The Hellish Handbasket Blog

  • Wherever you go, there you are

    I still haven’t learned that I can’t outrun myself. I keep trying. Moving from place to place, job to job, relationship to relationship. Everytime I look over my shoulder to see if I finally ditched my shadow, there it is, following me step for step. It’s not fair. I want to be somebody else.

    I was thinking today about the strangeness of being in a body. Not just this body, any body. Like, how does consciousness suddenly enter and animate something, turn it from a nonliving thing to something that lives and maybe breathes, eats, poops, and grows? I don’t get it. I keep trying to get it. Which is probably part of my problem.

    I think having a place to live has caused some cognitive dissonance in my aging brain. It’s such a profound difference from my previous living situation. It’s like I melted and recoalesced as a different person. That’s probably why I keep thinking I have to keep running to escape whatever residual trauma I’m dragging along with me.

    I think a lot about the journey of the past year and a half. The places I saw, the people I met, the disasters I somehow avoided. I have certain images etched into my brain. The forest outside of Flagstaff. The desert in Quartzsite. And the epic roadtrip across the country to Boston and back. Now, from the safety of my tiny small-town burrow, I have a profound disbelief that the person who saw all those places was me.

    Here are this week’s five words that prompted the scene below.

    authority

    charlatan

    swivel

    green

    coffee

    Dave and I met at the local diner for coffee, as we usually did on Saturday mornings. We never say much, just the usual chit chat before work. Today Dave stared into his coffee for quite a while. 

    Finally I noticed. “What’s up Dave?”

    “Frank saw an alien at Fred Meyer pharmacy a few days ago.” 

    “Wow. How did Frank know it was an alien?” 

    “It was short, thin, and green.” 

    “Green? Was it wearing clothes?”

    Dave said, “Frank wasn’t sure if it was skin or if it was some kind of uniform. Definitely green, though. Kind of a neon chartreuse. He said it hurt his eyes to look at it.”

    “Oh brother. Dave, a lot of people are short, thin, and wear green. Frank was pulling your leg. It might have been a kid dressed like a dinosaur. Maybe it was a protester in a frog costume. What made Frank think it was an alien?”

    “Frank said its head swiveled in a circle.”

    “Swiveled! What do you mean, swiveled? Like in the Exorcist?”

    “Yep. He said it was really something.”

    “It sounds like it was something alright. A tequila-induced hallucination. Dave, you got snowed. I have it on good authority, Frank is a charlatan. He’s pulling your leg big time.”

    Dave scratched his head. “I dunno. I was coming out of Walmart, and I saw something green get into a little silver car, shaped like a Beetle but rounder. It started rolling toward the shopping carts, and I yelled, ‘hey, look out.’ He stopped and leaned out the window. He asked me, ‘Do you want a ride?’ I said ‘no thanks.’ He drove straight up in the air and disappeared.”

    Ha. Maybe all I need is to meet an alien in a silver Beetle. Beam me up!

  • Attitude of gratitude

    I took housing for granted. I didn’t know it at the time, but now that I’m housed, I realize being unhoused is not normal. Shelter is a human need. Even animals need shelter. They dig holes, they build nests, they hang out under rocks. I supposed there are some that live under the open sky, but humans can’t for long. I’ve seen them try, and it doesn’t end well.

    I was lucky, so lucky, I had a car. Many unhoused people are not that lucky. I am grateful for that car, and I’m even more grateful that now it’s just a big hunk of metal on four rubber tires, sitting in the rain in the parking lot. It’s hard to believe I lived my life in that box for a year and a half. It’s hard to believe I don’t have to anymore.

    Now I am slogging through dissociation, trying to assimilate my new living situation. It feels surreal to walk across an entire room, to have two hallways to mix up (which one goes the bathroom, which one to the front door?), to have a bed way over there, ten generous steps from where I sit now typing. It’s been almost two months, and I still can’t believe this is where I live. That this space is for me.

    Eventually my brain will settle in, and the time I spent living in my car will fade into memory. Already, I’m marveling that I had the courage (and naivete) to drive across the country, sleeping overnight in rest areas and parking lots. It’s almost as if someone else was brave (and stupid), not me.

    This self-questioning has happened to me before. I’ve done things in my lfe I can’t believe I did . . . produced fashion shows, ran a marathon, taught at a college, earned a doctorate, published books . . . Now I can add my epic cross-country road trip to the list. I’m grateful to the Universe I was able to make that trip, because I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do something like that again.

    Speaking of which, did I mention I tore out the build in my car? My little house on wheels is no longer habitable. It’s just empty space now, with a steering wheel at the front. If it disappeared from the parking lot, I would be sad, but I would be okay. Everything I need is within walking distance. Food, doctor, library. What more does one need?

    My friends tell me I sound a lot more relaxed now. I am. I can feel it. The tension in my body has dissipated a lot, in spite of arthritis eating at my hip, in spite of my continued dizziness. I have a lot fewer things to worry about. On the road, I was constantly planning and doing, white-knuckling in the moment. Now I meander from one activity to another, with long stretches of time during which I stare out the window at green grass, trees, and clouds, doing nothing. The only thing I lack is a bathtub. If I had a tub, I’d be in it right now.

    I still have plans, but now my plans don’t involve devising survival strategies. I’m noodling around with my next writing project, trying to find a way into a new world. I’m spending a lot of time (for very little compensation) being a helpful committee member to wannabe dissertators. I go for walks when it’s not too cold. I eat more vegetables. I keep blogging.

    On the downside, I spend way too much time watching independent news channels, but on the upside, I also spend a lot of time enjoying Korean romcoms. It’s a nice balance of terror and comedy, a small personalized reflection of reality.

  • I’m already missing the sun

    My three-week attempt to pretend as if I belong here in paradise, AKA Scottsdale, Arizona, is coming to a close. In a few days, I’ll be making the trek back to Oregon. In other words, voluntarily turning myself in to begin my sentence in the gray cold rain prison known as the Willamette Valley. I’m spending a lot of time staring into blue sky, hoping I won’t forget what it looks and feels like when I’m trudging through sleet to get into the grocery store without slipping.

    Other than the weather, I don’t know what my new life as a housed person is going to look like. I have the keys to my new apartment, but I haven’t seen it yet. Nor have I spent time in my new town, other than one drive-by. I have a feeling my bleeding liberal heart will not be welcomed by most of the town folk. I just hope when they see my “No Kings” window stickers, they don’t choose me for the Lottery.

    Maybe I’ll like it there in my new town. Maybe I’ll decide I love the cold gray drizzly skies after all, that sunshine and blue skies are for babies and wimps. I met people in Portland who said they loved the gray drizzle. I looked at them as if they were curious misguided members of an exotic species. They were never from the Willamette Valley. That should tell you something.

    Maybe I’ll spend a month in the tub, assuming my new place has hot water. I have no idea if it has a tub. That wasn’t on my dealbreaker list. The only dealbreakers I stipulated were no cockroaches and no bedbugs. The property manager assured me the apartment complex had neither. I believe her about cockroaches. Like me, they don’t tend to favor cold climates. Bedbugs, on the other hand, will live anywhere there is a live human host. I guess an animal will do if starvation is imminent, but humans are the staple of the bedbut diet, not to mention the scourge of multifamily housing.

    Speaking of getting bitten, mosquitoes. Not surprising they like it here. Sprinklers plus shady grass equals delicious mud puddles that never evaporate. Plus there are two or three good sized ponds, small lakes, you could call them, full of turgid brown water. A few fountains and aerators do a haphazard job of mud mixing, but I’m sure if I were a mosquito looking for a nice place to dump my eggs, this is heaven. Divots of standing water abound.

    I won’t have to miss the mud. I’m sure there will be plenty where I’m going. But I will miss the intense blue sky and the sun glittering on the lakes. I’ll miss the little dog, who constantly makes me laugh, even when she’s being an annoying manipulative pill. I’ll miss the leafy trees and colorful flowers. I’ll miss the huge marble-surfaced kitchen island, twice as bigger in square footage as my minivan. I’ll miss the stainless steel fridge that generously dispenses not just water but also ice cubes and crushed ice. I’ll miss the skylights that glow at night with light from the full moon.

    I’m sadder by the minute when I think of leaving Arizona. It’s likely I won’t be back.

  • Look back but don’t stare

    This week I have access to electricity. If you have ever lived long without it, you know how great it is. I’m lucky enough to have been born in the U.S., where most of the time, most of us have access to electricity, if we choose to connect. I know in many places around the world, electricity is not available or nonexistent.

    When I’m on the road, I keep track of the power levels on my three power boxes. They are all baby power boxes, compared to some of the monsters van lifers talk about on their van life YouTube channels. When I say monster, I mean, back-breaking space hogs that can power a microwave, a fridge, a laptop, and a television—all at the same time!

    I can power my portable camping fridge for three days and two nights with my 800 wh power box. My little 240 wh box will run my laptop for a solid 6 hours. Any appliance that generates serious heat, like a heater, for instance, will chew through power like this dog I’m babysitting chews through her breakfast, that is to say, the box won’t last long. This is why van lifers who heat their vans use propane, butane, or diesel.

    I’ve forgotten why I started writing this blogpost.

    Oh, yeah. Electricity.

    Having unlimited access to electricity for a couple weeks has meant I can get some tasks done that I can’t easily do on the road. For example, I can do a massive file backup to the solid state drive I cannibalized from my old desktop computer before I donated it to the e-recyling nonprofit in Tucson. That might make my laptop happy. On the downside, I’ll never be able to find anything. Which is kind of the theme of living in one’s car.

    I can cull the songs on the flashdrive I plug into the USB port in my car. I’ve decided I no longer care for Zydeco. There are a few Doors songs that came with an album I ripped some years back that I’d rather not listen to again. I’m really sick of hearing Pleasant Valley Sunday. The shuffle option on the USB drive is stuck in some stupid algorithm that serves up songs in the same order. Thankfully, I figured out I can press the >>> button on the radio to skip to the next track. But it will be better if the offending songs are removed altogether.

    For the past couple days, I’ve been archiving the blogposts from the Hellish Handbasket blog, which has been hosted on Blogger since 2012. As I was going through the files, I tried not to read any of the text, but was hard not to notice references to my mother, because there are so many. And to my cat, whose demise still breaks my heart. I carry the ashes of my two dead cats in my car. Leaving them in storage for so long was weighing on me. I figure if I drive the car off a bridge, at least we’ll all go down together.

    Let’s see, what else? I can finish editing and formatting the third book of the trilogy I’ve been working on for two years. In my defense, the book has been delayed because my characters’ ideas were different from mine. When your characters jump off the page, it’s hard to get them back within the margins. It took me a while to figure out who they were and what they wanted to say. I’ve always loved to write, even if no one ever reads my work. I write for myself. Which is a good thing, because I don’t see my own typos anymore.

    Scottsdale weather this week has been like Willamette Valley weather but 20 degrees warmer. It’s been cloudy and wet here. The dog and I are both sunloving creatures, so we’ve had to compete for whatever patch of sun we can find. She always wins. I’ve learned to tolerate rain showers, but I’m lucky. I have an umbrella and a great rain jacket. The dog has neither. She doesn’t mind getting her paws wet or dirty, but she despises rain on her back. She would hate living in Oregon.

    Once again, I realize why I left Oregon for Arizona, and before that, for California. I was born in Oregon, but I never felt I belonged there. Soon I will be returning to Oregon to live. I’m relieved that I’ll have stable housing for the next year, but I’m anxious about the gray skies and frequent showers. Winter is not my favorite time of year, and returning to Oregon in December doesn’t sound like fun. Still, I have to go. I’m paying rent for a place I haven’t even seen yet. I suppose I should at least find out if it has cockroaches.

    And electricity.

  • What lies beyond the refuge of resentment?

    I’ve been walking a lot lately. Today I walked at a favorite location: the Sandy River Delta. It costs money to park in the parking lot, so I park at the Lewis & Clark State Recreation Area (which FYI as of October 1 also requires a $10 per day parking permit, but you can get an annual permit for only $30).

    The path to the Delta goes under a railroad bridge and then under the east bound and westbound lanes of the I-84 freeway.

    Today I passed two big dumpsters just before I got to the underpasses, both filled to the rims with plastic bags and trash. I thought, uh-oh.

    Many homeless people live in encampments along the Sandy River, just past the freeway. At least, until now.

    Today I walked under the underpass and found two uniformed guards standing in front of a white canopy tent. A portapotty on a little trailer was parked next to the tent. One of the guards was young and pale, with a toothy smile. The other was older and shorter with brown skin (not Hispanic, more like Middle Eastern). Both perked up when they saw me coming toward them.

    I emerged into the sunlight, put on my I-come-in-peace face, and said hello, how are you doing? Then I asked, what are you doing?

    “Making sure no one goes that way,” the young guy said, pointing toward the River where the encampments were.

    “Oh, that’s what those dumpsters . . . ?”

    He nodded.

    I pointed in the opposite direction, toward the Delta parking lot. “I always go that way.”

    I almost told them I got lost in the woods one time and passed many little huts, tents, and tarp shelters pitched among the trees and along the riverbank. Why bother, though? I just wanted to tell someone I got lost. It’s not exactly news. I get lost pretty much everywhere I go. For sure, I didn’t want to ask my burning question: Where the hell do you think these people are going to go?

    “Have a nice day,” said the kid.

    Speaking of unhoused, I’m still waiting to hear if the property management company is going to rent to me. I’m living in limbo these days, roaming the I-5 freeway, bopping from one rest area to another, trying to avoid Portland as much as possible. I wouldn’t call this the nomadic life the YouTubers gush about. This lifestyle reminds me of a short sci-fi story I read once, where parking was so scarce, people spent their lives in their cars. Obviously, that was before drive-thru was de rigeur.

    The weather is shifting toward winter here in the Pacific Northwest. Nights are getting cold. Sunbreaks are rare, which means I’m having to charge my big power station at a library or coffee shop. Compared to living in the Arizona, maintaining electricity while homeless is a lot of work.

    Not to mention, Portland is apparently on fire. Somehow that happened, and I didn’t notice.

    I would head south right now but there’s a No Kings day planned for October 18. Gotta be there. Then I have medical stuff in early November. The minute that is done, I’m making tracks for Arizona.

    Unless I get housing. Then a new chapter begins.

  • Welcome to the new Hellish Handbasket blog

    The Hellish Handbasket Blog has existed since 2012 as a Google Blogger site. I started blogging when I was an instructor at a shady for-profit career college (I outlasted you, all you fake educator/administrators, bwahaha).

    Since then, I’ve ranted about surviving graduate school, slogging through my mother’s decline and death, regretting my move to Tucson, and last year, making the dubious decision to downsize into my car. It’s been a ride, and I guess it’s not over. Through it all, this blog has been my patient albeit silent therapist.

    Who am I? Thanks for asking.

    In case you are new here, I’m Carol B., previously known as Carol B., the Chronic Malcontent. I always thought I was a pessimistic fatalist. Addicted to fatal pessimism. Something like that. Then I took a test. My results showed I was actually a hopeful optimist.

    What do they say about knowing thyself? Clearly, I didn’t.

    I came from Portland, Oregon, spent twenty years in Los Angeles, moved back to Portland for twenty-four more years, and then made the colossal four-year mistake of moving to Tucson. It took a while for me to see the light: Tucson was not my home, and if I didn’t take drastic action, I was going to run out of money.

    Hence, the nomadic lifestyle. Now I live everywhere and nowhere, not by choice, but by necessity. I am old, my income is limited, and the rents are too damn high.

    Why do I write anonymously?

    I chose to write anonymously for a few reasons. First, I was employed, and much of my whining involved my employer. I wanted to stay employed. Second, I wrote a lot about family. My sister didn’t want to be outed. Third, while I was still employed, I enrolled in graduate school. If anyone at that school had Googled my name, they would have discovered my disdain for for-profit higher education. Considering my dissertation was about academic quality in for-profit education, I didn’t think it wise to attract that much scrutiny. Gatekeepers can be ruthless.

    Finally, possibly most important, I needed someone to listen to me.

    I don’t feel embarrassed about that. After some years of counseling and a gazillion years of something that might pass for recovery on a good day, I have accepted the reality that I just need to be heard. I think most people just want to be heard. In fact, I believe listening deeply to others is the greatest gift we can offer.

    Whoa. Back on track.

    This blog has been my therapist since the beginning. It took me a while to find my voice, but eventually I figured out what I wanted to say and how to say it. If I ever write a memoir, I have a boatload of content.

    I’ve moved the blog to a WordPress platform.

    The new URL is thehellishhandbasket.com. If you are reading this, you already know that.

    If you are one of my regular readers, I hope you will bookmark the new site.

    If you want notifications of new posts in your email inbox, you will need to enroll the site in your favorite RSS feed app. There are many. You probably know more about all that than I do. For obvious reasons, I don’t have an option to subscribe to this website. I’m not interested in building traffic, driving engagement, or selling products. No merch here. I just want to express myself anonymously without fear of retaliation, rejection, or remorse.

    Just the unabridged, uncut rantings of a former chronic malcontent.

    I believe you can add comments, though. The former blogsite allowed comments as well, but after the first year, nobody ever left any. (I blame Google.) The only way I knew I had readers was if someone called me after reading a post to ask me how I was feeling (subtext: are you really going to [ram your head against a wall / drive your car off a cliff / march on Washington and self-immolate in front of the White House?])

    But Carol, what about the art?

    cartoon of a whiner

    If you are a regular reader of The Hellish Handbasket, you are familiar with the format: text plus a drawing. I have attempted to duplicate that format on this new platform. I’m still learning the new WordPress interface, so don’t be surprised if I screw it up. It’s how I roll.

    I still have a thousand or so drawings that you haven’t seen. Plus, I have lots more to complain about. I could keep this up for years.