Loneliness

Two days after my last post, the one about Change....I left D.

It's been a month of more changes than I can count, more stress than I thought possible, and more grief than I expected.

I don't want to think about all that right now.  The poor choices of the last 10 years, the financial and personal loss, the ongoing drama in disconnecting, the pain of hurting the man I love, the loss of self-respect, the relinquishing of power, the second-guessing....it's all too much.

So, here I sit, in my cozy little casita, listening to the birds who are cheeping in the bushes and complaining about the cold and the dusting of snow on the ground (yes, I'm anthropomorphizing.)  I have an excellent landlord, a retired librarian who let me use her oven last week to bake Julecaga and rolls.  There is art on the walls, there are books on the shelves, there is coffee in my cup.  I just finished skyping with H and S and eating breakfast, and this afternoon I go to T's for a cookie baking party:  she got the idea from me and ran with it, and I'm so happy to have a little holiday baking in my future.  I'll be bringing the potatoes I mashed last night, and I'll make lefse.   Ostensibly, life is good, I'm productive, and I'm doing things that bring me joy.

In fact, I have too muich to do:  practising for the upcoming concerts, knitting for Christmas gifts, reading, writing, making decorations, sending cards, getting a new driver's license, managing my budget.  And work.

This is how I lived 10 years ago:  lots of activity, lots of friends.  I didn't feel lonely very often.  I liked having my home to myself to recoup from the busy days.  Ostensibly an extrovert, I have introvert tendencies:  being with people can energize me, but it often saps me intead, and I need the space and solitude.  When I first left D, my grief was buried by an immense relief: I no longer have to deal with him, I can come home to a peaceful home, I can do things the way I want to without recrimination, I don't have to compromise a damn thing.

So I thought.

But, yesterday I was sad, sad, sad.  I wanted to call D.  I wanted to make sure he was okay.  I wanted to plan an outing with him.  I wanted to hold him.  I was lonely.

I can handle the days, of course.  There is work, there is business to take care of.  The nights, though...they are tough.  My current branch assignment is very quiet:  very few customer interactions, only 3 people to manage, the building maintenance is done by the site where the library is located.  I don't come home exhausted by the demands of the day, and I need activity to offset the brooding.

I don't have TV to watch numbly while I knit, and I don't want to anyway.  I can practise, of course.  And read.  But they both require serenity and focus outside of myself.  I am too restless to settle down to anything.  I can do some baking and fudge making, but the kitchenette does limit that, and I'm not hungry.  I have to bring anything I make to other people.

Yes, I can call my friends.  But I don't want to overburden them, especially the new, local ones.   And I don't like talking on the phone.  Yes, I can Skype.  But in the end, I'm alone, when I'm used to having someone there.  Yes, it was someone I fought with, yes, it was someone who belittled me, who used me up.  But, it was a connection, however toxic.

Yesterday I called my Mom during my lunch break, and we talked about loneliness.  She shared what she went through after Dad died, and she encouraged me to pick up the pieces and look for another man.  Uh, no.  I don't want that, I never did.  I still don't know why I gave up 40 years of single bliss for 10 years of....what was it?  Companionship, caring, being needed?  I have years to figure that out.

But in the here and now, I have to figure out who I want to be, how I want to put the meaning back into my life.  It seems I am not put here to take care of another person.  I gather I am here to learn some sort of lesson, to grow in some way, to make a difference somehow.  And that is fine for the big picture.

It doesn't do much for the lonely evenings.

Change

This blog is not a journal or an attempt to keep track of the external events in my life.  It's supposed to be a place for me to think, ponder, figure things out.  But today I need to make sense of the external events.  I want to think about change, and how I respond to it.  This means I need to think like a diarist, not a ponderer.   I really feel like I'm stagnating, and I want to make some positive changes, but I'm not sure I have the wherewithal to do that, nor, looking back, do I think it would be wise.

I think I've had about as much change as I can handle for awhile.

The timeline:  I get laid off in October, 2010.  In January, 2011, I turn my family room/mother-in-law apartment into a vacation rental to help cover the mortgage.  I job hunt, interview, find part-time temp work, job hunt some more.  In June 2011, I become an editor for OLAQ.  My annual wine-tasting trips turn into camping trips (much cheaper.)  I hang with friends, work, job hunt. 

After a year of this, in March 2012, I have run through my savings. I downsize my possessions and I renovate my home to accommodate a renter.  In April, I end up renting to a crazy woman and her PTSD son.  I get offered a job in ABQ, take it, find new renters, and move across country in May 2012. 

My dog dies.  My new renters turn out to be even more trouble.  My finances become even more problematic.  My apartment is beige, but the mountains are beautiful.  We go for weekly drives, enjoying the country, looking for a home that isn't beige.  We swim in the pool.  The job turns into a 6-month project: every week I'm in a new branch of the system.  Nothing seems stable.  The job, the finances, the Portland house, our living situation....all are temporary or problematic.  D's job is contract work, and he's stressing it, which means I'm stressing it.

I continue to job hunt, looking for better pay.  But I don't really want to leave.  In October, I volunteer at the Balloon Fiesta and have a BLAST.  I meet some people that could potentially be soul mates.  I join the orchestra, I sing in the choir, I learn the best travel routes, I start hiking in the Sandia Open Spaces.  We manage a marital truce, and we find good restaurants.

Then I am offered an interview for a job at the Oregon coast.  Living at the beach would be a dream come true.  I pull together airfare and crash with my friends.  I don't get the job, and I discover that, in 5 months, I've become estranged.  I love my friends, I miss them terribly, but Portland is no longer home.  All the dampness feels weird against my skin, and all the trees seem to be cluttering up the landscape and hiding the bones of the earth.  The sky is blotted out by a blanket of grey.  I miss New Mexico.

This is probably good, since I seem to be here for the duration.  I can't get approved for a mortgage, so we decide to spend another 8 months in this apartment complex.  I am not happy:  the beige and the cheap furnishings and carpet depress me, and I wonder what to do about the possessions back in Portland.  

Last weekend we move into another apartment in this complex:  it has the advantage of a gas fireplace, and the view of the parking lot is replaced by a view of trees.  It's a good change, but it is still change, and a lot of work.  Simultaneously I am rehearsing for concerts that take place on the weekend of the move.  D quits one job and starts another.  I am assigned to a new branch, while continuing to manage the project, which is over at the end of this month.  This all takes place over the course of 5 days, and it takes its toll on body, spirit, and the marital house.

So, why am I dreaming of more change?  Surely I should go into hunker down mode.  Winter is approaching (it hailed out at the East Mountain branch), and I should want to hibernate.  But I don't.  I want to do something different with my life.  I'm not sure what that would look like, though.  I am still thinking in terms of what I don't want:  I don't want to fight with D, I don't want to manage passive aggressive people, I don't want to be in debt. 

Do I want change as a way to escape?  Probably.  Can my body, emotions, and mind handle any more change?  Probably not. 

Perhaps the change needs to be internal, instead.

Hiding behind nuns

Years ago, I took a trip to Italy, starting with a few days visiting A, who was subletting a studio apartment in Rome during her first Fullbright year.  She loaned me a fabulous DK guidebook, gave me advice about gelato (make sure it's made AT THE SHOP), suggested places to visit, and met me for dinner at fabulous restaurants.  But the most important advice regarded Rome traffic:  drivers ignore the traffic lights and your only recourse is to catch their eyes, glare, and assert your pedestrian rights while continuing to maintain eye contact.

I never had the guts to do it, so I found groups of nuns or school kids and crossed with them.

I've thought of this a lot since moving to Albuquerque.  The drivers here are notorious for being drunk and/or distracted, ignoring pedestrians or actively running them down, and weaving in and out of traffic.  There is no such thing as checking the blind spot or leaving an escape route or gap.  There are two freeways that bisect the city east/west and north/south, and the speed limit is 65 mph, even in the heart of the city.  Lane changes are abrupt, and I've watched cars essentially drive diagonally across four lanes to get to the faster lane or the right exit.

I spend a lot of time driving the surface streets or the frontage road:  the drivers are just as crazy, but the speeds are better, as long as it's not 3 am.  (One of my student staff said an acquaintance died in an early-morning motorcycle crash.  I asked if he was wearing a helmet, but apparently he was going 100 mph down Montgomery - one of my main routes home -  so a helmet wouldn't have done much for him.) 

There are billboards everywhere saying DNTXT, and numerous commercials about people who died or became quadriplegic because they were texting while driving.  There's a big campaign to reduce distracted driving, but I don't see much evidence of success.

So, it's especially frustrating that D is totally refusing to stop talking on his cell while he drives. He says, "I've driven like this for years, I can do it, we're fine."  I grab the chicken bar as he swerves towards the next lane or bears down on the slowing driver ahead of us while he wrestles with the phone. 

There are no nuns to hide behind.

Hairs

I miss Karena Chop Chop.  She has had control of my hair for the last several years.  Every five to six weeks she would send me a jaunty message, reminding me of my next appointment, so I never had to go around with visible roots and straggly ends.  She would slot me in after work, on my days off, whenever it was convenient for us both.  Her basement salon has quirky things like an Elvis clock with swivel-hipped second hands, a Basset Hound calendar, and a Minnie Pearl Librarian Action Figure.  The computer plays great jazz standards like Ella Fitzgerald.  And Karena herself is a fascinating conversationalist, with lots of pithy opinions and good gossip.  She is quick and has me looking fabulous within an hour and a half.

Now, Albuquerque has more nail and hair salons per capita than I have ever seen.  But they are not cheap, and cheap is what I need right now.  So, after my first $85 appointment at a very trendy salon, I pulled back and tried out the Aveda Institute.  For half the usual price, you get a student to cut and color your hair, under the supervision of one of the teachers.  They use good Aveda products, and are well trained.  However, they don't do color appointments after 3:30, so I have to go in on my day off.  And they take over 3 hours.

And, they are not quirky.  Or at least, not in the NW hipster style I've come to know and love.

It's a tall concrete building, with a blank facade on the busy street.  I pull into the parking lot, filled with Lexuses and BMWs, and park my junker truck next to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.   I try to pretend like my truck fits in as I lock up and walk past the windows.  I enter into a soothing atmosphere of trickling water fountain, soft lighting, and the scent of lavender.  The person at the station takes my name and asks if I'd like water or tea.  I tried tea the first time and water the second:  both times it was served in a small white ceramic mug, stenciled simply in pea green:  AVEDA.

From there you go straight into a room of total contrast.  It's a brightly-lit warehouse of steel, glass, mirrors, concrete.  Colors are monochromatic:  black, white, steel-grey.  Techno music fills the background, but despite the pounding rhythms, it does not prevent conversation. You can hear each conversation, echoing through the space, and it's perfectly easy to talk to your student and the teacher.

There are rows of stations, back to back, and side by side, with large aisles between the rows.  The stations consist of a 6 foot tall mirror, centered over a counter placed between two metal cabinets, with three narrow drawers each.   The surfaces have the usual salon accouterments:  hair dryers, combs, scissors, bowls of clips, all neatly displayed on black terry cloth towels.  I never saw anyone use them.  The cabinets have nothing above them, so you can see between the mirrors into the other stations and catch the eye of the customer seated katycorner from you.  You can see the ankles and feet of the customer on the other side, and they can see yours.  It's awkwardly intimate:  you are inches away, you can hear them talking, you can see their feet twitching, but you have no idea who they are.  Today the person on the other side was wearing gold slip-ons, and so was the person working on her.  But I heard a very deep voice, which did not seem to match the feet.  I craned my head around and saw another pair of feet behind them:  big black Keens.  Mystery solved.  I think.

Last time, my stylist was a small 20-something woman, with elaborately braided and bunned blond hair and a Latino last name.  She was heavily made up, very thin, and very silent.  I discovered that she was a month away from graduating and planned to start her own basement salon, like her boyfriend's mother.

This time, my stylist was a very fat young man, with thin black hair pulled back into a straggly ponytail that showed a white scalp beneath.  He wore a black arm brace and had very tiny features, including a rosebud mouth, centered in a large round face.  He was no advertisement for hair styling, but he was sweet and did a good job.  He too is graduating in a month, but he's an accountant and plans to do hairstyling on the side while he goes back to school.  It's just something he's wanted to do since he was young.

Everyone wears long black aprons, black t-shirts, and black jeans or slacks.   Everyone but the teacher is 20-something.  There's a pretty even mix of the sexes.  The girls are all vivacious and painfully thin, with very black eye makeup and long hair.  The boys are not the stereotypical hair dresser:  some are hollow-chested with spiky hair and multiple piercings, but some are beefy, with shaved heads and tattoos.  They too are chatty.  The teacher looks to be in her 60s.  Her skin is a wrinkled orange-white, and her hair is long and bright orange, in a  frizzy poufy 70's style. Most of the clients were like me, older women with conservative style.  Somehow, though, everyone but me seemed to fit in.

When not working on clients, most of the students were practicing on bodiless Styrofoam heads with wigs; but today I saw something truly baffling.  A young man stood in the center of the room, with his arms stretched out to each side.  He was wearing pants, but his torso was draped in a white towel or sheet that left arms, neck, and midriff bare.  His hair was red-brown, teased into an Afro that created a sphere that was at least 4 feet in diameter (including his head.)  His tanned and freckled face was serious, his gaze downward.  One of the students was spraying something on his thin white arms and scrubbing them.  Another was watching, and the teacher stood nearby.  It went on for the entire time it took to wash my hair and come back to my station.

I have no idea what they were doing.

When I left, I went back into the spa atmosphere to pay my bill and tip (which goes into a separate envelope.)  The bathroom featured a large round sink/bowl on top of a concrete slab, cloth towels rolled up in a basket, and a body mist specially mixed to Inspire.

Truly, a schizophrenic experience.  I went home, made a salad, and crashed for the rest of the day.

But, at least my hairs are all red again.

Breaking 100

When I went to high school, the state of Illinois required 1 credit of PE.  The high school gave you one quarter credit each year, so to be in compliance with the state we had to take 4 years of gym.

In theory, this was good.  Growing minds and growing bodies both need to be trained and nurtured, and habits of study and exercise are both worth acquiring.  Unfortunately, it didn't work out that way.  By making everyone take PE, the school ensured that classes were overcrowded.  We got 10 minutes of calisthenics, followed by, if we were lucky, 10 minutes of the sport of the day.  In the fall it was field hockey and archery, in the winter badminton, gymnastics and basketball, in the spring field sports. There were too many students to give any one student more than a few minutes on the floor, and if you were not talented physically, you spent as much time as possible on the sidelines, where the coach/teacher was happy to leave you.  I spent most of those classes on my back with my legs up the wall:  little did I know that I was practising yoga.

I was not bad at sport, actually.  But I wasn't naturally talented at it, I lacked the interest and the stamina, and there was no incentive.  If you aren't talented at something, you don't tend to do it, and it doesn't tend to be on your radar of possibilities.  Mediocrity is not tolerated, so you aren't supposed to enjoy things you don't do well.  Moreover, I had a family stereotype to uphold:  my twin was the athletic one, I the brainy one.  This stereotype was a disservice to us both; in later life I became more physically active, and she is by no means stupid, but we neither of us developed a respect for those parts of our beings. We have continued to operate at a disadvantage.

Today, I mourn the lost opportunities.  In fact, I strongly believe that our culture does not honor the multiplicity of the human body and brain.  Sport, music, theatre, art, journalism:  all are electives in school, only pursued by those with talent (or parental push).  Because mine was a small school, I was able to be active in anything that interested me.  That meant, I did not do sports.  I went to speech contest, edited on the newspaper and yearbook, acted in plays and musicals, etc etc.  I also took orchestra class, which, unlike the extra-curricular activities, garnered a quarter credit and met 1st period 2 days a week, alternating with gym.  My senior year, the music teacher lobbied for a real orchestra class meeting 5 days a week.  Because of the state law, the high school had to resolve the dilemma.  Some of us were college bound, and could not give up two hours to gym and music.

The result was the very first independent study at my tiny high school.  We were allowed to earn PE credit by putting in 5 hours a week of sport or exercise.  We had a little score card where we kept track of activities and time.  It was my first experience with an honor system.  They were very broad in the definitions:  it could be a walk to school, or a game of pool.  We just had to record some sort of activity.  While I fudged a little, for the most part I tried to do something vaguely athletic.  I played squash at the college courts with my older sister, swam in the college pool, and went bowling at the college lanes, all of which were a few blocks from my home.  Because of my other activities, I was usually crowding the hours in on the weekend.  Sadly, I was not learning to have a consistent exercise schedule.

That's when I first developed my bowling skills, which can best be described as erratic.  A strike frame would be followed by two gutter balls, a spare by one.  Only once, in my experience, did I break 100.  But I loved it.  There's something about the sound of the ball rolling down the lanes (or the gutter), crashing into the pins (or the back wall.)  Something about the way the ball reappears in a swoosh of cool air, popping out of the ball return shoot, rolling into the slot.  Something about putting on the special shoes, wearing them for an hour, giving them back, and reassuming the heavier sneakers.  Something about coming out, overheated and dazed with the noise, into the cold still winter night, blue-white stars glinting in the black sky.

So, it's a little confusing why, when we first got together,  I was so resistant to D's desire to join a bowling league.  Some of it was because I was so busy with other activities.  Some of it was because that was something he and S did, during their 7-year relationship.  I wanted us to have experiences that were not repetitious of old relationships.  But that was over 10 years ago.  We have 10 years of joint experiences.  I watch football with him and go to Blazers games.  He attends my concerts (sometimes.)  We both go to jazz and rock concerts, movies, plays.   And I have gone bowling with him.  But I wouldn't join a league.

Until now.

D's knees bothered him at first....

I am now the proud possessor of the highest handicap in the 5 Warm Bodies league, which meets on Tuesdays from 6:30-9:30.  I still have the most erratic game possible.  My average is 92, and my handicap is 115.   D's knees bothered him at first, and it took awhile for him to get back his skills, but he is getting better.  The other couple on our team (Busted Flush), is a mixed bag too.  He's actually quite good, and they have their own equipment.  He is a short, light-skinned man in his early 40's, with glasses, an asthma inhaler, medium build, and a shaved-bald squarish head.  He stands holding the ball chest high in that special hunched-shoulder bowling stance, moves forward with a sinuous feral crouch, the bowling ball curling behind his back before the smooth release, curving down the lane to hit the headpin just right.  His wife is plump, with shoulder-length squiggly blonde hair, parted in the middle.  She wears the same flower-patterned blue tunic and jeans every week.  Her bowling ball is purple swirls, but she does not have the power or skill of her husband.  She picks up the ball, walks slowly to the lane and lets it go with a thud.  She turns and walks back, not watching as it trickles down the lane, usually straight to the head pin, which it usually hits straight on.  The rest of the pins slowly fall, sometimes all, sometimes a split, sometimes a few to the side.  She watches us to see the result, smiling her sweet shy smile.

We have the same handicap and average.

Her husband plays several nights, but this is their night together.  They are polite, but don't talk much to us.  They know most of the other players.  He is involved in a roving poker game, and continually leaves the area to pick up his cards.  He also partakes in a football pool. He takes charge of the scoring and the technical aspects of the games, which continue to baffle me.  The pinfall and marks scores don't seem to be attached to any actual activity on our part, and I can't figure out whether we are winning or not.  They give me laconic explanations which only serve to confuse me further.  I very much doubt I'll ever get it.

D waiting for his turn

But they are kind, and so are our opponents.  When I roll a strike or a spare and turn around to do my happy dance, face beaming, thumbs up, arms weaving, they all applaud and give me high-five hand strikes.  When I choke, they smile sympathetically and give the closed fist bump:  nice try.

Last week I bowled 116, 98, and 72.  When I bowled my last strike, in the 10th frame of the 3rd game, followed by 2 gutter balls, one of nice (and talented) guys on the opposing team threw up his hands in disbelief.  "I've seen you bowl so many strikes, your first game was great, what happened?"

Hell if I know.

But the beauty of a handicap league is that, despite the scores of 200+ the other team put up, we actually won a game.  And, maybe by the end of the year I'll be able to consistently break 100.  Even though I am not an athlete.

The girl's still got it

In 1983,  a 20-something homeless dude asked me out.  I was working the checkout desk at the downtown library, and part of that duty involved chatting with random library users.  Of course, it wasn't necessary to date them, but he seemed sweet, a little naive, and pleasant enough.  We had lunch at the Sisters of the Road Cafe:  takeout BBQ and cornbread in a styrofoam container, which he paid for by washing dishes later on.  We spent the lunch hour in the Park Blocks.  It was no more awkward than any first date, but there was no second date.  He just wasn't my type:  too young, too aimless, too confused.  Too homeless.

Some months later, he showed up in sandals and a brown ankle-length burlap tunic, roped at the waist.  His light brown hair swung lankly against his bearded cheeks.  He looked like a medieval mendicant, or a popular portrayal of Christ.  He had spent the summer at Rajneeshpuram in Central Oregon and was back in town.  By now he seemed seasoned:  still homeless, but not confused about it.  While recognizing that the Rajneesh adventure was political maneuvering on their part, he seemed to come out of it with a sense that he was on a spiritual quest.

I've often wondered what happened to him, but I don't even remember his name.

Flash forward 30 years;  once again I am working at a downtown library.  I am working the reference desk in between supervising a system-wide project that is currently based downtown.  I have years of library service under my belt, years of dating, years of being married, years of dealing with social issues and crazy patrons.  I am long past the time when I could be considered the Library Fox:  my hair is dyed red with white roots, my chins are trebled, I wear long skirts and tunic tops.  When I stop at the coffee shop without my ID and ask for the discount, I get it because I "look like a library lady."

I have been scheduled for 2 hours at the desk, and I am busily taking care of the project, e-mailing delivery people and arranging schedules.  A gent comes up to me, handing me a 4x6 piece of scrap paper wherein he has listed 11 government regulatory agencies that he came across in a National Geographic article.  He wants their phone numbers.  He has a hand-written document which he wants to mail to said agencies.  He is concerned about water and food shortages and wants to make sure the agencies do something about it.  Apparently he has the solution.

-That's great, I say, but these agencies have numerous departments, projects, and contact people, and most of the websites are educational in nature.  They don't seem to have the sort of contact information you are asking for, and most of the contact info they do have is by webforms or e-mail.

-Uh, no, I'm computer illiterate, he says.

-Then, perhaps I could give you some mailing addresses?  (I'm trying to spare everyone the phone call:  him, the hapless clerks at the agencies, the various project managers.)

-Uh, no, I need to talk to them, to be sure they are the right people who will know what to do with my information.  (Toss it in the circular file, I'm guessing.)

Half an hour later, he leaves, a sheaf of printouts in his hand. I've also looked up the patent office:  apparently, the document he wants to mail also contains specifications for an invention, but he can't afford a patent lawyer. I declined the offer to read the pertinent pages, but I feel bad.  He has shaken my hand and thanked me several times, but I haven't really helped him.  No one is going to win here.

Ten minutes later, a 20-something dude strides up to the desk, radiating urgency.  "Where are your newspapers?"  I point to the stand behind the desk.  The desk is a circular marble counter, approximately 4 feet high, with a circular inner desk/counter and two entrance gaps into the center where we sit.  My partner is sitting at the gap in the counter where the desk is open to the public, facing towards the front door:  I'm sitting below the high counter, facing towards the public computers.  One of the entrances is to my right, the other is diagonally across from me.

The dude appears at the nearer entrance to my sanctum, crouching in the gap, sitting on his heels.  "Can we have a real talk?" he whispers.  I look at him.  He is dressed in paramilitary garb, has short spiky brown hair, big brown eyes, stud earrings, and lavish arm tatoos.  He is handsome, well muscled, earnest, and anxious.  And young. I say, "I don't know."  He says, "I really need to see today's paper."  He is looking at me beseechingly.  That's when I remember that the current local newspaper is kept behind the desk.  "Oh of course, my apologies, the paper is here, do you have some ID?"  He riffles through his pockets and eventually comes up with a crumpled New Mexico driver's license.  The picture has shorter hair and looks drugged, but I take it and jot down his name and hand him the paper.

Two minutes later, he is back.  "I know this guy," he explains, pointing to a picture in the teaser article on the front page:  Inside:  property crimes and criminals; names, photos, and phone numbers.  9x9 tiny mugshots, with details promised.  "He's not a good person.  I need to call him."  "Are you looking for the phone number?"  "No, I need a phone.  I need to contact him.  Please.  I'll even take you to lunch."  I turn to my partner, "Uh, M, where's the nearest phone booth?"  "Over by the 7-Eleven."

I turn back, but the dude is gone, striding away without looking back.  Is he angry?  Upset?  Did I hurt his feelings?  Was it a rejected date, or a failed bribe?  D prefers to think the latter ("I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today"); but I think it's proof that I'm still that Library Fox.

He wants the desk phone

To call an old enemy.

"I'll take you to lunch."

In which we try to avoid talk of pornography

The church has various social groups, one of which is called "SipNSup."  8 people get together at the host home for a potluck.  The idea is to make connections and meet new people, so the people who sign up for the group are rotated around, as are the hosts.  D signed us up, and we attended our first event last night.

Our hosts lived in a gorgeous new home in Placitas, a small town 10 miles north of Albuquerque, 5 miles to the east of Highway 25.  This is an area we have already investigated:  in addition to the original town there are open spaces and several developments in the surrounding hills.  The views of the Jemez and Sandia mountains are stunning, and the homes are, for the most part, xeriscaped and reasonably separated.  They are also square stucco mansions, fairly uniform in design.

Most homes are, of course, out of our price range, and living there would add a 20-minute one-way free-way commute to the daily routine.  But the stars and views and the peace might be worth it.

So, there we were, sitting in a circle around the kiva fireplace, looking out the westward-facing windows at glowing orange-pink sunset clouds, watching hummingbirds darting around the house. The conversation was socially apt:  we shared life histories (DN was from Alabama, had lived in NM 4 times and traveled the world as an engineer, V was from Texas and had volunteered with the Peace Corps in Guatemala, our hosts had lived in Placitas for 2 years, L had done her research on why rural doctors stayed in their small communities, B had unsuccessfully run for Congress and traveled to China to sell airplanes, DY had worked for a non-profit in Flint, Michigan.)  D, DN, and I were the only non-retirees in the group.

Eventually we gathered around the table, a beautiful round wooden antiqued surface with a glass lazy susan and a dried Hawaiian flower centerpiece.  We talked about Unitarianism, Buddhism, atheism, the Democratic convention, books, music, movies, Antarctica, travels, cats....the usual.  Then, B (who is seated to my right) took over.  He had already exhibited signs of social ineptitude, dropping names that few of us recognized, talking obliquely and at random length about his life history: "I am winning my fight over OCD and bi-polarism, I was knocked off the ballot, I have much life experience and was the best qualified person for the job...."

Now he breaks into our general discussion..."I have been talking to Christine (the minister) and she is not answering my calls, but I want to know what you think about our fellow Unitarian who lives just a few miles from this very house and who has a different story to tell than the newspapers tell, I have visited him, he is a good man, a teacher who wants to be a writer and is gathering images, doing research for a Silence of the Lambs sort of book...."  There's a rustle of discomfort and DY mutters, "Oh, the pornographer," while B continues to ramble on.  Our host, L, says, "I have worked with children as a social worker, I cannot discuss this man's situation dispassionately."  B talks on.  I look across at DN:  he is staring down at his plate.  I look at V:  his gnome-like face has lost its smile and he is staring up at the ceiling.  D is uncharacteristically silent, for which I am grateful:  I can see in his face that he is seething.  I say, "I think it's clear that this group would prefer to not discuss this topic.  We are willing to trust in the judicial process, and while we may appreciate that compassion that leads you to reach out to this man, it's an emotional topic and we should not pursue it."  He talks on about OCD, Congress, politics, being bipolar, the discomfort on our faces and V finally loses it:  "What point are you trying to make?"

Somehow, I'm not sure how, we wrench the conversation back to neutral topics.  There's a short pause and B starts in again, not mentioning the pornographer directly, but musing about what this evening is showing about us, and referring again to his political past and life experience.  DN goes to the restroom.  Our host, to my left, leans forward.  His cat has been sitting in his lap through much of the dinner.  Petting his cat calmly he says, "Your experience means nothing to the collective experience around this table, we don't want to hear this."

B gets up and leaves.  I think he's going outside to cool off.  Our host follows him to the door to turn on lights.  The rest of us begin talking about the convention again, and our host returns.  Settling into his chair he says, "Well, we've made history.  We have hosted this event 5 times, and this is the first time someone has abandoned ship."   And we begin discussing what had happened.  Apparently DY and V have attended 4 other SipNSups with him, and he has behaved the same at all of them.  DY had actually called the organizers when she saw his name, and they had offered to move them to another group.  Uh, what about moving him?

But I'm wondering:  was it perhaps good to have someone outrageous in the group for the rest of us to bond over?  And, was his behavior really so innocent?  While I chose to pretend he was sincerely concerned about the pornographer, and that he just couldn't pick up on the social cues, I don't really believe it.  I think he was deliberately introducing discomfort into the gathering to see how we'd respond, and I think he enjoyed the results of his social experiment.

In a way, so did I.

So, the night wound on.  When we left, we could see the Milky Way.

concert at the casino

A desert wind blows
And a gibbous moon shines o'er
blues, funk, rock, and roll.

We had tickets to the Tedeschi-Trucks band, playing at the Sandia Casino resort, a little north of our apartment.  D picked me up at work and we went out to watch the sunset light on the Sandia foothills. The outside amphitheater faced the casino and its fountain, with a further backdrop of the mountains and the big sky.   While the day had been in the 90s, it cooled off rapidly as the sun went down, and the wind picked up.  The crowd was our age, and they were, for the most part, into the music.  If we had been in better synch, it would have been the perfect concert.

Still, as the concert moved along, the sky darkened, and the moon glowed, we found ourselves holding hands, and then dancing.  This band was tight, and the guitar work amazing.

Her hair blows across
Her face as she rips into
Her guitar and screams.

The seats were not that comfortable though, so we went up to the area above the seats (no mosh pit for us), where people were smoking and forming little knots of conversation and dance.  I watched a man walk straight into a smallish woman as he lit his cigarette.  She did not accept his apology.

He walks as he lights

His cigarette and smashes

His smoke in her face.

We stuck around through the first encore, but as they moved into the second richly deserved encore, we began feeling our age:  hard seats and long nights are no longer something we can do.  

So sad.

Loss

Our weekends are falling into a pattern.  On Saturday, D does errands and enjoys the pool and the apartment, while I work my 5th day.  That night we stay up late, together, watching movies or reading or going out for dinner.  Sunday, we have a semi-leisurely breakfast time, go to the 9:30  UU service, and plan our afternoon drive.  Often that drive includes pulling over to check out open houses.  We are nowhere near ready to move, financially or organizationally, but we are looking.

Two weeks ago I added some Skype sessions to the mix.  It has been difficult to find time and focus to talk to friends or write to them, so it was a nice change.  I caught E at home with the visiting grand-kids and was introduced to Stripes and Spot (fuzzy, medium-sized stuffed animals, tiger and giraffe respectively.)  The laptop ran out of juice 27 minutes into the talk, and I plugged it back in at the office.  Then, as I was typing an apology to E, my cousin came online.  We had a brief chat, and he showed me the view from his new apartment window, overlooking the Olympic park.

He has it rough.

So, I was content.  I was connecting with loved ones, and I was comfortable, if broke.  Then, I went to church, and a clearly distraught minister came to the pulpit to announce, with forced calm, "This week we lost a child."  A 14-year-old boy had died in an Arizona plane crash, along with his best friend and his friend's father.  He and his family were involved church members, and apparently loving and lovely people.  The pilot was an ex-Olympian,  so it was on the news, and we'd heard about it.

Of course, I didn't know any of them, but both D and I started crying during the meditation and prayer.  It's a universal grief, the loss of the brightest and best, the loss of a future.  D of course was thinking of his son, but what was I thinking of?  I was thinking how every day the newspapers and news stations tell us of loss, and every day we say, oh, that's too bad.  And sometimes we think, "He was so young," or "What a tragedy," but we don't grieve, we don't sorrow.  We are distanced, we don't know the people, we don't care.

I find myself thinking about loss a lot.  I am facing the loss of a beloved home, and I have lost many friends and some family in the past several years, not to mention beloved pets.  I have lost my source of livelihood and many sources of joy.  And I have lost my self-confidence and self-respect, not to mention my serenity.

How much of this is in my control?  And does it help to think about it, to worry about future loss, to grieve past loss? Is there anything that I can reasonably do to safeguard what I have left?

I was talking with my Mom the other day, and we are in similar places, trying to build new lives in new homes.  While we are both giving up a lot of Stuff, that's not the real problem. We can focus on the frustrations and barriers to moving on, but the biggest barrier is the fear of loss.

We have no control over the fact of loss.  It's a given that we come into the world with nothing but ourselves, and we leave that way, too.  It's a given that, if you love, you will grieve.  In fact, I want to grieve.  I don't want to let something precious go without a thought, without a tear, and I want to have precious things in my life.

Which brings me back to the real loss.  The other day a friend, possibly an ex-friend, wrote that she didn't understand what happened to the creative, bright, productive person she once knew.  She misses that woman, and I do too.   I think that finding her again might be something in my control, if she ever existed.  Right now, it's hard to remember her, and that's the biggest loss of all.

A room of one's own

D is on a perpetual high, living in this sunny climate, learning a new place and a new job.  He is joyous.  I am not.  I am still struggling with the exhaustion that hit me in 2010, not to mention the long-established sleep disorder (diagnosed in 2008.)  Three years of intense change (new job, layoff, unemployment, remodel, downsize, rental woes, new job, new home, new state, increased rental woes) have not helped.  While I recognize that my life is full of potential and actual joys, I still find myself curled up in a mental fetal position, exhausted and looking for a cave.

Yesterday I worked a long day, and I am going in late this morning to make up for it.  My plan was to sleep until D left for his work, and then get up and do some yoga in homage to AB and BW, who were my one-time Friday morning yoga group.  I then planned to write my morning pages, take care of some business and write this blog, and maybe read a little.

It doesn't work that way, when living in a 2-bedroom apartment with an ADD husband who is high on life.  D got up at some ungodly hour, as is his wont.  In his version of a tiptoe, he went into the living room, shutting the door with his version of quiet care.  Being a clod-hopping 6'4" boy-man, he does not do quiet, but he does try.

I lay curled around my pillow, turned from the doors and lights, listening to music from the computer in the next room, listening to D come into the bedroom, and go out, come back in to take a shower, and go out, come back in to tell me I'm beautiful, and go out, come back in for no known reason, and go out.  And of course I was listening to my thoughts (Portland rental problems, financial problems, plans for work, plans for an editing job, plans to join an orchestra.) Around 7 am I decided to get up and start my day.

He came in twice during my shower to give me a kiss and tell me he loves me.

I went into the 2nd bedroom to dress and decided to plug in the CD player and do some tai chi chuh. I heard his voice from the living room, calling my name with increasing insistency.  I went out, listened to his news, told him I was going to spend some time on personal stuff, and went back to the meditation practice.  He came in, went out, came back in with some coffee, went out, came back in, went out.  I managed 30 minutes of practice, bowed towards Portland, and said "Namaste" to my absent friends and to the universe.

I sat in the 2nd bedroom, curled up on the day bed reading the paper and consuming my coffee and toast. He came in to accuse me of stealing his paper, and then danced to the music in an elephantine version of John Travolta staying alive.  Then he stood in front of the couch, smiling at me until I told him to join me.

Breakfast finished,  I took advantage of the free computer and started taking care of business.  He needed the laptop.  So I took the iPad and began working on that.  He needed the iPad.  I said, let me finish this message.  "Who are you writing to?"  "The Albuquerque Philharmonic."  "Great, I support that."

And just when does he expect me to find the quiet space and time to practice violin?

A Citizen Scientist wannabe

Many years ago I joined the Cornell Lab of Ornithology as a Citizen Scientist.  What this meant in real terms was that I set up a bird feeder on my deck and counted the visitors for two months one winter.  While I was diligent in recording my observations, I never got good at the identification piece, nor were my findings anything but pedestrian.  To my chagrin, my lovely jungly yard mainly attracted house sparrows and starlings, both invasive species of the most unattractive kind. Juncos were more fun, and I always enjoyed watching them root through the seeds that fell to the deck.  Real sparrows, finches (mainly house finches), also showed up, with the occasional black-capped chickadee (no more than two) and once in a blue moon, the spotted towhee.  And, of course, squirrels.

The cats mainly left the birds alone, which, considering their springtime predations, surprised me. I do remember coming home from a weekend trip to find the deck totally devoid of avian life.  I was inclined to blame the cats, until I looked towards the large cedar overhanging the deck.  There I saw a Cooper's hawk.

I recognized it from previous visits to Chapman School to watch the annual migration of the Vaux Swifts.  For the last few weeks of September, the Audubon Society sets up binoculars for the crowds of picnickers, who settle on the hill above the school, watching the swifts dine on the last of the evening insects before swirling and funneling into the school's tall chimney for their night's rest.  The neighborhood grudgingly tolerates the parking problem, and a nightly show unfolds, ending in a storm of applause as the last swifts whump into the chimney and leftovers take off for the woods in the surrounding hills.  This show regularly includes the presence of a Cooper's Hawk perched on the side of the chimney, biding its time.  Usually it would pick off a swift and make for the nearby trees, but sometimes the swifts would mob it and drive it away.

So, I knew what a Cooper's hawk looked like, and I knew why the birds had deserted my deck. I hated to think of the carnage that took place in my absence, but that too is part of the deal.  These are wild creatures. Predation is the name of the game. While we humans try to mask that part of existence, it's unavoidable.

Still, we do our best to close our eyes to reality.  And in fact, it's difficult to believe that soaring and swooping and chattering is merely part of the birds' hunting and territory-building activities.  It's easier to enjoy the beauty and the variety. So, we set up feeders and baths in our yards and on our decks, we get out our binoculars, we make pilgrimages to migratory stopping places and sanctuaries, we keep journals, we call ourselves Citizen Scientists.  We are thrilled because they are sharing the world with us, but we put them into a mental zoo.

Actually, I cannot truly call myself a Citizen Scientist. I cannot describe birds by the proper terms, I cannot recognize delicate variations in plumage, I mix up their calls, I squint through the binocular lenses but can't find them in the trees.  Hawks, buzzards, kestrels and eagles are all lumped into one category (raptors) and identified by one behavior (soaring.)   Herons are solitary, elegant, sticklike outlines at the water's edge.  Red-wing blackbirds are obvious by their red-wings, and obligingly pose on the barb-wire fences by the roads.

I have accompanied birder friends to coastal marshes and watched the gulls holding their wings out to dry.  A few springs ago,  I joined Holly and M on Audubon's Mt Tabor walks to learn how to identify birdsong, and I kept asking, what's that?  (It was usually a robin.)  I went to an outdoor zoo in Sydney, Australia:  who can help but recognize a parrot?  I have visited Malheur Wildlife Refuge to check out the high desert birds.  My sister and I go to the Mississippi at Keokuk to watch the bald eagles soaring above the dam, my friend Karen and I took an Audubon-sponsored hike on Sauvie Island to do the same. When I first moved to Oregon, I remember hiking up to Nesika with S:  he had a key to the Trails Club lodge in the Gorge, and we would take wild-cat trips.  He soaked his red kerchief in sugar water and hung it from chinks in the log walls of the cabin.  We sat in the adirondack chairs, a short distance away and waited:  sure enough, a hummer arrived to sip on the makeshift feeder, and I took its picture.

It was blurry.

Eventually I owned my own feeder, but I never did manage to lure the hummingbirds to it.  I didn't actually need to.  The deck was surrounded by fruit trees and bushes with large pink horn-shaped flowers.  Clematis flowed up and over the wall, and Oregon grape grew in the jungle-yard.  Hummers became frequent visitors, and it was not unusual for me to be reading in the hammock and hear a buzzing sound.  I would look up and see the hummer, inches away.  I had always thought they could not sit for long without food, and that they didn't like people, but this one was amazingly gregarious.

Now, I'm in New Mexico.  While I'm missing certain parts of Oregon, I don't feel bird-lonely. The apartment complex is home to doves, some small brown birds that I haven't identified, and hummingbirds.  As I walk to the pool, I wade through the aptly-named charm of hummingbirds:  one of the patios has a feeder set out for them.  The doves coo in the morning and perch on the chain link fence by the basketball court.  The little brown birds settle on the grass.  And the hummingbirds hover over the pool, then zip over to the junipers.  They are ubiquitous, and I love it.  (L actually found a newly hatched one, the size of a finger-nail, and nursed it continuously for a few days before it flew off.  Since they need constant nourishment, it was not an easy thing to do.)

Although the New Mexico state bird is the road runner, I think it should be the hummer.  Apparently, New Mexico is home to 17 species of Hummingbirds, summering here before returning to Mexico for the winter.  As even experienced birders find it difficult to identify the various species, I feel off the hook regarding a Citizen Scientist role.  I'm just enjoying them.  A lot.

Schrodinger's cat

I am still avoiding my phone.  Mostly, it doesn't matter if I wait a day or so to hear the (usually) bad news and respond to it.  So, I wait.  I wait until I'm not exhausted, not knitting, not watching Judge Judy, not reading, not doing dishes.....in a word, I wait until I feel strong enough to handle the person or problem behind the ring.

I'm not happy about this.  I used to pride myself on my self-discipline and reliability.  I Took Care Of Business.  Now, I take care of myself.  While this is not a bad thing in principle, it is not good in practise.  By avoiding my responsibilities, as represented by my phone,  I take care of myself at the expense of my self-respect and other people's trust.

And, it turns out, at the expense of my cat.

It all started with a call to my voice mail last Friday.  I hadn't looked checked it for two days, hadn't picked up my phone for three.  Wednesday I was charging the phone, and Thursday I was just worn out.  I heard the phone ring around 6:30, and I thought, I don't want to talk to anyone and thus they shouldn't want to talk to me.  (Who wants to talk to a grump with little news and less to say?)  However, on Friday I realized I needed to check back in.  While I'm sure D or people at work will keep me posted regarding the next natural disaster or the beginning of World War III, the more personal things will only be covered by my personal connections.

So, as I left work, I pulled out my phone.  It was 6 p.m., New Mexico time, 5 p.m., Portland time.  Since the New Mexico police are militant about catching drivers with cellphones, I sat in the truck, A/C running, radio muted, and started taking notes.  Oh, I missed sister E's call on Wednesday.  She wants to Skype, and so do I.  Darn.  Someone else called and hung up.  Now it's the Thursday call.....the Woodstock vet?!  Huh? The words are slightly garbled, but it sounds like they have my cat.  How could that be?

Yikes, it's after 5 pm on a Friday.  Most businesses will be closed, but probably not a vet.  I offer up a prayer that the Woodstock Vet is of this enlightened crew and make the call.

The receptionist is confused by my call, which should have been my first warning.  Finally she realizes that they called me first, and I am merely returning the favor.  I have no idea what I am calling about, and I hope she will.

She does.  Ah, yes, your cat Simon (ummm, it's Simone), was brought in Thursday and we found your phone number through her chip.  She is very proud of the fact that the chip is doing it's job.  I'm even more confused:  that chip is 7 years old, and I have not paid the upkeep since the first year.  From all I've read about the chip, you have to maintain the service.  Also, there is no reason Simone should be brought in as a stray.  While she has no collar, she is clearly a pampered kitty with a good home.  (Yes, she has managed to wear me out and I no longer try to replace the collars she ditches within 2 hours of receipt.  It's not the expense, it's the annoyance.)

Besides, I just heard from H this last week.  She sent pix of Simone impersonating a cute internet kitty.  Clearly, E and H are taking proper care of her.

So, what happened?  The receptionist does not know, but she is expecting me to come in to retrieve my cat.  I explain that is not going to happen:  I am in New Mexico.  I ask if she can contact the current caretakers, who I believe should be on file with them.  Louie, their pet of 17 years, was a regular visitor.

Hmmm, that does ring a bell, and she'll make a note that they have permission to pick up Simone, but she is not going to call them.  Nor is she going to call the person who kidnapped my cat and brought her in.  She verifies that the cat they have is a tuxedo kitty, and that's all she can do for me, but she informs me cheerfully that they'll be open until 6 and again on Saturday, 8-4.

So, I panic, trying to reach E and H and spare my poor abused kitty another night in prison.  I can't find their number in my phone, because it's D's old phone.  (I had replaced my laundered phone with his phone, and while they changed the phone number, they did not replace the contacts info.  He has a lot of contacts, but I can't find E and H under any permutations of names and nicknames.  Later I discover that the phone converted Hollybeth into Beth, Holly.  Stupid elecrtonics.)

I call D.  He is en route, having picked up sopapillas and green chili stew for our dinner.  I beg him to call E and H, and when I get home I call their home phone.  Neither of us can reach them, and, as a last ditch effort, I leave an e-mail.

H calls me, but again I miss the phone call.  So, she e-mails me at 12:14 am, and I get that message when I wake up.
So E says there was one day this week when she remembers wondering where Simone got to. (Usually if the weather's nice she's in and out, every couple hours.) And right before Simone came to stay with us, E had to persuade a neighbor across the street that Fela the neighbor cat is a local and not lost. So I guess the vet let neighbor lady take Simone away again and quietly release her back here?
That kitty has her secrets, doesn't she. :)
I reply:
I guess the vet released her, if Simone was back in your hands last night. I talked with the vet at 5 pm yesterday, and Simone was still there, so I frantically was trying to reach you. Apparently she had been imprisoned since Thursday, when the first call came (I seem to be ignoring my phone and my email lately.)
I'm confused.
but as long as she's safe, that's all that matters. Thanks!

H adds to my confusion:
No, she was definitely here every morning when I got up; she's very prompt because I give her wet food for breakfast. And there hasn't been an entire evening when I never saw her, either. I am confused too.
What will be really interesting is if you get another call from the vet saying she's still there.
Simone had a nice day rolling in the dirt in the backyard (why, cat, why?) and playing with Elizabeth's sunglasses.

I had plans to call the vet back and ferret out what happened, but my usual inertia kicked in and I dropped the matter.  However, last night E found me on gmail and we had the following chat:
E: Went down to Woodstock Vet today to see if I could sort out what was going on.  The receptionist was as confused as I was. But we all agree that they don't have Simone.
10:52 PM (Although they apparently did at one point?)
10:53 PM In any case, Simone is having a lovely time in the litterbox as we speak. :-/
***********
11:01 PM me: thank for checking up on that. Weird.
11:02 PM E: Yeah!  For a while, we were all, "Do we have a faux!Simone?"
11:05 PM me:...a faux Simone? not possible, she is unique!
E: I was quite nervous that I'd go down to the vet.....and they'd have a petite and graceful tuxedo kitty...who was quite social and liked to sit on shoulders.
11:06 PM At which point, I'd be all, "So who the fuck did we kidnap from refgoddess' house two months ago??"
me: :)
E: H was all, "If they do have another Simone there, you have to call me RIGHT AWAY."
11:07 PM In case, you know, there were alternate reality implications.  Wouldn't want to catastrophically collapse one reality into another by bringing the two Simones into close proximity.
THAT MIGHT END THE WORLD.
11:11 PM me:  So, did the receptionist actually call me? Did I talk with her? I was under the distinct impression that she had S right there: I asked for a verification and everything. but maybe she was just looking at the report.
11:13 PM E: I never talked to the receptionist that talked to you.  The receptionist I talked to was looking at her notes....and her notes seemed to indicate that Simone was there, even though she wasn't. And the receptionist I talked to didn't understand how Simone could have been there, and then just somehow ended up back in our neighborhood again.
So. Dunno.

And that's where we decide to leave the mystery.  It's late, and I need my sleep.  But the next day I look up the "Schrodinger's cat" thought experiment and I try to explain it to D.  He is not interested, but I think quantum physics might have the answer.  Much as I like alternate reality theories, I don't think they are going to explain how Simone was in two places at once, nor how she teleported herself home.  I am convinced it has something to do with the Copenhagen interpretation.

I've looked at clouds from both sides now....

When I meet people for the first time and tell them I just moved here from Portland, OR, they look at me in disbelief.  "Why?" they say, and my stock response is, "For the green chili stew and a library system that will hire me."  They laugh, but retain their skepticism, screened behind polite smiles and small talk about the city.  So many of them have friends and relatives in the Pacific NW, and they commiserate with me about the dryness, the heat, the lack of green.

They don't get it when I tell them I love the high desert.  I love the rocks, in all their fantastical shapes and colors.  Most of all, I love the big sky and the myriad forms the clouds take in that clear blue, the blue that seems to shimmer with light, the blue that goes from sky-blue to deep indigo.

Now, coming from the rainy city, I am no stranger to clouds.  But these clouds are something special.  Arching over a landscape as big and fantastical as themselves, in one day they can range from fluffy popcorn to towering fortresses.  They can be white cotton, scattered on glowing blue background.  They can be cumulonimbus clouds, louring over the mountains, sometimes shot through with lightning, sometimes streaming grey streaks of rain along the desert horizon.  They are so much more than a response to changes in barometric pressure and moisture.

The other day I came out of work into the early evening light.  Directly overhead, the leading edge of a cloud bank stretched in a slanting line across a clear blue sky.  To the east, the Sandia range was buried in grey.  To the west, the city and the desert glowed yellow-orange.  I stood at the demarcation of storm and sun, marveling.

During the monsoon season, the clouds come up quickly and dissipate even more quickly.  In the morning, I can watch the sun rise over the Sandia range, the thin layer of popcorn clouds turning pink, orange-red-purple, grey-white, white.  It's going to be a beautiful sunny day.  10 hours later, the dime-sized rain drops hiss on the hot pavement, splatting out of the overhead grey, heralded by thunder and lightning.  The parking lot becomes a lake, the arroyos and streets, rivers.  Waterfalls from the roof are framed by every window.  Customers huddle by the doorways, looking into the sheets of rain.  "I think I'll look for another book," they say.  Half an hour later, the lakes are rapidly-drying puddles, and a brilliant double rainbow spreads across the east, where the clouds and rain still linger.  The mountains are blue-grey, showing through the prism as a simple clean line.  The end of the rainbow seems close enough to touch.

There are times the clouds seem to be perfectly picked to outline the rocks and hills and reflect the sun.   They have that picturesque thing down.  And even when I am depressed with the petty details of my life, with the things that are not going right, I can't help but take in a deep joyful breath when I look up into those clouds.

Running on Empty

I've become used to the truck. Surprisingly, it has become "my" car. As is often the case, this change was financially driven. The Nissan gets worse gas mileage than the Honda. I'm only driving to and from work, while D is driving all over hell and gone, shopping, meeting his bosses, setting up appointments, meeting with clients. It made sense that I would take the gas guzzler, and, to D's surprise, I let that fact override my discomfort with the truck.

Although I volunteered for the switch, I wasn't expecting an easy transition. The truck is a total rattletrap, emphasis on rattle. I've learned to isolate discrete rattles, squeaks, and bangs: the sounds depend on what's in the bed of the truck, to some extent, but also indicate a loose canopy, a canopy door that neither latches nor locks, a shot suspension....you get the picture. Safety is also an issue. It's missing both bumpers, and hence has no airbag. While we replaced the balding rear tires, in a nod to the rear wheel drive, we still needed to change out the front tires. I suspect the brakes could use a once-over, and we need to remove the anti-freeze from the washer fluid well (chalk that one up to hasty prep for the move and D's confusion with the engine components.)

All that being said, however, it does get me to work, and it gives my arms a nice workout when I pull the manual steering into a U-turn. The latter happens less often, as I learn my way about the city, but I still have to maneuver into parking spaces, so my upper body has a nice taut future. I hope.

I've become used to it being a gutless wonder, and have learned to punch the gas when it falters upon takeoff. I've learned to ignore the sound of sliding boxes filled with bottles (the apartment complex does not recycle glass), and I have programmed the radio stations. I am comfortable with the truck.

So...last Saturday I was driving between branches, thinking about statistics and RFID tags and getting back to LT for lunch before I started covering desks. In other words, my mind was not on the drive. Dimly, I noticed a lurch, a slight deceleration, a sort of stutter in the engine performance, and I punched the accelerator. I turned onto San Pedro and noticed the stutter again. I thought, I hate that this truck has no acceleration, and continued on to Candelaria, at which point awareness trickled in and I glanced at the gas gauge.

Empty. Below empty, in fact.

Now, with previous cars I had a sense of how far I could drive before empty really meant empty. I had never reached that really empty state, so I didn't know the signs, but I suspected that I was observing them now.

Even though ABQ seems to be one long strip mall feeding into another into another, I happened to be on a main thoroughfare that was lined with homes, not businesses. Most pertinently, not gas stations. In growing panic, I urged the truck forward. I could see the stoplights of Wyoming in the distance....just a few more blocks, little truck, you can do it, please, I know you can.

The Nissan slowed, I put on the flashers, and in a moment of clarity, realized I needed to get off the main road.

Did you know that, when there is no gas, the steering locks up? Fortunately, I was already into the turn, and I coasted to a stop, just short of someone's driveway.

Of course, this was the day that D had borrowed my phone while I was getting ready for work, and I had decided to not interrupt his call to get it back. And of course, I was wearing shoes that were definitely not made for walking, along with a nice dress. And, of course, there are no pedestrians in this city. I felt very conspicuous, but walked the three blocks to Wyoming, where, praise be, there was a gas station right there on the corner next to me. I entered the station, and the tall tattooed blonde behind the counter finished waiting on her customer and looked at me. Yes? I explained my predicament, asking for a gas can. She said, we don't have one. I looked at her in disbelief and then asked if I could use a phone to call Triple A. She said, we're not supposed to, you'd have to promise on a stack of Bibles that whoever you call doesn't call us back. Really, it happens all the time, that's why we aren't supposed to loan out the phone. I said, I really just wanted to borrow a gas can. Her partner, a doofy-looking 20-something white male in a baseball cap, said, oh we have one of those.

Really?

It was red plastic, with a white plastic scrunchy hose and a black plastic locking mechanism. The doofus showed me how the locking mechanism worked, explaining I didn't want the gas to splash and leak out while I was driving. I looked at him. He said, oh, yeah, that's right, you aren't driving.

Right.

Although the gas can was probably worth $5, if that, they insisted I leave something for collateral, which was when I discovered I didn't have my ID, either. I left them a credit card, put 3 gallons of gas on it (and into the can), and walked back to the truck.

The locking mechanism leaked. I was dripping gas onto the ground. Magically, on this empty street, a car appeared. They had been driving past on Candelaria, seen a nice lady in a dress fussing with a gas can, and had pulled in to see if I needed help. By then I had figured out how to tighten the hose attachment, so I stood and watched the nice young man as he poured the gas into the tank without incident. But it was nice of them to stop.

I tossed the gas can into the back and drove to the station, pulling up at the only empty pump. I went into the station to retrieve my card and buy more gas, and the blonde said, forget something? Smart ass. I bought a Skor to tide me over and put $30 of gas in the truck.

And now I know

a. How far I can push the Nissan
b. How to put gas in the car, using a gas can
c. How to get by without a cell phone or ID

Three valuable lessons, well worth the 20 minutes out of my lunch hour.

Schizoid Sunday

I woke up to the scents of coffee, bacon, and toasted bread product.  D had been up for hours:  he drove out to watch the sun rise, explored Juan Tabo,  and then sat in the parking lot outside Einstein's bagels, waiting for them to open.  He bought cinnamon raisin bagels and honey schmear.  He toasted them to perfection, spread the right amount of schmear, made coffee, fried up some pepper bacon to the level of crunch I prefer (just this side of dead, please), put it all on the tiled tray, and sashayed into the bedroom.

He did decline to bring me the paper, and when he leaned over to give me a kiss he spilled coffee over the quilt.  But these are small things.  It was a lovely way to wake up.

We had a semi-leisurely morning before getting ready for 9:30 church.  The ministers are apparently taking the summer off, as is the choir.  So the service is run by congregants, and the music is provided by various small groups.  Today's music was jazz standards, e.g., Irving Berlin, played by a clarinet and electric jazz guitar duo:  quite lovely but I wanted to be sitting in a dark club, sipping on a nice red and holding D's hand.  It seemed more than a little odd to be sitting in a pew, looking out past the altar area into the sunny nature garden, trying to create a reverent mood.

The homilies centered on the concept of "service as a spiritual practice."  I pondered:  I spend most of my days working in a service profession, and it has never felt spiritual to me.  In fact, quite the opposite:  after a day spent fielding other people's stresses, I feel drained and useless.  Yes, I mainly enjoy my interactions with public and staff, but there is so much that doesn't work, both inside and outside the library.  I want to fix it, but I can only attend to the problem directly in front of me, and I can only use the tools I've been provided.  It does keep me posted on the cultural and societal norms and it does connect me to my community.  But I don't think you can count, "Please God, don't let him come back," as a real prayer.

The other day, I watched as a new colleague reprogrammed a hot pink second-hand Nook for an octogenarian who had purchased it as a gift for his granddaughter.  My jaw dropped when he handed her the gift bag and tissue paper, and it hit the floor when she wrapped up the Nook, flourishing the paper with a professional swirl and saying, "Let's add another one to make it look more luscious."  And she didn't blink an eye when he gave her the leftover wrappings to bundle up for him.  This does not constitute service, IMHO, nor is it a spiritual act.  It was a stunning display of lack of boundaries, and a clear indicator of the dearth of connections and social services:  didn't he have any family to help him?

I thought about that.  I thought about the other colleague chasing after the young man who set off the security gates trying to steal a book.  Why steal a book?  There are no fines, he can keep it for months without repercussions.  What caused him to fall to that place where it seemed easier to walk off with free materials rather than fix the problem with his card or do whatever was necessary to participate appropriately in a community institution?  Why did my colleague feel the need to safeguard property at his own personal risk?  Was he at risk?  Was this service?  Wouldn't true service be to find the young man some assistance?  What do you do, when confronted with needs and boundary confusion that seem insoluble?  How do you serve appropriately?

I don't know the answers, but I did decide it's time to find an animal shelter and serve there.  It will be a true spiritual act to walk a dog and pet a cat, I think.  At any rate, it will feel good.

After church, we had planned to get some sun by the pool, and then drive up to Las Golondrinas for the Santa Fe wine festival.  Sadly, things didn't work out that way.  The derailment began when I checked D's i-Phone for the address of Rebel Doughnuts:  more grease and fat and carbs were needed before we could even think of the next step.  En route to the map app, I found a text to D from K and an e-mail to me from B, and learned that all hell was breaking loose back in my PDX house.  This put me into a deep funk, which I shared with D.   Although we did get the doughnuts, I was unable to enjoy the weird ones (Rebel Doughnuts is Albuquerque's version of Voodoo Donuts.)

Clearly the first order of business was to try to attend to the situation, long distance. While I wrestled with e-mail, D began planting the tomatoes and basil and peppers he had purchased on Saturday. He discovered he did not have enough soil or pots for the job, and was on his way to Smith's. Ever the budget-minded person, I suggested we try the thrift stores on Menaul. While we did find Re:Tail to be a pleasant thrift store, no one seems to donate planters or gardening equipment. I found some much-need curtains for $4, and served my furry friends in that way, but after 2 fruitless hours of exploration, we ended up back at Smith's. It was frustrating: D loves to shop, but I don't, and neither of us wanted to be roaming the strip malls on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.

Planting completed and the house put in order, it was time to move northwards.  The drive up was beautiful, but marred by disharmony between partners, the second time in the day.  Or was it the third?  However, the wine festival was fun:  booths of wines, crafts, and foods, plus a stage of very loud hip hop, fortunately far enough away from most of our activities to provide festive, not intrusive, background music.  We were there in the last 2 hours of the festival, and you could tell the vendors just wanted to be gone, but they were gracious enough.  For $13 apiece, we got a tasting glass and free tastes at all the wine booths.  We discovered some nice wineries near Albuquerque and plan to visit the tasting rooms in the near future.  Most of the vineyards are in the Deming area, down by the southern border, so some day we may take a overnighter to the area:  check out Trinity site and then drown our sorrows.

Dinner at Maria's in Santa Fe, and then a silent drive home:  we can't seem to go more than 2 hours before a bone of contention arises.  And instead of burying that bone, we worry at it.  Stupid:  it doesn't do anything but hurt our teeth, metaphorically speaking.

Once home, I found another e-mail from PDX.  My home has been designated a pest hole, myself "white trash."  Or at least my yard, which has always been a jungle and still has stashes of junk left over from the March remodel and J's painting work.  It also appears that none of the leases and agreements that I have in place are holding up, and that will mean loss of vital income.  But I don't want to fight it.  Some of the unhappy renters are friends, and it costs money to defend against suits from those who are not. I am so weary of trying to keep on top of everything with limited budget, skills and time.  I understand for the first time how people can leave cars up on blocks for months at a time.  It seems that for every step forward, I get pushed back two.  I have been trying so hard to take care of business, but my efforts are clearly inadequate to the task.  It seems I haven't hit rock bottom yet:  I need to lose my house and the rest of my friends in addition to my job and my savings and my self-respect.

Maybe I just need to embrace my white trash self.

I tried to read and meditate and get back some of the good times of the day, but it was all too overwhelming and schizoid.  I bounced back and forth between joys and sorrows, and it took several hours to finally reach the middle ground of sleep.

And now I'm trying to figure out how best to spend the rest of my weekend.  I have a lot of business to attend to, but am not sure there is any point to it.  I posted this to FB:

Since there is no way

I can get ev'rything done,

Shall I do nothing?

Lisa says "yup."  I think I'll follow her advice.

My very first flash flood

Yesterday I worked at the Erna Fergusson Library:  it's 15 minutes from my home on a busy street.  The parking lot borders one of the many arroyos that snake down from the Sandia Mountains.  It's a complex engineering project, and I've been wondering how well it works.  I found out yesterday when I left work.

It had been a long day, and I spent my lunch hour trying to reach people in the HR department, so I had not gone outside.  But it was clearly as hot as it had ever been:  materials from the bookdrop radiated heat, and the solar telescopes on the patio were doing a roaring business.  (Sadly, I did not have the time to check them out, but I'm sure the program will be offered at other locations in my upcoming tenure with the Albuquerque library system.)

I sent a final e-mail, paper-clipped all the little notes and calculations, gathered up my stuff, and made tracks for the parking lot.  As I tossed my bags into the passenger seat, I glanced toward the arroyo.  Instead of the usual white cement-lined square ditch, I saw brown water, a few feet below the edge, running quickly from east to west.  A woman and a girl stood on the pedestrian bridge, looking down, and I joined them.

This was the fastest, smoothest, straightest waterflow I've ever seen:  no eddies, no backwater, no floating logs, no ducks.  The surface was littered with lines of light brown sprinkles, leaves and twigs I guessed, but it was moving too fast to know.  I looked east, and noted the entrance of the North Hahn Arroyo:  that arroyo was bone dry and a straight diagonal line in the otherwise smooth surface of the Hahn Arroyo water indicated the different depth where the two arroyos merged.

My fellow gawkers informed me that there had been a thunderstorm in the foothills, and that this was the flash flood from that storm.  Some gray-white clouds still hovered in the east, but where I stood the sky was clear, with a hot afternoon sun.  It was a little spooky, the water was so unnatural.

I drove home and didn't see any signs of storms until I reached Osuna Rd.  Then I noticed fast-drying water in gutters, and Bear Canyon's cement dams had brown water tumbling over them.  By the time I walked over from the apartment, the water was lazily trickling through gaps in the cement, and only the wet sand indicated the spate that had passed through.  Back home, the sidewalks had dried out in the few short minutes I had been gone, but the rocky gardens still held pools of water.  One of the water pipes into the parking lot dripped a few drops, and several large rocks sat in the lot:  another indication of the temporary hydropower.

When D arrived home, an hour after the floods, there was little evidence left of the event.  The air was humid, and a few clouds lingered.  And there were those rocks.

Apparently we are now officially in the monsoon season.

Being an Ostrich

I'm avoiding the computer, and I don't quite understand why, but I have some inklings. It's my main connection to the world outside my New Mexico life and it's also the main tool for organizing said life. Would I really rather just sit with my knitting and watch NCIS re-runs? Seems so. At any rate, the computer seems to have become my locus for ostrich behavior.

It's not as if I am avoiding everything. I've been here a month now. The work and people are becoming familiar to me. While I still don't have a landing spot in the library system, as of Friday I have an interim project (other than learning the similar-yet-different procedures and policies): I will be working on the RFID project. I met my partner on Friday and we interviewed the last 4 (out of 13) temp workers. We still don't know what the project really entails, but on Tuesday, when we are trained on the equipment, it will all fall into place. Hopefully. After all, how difficult can it be to organize placing RFID tags on every item in the system?

Despite the ever-changing job location, or maybe because of it, I am starting to get around without consulting Mapquest first. I know where the cheap parking lots are near the downtown library. Even better, I find myself singing along with the radio, watching for "my" mountains as I drive home, watching the clouds gather and disperse, noting the slant of light in the late afternoon.

It's an easy commute, regardless of where I'm going. The streets feel so wide and empty: blurts of traffic are followed by wide gaps, which gives me enough time to pull a U-turn at intersections when I find myself going the wrong way (and that still happens regularly.) I've left the Honda and its better gas mileage to D and have taken over the truck. It has manual steering and no pickup to speak of, and it's still easy enough to maneuver through traffic and onramps. I am developing a fondness for the frontage roads, but am not overly fearful of the highways.

Sadly, I was recently informed that I am living in a fool's paradise. Once school starts up in late August, travel time will triple in certain areas, and those spacious multi-lane hwys and main roads will fill up.

At least I'll get get my learning in while the traffic is manageable.

Discovery is the name of the game right now. I've found the classical radio station (which is so-so) and a terrific classic rock station (KIOT, pronounced Coyote.) My list of restaurants and things to do is growing and we actually had some friends over for dinner last week. The daily news focuses on the heat wave and the wildfires, and I'm starting to figure out where all those places are in relation to my home. I use the heat as an excuse to sit by the pool and read, and I've read 6 new books in the last 4 weeks.

From this perspective, it looks like I'm contentedly settling in. I have a routine and a comfortable place to be, both emotionally and physically. The finances are still a drag, but all the details are working themselves out, and D is very enthusiastic about his new job. I'm starting to lose a little weight and firm up a few muscles. I have a lot to be proud of and even more to enjoy about my life.

So, why am I still avoiding the computer? I started this post yesterday, after several hours of reading, cooking, and pool-sitting. I quit after 10 minutes, unable to sustain an interest in my own doings, unable to respond reasonably to my friends' postings and messages. I fought with D. When the BBQ with H got cancelled, I felt a familiar sinking feeling: I have no friends. Later, as D and I tried to get back on speaking terms, I broke down and sobbed, "I'm so lonely!"

Today's avoidance mechanism is different: I'm using the blog and FB to avoid taking care of business. In fact, I have spent 3 hours transcribing notes and tracking down links, when what I should be doing is paying my bills. And I'm wondering why I can't take care of myself and take care of business.  Why does my daily path seem to be a zigzag around things I just don't want to confront?  It seems no matter what I do, it isn't what I should be doing.

But maybe it's what I need to be doing.

Things to do in ABQ

D is learning the city through his job selling payroll systems and visa machines. Cards for restaurants, gift shops, and specialty businesses flutter onto table tops wherever he goes. He also brings me cards for hair stylists and yarn shops. He is into it.

My research is much more low key. For example, I was talking to TH in the break room, and in addition to discussing various cooking techniques for New Mexican cuisine, she gave me a list of restaurants:

El Martino (which I cannot locate, maybe it's Marino's? since she was giving me NE addresses)

Straight up pizza

Torino's

Garcia's: on 4th street. (She is not the only person to indicate that location is important with this local chain) This is apparently where I should go for sopapillas and green chili stew, but we haven't made it yet. D, however, keeps stopping by for fresh sopapillas, which, by the time I get them, are no longer fresh. The intent is stellar, but the execution is flawed.

Mary and Tito's (New Mexican)

Barb told me about Tim's Place, a cafe run by a guy with Down's Syndrome. Jenny recommends the Frontier, on Central in the Nob Hill area.

While I was in training, I got into a conversation with a Main security guard, and he suggested El Charritos on SW 47th and Central for good spicy New Mexican food. He was the 2010 first place winner for the annual salsa contest and gets his tomatoes from the Mexican market on Central, in the downtown district. Neither are high end places, but he vouches for their authenticity and quality. He promised me some home-made salsa, fresh from his kitchen, but it didn't happen before I left Main for the branches.

We already knew about 5 Star Burgers from our Taos visit, and on our first night we discovered Dion's for Pizza.

Of course, we've made our own discoveries....

1. After we drove to Sandia Peak to see the sunrise, we stopped at Blake's Lotaburger (a blast-from-the-past 50's decor) for breakfast burritos. The other day I heard that it made National Geographic's Top 10 burgers in the US, placing 4th. There's one a block away from home, so we'll have to give it a shot.

2. For our first nice meal out (to celebrate my first CABQ paycheck), we went to Yanni's for Greek food. Later I checked out the Best of ABQ guide, and there it was. But now I can't find the guide. If it's from the Albuquerque Magazine, you have to subscribe. The 2011 Best of Burque (from the alternative weekly, the Alibi) snubs Yanni's for Olympia Cafe. But suffice it to say, there is plenty of good ethnic food to be found.

3. On our first Sunday drive (to Placitas), the local art gallery AND the local real estate dude both recommended The Range in Bernalillo. There's one in ABQ as well, but we stuck with the original, which was located on the Main street/old highway. It had a gallery and gift shop and wine/tequila bar attached and took up the entire block.

4. When D asked for a good place for ice cold beer and burgers, the rangers at El Morro suggested nearby Tinaja for the Navajo Burger, served on frybread. I'm normally not a fan of frybread, but this really worked. The place itself was low-budget warehouse/diner decor, with tile floor, screen door, plastic chairs, light from windows and open screen door, and a TV showing Crocodile Dundee (in English with English subtitles). They actually had no beer, but they brought us bottled water with a glass of ice and a lemon and included a complimentary plate of juicy watermelon triangles. Just what one wanted after an afternoon in the high desert sun.

5. On the same trip, we also discovered the Cimarron Rose B&B, near the Continental Divide. It's a beautifully restored space, surrounded by fragrant juniper trees: we hope to spend our anniversary there.

6. To celebrate D's successful last hiring hurdle (setting 20 appointments), we had home-made pasta at Scalo. It's another local Best, and I was really looking forward to my leftovers, tagliatelle with a rich 3-cheese sauce. Sadly, they stayed at the table. We did, however, manage to remember to take home the wine, in a sealed plastic bag.

In Albuquerque

They give you doggie bags for

Your leftover wine.

Last week the library directors took me out to lunch at the original Hilton Hotel in the attached Lucia restaurant (I had a lovely chipotle Cobb wrap and peppery sweet potato fries.)

Lest one think I'm only into eating, I also grilled them about things to do. They all agreed that the 2.7 mile Longest Tram Ride in the World to the peak (oh yes, there's a restaurant there, too) was well worth the effort to overcome my acrophobic jitters. L suggested I stand in the middle and don't look down, and promises that the ride is smooth. Except when passing the towers. hmmm.

They also gave a thumbs up to the botanic garden/zoo/aquarium complex, aka the Biopark. It's a city service, and later in the day DS brought me free tickets for that.

J at Cherry Hills and H both talked about hiking into the hills. Apparently the Open Spaces are perfect for that, although homeless folks find other uses for those areas.  J says she's never seen a rattler up there, and as long as I'm prepared with sunscreen and water, I should be fine.

TG had some suggestions for craft and art, as well as hair stylists:

Tommy at the downtown Inspire has received local kudos
Village Wools at San Pedro and Paseo, and the Yarn Store on Nob Hill, will supply my knitting fix.
Papers (also Nob Hill), Longells art supply, Mama's Minerals, and Artisan Santa Fe will take care of the arts and crafts needs.

So now I just have to find the time and money to patronize these places. And maybe some friends to go with me.