Art and the end of the world

In this isolated new world of video mentoring, I talk with artists all over the country. One of my favorite pep talk mantras is the world needs your art. I usually say this in response to their complaints that they are afraid to put their work out in the world so people can buy it. "What if no one likes it?" they say. They are afraid to set prices. Posting their art to social media is terrifying. Anything but my art! Such tender self-centeredness. As if anyone cares. 

"The world needs your art," I tell them. "We are given creative gifts to share them with others."

Of course, this is total hooey. I am implying that whatever "gifts" we are given are magically bestowed upon us by some sort of power outside of ourselves. Call it the Universe, call it Goddess, call it the Muse, the assumption is that our creative "gifts" came out of the womb with us, like our skin and bones. 

Moreover, it's our job to make our creative gifts manifest. Didn't some old dude say if we don't bring forth what is within us, what is within us will destroy us? So refreshing. Nothing gets me inspired to make art like the threat that I'll be obliterated if I don't.

Anyway, the point is, I tell artists it's their job to make art. 

I think I need to stop doing that. I'm reinforcing their delusion that their creativity is something special. It's not special. Everyone is creative. Not everyone is an "artist," if you are using a strict definition of the term, but every person alive must exercise creativity in order to stay that way. As soon as they learn how to scream, kids are masters at creative manipulation. Adults don't usually resort to screaming, but they are equally manipulative in their efforts to get their way. That sometimes takes ingenuity and innovation. In other words, creativity. So, just because you think you are an artist doesn't make you special. In that sense, everyone is an artist.

A few days ago, I realized I've committed a sin even more egregious. In encouraging artists to produce more art, I am indirectly contributing to an unsustainable pattern of production and consumption that relies on manipulation in order to function. It's a self-destructive cycle. 

Sut Jhally identified this cycle years ago in his film Advertising and the End of the World. I used to teach marketing and advertising at a career college. The marketing program was on its last legs, so usually there was no more than a handful of students in the program at any one time. Sometimes I had classes with only one student. Once every ten weeks, I rented Jhally's film from the library and showed it on a VHS player. I don't remember my students being terribly impressed. The message scared the living crap out of me.

Over the past few years, I have moved from fear to despair. It's too late to save the human species. If there is some sort of rescue coming, perhaps from space aliens or a magical melding of human consciousness into one wise mind, it will likely happen after I'm dead. (I'd love to see what American politicians do with an influx of extraterrestrials.) Meanwhile, what does it matter if millions of mediocre artists create millions of Sculpey animals, acrylic pour paintings, and plastic-bead portraits of Mickey Mouse? Who cares if our creativity ends up in landfills? Who cares if the oceans are more plastic than fish? Oh, poor whales, poor turtles. What's a few species in the big scheme of geological time? Species come and go. Nothing and nobody is special. I find it reassuring to realize the earth will remain until the sun goes pop. 

Artists, I'm doubling down. Go ahead, fill up your garage with oil paintings nobody will ever buy. Promote your crappy art on websites nobody will ever visit. Post your stuff on social media in the deluded belief that you have control over the algorithms. Who am I to rain on your parade? If it makes you happy to believe you will become rich and famous selling your insipid pour paintings, go for it. We passed the tipping point a long time ago. Choose your deck chair. 

Strategic thinking departed with the art

It's a cool 94°F outside. I'm sitting in the Bat Cave with two fans blowing and a wet tank top wrapped around my head. I really don't need the wet tank top. The fans are enough. Like many Tucsonans, I keep hoping to see some rain. Sprinkles come and go, but so far I have not seen anything but dirt spots on my windshield. The ground is never wet. I know that is going to change once this monsoon gears up for real. Right now, this wind phenomenon is  revving it's motor, testing its ability to suck water out of the Gulf and dump it on this desert. 

This is the strangest place. Well, strange to me, compared to the other two places I've lived. After a year here, I still haven't figured it out. Everything here seems so precarious. Maybe it's because I still haven't found a direction. Maybe I should get a job. 

How do people cope with the uncertainty of life? Is everyone going around saying prayers under their face masks like I am? No, because hardly anyone is wearing a face mask anymore. I was at the pharmacy yesterday to pick up yet another drug for my hypertension, and I counted barely a handful of people wearing masks. The people inside the pharmacy cage aren't wearing masks. They have glass windows between them and me. It must be nice to have the illusion of feeling safe. I've decided not to care. I will not succumb to peer pressure. My fear of getting COVID far outweighs my concern about what people think of me. 

I'm trying to peer inside my head to discern what might be changing. That isn't possible, I know. You can't see inside your brain using your brain. I want to find the place where I've misplaced the thoughts that sum up my life and help me make sense of things. I know those thoughts are here somewhere, because I'm a strategic thinker. According to the Strengthsfinder, four of my top five strengths are strategic. I don't remember what the fifth one was. At least, I used to be a strategic thinker, before I tucked that ability into a box somewhere and then forgot where I stored it. Thinking strategically is now a memory, sort of like the memory of doing handstands or step aerobics. That is what I'm missing now, that ability to assimilate and summarize all the events of my life and the world into a single cohesive equation or directive that will let me know, finally, here is what it all means and here is what to do about it. 

Meanwhile, since the strategic thinking skill seems to have deserted me for the time being, I have been exploring another skill, one I never had to develop because the boss driver in me always knew where the bus was headed. What do I call this new skill? I guess, being in the here and now. It's a new thing for me. Now I'm pulling off at every scenic rest stop, metaphorically speaking, to sniff some stupid flower or watch another dumb sunset.

In the moment! Who knew it could be so confoundingly unsettling? 

There is a lag between the question and answer now, when I look inside my head. Well, I never used to have to ask the question, did I? I always knew who I was and what I was doing. So sure I knew. Now, I know so little. 

I mentor many artists, as I've mentioned, mostly about marketing their art. In the thick of our conversations, I am fully immersed and present. I enjoy the brainstorming process, and I am pretty sure I'm being helpful. After the conversation is over, however, I return to my flatline state. When they send a follow-up email, updating me on their progress, to me, it's like the conversations never happened. I have to review my notes to remember what we said. I think it's because I really don't care much. Should I care more? After descending into the messy emotional bog of interacting with artists who think the world owes them a living, it takes all my energy to dig myself out after we end the video call. Oh, they don't say it like that, but I recognize my fellow kindred spirits. 

 

Another bug in the life of one day

After a recent Windows update, my computer started giving me the weather report in the notification area of the task bar, whether I want it or not. This week the reports are somewhat unsettling. UV alert! Fire danger! Very hot! in scary red letters. 

Yes. It is very hot here in Tucson. It is summer in the desert, after all. But not as hot as predicted. Yesterday, instead of 110°F, it was only 109°F. Today, instead of 110°F, it was only 108°F. I say, quit whining. I think putting the forecast in a scary red font is click bait. A few seconds later, the alert says mostly sunny, as if to say, ha, ha, got you, sucker. It doesn't matter. I can't parse what I'm seeing. I have the air conditioner cranked up to bring the interior air down to 80°F. The sound of a jet engine screaming in the Bat Cave makes my eyes wobble in their sockets.

Speaking of wobbling, a few nights ago I was getting out of the shower when movement along the floor caught my eye. Even with glasses, my vision isn't great. Without them, I'm half blind. But I can see movement, and movement on the floor can only mean one thing. 

The ammo I normally use to defend my turf was in the kitchen, so I grabbed the closest thing to hand, which was a spray bottle of Clorox. I grabbed my glasses and jammed them on my nose as I sprayed in the general direction of the thing. Now that I could see it, I wished I hadn't. It was the biggest cockroach I have seen in my time here in the Bat Cave. It was built like a fat little tank, more than an inch long, glossy brown, like sort of a warm brick color, and fast as hell.

I sprayed the bleach in its direction and then fell back gasping as the thing spread its wings and took to the air. It flew into the closet and landed on my dad's white plastic chair (the one I tied to the roof of my car when I moved here, don't ask me why, all I can say is, it has Dad's handwriting on the back of the chair). The thing landed and sat there looking at me. If you had been here, you would have seen me stark naked, dancing around with a spray bottle of bleach, screaming, "They can fly? WTF, they can fly?"

Yes, Virginia, they can fly. The adults, anyway. So now I know that the ones I had been claiming were ooh, these big scary adults were barely past their teens. This guy was a grown-up. Lucky for me, they don't fly fast or far. I was able to spray it down onto the ground. It ran like hell under a plastic chest of drawers. I sprayed under the chest, hoping eventually I would find its dead body. Then I dashed for the big guns.

I brought two spray bottles back to the closet with me: the insecticide and the alcohol. Long-range, short-range. Or maybe I should say long-term and short-term. I took the insecticide and sprayed full blast under the chest of drawers. Out came the big dude, moving fast. I scuttled backward as it scuttled forward. We passed each other. I stood in the bathroom doorway, and it headed full speed for the kitchen. I guess we retreat to the places we feel safe.

I lit out in hot pursuit, spray bottle in each hand. I shot it with insecticide as it ran before me, and as far as I could tell, it wasn't a bit fazed. I switched to the alcohol. The critter ran behind a thing, looking for a crevice in the cabinet. There wasn't one, so I let loose a torrent of alcohol, blam blam blam, and eventually it was so soggy, it rolled over on its sodden wings and surrendered.

I was taking no prisoners. I shot it a few more times, just for kicks, and then I finished getting ready for bed. Of course I couldn't sleep for a while. I had to walk around with a flashlight like I was hunting possums in the dark. I didn't see any more dudes, big or small. I am really hoping that was the grandpa or grandma, the last of the line. We can hope.

Meanwhile, more excitement at the Bat Cave. A night later, I was typing and heard a boom. I thought, oh, no, did someone just hit my car? I peered out the window and saw the dumpster was on fire. I opened my door and stuck my head out into the oven-like air. Yep, my eyes did not deceive me. Flames were roaring out the top of the metal dumpster. The dumpster boomed again. I heard sirens. I saw some neighbors come out and take video. I did the same, although I don't know why. I didn't talk to anyone and nobody acknowledged me. The fire truck pulled up. The guy who drives an air conditioning repair truck came home at the same time. He inched past the fire truck, determined to make it to his usual parking spot. He probably just wanted to get into his nice cool apartment and pop open a cold one. He was probably like, so what, a dumpster fire. People wandered around in the hot evening, walking their yappy dogs and watching the firefighters spray stuff on the flames in 100°F heat. It was all over in five minutes. 

I don't hear or see much from my window at the back of the apartment complex. Last night on the news I was startled to see a photo of the sign outside my apartment building. Apparently early in the morning, there was a double homicide in one of the apartments on the street side. The police came, set up a little white tent, and conducted their investigation. I saw photos. I didn't hear a thing. This morning I went out to check my mailbox for the first time this week (empty) and there was no sign two people had died.

This morning the manager sent a text saying the water would be shut off for some emergency repairs. I filled a bucket of water and put it by the toilet, just in case, but for some reason, the water in my building kept flowing.

Life goes on.

If artists ran the world

I thought I could make some money being creative. Not so fast. 

I spent the week whining to myself about how hard it is for U.S. artists to legally sell their work. I'm not wrong. It’s true, many administrative hurdles block artists from starting small businesses, but maybe my whining is overly dramatic. Other entrepreneurial wannabes have to stumble over the same hurdles. Just about anyone who wants to start a small business in the U.S. has to do a few things if they are going to operate above the radar, and when I say “radar” I mean the IRS radar. The IRS thinks you are running a business if you have at least $400 in net profit when you file your annual tax return. Sell a couple paintings, lead a couple workshops, and there you go, bam, you might owe somebody some taxes.

And don’t get me started about the confounding world of sales taxes. The topic irks me so much that I’ve cut off my hair, literally whacked it back to an inch, so I am not tempted to yank it out by the roots. I’ve even toyed with the idea of moving back to Oregon, which has no sales tax, just to avoid the whole headachy mess of charging sales tax.

I'm freaking out on behalf of all U.S. artists. It's my way of being of service. You're welcome. It’s not like I sell my art. I’m not even making art these days, at least, nothing anyone can put their finger on. Earlier this year, I was selling some 99-cent templates to dissertators on my website, until I realized, hey, I should probably be charging sales tax to customers who live in Arizona. Considering the likely number of Arizona-based dissertators (few, I'm guessing), the odds that I would owe more than a dollar are slim to none, but rather than find out the hard way, I now give the templates away for free. I do not want to rouse the wrath of the State of Arizona. In any case, I never collected mailing addresses, so I have no idea where my buyers live. 

All that got me thinking about what artists must go through to be sales-tax compliant. If they sell any tangible art at all, and if they live in a state that has sales tax, then the artist is supposed to collect sales tax from buyers in their state and remit it to the state. I’m not even going to mention the regulations affecting artists who sell digital art remotely into other states. Let’s just keep it simple.

Forty-five of the fifty U.S. states have a state-level sales tax. If you live in one of those states, and sell art to buyers who live in or visit that state, then you should be collecting sales taxes.

It sounds so simple, doesn’t it? Until you factor in the artist’s brain.

Think about what artists are being asked to do. To collect sales tax from buyers means artists must keep track of sales and money. What are the odds of that happening? Artists don’t use Quickbooks. They don’t even use Excel. Artists use napkins and sticky notes, notebook paper, and handmade journals with cats on the covers. Ask artists to produce an income statement or a balance sheet and their eyes will roll back in their heads as if someone had asked them to do math. Right.

Second, to remit those funds to the State means artists must register with their State (unless they live in one of the five states with no state sales tax). One look at the web form would make most artists run screaming into the night. It won’t take long for them to realize if they register to collect sales tax, they will need to apply for a business license. Then it’s one slippery misstep toward opening a business bank account, hiring an accountant, and discovering they owe income taxes. The next thing they know, all the joy and creativity they derived from their artmaking is gone, and now they are running a business. Bummer.

Third, the artists must remit the funds to the State. Dream on. All the artists I know will be using those sales tax funds (supposedly held in trust for the State) to pay their rent and buy their Frappuccinos. This is how I got into debt. Back in the 1980s, I found out too late, from the accountant I hired too late, that I should have been collecting sales tax on the clothing I made and remitting it quarterly to the State of California. Darn it, now you tell me.

Fast forward to now. I could have registered with Arizona. But I know the limitations of my artist brain. I balked after I found out the terrifying fact that even if I had no sales, I still must report to the State or be fined $100. That means $100 in fines for each missed sales report. It's like checking in with a probation officer. No check in, uh-oh, warrant for your arrest. In the face of financial terror, my brain goes gunnysack. Art becomes a burden, and all outcomes favor the State. 

Lawmakers don’t get it. They think artists will prepare business plans, hire lawyers and accountants, install and learn Quickbooks and Taxjar, and file their tax reports with the State on time. As if! Maybe on another planet in a galaxy far far away, where artists are the lawmakers and lawmakers are the whiners. What would a world run by artists look like?

My artist brain is not the brightest crayon in the box but it knows when the system is rigged against it. If you are one of those rare artists whose left brain works as well as your right brain, apologies for lumping you in the crayon box with me and all the other ratty, worn-down crayons. I hope you will run for office. I would definitely vote for you.

Fight for your right to be stupid

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Intermittently deteriorating

Like an automaton whose internal clock is winding down, I find all systems are no longer go. My brain likes to think it is in charge. It’s not. In this cowardly new world after Medicare, it’s every body part for itself. My parts have discovered they are autonomous and thus emancipated, which means they are no longer communicating with each other, or even with me, sometimes. Each part seems to have taken the position of, it’s my system and I’ll go if I want to.

Is it possible that past a certain age, when one’s life is notoriously small, there’s nothing left to talk about except one’s physical ailments? So-called normal people with normal-sized lives can always pull out the grandkid pictures. I don’t have any of those. I have lots of photos of my dead cat, my dead mother (before they died, I mean, ew), and my distant siblings whose lives are so much more interesting than mine. In fact, the photos take up a significant amount of room on a 2-TB external hard drive. What am I going to do with all these photos?

Digital property is a thing nowadays! Did you know? If you are a prolific and greedy creator of digital files, like me, some dispensation for the mountain of bits and bytes needs to be made in your last will and testament. So I hear. I had started writing my will, and everything was going swimmingly until I hit the digital property question. We will not regret the past? Right.

Yesterday I spent much of the day organizing and transferring my many thousands of electronic documents to two external hard drives. It quickly became apparent that I need more storage. I need another device just to hold my photos, something that can be mailed to one of my siblings, as if they would ever care about my photos of Tucson. I need another device to hold my scanned and photographed artwork, which I would mail to the hapless soul who has agreed to be my digital property executor, my kind friend in Phoenix who doesn’t really know what she signed up for.

I need to sort through all this crap. This is overwhelming. It’s bad enough I took a billion photos, bad enough I made all this art and then had the temerity to think it might be worth documenting so I scanned and photographed every stupid painting and drawing before I threw them all in the trash. What have I learned? This lunacy is the opposite of humility.

There’s possibly not a moment to waste.

This week I invited a housecall doctor from my insurance company to enter the Bat Cave. I can hear you yelling, Carol, what the hell? I know. I was aware of the risks. However, I was also aware of the benefits. I saw firsthand how beneficial having another opinion was for my mother. I sat in on her housecall sessions. I credit those nurses with keeping her independent in her condo much longer than we would have expected. They suggested eliminating several drugs and adding a memory drug, which I think slowed the progression of her dementia.

Having a second set of eyes on me, even if those eyes represent the insurance company, is not a bad thing, especially given my not totally unfounded feeling that my primary care nurse-practitioner person doesn’t have time for me and my tiny health crises. Osteoporosis is not a health crisis until I fall and break a bone. Vertigo is not a real thing if the healthcare provider can’t see it to measure it. It’s a well-known phenomenon that people who complain of health issues that can’t be measured are assumed to be insane. I’m lucky my skin is white. It could be so much more fraught.

Anyway, the insurance company makes housecalls once a year for free. The appointment was for 9:00 a.m. He was late. At 9:20 he called and apologized and said he could be there at noon, if I could meet then. I said sure. At noon he called and said it would be closer to 1:00 p.m. I said fine, call me if you get lost.

At 1:20 p.m., there was a knock on my door. I opened the door to a real live M.D., a big, blonde-haired, teddy bear-shaped guy wearing pale blue scrubs, a surgical mask, purple gloves, and an ID card around his neck. I offered him a choice of chairs: Captain Eddie’s office chair on wheels or my grandmother’s straight-backed sewing chair with a pillow to hide the frayed seat fabric. He chose my grandmother’s chair, after lifting the pillow, probably to see if it was okay to sit on it. I watched him lift the pillow. With masks on, so much nuance is lost in nonverbal communication, but we muddle along.

Actually, not much muddling happened. He was completely professional, friendly, not overly chatty but interested and patient. He asked questions, I answered them truthfully. I had done my homework. I could tell him the dates of my vaccines, my shingles shots, my latest mammogram, my most recent flu shot . . . all the dates and major events. There were a few things he didn’t bring up and a few things I didn’t mention. Then he took my blood pressure and listened to my heart.

“You have a little bit of a heart murmur,” he said. No one had told me that before, but given that my father had some sort of heart defect, which probably precipitated the heart attack that killed him, I wasn’t totally surprised.

“It’s a small one, a 2 on a 6-point scale,” he said. Oh, I thought, only a two. Whew.

“And your blood pressure is very high. Do you have white coat syndrome?”

I was actually feeling pretty happy that he hadn't asked me to pee in a cup. I don’t pee on command very well these days. I am not aware that I’m twitchy around doctors but who knows. Like I said, my parts aren’t really conversing.

So you see my urgency at getting my digital property squared away, right? I could be nearing the end. Odds are, it won’t be soon, but you never know. My cousin Dave ended up on the roof at age 61.

I don’t have to engage in proper file management. I could just say eff-it and let someone else deal with the mess. Certainly, if I lollygag long enough, I won’t have to worry about anything. I just hope someone finds my dead body before I totally stink up the place. Although, here in the desert, we have a dry heat, which means I’ll probably be a pile of bone and desiccated fat cells by the time the landlord unlocks the door. Ew.

For some reason, I have a lot of anxiety over leaving a mess, to the point at which I find myself regretting my creative life. If I had a partner or lived near family, I could say, oops, sorry, and let go. But I’m alone here. Who will come into the Bat Cave and sort through my stuff? Who will box up my hard drives, my laptop, my cell phone, and mail them to my family? Who will recycle-bin  the gazillion photos from my gigantic solid state desktop-system hard drive? What crew of elves will erase the physical evidence of my presence on the planet? Who will hire said elves? There's no 1-800-LF4-HIRE. I checked. (Although, hey, you can work as an elf at the North Pole for minimum wage.) 

It’s not something I would want to dump on anyone, let alone someone I love. My family cannot afford to fly down here to take on the task, especially during COVID. My scant handful of Arizona friends might be able to help in their free time, but they are all busy leading rich lives filled with meaning and purpose. I admit, I made a mess. I didn’t mean to, but I did. Who will clean it up when I’m gone? I need to figure it out before I die. 

Anyhoo, I sent a message to my primary on Friday. If I don’t hear back within a few days, I’ll see if I can find another practitioner in the healthcare system who is taking new patients. Meanwhile, I’m sorting through the files. I may decide to chuck it all. It’s either all precious, or none of it is precious. In a few years, I bet nobody will be using a USB external hard drive. They will probably have computer chips implanted in their brains and operate their Netflix via a skin-based control panel, like a modern Dick Tracy. Either technology will have moved on, or the death of democracy and the environment will have rendered civilization unviable. We are a blip.

The human Roomba

Greetings from the desert. It’s been another typical week of chasing cockroaches, editing dissertations, dodging bullets, and poking pencils in my ears to block out the boom cars. Ho hum. I call myself the human Roomba. I aimlessly wander half-blind through my activities each day, picking up cosmic detritus. At the end of the day, I swallow my misgivings, sluice off the sweat, and park myself on my foam rubber mattress to recharge my batteries in preparation for another aimless day of wandering. What is the purpose? To get things done. What is the point? What is the point to life? To persist, until it’s time to stop.

Summer is on the horizon. We’ve hit triple digits here in Tucson, not the earliest on record for the season, but not the latest. During the day, creatures lay low, unless they have air-conditioned SUVs, then they are out barreling from Target to Lowe’s to Fry’s in search of I don’t know what. Company, I guess. 

Covid loves company. I still prefer to isolate, and when I go into a public indoor space, I still wear my trusty KN95. I’m one of the few. I don’t care. They can’t see my face, which means I’m invisible. Their eyes slide right off my mask as if my entire body is not there. That’s not new for me. Menopause precipitated my secret power of invisibility.

Speaking of growing old, I went to an ophthalmologist this week to see how my cataracts are progressing. Nicely, it appears, thanks for asking. A slow-growing problem, too soon to worry.

I sat in the waiting area with a bunch of other elderly folks (middle of a week day). Most of them watched the big screen TV. I reminisced about sitting in a similar waiting room with my mother, reassuring her every five minutes that yes, they would eventually call her name. She hated to wait. Time waiting in a waiting room must seem endless when you have dementia.

I got my prescription updated. I hope it will be accurate, given that my breath kept leaking out over my mask and fogging up the lens machine. Is A better? Or is B better? I don't know, who can say. Next, I endured the stinging yellow eye drops and didn't feel any of the pokes and prods. Then an energetic masked man stormed into the tiny exam room, peered into my soul through my dilated eyeballs, and said hmmm, come back in four months. I paid for my prescription and I stumbled past the oldsters and out the door into the blazing desert sunshine, mostly blind, wearing two layers of sunglasses. There should be a law that you can't drive in direct sunlight when your eyes are dilated. It’s a miracle I made it home without running my car off the road. I was useless until the drops wore off, six hours later. 

Speaking of useless, early Wednesday morning (4:05 am) I was awakened abruptly by the sound of gunshots. They sounded very close to the building. After a moment of panic, I rolled onto the rug, hoping I wasn't disrupting the party of roaches entertaining their young ones there. (Save the children! Run for the corners!) I grabbed my phone and called 9-1-1. Or I tried to call 9-1-1.

After this experience, I now know what happens when you have a VOIP cell phone provider. I have an area code 503 number. Thus, my call was bounced to Portland. The nice man on the phone tried to put me through to Tucson police but dialed the wrong number, then dialed another number (“no one seems to be answering”), before finally connecting me with Tucson Dispatch, who took the info and said, “Why didn’t you just call 9-1-1?”

After five minutes of kneeling on the floor, I was over it. It was clear that nobody was coming out to investigate. There had been no more shots and I heard nothing outside in the parking lot. I’d stopped shaking, and I could now see the humor in the situation. I hung up the phone and went back to bed.

In the morning, I checked the news: Homicide a block away. I read a little more about the incident over the following days. Some guy shot at his on-again-off-again girlfriend and her friend as they were driving away from him in a car. They thought he had a gun, and turns out, they were right. That happened several blocks south of here. 

He didn't realize his shots had nailed his girlfriend in the neck. He followed them in his own car. When they stopped, I guess he saw the blood and thought his girlfriend had been fighting with her friend in the car. So he shot at the friend. I think those were the shots that woke me up. His girlfriend died in the car a block up the street. Somebody called it in at 6:00 am.

Police caught the guy. He’s 21. His girlfriend was 18.

Meanwhile, there’s a lunar eclipse tonight. I’m working on my last will and testament. No connection, just thought I’d mention it. 

A not-so-modest proposal

Happy Mother's Day. If you aren't one, you had one, and even if you hated her guts, you can't deny you got birthed. It's not for me to say whether that is a good thing or a bad thing. All I know is, I exist, thanks to my mother. 

I got lucky in the mother department. As moms go, she was a pretty good egg. She had a challenge raising four kids who barged into her life in stairstep fashion and destroyed her independence and autonomy. A product of her times, she had little choice. In her day, after you got married, the job was all about cooking dinner and birthing babies. She did what she could to eke out a life in the thin spaces around ours, but it's no wonder she was a cranky resentful person most of my childhood. 

Which could be why I opted to remain childless. I saw the physical and psychological damage four self-centered kids could do. 

Later, after we all left home, she got busy joining book clubs, leading knitting groups, volunteering at the library, and growing green beans. For such a shrimp, she had strength in abundance. In nursing school, they called her Mighty Mouse. I used to be proud of her muscles, like, my mom, the superhero. 

Now she's gone, and I'm old, tracking in her footsteps, seeing her face in the mirror. I realize how lucky I was to be born in that time and place. To suddenly appear in that place, in that time, with that skin color—man, how lucky could a fetus get? It could have been so much worse. I grimace to see people acting all entitled, as if they somehow had any control over being born in a particular place and time. Stupid sods.

Speaking of stupid sods, you know what I'm going to say, so I'm not going to say it. Instead, I'm going to go out on a probably somewhat distasteful limb here and wave at you from the short branches as I state my support for a new policy, sort of my version of a modern-day modest proposal. I call it Mandatory Abortions. 

Yes, it is what it sounds like. No more babies. Not for you, not for me, not for anyone. I've come to the conclusion that humans are too stupid to reproduce, and it's time to shut the whole thing down. 

I once tried to give a speech in front of a large audience, a long time ago, like, in the early 1990s, when I was in college (the second time around). It would have been a funny speech. It made me laugh, anyway. Unfortunately, I arrogantly assumed I didn't need any notes. Thus, I forgot my speech partway through the delivery. I don't remember much of the speech, but I do remember the feeling of utter, abject, stomach-dropping horror at the realization that my memory had failed me and my words were gone. I still get cold sweats when I think about it, proving the adage that fear of public speaking is possibly the worst of all human fears.

The opening line of the speech, though, was something about babies being a plague upon the land.

Besides a surfeit of babies, I could point to a few other plagues upon the land, but I don't want to get too nuanced. My brain is pretty much locked in an either/or mode these days. I'm either alive or I'm dead. People are either good or they're bad. I'm half-blind and not seeing shades of gray very well, and shades of gray aren't safe anymore anyway, or so I have heard, not that I would know. One of the plagues, I can't help but notice, is men. I read something from a historian about the origins of Mother's Day. I had no idea that the day was originally proposed as a response to the stupidity of men killing each other off in the Civil War. Unfortunately, that was before women's suffrage, so . . . back to the kitchen.

For some of us, it's the kitchen, for some of us, it's the burqa. It never seems to end. My mother didn't get to create her own life until after us kids grew up and went away. I witnessed her anger and frustration—I was partly to blame for it. As a young adult, I was observant, and far too selfish, to fall into the trap of birthing babies. And how lucky I was to be able to cavort through my child-bearing years under the kindly umbrella of Roe v. Wade! 

In case you find my not-so-modest proposal appalling, remember, I'm old, this is my blog, I'm a smartass, and I can say what I want to. I've done my part to end my line of DNA. If it is any comfort to you, nobody will follow me on the family tree. The bud stops here.

Going in circles

Howdy Blogbots. I'm a day late on this post and utterly shocked that anyone noticed. I am grateful to all six-sometimes-seven of you for caring enough to read this self-centered miasmic pile of palaver. Blogspot doesn't know what to make of me. I used to write about career college education. Then I wrote diatribes on dissertating. Then I fell into the black hole created by the baby planet nucleus I fondly called my maternal parental unit. I wasn't sure we would make it out of that black hole alive. Mom didn't, but I did. In fact, 2021 ejected me from my humdrum life like shooting a clown out of a cannon. Whoosh. Suddenly I plopped down in Tucson. A year later, I'm still dizzy and going in circles.

I really do go in circles. I have a cosmic hitch in my git-along. Walking, thinking, driving, navigating, it seems I frequently retrace my steps. Is this an artifact of aging? The glitch is most obvious when I'm driving. I've completely given up the idea that I can get anywhere in a straight line. I would like to say I'm a lazy bumblebee, wandering from flower to flower, immersed in the beauty of the present, but the truth is, I'm always half-sure I'm going to drive off a cliff at any moment, that the road will suddenly end in a great big sign—Road Closed—and I'll be miles up a dirt road with no place to turn around.

I've accepted that I'm not a brave person. Notwithstanding the fact that twice I've packed up and moved everything I own to a new town, sight unseen. That isn't exactly a wimpy thing to do, I have to admit. Maybe it's more a continuous case of mild terror while I'm doing that risky thing. Driving in circles, certain I will end up in Tijuana when I was aiming for Tucson, muttering the Serenity Prayer constantly under my breath, and squinting at a map I screenshot and printed from Google Maps (won't ever do that again; I almost ended up in Salt Lake City). 

The funny thing is, it doesn't seem to matter how many detours I take along the way, I always seem to arrive at my destination in the end, and almost always on time if not early. I have no idea how it happens. It's like my brain is in an alternate universe, bracing for disaster, but my body (and car) are chugging along, homing in on the end of the journey, one mile at a time.

The circles in my brain are a little different but no less confounding. I am aware that my brain goes in circles but there's no destination and I seem to be orbiting nothing. There's nothing in the middle. I keep trying to imagine what giant gas planet, what amazing project, what essential person will appear to inspire me to jumpstart my mojo with some ambition. I come up empty.

That doesn't mean I sit around moping. I have a list of tasks and I get them done. For the past couple days, I've been editing a dissertation for a candidate at the education college I ostensibly work for . . . I'm more like a contract editor. I still haven't figured out how the workflow flows. It's very similar to working for the editing agency, which I still do from time to time. Projects appear in my inbox. I work on them and send them back. Money eventually appears. Magic. I don't know yet how much I will be paid for the 30,000 word dissertation I submitted last night. It's good to have some surprises once in a while, don't you think? Daily life can get so stale when you think everything is planned out.

Maybe that is why I go in circles. My brain is subconsciously trying to entertain me. Would I wither from boredom if I always knew the correct route to my destination? Hm. I always assume my mind is trying to kill me. 

The doves are once again wandering around and proclaiming "Hang up and drive!" and "Live and let live!" Outside my window, lizards soak up the sun and then vanish so fast, I am not even sure they were there. The neighbors bring their boombox outside and enjoy the warm evening air. Someone told me that is a cultural thing—meaning, that is a Hispanic cultural thing. I would feel more tolerant if they were playing mariachi or Banda music. I like that stuff. I am getting really sick of hearing top-40 rap songs. Yet I smile and wave and say hello to their little girl as she pedals unsteadily under my window on her pink two-wheeler. Then I go back to hunting my skittish little roommates with a spray bottle of alcohol. 

Four more months in the Bat Cave. 

One year in Tucson

Happy Sunday, Blogbots. Another gorgeous day in Tucson, marred only by gusty winds. Yes, the same winds that are blowing wildfires around the Southwest. Thankfully, the smoke is going the other direction. I am in more danger from tree pollen than I am from wildfire smoke. I feel guilty enjoying the 80°F heat when homes are burning and bombs are falling. I guess I'd feel less guilty if I were curled up in a ball in the closet, but sooner or later, I would have to get up and use the bathroom. The mundanities of life really detract from the drama.

Speaking of drama, my friend E got Covid! I'm bummed, but only a fraction as bummed as E is. It sounds like utter misery. Vaccinated and boosted! Is there no god? E is in California. There's nothing I can do except pick up the mail, flush the toilets, and pray for a speedy recovery.

I was dismayed at the images of (mostly) happy airline passengers ripping off their face masks with joy after the announcement that the mask mandate was over. I felt for the passengers who clearly weren't happy. It's like they'd been warily riding in a safari jeep among a pride of tigers when most of their fellow tourists suddenly pulled squirt guns out of their pockets and shot everyone up with meat juice. 

How could a virus say no?

I think it is dumb luck I have somehow managed to evade this disease. Luck and the fact that I don't have any friends. I mean, people I see in person. I cannot count the people working at Sprouts as my friends. Especially because most of them are not wearing masks anymore. Sigh. Don't get me started.

Have we all just given up? If so, then why not bomb the crap out of Russia? If we are all going to hell in a handbasket, might as well go out with a bang. If all we are afraid of is a few nuclear bombs on some major cities most of us don't care about anyway, well, why worry? We've already destroyed a third of the species on the planet. It would be fitting if we destroyed ourselves as well.

I probably wouldn't be writing this if I had kids. No, I would be swinging wildly back and forth between apologizing for ruining the planet and begging them to use their nimble young minds to come up with a magic solution. 

Speaking of magic solution, do you have one for vertigo? The ENT thought I might have vestibular migraines, rather than BPPV. I started doing some digging, and turns out, it is possible the little pipsqueak was right. Actually, I'm starting to think I might have both! Well, it would be typical of me. My usual M.O. is to never do things halfway. For example, if you are going to move to a new city, just pack up the car and go, don't bother to scout the place first. Just hit the road or board that train, and see what happens. I've done it twice; so far, I'm still alive.

Excuse me a moment while I go out and murder one of my neighbors who is sitting in his car with his car stereo bass turned up so loud, his car speakers are shuddering. My stomach is shuddering in time to the beat. There is no actual beat, just that juddery sound you get when you know you've just blown out your stereo speakers.

Okay, I'm back. He turned it off just as I got off my chair. I probably wouldn't actually have murdered him. You know, Covid, and I don't have much in the way of weapons or an army. Just a couple of forks and a little herd of badly trained cockroaches. I'm all talk and no action, as you can see.

Spring is over in Tucson. Summer starts tomorrow, sounds like. Upper 90s are in the forecast. Once it warms up that much, I believe it really won't cool off significantly until November. It's a good thing I got the  beast's air conditioning fixed. Living in the desert without AC is foolhardy. I repeated that to myself a few times as the car repair guys efficiently sucked $441.32 out of my bank account. Apparently the price of Freon has gone up, too, just like the prices of everything else. What is the deal with Freon? Is this a case of if you love something and want to keep it, you have to be willing to let it go?

Oh, hey, I almost forgot, happy one year anniversary to me. I moved to Tucson exactly one year ago. 

Living the five seasons in Tucson

This week I spent an hour driving eleven miles across town to a shoe store to pick up a pair of walking shoes I ordered online. That's not news, everyone is doing it. Look at me go, contributing to the economy. I'm a dynamo.

I could have opted for curbside pickup but I'm not as leery as I once was of being around other people indoors. I wore a mask, as I always do when I go shopping. It was weird, though. I was one of the few. I mean, I was one of two. There were two of us wearing masks, and one was the cashier. I felt the pressure, I have to admit. 

Should I get a t-shirt that says something like immuno-compromised or preexisting conditions on board, as an excuse, basically, a reason why I'm not buckling to peer pressure? I'd like a t-shirt that says what are you staring at? or mind your own effing business. But that is my fleeting need for self-righteous vindication talking. I try not to let that part of me out of the cage if I can help it. It only gets me into trouble.

About the reluctance to mask up, I don't get it. Isn't there another variant making the rounds? Maybe everyone in Tucson has had COVID-19 already, except for that cashier and me. It's like an invasion of body snatchers. Except I can't win. If I take my mask off, I might be able to hide my bleeding-heart liberal presence among the herd, but taking my mask off puts me at risk of breathing in COVID. I might think I'm laying low but end up coughing my brains out with long COVID. 

I didn't plan to write about that. 

Metro Tucson has just over a million inhabitants, and I think I met all of them on my drive across town. I'm guessing citizens have more than one vehicle and they drive them both at the same time whenever possible, as if we get points for how many square feet we occupy at any moment. And how fast we are going. I fail on both counts. The speed limit on most east-to-west city streets is 45 mph, which means many drivers go much faster. The beast can manage a trot if I apply the spurs, but we are really most content clopping along at a mild 35 mph. Drivers wave and toot their horns as they speed around me. So nice.

Tucson is a large basin surrounded by mountain ranges on all four sides. The mountains have turned into a bit of a constraint. The city has sprawled up into the foothills of its mountainous boundaries. That's where the rich people live. 

You need a helicopter to get around this place. There's only one freeway, the I-10 going west to Phoenix or east to Albuquerque. The entire city of Tucson is a crowded grid of surface streets coopted by trucks and SUVs, which seem hellbent on mowing down all pedestrians and bicyclists with the audacity to try to share the roadway. 

I lived in Los Angeles for twenty years so I know how cities can sprawl. Tucson reminds me of L.A. Los Angeles had the ocean, though. Tucson's ocean equivalent is the desert beyond the mountain cage that traps the city. In L.A., I could take a bus and eventually put my toes in the Pacific Ocean. In Tucson, putting your toes in desert sand will give you third-degree burns. 

It's been almost one year since I made the drive from Portland to Tucson. Now I've experienced all five seasons. I understand the weather cycle now. Right now, it's spring. The doves are cooing in the trees, on the days when the wind isn't howling. The tiny lizards are sunning themselves on the concrete steps. The neighbors are enjoying their rap music outdoors with the bass cranked to brain death levels. Winter is over. The thermometer will be in the low 90s all week. 

Spring is short here. We'll have a few nice weeks, followed by months of mind-boggling heat and drenching monsoons. I'm going to enjoy my new walking shoes before summer peels the skin from my bones. 

The Chronic Malcontent achieves serenity, or something like it

Howdy Blogbots. This might be a short post. Nothing much happened this week. I'm tempted to make something up, just to keep you entertained. Like the six of you care. I admit, I often spin the content on the Hellish Handbasket blog, but I don't make content up. I leave out stuff (mostly because I can't remember anything anymore) but I don't add stuff. I pretty much tell it straight on, with few embellishments. So when I say nothing much happened this week, that means I went about my business in a nondramatic fashion. I visited my friend E at the trailer. I talked with my friend S on the Zoom. I walked around the neighborhood last night in the balmy spring gloaming. I wrote a couple chapters in my next book project and edited a disaster that appeared in my inbox on Thursday. I can hear you already—boring! Where's the drama?

No drama. What is drama, anyway, when you live in this place and time? Even when I'm dramatic, it's all fake. Bombs are not falling on my head. I'm not running for my life. 

Nondrama for me means I'm no longer reacting to the day-to-day minutiae of my mundane existence. So what, I have a few pests now and then in my kitchen, ho hum. Bugs gotta live, too. Wind in the trees, spinning trash out of the dumpster, right on, seen that before. Weather is a stupid thing to complain about. How many years (and geographicals) has it taken me to figure that out? Yeah, my beast of a minivan has a few hiccups once in a while. What car doesn't? Money pit misery makers on four wheels. Every morning I look out my window and say, huh, you are still here.

The best stories have some sort of conflict. That's what I've heard. Maybe I'm sunk so deep in my messy bog of ho-hum-ness that I can't sniff out the conflict in my life anymore. I think it's more likely I'm just plain worn out. It's exhausting caring about things. My tiny boring life deserves no drama.

 The only thing that riles me up these days is news that animals, especially pets, have suffered or died because of human cruelty. I don't want to write about that. Thinking about it makes me want to curl up in a ball and die. Humans, it seems to me, are too stupid and mean to live. Then I read a fun book or see some good art and think, well . . .

Other than the occasional meltdown on behalf of abused pets, this week I'm feeling serene. I'm tempted to dig into other people's dramas, just so I have something with which to entertain you. However, it's not easy to generate a strong sense of excitement over another person's drama, no matter how dramatic it is. You know what I mean? It's just hard to get into someone else's shoes. I try, though, I really do. I think I am an empathetic person, in general, despite my self-centeredness. I don't like to see anyone or anything suffer. Not even the little dudes in my kitchen. I'm not a cat. 

Conversely, I do like to celebrate the successes and triumphs of others. My boat really floats when other people's dreams come true. If I can help you get your boat down the ramp and into the water, I'm your person. Except if your dream is to invade another country, but that would be a special case of an insane crackhead. Generally, I love people (but not too close), and I want them to thrive and be happy (but not at the expense of others). 

Drama has its place, but maybe not near me. I just don't have the energy anymore to be on the firing line of life.

Another week on the Zoom

I drive so rarely, my car decided it couldn't be bothered to start. I know the feeling. I often feel that way myself, like, what is the point? On Monday I forked over some money to the place up the street for a new battery. When I got my car back, it seemed to exhibit a new resolve, although the clock indicated it had somehow entered a different time zone. Being time-zone-challenged, I plan to use my usual approach: wait and see what happens. Perhaps the clock will reset itself. It's happened before. It's like when socks, or gloves, or keys go missing. They quite often reappear.

Speaking of things disappearing and reappearing, one of my friends has a poltergeist. My friend has had it for years. A thing goes missing. A needle and thread. A document. My friend searches like a mad person, can't find the thing. Eventually my friend gives up. Then the thing mysteriously returns, sometimes days later, suddenly appearing in plain sight. 

I don't have spirits following me around. Far as I know. I am glad about that. If you see a spirit following me, don't tell me.

So Monday's quest was to replace my car battery. Tuesday it rained (with thunder, lightning, and wind). I've already forgotten how that felt. It's a little preview of what comes in July. Wednesday I led a workshop to help artists figure out what art products they should sell. That was fun. A futile endeavor. It's always fun trying to herd cats. Mm, cats. Much rather be herding cats than teaching artists. 

On Thursday I decided I'd better get out of the Bat Cave. I walked to the local Goodwill. It was a twenty minute walk, mostly through a neighborhood of desert houses. Desert houses in the poor part of town are made of cinderblocks. The roofs are flat. Of course I can't see inside, but I imagine everyone is lying on the floor to escape the heat that pools under the low ceilings. Goodwill was small and moderately crowded. I was one of a few shoppers wearing a mask. Every time I go around others, I think, is it my turn? I've been careful, I've been lucky, I've dodged this thing for two years. Is my luck going to run out?

Friday was April 1, another good day for a walk. Does walking help? (Help with what, you might ask.) Who can say. Saturday was a day of phone calls. I praise the TV gods for SNL. Sunday was a day of Zoom meetings. The week is over. I am done.

My life seems to be a frayed slogfest of loose ends. I complete everything on my list, but the outcomes are unknown. For all those Zoom meetings, did I help anyone? I don't know. All that spraying of the insecticide in my kitchen, is it going to keep me safe? I doubt it. The new car battery, will it guarantee my car will start next time I turn the key? Can't be sure. I learned more about time zones last week, namely that Arizona is in its own private Idaho when it comes to time. Does anyone really know what time it is? Today I led a workshop on Zoom. People from multiple time zones attended. I am embarrassed to tell you how many tries it took me to get the correct time zones on the flyer.

I may not know what time it is, but I show up for life, that's the best I can say. I've just about given up on the idea that my life has meaning and purpose. It does if I say it does, but I'm sort of over it. Maybe it's just the vertigo. Maybe it's the high pressure building in, inviting me to get lost in blue sky. Today is over. Tomorrow will bring its own set of tasks and unknown outcomes. Sooner or later, I will be done.

 

Searching for stability

I have been ruled by weather and climate all my life. Even as a kid in Portland, I clung to summer. I dreaded fall because it led to winter. I despised clouds. I wrote poems with gushing titles like Ode to Spring. I hated being cold. I used to stare in confusion at people who said they enjoyed Portland's cloudy moist days, people who actually reveled in rain, people who went up to Mt. Hood to—gah!—play in the snow. Even after chasing the sun to Tucson, I get cranky on cloudy days. Most of my adult life, unless the temperature tops 90°F, wherever I have gone, I have worn a hat on my head and socks on my hands. People are sometimes shocked to see I actually have hair. 

Weather is ruling me here in Tucson, just as it did in Portland, and I suspect it is influencing my vertigo. One day when my frustration with the rattling in my ear turned into action, I searched Dr. Google for information and found some articles that linked vertigo to migraines and barometric pressure. One helpful Netizen offered a ton of great information about migraines and air pressure. The place in the U.S. with the most stable air pressure, this amateur scientist said, was San Diego.

I continue to search for home. Is San Diego or environs the place for me? I don't think San Diego is within my budget, but who knows. I could live on the beach in the Beast. People are doing it. 

To help me make my decision, I wanted to find out if what I read was true, that San Diego barometric pressure is most stable, and further, I wanted to know if San Diego barometric pressure was different from Tucson barometric pressure. To answer my questions, I downloaded three days of air pressure data from the NOAA website. I used the altimeter data because it has been adjusted to account for elevation. Tucson is at 2,389 feet, compared to San Diego, which sits at just 62 feet above sea level. Air pressure changes with elevation, and that is what the altimeter readings account for.

I used the same three days for four locations: Portland, San Diego, Tucson, and Yuma. Weather on the west coast tends to move from west to east, so weather happening along the coastline might take a day or more to reach Tucson, but the days I chose didn't seem to be particularly dramatic in terms of storms or high pressure, so to keep it simple, I just used those data. 

I calculated the minimums and maximums for each city and subtracted to get the range, which is one measure of variation. The range (difference between maximum and minimum) for Tucson and Yuma were similar at 0.26 and 0.28, respectively. Portland was higher at 0.37. San Diego came in the lowest at 0.10, indicating that city showed the least amount of fluctuation in barometric pressure over that three-day period.

THREE DAYS	YUMA	TUCSON	SAN DIEGO	PORTLAND
MAX	30.06	30.11	30.09	30.22
MIN	29.80	29.83	29.99	29.85
DIFF	0.26	0.28	0.10	0.37

The data seem to support the idea that San Diego has stable air pressure. San Diego had less than half the variation in air pressure that Tucson and Yuma showed for this three-day period. Tucson had just barely more variation compared to Yuma. 

Portland had a lot more variation, but the waves were very slow, not choppy. You might like a chart.



What does this tell me? It might be true. In terms of my vertigo, San Diego might be better than Tucson. 

Next, I am considering the possible effects of my diet on my vertigo. I personally am not convinced that my vertigo relates to migraine headaches, but the spunky little ENT I visited earlier this month seemed to think I don't have garden-variety BPPV, that maybe it has something to do with a type of migraine. I think she's wrong, but what do I know, I'm just the ignorant person living inside this out-of-balance body.

In my experience, six things affect vertigo:  movement, gravity, sound, temperature, air pressure changes, and stress. I've lived with this condition since 2015. You can go back in this blog and read about it. I've complained a lot over the years. It's what I do.

Anyway, diet. My nemesis. I blame food for everything, even as I whine to the gods about how unfair it is that I can't eat like so-called normal people. If I could subsist on pancakes and ice cream without blowing up like a balloon, you better believe I would. Just looking at pancakes is good for a two-pound weight gain. My problem is I don't know how to stop once I start. I'm such an addict. But what if some of the foods I'm eating—and there are only, like, a dozen of them—are contributing to my vertigo? That would be sad, if I'd had the solution all along. Just click your heels three times, nibble on this root vegetable, and all your balance problems will be gone. Right.

According to the info sheet the ENT gave me, to head off migraines, I should avoid, reduce, or limit these foods: chocolate, nuts, peanut butter, coffee and caffeinated tea, many cheeses, eggs, yogurt, fresh bread, green beans, lentils, onions, raisins, and avocado. 

I don't eat all of those things regularly, but many are staples in my diet. Eggs, for instance. Yogurt. I don't eat meat, so eggs and yogurt are my protein sources. I am not sure what I would eat instead. I tried the soy/tofu diet, back in, like, 2010, during my vegan meltdown. Been there, done that, almost killed me. 

Guess what foods are supposedly "safe": American cheese, ice cream, pudding, milk, white bread, potatoes, rice, oatmeal, fresh meat/fish/poultry, many root vegetables, and apples. Basically white things, dead things, and sugar. Bright side: Pancakes would be on this list, as long as they have no yeast in them. 

I am left with so many questions. Why is milk okay but not yogurt? Is it the probiotics? Why is American cheese okay but not Swiss? What do we have against the Swiss? I'm so confused. 

Nothing makes sense. I keep trying to order the thoughts in my head. It's like herding lizards. I shake my snow globe head almost constantly, trying to keep the ear rocks suspended. I'm sure these stupid ocotonia have wandered far and wide since they started their journey in 2015. Now they are exploring all the ear canals, far from home, going on their endless river cruise. I wish the spunky ENT could shoot some dye into my ears, put me under a scope, and see where the crystals are actually gathering. I bet my ear canals would light up like a playroom full of kindergarteners. 

Speaking of little dudes, good news. After repeated sprayings of insecticide around the Bat Cave, I believe I have secured the perimeter. For the past few days, I've seen only tiny stupid babies, easily dispatched with no compassion. I am sure my cockroach dreams will eventually subside. 

I wonder if the bug spray has an effect on my vertigo. Hmm. More to be revealed.

To earn or not to earn

Somehow I've managed to divorce earning money from receiving money. It's as if the hose got disconnected from the faucet or something. No, that's not right. It's as if I'm putting energy into a meatgrinder, cranking the handle for all I'm worth, sweating up a storm, and nothing is coming out the other end. Not meat juice, not water, not air. Then when I go look in my refrigerator, there's meat in there. Like, how did that happen? 

I am not a meat eater, so this is a bad analogy. All I know is, something is wacky with me and money. I'm turning the handle but nothing is coming out the spigot. It's similar to the wackiness between me and time, the challenge I discussed last week. 

What the heck am I talking about? Vertigo is clawing my brain into pieces. My head is reeling from a storm system moving through. Actual rain is coming down from the sky. Moisture. Falling from the sky. So weird. 

Anyway, I can't think very well when the bucket is sloshing in my head. I think what I'm trying to do right now is describe my experience this week of doing work for no pay. I seem to be caught up in swirls and eddies that take me nowhere. Words are failing me.

The past few weeks, I've edited three papers for the for-profit higher education institution that hired me as a part-time dissertation editor. I'm supposed to get paid a certain amount per student per term. It isn't hard work. The hardest part is learning the quirks of the institution's dissertation guidelines, which seriously depart from APA style. 

Enough palaver. What I'm saying is that I've done a bunch of work, the term is over, and I have not been paid. I think I recall the supervisor saying they pay twice per term. It's a paltry amount, minus taxes, so I'm not holding my breath, hoping to have money for bread. What am I saying? I don't eat bread. Okay, milk. I don't drink milk. Money for onions. I don't know. My brain is going sideways. 

The agency guy I sometimes edit for sent me a little paper to edit yesterday. A proposal thing in a weird institutional template. I polished it up and shipped it off. Five hours later, the guy writes back, oh hey, here's the institution's handbook, can you see if what you edited complies with the format in Appendix E? I wanted to yell at him (via email), you idiot, why didn't you send it to me before I edited the paper? But I thought, what would be the point, other than releasing my frustration? So I downloaded the handbook and looked at it. It had some examples of title page, copyright page, you know, all that front matter stuff nobody ever reads, as well as some formatting requirements.

I wrote to the agency guy: You want me to format this paper?

He wrote back: Yes, would you?

I'd already spent over two hours just editing the text. Now I was expected to reformat the paper and add a title page, copyright page, acknowledgments page, and a table of contents. 

Oh, did I tell you how much I am getting paid? Sixty dollars. 

I might as well be paying him for the privilege of being of service. Ditto the institution I supposedly work for. 

I recently decided to stop teaching online Zoom classes for artists who want to learn business. It's not worth the hassles. I'm intrinsically motivated, you know that. I have to be. The pay is $25 per hour to teach a class. Minus taxes. I'm paying transit tax for a county in which I no longer reside. I spend many hours gathering my material and refining it into presentations that I hope artists will enjoy and understand. I don't expect praise, although I get some now and then. I also don't expect to be reamed for using incorrect personal pronouns when students don't turn on their cameras or otherwise give me a clue. 

Have you tried speaking without any personal pronouns at all? It's quite challenging. I have changed all my business emails to "pronouns: any." Honestly, I don't care what you call me. Pronounce it any way you want, make up your own spelling. My sense of well-being does not depend on you using my preferred pronouns. 

What was I talking about? Oh yeah: the meatgrinder. I put in energy and effort, I turn handle, and no meat comes out. It's a metaphor. Not a good one. I have a commitment to self to blog every Sunday, no matter what. Sometimes I can't find the words. I don't even know what I am feeling, other than dizzy.

And yet, my fridge is full. Not of meat, but I have plenty of eggs, yogurt, vegetables, fruit, nuts, twigs, and gravel. I'm not starving. There is gas in my car (I hardly go anywhere, I think gas prices will probably drop by the time I need to fill up). I'm doing fine. 

The disconnect I perceive might not be real. 

If I have to choose between a "real" job that pays a "regular wage" and this weird quasi-freelancing editing gig, which is better for me? If I'm not going to get paid, is it better to be useful? Or is it better to work on my own projects and tell everyone else, no, I can no longer do your projects for a few pennies or no pennies at all? Rain is a suitable mood, and the Bat Cave is a perfect place to excavate the words that escape me.
 

Standing still in the stream of time

Yesterday was the day America sprang forward. I'm talking about clocks, of course. People all over the country were waking up and discovering they had forgotten to change their clocks. A few confused souls had no doubt set their clock back one hour (one of those confused souls called me an hour earlier than they were supposed to today, that is how I know). Some other confused souls had confused cell phones (I was one of those souls), phones that failed to update their location and promptly lost their minds.

One of the benefits of moving to Arizona, so I thought, was the luxury of not having to change my clocks twice a year. Most of Arizona remains on Mountain Standard Time, no matter what. Even in the tiny Bat Cave, I have three battery-powered analog clocks, plus one old-fashioned electric digital clock with glowing red numerals. I thought, what a relief, I won't have to go through the tedious task of adjusting my clocks. Woe is me, what a burden. I assumed my phone and two computers would manage the moment successfully, considering nothing needed to change. Standing still, right?

You'd think. 

As I said, my phone lost its mind and required a reboot to reorient itself regarding it's physical location on the planet. Then I discovered Google Calendar tried to update me to the Mountain Time Zone, probably because I had failed to differentiate between Mountain Standard Time and Mountain Daylight Time in the settings. (New to Arizona!) As the day wore on, my brain wore out, overloaded with numbers and well-meaning people trying to set me straight. My friend E said we are the same time zone as Mountain Time. Yes, but E did not say Mountain Standard Time. Apparently my Google Calendar has been on Mountain Daylight Time. That is my guess. 

Stick a fork in me, I'm done. I have spent the entire day trying to understand time. It doesn't help that my caller today set their clock backward rather than forward. Thus, because my phone lost its mind, the caller was calling two hours before our expected call time, which propelled me instantly into a crisis of confidence. (Who am I? Where am I? Does anyone really know what time it is?) That hissing sound you hear is my brain overheating.

I finally figured it out. 

I've been visualizing time as a round thing, like the face of an analog clock, when I should have been visualizing time as a series of rectangles. It's no wonder I'm having trouble. My brain has never been good with analog time. When I was nine years old, I spent a fair part of one afternoon standing in the hall staring at the huge clock on the wall. I was not allowed to reenter the classroom until I could "tell time." Humiliated and ashamed, I stood there staring, until an adult walked by. I cheated, of course, because what nine year old understands that integrity builds character, and I asked the kind adult to tell me what time it was. With the magic formula in hand, I triumphantly reentered the classroom, told my teacher the time, and resumed my seat, still having no clue what made the big hand different from the little hand. 

I eventually caught on, as we often do, we learn to tie our shoes and ride a bike and tell time on a round clock, and since then, time for me has been a round thing. Now, because I moved to Arizona, I know it's a rectangular thing.

Rectangles called time zones divide up the face of the North American continent. You knew this. In the spring, through a magic known as collective agreement (and an illness known as collective inertia), the time zones get off their butts and shift to the right one hour. In the fall, the time zones sigh, heave themselves to their wobbly feet, and move back to the left one hour to settle in for winter.

And what happens to me? I sit still, like a hotspot under the surface of the earth, while the time zones shift above me. Tectonic time zone plates. 

The consequence of standing still as the time zones shift is that I always have to be aware of which time zone is squatting over me. Is it the one to the left of me, or the one to the right? Yesterday it was the time zone to the right of me—those other Mountain Time Zone guys, the ones on Daylight Time, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, those states have been hunkering over the Bat Cave for the past six months. To my confusion, I wake up this morning and find myself squashed by the weight of California, Oregon, Washington, and Nevada. 

I am awakening to the power of geography! Who knew this would happen from moving to Arizona and gloating about not having to change my clocks. I tell you, I would gladly change my clocks twice a year to avoid having to be hyper-conscious of what the states on either side of me are doing. Yesterday I was on Mountain Daylight Time, now I'm on Pacific Time! All without changing my own clocks. I thought it would be so great to sit still while everyone shifted around me. Instead I discover everyone shifted in unison, like a grand flock of swallows, and I'm the lone scrub quail, grousing in the dust.