Nowadays, I usually step out into several thousands of acres and totter over to a hole I dug sometime before. If there's a breeze, I'll orient myself to take advantage. This morning, I flip the switch for the light and the fan and reach down to rotate the heater's timer. It's a leisurely activity and I've brought coffee and a book. I remind myself to buy another pair of reading glasses to leave on the edge of the sink. I contemplate the posture and wonder how soon my hips and knees'll start to grow stiff.
The fan sounds like a jet at idle.
The stench wafts past Mr. Nose on its way to be "ex-hausted."
The heat is a pleasant assuagement for the other details.
But then there's the mirror when I move to leave. How'd I get so old?! And PHAT!
It's wonderful to lie next to her, caressing her face and arm, but it's been 15 years since it's gone any further.
She's able to drive if she needs to, but she thinks it's the driving, from cat-sit to cat-sit, for ten years now, that's the primary cause. The sciatica is so painful she wants to avoid doing any until she can be seen by the specialists, next month, and get some professional advice. I'm here to chauffeur while her brother takes another international jaunt, this time to Egypt.
He'll be back in two weeks; he likes the "overview" tours and has been to many places around the world. We avoid crossing paths. He's available to resume the driving when Phoebe's ready (she's getting a whole new drivetrain), but he's no good for lying next to or reading bedtime stories. And he hasn't the least idea of how to do nothing...something Michelle and I are both highly adept at. But it's odd how doing nothing out there takes on the dimension of nothing to do in Albuquerque. (As a geographer, I'm qualified to say: Albuquerque has more Walmarts per capita than any other city in the nation; it exemplifies the "culture.")
Last night (I was away a mere month this time) we got out found objects and tubes of paint (she did serigraphs back in the day) which, apparently, doesn't go bad, and started a project. I drank rum to fend off the barking dogs, sirens, roar of the >1,000,000 refrigerators within the metro area.
Commitment has the echo of quid pro quo. There's none of that here; it's love, pure love.
But outside's a wasteland; a hell.
Nice piece of writing.
ReplyDeleteIt would be difficult for me to live in a city at this point in my life. I heat with a passive wood stove in part to avoid the sound of a furnace blower. Winter is about as quiet as can be, both inside and out. Neighbors are far away. I am surrounded by woods. One can get used to the noise of urban life, but I don’t want to.
You write well. Have you seen Jozien's blog? I used to link to it but the past five years she's too long between posts.
Deletehttp://jozien.blogspot.com/
But I'd like to read what you'd write about your winter.
I have visited her blog after seeing your references and her comments. I especially like her perspectives on beauty.
DeleteI don't mind city noise and crowding, because I expect it. It's what cities are. But out in the wilder parts of the land I get pissed at manmade noise. Generators, idling diesels, ATVs, motorcycles, chain saws, gunfire...
ReplyDeleteIn early childhood we lived in Japan. It was astonishing to see how comfortable people were even though CRAMMED together. But what was more astounding was how quiet it was...at least at night. As a youngster I'd likely not have noticed except my parents commented on it...and how quiet our maid(s)s were as they went about their work.
DeleteOver 30 years ago, when cities REALLY began to boom, I read how in Germany they banned loud mufflers on vehicles.
The other day I stopped for some reason at a house in a small Hispanic community. The loud blatting of an approaching vehicle could be heard from quite a distance. As it got closer it grew increasingly, to me, offensive. The pickup was driven by a man in his forties who grinned from the rolled down window as he went by. I commented to the fellow I was talking with that, "Some people never grow up." He didn't reply.
When I was 14 (due to divorce and living in a rural community, I got a driver's license when I was 12) I took the mufflers off our Volkswagon; like silencers, they were just stuck on the back of the tailpipes. I'd put 'em back in when I got home. I did it for about a year, but it lost its thrill.
Our culture seems to have a complacency that has resulted in what we now endure. I've thought of moving, but as far as I can tell there's nowhere else like the American West. And although I've begun to think I've been everywhere, I keep finding places (like Fantasy Canyon) that let me know there's lots more out there.
But I wonder how/why we came to equate the sound of glass-pak mufflers and the crotch-rockets running through their gears, all day and through the night, quite audible even several miles away, as the sound of freedom.
Eggbert was surprisingly capable, but Phoebe's 4wd has been worth its weight in finding peace.