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.
Friday, August 17, 2012
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?
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?
Sunday, August 5, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, July 30, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
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.
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.
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.
Monday, July 9, 2012
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:
Lisa says "yup." I think I'll follow her advice.
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.
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