Second Verse, Same as the First

    I have my own car again, along with my own apartment in Tempe.  It all happens so fast for me- all the changes come at once and before I know it, I'm starting from scratch all over again.  But every time it happens, I am reminded how much relief and freedom come from having a space of my own, roaches and all. I also have to come to terms with how helpless and pathetic I feel when I am sharing a living space and a vehicle with another person.   I am independent, probably to a fault, and this is what makes me the happiest.  I’m better at making ends meet than I am at compromise, and I am very aware that this is not a healthy thing.

      I am scared as hell, financially, and starting over would not have been possible without the kind hearts of my friends. I really hope all of them understand my appreciation for the countless favors, and eventually I hope to help them out as much as they’ve helped me.  Right now is not easy.   This is life below the poverty line.  This is “no internet” poor.  It’s  “let’s pick which bills we pay this week” poor. It’s poor like we were when my mom left my dad, and that’s how I know I’ll be okay.  While it’s not very comfortable, I am going to try and get as much as I can out of it.  

  I've been driving around by myself in the desert a lot lately.  I just take off, usually around seven o’clock, out to the desert.  I end up around Saguaro Lake, and I blast whatever mix tape I’ve made for the occasion.  From out there, I can’t see any of the city lights.  I get a view of the stars and the moon and the desert landscape.   And the closer I drive towards the lake, the more moisture is in the air, so I roll down my windows and drive slower. I let my fingers fall out the driver’s side window.  I play an imaginary piano, the tempo changing with the speed of the car.  I hit all the right notes, and even if I didn’t, the song would just change to accommodate my crooked pinkies.  I’m nineteen again, driving through curvy country roads, smoking joints with my friends.  We used to call this “hitting a cruise”.   Nobody out here calls it that.  

      I usually hate driving.  I’m not great at it, especially at night. It’s usually a major source of anxiety for me, in all honesty.  The first time I drove out to the middle of nowhere, my intention had been to find a good spot to park, sit on the hood of the car, and look at the stars.  What can I say?  I’m a romantic.  Once I got there, though, I discovered that most of the rest stops are blocked off after dark.  And once I realized that I probably wasn’t going to have this peaceful, introspective night of stargazing and accepting my space as a tiny blip in the universe, I gave in and enjoyed the experience of driving. 

 Winding roads without city lights require your attention.  You don’t get to become lost in your own thoughts.  Navigating each curve is deliberate; it’s not like getting on the freeway and then missing your exit because you zoned out while recreating an imaginary argument in your head.  You concentrate on the task at hand or you become distracted and veer into a tree. Driving becomes forced mindfulness; it’s meditation in such a basic form.  It hits me, suddenly, and it’s so fucking obvious.   It’s such a clichéd message, this whole “it’s not the destination, it’s the journey” bullshit.  But that’s what it is.  And it hit me hard.

I’m starting over, and that means learning some of the same lessons over again, for real this time.

My apartment complex isn’t necessarily dangerous, but it is a shithole.  I moved in on Valentine’s Day and I am STILL waiting for an oven rack.  My neighbors hear me having sex through my paper-thin walls, and I hear them arguing.  I have a car because of a generous friend who sold me his for four hundred dollars.  I am so, so grateful for a place to live and a car that works.  I’m not saying that I’m not.  What I am saying is that this is not where I want to be forever.  And it won’t be.  But if I can stop looking at what I want to eventually become and just appreciate what I am right now, I can appreciate how much I have evolved already.   I am proud of the fact that I haven’t got everything all figured out.  I am not done learning.  I am not done traveling or laughing or mourning.   I’ve already lived years longer than some of my friends.  Even if I’m struggling… especially if I’m struggling… these are the times that I find out how strong I am and how it’s okay for to rely on other people for help when I need it.  These are the hard times that yield the best stories.