Double nickels

For the past two years, I've gone to Ghost Ranch for my birthday.  Last year was a solo excursion:  I was two months past the divorce and one year past the move from Portland; I was trying to figure things out.  I just re-read the blog I wrote about that.  It was eloquent with pain and full of retrospection.

This year I had a companion, my friend from Colorado (check out the Kansas City blog).   I focused on that nascent relationship, not on myself.  We explored our friendship, and we rambled around the area.  I hiked Chimney Rock again:  3 miles round trip, 500 feet elevation gain, lots of wild-flowers and dead trees and rock formations.  Clouds, of course.  The only internet and phone reception was 7100 feet up:  at the Ranch itself, we were virtually free, living in the moment.  

 

There was almost no retrospection, although we did talk about our various personal battles and histories.  But, in all, it was a time to just be and to discover. There is always something new. For instance, Mollie had told me about a nearby rock formation, Georgia O'Keeffe's "White Place," and we found it a few hours before sunset on my birthday. 

 

   We couldn't get into the mosque, but the drive back along the Rio Chama was beautiful.  One frustration:  my friend Strongly Encouraged me to leave behind the amazing rocks that I found in the arroyo surrounding the hoodoos.  There was a lot of quartz, one rock the size of a goose egg.  I like to pick up rocks and worry them with my thumb when I walk, and I like to take a few small ones home.  But, I do grudgingly understand the concept of "take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but footprints."   Very grudgingly.

In addition to walks and talks and nice meals, there was also thunder and lightning, and some amazing animal vocalizing in the middle of the night.  It was probably coyotes, but it sounded like a rooster with asthma.  Every day was a gift, and I didn't push for anything beyond that.

Today, I'm back to work and thinking about where I am.  My friend wants to see me more often, to continue to build upon the relationship.  I am not sure what I want.  He is fun and kind and quirky, but he has a primary partner who is also fun and quirky.  I have been burned by this sort of situation in the past year, and I'm not really in the market for a long distance or long term relationship. And, I have so much to do here, and so many friends, old and new, to spend time with.  As I said a few days ago, I want to be independent.  

A few months ago I met with Mollie to discuss my ongoing frustration with my lack of productivity. Her suggestion was to stop with the shoulds (it's not a new suggestion).  She pointed out, as many people have, that I have had changes in every possible aspect of my life, and maybe I should just BE while my body and emotions absorb them.  I don't know where I'll go next, and that's okay. I'm in a place of change, and who knows what my next life will look like.  Being an embryo is enough work, I don't need to add to it.

Since then, I find myself thinking less about what I'm doing with my life. I tell someone, jeez, I spent the morning doing the crossword and watching the hummingbirds and I think, what a GREAT way to spend the morning!  How lucky I am to have that freedom!  I am giving myself permission to enjoy this respite.  I know that it is not forever, and dammit, I'm not going to beat myself up for not DOING.  And, at any rate, I am doing.   I've found my practise (the haiku/photography that I've been doing forever), I'm tutoring, I'm making music, I'm seeing friends, and the joy comes back in bits and pieces.  I have to remember that....it comes back.

It came back on my birthday, and that should be enough for now.

Clouds

"Look at those shadows!"
I pull over and we watch.
We both like the clouds.

Yesterday E and I were driving in to Santa Fe, and, as is often the case, we were overwhelmed by the 360 degrees of awesome presented by the skies. A storm was coming in, and the clouds were building up, but each angle had a different guise. To the east were summer picnic skies, fluffy single clouds massing together, smiling over the fields. Over the mountains were soft striated grey clouds, lined in front of the piled up thunder clouds which towered high overhead. The blues of the skies were accentuated by the white clouds. The layered white cumulus clouds gathered behind the sharply ridged Cerrillos Hills, with one patch an almost ivory color, another grey-white, another popcorn white. I had to stop to take a few pictures, but of course there is no way to capture the huge overhead expanse, and no way to avoid the telephone wires and other man-made ugliness. It's dwarfed to insignificance in real life, but pops out when framed in a camera.

I started singing cloud songs.  First that came to mind was Simon and Garfunkel:  "Cloudy, the sky is grey and white and cloudy, sometimes I think it's hanging down on me...."  No, that's not right.  "Bows and flows of angel hair, and ice cream castles in the air..."  Better, "but now they only block the sun..." Aaaargh.

Songs about clouds are
Melancholy. Why is that?
Write a joyful one.

We discussed the dilemma, and she promised that if I wrote the lyrics, she would set them to music.  So, today I went through the cloud pictures and haiku that I have posted since moving to New Mexico.  I realized that few, if any, give that top-of-the-world feeling I get when I look up and out over the landscape and catch my breath, and I want to dance across the mountain tops and leap into the sky and, and, and...

It's so soft and powerful and textured and distinct and....there's no one word to describe it, because of the infinite variety.   Herewith, my attempts to capture the ineffable.

Bundled in my robe.

The morning wind greets the sun

And tickles my toes.

Delicate pastel

Pink and blue, with an edgy

Mountainous Border

Tonight's sunset is

Brought to you by cloud shadows

And a slight chill breeze

All is still except

The skies and the flitting wings.

My bare feet are cold.

The birds and I watch

The slow, deliberation

Of a spinning globe

From pink to dull grey
In thirty precious seconds.
I wear a towel.

I don't think I'll tire,

Ever, Of New Mexico skies.

So very textured.

Went to sleep with rain

Woke up to clouds in deep blue

The deck chairs are wet

I text "Look outside!"

"Welcome to New Mexico,"

He texts back to me

Clouds, like snowflakes, have

An endless variety.

Must be the water.

Will I ever lose

My joy in these awesome skies?

My heart flies to them.

Thunder from the hills

And rain over Santa Fe.

I read Gengi's Tale.

Got home just in time:

Crashes and cataracts now.

It's quite impressive.

Rain clouds and rainbows:

She swerves, pointing to the moon.

But I'm not frightened.

We watch cloud patterns.
"An O'Keeffe painting," I think.
"It's like fish!" She says.

Crazy amoeba cloud;
The sunset was amazing

But defied capture.

It's supposed to rain 
But I don't see no nimbus.
Reckon I'll just wait.

I glance up and stare,

Transfixed by the subtlety

Of the final light.

It is difficult

To drive in these conditions.

I guess I'm in love.

Clouds after the snow

I rotate for 360

It fills up my heart.

Snow on the mountains
Clouds in the sky, dark and light.
I can't drive and watch

Bundled in my robe.

The morning wind greets the sun

And tickles my toes.

Soft spiral billows

It's not a tornado cloud

I ponder the source

One hour spent watching

Clouds transforming with the dawn.

Always something new.

The advantages of independence

Yesterday I posted this haiku to Facebook:

Stood up once again,

I vow: Give no more chances;

And then my ex calls.

It was an interesting concatenation of events.  I'd had a pleasant and soothing evening with G:  he cooked a low-carb meal (stuffed cabbage soup, yummmmm) and we watched Catching Fire on Amazon. (Okay, so that was not soothing.  Wow, Katniss does a lot of screaming.) The next morning I met up with M at The Source for coffee and chat, followed by her introduction to the Intentional Focused Mediation (AKA drumming) which I have been attending on last Sundays (see previous blog post.)  I had planned to stop by to see S (at his request) afterwards.  However, on my way to M's house,  he texted that he'd made other plans with people who were more important to him, but I was totally welcome to join them (tossing me the bone after standing me up.)  I said, never mind, I'll go to Los Golondrinas for the Fiber Arts Festival.  Then I felt a rush of anger and texted, "so, I guess there's no point in making plans with you,"  and he got all back-pedally and reproachful, "I'm trying to open a dialog can't you meet me halfway?" and offered me the further bone of lunch before they took off, and maybe they'd just go tomorrow instead.  He wanted to see me, he said.

I went into meditation, mollified for the nonce.  There were only 3 of us (and M, who meditated sans drum), and I decided that my intention was to let go of anger and to bring more focus.  The latter is my usual intention:  I still feel scattered and my thoughts still go to defaults that derail me from growing.  It's probably my life-long work, to move past the thoughts and behaviors that are not in my best interests.

In the past few sessions, I have mainly provided underpinning for other people;  I do find myself immersed in the sound, but my observing mind is looking at how the sounds change with the energies that other people bring.  This session was less cerebral.  I found myself pounding out the beat, loudly and intensely, and I could feel the anger that I had thought resolved, growing with each stroke.  I was carrying on a mental conversation with S, and then I became aware of the deep hurt, and tears started leaking.  

They say anger is a secondary emotion, and I got through to the primary one.

S has been making a practise of snubbing me since December.  I had planned to return his house key and write the friendship off:  clearly he didn't know how to maintain a friendship after intimacy was past.  But he called to discuss what had happened, and it seemed that we both understood how to proceed:  he wants serendipity, but he needs to let me know I matter. I hadn't seen him since February, and I said  it was up to him to initiate a get-together.  So, he did, and then he snubbed me again. AND he put it back on me, saying that I hadn't actually verified that I was coming by. 

I don't know why he is being contradictory with words and actions, but I do know it's not working for me.  I need to stop expecting the words to actually mean something, and to pay attention to how the actions affect me.  I talked with M after the drumming, and she shared a memory of doing just the same thing to some friends of hers:  they would make plans, something better would come up, and she would suggest they join in the new plans.  The underlying reality was that she just didn't want to see those friends, but she felt like she had to offer them a place in return for standing them up.  Yes, that's just what it felt like.  Clearly, S does not care that it's been months since we got together;  his script is that he cares about me, but the reality is that he doesn't really want to see me.

In some ways, T's method of abruptly dropping the friendship is preferable.  At least there is no contradiction to puzzle through, and the hurt is clear and up front.

M said, why don't you focus on the new friends who love you and appreciate you?  V said, the next time you feel tempted to couple up, remember the advantages of independence.  And they are both right.  So, I texted that I was going to the Fiber Arts Festival, I missed him but didn't want to be a problem, and I was sure we would catch up some time.  He texted back, sounds good.  I could FEEL the relief in that short message:  I'm off the hook, he's thinking, I'm not the one who ultimately canceled, I don't need to feel guilty. 

Yeah, whatever.

The festival was not that enthralling, but I really enjoyed walking around the living history museum that is Los Golondrinas.  Now I know where to go when I miss green grass and the sound of running water.

I was still feeling a little raw, though.  And, when I got back to the car, I checked my phone and found the e-mail from D, asking me to Skype with him.  It seems that life has a way of hitting you in the solar plexus and then, as you're doubling up, hitting your head back.  The real question is, why did I agree?

He's doing better, fiscally, and that is improving his mood.  I'm glad for him, and I'm actually glad I talked with him.  The blaming attitude is still in evidence, and I don't feel the yearning for the lost relationship when that reality is in my face.  So, it's actually helpful to talk with him.  But I still curled up in a ball and cried afterwards.

Why do I keep connecting with these people?  Why do I court hurt?  Why do I say yes when they say please?

I'm learning how to enjoy my independence.  The process is opening up new abilities.  However, it seems that I cannot put my own wishes and needs first, yet.  I tried, after leaving D, and S said that one of the things he liked about me was that I was clear about my needs. But, then, that was the very thing he became repelled by:  he saw my clear statement of needs as pressure.  And I, rightfully, saw his response as rejection.  So, I find it difficult to continue to insist on what is best for me.

And,  knowing the pain of rejections, I find it difficult to reject in turn.  I think the reason I respond when D or S ask for my attention is that I can't stop caring.  And I believe they care too.  But, I also can't stop being hurt by them.  The reality is that some relationships are toxic.  Some start out being healing and helpful and then turn toxic.  I can appreciate them:  they all are layers to my life and paths to further relationships.  They all have a reason for being there, even if I'm damned if I can figure out what that reason might be.

Perhaps the reason is to teach me the difference between caring for others and caring for myself.

Lifestyle changes

A few weeks ago I went on another vacation with my sister and her husband. As always, we found some beautiful and interesting places to visit, and we ate well, and we talked, talked, talked.

One of the things we talked about was diet. D claims that I have a horrible diet, and that it's just like my Mom's. My Mom is diabetic (or at least pre-diabetic), and her cholesterol is through the roof. She called E almost every day to talk about things that were worrying her, and E could tell that she was back on the Haagen Daz, which of course is a no-no from both the diabetes and cholesterol perspectives.

So, we fuiss about her, and then, as we dig into our own bowls of ice cream, D points out that we are just as bad. "You're all turning into your mother, it's fascinating to watch!"

In times past, those would be fighting words, but now I see the truth in them. We can run, but we can't hide. Her genes, her child-raising, and her example are ever-present. It's not all bad, of course. We are all musicians, all literate, all creative and active. We do our best to have meaningful lives and do good in the world. We care about each other.

But, we are also hypochondriacs, self-absorbed worriers who don't always take care of practical things. We can talk any topic to death. We can miss the rattlesnake to our left and the muddy headlights on our cars. We ALWAYS call when someone is busy. And, we have addictive personalities. We rarely do things half-heartedly, and we obsess.

It's not too big a problem, except when dealing with food. We all have different attitudes towards it: one family is vegan, two are dealing with a heart condition, another is dealing with diabetes, one sister fasts, I insist on organic food. Meal-oriented get-togethers and discussions of health are fraught with peril, because we all have our own needs and biases. We have added food to religion and politics on the list of Things We Should Not Discuss.

That being so, I was in a quandary when I returned from the vacation to my own diagnosis of pre-diabetes and high cholesterol. I wanted to pick my siblings' brains: they are all educated and smart, they have researched the issue in dealing with their own health, and one sib is a respected and talented nurse practitioner. So, I checked in with them and, amidst the conflicting and somewhat acrimonious discussion that ensued, I came away with this basic takeaway: avoid simple sugars, exercise more, and be careful about various fats, enzymes, vitamins, and toxins. The latter is problematic: the research is contradictory and very very specific, filled with acronyms and numbers and caveats.

So....I am a baker who can no longer bake. I am a chocoholic and an oenophile who can no longer indulge, at least not often. I LOVE carbs in all their gooey, chewy, crunchy, comfort-y, sweet/salt manifestations. My favorite breakfast is coffee and toast with lots of jam or honey.

In a word, this sucks.

But, so does heart disease, blindness, stroke, and losing toes. So, it's back to my regular-exercise, low-carb, high-veggie, portion-controlled lifestyle. I did this ten years ago and kept it up for a couple of years. I can do it again. And it does feel better.

However....

On Sunday I was sitting in the risers with my fellow Santa Fe Chorus symphony members under the hot stage lights, waiting for the 4th movement of Beethoven's 9th Symphony. It was towards the middle of the 3rd movement when I began to feel queasy, clammy, dizzy....the same symptoms I had in November 2012, right after I left Dave and wasn't eating. I thought, great, I'm going to throw up on stage....I closed my eyes and focused on staying upright. When I opened my eyes, everyone around me was asking me, sotto voce, if I was okay, offering me water, etc. I gather I had a fainting spell or seizure that was apparent to my near neighbors. The woman one chair away switched places, took my pulse and said I needed to leave the stage.  I looked up and saw the conductor, tiny in the distance, distinct against the darkened auditorium, motionless, looking up at us.  The 3rd movement had ended, and I realized that nothing would happen musically until I was out of there.  If I hadn't been so out of it, I'd have been horribly embarrassed.  As it is, I'm still cringing in retrospect.

The woman who took me off stage turned out to be a doctor in her regular life. She took a history, got a bottle of water down me, and, at my urgent request, returned to the stage to sing. They called the co-op and eventually M, who was in Santa Fe, came over and took me to the ER.  I didn't want to go, but the doctor/singer called it in and got me pre-registered, insisting that I needed to be evaluated, because I'd had a "vasovagal" episode and needed fluids, EKG and bloodwork, all of which happened. 3 hours later, they diagnosed me stupid and sent me on my way. Stupid, because the cause of my syncope was apparently dehydration, exacerbated by the heat: nothing wrong with my heart or blood sugar. The pulse was a little low, but that's it.

So I stayed in Santa Fe another night and was driving home when my sister called to check on me. (She'd called while I was in the ER.) I said, joking, that I'm blaming it on the low-carb diet, and she quite seriously said that it probably was a big factor. I hadn't eaten much that day since oatmeal and fruit for breakfast, and my blood sugar was 90, which is fine for a fasting draw, but not for a normal person.

What to do?

Drink more water, I guess, and eat more snacks.  Sigh.  There are so many more inspiring ways to focus my energy.

Hunting Mushrooms with Bob

My sister is on her way to the Southwest, and I just got this text:  en route with mushrooms and asparagus!

My love for both of these things goes way back.  I remember Mom's failed attempts to grow asparagus, but there was no failure involved on our annual mushroom hunting with Bob Buchholz, biologist and long-time family friend.  As the college professor in charge of the field station on the Mississippi, he had developed friendships with local farmers who let him roam their back fields and woods.  In addition to his ecological studies, he located the best mushroom and berry habitats, and he generously shared them with us.

I was never a big fan of the berries (and man has THAT changed), but I loved the thrill of the hunt, and Mom loved the free fresh fruit, which she promptly turned into jelly.  I still remember those summer/autumn days, standing on the dusty side road, testing the berry with a gentle tug:  if it falls into your hand, it's ripe.  Then we would go to the river, driving past the nanny goat, who was perched on a rural dog house and looked at us, superciliously, through those uncanny slotted eyes.  Dad loved the attitude, and called "Na-a-a-a-n-n-y!" when he saw her.

Mushroom hunting was a different matter.  You had to push through the brush, looking for the right slope, the right trees, while dodging the slapping branches, bent over, pawing through old leaves.  It was every man for himself, as the family deployed throughout the stand of trees in the back forty.  Identification was easy, because we were looking for morels, and there is no poisonous mushroom that looks like a morel, with its little sand-drip-castle tower of brown wrinkles standing in unassuming pride.  Mom always sauteed them in butter, and there were never enough.

Years later, I went mushroom hunting in the Pacific Northwest.  There, the goal was the mighty chanterelle, an equally unmistakable fungus, with bright orange top and nutmeg flavor.  But, it never eclipsed my love for the rich earthy morel.  Every spring, I think about that.  My sister now owns a tree farm, back in IL, and every year she gives me the mushroom report, and every year I whine because THEY ARE EATING MORELS AND I'M NOT!!!  Once she dried them and sent them out to me, but of course it's not the same.  And a couple of years I was there in May, and we went out to the farm for a hunt and a fry.  D fries them in an egg batter, which is also delicious.

I was just talking with a New Mexico friend about Bob and the annual mushroom hunts.  In fact, I talk about him a lot.  For instance, in January, I talk about the annual snow picnics at Delabar State Park on Super Bowl Sunday....Bob instigated them, and the family kept up the tradition.  In fact, on most of my Christmas visits, we go out to my sister's tree farm and stand around the fire pit, roasting hot dogs and marshmallows.  We walk the woods, warm up by the fire, and go home, replete with food and camaraderie.

The Fourth of July brings back memories of the picnic at the isolated rural church.  He brought chicken, marinated in Italian dressing.  The charcoal grill turned the outside a crunchy, savory black, and the inside was moist and flavorful.  We brought home-made ice-cream, still in the churn, packed in rock salt and ice that we pounded into small pieces.  I still remember sitting on the hot stoop before the towel-encased ice, hammer in hand.  I remember turning that crank, endlessly, and the thrill when it suddenly met the resistance of the frozen liquid.  It was done!

The church was a gem, set in an emerald green lawn, a perfect circle created by trees.  It was cool and quiet.  After lunch, we walked over to a freezing-cold and delicious spring, a pool at the bottom of a cliff.  At the top of a cliff was a pioneer cemetery, where we wandered, looking at the dates and the epigrams.

We only did that once, but it remains so clear in my mind.  Recently, E and I were talking about ice cream, and she remembers doing the same thing:  packing up the the ice cream and going for a picnic.  She's 54 years older than me;  is this a farming-community activity, or just something that certain people like to do?  Do people do this any more?

I could go on endlessly about the ways Bob enriched my family's life.  But the thing that I am most grateful for is his ongoing friendship with my Dad.  They shared a sense of humor and adventure, and they had wonderful times together.  In fact, a few years before Dad's stroke, Bob took Dad to England and included a side trip to the site of the Battle of Hastings.  Dad was both an historian and an Anglophile;  this was a total Bucket List trip, and I am forever glad that he had this opportunity.

I haven't seen Bob in years, but I see him in my mind's eye constantly.  We're driving through the woods, and I see a bird flash by, and I remember Bob's eagle eye, scanning, finding, and pointing out birds, plants, the passing wonders of the world.  The snow falls, and I think, "We should have a snow picnic!"  I see morels, extravagantly priced, in the market, and I ponder:  how much easier and cheaper it would be to find my own.  And how much more satisfying.

Yesterday I heard that he died, just a few days ago.  It was not expected, but it was not unexpected, either.  He had been failing mentally and physically for several years.  There will be no memorial service, and I understand that.  So, here is my memorial to Bob.  You were a wonderful person, and your passing is a grief, but your life was a blessing.  We love you.

He took us to hunt
Mushrooms and berries. He was fun,
Smart, and a good friend.

Dust devils

On Easter Sunday, G and I went for a walk along the Bosque to the Rio Grande Nature Center.   Every 30 seconds we were passed by bicyclists and joggers.  Clouds filled the sky, the wind blew in warm gusts, the geese honked continuously.  There were so many kinds of green: the muddy green of the river, the pale dusty green of the invasive Russian olive, the tender bright green of the cottonwoods, interspersed with bright red hanging seeds and flying cotton.  As we walked across the bridge, we saw two geese and four goslings marching along the bank of a muddy island.  The goslings were brown-yellow-green fuzzballs.  They stretched out stubby wings, and then took turns dropping off the bank and floating in the backwater before scrabbling back onto land.  We were absorbing the cuteness when a young couple rode by and the girl said, "Hey, there's Uncle G!"  She turned around to say hi, and she too was absorbed by the sight of the avian family below.  But only for a minute.

Onward to the Nature Center.  The native plant garden was blooming, and we eventually found the Scorpion Flower, which I had been trying to identify for some time.  I counted 41 turtles basking in the sun on the log by the Center, and G found a lark, with its bandit mask.  But, it was around mid-day, and hot, and most of the birds were hiding in the shade.

On our way back along the backwater, we saw a huge swirling cloud of dust, like a mini-tornado.  "Dust devil," said G.  "Wow!" said I.  We watched as it lifted a 4-foot tumbleweed straight up, over a mile into the air, where the dust ceased. The tumbleweed continued to fly up and over us, until we couldn't see it any more.  It probably ended up in Oz.

Gambling

A few weeks ago my friend J came down for a whirlwind visit.  She was recuperating after the successful conclusion of a huge event ("The rule is, leave town before the bills and complaints start coming in"), and she treated me to two restful nights at local casino resorts.

Yes, that does seem to be an oxymoron.  How could a casino be restful?  And, why do I need a rest? My days are glacially paced, I have very little to stress me.  Still, it was restful, and it was good to spend time with an old friend.  Also, I pass several casinos a week....all the highways go through reservation land, and most have casinos.  I'm curious about this aspect of my home.

We started at Buffalo Thunder.  It was Friday, and the parking lot was full of wedding guests and weekend gamblers.  I cruised around and then went to the front of the hotel, where I texted J and chatted with the doorman, who told me valet parking was $8.  No, not gonna go there.  J met me at the front door and directed me to the side parking lot, next to the red Mustang that she had been watching from our balcony.  We had both brought wine and TJ munchies, and that was supper.  We talked and watched the alpenglow on mountains to the east, while the parking lot filled. Most of the guests were wearing black and turquoise: those must have been the official wedding colors.  There were also three Samoyed dogs, big fluffy white things walking sedately on their leashes towards the side door.  I yelled from the balcony:  "Pretty dogs, what kind are they?"

(One of the advantages of being old is that I have very little social shame left.  Or perhaps, my impulse control is gone?  No matter.)

Later, behind the wall separating the balconies, I heard the sound of pebbly items falling into a bowl.  Peering over, I saw all three dogs and a small dark-haired girl.  The dogs were eating kibble, and the girl looked at me without comment when I said, "Hello!" So, I left them to it and got ready for our tour of the hotel.

The place is FILLED with fabulous native art.  J is a connoisseur:  she comes down every year for the art fair and, on every trip to Santa Fe, stops by Blue Rain Gallery and IAIA.  So, she was able to identify all the Tony Abeyta paintings, which I like a lot:  representational landscapes with dark blues and earth colors, straight slanting brush strokes that are almost, but not quite, geometrical.  The art was varied:  sculpture, paintings, jewelry, weaving, pottery.

We walked through the lobbies, past fireplaces, fountains, restaurants, and shops.  Then, down the escalator to the casino, a maze of blinking lights, tables, and slot machines.  The machines were arrayed in blocks of eight, four to a side, and the air was filled with the sounds of lions roaring, coins crashing, and blurry loudspeaker announcements.  All of the sound was mechanical and harshly blaring:  the players were for the most part dourly silent, focused on their machines. The employees were smiling professionally, but they sparked no response from the patrons.  The air was not blue with smoke, but there was a definite fug and I wanted to get out as soon as I got in.  But, first we had to get signed up.  J had to replace her card, and she shepherded me through the process.  It's all electronic:  after visiting the counter and getting your card, you go to a machine to register your account.  One swipe, and I was in the system.  They gave me a $10 credit, and we threaded the maze to the non-smoking area.

It was quieter in there, and there were no tables.  Machines lined the walls and blocks of them filled the center.  I couldn't figure out how you would chose a machine:  they all seemed to work the same way, although their bells and whistles were different.  I picked a lion machine, avoiding the gaudier media-based themes.  I inserted my card and started pressing buttons.  J advised me to use the penny amounts and the 20-line button.  I still don't know what it meant, but the machine display rolled, and the credit amount went down, went back up, went down some more, and then I hit a jackpot, announced by a roaring lion.  I cashed out, and got a receipt with a barcode:  $3.30.  I still had some credit, which could not be cashed out, so we went to the machines along the wall and played some more.  Another winning, $3.90.  I was bored with the process, though, because there was no real interaction.  J tried to get me more involved:  she said to talk trash to the machine when I wasn't winning.  Surprisingly, that seemed to help!  But it still was rather dull.  So, we went to the video poker machines.

You could spend hours there, playing the penny amounts.  The credit hovers at the break-even place, going down a bit, going up a bit.  There are no real jackpots.  You only make money if you bet large amounts, which I was unwilling to do, because that's also how you lose money.

We roamed about a bit more, and J spotted a Texan, identifying her by the careful coif.  From a distance, she just looked like a casually-dressed, wiry lady with short gray hair, flipped on the ends. I walked nonchalantly past to see what J meant and discovered that the curl was perfectly symmetrical, hair-sprayed into place, like she'd placed a bowl over her head and curled the ends up over the edge.  It was subtle, but very styled.

I went back to the slots, and brought my winnings up to $10.40.  J brought me some Sprite:  soft drinks are free.  Then, back to the poker, where I used up my credit and inserted one of my receipts, which I also lost.  I quit with a total winning of $7.05, and we went looking for the cash out machine.  You find it by looking for a line of people.

We watched bad TV while I did the crossword and played Candy Crush on my iPhone.  Next morning, J brought me breakfast in bed, and I realized why I was enjoying this vacation:  someone was waiting on me!  I don't have to do dishes!  I'm not responsible for ANYTHING!

Breakfast was excellent:  lots of berries and melon, sweet pastries, mounds of crisp bacon, quiche and ready-made omelettes, yoghurt cups, cereal hot and cold, bagels, toast....J was blissed out by the fruit.  She lives in Wyoming, at the "end of the truck."  Their fruit apparently arrives quite wilted.

We cruised through Santa Fe, and then headed south, out of the incipient rain storm.  Sunset at Tamaya was lovely, but the wind was chilly.  Even though the outdoor pool was heated and the lounge chairs were in the sun, it was way too cold to spend much time outside, once the body was wetted down.

The Santa Ana casino was not located at Tamaya, so we had to drive over to get some action. They did not give me any credit, but I won a water bottle which I later converted into a beach tote bag that smelled of gasoline. We stopped at the Mesa Grill for supper:  it was located within the no-smoking section.  Unlike the separate room at Buffalo Thunder, there were no video poker machines, and the section was only separated from the smokers by a velvet rope.  After a $2 burger and a $4 shake at the Mesa Grill ("HOME OF THE $2 BURGER!"), we checked out the slots.  I put in two or three bills at a time, and my net winnings were $4.  J hit a huge jackpot several times, and walked away with $15.

I'm not sure how the casinos make money, but of course, we were not in with the big players.  The penny slots are peopled by overweight people in scooters, bored men in jeans and t-shirts, and groups of the elderly.  You get the impression that they have nothing else to do, but you don't get the sense of the desperation of the addict.  And, I can see the appeal, in a weird way.  I was bored, but I was also a little hooked by the incremental increases, and undismayed by the incremental losses.  With more time and money, I could have continued to plug the machines.  On a hot summer's day, an air-conditioned casino might be the place to be.