I believe there’s way too much noise in the world. I’m particularly annoyed with our use of cell phones, but, just generally, I think this society is way too noise-polluted. Tell me: just where does one go these days to get away from someone talking on their phone?

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not basically an anti-cell-phone person. My only phone is a cell phone. And, I own the latest technology; the phone does a lot of things a phone doesn’t really need to do: like take pictures (although I’ve never used this particular feature). I also own and use one of those Bluetooth devices that allow a wireless connection between an earpiece and the phone. (Which, to date, I’ve never used in public because I think they look so stupid on people. But that’s another issue…) However, I try mightily to NOT inflict my personal (and private!) conversations on the rest of the world. Why is it that so few people these days have any sensitivity to this issue? Why is it so generally acceptable to talk on the phone wherever you are?

For me: I’m tired of it. I’m tired of the “cell-phone voice” that I know immediately when I hear it. For example, I’m in a coffee shop reading a newspaper, with the normal background hum of voices and activity. Then, a person a table or two away takes or makes a call, and before I even look up to confirm, I know that voice . It’s somebody talking on their phone. Dang, is this annoying, or what!?

My new hair stylist here in Roseburg informed me that some salons are requiring clients to check their phones at the desk before services are begun. I haven’t heard of this practice anywhere myself, but, for one, I would support it. I’d simply leave my phone in the car. What? I can’t wait a half-hour to make a call? And, I support the movement of some places like movie theatres to install technology that block cell-phones from working. Now that would be a giant leap forward for mankind.

I’m back from the quick visit I made to America’s Dairyland. The trip from rural southern Oregon to rural northern Wisconsin is a long and rather arduous one (two drives and two or three flights each way) and I did it twice in three days. Whew!

Doing this trip coincident with moving from one city to another (and dealing with the anticipation of a new job) has stretched me physically and emotionally, but I seem to be hangin’ in there ok. Mostly.

Of course, I went back to spend just a little bit of time with dad, who, at 92+ years of age, is in declining health. His life these days seems to be characterized a lot by the terms “good day” and “bad day.” The Saturday afternoon I spent with him, along with my mom and siblings, seemed to be on the order of a good day. And, it was good for me to be able to spend even just one more afternoon with him.

This has me thinking that my life, and well, come to think of it, everybody’s life, can be divided up into the good-day/bad-day categories. Doesn’t it seem that way? It’s just that “reality” for each of us is so different, that what constitutes a disaster of a day for one person could be a walk-in-the-park for another.

I suppose that a lot of my bad days are self-created, and not externally-determined (as are dad’s, as his body slowly declines). Even when things are mostly falling into place for me, I know that I have the tendency to complain and whine and generally make myself miserable. I know that my attachment to having the universe be one way or another leads to the suffering I experience. Although I believe that “life is suffering,” I also believe that it would be healthier for me to be less invested in a model of a world that simply does not exist.

Starting today, I’m taking four days off from this unpacking regimen I’ve been following. It will be good to have a little break from the ceaseless routine, physical demands, and stress of opening, putting away, opening, putting away.

I had a fairly productive day yesterday and worked to the point where a lot of the garbage is out of sight. (It’s not all necessarily gone, but at least I found a place to recycle all the newsprint packing material.) I’m making a quick visit back to my point of origin (Wisconsin) this weekend, and I believe that when I return home here on Sunday night, I won’t be overwhelmed by the condition of my living space. (Not that 28 unopened boxes of books in the living room are pretty to look at, but at least they’re all semi-organized along the walls.)

I’ve been wondering how I’ll eventually adapt to small-town life. For now, everything seems to be going ok; but, then, I haven’t made very many demands of the place. Most everyone I’ve met here has been exceptionally friendly. A couple of strangers even said hi to me at Fred Meyer this last week. Interesting. Wow. And, my downstairs neighbor left a map of the area and some local statistical information on my doorstep.

From the modest size and number of recycling bins here at the apartment complex, and information I was able to find on the web, it would appear that the town has a ways to go in terms of environmental responsibility; but, then, I may be missing something. I went to the Kinko’s website to see where the local copy facility might be, and discovered that the nearest one is my ol’ shop on Willamette Street in Eugene. Oh well, I’ll find someplace else.

I went downtown for a haircut yesterday, and discovered that not only could I find a parking spot: it was free! I also paid less than half for my haircut here than I did in Portland at a comparable salon.

I think there are going to be several mental adjustments I’ll be needing to make here as I continue this part of my journey. Stay tuned.

Apparently, when signing up for this lifetime, I raised my hand for the full-meal-deal. Sometimes stuff can keep happening that pretty much will take your breath away; the past two and a half years have been a lot like that for me. As much as I remind myself to take care of myself, to walk, to write, to breathe, and to not panic: I still can wind up exhausted, depressed, and conflicted about my life, my direction, and my decisions.

That’s the negative emotional space I’m in this evening, anyway; I’m rather in a funk as I compose this little note. I suppose it’s not been helpful that for five straight nights I was kept awake by the inhabitants of this neighborhood with their absurdly-loud and persistent fireworks. Simply: I’m beyond exhausted. I went for a walk this afternoon but, literally, had a difficult time putting one foot in front of the other.

And, I’m anxious. There’s too much to do. Even without an office to go to this month, my to-do list is ridiculously long and involved.

I’m scheduled to move from Portland to Roseburg next week. This will be my second major move in two years, both times the result of job losses. At the moment, my current landlords are expecting their house back; the movers are scheduled, confirmed and re-confirmed; and the new apartment complex down south awaits my money and my occupancy.

I’ve been living in a maze of cardboard boxes since the beginning of June. I knew I was going to move, even before I knew where I was going, so I got started in on the packing early. More or less, I have lived in a campsite for more than a month.

After reading an email note from my mom yesterday, indicating that my dad had had a good day, I was feeling rather relieved. He is seriously ailing, and now resides in a nursing home. I had learned earlier that he was dealing with a case of pancreatitis, and ever since then his condition has been up and down, up and down. The serious nature of his situation led, after discharge from the hospital, to residence in a “convalescent center” (i.e., a nursing home).

So, a report of a good day was a good thing to hear. However, my sister called me this afternoon to say that that day may have been good, but things, overall, are not. He keeps slipping and slipping, and today, for the first time ever, apparently, asked mom if she would be OK if he weren’t around. From what I can tell (from this distance and frequency of contact), my 92-year-old dad has pretty much been in denial about the possibility of his own death until just recently.

He is not eating, has been losing weight for some time, and we really don’t know how much time he has left. The guess is: not much.

For me: I am overwhelmed with feelings of loss: of jobs; of friends; of computer hard drives; of cities, places and homes; of things familiar; of a significant other; of my own health; of sleep; of control; and, now, likely, of a parent.

I feel a weight pressing down on me, and I wish it would lighten up a tad. The probability that that will happen anytime soon, seems remote.

Soundtrack Suggestion

Love of mine some day you will die
But I’ll be close behind
I’ll follow you into the dark

No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white
Just our hands clasped so tight
Waiting for the hint of a spark
If heaven and hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no’s on their vacancy signs

If there’s no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I’ll follow you into the dark…

(“I Will Follow You Into The Dark” – Death Cab for Cutie)

It seems I have rather dropped my blogging habit during this latest computer downtime. And I’ve missed it: missed this . Writing is about my only form of therapy these days, and with all that’s going on, some therapy is sure in order!

So, now that the computer is nearly completely-restored (operating better than ever, really), I’m inclined to sit down here and actually use it, not just maintain it.

Preparations continue for my move to Roseburg as I start the position of Division Director for Math, Science & Liberal Arts at Umpqua Community College (UCC) on July 31st. I have accepted yet another interim (temporary gig) position as a college administrator, hoping that sometime, someplace, I will find an actual, new professional “home.” I told the faculty members in my new division at UCC that, among many things, I was seeking “stability” – a goal they seemed to resonate with. And, now that I’ve put my MHCC days behind me, I’m feeling really good about getting on with this.

Well, except for all the work that’s involved in changing my life again!

But, changing it I am. I’ve got professional movers to assist with the real back-breaking aspects of this all, including doing some of the packing. I’m leaving the bookcases full, for example, ready for them to box up and tote away.

And, I’ve started packing some of the more personal and delicate items myself. I’ve assembled all my camera equipment; some prints, negatives, and slides; and my complete set of 1959 Topps baseball cards. These are some of the valuable artifacts of my life that will travel with me in the car. Along with the computer CPU, I suppose.

I pay by the pound to have all this stuff carted from one place to another, so, in recent days, I’ve been working on doing some recycling. (Even after only two years in Portland , there are things I just have to get rid of rather than move!) I’ve arranged for the landlords here to keep my washer & dryer (in exchange for leaving the place without cleaning it; my new place already has a washer & dryer); I recycled an old computer CPU and printer at Free Geek; I recycled my dead AA photo batteries on campus; I took some old clothes to the Salvation Army; I delivered a dead stereo, VCR and computer speakers to City Recycle; I left my fireplace tools out on the curb with a sign that said “Free;” and I took four boxes of books to Powell’s last Friday

Now, the Powell’s thing is a little bit of a story. This all happened at the branch on SE Hawthorne , not the big, world-famous location on Burnside.

Although I’m a huge fan of Powell’s (well, all book stores, truth be told), I had never taken books back to sell before, so I wasn’t familiar with “the drill.” Foolishly, I now realize, I was thinking that I could handily dispose of four boxes of heavy, old, and unwanted books this way.

Well, that was not to be. The young woman behind the counter instructed me to stack up, right there on the counter by the register, all the books I had carted in; she would then sort through them to see if there was anything that she could offer anything for. There were a lot of books, but it took her only about 15 or 20 minutes to sort through them all and assess that there were a mere 8 books that she would take off my hands. She offered me $30 in store credit or $25 in cash. (I took the cash, as I’m leaving town soon.)

I didn’t inventory the books she bought, but I recognized some science fiction novels by Orson Scott Card as ones she picked out. Anyway, I carted IN four boxes of books, and I carted OUT four boxes of books.

I carried the boxes out one at a time, even though I was parked right in front. (Yes, right in front; I couldn’t believe my luck when I had driven up to find such a sweet parking spot!) I had the back of the car open, ready to receive the box on my second trip out, when I noticed a Portland (“the city that works”) police car, with its flashing lights on, right behind my vehicle. He was writing. After I plopped the box in the car, he rolled down his passenger side window, called out to me and asked me what I was doing…and I said, “Who me? You’re talking to me?”

He said “Yeah. You’re in a truck-loading zone. It’s reserved for loading and unloading by commercial vehicles only during these hours.” As he pointed to the little sign on the post right by my car that said exactly that.

He handed me the ticket, and when I asked, he mentioned that it was a $40 fine. I took the ticket from him and the color must have drained from my face as I looked up at the sign right by my car.

I started reading the ticket, meditating on the fact that this little recycling effort, instead of netting me $25 was actually going to cost me $15.

I looked up at the sign one more time. And then probably again. I said to him, “My god, you’re entirely right. I was in a rush, didn’t see that sign, and I am totally guilty. I’m really sorry. This is what I get when I don’t pay attention, I guess.”

He looked at me, and seemed sort of puzzled and speechless for a moment. Who knows what he was thinking, but he finally put out his hand and asked for the ticket back. I didn’t hesitate, of course. He said, “I can tell that this was not intentional on your part. How about if we say that you’re just never going to do this again?”

I said, “You got it.”

We shook hands, and he told me to have a nice day.

The rest of the day turned out just fine, actually…