Time to stop making sense

In my fledgling career as an amateur dogsitter, I can now claim to have cared for three dogs. Juno is the biggest dog, so far. She's an 11-year-old, slow-moving Rhodesian Ridgeback whose head is bigger than mine. She's old and arthritic, which means she doesn't go for walks and she sleeps most of the time. Except during the night, of course, when her bladder or bowels say it's time to go outside (rarely at the same time). 

My schedule is out the window when it comes to taking care of Juno. The dog's 5 am and 5 pm feeding schedule drives the entire show. The feeding schedule drives the poop and pee schedule. I have no choice, unless I want to experience the consequences, which I don't want to do, so I have my alarm set for 5 am. 

It's still dark here at 5 am but dogs' stomachs have their own internal driving force, and I live to serve, so I stagger off the couch and head for the fancy open-concept kitchen and the stainless steel fridge, where I rummage for the frozen veggies that make up one third of this dog's meal. The veggies go into the microwave to thaw. While that is happening, I put my head lamp on my head, click it to the dim setting, and grab a couple training treats, which I use to bribe Juno to go pee. She does, thankfully—like most of us, she'll do anything for treats. I admire the tepid air and the amazing array of stars overhead while she squats in the grass. Then we rush back inside for the main event. 

I get the other two elements of her meal out of the fridge: a huge round flat slab of raw hamburger and a raw chicken drumstick. These two things go into a big metal bowl.

By this point, Juno is going insane. Oh, have I mentioned, I am currently adhering to a vegan lifestyle? 

The thawed veggies get dumped into the metal bowl with the two hunks of raw meat. After a dousing of water from the reverse osmosis filtered water spigot, I feed Juno her two arthritis meds (wondering if they would do anything for my hip arthritis), and then we go outside onto the patio. 

Juno knows to sit, and I've learned to hold the dish high over my head so she doesn't knock it out of my hand. I set the dish on the Mexican tile flagstones, and Juno goes to town. It's a little disturbing to watch her polish off an entire chicken leg in two crunchy bites. She could probably do that to my hand, if she got a hankering for old lady bones. While she eats, I put the raw stuff back in the fridge. I make sure I have enough meat thawed for the next several meals. Finally, I clean up the dark granite countertops with antiseptic wipes, hoping none of that raw meat juice got on anything I care about. 

Juno returns in about 30 seconds. Her dish is licked clean. Juno goes back to bed on her 4-foot wide round cushion, and I wash out the metal bowl, wondering if it's worth going back to bed myself, or if I should just stay up for the sunrise. Usually I just lay there in the dark and listen to the AC system clicking on and ramping up as if we are about to be shot into orbit. 

Speaking of AC, I don't understand how it works, if it's me (residual hot flashes), or if the house is trying to kill me. Sometimes it seems hot in here, and sometimes it seems cold. Yesterday, I couldn't take having freezing feet when it's 108°F outside, so I nudged the thermostat from 78°F to 80°F. It seems better today.

In the evening, at 5 pm, we repeat the entire meal preparation process, sans the pills, and sans me going back to bed to try to catch a few more hours of shut-eye. By evening I'm in a bleary daze, wondering how I got here and where I'm going to end up next. I know that around 1 am, Juno, the pony-sized dog, is going to shake herself and head to the patio door, where she will poke at the glass with one huge black claw. I'm right behind with my head lamp, the beck and call girl for the creature temporarily at the center of my existence. 

I think back sometimes to the arc of this blog. Few of you are around anymore to reflect with me on the vagaries of this journey. This blog started out as a place to rant about the travesties of earning my PhD, oh woe is me, alas, alackaday. After some wandering aimlessly, the blog centered on the decline of my mother into dementia, and eventually her death. After that, what was there to talk about but me, as usual: downsizing, moving, searching for home, healthcare, and hoping to find my balance. It's hard to look back and see not an arc but a line. It all depends on what label I put on the y-axis, though, doesn't it? If I put financial success on that axis, the line descends into negative territory. Danger, Will Robinson! But if I put freedom on that axis, the line shoots out the top of the chart. 

The question remains: Would you rather be safe or would you rather be happy? It's really hard to find the intersection of both. 

Change is coming

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spinning like nobody cares

A life lived in fear is a life half-lived. I know that is true because Fran said it in my favorite movie, "Strictly Ballroom," and Fran was a wise woman. It is possible to live one's entire life in fear. People do it all the time. I've been doing it. I can't think of many stretches of time when I didn't live my life in fear. Fear is as familiar and uncomfortable as a pair of old running shoes that have sprung a hole in the sole and are now taking on water with every step. 

Some fears are reasonable. We need those fears, and I will most likely keep them, the ones I have gathered close around me like a hazmat suit. For example, when I complain about being afraid of things, I'm not talking about fear of tornadoes, hurricanes, floods, and wildfires. Fear of those things is rational. I'm not talking about the consequences of runaway climate change. I'm not talking about specific cases of insane or deluded people with guns. Those fears are rational. 

I'm talking about the fear of alternative lifestyles, fear of unusual self-expression choices, fear of appearances and actions that fall outside the norm, way out there on the bell-shaped curve. Outliers used to scare me. I used to be afraid of anyone who looked weird. I viewed people who didn't conform with wary disdain. What kind of person leaves their holiday lights up all year round? That's just laziness. Who would patronize a store that opened inside what used to be a house? That's just wrong. It's so easy to be afraid of something unfamiliar, and from there it's an easy leap from that's scary to that's wrong to that should not be allowed to I need to join that mob over there and shut that thing down.

No worries. I'm not a joiner, not for Bluebirds and not for mobs, so I won't be coming for your Christmas lights anytime soon, or ever, actually, because in my old age, I have learned to appreciate people who tread the road less traveled. Go ahead, leave those lights up all year, and what's more, go ahead and turn those suckers on in July! Why not? We could use some holiday cheer in the dog days of summer. Feeling like wearing pajamas all the time? Me, too! Let's do it. Feel like swearing sometimes at the inanity of life? Me, too! No need to stand on decorum around me. Let it rip. 

Fear of dumb things is dumb. I think you get my point. But what about the options that fall in between? 

What if one person's fear is another person's adventure?

My head is spinning from the constant rise and fall of the barometer. It's monsoon in Southern Arizona, finally, and now it rains almost every day. It's great, don't get me wrong, but even as I'm out twirling in the rain, my head is a slushy mess from the sledgehammer pounding inside my brain. I sleep when I can, just to exit stage right for a while. The only time I know I'm safe is when I'm lying down. But I know I have to keep moving. I walk in the evenings to keep my arthritic hip from seizing up, but walking doesn't help the aberration bashing my cranial nerve every sixty to ninety seconds. I fear the side effects of the antiseizure drugs the ENT might prescribe, but at some point you just have to say, bring on the side effects, what could be worse than the maelstrom in my head? I have not been offered drugs yet, just to be clear. I see the ENT dude on Friday. I've been told another MRI is in my future.

I knew a cat who, when confronted with an earthquake in his house, ran fast and far and didn't stop until the shaking subsided. He ended up across the street under a neighbor's house. I feel kind of like doing the same thing: running fast and far until the quake in my head subsides. I fear I might be running forever. 

The five fingers of death take a holiday

I have an aversion to eating anything with a face. If a creature would run from me if it could, then I do not want to make it a meal. Even if I were lost in the wilderness, I would have a hard time eating grubs (not in the desert, however, because there are no grubs in the desert, just lizards and scorpions). Maybe I would get hungry enough to gum a lizard. Maybe not. I have a hazy assumption that I would somehow manage to pick, peel, and suck on a prickly pear. Right. Have you seen those things up close? All the flora in Southern Arizona is trying to kill me. It’s like its members spot a person with disequilibrium from afar, like a tick waiting for the unsuspecting hiker to pass by, and then they lean toward me with their feathery stickery arms and quivering bony spikes, hoping to impale me as I struggle to keep my balance.

You can tell I’m feeling persecuted by the desert.

This week when I was on my second road trip to Northern Arizona, I found the perfect place to take a fall and die. Have you been to Montezuma Well? It’s a natural springs that has bubbled up in a rock basin for thousands of years. The native inhabitants of the area used to live near the Well in cliffside dwellings they built from rocks. Even today, local tribes think of the Well as a sacred place. I can see why. It really feels magical, this unexpected oasis in the arid desert.

I was the first one at the gate, that's how eager I was. Being a tourist is fun sometimes. I sat and waited, and then more magic, but of the technological wireless variety. On the dot at 8:00 am, I heard a loud beeping, and the two metal gates swung open just for me.   

Ignorant whites named it after Montezuma, mistaking it for part of the Aztec civilization. On the upside, however, the park service built a meandering staircase of 112 steps so that visitors could descend close to the water. You can’t touch it, and I’m not sure you’d want to anyway, given the pondscum on the surface and the leeches that lurk in the depths. Still, it's water in the desert, and that is always a welcome sight. If you are feeling robust, and if it is still early in the day before the heat bakes you into a husk, it’s a descent worth taking.

So I took it.

Going down wasn’t hard, you know, because of gravity, but there are no handrails, which is when I had the thought that I could fall here, just pitch right off the edge, and maybe that would not be so bad. My soul, if I have such a thing, would no doubt enjoy the dip in sacred waters, in spite of the leeches.

I didn’t fall. 

Coming back up the 112 steps, though, was a workout. I could hear the voices of the two park rangers, who were standing at an overlook at the rim a good fifty yards above me. I could see them from time to time as I paused on landings to catch my breath and wait for my heart to slow. The larger heavier ranger was teaching the younger skinnier ranger about the history of the Well. Their voices echoed in the basin. I wondered if they knew CPR. Most likely, probably it's a job requirement, not that CPR is something I would want, given what I now know, that CPR is not a thing most people survive, nor would they want to, if they knew what I know now.

Better to let me slip under the green and blue water and let the leeches suck my soul while the ducks nibble on my toes.

I didn’t fall. I didn’t have a heart attack and die. I made it to the top. After a good long moment to rest, I took a trail down to the place in the side of the hill where the outflow (the swallet) emerged through a narrow channel made by long-dead indigenous peoples. That water was used to irrigate the “three sisters”—corn, beans, and squash. This practice endured for generations, until the tribes decided to uproot themselves and move south to join some villages that I guess seemed like more fun than farming the desert.

The day before I visited the Well, I saw the other part of the park system known as Montezuma Castle, which is the cliff dwelling clinging to the side of a high cliff about eleven miles away from the Well. That was an impressive construction feat, but as a visitor, I was disappointed, not by its construction, which is amazing, but because park visitors are not allowed to go up and walk around that dark castle, I guess for obvious reasons, but still. It would have been cool. Literally, it would probably have been much cooler up there in those carved caves—at ground level, it was easily 100°F at 4:30 when I was visiting just before closing time.

Montezuma Well was more satisfying in the sense that I could imagine I was walking in the footsteps of people who used to live and work there, finding physical and spiritual sustenance on the land because of that sacred water.

To celebrate my vacation, I did two food-related things. I ate ice cream. And I ate an English muffin. I know, I know. Some of you are saying, Carol, jeez, lighten up, no wonder you are so uptight, you need to eat more ice cream. And some of you are saying, oh no, you ate two of the five fingers of death! It’s curtains for you. The five fingers of death, if you don’t remember, are the invention of the erstwhile Dr. Tony, naturopathic bully: wheat, corn, soy, sugar, and dairy.

I try to minimize my intake of these foods. I hate to give Dr. Tony any credit for saving my life, but among the many wacky things he said and did, telling me to eat good food and drink water probably deserves a thanks. It doesn't mean I don't indulge in sugar in my oatmeal and soymilk in my tea, but I always feel a twinge of guilt, like, oh, no, what is the arrogant bully going to say this time as he sucks the money from my bank account? He has since retired to the godforsaken hinterlands of Oregon, also know as Bend, where I assume he is tormenting other willing victims who haven't yet caught on to his subtle yet nefarious passive aggressive quackish homeopathic ways. Me, resentful? No, but thanks for asking.

I am curiously waiting to try cultivated meat, vat-grown chicken, what are we calling it? Chicken cells grown in a stainless steel container. The intriguing thing is, no chickens are harmed in the creation of this product, although I’m not sure I totally buy that. No chicken would voluntarily donate its cells for science, even it meant all future chickens could escape the butcher's cleaver. I mean, we like chickens for lots of reasons, right, but we give them too much credit if we imagine they understand the moral and philosophical implications of offering up cells as a ploy to save chicken lives. They default to chicken run every time if given free range.

I want some of that protein, is all I’m saying, and I don’t want any chicken lives to be harmed in my attempt to get enough protein to stay alive, without resorting to eating bugs, grubs, and lizards.

I probably won’t live to see packages of cultivated chicken in the grocery store. I doubt I’ll live long enough to own an electric car. I probably won’t live to see a glut of affordable senior housing spring up about the land, driving rental prices down to the reach of any sad sack who needs a place to live. Too bad for me. I could be sad at the prospect of missing out on future prosperity, or I could be resentful, both really appealing and viable options. I'd like to know what happens after I’m gone, but unless there's something mystical that occurs after we die, probably once I'm gone, I'm gone, and none of this will matter, nobody will care. In a way, it's nice to know that life will go on, I just won’t be part of it anymore.

Hot in dog city

I'm happy to report Maya the dog survived her three days under my care. It was touch and go at first. The first two visits did not go well. The dog (who has mobility problems) would not get out of her "crate," which is what the owner calls the space under the stairs where the dog sleeps on a giant round furry dog bed on the floor behind a baby gate. The dog growled at me, even when I used my most saccharine nonthreatening wheedlesome voice: "Come on, Maya, don't you want to go outside?" 

By the third visit, Maya was starting to catch on. Plus, I think she was feeling some internal pressure. Even though she has a serious hitch in her gitalong, she beat me to the back door. As soon as I dragged it open, she flew past me, hunched over in the rocky gravel flowerbed, and added a big pile of stuff to the toxic waste dump alongside the house. A few seconds later, she squatted again, and then she was wagging her tail, all happy, like, yay, who are you, great, you are my new best friend! 

As soon as she realized I was all she was going to get, and that I was the bringer of food twice a day, she settled in and became positively friendly. We found our rhythm. I let her out, she did her business, and then I sat next to her bed on a soft pair of smaller dog beds (relics of her deceased dog buddy), and read news articles from NPR and CNN, aloud, because what else was I going to do? I had to do something. The owner in her instructions had suggested I "play" with the dog. I'm not sure what kind of play she meant. I looked around and saw no toys, and Maya did not seem inclined toward physical amusements, given she could barely walk. So, I thought news articles might suffice. 

I was relieved to be relieved of duty today when the family returned in their jumbo-size travel trailer and heavy-duty dusty black pickup. I gave back the house key and got a little glimpse into the lives of a family much richer than my own. Visiting their house was like visiting a zoo, to be honest. What family uses Alexas to wake them up at 7:00 am, even on Sunday? Now I know how to tell Alexa to turn off the damn alarm clock. 

Speaking of zoos, walking across the street from Dog #1's house to Dog #2's house and back five times a day for three days gave me some insight into the neighborhood. That's what, like thirty times? The inhabitants of this neighborhood are elusive creatures, only coming out in the early morning hours to walk their dogs. I never, not once, saw another person out walking on the street after 7:00 am. It's only maybe fifty yards from one house to the other, but I could see in all directions, and nobody but me, ever, walked outside. I saw a pool maintenance truck parked at the curb one day, and on another day I saw a person using a leaf blower in a yard. Other than that, the only signs of life were a few cars driving by, whose drivers usually waved at me. I wonder what they thought when they saw me, an oldish white lady in a sunhat, shuffling purposely across the street under the blazing sun. 

Even after dark, nobody is out on the streets. I can understand why. The air here is suffocating. I can almost feel the moisture being extracted from my eyeballs every time I go outside. The dark night air is velvety soft after the sun sets, but that doesn't make it dreamy and pleasant. Under the softness of the air, you know the desert is trying to kill you. 

I sometimes stood in the street and marveled at the perfect houses. I felt as if I were in a model town whose inhabitants had all been beamed up to the mothership. The lovely outdoor landscaping lights illuminate tall cactuses and agaves, looking like a set for a House Beautiful photo shoot, but where are the people? Occasionally I heard water splashing from behind tall concrete walls. I wonder, maybe you know the answer to this, do they make pool coolers to cool off your swimming pool on hot days? They should. I picture giant ice cubes. 

Every time I came back from visiting Dog #2, Dog #1 would sniff me with great curiosity. I felt a bit embarrassed, as if I were being unfaithful. I apologized to Maddie for two-timing her, but she didn't seem to mind. In fact, I think she kind of preferred me smelling like a dog. 

Dogsitting for the extra dog was not hard physical work but it required some attention to time management. I set alarms on my phone and tasks on my calendar. The consequences of missing a visit would be unacceptable, mainly because I would have to clean up the resulting mess, so I kept my eye on the clock constantly. The upshot of my vigilance was that I was exhausted all the time. These three days were a constant emotional drain, and from this experience, now I know I am not destined to be a dogsitter. 

In fact, it's time to start applying for jobs. The delusion that I can live within my means with the current housing shortage is going to make me sick and then it's going to kill me. The miracle of subsidized HUD housing has failed to materialize. Apparently, I have too much income. I'm not needy enough, or I failed to grovel enough, or something. It doesn't help that my former landlords failed to send whatever documentation was requested of them. Well, you know what they say: When one HUD door closes, maybe some stupid ass job door opens. I'm hoping. I'm not quite ready to give up on life, so I'm throwing myself on the mercy of the Universe in hopes of a miracle in the form of a job. So much for retiring to a cute little apartment in the desert and writing books. 

One thing I realized as I traipsed around this rich enclave: This neighborhood is just an upscale version of the weird Disneyland mobile home park in Tucson. The houses are stick-built solid and some of the front lawns are actual real live green grass, watered with real water, but the artifice of the lifestyle is the same. The mobile homes decorate their front gravel patches with lighthouses, metal javelinas, and pin-wheels. These guys in Scottsdale decorate their front patios with fountains, fancy lighting, and expensive wicker table and chair sets. It's Tucson with a few extra degrees of heat and a few extra zeros after the property values. 

It's all unsustainable. When every single day is over 111°F, you have to conclude that humans don't belong here. The earth does not care that you need water to survive. If you can't survive on nectar and prickly pear, then you should not be here. I can imagine a time in the not-too-distant future when the acquifer is drained and taps will stop flowing. The pools will evaporate, then gape and crack. The mourning doves will gradually move in under the eaves, despite the spikes you placed there to keep them out. Dust will collect in all the crevices of the marble floor tiles when the air conditioners break down and people and parts can't be found to fix them. New inhabitants will replace the old ones who flee to cooler climes: First lizards, then rabbits, then coyotes, searching for shelter from the sun. 

Dog days

I seem to have become a commodity among an underground network of neighborhood dog owners who need a dogsitter. I picture these dog owners talking on the phone: A friend of ours . . . do you want me to ask? Maybe she will . . . And I'm like, okay, I guess, whatever. Let's meet and see if your dog likes me.

So far, in addition to the dog I'm sitting now, I've met a big dog named Juno and a medium big dog named Maya. Both dogs in their earlier years probably could have dragged me off my feet and into the underbrush in pursuit of whatever lizard or rabbit or bird happened to capture their attention. Now, these dogs are old, weary, and slow, with gray muzzles and hitches in their gitalongs. I probably could walk them if they could walk, but they can't, not very well, so the dogsitting job consists of feeding them whatever weird food they require for their sensitive stomachs and letting them out to relieve themselves in the backyard, where the landscaper picks up the piles of poop.

This place (Scottsdale) is so weird. So is this life, come to think of it.

You probably remember, I'm a cat person. You've never heard me mention a dog, unless it was my brother's dog. These dog owners have kids but they don't seem to have cats. I'm not sure why, although I suspect it has something to do with their fear of cat stink in their homes. I try to be understanding, but it confounds me that they would choose to have dogs that need walking when they live in a desert city that regularly achieves 110°F in the summer. I mean, I ask you. Wouldn't you rather scoop a few turds out of a litter box than walk a dog at oh-dark thirty every morning? 

I like dogs well enough. I've met a few in my time. In addition to a zoofull of cats, my brother in Portland has raised up a succession of dogs: Ireland, Jack, Lola, Lucy, and now Maddie. I might have missed one or two. We never had dogs when we were growing up, though, so I don't know how he figured out it would be fun to have a dog. Maybe it's because he lives in a high-crime area. In that case, a watch dog makes sense.

Here in this weird enclave in Scottsdale, people leave their doors unlocked. I know. Shocking. I would never, not my door, not anyone's door, but clearly, I don't trust my neighbors . . . or anyone else, really, now that I think of it, probably because I know some people who cannot be trusted. Hm. I never, not if I'm going further than the twenty paces to the trash bin. The way my luck goes sometimes, the one random day some random hungry drug addict-type dude tests the unlocked door and helps themself to some chow (and our laptops), the blame naturally would fall on me. 

So, no. Never. Maybe it's because I used to live in downtown Los Angeles. Anyway, don't assume, that's my motto. My other motto is, if you can't be bothered to lock it up, don't complain later when it's gone. Clearly, the Universe thought someone else needed that thing more than you needed it.

Of course, locking up is no guarantee of security. A determined intruder will intrude no matter how loudly this anxious little chihuahua-poodle screams. However, it's kind of reassuring (and entertaining) to have a four-legged alarm system. Homeland security to the rescue! Trash truck, look out! Smaller dog walking by, beware, could be trouble! I try to offer praise. Dogs take their job seriously, and I want them to know I appreciate their dedication. I've known some cats who were pretty good, but dogs really have honed homeland security to a fine art. 

I'm feeling somewhat untethered these days, so it's good to have a focus. Centering my life on a dog is not a bad thing, especially if I am lucky enough to be able to stay in a lovely air-conditioned house with a washing machine that looks like it could launch me into outerspace. I'm a little nervous, though, I have to confess. Taking care of a friend's dog is one thing. Taking care of strangers' dogs in unfamiliar homes is another thing entirely. Yes, the network has vetted us both, but still. I'm an unknown quantity, and so is the dog owner. I know how I felt about my cat. I'm guessing dog owners are just as . . . devoted? 

Every time I left town, which was as infrequently as I could manage, I was always thinking of my cat and wondering how he was doing, whether my mother was giving him enough love when she dropped in to feed him, whether he was lonely, whether he would hate me when I got home. I'd give just about anything to see my cat again. I loved my mother, but I miss my cat every day. 

How can a pet parent stand to leave, knowing there is a possibility their beloved pet might not be alive when they get back? 

That's a lot of pressure on a dogsitter. 

July in the desert

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or no place else to go. 

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

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

Holding on for monsoon

The Art Trailer is a dark cocoon. The windows are now blocked with reflectix and cardboard to ward off the afternoon sun. In addition to the window coverings, box fans have been strategically placed in the main living areas to blow cold air around corners and walls. It's working. Instead of being 91°F inside the Trailer, it's only 88°F.  

In my room, three fans run constantly. Fans alone won't cut it, though. I learned from my first summer in Tucson that the answer to extreme heat is evaporative cooling. That is how I survived the days without AC when the temperature outside was 115°F and I had to wait for the AC technician to save me. Now, well into my third summer in Tucson, I know the trick. I wrap dripping wet underwear around my head and neck.  

Days are barely tolerable. Nights are endless. Without wet cloths on my head, stomach, and feet, I'd be laying on the floor panting like a dog. The good news is that cocoons have a lot of potential. Whatever grows in them might turn out to have a beautiful set of wings.

Now, I could end the blogpost with that happy poetic thought, and if I were seeking an awwww out of you, that is probably what I would do. But you might know me by now. I have often been sentimental, but not today. It's too damn hot. 

Monsoon 2023 is overdue, and I'm cranky. I don't know why, exactly. So we get a few thunderstorms. It will be just as hot in between, with the added gift of high humidity. I'm embarrassed to admit I am tired of nothing but blue sky. Wait, that's not true. I would welcome blue sky if it came with reasonable temperatures. I'm bored with the heat, that is what it is. I want a break.

Over the past couple weeks, crews blocked our roads and driveways with big trucks and cranes. They were trimming the telephone pole palms in the mobile home park. In high winds, big dead palm fronds go flying. I can imagine why: Flying fronds could take out a window or maybe knock an unsteady unbalanced wobbly old-ish person off their feet. Just saying. Anyway, I was in awe. Those guys were out there in the burning sun when the temperature was 108°F, bundled up in long sleeves and long pants, helmets, and neck scarves. How do they do it? 

The sun feels like my enemy. I always thought I was a creature of warmth and sun, but I guess I'm a lizard only within a certain range. My comfort zone is narrow. I can walk around the park in 102°F, but not until the sun goes down. Now I live in a fortress, barricaded against the threat, waiting for the insidious, relentless invasive foe in the sky to sink below the horizon. 

Leaving the burrow brings of feelings of existential angst. Last night I ventured out in the hot dark gloaming to wash my car's windshield. Then I walked around the park in the dark, trying to watch where I put my feet while I looked in people's windows. Many of the windows are dark: Their owners wisely fled the Tucson summer. However, many others stay put year round. Some of the perennials (I know for a fact) keep their thermostats set at 78°F. Imagine that. I can't.

On my last nerve

During yet another hopeless search through the medical literature, at long last, I found a description of my vestibular symptoms. I could hardly believe it. I was so relieved, I almost started weeping. After all these years, maybe, just maybe, I can get a diagnosis and maybe find a treatment.

Of course, I'm a doctor's worst patient, self-diagnosing with Dr. Google, but in this case, I'm relying on academic research articles published by the National Institutes of Health. I feel confident that the sources are reliable, even if my interpretation is not.

This particular phase of my chronic dizziness has morphed from BPPV and maybe vestibular migraines (I'm not sold on that idea) into something called vestibular paroxysmia. My symptoms are as follows, in case you know someone who has this weird and annoying malady:

• recurrent (for me, that means occurring every 45 to 120 seconds, it could be different for other people)
• spontaneous (I cannot trigger it, but I can make it more intense by moving my head)
• postural vertigo (some people have rotatory vertigo, which would be the absolute pits)
• 10 to 15 seconds in duration (others might have shorter or longer duration)
• Accompanied by ear crackling in right ear (others may or may not have some kind of tinnitus)

My head is possibly affected by changes in air pressure (causing narrowing and widening of blood vessels). That is why I went on that epic roadtrip searching for a place at low elevation that might have less variation in air pressure. 

The symptoms are no longer treatable with gravity maneuvers (Epley, Foster, etc.), thus, not likely to be BPPV. My hearing is not affected except for some minor hearing loss in my right ear during an attack, thus not likely to be Meniere's. Vestibular migraines don't come in recurrent waves with tinnitus.  

Apparently it is a biomechanical problem stemming from a vascular compression of the root entry zone of the eighth cranial nerve. That means a blood vessel, probably an artery, is encroaching on the vestibularcochlear nerve and wreaking havoc in my balance (vertigo) and hearing (tinnitus). I always suspected it was something mechanical. Why else would the waves of vertigo be synchronized with the ear crackling? Now it makes sense. A stupid blood vessel is interfering with the eighth cranial nerve. 

The nerve! 

The good news, vestibular paroxysmia is probably treatable with antiseizure medication. In fact, that is how they often diagnose this illness. They give you the drug first and if the vertigo stops, then you have it. If it doesn't, well, then there are other avenues to pursue. The down side is, the drugs can have side effects, so it's kind of like testing for witchcraft by waiting for the person to sink to the bottom of the pond. Oh, well. Guess she had it. 

The alternative to drug treatment is brain surgery, but I'm not going to think about that right now. Next step is vestibular testing, coming up this week. I can hardly wait. I'm so excited. From what I've read, it's a grueling, puke-inducing experience. 

I can't disclose what I've learned the moment I walk in the door. As a researcher, I know I need to keep my mouth shut and not proclaim my belief that eureka, I have discovered the problem. I don't want to skew the tests. I don't want to influence their reports. I will let the ENT do his thing. Then, when he looks at me and shakes his head and says what I expect him to say, sorry, Carol, we think you need to see a psychiatrist, then I can say, well, have you considered this?

I don't have the energy to fight. Today the barometer nosedived this morning, a steep 16-point decline in just a few hours. My head has been going crazy. On top of that, an old friend of mine has dementia, and it's heart wrenching to see her struggle for words. Plus, the weather in the Sonoran Desert is stupidly, ridiculously, unbearably hot. You can see I have many things to ponder. Meanwhile, the train keeps rolling through my head every minute like someone tapping me on the shoulder reminding me I'm here, I'm still here, pay attention to me. 

I can't think anymore. It's late. Tonight, the moon is full and golden. The AC is resting, so it's blessedly silent in the Trailer, and tomorrow will be another day to try it all again and maybe get it right this time. 

Moving up in elevation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile, monsoon is ten days late. 

Fighting battles in my mind

I don't know about you (because I never hear from you), but I imagine you get weary of me whining about the ongoing disintegration of my life. May I charitably reframe it as an ongoing adventure? An epic escapade? How about a quixotic quest? An idiotic crusade? (This is what happens when I consult a thesaurus). 

My friends have varied opinions on this journey of mine, bless their hearts. A few envy me my freedom. They are saddled with stuff, people, and obligations, so I can understand the lure of this lifestyle. (Can I call disintegration a lifestyle?) Some of my friends worry for me. Living in a car in the forest is not something they would ever contemplate. I don't think they even go camping. (Actually, after that dude got eaten by a bear, camping seems like a dumb idea.) A couple of my more metaphysical friends appreciate the chaotic nature of the universe and express faith that the road less traveled is worth traveling, no matter where it leads. 

I listen to all of them.

My Phoenix friend needed a dogsitter. It just so happened I was available. For the next several days, I'm in Phoenix, serving as caregiver for a small, wiry, somewhat nutty dog with big eyes, big ears, and a surprisingly big bark. The dog and I are friends now (or at least we were until I attempted to brush her teeth), but yesterday when I got here, it was touch and go. I thought I might have to sacrifice a toe or an ankle before I would be allowed to pass. 

It's blazing hot here so the best time to go dogwalking is early in the morning or super late at night. I think the neighborhood is pretty safe after dark, but I was told there are coyotes in the area. Last night as I was trying to relax enough to fall asleep, I mentally ran through a scenario in which a coyote attacked the dog as we sauntered through the park. I pictured myself lifting the dog over my head and kicking the coyote in the gizzard. You can imagine how it would probably go down. Not like I might hope, probably. Most likely, I would not end up being a superhero. After rehearsing my moves, I realized the odds of me kicking a coyote in the gizzard (where is a gizzard, anyway?) are slim to none. However, I would not be willing to give up the dog without a fight, so if I get rabies, send me a get well card. 

This dog is somewhat eccentric. Three times today, she indicated she would like to go out into the back yard (which is concrete and gravel). It's over 100°F today. Each time, she beelined straight for the sunniest spot on the patio and flopped down on the warm pavement. Each time, I sat in the shade to stand guard (coyotes, right?), and within moments I was boneless soup in a fancy patio chair, while the dog casually lounged in the sun. I thought at first the dog had sunstroke, but no, she just really likes the heat. She reminds me of an old lady in a sauna. She sweats out the toxins for five minutes, yawns, and moseys back inside. 

At the end of this dogsitting gig, if all goes according to plan, I will take a drive out one of the highways north of Phoenix to see some of the small towns out Sedona way. My search for home continues. However, I don't think I'll be doing any camping in the national forest. I might be willing to fight off a coyote, but I'm not up for tangling with a bear. 

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.