Going round the bend

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still searching for home

Most days, I can't tell if I'm in my right mind or not. Some days I think, I can do this, I can camp in my car, be a nomad, go on adventures, be a digital worker, drive around and see things, and somehow magically maintain a healthy life despite not having a home base. Then I read about the challenges of getting car insurance without a fixed parking spot, and I think, I'm out of my mind. This is insane. This is disaster. I should do everything I can to avoid homelessness. There will be no coming back if I drive off this cliff.

Then I think, well, wait, other people do it. These nomad vanlifers live in their cars, or at least, they say they do. If they are telling the truth, then clearly, it can be done. So I dig around in the great brain in the sky and find out, wait a minute, some of my confident nomadic heroes might not be completely legal. In fact, their suggestions are liable to inspire my insurance company to cancel me, should I ever get in a wreck. This would not be ideal. Then I remember, my vanlife heroes make their money from naive idiots like me watching their videos. Oh, the horror. 

Last week, I was sure I could go live in the forest—you know, park my car under a pine tree, set up my internet gizmo, and write my next novel. Eat nuts and twigs, commune with the coyotes . . . hey, city girls can learn new skills. I called it a retreat.

This week, my brain retreated from that idea. I know I can live in my car, but I'm not so sure I'm up for communing with wildlife. Coyotes, bears, packrats, no-seeums, no thanks. The idea of being homeless scares the spit out of me. Homelessness is not a viable option for a person my age. Once I cross that line, I don't know if I can come back to the adult world. You might as well send me to the psych ward.

I'm planning a second road trip later this month to eyeball some small towns in Arizona. I don't think the vertigo problem is going to be solved any time soon, no matter where I am on the planet, so I'm opting to scope out possible housing options at higher elevations. Small towns, slightly cooler temps, maybe that will work. Maybe there will be a place for me there.

It's unsettling to not be able to call a place home. 

I searched on my epic road trip, I really did. I put 5,000 miles on my car in search of home. I burned hundreds of dollars worth of gasoline. I slept in parking lots. I pooped in a bucket. I really tried to find a home. Even so, it wasn't enough. Maybe I drove past the one place I could have called home, fooled by the red-tile-roofed mansions on the hills above the freeway, assuming I could never afford such a place. Maybe it was Ashland, or Indio, maybe it was Medford, or Spokane, or Bishop, or Wickiup. Jeez, it could have been Wickiup, and all I did was buy gas there for the umpteenth time and get back on the road.

I probably drove past a hundred places that I could have called home, but I was so busy dodging trucks and looking at my gas gauge, I missed them all. 

How do other people find home? Some people are lucky enough to be born in a place they consider home, but what about all those folks born into the wrong climate? Hm, what about them? The ones born in Portland who hate rain. The ones born in Tucson who hate being dessicated and wish they had been born in Portland? How do you figure out where you belong? 

I guess that is what Google Street View is for. But it's not a substitute for seeing a place with your own eyes, feeling the air on your skin, observing the clouds over the skyline, noticing the pace of cars cruising main street, noting the nods of strangers as they take you in and process your strangeness. Don't you have to see it for yourself?

You can just pick up and move, sight unseen. I did that twice. I could do it again. But this time, I want to see it for myself first, before I make the leap.

In retreat, on retreat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think I'm over the desert

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I could put my name on a waitlist.

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

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

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

The special freedom of not caring

I'm back in Tucson, after my long-anticipated/planned/dreaded month-long road trip. Thirty-four days long to be exact. It would have been thirty-five but I returned a day early when the temperatures in Arizona climbed toward triple digits. I don't need more character building. 

Now that the trip is completed and I'm back in wi-fi-land, it's easy to romanticize the journey as epic, mind-blowing, and awe-inspiring. Not everyone can just drop everything to live in their car for a month. I had the freedom without responsibility that some of my friends coveted. I definitely found some roads less traveled out in the back of beyond on my trip. However, given that I bought gas almost everyday, the trip could also be characterized as a stupid, wasteful, self-centered consumption of resources in pursuit of a hopeless dream. 

Let's be pragmatic. Given the constant drip-drip drain on my bank account, I could classify the adventure as an exercise in learning how to be homeless. I now possess some powerful self-knowledge. As long as I have water, gas, and a little money, I can live in my car on the road. It is an insecure, somewhat dangerous and unhealthy lifestyle, but I could do it for a while if I had to. That is useful knowledge. In other words, my road trip was a form of survival training. I proved to myself I could live off the land in modern America. I wasn't trying to pare the spikes off prickly pears; I was trying to find road food that wouldn't give me diarrhea. It wasn't rattlesnakes I watched for; it was overly zealous security guards and aggressive light-flashing truck drivers. 

Don't misunderstand me. As I said, I'm really not into character building. Suffering is stupid. I don't want to live in my car, at least, not on city streets, but it's a relief to know I could for a while if I had to.

Part of the reason for the road trip, if you'll recall, was to find a place where I might feel physically and emotionally more at home. As you know, Tucson has not turned out to be a healthy place for me. In search of a lower-elevation alternative, I explored many cities, towns, and suburbs, large and small, crowded and vacant, coastal to desert and everything in between. I wandered from southern California through northern California, across Oregon, and into Washington, before turning south to return through Nevada and Arizona. I visited charming villages in the low desert. I revisited places along the California coast I knew and loved thirty years ago. I navigated Las Vegas, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland, and Spokane, and fervently hope I never have to drive through any of them again.

In no place was my ear miraculously silent. In no place did my disequilibrium subside. In general, my vertigo worsened at higher elevation, but even at or below sea level, it never went away. However, my malady seems to be related to changes in weather patterns (i.e., changes in barometric pressure), and weather followed me everywhere from the moment I crossed the border into California on my way to San Diego. Apart from a scant handful of blue-sky days, I experienced intermittent rain, wind, clouds, and cold temperatures wherever I went, from San Diego to Spokane, from Santa Monica to Phoenix. It wasn't until the final two days of my trip that the temperatures soared. 

Even then, no relief for the dizzy. It's hot here in Tucson, but it seems monsoon might be starting earlier than usual. Yesterday as I drove from Phoenix to Tucson, I couldn't figure out why my head was such an unbalanced mess. I chalked it up to the stress of driving 65 mph in a 75 mph zone. Now I think it's the massive thunderclouds that boiled up and started microbursting. The air is on the move.

Well, I will be on the move soon, too, one way or another. Maybe I won't be moving all that far away. I found out I prefer the cities south of Phoenix. Wide open spaces, big square blocks, and lots of trees. And there are WinCos. Maybe somewhere there will be a senior housing option for me. By the end of July, I hope I'm trucking my miscellaneous detritus to a new home, even if it is just to Phoenix. 

If Phoenix doesn't pan out, then I'll get out my road atlas and plot another road trip. One thing I've learned is that this country is big. I've seen a small fraction of what is possible. It stretches the bounds of credulity to imagine there is only one perfect place for me. For instance, I hear North Carolina is affordable and livable. Is that true? How would I know? You can tell a few things about a place from Google Earth, but you can't really know a place until you spend time there. 

I recommend wandering the streets, the grocery store parking lots, the strip malls, and the laundromats. Notice the weather, that goes without saying. Bundle up in a sleeping bag if you have to. Pay attention to people, and that means pedestrians, shop clerks, and truck drivers. Sleep in some home improvement store parking lots—that can tell you a lot about the working life of a certain segment of the town population, namely the overnight crew. 

When I was constantly on the move, the pace of my life shifted from the illusory goal of "getting work done" toward covering the miles. I had places to be and people to see, so I couldn't lollygag in one place for long. Once I had my final visit to my Spokane friend, I was free to take my time heading south. However, like the uninformed idiot that I am, I chose the so-called scenic route, which took me through some high mountain passes. I consider it a triumph of surrender that my head didn't explode at elevation 8,138 feet. Elevation affects temperature, did you know that? I guess I have to experience physics to believe in it. The rest stop in Burns, Oregon, was miserably cold. Reno, Nevada, was slightly lower and slightly warmer. I had to keep moving downhill to stay warm. The further south I went, the better I felt. By the time I got to Phoenix, I was finally feeling pretty good, until the heat ramped up, and twizzle twazzle twozzle twome. 

One more thing I learned. It's useful not to care. After a while, one mile is much the same as the next. The main thing is keeping the car running. If you can maintain the pace, mile after mile, then it doesn't really matter where you started or where you end up. It's all just journey.

Another week wandering but not lost

Day 28 of my epic road trip finds me parked in a Lowe’s parking lot in Reno, Nevada. I’m taking the “back road” back to Tucson, which means I am driving south on 395. Not one of my better decisions. I thought, oh, it will be so pretty and less traveled. Highway 395 is certainly both of those things. The terrain from Spokane, through Oregon, through a little slice of California, and now through a slice of Nevada has been breathtaking. In parts, I drove along a curvy two-lane road up the side of a cliff, looking down at a vast expanse of lake water (when I dared take my eyes off the road). Other sections of the drive cut across high-desert cattle country. Whenever I see cows grazing, I make my solemn vow: I will never eat you.

As far as less traveled, 395 is certainly that. There were many parts of the drive where I was the only car on the road as far as I could see, which was far, given the wide-open vistas of the high desert. Today is Sunday, so you’d expect most people with sense would be snoozing in bed, and I got an early start, but seriously, only car on the road. If I had missed one of those curves, my minivan would be entertaining fish at the bottom of one of those lakes. End of the epic road trip. You fail at life.

I enjoyed my solitude and tried not to think about what would happen if I blew a tire or had a heart attack. Nobody lives forever.

The main problem with my choice of travel route is the fact that the road goes through high desert. I should have realized this, but just looking at flat Google map did not show me that I would be driving over mountain passes higher than 5,000 feet in elevation. My head doesn’t seem to like higher elevation, or that is one of my current working theories, and my disequilibrium has been in full force on much of this trip through eastern Washington and Oregon. However, the other thing I don’t like is to be cold. And desert nights up here are cold.

Last night I arrived at my day’s destination, Burns, Oregon, which doesn’t have much to recommend it in terms of offering random parking on a side street on a Saturday night. I didn’t like the looks of the town much, so I kept going until I found a nice rest area, thanks to my new friends on iOverlander.

It started raining and kept raining most of the night. The temperature dropped to just above freezing. It was hard to stay warm, even with my little heating pad plugged into my dinky power station.

It wouldn’t have been so bad, but I have been fighting a cold for a few days. Is it a cold, or is it Covid? That is the question for this decade. I took a Covid test on Wednesday, which came back negative, but you never know. Covid is a sneaky virus.

The other thing that happens is that my memory foam mattress solidifies when it’s cold, so it feels like I’m sleeping on concrete. Who knew that was a phenomenon? Well, my housemate warned me, so some people know. I thought, how hard could it be? And I won’t be going anywhere where the temperature drops below 45°F anyway. Ha to both. It can be hard, and it gets effing cold in the desert at night.

So, what happens next? I’ve seen all the friends and family I could see (and who wanted to see me). I’ve tried to be a kind, respectful house guest, even when the hosts’ political views don’t jive with my own. I’ve eaten enough cheese and sugar to give my laboring heart a real workout. Many miles yet to go, so I hope my heart holds out a while longer.

I found my bottle of acetaminophen, but I can’t find my earbuds. You’d think after three weeks on the road, I would have figured out a routine. Nope. All I can say for sure is I brought way too much stuff with me, but I still can’t find the few important things I need. Oh well, at least I’m pain free while I talk to friends using my speakerphone.

Hope to see you next Sunday.

The wind in the shore pines

Day 22 of my epic road trip started as a typical spring day in Portland. That is to say, cloudy, damp, chilly, and depressing. I just dropped my sister off at the airport. Checkout time is noon. I’m hurrying to write and upload this blogpost before I lose internet access. I’m happy to report one of the main purposes of my trip has been fulfilled. Soon I will be free to move on from the city of my birth.

Speaking of free to move on, yesterday was the culmination of a family event long in the planning: the disposition of my mother’s ashes, which have been resting peacefully in a box for more than two years. My sister and I drove to the Oregon coast, met our two brothers at the South Jetty of Fort Stevens State Park, and braved a chilly ocean breeze to empty that box. You can probably imagine what happened.

First, it’s not legal to dispose of human ashes in the ocean at the shoreline. You are supposed to go three miles out before you dump the loved one overboard. We didn’t have a boat, and given the wind and high waves, you can imagine boating was not going to happen. In addition, partly because of beach construction and partly because of weariness and hunger, we did not seek out the Columbia River beach where we sent Dad off over the river bar to the Pacific, back in 2006. Now we are all a lot older. I have chronic vertigo, and my older brother is healing from a hip operation. My younger brother got lost trying to find us, so everyone was ready to take the easier, softer way. Next to the parking lot was a dense thicket of scrubby shore pines.

“She’d probably like being in there,” I said, thinking to myself, she’s dead, she won’t care where her ashes end up. Dirt, water, it’s all the same.

My older brother led the way. Instead of entering the thicket right from the parking lot, he chose a sandy path to the jetty. We stumbled after him, fighting the loose sand, buffeted by frigid wind. My pajama pants flapped around my legs. I put my hood up, a futile gesture. Soon I was miserable. Giving up was not an option, so I forged after my sister, who seemed impervious to the chill. Maybe my tolerance level is lower because I’ve been in Arizona for two years.

From the jetty, we backtracked into the scrubby bushes and found a little clearing.

“This looks good,” said my older brother. I’m not sure what criteria he was using, but nobody argued.

My younger brother’s knife was frustratingly dull, so breaking Mom free from the box and the plastic bag within took some doing. Finally, the bag was open. My brother held out the bag to us. One by one, we took handfuls of Mom’s earthly remains, now looking a lot like cement sand with a few little bits of white stuff and started flinging them on the ground.

“Don’t put them on the path,” my sister admonished.

The clearing was sheltered, but the wind was capricious. Within moments, we were all covered with white dust. I had a quick flash of Mom standing nearby, laughing, with a cigarette in her hand.

I said, “Miss you, Mom,” as I flung handfuls of Mom on a nearby bush. As soon as I said the words, I felt my throat close up, so that is all I managed to say as my special remarks on the moment. My younger brother was near tears and trying to hide it. I averted my eyes, knowing how much we desperately seek to hide strong emotions. Mom wouldn’t mind if we cried, I’m sure, but we wouldn’t be able to look into each others’ eyes over lunch at the Chinese restaurant, which is where I know we were all anxious to be without delay. If we could have beamed ourselves there, we would have.

I was too cold to appreciate the humor of the moment. I was aware of how silly we must have looked, skulking in the bushes to dump some ashes on the ground. Anyone walking their dog nearby would have thought we were doing drugs, or perhaps burying a body. Hm.

It took quite a few handfuls to empty the plastic bag. Finally, the job was finished. I took a photo of a leafless bush that used to be gray and now was white, covered with bits of my mother. Then we were ready to head back to our cars.

Back at the parking lot, we asked my younger brother’s wife to take our photo with my camera. I held up a small poorly printed photo of Mom that I always carry with me in my journal. My sister-in-law quickly took three photos. In the pictures, we look like tired, hungry escapees from a nursing home. Then, we caravanned to the Chinese restaurant and ate lunch as if we hadn’t just done what we did. I ordered vegetables and tofu. It wasn’t great. I tried to reach for a feeling of relief, and there was some of that, mainly a feeling that I was done with my personal caregiving obligation to my maternal parental unit. I don’t know how my siblings felt. Of course, we don’t talk about such things. But I felt some sense of satisfaction that I’d seen the job through. Whether she can be at peace in a scrubby grove of shore pines is beyond my ability to know. Short of renting a skiff and sending her out over the Columbia River bar or renting a plane and dropping her from the sky, we did what we could to put things right. You can’t leave your mother in a box forever. Eventually, you have to let her go.

A couple more days in Portland, a few more people to see, and then the epic road trip continues.

The epic road trip continues

The epic road trip continues. Lucky me, no car camping for me this week. I spent every night indoors, hosted by friends and family. This morning, I headed north toward Oregon, ready for some solitude, which I have found at a lovely rest stop overlooking a green valley outside of Ashland, Oregon. Brisk wind buffets my car. I’m in the back, sitting crisscross applesauce, window covers in place, with a USB light that will go dead soon. I must type quickly.

Monday and Tuesday I spent with old friends in the Sherman Oaks area. on Wednesday night I slept on the couch of a best friend in Silver Lake, and on Thursday, I found my way to La Canada Flintridge to stay with a high school chum. On Friday, I headed north to San Francisco to stay with another friend in an amazing vintage apartment near the Golden Gate Bridge. Saturday found me with family in a suburb of Sacramento, discovering the joys of having a great-niece and nephew.

My friends are all best in class. You couldn’t ask for more loving and gracious friends. Most of them I’ve known for at least thirty years. Fun fact: My fiftieth high school reunion is next year. I love all my friends. However, I’ve never seen all my friends in one week. I am overwhelmed.

It’s been a lot of driving, talking, driving, talking. By the time I got to Sacramento to see family I rarely see, I was content to listen to the kids chatter and eat the food their parents fed me, and then play a card game as if I were one of the family. Which I guess I was. They treated me like family, which is to say, they incorporated me into their world without fanfare. They had a cozy couch, and the dog didn’t bark once during the night.

I love them all. However, being the introvert that I am, my people alert got tripped on Monday and hasn’t stopped clanging since. For the first week of my epic road trip, I had six nights to myself, only one night in other people’s spaces. This week my dance card was full. It has been rough.

Why so hard, you ask? Thanks for asking. I ask myself that as well. It’s great to have shelter, right? I should be grateful. I am grateful! My friends are so generous. Still, do you find it hard to be a guest? I’d much rather be the host. But there I was, using other people’s soap and towels, enjoying their bathtubs (if they had one), and sleeping on various surfaces, from cushy memory foam to a well-loved couch fighting for space among a plethora of throw pillows. I’ve seen bathrooms in every condition, from a tiny cubicle with a sink and toilet to a posh rival to the Ritz Carlton. I’ve seen how many ways there are to make coffee, including not making it at all.

Disappointment: My vertigo problem has not resolved itself as I’d hoped it magically would. Elevation does seem to make it somewhat worse. I think maybe it’s the air pressure, combined with stress and fatigue. Possibly a pinch of insanity. Who knows. Anyway, my head is still reeling, and my ear is still crackling, but my ankles are no longer swollen, so there’s that.

Right now, even though my head is jammed into the headliner, and my toenails need trimming, and traffic is roaring by on I-5 about one hundred yards away, I’m feeling content. Truth: I’m really glad to be alone. I love you all, but now I must go away, so I can have the bittersweet joy of missing you.

PS: Sorry for typos and boring description. I'm beyond tired, and it's really hard to write a blogpost from the back of a minivan. My legs have gone to sleep. Be well, see you all next week.

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.

Driving into the wild blue yonder

The day has arrived. The leap into the unknown is about to begin. Do we ever know what awaits us, though? Isn't every day we choose to get out of bed a leap into the unknown? All kinds of events, both good and bad, could happen. For instance, a meteor could hit your neighborhood two doors down from you. Didn't see that coming, did you? Or you could win the lottery! Hey, it could happen. On one hand, you could get shot at the mall food court. Or maybe you'll meet the love of your life at Panda Express. It could happen! Although the odds of the latter happening are probably much less than the former. 

So, here I am beginning my pilgrimage, my journey, my adventure, my leap of faith, and it could be a total catastrophe or it could be sublime. Probably somewhere in between, as life usually is. In my typical fashion, I have prepared for the worst, because I'm a Debbie Downer, but remember that people like me who stomp around with their head down are the ones who find the stray twenty on the sidewalk. Just saying. 

I've packed way too much stuff. Some I will jettison along the way, delivering things to friends and family. I should be traveling lighter on the way back. Still, I'm sure I have packed too much, because I don't yet know what I won't need. 

Along those lines, this might be my last blogpost. Not because I think I'm going to die, although that could happen, but because I don't know what my internet access is going to look like for the next month. That means if you don't hear from me, please don't worry. I will stay in touch by other means, assuming I'm alive and I am not stranded on BLM land with no cell service.

Speaking of BLM land, I don't expect to be doing much dispersed camping. When I'm not staying at a friend's house, I'm mostly going city stealth, or as stealthy as a novice car camper can be. I've seen all the YouTube videos, but that doesn't mean I know what I'm doing. Truck stop? Walmart? Cracker Barrel? What accommodations will I find in the wild blue yonder?

On my move to Tucson from Portland two years ago I slept in parking lots. The first night was at a casino in Winnemuca, Nevada, and the second, at a hospital in Las Vegas. I moved during Covid, one of the many rounds of Covid that made us all wary of being around other people. I was almost denied entry to use the restroom in the hospital. (That was before I learned how to poop in a bucket.) Now we don't care much about Covid, do we, even though people are still dying from it. People my age, I might add. I'm bringing my mask, and I will wear it into public places, but I don't know what I will do about going into friends' homes. If they want me to mask up, I will. But how do I know where they have been? This might be the time I finally get Covid. Hopefully it won't kill me, and hopefully I won't infect any of my friends or family. More of those dang hopefullies.

My route is basically west, then north. I generally know which way is west, and once I get to the ocean, I know which way to turn. I have some interim destinations tentatively planned along the way, but it's quite possible I will get lost and not find them. This is how I roll. So, if I tell you I planned to visit Temecula to eyeball the Winco store there, but I ended up in Podunk, Idaho, well, don't be surprised. Although I would be too embarrassed to admit I committed such an egregious failure to comprehend a map. I can't blame Google Maps for everything.

Think of me occasionally over the next month or so, will you? I will think of you. I will imagine your lives continuing apace, as if you knew for sure what tomorrow would bring. I will picture you rolling out of your comfy bed, brewing your beverage of choice, check your emailing, and yelling at politicians, if you are so inclined. I hope you will not take your modern conveniences and comfortable routines for granted, because tomorrow they could be removed. Nothing is guaranteed, except death and the tax returns I hope you have already submitted. 

Meanwhile, I will be driving and pooping in a bucket, hopefully not at the same time. 

Happy trails to me. 

Dreaming of hopefullies

I had a topic in mind for today's blogpost, and then I took a nap and had a dream that I lost my cellphone. I woke up in tears, blaming myself for my carelessness, and when I looked inside my brain, all remnants of my previous topic idea had vanished. I hate it when that happens. I know better than to shut my eyes without writing the thing down, but there it goes, off into the ether to find a writer who is less careless with her ideas. It was such a great idea, too, one of my best. Really pithy and poignant. You would have been impressed. To tears. 

Meanwhile, in other news, the planning for the epic car camping journey of a lifetime continues. I guess I'm ready to drive off the cliff. Or wherever the road takes me. Hopefully not off a cliff. There are a lot of hopefullies associated with this trip, I'm noticing. Hopefully it will have stopped raining (and snowing) by the time I drive through California. Hopefully floodwaters and landslides will have receded. Hopefully I won't be dumb enough to rely on Google Maps this time. On my last trip I almost ended up in Salt Lake City.

Let me tell you about that dream. I was at somebody's big fancy house. There were movie stars! And an indoor pool! Somebody said, Carol, why don't you go for a swim? I peeled off most of my clothes and laid them by the poolside. Then I got distracted by something else in the dream. Next thing you know, I go back, all my stuff is gone. Stupid! I berated myself into wakefulness, and woke with great relief at finding I hadn't actually been that stupid. My cellphone sat silent nearby. I don't think I would have been so trusting in real life. But you never know. Movie stars! Indoor pools!

I'm not starstruck. In my former days as a custom clothing designer, I had occasion to meet a few movie stars. A few people whose names you would probably recognize. With one minor exception of somebody who held my hand just a wee tiny bit too long, they were all polite and professional. 

Hopefully I will find safe places to sleep along the route. Hopefully there will be cell service in all places so I can text my sister before she calls the local sheriff to send a search posse. Hopefully my car holds out. A lot of hopefullies.

I feel like I'm going off to summer camp or something.

Is it normal to feel trepidation? Hm. I was going to write that I am not used to undertaking big adventures on my own, but then I realized, hey, how do I think I got to Tucson in the first place? Epic car adventure! Three days of driving through Oregon, Nevada, and Arizona on tiny roads both gorgeous and godforsaken (because I missed my turn and ended up almost in Salt Lake City). Getting lost is how you see cool things. Hopefully I can seek out cool things to look at intentionally and get to actually appreciate their coolness, instead of berating myself for not being able to read road signs in the dark. I mean, I need to cut myself some slack: good eyesight is nice but perhaps slightly overrated when there's no one else on the road.

Hopefully somewhere along the journey, my head will settle enough to hear myself think. Hopefully I'll find a place that feels like home. Hopefully I won't lay my cell phone down somewhere and drive off without it. 

Home. That was the topic that floated off into the ether. Something to do with home. Home. Ho um. Ho hum. 

You wouldn't believe how many people would be happy to take my money in exchange for telling me what losing my cellphone means. Apparently, I am feeling disconnected and out of touch. My communications with others are broken, at risk, not going through. Hm. A good day for me is when the phone doesn't ring. 

I remember days before cellphones, do you? Color TV, cordless phones! IBM PCs, Macintoshes, and floppy disks! I remember life before the internet. It's hard to imagine life without it now, although I get to experience the tiny but excruciating loss frequently. The blazing fast internet here at the trailer is a bit temperamental. It goes out once in a while, usually for about three minutes. During those three minutes, do I sweat? Am I anxious? Do I watch the little circle representing the entirety of my existence and pray for the moment the happy broadcast waves return? No, because I know I cannot petition for restored internet with prayer. Duh.

I wonder how I will feel when I'm parked at some rest area or truck stop or Walmart in podunk California, debating how much data my hotspot would chew through because I felt compelled to check for nonexistent email from friends and scour my inbox of all the political entreaties, Pinterest clickbait, and Duolingo reminders. I guess I'll find out (assuming I'm not parked in a dead zone). 

Speaking of dead zones, I sent away for a USB tuner stick that will hopefully let me get broadcast channels on my laptop while I'm on the road. I tried it here at the trailer, and it worked. Unfortunately, it didn't get me any more channels than the bigger antenna does on my Mom's television. I guess broadcast airwaves is a physical thing. There's no magical USB device that will magically attract all those shy waves that are blocked by mountains, buildings, and stupid metal trailer awnings. If I could petition the broadcast airwave gods, I'd ask for a giant roof antenna. Some days, you need more than just ABC, PBS, and Univision.

There are so many criteria for a new home. What criteria do you consider important? Proximity to good schools? Safety? Green spaces? I'd already considered proximity to Winco as a dealbreaker, but now I think I should consider airwave reception. You might say, well, Carol, there's this thing called cable . . . I hear you, but I'm ignoring you. Meanwhile, I have one more blogging Sunday before go-live, go-big-or-go-home, drive-off-the-cliff time. See you then.

Look good or feel good

Like so many people over the past few years, I've lost the will to groom. The Covid era has bludgeoned all desire to look good right out of me. When all anyone sees of me is my Zoom image, they might suspect I'm chronically disheveled, but they don't actually have to see the frayed cuffs, the tattered underwear, or the lack of proper pants. As a rabid introvert, I'm okay with that. These days, I'd rather feel good than look good. 

Truthfully, I've never been big on grooming for the sheer joy of looking good. I've always had an ulterior motive, which, of course, is that I wanted people to notice me and accept me. When I was younger, I used to dress for everyone around me, so that I could be loved, accepted, or admired. Sometimes that meant dressing the opposite of what they might have wished—that is how I tested the depth of their love (sorry, Pop). Either way, I dressed for others. 

Now I don't care what other people think, so it doesn't matter what I look like. Because I don't care (and because of Covid), I opt for comfort. That means wearing pajamas, essentially. I wear butter-soft long-sleeve XL cotton/polyester scrub tops on top and men's cotton jersey pajama pants on the bottom. I have six tops and three pairs of pants.

If I really cared, I could do something about it. The mall is right across the Rillito River, only a short hike away. I can see the Forever 21 sign from the bike path. Walmart is equally close, if I am looking to save pennies and don't care what I buy. Target is nearby as well, if I'm looking for something in the middle. There is no lack of places selling clothing for me to buy. 

The reason this issue is on my mind is because I'm going to be doing some traveling soon. I will be seeing old friends in California and family in Oregon. That means people will judge me by my appearance. That is what people do, it's normal. I don't really care to please, but I also don't want to offend. 

I used to be able to make just about any garment you could imagine. Even though I've hated to sew since I was nine years old, I always liked designing in three dimensions. However, the only time I would make clothes for myself was when there was an occasion with a deadline. I'd buy the cheapest fabric I could get away with, eyeball the pattern, cut corners on the cutting, stitch it together as fast as possible, wear it once to great fanfare, and then throw it away when it faded, tore, shrank, failed to fit, served its single purpose, or went out of style. I'm not proud of my contribution to the wastestream. And don't get me started on the many acrylic paintings I have dumped in the trash. Oh, well. At least I recycled the stretcher bars and frames. 

My distaste for sewing and my desire to wear a certain garment is like the irresistible force meeting the immovable object. The battle has been going for years. When I was younger and I could still see, the force was stronger. I would begrudgingly make myself things to wear, as infrequently as possible, mainly because I was ostensibly in the fashion business. Dressmaker, dress thyself! But if I needed a strapless black velvet gown with a mermaid tail, lime-green vintage chiffon sleeves, and a built-in push-up bra, I could deliver. Now, however, the mmovable object is very set in her ways. Bras of any kind are not on the radar, nor are dresses, mermaid or otherwise. 

Even though I have a crummy old plastic sewing machine that still works, the idea of using it to sew clothes for myself makes me want to head for Walmart. It took massive amounts of willpower to sew seat covers for my Dodge Caravan out of the cotton dropcloths that used to be my curtains at the Love Shack. I was almost proud of the job, until I realized I hadn't allowed room for the airbags built into the sides of the front seats. R-i-p-p-p, went the seamripper. Oh, well. Story of my sewing "career."

Speak of which, career is not a word I would apply to my worklife. My former job as a seamstress-slash-dressmaker-slash-failed-fashion designer was one of my least favorite mistakes. On the family Zoom today, my sister reminded me that I'm a volunteer, not a victim. In other words, I chose my path, a fact I cannot deny. Of course, I thanked her. It's so helpful to be reminded that I will never find bread at the hardware store, no matter how many times I try. 

Meanwhile, the problem remains. This is how I know I'm an artist. I want to wear certain designs, and I cannot find them in stores because they don't exist except in my mind. I want them, but not enough to make them. And so I wear pajamas. 

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.

Fear of freedom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your turn will come

I'd like to focus on the victory of the week, whch was that I figured out how to format an epub book that passed muster with IngramSpark—but all I can do is obsess over an ingrown hair on my upper lip. Dermotillomania strikes again. When I'm cold, skin imperfections are magnets for my roaming fingers. Every hangnail is an invitation to pull hard. My cuticles are bloody meat. It's a wonder I haven't died of flesh-eating strep. Does that sound familiar? Sorry if I repeat myself.

There's nothing new in my brain. The ruts are deep. I rehash the same tired complaints week to week, month to month. Usually people are kind enough to ignore the fact that I repeat myself. I'd like to apologize but actually I feel a bit smug. They don't yet know the frustration that awaits them when they reach for a memory and come up empty. Meanwhile, I keep picking at my lip, rubbing that hair the wrong way. 

I am regressing to my cultural mean. That is to say, like a narrow-minded person with trash roots, I'm circling the wagons on my willingness to be open-minded. I don't want to stress my brain cells with new things. The idea of learning for learning's sake sailed out the window when I got laid off from my teaching job in 2013. I have no more curiosity. This is partly why mastering the epub was such a victory. I use the word mastering hoping nobody will actually ask me to explain what I did to succeed. I went in circles for several days, punching holes in html and css with little knowledge and a lot of desperation. I kept telling myself failure is not an option, but of course failure is always an option. One day it will be the only option. I just hope it doesn't hurt much.

Meanwhile, it's the little things. Like hairs sprouting on my upper lip. 

The dark ones don't last long. If I see one, I pluck it. I'm not afraid to go in after it. If the hair is white, I can't see it. That makes me crazy. As I sit here picking at my cuticles, I contemplate the nuclear option.

Yesterday I had to thread a needle. I threaded needles for many years in my former life as a garment maker. I can thread a needle by feel, which is lucky, because my eyes no longer work right. I can't see things far away, and I can't see things up close. That means I can't see the thread or the eye of the needle. Muscle memory is the only kind of memory I have left. What's more, lately my right eye has occasionally been blocked by what looks like a round thumbprint. You could call it a flower. I guess it's a thing that happens sometimes. Oh, it hasn't happened to you? Well, your turn will come. Meanwhile, if you want to talk to me, stand about twenty feet away. 

I try not to think much. Thinking is over-rated. I do as little as possible. I used to admire people with robust intellects, you know those smartasses who read lots of nonfiction books. Not anymore. I think they are wasting brain cells in the pursuit of something that can't be retained. Sort of like Arizona uses water. 

I peaked in my twenties. It's been downhill ever since. This is ironic, because I was emotionally stunted when I was in my twenties. All those brain cells with so much capacity, like a high-powered nuclear reactor generating power to illuminate and solve all problems, and all I could do was apply them toward chasing codependent relationships. Now, forty-plus years later, I have so much more emotional intelligence and no brainpower left to use it. The nuclear power plant has imploded into dust. My weary thoughts sit mumbling around a campfire, singing kumbaya and trying to remember how to make s'mores.

In fairness to me, my capacity to think has been reduced somewhat by the washing machine in my head. Being off balance saps my will to care about anything. I'm going to the ENT for a follow-up this week. Maybe she will be able to tell me what particular brand of inner ear washing machine I have. I'm skeptical. Last year it was "Vestibular Migraines." That brand works for some people, but me, I give it zero stars. This year, the new fad is "PPPD," which stands for persistent postural perceptural dizziness. It's the brand of the week. As vestibular specialists do more research, they come up with more brands of vestibular insanity. We'll see what the ENT has to say about PPPD. She might tell me I'm really insane, like, Carol, it's all in your head. Duh. Doctors tend to blame the patient when they are too embarrassed to admit they don't know what is going on. Who could blame them? All those years in medical school, right? It's gotta hurt.

Let's keep it simple. Instead of adding up my victories and defeats to arrive at my value as a going human concern, let's just give me an attaboy for managing to cross something off my daily to-do list. As I'm going to do after I upload this blogpost.  

 

Things that don't heal by themselves

I've heard time heals all wounds. That sounds nice, but time doesn't heal everything. A few things come to mind. Cars. Teeth. Hearts. Money can heal some things, though. Cars, for example. If you have enough money to throw at the problem, you can definitely get that dreaded check engine light to go off. For a while. 

A business person once said something like, "I know half my advertising is wasted; I just don't know which half." I feel that way about car repair. When Charlie the mechanic says things like "Well, first we'll replace the coil, and if that doesn't work, we'll replace the fuel injector," it makes me suspect I just got a new coil for nothing. Not that you can't always use a new coil, but generally, I try to wait until I really need a new thing before tossing out the old one. It's the guess-and-by-golly approach. You guess, and if it works, you say, well, by golly! If it fails, you say, golly, sure screwed that up. The approach works, either way. After $2,300 worth of new everything, my car is running great. 

Another thing that doesn't heal by itself is teeth. Repairing teeth chews up a lot of money (ha, see what I did there). As I lay stiff as a board in the chair, with a drill, a water pick, a suction hose, and four hands in my mouth and the whine of the drill blasting my eardrums as it ground #3 and #26 to smithereens, I had a solid two hours to really savor the feeling of money being siphoned out of my bank account. I kept picturing the moment when I would be sitting at the receptionist's desk, pulling out my debit card. While I suffered in the chair, I couldn't wait for that moment. Once I survived the grinding and was actually pulling out my debit card, I felt somewhat less enthused. However, my deal is, I pay as I go for services rendered, even if they render me impoverished. How could I refuse? I got two new crowns for the bargain (Medicare) price of only $1,500. Such a deal. 

Speaking of dental deals, I hear that my insurance company has denied the $1,550 cost of last month's root canal re-do. I'm going to call them and weep into the phone, but I don't have a lot of hope. You can't petition the insurance company, not with prayer or anything else. The root canal had to be done, though, to save the tooth. So they say. Do we have to save teeth? I'm starting to think I'd look pretty good with dentures. I wonder if the dentist would let me customize them. Could I get them sharpened to points, maybe? That might come in handy in the upcoming zombie apocalypse, when I might be called upon to bite the throats out of water thieves. 

My bank account is starting to resemble Lake Mead—that is to say, a lot going out and not much coming in. I am not good at math, but even I know that is not sustainable. 

I knew this was going to happen. I was mentally prepared. Cars and teeth do not repair themselves. As long as I have the money, I will pay to maintain them. After that, it's baby food and bicycle. 

The other thing I'm thinking of that doesn't heal on its own is my heart. I don't mean that I'm grieving the losses of the past three years, although I am, and I probably always will miss my mother, my cat, and my sense of "home." I am actually referring to the actual meatball beating in my chest. Taking up yoga and jogging won't fix the valve that is gradually calcifying. My father used to lift weights to "muscle" his way through his maladies. It seems likely that I have inherited his genetic heart condition. I doubt if lifting weights is going to save me, any more than it saved him. But I understand his motivation. After a long walk, I feel a sense of sweaty accomplishment, like, yeah, take that, you stupid meatball. I'll outlive you yet, you just wait.

Speaking of dead, I'm pretending there will be a tomorrow, and I'm making plans accordingly. In a couple months, I'm going out in the world to seek my new home. Am I too old to go on a quest? I haven't heard that there is an age limit. This might be the adventure of my mediocre mundane lifetime. Or it might be the stupidest thing I've ever done. It's so hard to know ahead of time. Most of my bright ideas fall into the second category, but I've been lucky a few times before. It could happen again.

The path is less-traveled for a good reason

 

I'm blogging tonight because it is a task on my calendar. That is the only reason. My brain is a stinky pile of pudding. I've spent the past few hours formatting a dissertation that refuses to conform. 

It happens. Not all Word documents are built to my liking. No use complaining. It's far too late to do anything about it. The dissertation is done. The dissertator is defending in a few weeks. 

I can imagine the desperation she felt when her reviewers said, clean this thing up or you don't graduate!

Word is not a user-friendly program. I know it pretty well, but sometimes it is hard to figure out the quirks of a new template. There are a hundred styles in this thing. I picture bored academics sitting in offices drinking beer and gloating over their next creative ploy to make dissertators insane. And editors. Although I doubt if they are thinking of us. Me. No, they don't care.

They probably think they are making the formatting task easier for their dissertators. And if they knew what they were doing, I would say, right on. But it's just stupid to set a style to all caps and then assume the dissertator will figure out what to do when their page numbers suddenly appear in the Table of Contents in uppercase Roman numerals. I mean, I ask you. It's a travesty.

My brain is mush. I think there was some big game today? Did your team win? I hope you are fully recovered from whatever happened. I'd rather stay immersed in my resentment against Microsoft Word. It's easier to gripe than to see the news and be reminded that so many people around the world are suffering. 

Today as I walked along the bike path, enjoying the sun as I dodged the bikers, I thought about a crossroads moment in my young adult life. It was more than a moment, I guess. Maybe you could classify it as a three-year-long crossroads moment. I was in college (the first time around). It was around 1975 when my life forked into two distinct paths. One path headed toward the practical world of business, probably accounting (can you imagine?). The other path headed toward the mystical realm of art and creativity. It was never a real choice to me, but looking back, I wish someone had pointed out to me that I did have a choice. I didn't see it. I only saw one path, and so I took that path. 

It would not have taken a crystal ball to show me the possible outcomes of the two paths. One path would likely have led to a decent income, probably a house, a nice car, a growing bank account, and a retirement fund. In other words, wealth. The other path, the one I chose, has given me an interesting life of creativity, magical thinking, and constant struggle. 

Other crossroads presented themselves over the years. I took a few of them, in my quest to be a normal person. I went to school multiple times to reinvent myself. The editing skills I have now are a direct result of one of those detours. My detours have led me in some pointless directions, mostly because I let others persuade me it was the right choice. I wonder what sort of life I would have had if I'd ignored them, settled on one art form, and stuck to it. Painting, maybe. Or writing. I might have actually had a career. On the other hand, I wonder what my life would look like now had I chose to become an accountant. I can guess. Safe. Secure. Predictable. Now that I'm old and tired, it doesn't sound too bad.

I suppose it's not too late to look for another crossroad. As long as my brain still works, I'm probably employable somewhere. However, my best years, physically and mentally, are behind me. Barring a miracle, I fear my best earning time has come and gone. I should be living on my wealth now, and instead, I am still chasing the dream. Or it is still chasing me. 

Taking life at thinking speed

Today as I walked at thinking speed on the Huckelberry Loop, baking under 77°F sunshine, I reflected on the almost two years since I moved from Portland to Tucson. I realize now I had some expectations about what life would be like when I got here. For example, I thought I'd finally have time to write and publish. I thought I would be enjoying endless summer. I thought I'd have a cute little apartment somewhere, where my creativity could flourish, and I'd finally lose ten pounds and get into the best shape of my over-55 life.

Well. Some of those expectations did come true, but not in the way I'd hoped. For instance, I found that cute little apartment, but it turned out to be infested with roaches and located in a neighborhood prone to homicides. That nearly endless summer turned out to be a brutal phenomenon that could kill me. Nevertheless, my creativity did flourish. In spite of roaches, bullets, blazing hot sun, and drenching monsoon rains, I managed to crank out two books. It hasn't been all bad.

Thinking speed is the speed at which I don't have to pay attention to my swollen ankles and laboring lungs. Today I was thinking in particular about this past year, my first Medicare year. Before Medicare started, I remember being cranky that Medicare would start docking my tiny social security income, like, come on, Medicare, how did you expect me to live? I didn't think living itself might be in question. I mean, I knew I had high cholesterol, but I didn't know all the other things that turned out to be wrong with me. If I'd had a choice, would I rather have kept the money and eschewed Medicare? Would I rather not have known about the osteoporosis, the aortic stenosis, and the undiagnosed blood disorder? Possibly. 

In the space of one year, I went from being a healthy person to a person who could drop dead of a heart attack or stroke at any moment. Probably the only thing saving me from a real chest-clutcher is the fact that I haven't eaten red meat in twenty years. I thought I'd be able to gloat a little—look at me, the amazing vegetarian! Instead, I have earned a big fat fail. My so-called exemplary lifestyle (i.e., no meat, no processed food, no sugar, no alcohol, no cigarettes) has not earned me the coveted gold star of perfect health. It is starting to look like I missed out on some of the finer things in life, and I'm thinking specifically of the food groups I have avoided, mainly ice cream and potato chips. Mmm. Ice cream. Now I wish I'd pounded down a few more cheeseburgers and chocolate milkshakes. Well, it's not over til this fat lady drops dead. 

I don't feel like myself. I used to feel invincible, or as invincible as a slightly overweight, out-of-shape older gal can feel. If you subtract the vertigo, I was doing really well. So I thought. That is why this year has been such a shock. I used to be strong, and now I'm not. 

Realizing I am running out of road has changed the way I see myself. I'm not confident of my ability to do simple things, like climb a ladder, reach a high cupboard, or walk in a straight line without falling over. I can't trust my body anymore. 

Of course, I know everyone is one breath away from death, but it doesn't feel real when your heart is ticking along at an even pace, or when you don't worry about what will happen if you fall off the curb. It's some abstract unhappy fate that will happen sometime far in the future. 

Thanks for listening, Dr. Blog. I feel ashamed for whining about my tiny parched life. Many people have it much worse than I do. I'm just taking a long while to come to terms with my own mortality. 

I think my next road trip is going to help me with that. Instead of planning everything, I'm going to intentionally be a "pantser," that is, I'm going to travel by the seat of my pants. Instead of choosing my destination, I'm going to let the destination choose me. Over and over. I don't know if I can do it without panicking. I'm not used to the rock star roadie lifestyle, where you park in a different city every night. This is either going to kill me, or it's going to make me sick, and then it's going to kill me. 

The only interesting question is, how long before life kills me, and what will I do with that time?

You face the same question, too.