NOLA

As I sit at my computer this morning browsing through familiar sites and sights I came across a picture that brought New Orleans flooding back to me. It could also be the tree-lined street where I now live or it could be the picture I found of New Orleans lit up like a Christmas tree, but it's there and refuses to leave my mind.

Somewhere, packed away in my furniture and mementos of lives past, is a picture of me in a red-and-white-striped jacket next to a cart shaped like a giant hot dog beneath a red-and-white-striped umbrella. Luck Dogs is painted in big letters on the bun and it was the only thing between me and starvation or an ignominious retreat home with my tail between my legs.

Those were the days




I saw New Orleans draped besides the inky waters of the Mississippi like a rippling carpet of brilliant color and twinkling lights. The window was open and exotic spices laced with a hint of some indefinable yet familiar odor teased my senses. I found the Lee Circle YMCA and checked into a Spartan room, dropped my luggage, grabbed my purse and headed out into the warm and fragrant November night. Everywhere I looked was a feast of light, sound, scent and color unlike anything I'd seen before. An old streetcar rumbled by, clacking and shaking along the iron track sunk into the asphalt on its way to Canal Street, the main drag in downtown New Orleans. Flowers and trees beneath a dark sky glittered with fairy lights. Strains of jazz and the musical sound of Southern voices led me on like a Pied Piper back down toward the Mississippi and the hidden jewel of the Vieux Carre - the French Quarter.

The head of Bourbon Street is a dim alley between two old stores on Canal. At first I wondered if I was in the right place. It is dark and cramped and anonymous, just an alley, but like the tunnel that Aladdin followed to the treasure cave, once I crossed the shadowy lane I stood in awed amazement as a heart of feverishly garish lights spilled out like a lighted Persian carpet before me. The French Quarter. I had arrived.

Each block is a heady and overwhelming mixture of mingled melodies, from rock and hip-hop to Dixieland and smoky sensuous jazz. Street people mingle with tourists and scrawny black children tap dance on pop bottle tops embedded into the soles and heels of their sneakers while street hustlers urge you to follow them inside lighted rooms where infomercials get their start.

You can get anything in the Quarter: Cajun and Creole, French and ethnic foods, condos, vacations, rips to old southern plantations, tourist mementos and even sex. Young girls and boys of every flavor and color sidle up to likely marks and whisper about furtive dates as New Orlean's finest stroll along, each aware of the other but doing their different businesses until the word is given and the sweep begins and ends quietly and efficiently; it's all part of the game. Street entertainers dance, sing, play music, juggle and mime for tips and the living blood of the trade -- tourists -- work their way to Jackson Square and St. Louis Cathedral where artists, palm readers, psychics and metaphysicians cluster in gypsy formation around the black wrought iron bars while Andrew Jackson sits a rearing horse in an emerald square of grass and riotous colored flowers. Just across the street at the Cafe du Monde the scent of sugared beignets and chicory coffee waft along warm breezes and the Mississippi slides past like an oil slick in the dark beyond the reach of the lighted Quarter.

On nearly every street corner, hot dog-shaped carts offer eight inches of meat with a variety of sweet and savory toppings, depending on the vendor. I was once one of their number: the hot dog lady.

But that is a story for another time.

I'll shut up now.

Blue skies calling

There are puffy clouds on the horizon and nothing but perfect blue skies above. Leaves shimmer in the morning sun and squirrels are busy scampering, eating, playing, doing squirrel duty. The air is cool and clean beyond my dusty windows and here and there people amble along the streets on Saturday errands. John is on his way home from the commissary to a long weekend of chores, a little sad that Suzy has decided she is too much in pain from a little scrape to go bike riding with him. And here I sit hungering for him to ask me to go for a bike ride or a walk or just sit and talk. All I want is an invitation.

I have an invitation. The blue skies are beckoning me outside where birds dip and swoop on cool dawn winds.

The sunlight reaches me here in my window-walled aerie, but it is filtered through dust and screens and double-paned glass. Its warmth reaches me, but does not touch my skin or warm my back as I bend over planting beds and weeds that need to be pulled. When did life get so complicated?

When I was a child, and even a teenager before I learned to drive, walking wasn't a thought or something I had to plan. I walked. Distance wasn't an issue, although I walked three or four miles to school, and that same distance back, every day and nearly that to the Hilltop Swim Club to bask in the sun, arrow through the waters and dance to the juke box tunes in my bathing suit. I was never too tired to walk and nowhere was out of reach. I didn't need an invitation, just a sunny day like today and the desire to go somewhere.

On the way home from high school I hurdled lines of bushes separating one yard from the next, sprinting up and down the avenues and dancing among the trees in the boulevard in front of our house. I ran and walked and danced for the sheer joy of it and not because it was a good way to exercise and lose weight. It was all an inextricable part of who I was, a part I have lost over the years of driving and city buses and cabs.

The only time I took a bus then was when I was in a hurry or had to go downtown to meet friends or cousins so we could walk all around downtown, in and out of the stores and museums, through the park or just exploring and looking at old houses and buildings and churches. Now I pick up the keys and drive. When did it all change? When did I start ignoring blue sky invitations?

Part of the reason I moved here was because it was close to an old and interesting part of town, and because I love the energy. I'm two miles from Garden of the Gods and about that from Red Rocks Park, and here I sit on a Saturday morning with the whole day stretching before me in front of the computer and wondering why. There is an answer, but it's not a good one. I'm waiting for an invitation from John to go walking, hiking, bike riding or just talking, an invitation that isn't going to come for another two weeks. Still, I wait and the blue skies keep calling.

Outside, as the sun rides higher in the sky and the puffy clouds thin and migrate east, a white-tailed hawk drifts and soars on rising currents of warming air in a Colorado blue sky that calls to a part of me forgotten and sleeping like Rip Van Winkle as the world passes by on Saturday jaunts. There is a daily invitation delivered through my windows, one I am forced to ignore during the week because of work, but an invitation I plan to accept this morning and every morning from now on. I cannot sprint and hurdle bushes or walk for miles without thinking, but I can take the first step and the one after that and the one after that until I can sprint and hurdle and run and walk for the sheer joy of being out where the sun can leave its bronze kiss on my skin and color my cheeks with the pink of joy.

Now is as good a time as any to RSVP with a definite and happy YES!

Do I really have to?

This is one of those mornings when I'm not motivated to focus on work, although I need to focus since work yesterday was sparse and I don't want another small paycheck. It's too pretty and inviting outside for me to be stuck inside lashed to a computer chair with an increasingly full bladder listening to mealy-mouthed doctors who barely speak English drone on and on about intricate and technical operative procedures. I want to get out and walk in the sunshine, dig in the dirt, breathe the fresh air and traipse around in the mountains and foothills. I DO NOT want to work.

This is one of those times that remind me of my senior year in high school when I prayed every night and checked diligently every morning for signs of laryngitis so I could stay home, put on a bathing suit and bask in the sunshine basted in baby oil while reading racy novels retrieved from between the toilet tank and the wall. Every morning I sat up and tried my voice. Every scratchy, breathy whisper was a possible sign of laryngitis, but with each added word my voice cleared and laryngitis was not to be had. if I'd have thought about it I would have sold my soul to the devil for a good case of laryngitis and a free day to bask and baste in the sun. No such luck. I was always healthy as a horse -- and it really irritated me.

Even now, despite the creakings and groaning, pops and clicks of aging joints, the best I can manage is a little post nasal drip. Where's a good case of yarg when I need one?

I wonder how much time I can fritter away writing about stupid human tricks? Like the one Beanie told me about our brother.

Start counting!

A few days ago my brother was driving down the freeway during rush hour in his truck with his old stove, refrigerator and dishwasher on the back, headed to the appliance store to swap said old appliances for brand spanking new ones. The truck is not in the best shape, but it can hold three such appliances with plenty of room left over. However, it is deficient in the tail gate section.

As my brother merrily tooled along at top speed, he glanced at his rear view mirror just in time to see the refrigerator slide off the truck and onto the highway where cars at high speed were swerving and careening around the metal monstrosity, barely avoiding sliding into each other as some cars headed for the grass median in proper Keystone Cop disarray. My brother stopped the truck and backed up.

When he got out he found the stove had followed the refrigerator and lay in the midst of the road. I'm sure there were several drivers, once they found their way back onto the freeway splashed with mud and covered in clumps of grass and roadside debris, who greeted my brother with the appropriate birding signals and shouted greetings as he stood wrapped in clouds of tire smoke and smoldering brake pads and attitudes.

One good Samaritan stopped and helped my brother load the refrigerator and stove back onto the truck next to the much lighter dishwasher that sat innocently and firmly on the truck bed. He pulled off the road and waited for his son to bring him a rope to tie the appliances firmly onto the truck to at last make up for the lack of tail gate.

In the meantime, he called his wife to report the mishap and she burst into tears, weeping and wailing and gnashing her teeth, while my brother attempted to explain through the cacophonous outburst that it was the OLD appliances that had met the pavement and not the new ones, thankful his eyes and throat were not within reach of her grasping venomous claws.

You see, dear reader, my brother is an idiot. I love him dearly, but I have long recognized his deficiencies and his place in the All Powerful's Idiot Factor that allows him to continue breathing and procreating despite his quick brushes with other winners of the Darwin Awards.

The Idiot Factor is the All Powerful's cadre of stooges, misfits and fools. It must be very tiring to be the Creator of Everything and humor is necessary to keep Him from raining annihilation, death and destruction on all created in a fit of pique. These idiots provide him with endless hours of belly laughs, guffaws and undignified titters and us with continuation on this planet.

Think of them this way: If there were no idiots in the world there were be no world and we would not know how truly intelligent and worthwhile the rest of us truly are.

Okay, so I'm reaching, but he is my brother and I'm pretty much stuck with him.

Unless of course someone would like to do a little horse trading. I'd be more than willing to trade him for a good avocado, crisp thick peppered bacon, mayo, alfalfa sprout and tomato sandwich on dark Jewish rye bread.

Any takers?

Do you really need to see...

...to boink?

Friday, May 27, 2005

WASHINGTON - Federal health officials are examining rare reports of blindness among some men using the impotence drugs Viagra and Cialis, a disclosure that comes at a time when the drug industry can ill afford negative publicity about another class of blockbuster medicines.

The Food and Drug Administration still is investigating, but has no evidence yet that the drug is to blame, said spokeswoman Susan Cruzan.

This type of blindness is called NAION, or non-arteritic anterior ischemic optic neuropathy. It can occur in men who are diabetic or have heart disease, the same conditions that can cause impotence and thus lead to Viagra use.

The FDA has 42 reports of the blindness, 38 among users of Viagra and four among users of Cialis. There were no cases reported among users of Levitra, the third impotence drug.

"We take this seriously," said FDA's Cruzan.

The FDA is in discussions about the reported cases with the manufacturers of the three drugs in case there is a problem with the class of medication and to see if changes need to be made to their labels.

Eli Lilly & Co., which manufactures Cialis, refers to vision problems as an uncommon side effect, including seeing a blue tinge or having difficulty telling the difference between blue and green. "These are not all the side effects of Cialis," it says on its Web site.

Viagra manufacturer Pfizer Inc. also refers on its Web site to some vision issues: "Less common are bluish or blurred vision, or being sensitive to light. These may occur for a short time." That language had been available before the current inquiry.

Pfizer spokesman Daniel Watts confirmed Friday that the drugmaker was in discussions with the FDA about adding a disclosure to Viagra's label to say that in rare cases, men taking Viagra had developed blindness. However, he said there is no proof that Viagra caused the blindness. He said that men who take Viagra often have high blood pressure and high cholesterol, which are also associated with the conditions that can cause blindness.

Levitra is sold in the United States by GlaxoSmithKline PLC and Bayer AG.

Viagra was approved by the government in 1998. It may aid in the treatment of enlarged hearts that can result from high blood pressure, tests on animals indicate.

Levitra was approved in August 2003, and Cialis in November of that year.

There have been no reports connecting Levitra to blindness, said Michael Flemming, a spokesman for GlaxoSmithKline PLC. "We are confident about the safety of our product," said Flemming.

Levitra, Cialis and Viagra all work in the same fashion, but Flemming said that doesn't mean they all have the same side effects. "Every drug is different. Every drug is unique," he said.

Analyst Jason Napodano of Zacks Investment Research Inc. said he doesn't think Viagra sales will stumble because of the new reports because the number of cases is so small. "It is too early to say that Viagra is causing this (the blindness) and look how small the numbers are," he said.

Viagra, approved to treat erectile dysfunction, should not be used by men with heart conditions whose doctors have warned them not to have sex. Also, patients taking drugs that contain nitrates have been warned not to take Viagra because of sudden, unsafe drops in blood pressure.

The drug's label also warns of erections lasting longer than four hours, painful erections lasting longer than six hours, headache, flushed skin and vision problems.

Pfizer Inc. said in its most recent quarterly filing with the Securities and Exchange Commission that sales of the drug rose 5 percent - to $438 million in the first quarter of the year. Pfizer also said at the time that Viagra had a 68 percent worldwide market share.

Viagra sales have been under pressure from new competitors Cialis and Levitra, with revenue sinking 11 percent last year to $1.68 billion from $1.88 billion. Pfizer shares fell in early trading on the New York Stock Exchange.

Doctors and patients have become increasingly wary of the downsides of prescription drugs after Merck & Co. yanked its pain reliever Vioxx from the market last year because of its potentially lethal side effects.

Merck potentially faces thousands of lawsuits over Vioxx and analysts have estimated its liability may reach $18 billion.

Pfizer was asked to remove its pain reliever Bextra from the market because of its side effects and sales of its other arthritis drug Celebrex are falling. Vioxx, Celebrex and Bextra all fall into a category of drugs known as Cox-2 inhibitors.

Industry critics have been demanding that drug companies conduct more post-marketing studies in order to do a better job of discovering side effects once drugs hit the market.

For more than two decades, Americans have mostly pressed for quicker approval of what they hope can be lifesaving drugs for such diseases as AIDS and cancer. But many now are wondering if medicines - a $200 billion industry annually - are coming out too fast and doing too much harm.

Viagra also is at the center of controversy over Medicaid's payment for prescriptions of the drug to convicted sex offenders in New York and other states.

---

On the Web:

http://www.viagra.com/getTheMost/index.asp

http://www.fda.gov

---

Associated Press writers Theresa Agovino in New York and Elizabeth Wolfe in Washington contributed to this story

Hostage situation

Dave brought the cheesecake over last night right on time -- to the second. I had warned the landlady it was coming and to be prepared. She was. She was at the door the minute he started up the walk with that special cheesecake eating gleam in her eye. Dave couldn't stay long, but he was very nice and polite as he offered up his plain white wrapped box and left. I handed the box to the landlady and told her I'd get her mail while she scurried inside with the prize.

By the time I got into her apartment she was in the kitchen ready to unwrap the box. I said hello to Pastor and petted and scratched him for a couple minutes while the landlady fidgeted with a really big chef's knife. After washing my hands, I found the end of the plastic and unwrapped and unboxed the cheesecake.

It was a pristine white and delicately brown around the sides. A true work of art. It was a shame to cut into such perfection, but I hefted the knife, plunged it into the glass of hot water, wiped it off and gored the unblemished perfection with a precision cut. Dip, wipe, cut and serve one perfect triangle of cheesecake. Dip, wipe, cut and another perfect triangle rested on its own plate.

Resisting the urge to plunge the triangle into my mouth with my bare hands, I took the knife to the sink and began cleaning it up. The landlady said not to bother while she splashed coffee into a cup and offered me a glass of milk. No milk for me. I don't really care for it and cheesecake was waiting. I had lingered over the foreplay long enough.

We sat down at her table, took up the forks, smiled at each other and slowly and gently forked off the end of the triangle, anticipation thick in the air. We hesitated with the pieces trembling on the forks, giving an almost imperceptible salute, opened our mouths and placed heaven on our tongues.

Not too sweet with a considerable yet light cookie crust, the cheesecake melted on our tongues and began an orgasmic display deep in our stomachs. YES!

The rest of the piece didn't last very long as we prostrated our tongues in humble adoration of each orgasmic bite. I didn't need dinner after that. Anything else would have been anticlimactic.

The landlady was going to a birthday party for a friend and I had errands to run so I agreed to leave the reboxed cheesecake -- sans two pieces (one for her and one for her birthday friend that she decided would be unfair to the other ladies and kept for herself) -- in her refrigerator. She promised to leave the door unlocked so I could retrieve it when I came back home. We parted, having shared a life changing experience.

After returning with a new shower curtain, bath mat, two pots of lavender and one of rosemary, some health food choices and various sundries, I tried the door to the landlady's apartment.

It was locked.

My cheesecake was in there...

...held hostage.

She lied to me. She intended to keep it all along.

Betrayed.

I played it off for my next door neighbor, saying she probably forgot, but deep down in my soul I knew there would be excuses and ransom notes and bad feelings over this hostage situation.

A still small voice said, "It's not hostage. It's gone. You'll see her tomorrow with sour cream frosting ringed lips and crumbs of the cookie crust on her top and dusting her fingers. It's gone!"

Oh, well, I thought. It's only cheesecake.

RIGHT! It's NOT only cheesecake. It's WAR!

About 10 o'clock, while I was laboring at my computer in the darkened sun porch and singing dirges to the departed, I heard a voice. It was the landlady and she was at the door. I plucked up my indignation, ready for the excuses and lies to begin, and went into the darkened living room. She stood there with the white box in her trembling hands.

"I forgot to leave the door unlocked."

I smiled gently at her and took possession of the still heavy white box. "It's all right. I understand," I said as I brushed off her apologies and small talk and nodded and smiled, holding my cheesecake to my bosom.

Good night, landlady. Sleep well.

I certainly did. My cheesecake was safe in the fridge. It was home and unharmed.

Aah, cheesecake.

Welcome to the Springs

Since I moved here a little more than a week ago, (but really just one week and one day ago when I didn't have to go back to the cabin) people have been really wonderful to me. One of the guys at a friend's office makes killer cheesecake and I ordered one from him for a moving in gift for my landlord and Nell across the hall. He emailed a little while ago to tell me it was ready and he'd deliver it tonight, but couldn't stick around to chat. I was looking forward to talking to him. I emailed back and told him I was disappointed and I'd have to put the BBQ back in the fridge. He emailed back and told me the cheesecake is a "welcome to the springs" present and he was sorry about the BBQ.

There's a great BBQ place a couple blocks from here in Old Colorado City (Front Range BBQ) and I think I'll make a date and take him there to thank him for the free cheesecake. It's the least I can do. Besides, it will boost my social life and add one more person to my "people I like in the Springs" list that is growing longer every day.

I just love cheesecake, but free homemade cheesecake is the best.

That is all. Disperse -- and get your own cheesecake. This one's taken.

Out of the shade

I was having a perfectly lovely morning when my landlady called me from downstairs in the driveway. She knocked on the door but I can't hear anything with my headphones plugged in when I'm working. I heard her call from the driveway though. She wanted to talk to me for a minute. Never good news and never a good sign.

I was right. It wasn't.

I went downstairs, partly to stretch my legs and partly because I felt like I needed a break from work.

The woman next door on the east decided to cut down all the trees in her yard and have the roots dug up. These are beautiful and healthy trees that give lots of shade and oxygen. It's a shame to cut them down just so she doesn't have to clean the gutters and hates the squirrels dining at the all you can eat gutter buffet. The landlady told her she was cutting down my shade and that it would make it too hot in my office to work during the day. She didn't care.

I'm sad not only because of the shade but because of the trees. They give such a lovely ambience to the neighborhood with their graceful limbs and waving leaves.

Luckily, she can't cut down the trees on public property.

She is going to regret having the trees removed because they shade her house, too. Without their leaf canopy protecting her house from the burning sun, she is going to cook inside her house, especially since she keeps her shades closed and her curtains drawn. Her electric bills are going to go sky high and I don't have a single tear for her.

The trees have been here for nearly 100 years and they deserve to live. I'm not so sure about how much she deserves to be cooked, but very well done would just about do it.

Tree killing orc wench.

Back to the grindstone

My first full week here was full. I'm still not in that groove where everything runs smoothly, but I abhor ruts. I like to shake things up too much.

The infamous brownie story has been accepted for publication by a print magazine and I'm still deciding whether I want to sign their contract or hold out for Ellery Queen or Alfred Hitchcock. I have three days to decide. I could also hold out for Zoetrope, too. Still, money in the hand and all that. The brownie tale is the first one I haven't had to flog for ages (years sometimes) to get someone to notice and that's good. Means I've finally hit the right combination of description, inner and outer characterization, place and pacing. That took a while -- or at least it seems that way. It is good enough to scare the bejeezus out of a friend and make them wonder if I'm capable of murder. All the story proves is that I'm capable of concocting a murder not following through with one. In fact, I told the landlady about the story and some of the interesting facts I've learned over the years about how to commit the perfect murder and she was a little taken aback. I can hear her telling the police, "She was such a nice, quiet person. Most of the time I wasn't even sure she was up there."

Isn't that what they say about all serial killers?

Then again, isn't every murder/mystery writer a serial killer -- on the page? The difference between writers and real life serial killers is impulse control. And most of us are pretty squeamish when it comes to committing the actual bloody, messy, smelly and need to hide the corpse kind of murder.

If everyone who ever said, "I'll kill you for that" or "I hate you and I wish you were dead," were rounded up and tried for their crimes, I doubt there'd be anyone on the bench or in the jury box, let alone at the attorney tables. Everyone would be in jail. Well, maybe one or two perfect souls who think happy thoughts, but most of those are on Prozac or in rehab centers/nursing homes in a persistent vegetative state. In the back of their drug hazed minds they're thinking, "If I ever get out of here, I'll kill you."

Time to sharpen my knives.

Graduating to senior

For a moment, while checking movie times and prices, I thought I was almost ready to graduate to the senior tickets. I checked the policy. I have 15 years to go.

So why is the AARP sending me information all the time?

I'm at that awkward age -- not old enough to get the senior discount at movies or the senior meal at Denny's and not young enough to get down with the def crowd. I thought the awkward age was that bubble between childhood and my teen years. Is there another awkward age in my future?

I don't feel any different, except for those first few minutes when I get up off the floor in the morning and am forcibly and painfully reminded I'm still here, alive but not kicking so much. I still feel like I did when I was 17. The mirror sees someone very much older, someone well past the age to get cheaper movie tickets and cheaper meals at Denny's -- at least first thing in the morning.

As the day progresses and I go to the bathroom, I pass the mirror and I age backward, younger and younger, but not quite to the age of 17, hovering somewhere around 30 on a good day and let's not talk about how old I am on the bad ones, but at least a few seconds younger than past it.

I talked to a 27-year-old last night -- a girl, if you worry about those things and think I have found a phone sex lover (I'm so bored with phone sex and have been for decades) -- and she said I don't sound the way she thought I would. "How did you think I would sound?"

"Old like my Mom."

I decided not to pursue that any farther. I remember how old I thought my mother looked and sounded. She has aged considerably since then. No one questions her right to senior privileges or her Golden Buckeye card. "Everyone tells me I sound young."

"It's not just your voice. You act young, like one of my friends."

Okay, we're in better territory here. I'm not down with the street talk and I don't know Spanglish or hip-hop or any of the current idioms that pass for language. I have never marched gladly into the pro-Ebonics camp and never will. I don't deny my age, although I do dye my roots to match the darker hair still lingering among the shimmering silver strands I wouldn't mind having in toto, not just enough to make my hair that awful gray. I think of myself as ageless -- except first thing in the morning when I'm getting used to that old person staring back at me in stunned, hurt silence as I studiously glance past her in the mirror. Then again, maybe my youthful heart is writing checks my popping, cracking and creaking body can't cash. Stranger things have been known to happen.

My memory is going. Where was I?

Oh, yes, the awkward age. I'm there. I managed the last awkward age and I'm sure I'll manage this one, but is there another awkward age yet to come? Will I still have to worry about that time between being a senior at last and moving into decrepitude or Methuselah time? I guess I'll have to muddle through now and wait to find out because I plan on being here a very long time.

When I hit 150, will there be more discounts on my horizon? Will Denny's give me all my meals free just for having the strength to heave open and walk through their doors? Will the movie theaters let me walk in boldly without buying a ticket and let me choose whatever I can still gum and swallow without choking to death at the concession counter? Of course I'll have to sit down in the first row to see. By then they might even put in geriatric reclining chairs to keep me from getting a crick in my crepey neck from staring up at the screen where I can still make out misty water-colored shapes and tag them to fleeting memories of movies gone by.

I guess I'll see...

...or not.

Writing trials

The Havarti cheese is sweating and limp in the heat, but here I am writing instead of putting on my shoes and walking out into the sunshine. I don't know if it's this place or just because I feel like it, but I am writing more and more since I moved here. I feel inspired. I am inspired.

I finished Creepers this afternoon. I'm suddenly inspired to look for an abandoned building or ghost town to explore. I think I'll do just that next weekend when I have money again. I'll pick a ghost town on the map, load my backpack with fruit, water and journal and head off into the unknown to see if I can't fall down a mine shaft or through a floor.

Not really.

I want to explore the past, the forgotten places where people have moved on and left their essence behind like shedding a skin.

It could be something encoded in our DNA that makes us shed the skin of the past and move into the future, a relic of our reptilian heritage buried deep in the reptilian brain that keeps us alive and kicking when all sense of self and humanity are gone and all that remains is vegetable tended by people who would rather be anywhere but mopping up the refuse our bodies keep churning out even though we aren't home. In a sense, the past is a sort of immortality and I wonder what will be left of me when I exit the stage this time. I doubt I'll remember, but what if I did?

What if when I reincarnate I come across a reference to the past me and something sparks a memory along the synapses so that I relive that past life? What would that be like? How many times have I read about a place or a person and felt I knew them but not actually how. I know I've lived many, many lifetimes and I also know that it is doubtful I was anyone famous -- or infamous -- although the latter is more likely. I am drawn to many places, drawn by a yearning for home so that I have seldom felt at home anywhere in this time and place where I have existed. I have always felt like a stranger in my own family and I chalked that up to being adopted, but now I wonder if it goes further than that.

So few times in my life I have been really a part of something or someone. I find it so easy to walk away without looking back, carrying little bits and pieces of my life and my acquaintances with me. In that way I have gained shirts and sweaters, hair dryers and tools, some of which I cannot remember how they came to me. They are the palpable presence of what has become a misty memory that belongs to someone else.

I feel disconnected and separate from the rest of the world. I have moments of sadness for friends who misunderstand or misread my intentions and actions, but it passes. I shrug my shoulders and move on. It's all a part of the past and the present and the future are unstable undiscovered countries that draw me forward. I wonder if I'm the ghost and the rest of the world is real as I move through it, connecting briefly with sensitive souls that are interested in me briefly and then, thinking they have understood my existence at that nexus, cast aside for a new experience, a new ghost.

The only time I have ever felt at home and really connected with someone is with John. He fits me perfectly. We share the same feelings of isolation and ghostly presence, real only to each other, and a little afraid of the connection and the intensity of experience and emotion. We both want to be real, not only to each other but to the rest of the world that tends to forget our existence until we're needed or wanted to provide answers or work. I can and have walked away from everything and everyone in my life, but I cannot walk away from him. In a way it frightens me because it means I am caught, no longer an ethereal being of light and shadow existing for a brief human second, but a permanent fixture somewhere in time.

I read a call for submissions recently that wanted stories about the future changing the past. Immediately Back to the Future sprang to mind. That seems too simplistic, too easy. What if a real future happening echoed down the corridors of the past to change the past and a time traveling car or a time traveling civilization getting rid of its dead were not the motive force. Christopher Reeve went back in time, forcing his mind to carry him where his heart lived already, to find Jane Seymour. He changed both their lives.

So often people say, "If I knew then what I know now...," without knowing if it is possible to carry their knowledge back to the past and change their future. Can the future and the past exist in the same body or the same time? Two identical particles meeting are posited to create an explosion that could end the world, but who I am now is not who I was yesterday or last week, let alone 38 years ago.

Can I do it? Can I change the past by changing things now? Time goes in all directions for eternity and where we are on the timeline is a reality chosen and believed into existence. If that is true, why can't I change the present and affect the past, creating a new reality now?

Anything is possible, even writing in a sunny room on top of a Victorian house in Colorado Springs in the shadow of the mountains while fluffy white clouds build up and turn dark with pregnant possibilities of rain, thunder and lightning. Lightning is the source of all life. Could it be the answer for me, too?

Should I write it or live it?

Maybe I should live it and then write it.

Whatever I choose, writing will be part of it as it is part of me now and...

...as always.

Quiet mornings

I'm basically a night owl -- or I used to be. Now I'm not sure what I am.

My work schedule is all over the place due to the lack of work lately because of the doctors' strike, but I work best in the quiet darkness when the frantic pace of daylight has quieted and deep purple wraps everything closely up to the limits of the computer screen's glow. Lately I've been getting up between 5 and 6 just when the sky is lightening and the birds are twittering songs to wake their lazy young. The all you can eat gutter buffet isn't open for business yet and the air smells fresh and new, untouched by sun or rain or the smells of civilization.

I went to bed late last night, falling asleep with a book in my hands -- as always -- and rousing long enough to turn out the light and shift into a more comfortable position with the cool side of the pillow next to my face. The street was quiet and I dove gratefully into the dream pool only to wake as the air freshened and the sky lightened outside the windows. It was a little past six. Lumbering to my feet, I stumbled quietly to the bathroom for the usual biological call, washed my hands, splashed a little cold water on my face and headed to the kitchen for fruit and a couple boiled eggs. After checking my email (there was a lot of spam and not much else), I dropped back to the floor, grabbed my book and stretched before curling into a comfortable position to read.

Beyond the windows the sky was deep blue above where the sunlight washed the horizon to pale powder. Wispy clouds drifted between the gnarled fingers of the trees, their tips yellow-green in the rising light, and silhouetted birds streaked through the branches in spiraling displays of spring excitement while they dove and soared and cracked the whip. It was a soft morning full of empty canvas waiting to be sketched and painted with scattered lines or a more definite plan, and it was quiet.

As much as I've always disliked mornings, I have come to appreciate the cool tranquility as much as the velvet darkness. Each hour of the day is different and holds a special moment or two. Saturday mornings the buzz and whine of lawn mowers begin early, punctuating the day in bursts of activity as the sun warms and heats the air and the ground. Squirrels peer out of their nests and slowly climb down the tree trunks, scampering a bit and then running headlong toward the buffet to fill their fat furry cheeks with the wind's gift from delicate limbs where they cannot go. Birds join them in the troughs, pecking and picking at scraps too tiny to interest the squirrels. Parents call to their children and the whine of motor scooters and cycles mingle with the whish of tires on asphalt. The day begins.

I still have those cool quiet mornings to myself when the rest of the neighborhood sleeps soundly, reaching for an extra hour or two because it's Saturday. Mornings like these remind me of younger times when I stubbornly refused to answer my mother's call to wangle an extra 15 or 20 minutes of sleep because I was too tired to get up after having watched Chiller Theater until 2 AM.

I finally have what I waited for all those teenaged years, the luxury of sleeping in and ignoring the chores with a good book and a handful of strawberries or getting up and putting away clothes and books and organizing the rest of my unpacked boxes.

Today, I think I'll gear up with some music, put away some clothes, pack my backpack and take a walk to the library and the park.

I've already had my strawberries.

Ready for pain

The first night sleeping on a floor on a flattened feather bed was painful the next morning when I staggered to my feet. I ached in more places than I knew I had. I was almost afraid to get back down there and almost opted for the love seat. It's cramped and uncomfortable but it had much more padding. I gritted my teeth and sank to the floor to give it another shot.

I slept like a log. Dead to the world -- until the call of nature woke me halfway through the night and every hour on the hour after that until I decided to give in and get up. I didn't hurt. I wasn't sore. I felt good and rested. I can do this.

I've slept on the floor every night since and I wake up refreshed and relaxed, if a little stiff for 30 seconds until I wake up and make it to the bathroom. There are some mornings I feel like getting back on the floor and sleeping some more, but work and duty call and I must obey -- for now.

I'm not too old to do the camping thing. I can handle a hard uneven floor so I know I can handle sleeping on rocks and roots I can't remove or avoid. Camping, here I come.

Now it's off to the showers to get scrubbed and dressed so I can go get some groceries. I was too lazy and tired last night. Need food. Need conditioner. Need fresh air and a walk in this beautiful and soft spring day. I'll come back and work, but there's no rush. I feel the urge to grab a journal, some fruit and water and head for the park. Maybe later. Shower and food now -- park later.

Pizza and porn

Yesterday the EVIL ONE was talking about pizza and not being able to get it from his favorite place because they closed down. The mail had a coupon for Papa John's pizza. The combination was too much for me. I didn't feel like going to the grocery store to buy healthy food, so I caved in and ordered pizza and wings over the net. Couldn't do that back at the cabin. The only place that delivered would deliver to the Snooty Coyote in Tabernash and you had to go get it from there. Sort of screws up the whole idea of delivery.

I saw the pizza guy drive up and went to get my wallet for ID. I couldn't find it. Figures. Meanwhile, someone knocked on the door. As I searched for my wallet I wondered how the driver got upstairs with the downstairs door locked and bolted, but I went to the door. It was the landlady. She saw the pizza guy, too, and opened the door for him. Her eyes sparkled with that look that goes with forbidden food -- YEAH! I signed the receipt, took my order and asked the landlady if she'd like to share my dinner. "I'm making salmon tonight."

"Oh, come on. You can put the salmon in the fridge and have it tomorrow," I coaxed.

She caved.

The salmon -- big, pink and beautiful -- went into the fridge and she offered a nice floral cabernet sauvignon. We shared a couple of wings and then dug into the pizza. She really likes pizza. We drank and talked and enjoyed the evening.

Later, out on the deck as the sun sank in a blaze of fiery colors and the moon rose in a cool blue sky, she told me the house likes my singing while I played fetch the squeaky squirrel with Pastor. It was a beautiful night and flew by too fast.

I took the last piece of pizza and most of the wings upstairs and went to bed.

This morning, after a restful sleep, I got up and fired up the computers, checked for updates and downloaded lots of work. The sun brightened the horizon. The sky is heart breaking blue; there isn't a cloud in the sky. Everything is bright and clear and smells of spring. It's a pleasure to work up here in the sun porch with such beautiful vistas. But I didn't expect a floor show in the crook of the tree outside my window.

My favorite squirrel was lounging in the crotch of the tree and a younger fella came up to lounge on top of him. The look in his beady little eyes said he had mischief on his mind.

And he did.

Up on his furry haunches he aimed his pelvis at the back end of my lounging friend and gave a few peremptory thrusts. His eyes lit up and he grabbed two paws full of plump furred hips and bent to his task. At first my furry buddy continued nibbling on his morning snack and ignored the activity. Then he reared up and turned on lustful Lothario. Clutching, biting, scratching, clawing and lots more thrusting ensued. Right in front of me while I'm working. How crude and ill-timed! They fought and tumbled and took turns climbing onto each other's back, thrusting and penetrating (from the surprised and shocked look in their eyes). Then they scrambled up the tree, my furry buddy close behind with blood in his eyes.

Who would have guessed? Gay squirrels. Either that or the younger fella doesn't realize that any hole is not going to get him the procreation prize.

I know it's spring, but I think they should at least take their pornographic tree-floor show into another tree, especially when I'm working and can't have my own floor show (still no bed). Don't you agree?

A dream is a wish...

...and nightmares do happen.

Not much work today and a blackout. Fire trucks and EMS vehicles screaming down the street past my window, startling me. The squirrels weren't surprised and they didn't run and hide. I wonder if that's a sign. I have to remember that when the lights go out I have just enough power in the UPS to shut everything down so I don't lose all the data and everything I worked on. A friend asked me if I was really a blonde. Okay, so the UPS was beeping but everything was still working and lit up. Of course they were; they were on the uninterrupted power source. I'll remember next time.

The all you can eat gutter buffet next door was full of greedy squirrels and my friend who sits in the tree out my window stopped by from time to time, peered in and scurried off to the buffet. All the squirrels looked like mechanical dolls ducking into the gutters and coming up with food in unison. Have I slipped into the Twilight Zone without knowing it? Or maybe it's just from sleeping on the floor. I also learned that sleeping in the middle of a feather bed means you miss the fluffy down that cushions you from the floor. The middle is flat and it's not wide enough double over and not spill over onto the floor. But it makes a nice pillow.

My smart buddy reminded me that sleeping on the ground is worse. I disagree. All that pine duff and fallen leaves cushion the hard and soft parts of you. Wouldn't you know he'd bring up rocks and roots and twigs? I had an answer for that, too -- move them. "Not if they're still attached to the trees," he said. Okay, I'll give him that. However, I don't remember the ground being so difficult to sleep on and it has a little more give than a hard floor with a flattened out feather bed. We'll see. He sent me a web site for a campground where hams and their families go the end of August for QRP to the field (low power). I'm ready. He suggested it as a shakedown trip. I can handle that. We're making plans and that's a good sign.

I also got my first two wrong number calls looking for whoever had my number before I got it. I assured both callers I did not know a forwarding number for their prey but they didn't believe me because they asked again. Not a good sign. I can feel it in my bones (and it's not just sleeping on the hard floor) that they will call back again and try to trick me into admitting I'm their prey. I'm not that blonde.

Last night proved fruitful. I talked to the cheesecake man and he's giving me his best for the cost of ingredients. My best friend thinks the guy has ulterior motives. If it's what I think cheesecake guy wants, I'll give it to him -- time working on his plane. He not only bakes incredible cheesecakes, he is a pilot and has a wicked sense of humor and an Irish Setter. That's the sign of a nice guy but one who has never been married. His dog has lots of toys. Need I say more? He does have an interesting voice and he was born the same year my buddy and I were born, and his birthday is coming up soon. Another air sign. I'll see what comes with the voice and positive signs on Tuesday when he delivers the cheesecake -- the one with chocolate and Grand Marnier.

First thing this morning Beanie emailed and said she needed my new address. Another sign. I gave it to her but asked why. She said my nephew is graduating in a couple weeks and she wants to send me an announcement even though I can't be there. The blinking sign says time is passing quickly and another chick is leaving the nest. My brother's oldest will graduate next month, too, but he hasn't asked me for my address. Guess I won't get one of those announcements. But that could just be me making more of a simple situation -- he hasn't asked yet.

It's funny sometimes how we can make something of nothing and take a general statement and make it very personal and equally painful. I wonder if the sign shouldn't say drama created at all hours. No waiting.

Oh, well, the sign tonight said be spontaneous and I was. Ordered a pizza and some wings and shared them with the landlady. It's nice being in such a friendly atmosphere and knowing you're welcome. She doesn't mind my singing and said the house likes it when I sing -- she and Pastor do, too. It's such an unconscious thing for me -- singing -- and it's nice to know the sign here says I can sing all I want.

As signs go, it's all good.

One more thing, the sign above my door will soon read VE -- volunteer examiner for amateur radio. That's a real good sign.

My heart's wishes are coming true.

Sunshine through my windows

I got up at four this morning and started working. Two walls of windows looking out on the trees and the mountains, and this morning I watched the sky lighten and the mountains take shape from the shadows. I used to think windows were a distraction that kept me from working and focusing, but I was wrong. The windows are comforting and relaxing as I work and feel the street wake up around me. The sky lightens, trees and houses emerging from the shadows as lights turn on one by one up and down the street. People slip outside in robes and pajamas to get the newspaper, let out the dogs and cats and slip back inside to find coffee and breakfast, wake up kids and stretch to get ready for the day. The squirrels yawn and creep out of their nests and along the branches, eventually playing tag and roll.

This morning with the windows open it was chilly but the air was fresh and clean and scented with dew and mountains. Lightning forked the sky and thunder grumbled as the sun rose but it didn't rain, not here. The air was pregnant with ozone and rain; it passed over. Cold breezes slipped through the screens and tickled my hair. I was still productive, getting back into the rhythm of working.

Of course I have had to change my working attire and actually wear clothes for a change. A T-shirt and socks keep me from shocking the neighbors or giving their children sex education a little early. Once the sun came up I remembered the phone guy was coming to install the new jack in the sun porch. That meant I needed lots more clothes and a closer acquaintance with some soap and water. I gave in.

He came, fixed the line and went and he only knocked me offline twice. Pretty good. Then my landlady came upstairs, knocking on my door. I thought someone was knocking on her door downstairs and went to tell them she had a client. We opened the door at the same time. After she checked the work she asked me if I sang. I wasn't sure how to answer her. Yes, I sing but... Then I remembered. Last night I had queued up a radio station on the net and I have this little habit of singing when I'm surfing or just listening to music. Evidently she and Pastor were downstairs on the deck last night when I was singing with the windows open. Oops! I was in trouble.

I wasn't in trouble. Pastor likes my singing and she told me he laid down on the deck, stretched out and looked up at my window while I sang. At least he wasn't howling. The landlady liked my singing, too. I haven't sung in public for so long I don't know how I sound to anyone else. I sing for sheer joy. What's not to sing about? I have a new home and a familiar neighborhood. I am close to people who matter so much to me and I have a catbird seat full of views of trees, nature and mountains.

After a shower, I met the birthday boy for lunch. We picnicked in the park again but I took a light lunch: turkey rolled up in Swiss cheese with fresh strawberries for dessert. He brought the water. He really irritates me sometimes. He's so nonchalant about the very obvious and bright yellow gift bag and he wanted to eat first. Ruins my fun every time. I let him eat one turkey roll and a couple of strawberries and broke down. He opened the bag and liked what I got him -- even though he'd already ruined one of the gifts by telling me he was going to buy it himself. He wasn't expecting the other two. One was specially made for him and made good on a plan we had back in March and the other was whimsical.

Since I moved here he smiles all the time whenever we are together. His eyes light up and he grins. It's good to see him so happy for a change. Things have been difficult for both of us these past three months, but it's like none of it ever happened. This move is good for both of us and worth every single ache, pain and bruise. There is still so much before me learning my way around, meeting new people and finding my niche. A friend at Celebration -- just four blocks away -- wants to introduce me to some restaurants around the area and like-minded friends. I doubt I'll be lonely or without something to do.

And the landlady wants to pull weeds in the yard this weekend. That means I need to find my gardening tools and seeds. Sunshine, earth, water, plants and pulling weeds. It doesn't get much better than this.

I'll shut up now.

Well, one more thing. There is a movie in the near future with a tall fella with a crooked smile. It really doesn't get better than this.

Back to work

This is my first day back to work since before the move last week. Did I mention I absolutely adore DSL? Updates are faster. Work downloads and uploads faster. And the sound is much clearer than on dial-up, which really messed with the sound on the voice files. Guess I have no excuse for not getting lots of work done and making lots of money.

The sky is laced with high soft clouds and the mountains are hazy bluish purple beneath a band of clear soft blue. The squirrels are dining at the all-you-can-eat gutters next door and working off the calories by chasing each other through the trees. My squirrel was back for a little people watching earlier, but answered the stronger call of gutter dining and tag. He'll be back.

Birds arrow between the branches unable to sit still for longer than a minute or two. The siren call of a beautiful day beckons them skyward. A few busy bees buzz outside the window and across the street a beautiful white cat pounces on a tabby cat, sending them both rolling in the grass. Here and there people step briefly outside to water plants and walk their dogs. To quote the late Mr. Rogers, "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood."

Today is a special day. It's the 50th anniversary of a dear friend's birth, one he would prefer to ignore like the last 25+ birthdays. I think he's edging into curmudgeon territory without a license, but that's just my opinion. I have my fingers crossed that he'll be able to get away for a half day to see a movie with me, talk and let me grin idiotically while he opens my gifts to him. One of them I have had for a while but the other I have to pick up in a little while before they close. They're making it up special for him -- counter to their usual working protocol. I'm so tickled.

Anyway, I probably should get back to work, but I think I'll put on some clothes (the bottom half of my clothes anyway since I'm back in civilization and there are no blinds or curtains on the sun porch cum office windows), go down to the car and unpack a few essentials (like bath soap, puff, hair brush, etc.) and take a long hot shower so I can find the place and pick up the gift. I need to get a card, too. I sent him two e-cards, but I need something for the gift to fit inside and a card will do nicely. Curious? You'll have to stay that way until the gifting is out of the way. Sorry about that. NOT!

Wherever you are, whatever you're doing, look out a window (find one if you have to) and enjoy whatever weather the gods are sending your way. Even snow and ice can be beautiful. Thunderstorms are awesome and during the day provide free fireworks. What more can you ask?

That is all. Disperse.

Night time sharpens, heightens each sensation

...and the one night I slept here is no exception.

Friday night I didn't sleep particularly well, but I felt relaxed (despite my cramped position on the love seat -- I'm just too tall for it). Light spilled in through the windows in the living room and I didn't need a light to see to go to the bathroom (every hour on the hour). I saw the faint dark outline of the mountains in the distance and the sharp sparkle of the stars in the sky. I had been worried I wouldn't see the stars so clearly since I moved to the city, but here on the west side of town there are no bright street lights or excessive light pollution.

I just noticed there is one street light on the corner glowing orange and lighting up the street below. The bushes and trees are dark silhouettes retreating from the light and into the shadows. The light from my computers makes everything look a little darker outside, but the computer lights are familiar.

Squares of light from the houses up and down the street glow softly in the darkness between the leafing branches of the trees and in the distance coming closer the sound of teenagers on their way home from the park or from friends' houses drift up through the windows. The front door downstairs is locked and bolted, but my apartment door is not locked. There is such a sense of safety and peace here, a feeling of welcome. I guess George has decided I'm all right after all because I sensed his presence when I moved in and I feel it now just out of range, going about his ghostly business without need to watch me or worry about me treading on his ghostly toes.

Isolation is behind me and a new vista is before me. I am content. I could use some furniture -- and certainly a bed -- but I can make do with what I have. I don't need a lot and I have most of what I need.

Living in isolation sharpened my senses but I don't feel overwhelmed or stressed by the added sensations or the closeness of other people. Darkness softens the glaring light of day and wraps around me like a warm blanket on a cold night. The dense black of darkness at the cabin, that palpable presence, is gone, but in its place is the heartbeat of humanity and life. Squirrels chase each other through the trees and up and down the streets, sticking quivering noses into everything, eternally curious and avidly watching the new kid on the block. Dogs sniff and stiffen in challenge at other dogs trespassing, but it is an almost friendly challenge. Humans, with their hands wrapped in plastic bags, follow their dogs scooping up poop (you'll never catch a dog scooping human poop) and briskly pacing up and down the streets to the parks that ring this little neighborhood. The siren call of Old Colorado City and its eclectic and artistic shops and streets will not be denied for long.

Tomorrow I begin working on my high speed line and hopefully making up for lost time. I have a new schedule to figure out and fit into and the possibility of lunches out at the park and with friends -- picnics in the sunshine and even in the rain with lightning and thunder for fireworks in the middle of the day. So much to do and see and enjoy and I won't let the grass grow under my feet for long.

Most of all I look forward to spending time with a very close friend who can't stop smiling whenever we talk or when they're here. The smile is such an unconscious and open expression of happy contentment that it will be hard to keep from smiling back and reminding them that I am here to stay no matter what else happens. We have shared so much and now we share proximity; that should make many things easier. Neither of us is ever going to be alone without companionship again. We may not have a lot, but we have friendship.

I'll shut up now. Time to get some rest before I begin the new work day.

Back and forth no more

After a half week of back and forth between Colorado Springs and the cabin, I am done -- completely, utterly, irrevocably done. I didn't feel all that sad about leaving. After all the back and forth since Thursday, I'm relieved I don't have to go back there any time soon. I was anxious to get home.

I have been home for nearly an hour now and decided to relax by checking email and reading LJ. Outside my window is a big old tree just beginning to leaf with that soft yellow-green of spring and in the crotch of the tree is a little red squirrel. He and I have been peering at each other, taking each other's measure, and for a little while he was comfortably laid out in the crook of the tree fast asleep. He's awake again, sniffing the air, checking his brushy tail for fleas and staring at me again. I'm not sure he knows what to make of me, but he doesn't look too eager to go away. The tree is less than a yard from the south end of the sun porch where the mountains are purple and deep blue and brown with unleafed bushes. Puffy white clouds lazily drift across my horizon and every where I look are trees rustling and whispering in the wind. There are a couple pine trees, but most of the trees here are oak and maple and others I've yet to identify. The laws here are clumpy and bald in spots, some just dirt with clumps of green and flowers. The sky is impossibly blue around the clouds and over the peaks in front of me there is a soft bluish haze. One of the windows is open and the sounds of children play, cars zipping past every once in a while, and birds twittering and scolding fill the air with music.

A friend came over yesterday to help me network my computers for the new DSL. It took a lot less time than he anticipated and we finished with a gourmet and healthy lunch from Mountain Mama's. There is still a piece of carrot bread in the barren kitchen just waiting for me, but the fruit plate I had on the way home still hasn't settled yet.

For the first time in days I feel full of anticipation and possibility. My friend and I marveled at the way this neighborhood feels so much like where we grew up. The sun porch (now my office and ham shack) is just like the room where he had his work bench and ham shack growing up. We stood at the windows yesterday looking out along the street smiling because it felt so much like home. The apartment is much smaller than what I had, but I don't mind giving up the space. It makes my few pieces of furniture (love seat, desk, and office chair) look less lonely and lost. I unpacked a lot of my things yesterday before I went back to the cabin (books first, of course), and the floor is almost bare now the computers have been set up. There is still a lot of boxes and papers and junk to clear up and throw out, but right now it doesn't matter. I'll get to it in time. I need to get the rest of my things from the car but I feel rather unmotivated right now because I'm enjoying just sitting here and knowing I don't have to go back to Tabernash unless I want to visit friends. I'm here. I'm home.

Everything changes

I have one more day in this cabin and then I move down to Colorado Springs and to my haunted Victorian apartment. A friend keeps asking me when I'm going to change the address on my ham radio operator's license on the FCC database and I keep telling him when I get settled. In some way it is proof that I am actually moving. I changed it in the FCC database last night. It will show up some time today and now he will know for sure I am actually moving.

I have a little trouble believing it myself -- that I'm really moving from here. But it's true. Tomorrow at ten Mark arrives with his Ford Explorer and we'll load up everything I haven't loaded up today and tonight and head for Colorado Springs and my new home. Yesterday I spent a good part of the day making changes on accounts and in my address and notifying family and a few friends of the new phone number and address. The move became real for me yesterday, just as changing my address on the FCC database makes it real for my friend.

I'll spend the rest of this day running around taking care of the last errands here in my mountain valley home, tying up all the loose ends and loading up my car with my boxes and bags and some of my computers. I'll tear this one down tomorrow morning and pack it in the trunk for the drive. I'll finish cleaning tonight and early tomorrow morning, make the bed with clean fresh sheets, run the vacuum and take a last look around once the furniture (all three pieces I own) is loaded, lock the door and drive down the long driveway one last time, down the curving hill to Route 40, turn left and head up through Berthoud Pass and down the other side toward I-70, C-470, I-25 and home.

I'm not looking forward to lugging the furniture and boxes and bags up the long steep stairs, but it will be the last time for a while and I'll be able to settle in and rest my weary body and head for a while before I unpack and set up the new digs. I think I'll go to a matinee on Friday after lunch with my friend and go home. Home. It has a really nice ring to it.

I don't have much in the way of pots, pans, dishes, silver, or glasses -- or furniture for that matter (it's all back in Ohio) -- and I'll have to do without a TV for a while, but I can sleep on the love seat until I can get a bed and I'll have plenty of work to keep me busy. There is a yard to cut and flower beds to weed and plant. There is plenty of rich soil for my seeds and plants and lots of sunshine and room. I'll be home.

This cabin has been home for two years and I have loved it here, but I crave the closeness of friends and the excitement and adventure of exploring new places and making new acquaintances, of settling into the rhythm of the neighborhood and the town. There are mountain trails to explore and towns and neighborhoods to get to know. New rhythms, new air, new cycles. New home.

Yesterday I went to the library to say goodbye to the lovely librarians there. Esther, the oldest of the group, told me I didn't really want to move because I would hate Colorado Springs. It hails in the summer and it's weather is fitful, pouting and unpredictable. That the place is full of PEOPLE. I'll miss them, but I promised to come back when they have another Wind in the Willows day to do their makeup and get them into character. And I'll come back up to take pictures of the mountain peak where the three chiefs guard the valley this side of Berthoud Pass. I'll come to hike up to Corona Pass and across the glaciated alpine meadows and high deserts. I'll come to see the remaining tongue of glacier and to climb Mt. Evans and to cool my sore feet in the waterfalls near Devil's Thumb. This place is not closed to me, but will be my health spa and vacation spot. All of Colorado is my home, from the flat prairie that merges with Kansas to the continental divide and the western slopes where apples and gypsum grow. All of it is my home but my living space will be in western Colorado Springs near the first state capital where summer Saturdays the farmers set up their market two blocks from my apartment, the post office is down the street and the library is around the corner, where five parks surround my space like a ring of emerald jewels and the mountains are right outside the door. That is where you'll find me, wearing out my running shoes as I explore and grow and learn what new adventures will teach me.

I'll shut up now.

Monday, Monday

Got up at 4:30 this morning to work and check email and no dial tone. I had a bad feeling about it and I was right. When Qwest took my order for the new phone and DSL line to be installed, they decided to be very over zealous and terminate my service here. I'm still here. I'm still working. Haven't moved yet. Oh, well, no big. I waited for three hours -- touched up my roots, showered and got dressed while I waited -- and then drove down to Tabernash to use the pay phone in the wintry cold. They had my service turned back on by the time I got home. But now I'm over four hours behind schedule and that puts everything else off. Lovely. Must be Monday.

Got back called the government again to find out where my payment was (lost in bureaucratic computers somewhere but they will expedite it again), called my new landlord to let her know Qwest would be there tomorrow to hook up the DSL line, called a friend to give him directions to my place so he can help me move this week and checked email. Nothing much. A lot of spam. A little knowledge and some good news -- at last.

My little sister passed her exam at work and interviews tomorrow for a brand new better paying job. That makes all the hassles of this morning worth it. I told her she could do it. She was so worried and had already decided she wouldn't pass the test, but she did. I'm so proud of her. I just know she'll get the job.

Mom and Dad moved into their new house this weekend and slept in so late yesterday they didn't go to church. Very rare occasion. Dad was still in bed when I called Mom to wish her a Happy Her Day. That's not like him. He was really tired out. And Beanie was on her way over with food because Mom can't find anything, including her junk food and chocolate.

Just another day in the country.

But I won't be in the country much longer. Moving to the big city to a ghost-inhabited apartment with very little furniture and lots of promise. Doesn't get much better than this.

Now, if it will only NOT rain on Friday, I can put together a picnic and enjoy it with a friend.