Magic Mountain In The Sky

The lights of Tucson glow behind the mountain, glowing a silhouette, casting an ominous glow across the clouds.  How can I not be enchanted?

At first I was not in love with this harsh desert landscape.  Everything is stark, hard-edged.  Everything has spines, or bites!  Life in the desert leaves a very fine margin for error.  Screw up once, and you easily lose your way in the maze of cacti and endless leguminous shrubs.  

Where is water?  

Mostly underground or locked inside plants that are stoutly defended by suits of spiny armor.

Where is food? 

All around you, locked inside plants that are stoutly defended.

Or running fast: jackrabbits, desert rats, lizards, snakes; you have only to gain access.  Good luck.

Watch out for things that bite or sting.  And everything bites or stings!  

The most terrifying sight in the desert is a dusty-looking cloud moving along 6 feet or so above the ground.  As you get closer, you perceive a low hum, almost a vibration.  

Turn around and leave, now!  It’s Africanized honeybees.  They’ll kill you faster than any rattlesnake or scorpion!

I inadvertent walked underneath a tree in which Africanized honey bees were swarming.  I perceived a sense of movement, then the hum of thousands of wings….I held my breath, striving not to give off fear pheromones.  I’ve seen a person get swarmed by honeybees.  She was allergic, and saw one bee and freaked out. Suddenly the whole hive was on her!  So I tiptoed out from under that tree, trying not to tiptoe…

Having been kind of cornered in Tucson by bad weather everywhere else, I’ve had time to get to know this inhospitable environment.  I’m awed by its stark beauty.  It’s harder to photograph than many places I’ve been, perhaps because of the monotonous miles of….cactus. And shrubs in the legume family.

Sometimes Mother Nature smiles and puts on a light show behind the Magic Mountain, bending the light from the city and bouncing it off the clouds.

Shame

While I’m waiting for this case of flu to blow over, I may as well write something.

I had a dreadful experience in the Land of Cleve, which I will write about as soon as I get un-triggered enough to be capable of writing more than ba-ba-baaaa-baba-baaaaa…see what I mean?

And the root of it all is shame.

Shame that after surviving a childhood of violence, confusion, loneliness, and fear, surviving rape, prostitution, homelessness, and fear, pulling it together and getting successful in art, music, and medicine, shame that after all those shooting star successful years, I’m still broken, more broken even than before.

Shame that at the age of 63 I am homeless.

Don’t think for a moment that my fancy camper van and my (to quote my dear mother) “fat disability check” means I am not homeless.

“Don’t say homeless, say house-free,” sage advice from just another such as me.

Don’t believe it.

I know what it’s like to have a home.  I’ve had them, from time to time.  They just don’t stick.

I can’t stay anywhere, because she will find me.  She will drag me out from under the bed where I am hiding…so I have to move.  I have to run.

I can’t stay anywhere, because he will hit on me, he will sell me to his friends while I am knocked out on Angel Dust that he put in my joint…I can’t stay here, because the cops will find me.  You don’t have to be pretty for the cops to like to play with you but it helps, sometimes in a good way and sometimes not…

Such a shame, she’s got all these degrees and doesn’t use them, just sits on her ass all day….

Shame can drive you to despair, makes you want to disappear, but where?

If I were well, I’d go back to work

Settle down

Volunteer

Publish my books

Find some friends

Get a life

If I were well, there’s a lot I could do.

Now it has to be good enough just to deal with the stares.

Yes, it’s that bad.  I try to fix myself up so I don’t look so crazy as all that, but lately (I think it’s the limp now, from the sciatica, it’s killing me) I’m noticing…maybe I should buy some new clothes.  I hate throwing out perfectly good clothes.  OK, they have holes, and when you live outside, you’re bound to get dirty.  

Maybe I should cut my hair.  Even when I braid it, it ends up all wispy and wild.

Maybe I should….

I hope this doesn’t last too much longer.  

Don’t touch that dial, folks….

In my last post I told-all about April 22 and its loathesome significance for me.  Thanks to the support and encouragement of many of you, my dear readers, I have decided to take the plunge and start a new, separate blog as a platform for writing the story of my years as a teenage runaway, homeless child, sex object to predators, survivor of serial rape and survival prostitution, abortion, and witness to countless acts of violence.  Gee, do you think I might have PTSD?

The new blog platform will need to be under nomme De plume, as the stories are intimately bound with my family, who are still deeply entrenched in their own fairy tales about what happened, and I don’t want to get into that right now.  I just want to write the story and thereby accomplish step number one:  break the silence.

The jury is still or on the blog title.   When I  get that figured out I will cross post the first post from the new Blog on here.  I will continue to post my bipolar stuff on here, and move my teenage saga to its own safe place.

As always, I am happy to hear your suggestions, so suggest away!

Copyright 2012 Laura P. Schulman all rights reserved