insane.

Speaking of going insane, once again, I find myself in plan-and-wait mode. This seems to be a recurring life pattern for me. Always waiting for something to end so something new can begin. It's clear I have a hard time being in the here and now.

Didn't some old-timey dude say something like failing to plan means planning to fail? Old Dude, that is not helpful, even if we all agreed on a definition of failure. The ultimate "failure" is death, but all the planning in the world won't save us from death. What about the things that can't be anticipated? What if I get dementia and can no longer make decisions, as seems to be happening to a college friend? Or what if I keel over from a blood clot, which happened to my childhood friend when she was 51. Or remember cousin Dave, who succumbed to a heart attack at 61? Or my father, who met his end because of a heart problem at 77. 

I used to think my odds of living to 100 were pretty good, considering I've never smoked, I don't drink, and I don't eat meat. I don't think that any longer. I think it will be a miracle if I make it to 75. 

On the bright side, the one who lets go of the most possessions by the time death comes knocking is the winner. I fully intend to win that contest. You can donate the trophy to the thriftstore on my behalf. Thanks.

Speaking of useless trophies, I've learned some new words in relation to my vertigo issues. Peripheral versus central. Peripheral pertains to my inner ears. Central encompasses the brain, the spinal column, the eyes, and the ears. Peripheral problems turn into central problems if they go untreated. It is possible to have problems with both at the same time. I've consulted Dr. Web, M.D., and their colleague, Dr. Google. I'm pretty sure I have both.

Even though I'm doing the next logical thing (heading toward the coast to see if my head will settle), I don't have much hope, honestly. I'm afraid my brain is broken. The good news, brains can be retrained. The bad news, it takes time. My vestibular system might be out of whack for while, even when I'm living in my car on the beach at Leo Carillo State Park. Maybe Death Valley is my next option. Warm, dry, and 282 feet below sea level. 

I'm tired of planning. At some point, you just have to take a chance and go.

My aching back

You'd think I'd be used to change by now, after sixty-six years on the planet. Nope. Still not used to it. Still cranky when things change. Is it masochistic that I keep putting myself into situations that produce massive change? Maybe it's not masochistic. Maybe it's courageous. Did you ever think of that?

Speaking of cranky, I have a bone to pick with Microsoft. They had this nice little program called Picture Manager, really great for editing my drawings. Along with good old Paint, I can take my crummy illustrations drawn on lined journal paper and erase the blue lines, tidy them up, reduce the gray, and deepen the midtones. A few iterations ago, Microsoft stopped offering Picture Manager as part of Office. I have happily used Picture Manager for years on my old desktop but I don't have it on my laptop. 

Picture Manager came installed with MS Office 2010, which is what my desktop system was running, up until yesterday when the graphics card fizzled from dust, decay, cat hair, and old age. In fact, pretty much what has happened to me the past fifteen years just happened to my desktop computer system. Kaput. 

I'm grieving today for my desktop system. I'm also really grateful to the computer gods who kept the graphics card running long enough to finish a massive editing job with a serious deadline. I finished the job at 1:00 a.m. last night, went to bed, and woke up to a dead computer. Talk about miraculous timing. Bummer, my computer is dead, but hallelujah, it picked the right moment to die. Maybe there is a god.

I went to Dr. Google, who has all the explanations for everything, including the answer to the question What are these weird splotches on my arms and legs? and discovered that 2010 Sharepoint has Picture Manager, and I can download it for free. The kind people on the internet showed me what to do, and it worked, and now I have Picture Manager on my laptop. Yay. My laptop is to my desktop as the tortoise is to the hare, so it took quite a while to download (yes, yes, I agree, take my first born), install, customize just for Picture Manager, search for the folders with pictures in them, and then find the image I wanted to use. You can see I didn't get all the blue lines out, but I never do. Now that my desktop system is gunnysack, my printer/scanner will no longer work either. That means no more scanning of my drawings. Now I must use my smartphone to photograph my drawings. No more easy peasy. Everything creativity related now is slower, harder, and grimmer.

Change. You'd think after all this time.

Speaking of aching backs, car camping! When E called it a shakedown cruise, truer words never spilled over the epiglottis. My bed platform was sturdy but hard as only a plastic shelf with a one-inch camping pad and a pile of fleece blankets can be. That is to say, many long moments of wondering, what weird kind of frozen hell is this? Sleeping in a minivan in the middle of a freezing desert? I win the Amana Freezer for insane choices. I was saved by technology in the form of a dinky powerbank, my new boyfriend, Jackery, a 240 watt battery that powered my 70 watt heating pad that kept my feet warm during the night. I would not have made it without that heating pad. I would have been crying long before dawn. 

As it was, dawn was a long time coming. Do you know how dark and cold the desert gets when the sun goes down in the winter? Yeah, you probably do. You probably do your research before you go camping and wisely decide not to camp in the desert during the winter. Not me. I have to learn it all the long dark stupid cold hard way. Darkness comes fast and goes away reluctantly. Those three nights seemed to last forever, with a little bit of daylight in between. A watched sunrise never rises, isn't that how it goes? Something like that. You would make sure you have proper lighting in your car after dark, wouldn't you, you expert camper you. So you could do something productive, like, I don't know, blow on your freezing fingers or something.

I was shaken up good and proper on this shakedown cruise, and now I know I can survive in my car if I have to. I hope I don't have to live a long time in my car, but now I know I can do it. I can sleep (fitfully), cook, eat, bathe (sort of), poop in a bucket (an experience you should not miss for yourself), and stay warm (more or less, with my Jackery) in my car. And it requires much less paraphernalia than I thought. It was strange to wake up, fix coffee, and wonder, where the hell am I? And keep on drinking my coffee.

I understand the difference between low desert and high desert, but I guess I have to experience the difference in order to really get it, if you know what I mean. I whined last week about elevation. I kept trying to pay attention to my head during my road trip around Southern Arizona and into California. My head wasn't perfectly balanced in the low desert, but it went crazy when I got back to the high desert. That should tell me something. 

Okay, enough palaver. My head is reeling, my ear is crackling. That means we are expecting snow flurries tomorrow. 
 

Elevation is not the same as transcendence

Who knew elevation matters? Maybe you know all about elevation and air pressure. I'm a slow science learner. The experts tell me air pressure decreases the closer one gets to sea level. I associate low air pressure with S.A.D., clouds, wind, and rain. In most places I've been (which isn't all that many), air pressure drops when crappy weather moves in, which is why I prefer not to stay in places with crappy weather (like Portland). So should I head to sea level or not?

I don't understand the mechanics of vestibular disturbance. When the air pressure decreases, subjectively my inner ears sometimes feel more stable. However, when clouds roll in and rain starts pouring, my emotional health tumbles. (I think probably Hawaii is the place for me, but where would I park my home on wheels?) 

Last night around 11 p.m. a strange thing happened. I had a five minute respite. It took me a couple minutes to realize what was happening, so I missed enjoying the entire five minutes. Five minutes of not being off balance, of not hearing the crackling in my Eustachian Tube. It was a surprising phenomenon, to be set free. I felt normal. I couldn't believe it. I had to test it, of course. I bent over. I moved around. My head behaved normally, that is to say, I was not dizzy or off balance, and my crackling ear was silent.

Ah, blessed silence. 

I could hardly believe it was while it was happening, and I knew it wouldn't last, because why would it suddenly resolve after all this time? I hadn't done anything to warrant a miracle. That would definitely be evidence of god, and I'm not going there. Thus I was not surprised or disappointed when a few minutes later, as soon as I went to bed (which means getting horizontal), the pressure and noise were back, my old nemesis, the recurrent chronic oscillating freight train in my head. 

Oscillating is a new word I found to describe the intermittent recurring pattern of this chronic affliction. There is a thing called persistent oscillating vertigo. It is associated with mal de debarquement syndrome, which is a vestibular malady some people get after traveling by plane or boat. I don't have that, because I haven't traveled for years except by car, but apparently it's possible to have POV without having traveled, so maybe I've diagnosed myself. Kudos to me. According to Dr. Google, ETD and MDD are both rare and poorly understood disorders that ENTs would rather ignore. Which is probably why my ENTs proposed solution was to poke a hole in my eardrum. 

The remedies for almost all the vestibular maladies are the same. Drugs, therapy, and vestibular rehabilitation. For now, I'm choosing to soldier through on my own, doing my best to ignore the whole annoying mess.

You might say, well, Carol, you clearly aren't ignoring it, because you write about it every damn week in this stupid blog. Well, you would be right. I complain here in this blog because I'm not taking drugs, getting therapy, or doing physical rehab. I think if I were doing any or all of those things, I might be a happier (but poorer) person and therefore less inclined to complain here (about vestibular issues, there's always more to whine about). 

Speaking of complaining, the road trip to Quartzite has been delayed a day due to inclement weather. The storms destroying California are moving into Arizona, bringing high winds, rain, and chilly temps. I'll get there eventually. I have to find out for myself what it looks and feels like in other places. Quartzite is about 1,000 feet lower in elevation than Tucson, so it is possible my head will be happier there. I doubt it. I don't want to assume anything. However, the five minutes of respite I had last night gives me reason to hope.

Making it visible

 

Happy new year, Blogbots. I've had this drawing ready to go since 2016. How are you doing so far on your resolutions for the new year? Great, glad to hear it. Me neither. I don't see the point. I don't know if I will get out of bed tomorrow. 

My computer has been warning me all day of sleet and rain, starting and stopping. Sleet! It's chilly here in Tucson, but not that chilly. Now the widget is cautioning me about wind. Heavy rain moved in, taking my head down with it. The sound of rain on the metal awnings at the Trailer de Tesserae is alternately soothing and unsettling. Rain here is rare enough that when it happens, it comes as a shock.

I grew up in rain, probably was born while it was raining (3 a.m. on a mid-October morning in Portland, Oregon), so rain is not a stranger to me. For some reason, though, I missed out on the downy feathers and webbed feet. I got S.A.D. and a desire to head for drier climes. 

I did not factor in this stupid inner ear problem. When the clouds roll in and the air pressure drops, I know the washing machine in my head is going to go full-spin cycle. 

I'm tired of having an invisible disability. Nobody knows I'm suffering unless I complain. From the outside, I look pretty normal, not counting the occasional nystagmus and faltering gait. The noise in my ear is not audible to anyone else, including the ENT, which is why her suggested remedies were for me to stop drinking coffee and allow her to poke a hole in my eardrum. I said no to both suggestions. 

To get the sympathy I seek, I've been working on a facial expression I can use when the symptoms take over my head. This is so you will know I'm suffering. I'm dabbling with a gritted-teeth, squint-eyed sort of look. If I do it right, every 45 to 90 seconds, a look will come over my face. I'll hold it for 10 or 15 seconds and then relax when the ear crackling subsides. I guess I could just wear a sign around my neck. One side would say malfunction in progress, please stand by. The other side would say, talk now and make it snappy.

It probably won't work. Anyone who sees me with that expression will just assume I'm passing gas. That means to avoid social humiliation, I will still have to explain that the model freight train in my inner ear has just roared into the station. It's on a track. It just keeps going in circles, pulling in every 45 to 90 seconds, hissing for 10 to 15 seconds, and then pulling out again, whoo whoo, round and round and round. 

I've trained myself to ignore the hissing and rattling in my ear, mostly. However, it's like those parents you see sometimes in the grocery store checkout line, ignoring their child as the child yells repeatedly and increasingly loudly that they must have candy now. The parent can hold a long conversation with another person while tuning out their child's moans and pleas. The child knows there is a risk in keeping up the demands. Sooner or later, the tone of the child's voice will penetrate the carefully constructed dam protecting the parent's tenuous internal calm. When the dam is breached, all that pent-up fury comes boiling out. It's not a happy sight to see a parental meltdown in a public place. Those things are best left to the privacy of the home, which is how my mother handled it.

This malady is a slow-drip faucet from hell, wearing a hole in my skull. Every now and then, the carefully constructed barrier protecting me from awareness of this incessant ear rattling and pounding vertigo breaks down. That is when I'd like to shove a pencil in my ear while driving my car off a cliff. 

Speaking of driving my car off a cliff, road trip! Coming soon.

It's all about balance

I sense some sort of adventure is lurking over the horizon. Right now, I'm too tired to chase it, but I think it is close by. I hope once the iron pills kick in, I will have a little more ambition. And color. My friend S said I'm pale. I thought it was just my Zoom lighting. It's important to look good even if you don't feel good. I learned that from my father. Nobody cares how you feel, but everyone cares about how you look. Thanks for everything, Pop. I'd give you back your funky heart valve if I could.

Speaking of looking good, I'm glad my housemate is back, and I'm really glad E didn't have to witness my week of starvation prep for the procedure, now two weeks in my hindmost of rear view mirrors. Some things are better suffered in solitude, massive liquid diarrhea explosions being one of them. It wasn't just a wild goose chase up a colon with a camera. They did find something that might account for my iron anemia. Biopsies indicate it is something benevolent, but it's unclear what if anything comes next, besides take iron pills. 

The heart thing had me a little worried, I admit. However, after a chat with my primary care person, I've feel reassured I can live with this, whatever this is, at least for the immediate future. The cardiologist isn't precisely sure what he's working with (am I a two-leafer or a three-leafer? We need another test to tell for sure). That will happen in November. Another IV. Ho hum. 

In any case, I'm over it. All of it. I'm over everything. I just wish I could regain some equilibrium and get the hissing in my ear to stop, but maybe it's all just part of the new balancing act I'm being called to execute, now that I'm officially old. 

I've never been good at balancing. In high school we had to do a couple weeks of gymnastics, which included torture sessions on various intimidating pieces of equipment. The parallel bars, the horse thing, the mini-horse, what did we call that little thing, the Shetland pony? I can't remember. And of course, the balance beam. I was terrible at all of it. I had no strength, no grace, and most of all, no gumption. About all I could manage was a respectable handstand. I've never had any poise. From elementary school onward, gym class was endless humiliation and embarrassment. 

It hasn't improved with adulthood. I used to be able to run, well, jog, let's be clear. I was never a sprinter. I liked to think I had potential as a long distance runner, but I lacked discipline. I didn't care enough to train rigorously. I ran one marathon, slowly, and called it good. Now I can barely trot twenty yards before my heart is hammering and my lungs are wheezing. Maybe when the iron pills kick in . . . 

I'm dwelling on all this because I just had a birthday. Fall is a time of reflection, and having a fall birthday invites self-reflection. My self-reflection does not include mirrors but it does include a hefty dose of self-criticism. I am not used to thinking of myself as a sick person. Even though I have never been graceful (my sister was the ballet dancer and figure skater, not me. I played softball and volleyball), I never thought of myself as physically weak. Emotionally frayed, yes, but I could always throw a ball if I had to. Now I have to find a new equilibrium. I don't know how close I can get to the cliff edge before I fall into the abyss. I used to walk that cliff edge, metaphorically speaking. Now I can't see it because my eyes are filming over with cataracts. I can't hear the hiss of empty air over the hiss of my dysfunctional Eustachian tube. I can't even enjoy chewing my food from fear that osteoporosis and bisphosphonates have given me necrosis in my jaw. 

You are probably thinking, oh, what's the use? Why do we keep going when it is so obviously futile and fatal? Right, I get you. It's all about balance. When the heart isn't pounding, when my ear isn't crackling, when my eyes are closed, and I'm leaning securely against something so I won't fall over, I can feel the cold evening desert air coming in the bathroom window. Today it was so humid, I almost thought I could smell the ocean. 

You know what parts of the U.S. have the least amount of air pressure fluctuation? Along the southern coasts at sea level. Southern California, southern Florida. One of these days it will be time for a road trip. As soon as the iron pills kick in. 

Landing peanut butter-side up

I’m embarrassed to report, life is looking up for the Chronic Malcontent. Thanks, I'm happy, too. It’s a healthy indicator of my mental state that I’m not so attached to my persona as a morose wack-job that I can’t acknowledge that even though bad things can happen, good things can also happen, even to me. Ha. See how self-obsessed I am? Even in my moroseness, I can still make everything about me.

I closed out the lease at the Bat Cave a few days ago. After all the angst about hiring a “professional cleaner” in order to abide by the terms of my lease, I found out the cost of such a cleaner would be more than the amount of my security deposit. At that point, I surrendered that deposit to the Universe. I was willing to let it go. Sunk costs are not worth whining about. Gone, soon to be forgotten, moving on. 

Well, as sometimes happens (even to me), the Universe said, I know you are attached to your pessimism, but here, take this security deposit refund as a token reminder of the Universe’s neutrality in all things. I received an (automated) email from the property management company stating that I would be receiving my entire security deposit in the mail (someday). I’ll believe it when it’s in the bank, but still, it’s a nice testament to the power of detachment. I don’t care if it ever comes. My well-being is no longer dependent on that property management company, may it rest in pieces at the bottom of a deep black pit.

Creativity has a chance to grow in this new place, even though it’s a mobile home, excuse me, manufactured home. Or maybe because of it, who knows. There’s something strangely energizing about living in something that is always on the verge of getting up and going. It mirrors my own existence. I haven’t seen the underpinnings of this building—and I use the term “building” very loosely—so I don’t know if wheels still exist in the "basement." But, I also don’t know that they don’t. Therein lies the joy of uncertainty. The cat might be dead. But then again, the cat might be very much alive and chilling.

I closed my account with the power company, and it seems to have worked. I paid my final bill. I returned the modem rented from the internet cable company and might receive a refund someday, although again, I haven’t seen it yet, so who knows. I don’t chase money. At least, not small amounts like that, not worth the angst. I know some people sniff after every penny in every crack in the couch but that is not me, not anymore. If the Universe wants me to have money, it is going to have to shove it someplace where I’ll be sure to notice it, otherwise I’m moving on.

Speaking of noticing things, this week I’ve been noticing headlines.

Funniest headline: Is it raining diamonds on Uranus?

Most relevant headline (to me): It is possible to land peanut butter-side up

Saddest headline: I can’t remember the last time I had fun.

I haven’t seen any no-see-ums, for obvious reasons, but I still bear their scars on my hands. I haven’t seen any javelinas lately, babies or parents, just lots of lizards, many flat, as I mentioned last week. Could be because the heat is back. Monsoon might be done for the year. The Rillito River has resumed its alter ego as a dry riverbed filled with decrepit trees, green but leaning westward like drunken soldiers from being bashed by the westward-flowing monsoon floodwaters. Last night I walked along the bike path that parallels the River and watched a man with two big dogs walking in the river sand. I wondered what that would feel like. It’s not every day you get to walk in a dry riverbed. Well, I guess soon we’ll all have the opportunity to enjoy walking where water once flowed. Except along the oceans, where we will be rowing boats where there used to be dry land. What the heck? I’m glad I’ll be dead before the worst happens. I've seen enough climate change for one sad lifetime.

Meanwhile, the question, as always, is this: how do we want to live until the moment comes when we die? Often I have chosen self-pity as my preferred mode of living. The saddest headline above was not written by me, but it could have been at one time. Not anymore. I have a lot of fun, according to my rather unique definition of fun. My idea of fun is probably not yours, just in case you wanted to invite me over for bingo and ice cream. Save your breath.

I could rewrite the headline to I can’t remember the last time I had a vacation. One of my friends is in Norway right now. One friend is in Paris. I might have to do something about my stay-putted-ness one of these days. It’s possible a road trip is in my future. I have no specific plans yet. But I need to see what is out there. Don’t worry, I won’t go far, not much beyond the Moon or Mars, probably. But you never know.