Scribery

It is just after 3:00 as I type this. I have been moderately awake for some time, thrashing around in the bed, trying without success to get comfortable. During the period in which I was not asleep but could not yet claim to have been awake, I spoke out loud to myself, inquiring as to the reasons for a strange form of insomnia that trapped me between unconsciousness and wakefulness. My inquiries went unanswered. No matter. My inability to sleep, while sometimes an annoyance, has not reached the point of being a problem. So, instead of bitching about it, I simply wonder about it. And just cope.

When I got up, I checked my email—a bad habit to get into in the wee hours—and noticed a Nextdoor message from a Hot Springs Village neighbor, claiming to have seen thirty satellites in a straight line about four hours ago (that would have been 11:00 p.m.) and asking if anyone else had seen them. One respondent said she had seen them, but counted only about fifteen. The extraterrestrial invasion has begun.

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There’s a possibility that a mistreated chihuahua will find a home with me before long. No assurances, of course, but I’m exploring the possibility. I thought my dog days were long gone with the departure of Bob, the 54 pound Mountain Cur mix sweetheart I loved but could not fathom giving adequate care and exercise. But on Saturday, I came across a dog named Ricky. Ricky seems like a perfect match for someone like me…a geezer who wants a pocket dog. We’ll see. Ricky will visit me on Tuesday afternoon, when his savior will bring him by my house. My friend, the retired veterinarian, has agreed to come to my house to meet with and assess Ricky. Her advice will factor heavily in whether I decide to give Ricky a new home. I did not expect anything quite so soon. But you can’t always forecast the future. We’ll see.

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This afternoon, about ten hours from now, I’m going boating with my very nice and wonderfully generous neighbors. They are taking me out on Lake Balboa on their pontoon boat. Afterward, we will stop in at El Jimador to buy three orders of Seafood Ranchero to take back to their house, where we will sit outside on the deck and enjoy the meal, assuming the weather cooperates. Many times, they have insisted that I not even think about moving away; I suspect their insistence has arisen from their secret assumptions that one day, I just might. This afternoon, I will tell them I am exploring that possibility. On the one hand, it’s comforting to know that my neighbors like me enough to lobby hard for me to stay where I am; but on the other, that knowledge makes it difficult to tell them a move is a very real possibility.

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I got a call from one of the realtors who came by last week to look at the house. She has done an analysis and is prepared to give me a report that offers her best estimate of the “right” asking price, if I were to decide to sell. I’ll meet her at her office early Monday morning to go over her findings. She told me when she was here that, if I decide to sell, I must have a plan in place as to where I’ll go; she suggested it would be essentially pointless to think I might find a house in the Village because the market is so fiercely competitive right now. Another friend, who lives in Hot Springs, said the same. She is in sort of the same boat I’m in; looking to move, but she has business reasons to stay in Hot Springs, so she is being squeezed by the tight market. And, so, for me, a move would not be simply out of this house, but out of this area.

I have intensely mixed feelings about that.  A move would take me away from a number of people I have come to call friends; more people in that category than I have ever had. And I wonder if it would be even remotely possible to ever find another group of people where I might, finally, fit.  But, in addition to people with whom I feel a deep and growing connection, this area is awash in ultra-conservative, right-wing, gun-loving, flag-waving, uncompassionate, bible-thumping zealots. And even more difficult is the fact that everywhere I turn I am reminded of the good times I have enjoyed here with my wife.  This part of the world is awash in chiggers, too, every summer; that’s one reason I don’t get outside and walk/hike much.  If I were to sell this house for a significant amount of money, that money would be available for me to find a home someplace else. A smaller home that might cost as much as this one fetches, but that could be in an area where the benefits outweigh the costs. I wish I could take “my people” with me or convince them to follow me. I’ve long wished to create a co-housing arrangement. Or even a commune. A place in the country that could become a haven, a retreat away from the noise and distractions of a population center (but close enough to have access to big city amenities…I live in a fantasy world). Crap, I really am a dreamer. “My people” don’t know me well enough to do that. And I doubt they like me enough to want to live with me, even in separate houses. I think, while they may miss me, I doubt “my people” would urge me to stay. Why would they? We’re not really close friends; we’re more like buddies, I think. But I’m closer to this “tribe” than I’ve ever been to any other group of people. Most of them have at least one thing in common; they are involved in my church. I wonder whether that’s a clue as to where I should consider landing?

My ideal place is a dream world that probably doesn’t exist. I could just be gypsy for awhile. I could dispose of most of my possessions and roam, looking for a place and people who would make me feel like I’m home. I exchanged some emails with a friend just a day or so ago, in which we discussed the subject of  where we consider “home.” She said the Village doesn’t feel like home to her. I said I had a different definition. In my words, ” I look at home as the place I can go to every night and feel like it belongs to me. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt like home was a permanent place to which I could always return.” But I understand her perspective. And I wish I felt there was a place where I would always be welcome and to which I could always return and feel safe and secure and love and all the rest…but that may be a fantasy, too.

I’ve thought about moving to Fort Smith, to be close to where my good friends of fifty years or more live. But there’s no guarantee they will stay there. There’s no guarantee of anything. Or I could move back to Texas to be closer to some of my family. But Texas has become a state where I am not sure I want to spend my time; the politics of the state, alone, is reason to avoid it. Or I could consider moving to the Dayton, Ohio area, where my nephew and his wife and my former sister-in-law live at present. “At present.” There’s no reason to think that will change, but there is, again, no guarantee. I have a sister in California, but moving there would be like intentionally emptying my bank account. Or I could look again at Mexico, a place I’ve fallen in love with. But now, especially with COVID, it’s hard to consider. And I can’t be certain my brother and his wife, who live there, will remain there. Would I like it as much if I were really and truly alone? Everything is a crap-shoot. Even staying here. Especially staying here.

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Over the past several days, I’ve been poring over maps of the USA, picking out areas I might like to explore. I’ve gone online to Zillow.com and realtor.com to check into  house and land prices. I’ve looked at street-view images of places that look intriguing; hoping to find that small-town America that may exist only in my imagination and in carefully scripted films. A friend, considering her options because she does not feel she is home, has been doing the same thing. It will behoove me to compare notes with her; I think she’s after many of the same things I’m looking for.

There must be some place I could go that would feel, instantly, like an embrace. A place where I would look around and sigh and and say to myself, “So, this is what home looks like and feels like, is it?’ No, such a place does not necessarily exist. I have to keep telling myself it’s not the place, it’s the people. And it’s not the place, it’s me. And it’s not the place, it’s how I feel when I’m in it. But I have to be careful about this. Even though I feel closer to my “tribe” than I’ve ever felt before, it’s not really a strong bond. It’s more like willing and welcoming acceptance than  a powerful embrace. While I may wish for a closer connection that is wise or emotionally safe, I may be living in a fantasy world. I may have unrealistic expectations. Duh, John, you think?

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Ignoring the possibilities of the future, I commented online last night to a neighbor down the street about her wisteria. That conversation led her to prepare a cutting for me, which I will pick up in a few hours. She warned me that it’s hard to control, once they start to grow, so I should be careful. Be careful. That’s good advice, and not just about wisteria that grows like kudzu.

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I’ve spent more than an hour and a half at my desk, pouring out competing thoughts and ideas. I think I’m adding to my confusion more than coming to a conclusion. I’m trying to decide now whether a cup of coffee or a snifter of cognac would be the best choice as a comforter and companion right now. Maybe a cognac, followed by coffee.  Ach. It’s 4:40; I don’t think it would be wise to drink cognac right now, even if followed by coffee.

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I think it must have been a dream that woke me up a few hours ago. But I do not remember what it was about, if indeed it was a dream. Sometimes, it’s better not to recall dreams because dreams can be nightmares.

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I posted a photo yesterday’s on Facebook of breakfast. It was an unusual breakfast of pan-seared tilapia and raw zucchini (intended as the previous night’s dinner that had not be prepared). A friend commented that my photo was not breakfast and that I needed to learn what constitutes a “breakfast.” I invited her to come teach me this morning. I await her arrival. But it’s early yet. In the meantime, I may cure my early morning hunger with a few pieces of herring in wine sauce.

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What I have done this morning cannot be considered writing. I do not know what it is, but it’s not writing. Maybe it’s self-induced hypnosis as therapy, produced online for reasons unknown to the scribe.

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