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I had something of a breakthrough the other day. Yes, I have a lot of those, a consequence of having handicapped myself initially to bring more excitement to my later years. (Think of it as exercise in search of work.) So I feel pretty good. It really is different not being angry and depressed, and I’ve been kind of lost at sea—but I have lots to do now! Who knew?

Oh, right.

That must be why someone mentioned Port Townsend, Washington, one of my occasional log-cabin-home-in-the-sky fantasy relocations of the last few years, and got me rolling again. It is strange, though. The place came up twice in the same conversation today about different people in Taos. Even our local buyer’s agent, a long-time resident and desert rat, visited the place recently and liked it.

Every time this happens I get jacked up in a certain way. The thrill (?) of starting over, maybe, or busting out of jail. Meet new people, learn new things, have new adventures. One envisions opportunity. The water flows where it will go and Gabriel blows his horn. There are many different prisons though, some of which we carry in our heads.

The truth is, there’s nothing in my present life configuration that clouds, more people, and ten grand down the drain for moving would settle for the better. (Put me on the water in a wooden boat, and maybe then we’ll see.) I’d certainly like to go there, though, and a thousand other places in between.

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Behold the glorious new day! Just before I’m dead, I come into my own. Anyone can do this, you don’t have to be a fucking kid. (More on that stuff later.) And see? I’ve gone completely native, too. They said it couldn’t happen, but it did. Good God, are we ever doomed.

But no, behold I say! (Was he not listening?) The power of the magic! A new way to get a home so we can finally have all our stuff together and throw it out and start over with two motorcycles and a mule! After consulting with the Black Madonna, I’ve activated a dangerous mystical art device to draw a house to us instead of poking listings with a stick, as if I’d ever trust them anyway.

The cast bronze bell is something I rescued from a tangle of vines outside the dead landlord’s apartment. Attached to the clapper with black twine from my late aunt’s house in Maine is a strip of cedar marked with symbols. The bell rings when the wind blows hard and tosses the wood around. The other two inscribed cedar strips hang from the same black twine and flail about as well, clacking against the tree. Ding-clack-ding-clack and the call goes out! The markings on the wood are strong: pictographs for home and mountains, a zia sign, a symbol from a special dream. The tree itself is growing just outside the old adobe and has lifted up the stucco. Yes, that is a gas line running along the wall. Big medicine all around.

As I write this at 2:00 a.m., the wind is howling from the northwest and has been for some time. Most likely everything in the photo has blown down, but I will resurrect it in the morning. This ain’t no namby-pamby bullshit! I’m going to have to watch my head. A perfect house could fall right out of the sky. It’s on the way now and it’s hungry. Help me, Lord, I’ve gone and done it now for sure.

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Here’s more evidence that we’ve skipped ahead to spring. As anyone who’s lived through a few years in el Norte knows, spring means howling wind and blowing dust! Tie the patio chairs down and hold on, that kind of thing. Somewhere in another life, spring meant tree frogs, blooming redbuds, and soft, perfumed air. Or is that something I saw on a label in the bathroom?

The point here is that we “should” be having snow and mud. Just a few years ago it was twenty-six below zero near the end of February. The video above is straight-ahead first week of May weather!

One tends not to complain in February when the daily highs run ten to twenty degrees above normal under big blue skies. I took this photo on Friday, when I was hiking in my shorts! This is more than passing strange, however. It snowed hard once back in November and again in early December, if I remember right, but ever since we’ve only seen a couple of dustings that disappear by noon. Those don’t count, except in Texas.

I don’t have anything sensible to say about this. Living in the moment means I love it. Thinking about wells going dry at some point is for others, not anyone I know here. It’s happening elsewhere, though, and drillers are riding the edge of a boom. In the Imperial Valley of California, for example, you’ll have to wait a whole year to get your well re-drilled. Just a temporary fix, of course.

It’s supposed to be 63 °F today. Yesterday the high at the Albuquerque Sunport was 70 °F, the average daily high for April 20th. Only nine weeks early, in other words. Right now, in February, is when New Mexico usually receives the most precipitation (in the form of snow), but nothing’s happening. No wagon trains headed east, either.

We’ll just have to see, I guess. I’m putting on my shorts and going hiking again right now. No matter what else happens, I’ll be in shape and have a tan.

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