Writing

New Doves

Two mourning doves just landed on my porch light. They have the adorable, bewildered look of fledglings. Hello, Rosencrantz! Hello, Guildenstern! I don’t think they know what to do next. Where to go? What to eat? When to rest?

Oopsie, Rosencrantz almost slipped off the light. And poor Guildenstern is trying to eat stucco. Now they’re preening. Now they’re looking up down updown downup down down down down.

This is the world, little birds. I hope you like your time here. I’m sorry the Earth is in such shabby condition. There’s water two doors down. There’s food pretty much everywhere because much of this land is still wild. Stay cool. Live smart. Watch out for the Cooper’s hawks.

Post-Monsoon Bloom

I have a Mojave Desert wardrobe, but I’m a Sonoran Desert dweller now.

I need to be more columnar cactus, less Joshua tree. More legume tree, less pinyon-juniper.

More post-monsoon bloom of annual flowers, less monotony of Mormon tea.

More thornscrub, more upland, more plains. Less ecotone, less basin, less mountain.

More swelling tropical air, less strained, stolen aquifer water.

More desert, less golf course, less water park, less carwash.

More diversity, equity, and inclusion, less banning of diversity, equity, and inclusion.*

I don’t want to walk around like that old desert, its desiccated husk wrapped around my body, though the desert’s not to blame. No desert is ever to blame. As Samuel Green writes in his poem “Convenant: Saying Hello to the Land We Will Love”:

              We have only
              the compass of how we walk here
              how our feet move
              over the soil that will feed us.

Let us feed our lands, not feed on them. Here in the Sonoran Desert. There in the Mojave Desert.

Let the lands guide us. Let us honor them. Let us save them and in turn be saved by them. Let us not always destroy everything and everywhere and everyone.

Give me that wardrobe. I’ll suit up.

—

* Utah recently banned diversity, equity, and inclusion efforts on campuses and in government.

Dalexina

My husband is more than halfway back to our house in Utah, where he’ll stay for at least a month before returning to Tucson. Since he left this morning, I’ve made social plans for next week, cleaned and organized the house, written a prose poem, worked a small puzzle depicting Zion National Park, and made nectar so I can feed the local hummingbirds.

It’s important for writers to have time alone. It’s important for everyone to have time alone, but writers need it to produce work, which is what we’re compelled to do during our time on Earth. Have you ever been around a writer who’s not writing? Probably not for long. We’re intolerable.

My husband and I love each other and also need time away from each other. That’s been impossible since the pandemic, which is when his company went remote and there was no workplace for him to go to anymore. I was largely doing freelance and remote volunteer work, so I was also home most of the time.

From late 2019 onward, we’ve been one thing, a single entity. I have the antique typesetting letters to prove it. They sit on our kitchen shelf declaring that we are either Dajonna or Jodanna, not Dana and Jon or Jon and Dana.

For the next month, we will be Jon and Dana. I may eventually become one-half of the entity known as Dalexina, since Lexi is staying here with me. That’s fine. Lexi sleeps most of the day and doesn’t interfere with my thoughts and feelings, both of which need to be unfettered when I write. I might even get in on some of those naps. Dalexina has been busy lately. She’s accomplished a lot. She has big plans. She may be a tad bit overextended. Dalexina needs to curl up in her favorite bed with her favorite blanket and get some rest with her better half.

Did I just call my dog my better half? So be it.

Toads

Dozens of spadefoot and Sonoran toads died in my area after the monsoon rains last night. They’d come out onto Old Spanish Trail, which has a speed limit of 50 miles per hour in most places and is becoming more heavily traveled as dense developments transform the area.

Fifty miles is way too fast, in my opinion. There’s too much wildlife out here to be tearing through the area at top speed. A fox crossed the road when we set out yesterday evening. Fortunately, we and other drivers stopped, and the fox passed safely.

But the toads were a different story. It was dark as we made our way home, which is the least safe time to be driving. It’s when wildlife is especially active and much less visible.

We shouldn’t have been out at all. I don’t like driving at night because of the danger it poses. I should say the danger I pose when driving in the dark. We had an errand we couldn’t do earlier in the day, so we made an exception.

Other drivers either weren’t aware of the toads or didn’t care about avoiding them. Or maybe they simply couldn’t react in time, especially when driving so fast. To be fair, there were a lot of toads on the road. It reminded me of summer nights in Oklahoma down by the Canadian River when I was a teenager. Hundreds of toads would gather on the gravel road next to the river. You couldn’t even move your car if you stayed too late, unless you didn’t care about killing them.

I’m having several dozen funerals in my heart today thinking about those toads whose last act was coming out to enjoy the rain.

Intellectual Surplus

Poets, may I rise from the beautiful destruction of your work. May I live another life, another day, through your poems. Grant me the strength to be burned clean and fly like that fierce mythical bird or even to outlive ten phoenixes like one of the Nymphs—all because of your writing. May we rise through and because of each other. May that be our eternity.

I just clocked fifty-nine active zone minutes on Fitbit getting IKEA items out of their packaging.

A bobcat just walked by our house.

Now I know what my monsoon-season hair looks like. Not good.

I’m dressed like a flower so the bee who made his way into our home yesterday will land on me and I can walk him outside. I made nectar for him last night and placed it in a shallow dish. His name is Tucson but we call him Tuckie for short.

Don’t thank me for helping you grow if you grew at my expense.

There is no border in the heart.

I’ve got a lot going on here in Southern Arizona for a person who was intellectual surplus in Southern Utah.

I was desperate to exist in Southern Utah and am relieved that my existence is a given in Southern Arizona.

Tell me where you live without telling me where you live: I wake at 5 a.m. to be active while avoiding the heat, have a favorite saguaro that I photograph regularly, and nurture a love/hate relationship with javalinas.

I just received a box containing a box containing boxes.

Love: Why do I feel so heavy?

Me: Because you’re carrying me.

The longer we live, the longer we live in the past.

You won’t save the land. (You must try to save the land.) You won’t save the animals. (You must try to save the animals.) You won’t save humans. (You must try to save humans.) Who is speaking? (And to whom?) My trauma to me. (Me to my trauma.) Me to myself. (My trauma to my trauma.)

I was of the lands in Southern Oklahoma. I’ve been in all the other lands where I’ve lived, not of them. I could be of Southern Arizona someday — if I stay long enough, if I live long enough. I want to be of lands again. It’s been too long. It’s been decades.

My dog and I eat spinach together on the anniversary of my last dog’s death.

Palo Verde Beetle

A palo verde beetle emerged from the ground today by digging up through the insulation on the perimeter of our Arizona room’s slab. They emerge when monsoon season starts, triggered by the heat and humidity. This one needed to make her way outside, so I let her get oriented for a few hours then gave her a lift on a dustpan. She was very accommodating. I have a photo of her, but it’s not flattering, so I won’t share it.

Dreams

I dreamed I was a mattress. A thin, hard mattress. I was also me. I sat on myself. Human me was uncomfortable with mattress me. Mattress me was uncomfortable with human me. Mattress me stood up. Human me fell to the ground, hard.

I dreamed my siblings were going to put me in an institution, get power of attorney over me, and use that power to steal my money slowly, discreetly, over many years until my death, the way my father did with his oil-rich aunt in Oklahoma.

The other dreams were just darkness but not the scary kind. The kind like floating in black water in the middle of the night in a silty lake you know doesn’t have water mocassins in it. Peaceful like that, as peaceful as things get in my sleeping and waking worlds.

Baby Zebras

I dreamed Jon died. I mourned for two years. Then I saw an ad for an AI dream companion. It was like a life partner, only not real and only around while someone was dreaming. The idea was that if you had a partner while you were sleeping, you’d feel happier and more fulfilled while you were awake. Also, people were having dream sex with their companions. But that’s not why I wanted mine. I got the companion so they could bring me a baby zebra every night, one I could care for and play with.

My companion didn’t let me down. I had the baby zebra, and I was transformed. I loved the baby zebra. My dog, Lexi, loved the baby zebra. We’d see black-and-white stripes run past the windows at the beginning of a dream and know the baby zebra was in the yard. My waking life was beautiful because my sleeping life was all baby zebra, all the time.

One day, after another two years had passed, the doorbell rang. It was Jon.

I’m alive again, he said.

I didn’t ask why. It was just a fact. There he was, alive. I felt elated until I thought about losing the baby zebra.

I tried to hide the baby zebra from him at first, but he could tell I was different, happy. He took this personally. I finally told him about the AI companion and the baby zebra and how much Lexi and I loved and needed the baby zebra. The look of sadness on his face was beyond description. He was inconsolable, as was I. It was a feeling I hadn’t experienced since the baby zebra came into my life.

Maybe I can get you a baby zebra, he said, knowing he couldn’t.

Maybe you can, I said, knowing he couldn’t.

Almost Land, Almost Air

We don’t have to be Sisyphus, pushing a rock up a hill forever. We don’t have to be Demosthenes, speaking with pebbles in our mouth.

Half the time, these doves fly wherever they want. The other half, they fly away from danger.

It’s warm today. Too warm for worries.

I sort everything for the move. A box for hate. A box for love. A box for confusion. A box for pain. In the end, everything’s in one box: the box of love. It’s overflowing.

If we can see ourselves in literature, we can see ourselves in the world.

You feel almost human, Tucson, just like your stately Saguaro. Or maybe I feel almost land, almost air, almost bird, almost snake, almost you, Tucson.

I dreamed my mother had a car that was also a dishwasher and an ashtray. If it had been a wet bar, a bassinet, and a coffin, too, she would have had a cradle-to-grave device.

Want is the first word I felt with my whole being. Want want want want want clattered through my nerves making sense of physical phenomena that can only be conceptualized through language. It’s never left, that word, not since I learned there was a name for what moves me, what makes me ache, what blinds me to reason and reveals me for what I am at my core: a thing that craves.

Sometimes, you’ve just got to superglue your cracked and bloodied feet and keep walking.

Sometimes all it takes is a neighbor reaching out with an armful of peaches to save us from disaster.

My neighbor appears to be pushing a stroller full of snacks down the trail. No child. No dog. Just snacks. Brilliant.

May winds blow birds your way.

It’s the time of year in which I worry ceaselessly about baby birds.

My dog is in the kitchen staring at the air fryer.

Ravens overhead and a pile of entrails on my back patio.

Catastrophic thinking: The tip of an agave spine is lodged in my finger. I’m obviously going to have to cut my whole hand off.

Walking with Cavafy

Whatever I try to do is fated to turn out wrong / and my heart lies buried like something dead. / How long can I let my mind moulder in this place?

Windy night. Windy morning. Tumbleweeds congregate in my yard like churchgoers who stick with their own kind and bristle at anything unlike them.

Wherever I turn, wherever I look, / I see the black ruins of my life, here, / where I’ve spent so many years, wasted them, destroyed them totally.

I walk from one tumbleweed to the next literally sizing them up. I want a fat one, nice and round, no thorns. I find one I like and carry it high like a torch to my back door. I imagine I’m carrying justice or truth, though it’s just a dead amaranth and I’m just a person living in Toquerville, Utah, trying to make sense of this place before I leave it.

You won’t find a new country, won’t find another shore. / This city will always pursue you.

This is not a city, I think. Not in any real sense. Eighteen hundred people live in this town named after a Paiute Chief who may not have existed. He makes a nice story, though, one of Native Americans and Mormon pioneers living in harmony, so the locals are sticking to it. There are probably as many cows and chickens as humans here. Six cloned while bulls live up on the hill. Two Shetland ponies reside down the street. More than anything, this place is comprised of sandy soils, so many types they each have a name — alfisols, aridsols, entisols, mollisols — not like the basalt, which is just called basalt. Chief Toquer was named after that basalt, so the story goes.

You’ll walk the same streets, grow old / in the same neighborhoods, turn gray in these same houses. / You’ll always end up in this city.

The tumbleweed will stay on my coffee table until I get on the road to Tucson, where I’ll display it as a reminder of the place I’ve left. Well, mostly left. We never leave the places we leave. Didn’t Cavafy say as much in his poem “The City”?

Don’t hope for things elsewhere: / there’s no ship for you, there’s no road.

But I have hope. Those of us who despair must also hope. It’s like a teeter-totter, but with great effort you can sit closer to the fulcrum and find balance. Hope isn’t a thing with feathers. It’s a tumbleweed trying to spread its seeds as far as possible even after it’s dead. I have that kind of hope, one that moves with me and urges me to move. Movement is breath, is heartbeat. I especially love those slabs of highway that make the car go “ga-dung, ga-dung, ga-dung” the way my heart does when I know I’m alive. The roads between here and Tucson undulate like a roller coaster meant for children. They make me nauseated, which is another way of knowing I’m alive, an old way of knowing, a way I may cast off one day as I tumble along.

Now that you’ve wasted your life here, in this small corner, / you’ve destroyed it everywhere in the world.

Then I might as well go anywhere I want, Cavafy. Why relegate myself to this small corner? Why do here what I could do in wilder lands with deeper histories? Where admission is possible and millions of saguaros throw up their arms to welcome the beloved wrecked and wretched with perfect equanimity.

—

The text in italics is from “The City,” by C P. Cavafy.