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2010 | 2009
February 28, 2010:
Campers! There is a movie being filmed at my next-door neighbors' house this month, due to the fact that their home is an architectural marvel set on the edge of absurd natural beauty. I found out early in the week while Chloe and I were out walking, when another neighbor came roaring up in her SUV. At first I thought she was trying to run us over, but she screeched to a stop six inches away and rolled down the window, the massive car rocking on its axles. "Did you hear???" she said. "They're making a movie right next to you, and guess who's in it—Antonio Banderas, eeeeeee!!!"
And that was how I found out how to make a serious and seasoned government scientist sound like a jungle monkey: say the syllables An-to-ni-o Ban-der-as, and she will squeal. But it turns out that Mr. Banderas will not be filming in our neighborhood after all, according to the location manager who is trying to stay on my good side prior to causing mayhem in the cul-de-sac. No, he said apologetically, Antonio will be down in Santa Fe, and up here it will just be Ewan McGregor. And thus we learn, my dear campers, how to make me do the monkey squeal. "Eeeeeee!!!" I went, to my own deep and lasting mortification, but the noise came out and there was no putting it back. We all have our weaknesses, I suppose, and mine run more toward Obi-Wan Kenobi than Zorro.
Well, I don't remember much else of what the guy said after that, something about all the gunfire I would hear at night, and how they would be thrilled if I would refrain from calling 911 at such times. Ok, sure, no problem, we like gunplay just fine around here. And we like Ewan McGregor, too, did we mention? Yeah, he's gonna be my neighbor. Ew-an Mc-Gre-gor. Eeeeeee!!!
February 21, 2010:
The outlines of a plan are beginning to emerge: I'll be leaving New Mexico sometime in the second half of March and driving east-by-northeast to Mom's house in upstate New York. Rumblings from that quadrant make me think that further hopping around is very likely over the spring and summer, to which I say, Bring it, baby! More itineracy, please and thank you. That vagabond state of not knowing where you might be week to week, oh it's thrilling. I had a taste of it last fall and winter, and I want more. Plus it's such a handsome word, itineracy, all those syllables rolling out into the sunset, vowel-consonant-vowel.
So Mom's house will be the base of operations while I flit around and try to figure out where to come to earth next. As plans go I know it isn't much, more like the kind of vague intel you might expect from a poem or a palm reading. And let's not dwell on the embarrassment of a full-grown woman moving back into her mother's house. Lame! Or is it lucky? My own room in a place I love—the real embarrassment may be the wild excess of good fortune. I've been accused before of living a charmed life, and this feels like more supporting evidence. And if it also indicates a touch of arrested development, well, there will be ample opportunity later on for another swing at adulthood.
And in the meantime it feels like itineracy is already kicking in with that heightened sense of attention that comes from knowing you have only so much time in a place. When the coyotes sing I have to stop everything to listen in case it's the last time I'll hear them, and I make to-do lists of bars and restaurants like I'm a tourist in my own zip code. A margarita at El Paragua, a pint of Red Tail Ale at the Cowgirl Hall of Fame, the Belgian torte at Chocolate Maven, that sort of thing, and each of those treats will be a flavor sensation unlike it ever has been before. Have I forgotten any New Mexican essentials? Shout it out, campers, but be warned that you may be wheedled into joining me on some of these pilgrimages.
February 14, 2010:
First order of business: Happy Valentines Day! Now, I know we have some cynics amongst us, bitter individuals who even now curse Hallmark for cashing in on the culture's collective desperation and loneliness, and that is a valid point. But isn't it also a little bit refreshing to watch our left-brained society lavish money on flowers and sweets and sundry lovey nothings? I heard somewhere that the Hopi have a saying: "Only a fool thinks with his mind." To some extent this farce of a holiday does require thinking with the heart, if only because you see hearts everywhere you look. So happy heart day, campers, and here's to giving the mind a vacation.
Second order of business: there isn't any. You got me. I've just been sitting around and spending way too much time reading, that's all. A couple days this week I started at 10 AM and didn't stop until midnight, other than for a few distracted snacks. And Chloe's walk, of course. I'm getting better at not feeling guilty about all this indulgence, in spite of having nothing to show for a day's activity (productivity = 0) while having too good a time (fun = ∞). This can't be allowed, can it? But it can be justified, primarily with the fact that I only have access to the might and majesty of Mesa Public Library for a limited time, and once I leave New Mexico this reading habit is going to get a lot more expensive. Also the new project I'm working on is still teasing for more background material. So far it has requested books about the Erie Canal, Sufism, tantric sex, recurrent miscarriage, and the Oracle of Delphi. What, if anything, the story intends to do with all that is a mystery to me. But I can see it now: I read all these riveting books and then plop, out comes some damn slice-of-life crap in the This World Sucks genre. Well, if that happens I will be counting on you campers to slap me, repeatedly and with conviction. And to revoke my library privileges.
February 7, 2010:
Last Thursday I attempted my first ever Day of Silence. Why? Why not! The scheme sort of materialized out of the blue, but my Inner Monk was all for it and I've learned that you do not want to piss that guy off. Otherwise he and the Inner Party Girl really start yelling at each other. But if those moldy old medieval mystics could keep quiet for 40 days and 40 nights, I thought I ought to be able to handle 24 hours. And Emerson said, "Let us be silent, so we may hear the whisper of the gods." That was in his essay "Friendship," the same one that says "the whole human family is bathed with an element of love like a fine ether." Awfully nice stuff. And so, in the hopes that he knew whereof he spoke, I decided to shut up. It's just Chloe and me around here anyway, and she doesn't care if I chatter or not as long as she gets her kibble and a good long walk.
So Thursday was to be the day. Wednesday night before bed I turned off the ringer on the phone and made a firm mental note: no talking tomorrow! Right. So I woke up Thursday, sat up in bed, and immediately that Three Dog Night song "Joy to the World" started playing in my head. You know the one: Jeremiah was a bullfrog, was a good friend of mine? But it was loud. I mean deafening, like the band had crammed their amps inside my skull and turned the volume up to 11. So I'm sitting there with my hands pressed to my forehead, eyes spinning backward with the din, and the whole song plays, all the way through, every verse and every chorus. And then it stopped, and the world went crystal-quiet. No fridge, no furnace, no nothing.
And that's about how silent the rest of the day felt. I didn't hear any whispers of the gods, sadly, unless perhaps Three Dog Night were singing on behalf of Something Else, their own kind of hymn? But it was a groovy, introspective day and by the end of it I was very nearly quivering with the desire to make noise. There wasn't anything I wanted to say, but the impulse was so strong I couldn't sleep. I lay in the dark until 2 AM, kicking the mattress, hands over my mouth to keep from shouting "WABBA WABBA WABBA!" Finally though I fell asleep and dreamed so vividly that I woke up completely confused as to which reality was what. And now I'm not sure why I'm telling you campers all this, except that the whole thing seemed charged in some indefinable way that shouldn't be kept secret. So there, now you know. And it did make the Inner Monk cease his self-righteous mewling, at least temporarily.
January 31, 2010:
It was foggy here this morning, and for once I was actually up in time to see it before the sun burned it all away. Fog is my favorite weather by far, even more than rain. Skin loves it, lungs love it, and eyeballs love it, all the bits that remember the olden days when Grandma was a fish. Which reminds me, there's a fabulous book called Your Inner Fish: A Journey into the 3.5-Billion-Year History of the Human Body by Neil Shubin. Impossible to put down, and highly recommended. And if you happen to have any creationists in your orbit you might think about placing some strategic copies on the backs of their toilets, after having removed all those godawful Left Behind novels. Although come to think of it, what better place for that series, the books being so very like what else gets left behind there?
Anyway it was foggy earlier and I got to breathe cloud for a moment, right here in the desert. And somehow that lick of cool moisture made me really feel how the clock is winding down on my time here. I've started the process of sorting through and throwing out years' worth of accumulated stuff in preparation to move to the damp northeast. If a place continues to haunt you so relentlessly after this long, you've got to move there, right? So that's the plan: pack up and head out sometime this spring. Like the pioneers, except I'm traveling the other direction, and I plan to make use of combustion engines rather than handcarts.
I have a powerful feeling that there will be many social gatherings between now and whenever I leave. All you campers in New Mexico, brace yourselves! I plan to "get the good out of you" (as my dad would have said) as much as possible while I can. Lunches, happy hours, coffee breaks, I will be relentless. And I will have no qualms about playing the "but I'm leaving soon!" manipulation at the tiniest whiff of reluctance. If necessary I will start throwing farewell parties. Weekly. My point is that this will be easiest on everyone if you don't fight with fate but resign yourselves now to a few too many late nights out, a few too many groggy mornings. There will be plenty of time for resting later.
January 24, 2010:
Tonight I need someone to write a country-western song about this horrible week when the dog died and the toilet backed up and the roof sprang a leak. This song requires drawling and bawling and caterwauling, and some kind of clever chorus about rain and plumbing and tears. The problem is no one would believe it. Just another tall tale of woe out of Nashville, they'd say. Another rhinestone cowgirl with a lachrymose streak trying to line up some sympathy dates.
I don't even need this song to include the final, ridiculous detail which I hesitate to tell even you, dear campers. Well, stay with me here. The thing is that on top of everything else, this week I also learned what it feels like to fill out divorce papers. But the thing that might really snap your credulity is this: it wasn't so bad. In fact I think it was the high point of the week and I'm not being sarcastic, although I do admit there wasn't much competition. I guess it helps to have someone as funny and easy-going as Spencer filling the papers out with you, but the thing about the process that really shocked me is all the kissing and hugging involved. Maybe that's how these things often go down, but I wasn't aware of it, not remotely. And you'll notice that I did not say we are breaking up. We're just getting divorced, that's all, and we respectfully decline to entertain further questions on the topic. Not at present.
One day I'll look back on this week and laugh, right? Ha. In any case next week can't help but be more relaxing, and I am ready for that. But before I sign off a quick word about my dog Macky. She died Friday afternoon at the vet's office. I had an arm around her neck and a hand on her ribs as she gradually went still. Deeply, profoundly still, and now she's done with all that pain she was always so nonchalant about. A million thanks for the beautiful emails and text messages that came in from friends of Macky near and far. I have said it before and I'll say it again: I love you guys, man.
January 17, 2010:
I won't lie to you, campers, it's a melancholy evening. It's the kind of night when it feels like I've come unraveled, starting somewhere around the xiphoid region and working out from there, until all that's left is a pile of sinew on the floor. Plus my computer speakers have gone bust, so I can't listen to any soothing songs appropriate for the mood. Although speaking of music, one bit of all right is that I went to a Leo Kottke concert last night. Very spur of the moment, very exciting. Leo wrapped himself around that 12-string and made it dance out loud for an hour and a half. That was its own kind of unraveling, I suppose, except it had the good manners to knit us back up again at the end.
But re-raveling can't be outsourced, not tonight. I'm sitting on the sofa as I type, like I often do of a Sunday evening, and my dog Macky is lying at my feet like she often does. The problem is that she won't be lying here for next week's update. She's 13 years old and no longer able to walk. She still has some joys, namely ham and snowballs, but there is no avoiding it anymore. These are her last days on earth, and she's doing a much better job of coping than I am. Which is to say yes, there has been some blubbering, and yes, there is more to come. But how could there not be? This dog once climbed Mount Wheeler. She is the mighty slayer of spiders. As a puppy she was plucked from the slavering jaws of a wild dog on the mean streets of East Palo Alto, with her throat torn open and her shoulder blade cracked. She is the most indomitable creature I have ever met, and I am not looking forward to saying good-bye. Well, she will find ice cream in her breakfast bowl this week. Chocolate ice cream, garnished with ham.
January 11, 2010:
So sorry about the lapse in our regular update schedule last night, but I got home too late from playing too many games at Pete's house to do anything other than slither into bed. Now, however, I'm rested and refreshed and ready to report. The report is that all is well, and New Mexico is still here with its crazy sky. And the sun, criminy! My face sizzled when I stepped out from beneath the airport's awning. I remembered my Daywalker skills quickly though (i.e. wear a hat) and then it was safe to venture out and prowl.
And there's more prowling required before the transition shock subsides. It's a particular kind of jet lag, this slipping from world to world, New Mexico to New York, New York to New Mexico. How many times have I done it now, the pendulum swing between flavors, landscapes, trees, attitudes? You'd think it might become routine, but it just gets more astounding every time. I can't decide how much it is the places themselves that leave you feeling breathless and changed, and how much it's the moving back and forth that does the revising.
But, other than purely local prowling, for now it's time to do some holding still. I have no tickets to travel anywhere, and my calendar only has events on it for the next two weeks. After that, blank slate. Tabula rasa. The future is keeping its own counsel, as it does so often. Ok, as it does all the time. Anyway I'm glad for it. The future is much better qualified to deal with itself than I am.
January 10, 2010:
Must beg off on tonight's update—I am so tired that anything I might manage to mumble into a keyboard would undoubtedly bore you to despair. Tomorrow will be a better night for it, I'm sure. Mental processes will be more coherent, less garbled.
January 3, 2010:
Happy 2010, campers! Although have you noticed how no one seems to have any friendly things to say about poor '09? The tone is more like Good Riddance Ya Bum, And Don't Come Slinkin' Round. But whatever the complaints are, the year sure went out in style: a blue moon on New Year's Eve. Impeccable timing on the part of the cosmos. We had another bonfire at the lake to celebrate even though the moon was just a smudge of glow behind the clouds. But the lake was the lake, the night was the night, fire was fire, and wow. An elemental turning of the wheel. Speaking of clouds, I've noticed that my definition of a starry night has changed during the recent time in the east. A few weeks ago Stephanie was excited to see maybe a dozen stars and I thought Pshaw! That ain't stars! Not compared to the great splash of Milky Way in New Mexico anyhow. But tonight there were three specks of light over the hill and I was the one getting excited. I guess around here if you can speak of stars plural that's what counts.
So yeah, wheels turning, calendars flipping, and I am on the move again. Tonight is my last night at Mom's house for the winter, then tomorrow it's back to Sue's, prior to being deposited on an airplane bound for New Mexico. I've taken my last snowy walk to the cemetery, the last game of Boggle has been played, and my suitcases bulge a bit self-consciously. I did not travel light to begin with, and then I accidentally bought some books, and some fleecy swaddling clothes, and well, you know how it goes. So the luggage has lost any hope of regaining its girlish figure and would appreciate it if no one would stare as it waddles west. Stay tuned for some Mesa Cam action in next week's update, assuming there's still a mesa there, and assuming it still preens before the camera the way it always used to do. The way the suitcases do not.
See the 2009 archive page for earlier updates.
Copyright 2010, Joanna Gardner. All rights reserved.