Squatting

Home being squatted in Phoenix, Arizona

Our neighborhood has a homeless problem that spills out in all directions. From encampments in front of restaurants, car washes, bus stops, behind grocery stores, and hidden away next to cinderblock walls sandwiched between a line of tall plants, the proliferation of homeless people has continued to grow since the end of the COVID lockdown. Ironically, I’d recently read that Atlanta, Georgia, leads the country with about 1,200 properties being squatted in by people who would otherwise be homeless. Well, a house in our neighborhood that was empty for almost two years has been taken over.

Home being squatted in Phoenix, Arizona

We suspected such for the past weeks, but it wasn’t until this morning, as we were walking by and seeing a locksmith parked in front, that we learned that it was, in fact, true: squatters had taken over the house. Earlier that day, the police had been called and upon their arrival, the people camped inside ran and were allowed to flee as there’s really nothing law enforcement can do about the issue since it’s simply overwhelming. The locksmith told us that the owner was inside assessing the situation, and so I went and said hello. It turns out she inherited the place when her sister passed away, and she’s been too distraught to deal with selling the home, but now that it’s been defiled, it seems she’s changed her mind. After talking a bit, she invited us in to see the carnage for ourselves. A ton of drug paraphernalia was in the master bedroom, however the kitchen and bathrooms were being cared for with cleaning supplies on hand and fresh food was stored in the clean fridge. Interior doors appeared to have been punched in, there was some minor writing on the walls, and all of the belongings left behind hinted that at least four people had fled.

Home being squatted in Phoenix, Arizona

Though the owner paid to have the locks changed, she left the broken sliding door in the back to stay that way, with the hope that the transients would return to fetch their worldly possessions. They returned a few days later, but instead of grabbing their stuff, they moved right back in. I called to notify her, but she sounded defeated, and at the time I’m writing this, a couple of weeks later, they are still living rent-free under a roof keeping them dry and hidden away while cooking up whatever it was in the burned piece of foil on the carpet.

Kronos Quartet

Kronos Quartet in Scottsdale, Arizona

In January 2020, already aware of how COVID-19 was impacting China and only weeks away from it colliding with Italy, Caroline and I were sitting third-row center at the Musical Instrument Museum for an inspiring performance by the Kronos Quartet. Here we are, four years later, and they have returned to Arizona for tonight’s performance at the Virginia G. Piper Theater in Scottsdale. Fortunately, there is no looming health scare on the horizon this evening, though the chaos wrought by populism and fear of our world going sideways is its own kind of pandemic. For two hours this evening, from the fourth row left of center, we are transported to this group’s brilliant modern interpretation of music that included what for us was an absolute first: the use of Pop Rocks popping in the mouths of two of the artists.

Writing in Duncan, Arizona

Old Cemetary in Duncan, Arizona

As I settle in to write this post, everything feels a bit topsy-turvy and upside down because I have to drag myself out of a routine that has become an everyday habit: writing a book (possibly). The very reason I found myself in Duncan again about two weeks after my last visit was due to my desire to go deeper into the wordsmithing, and so if I’ve been occupied by putting the proverbial pen to paper, why should writing this particular update be a slightly intrusive chore? Because it’s not what I’m used to writing.

Gila River in Duncan, Arizona

That other side of my writing, the side readers of my blog cannot currently see, has been a flow of inspiration running through me and into a document that grows longer with meandering curves and movements that remain in the draft stage.

Sock made by Caroline Wise in Duncan, Arizona

Consider a brand-new pair of handcrafted socks, one cannot wear them before the last stitch has been added. The same goes for what I’m working on, as nobody knows if I’ll reach the end. Also, when Caroline knitted these new socks over the previous weeks, all she could do was add one stitch at a time. I’m adding one letter, one word, one sentence at a time.

Writing at the Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Arizona

Unlike in face-to-face conversations, nothing in writing is conveyed in real time. There is always a lag, and so it is also true of this post that is taking shape in mid-March, only to be posted in February. The post had to wait, as at the forefront of my intention, I’ve been dumping almost every bit of myself into determining if I possess the wherewithal to accomplish such a lofty task as writing something longer than I’ve attempted to date. From my perspective here in the future, I can assure you that I’ve eclipsed my previous efforts and that momentum is carrying the story further down the proverbial page, at least as of this moment.

Mt Graham near Safford, Arizona seen from the New Mexico border

The snow-capped mountain in the distance is Mt. Graham, where Caroline and I visited the telescopes perched up top. On this trip to Duncan, I am traveling solo, which helps me focus every effort on my task at hand, but there’s only so far I can go in my head before I need to get out and stretch my eyes beyond the screen. It’s a rare day when out walking, talking to my muse, that I don’t leave with something, and today I had to stop along the way on my walk into New Mexico and take note of the Japanese concept of “Forest Bathing,” a.k.a., Shinrin’yoku that would become “Desert Bathing,” or Sabaku’yoku in the larger body of text I toil with on a daily basis.

Old car in Duncan, Arizona

Metaphors appear in everything: through a small break in a window, I peered into an old garage, spotting some classic cars, with one looking magnificent in the shadowy light of morning. I must do the same thing with my mind, which arrives with no small amount of anxiety rushing toward me. Who really knows how full the garage of their imagination is and if what’s in it has value or if it’s crammed floor to ceiling with useless junk? At a point in my writing, I may have to reconcile the wisdom found in the idiom, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” and hope that my treasure might have value beyond trash for others.

WeBe Valentines

Artists Jef Caine and Aileen Martinez at WeBe Coffee in Phoenix, Arizona

Meet artist/illustrators Jef Caine and Aileen Martinez, whom I often run into at WeBe Coffee here in Phoenix, Arizona. I first met Aileen sometime last year due to her vibrant, nearly at the cusp of flamboyantly colorful clothes and the ever-present evolving toolkit of materials she works with, from traditional pencils and paints to digital apps, too. Months went by, though it could have been mere weeks, until Jef came into the shop to join Aileen for a creation session, blabbing, or maybe it was the beginning of the collaboration that started with working on this Valentine’s card they exquisitely created for yours truly that focuses on my greatest asset – MY BIG BRAIN!!

Memories of Scandinavia

Scandinavian Foods in Phoenix, Arizona

I should concede that Caroline and I, in our addiction to travel, are loathe to let go of our experiences. The tens of thousands of photos and millions of words I’ve penned are not the only connections to our adventures. Rare is the day that we’ve not fallen in love with other aspects of those travels, such as Caroline’s obsession with Mayan clothing from a trip to Chiapas, Mexico, a couple of years ago. This past summer, we became once more enamored with the usual stuff: nature, people, history, traditional clothing, and food.

Sometimes, what we desire, though, is hard to find in the United States. Take herring, not pickled, canned, or creamed. I wanted fresh herring, but that is not to be found. Caroline, with her relentless sleuthing skills, found a place that sold salted herring. After our recent experience with bacalao (salted cod) and the success of desalting it, I felt that salted herring could offer me what I desire, so we bought five pounds. Shipping was going to be pricy because of the weight, so if we are already paying for 2-day delivery, we might as well throw some other stuff into the package. We had originally found the Scandinavian Specialties shop up in Washington before Christmas, but they were sold out of many of the items we wanted.

By early February, things were restocked, and we were able to order a variety of caramelly goat cheeses called Brunost, another cheese popular in Sweden called Prästost (Priest cheese), and different types of crispbreads. We also just had to buy crispy onions as we’ve come to believe that Scandinavian crispy onions must be the secret ingredient in their amazing pølser (hotdogs). The photo shows our Scandinavian life-savers that bring us back to last year’s summer vacation. Daniel Espinoza of Scandinavian Specialties assisted us with our order and was incredibly helpful. He’ll also play a key role when we will order a cured winter lamb specialty called Pinnekjøtt towards the end of summer. These little luxuries are incredible reminders of just how fortunate we are.

Back to Duncan

Train passing through Duncan, Arizona

This is a consolidation post covering the previous five nights that I was staying at the Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Arizona. Why was I staying at the Simpson with proprietors Deborah and Clayton for this length of time? I was on a mission to write. And what does this train have to do with any of this? I still need to get my steps in, and as I’ve never seen this freight train in all the years Caroline and I have been traveling out this way, I felt it was high time to run out and catch it. Lucky for me, the whistle of its approach can be heard from the crossing preceding this one. The train is on its way to the copper mine up in Clifton-Morenci, and after it finishes its northwest trek it will turn around and head right back through here in about four hours, as it returns to New Mexico.

Following my routine out here in Eastern Arizona, I’ll be seated at the table in the parlor of this old west hotel by sunrise to start writing. Coffee will arrive at about 9:00, If I so desired, I could have it earlier, but I’m in no rush. As I’ve written previously, the luxurious vegetarian breakfasts are nothing less than a level of spectacular that only Marcel Proust could adequately describe. By 10:00, I’ll be done eating, though I only move one seat, back to where I originally occupied a place at the table, in order to continue tossing words upon the electronic paper.

Hal Empie's Pharmacy in Duncan, Arizona

By lunchtime or maybe early dinner, I’ve got to get up from the hardwood chair to get the blood flowing and gather more steps on my path of trying to maintain the 10k goal Caroline and I have. Speaking of Caroline, she’s working from home this week while I attempt to maintain a deep focus on the subject matter of writing. The good news is that my productivity nearly tripled during my stay, which wasn’t a certainty, but it turns out that not having a parade of people with whom I’ve cultivated regular conversations passing by in any of the multitude of coffee shops I frequent. Here in Duncan, I’m able to find a level of concentration that is elusive while I’m in Phoenix.

Many of my afternoon and/or evening meals are taken at the only restaurant in town, the Ranch House Restaurant, a classic small-town joint where I obviously stand out. The situation might be easily repaired by me donning a baseball cap, or if I were willing to invest in proper Western gear and a pricey cowboy hat, I too could look like a boss and get the respect the staff and other patrons offer these icons of the local community. Alas, I’m a simple hatless man who doesn’t really fit in. After eating, it’s time to collect a few more steps and talk to my muse about the direction of what I might be writing when I return to the hotel.

U.S. Post Office in Duncan, Arizona

And then I write, write, and write some more. No, I’m not visiting the post office to drop these missives. They are collected in a growing document in which I’m working on the roots and trunk of something I hope will grow into a fully formed tree with dozens of branches and tens of thousands of leaves. I did learn over these five days that intense writing sessions can wear one down and that when an incredible burst of productivity is realized, the consequence might be a total loss of inspiration to go further. A break was required.

So, this would be my last day in Duncan, and though Deborah and Clayton offered me an extra day, my forlorn heart required a dose of Caroline to resuscitate it from its longing to be embraced by her loving arms. Not expecting me until the following day, my Saturday return was a surprise to her and a relief for me.

Two Birds

Caroline Wise and a bird in Arizona

Rarely a day passes where a bird doesn’t fly into Caroline’s orbit alighting up on head, shoulder, or hand if she extends it. From ungainly seagulls trying to balance on her oval skull to owls and hawks on her shoulders, to the finches, robins, hummingbirds, woodpeckers, grackles, and other small birds that look for one of her dainty fingers to land on for a break and what we assume to be a moment of communion.

I remember a day some 15 years ago as though it was yesterday, we were on the Oregon coast when a pelican approached opening its beak pouch to offer her a fish as though Caroline was its chick. Fortunately, she’s never been the curiosity of vultures, though we are both aware that the day will arrive when their species will feast upon her, since being a Zoroastrian Parsi, she’s made it clear she desires a sky burial.