(i have had to do this one time. I was 25. I won.)

If you are being threatened, bullied, intimidated, harassed, catcalled, your bully expects you to act scared, run, beg for mercy, offer lunch money, votes, whatever.

But if you turn around, stare them in the eye, growl and scream loudly from your guts like a big cat, and run toward them with every intent to rip their eyeballs out, most of them will be so surprised and startled that the starch may go right out of them.  THEY may run.  And if you catch them or they catch you..... BITE THEM!!!!! Rip pieces off! Go all Mike Tyson on that shit!

People are viscerally terrified of animal bites. Which is why K9 officers are so effective, even when not actually deployed.

Eveyone is afraid of a berserker - the crazy fucker who has nothing in their mind but ripping you to pieces. If you've never seen a Chihuahua terrorize a larger dog, this may be news - but attitude counts; singleminded rage is rocket-fuel. Learn where yours is. Learn to use it. Learn to channel it to a white-hot point, not a loud flashy explosion that accomplishes nothing. That's the hard part. Not wasting the force. Turn the shotgun scatter of hot anger into a single psychic projectile of cold rage. 

Be like my old Bel-dog. No warning barks, just a slight head movement and a sharpening of the gaze. Do not telegraph your intentions. Coil and strike. This takes a lot of mental work over the years, to sharpen and speed that strike.  Even tho i am old, i have practiced much; I can catch flies out of the air, my hand is more effective than a swatter. Focus. I can't focus much in average life unless i;m on a hyperfixated interest, but as many ADHD people know, when our superpowers are activated, shit happens very fast. Many EMTs and E.R. staff are of this valuable neurotype.

I hope you never have to fight someone. i hope i never have to fight again. But if you do - fight at 110% to completely neutralize the threat.  You may be hurt, perhaps badly. If you are in berserker midset, you won't care. If it's a sex crime, do us all a favor; gouge their eyes out. If i have my knife on me. and i usually do, i'll finish that job appropriately. #Boudicca

Crushed, Twisted, Broken and Saved

 I have been to exactly one stadium rock&roll concert.

 February 1977, Omaha Civic Coliseum. Sold out show. The huge crowd outside began to push, broke the doors off and bulldozed their way inside. The ticket-takers ran. I and my friend were trapped in leading edge of the surge. My feet were lifted off the floor and somehow my legs became entangled in a turnstile. I screamed in pain. I had the beginnings of the Voice even then - overtones and undertones that command attention. I MADE someone help. Some big guys lifted me up even higher and surfed me to safety. I was reunited with my friend. My knees hurt terribly, yet we staggered into the open floored arena to await the spectacle. I don't remember much of the show. 

(Uriah Heep opened, they had a Leslie rotary cabinet for the organ player, it had the covers off; the spinning top rotor speaker was visible, accelerating and decelerating. So I focused on that. So that's how organ players get that delicious warbly sound!)

KISS at volume. The minute bassist Gene Simmons started his pelvic thrusting thing, i lost all interest in the band i'd been obsessed with for 2 years. Ewww, sex. Yuck. I was there for the makeup, costumes, simple powerful songs, basslines i had spent time learning in front of our stereo.....and sheer curiosity. Every 15-yr-old needs to go to a rock show initiation! Even when watching Big Daddy Don Garlits' top-fuel dragster way back when, I had never been subjected to that level of NOISE as this wall of speakers was pumping out. It was WINDY up there 50 feet from the stage! Even with tearing insulation out of my coat to stuff into my ears, my whole body was assaulted. I still had my un-cancelled ticket in my coat pocket. I sold it on eBay 40 years later for $100.

 I've never been to an indoor show since, and when at small outdoor shows, i remain on the periphery, and always know where all the exits are through the fences. I avoid crowds as a matter of course. The presence of too many human minds is a psychic scream i can't unhear. Let alone deal with the stench of their personal grooming potions!

Two years later 1979, eleven people were killed at a similar situation in Cincinnati at a rock concert. Eight dead at the Astroworld show. Europe has had several soccer-fan crush tragedies, and religious festivals involving thousands of people have also resulted in fatal crushes in India and Saudi Arabia. Being squeezed to death under a flailing mass of humans sounds perfectly horrid.

Spin Your Own Wheel

New Year by Western count: Day 2 of 2022

Baja Arizona, on the border of Mojave and Sonora, in the land of Rio Colorado for the 4th time in 5 years.

"Lucky" to go snowbirding?

No. We saved and researched and planned it dammit, and so can you if it matters enough. Luck has mostly nothing to do with it. You envy me? You're jealous? That's perhaps you looking in the mirror and not liking what you see.

I live with depression. No i'm not "sad". Depression in the medical sense is a disease of the entire body, where things are depressed, as in slowed, impeded, lowered. It's a fuck-up of brain chemicals, hormones, neurotransmitters and other scientific shit brought on by combinations of both genetics and circumstances. It's the name of a medical condition, as well as a state of mind. Since it doesn't twist your bones or make you visibly different, it's "all in your head." Which is true....

... because the mix of chemical soup in your brain controls everything about your state of mind. Everything. Your brain is a chemical engine. You cannot think your way out of depression, because when you are in a down cycle, your thinking is distorted and malfunctioning. This is as nonsensical of an idea as "pulling yourself up by your bootstraps"  - contemplate it, if you are stuck in mud, pulling on your own boots will not get you unstuck. Simple physics.

Lucky? Nah. Too passive. Too random. Here's a bit i wrote on FB this morning related to this same theme.

-------------------

Jan 2, 2022 

Bright and cold here this morning. 36F for an overnight low and the wind is already picking up. But it's sunny! That's the main thing i need for my health - lots of bright sun on the retinas and skin. My brain is like a battery, my eyes are the solar panel. In Oregon's long dark winters i roll to a stop with only emergency life-support flickering in the basement backup battery. 

Fuck that.

Better living through travel. Go south, old bird.

Lucky? No, that's not true. Luck implies a stroke of fortune out of nowhere; that you didn't have to put much effort into to get the reward. Like a slot machine. Pure chance. No logic. A whim of the Universe.

Our lifestyle is not "luck", and i get a little irritated when people express envy about our snowbird life as "luck", as if that's an easy fate-determined excuse for them not to try pursuing it for themselves. I'm jealous. It must be just luck. I could never do that. You're so lucky.

Yes, you can. But you can't have it all. Choices are yours. Change your "luck".  Quit whining and point your nose in the right direction. Then, make a plan.

We had an idea and a purpose and a goal. Get out of western Oregon in the winter before the bird falls off her branch for good. 

It took a lot of life adjustments over many years. Selling stuff. Scheduling summer-only worktime in Oregon. Acquiring and learning how to operate and maintain an RV and all the systems that go along with boondocking life. Getting rid of stuff, things, parts and pieces. Making new friends and routines. Luck? No. Logical assessment and planning, budgeting, deciding what didn't work and having the courage to change it. 

Randy and I are not afraid to move, change, reassess and try something different. That's the lucky part, having a partner that's the other half of an ox team pointed the right direction and ready to pull. I could never do this myself. I've tried. I can't live alone unsupervised, no matter WHERE it is. And he probably wouldn't have done it on his own. I fly off on some idea, he follows and builds infrastructure for it. That's how we make albums too. 🙂

If you have severe Seasonal Affective Disorder, you probably also have vitamin D3 deficiency. If you have those, you probably are very sludgy and depressed and should sell a bunch of your stuff and buy an old Chevy van and come down here and let me show you around. Ask your doctor! Mine approves. 

If you want something, you can sit around and wait for the Universe to drop it in your lap. You can pray, light candles, wish upon a star. Or perhaps you can get out a pencil and paper and start making lists, plans and maps. You can figure out what you will give up, what you must keep, what's important, what must be waited on and what can be fast-tracked. You can stop spending money on anything that isn't the goal. Because chance, like luck, favors the one who is prepared and ready to accept the good fortune. 

Unexpected blessings do happen. But it's tough to build any real life if you're just forever waiting for that "ship to come in". Swim out to meet it or take a plane instead. Waiting for luck alone to change your fortune is most always a losing strategy. 

Don't die wishing that you should have at least tried.

--------

Thoughts from Ash Meadows

Things can be repaired if enough people care. Damage can be undone. Lessons can be learned. Evolution continues, but extinction is forever.

The volunteer efforts here at Ash Meadows National Wildlife Refuge are formidable. The visitor center is outstandingly beautiful and functional, the displays top-notch, the small gift-shop stocked with educational books, toys, games and souvenirs for all ages. We really enjoyed the strong presence of the Southern Paiute and TImbisha Shoshone people's art and worldviews in the interpretive displays. This place was here and enjoyed harmoniously for centuries by humans long before invaders and colonizers of different values disrupted the balance. 

But now the descendants of all those humans are working together to rehabilitate and restore what was broken. All colors and kinds of people removing invasive species (crawfish, bullfrogs, salt cedar), stewarding endemic natives (pupfish, flowers, insects), educating the public, interpreting the significance so we can understand why it matters.....

.....and yet, there are still people who want to do whatever it takes to make more money for them and theirs, fish and bugs be damned, and rivers dammed and righteously use the land! Conquer! Dominion! The Bible says the Earth is ours and believers will be Raptured up to a new Earth anyway so it's ok if we use this one up, because if you're not saved, you're a damn heathen and going to burn up too, so why cares about endangered fish? 

(Creator: You won't take care of each other or this planet, why should I let you have another? Feed the poor, Jeff. Feed the poor, Elon. Feed the poor, Richard. Then we'll talk about Mars.) 

That same Bible also says in many places it's gonna be damn near impossible for materially wealthy people to get in to that New World. So there's that. How to decide? People hear most clearly the ideas that they already agree with. Short term gains usually win. Comfort and joy, over restraint and wisdom. 

(Disclaimer: Not all Christians. I know this. But that popular, distinctively USA-flavored mega/MAGA-Christianity; by their fruits, you shall know them. Yes. Some people still follow the actual meaning and message of Jesus. Simplicity, healing, love, humility, charity, goodwill. But, not all Christians.)

The Dakota/Lakota People of the Plains call white people "wasichu"; fat-eaters, ones who take the best for themselves, greedy ones. The word didn't start that way, apparently, but developed from a word for a foreigner with special powers to ....something less flattering.

I am white, but I can strive to not be so wasichu. Learn from the land and the People who were there first, the Humans and the Rocks and Fish and Birds.  Because we ARE still wasichu - taking too much. Looking outside i see our big-ass Chevy Silverado truck.  I could wallow in guilt. I could buy an electric car, a bicycle, quit driving altogether. I could refuse to step foot into any powered vehicle. I could draw any sort of line in the internal sand and defend it mightily, including my right as a 'Murican to drive a big truck dammit, midcentury moderns KNOW that cars and the Interstate are from the Age of Greatness! We want to go there, and we want to go fast. In comfort.

Right now - i am wasichu; an American living on $10K a year, STILL in the global top 10%. No way around it. Rich human. Fat. 

The Timbisha Shoshone and Southern Paiute were very materially poor Nations, living in a harsh environment, moving with the seasons and the water. But they lived here thousands of years in balance with all the other life forms. It did not occur to them to think they owned it. They were part of it. Different cultural view. Richness is belonging.

Infant Nation USA is hurtling towards economic and climate disaster because of the enduring national wasichu mindset. But again; things can be repaired if enough people care. Damage can be undone. Lessons can be learned. And vividly, with tiny fish and so much more, Ash Meadows NWR is about that. 

 Sit with that for awhile.

Handmade shirt - a 3D textbook.

Once in awhile a really unusual and beautiful piece shows up at St. Vinnies. This shirt LEAPT out at me from the "vintage" rack. It is completely handmade, not a machine stitch on it anywhere. Does anyone recognize a culture, tribe or spiritual significance, etc., for this shirt? I will tell you what i know about it's construction, based on being a textile geek who has practically memorized "Cut my Cote" , the most important 36 pages ever written about how our clothing shapes evolved as we began to manufacture cloth.

underarm gusset - the mark of a folkloric shirt made with no pattern. No curved seams. No darts.

 Outside view of underarm gusset attached to  yoke and sleeve. This is a hallmark of many folk garments in cultures the world over that allows for ease of arm movement. Folk garments are made of squares and triangles. There are never any scraps. When you are weaving fabric by hand, every inch is precious. You weave the lengths you need for the garment you are going to make; sleeves, front, back, yokes. But the body being a rounded shape needs little pieces inserted into critical places to make flat squares fit. As the Industrial Revolution cranked up the steam-powered looms to make yards of fabric at speeds never before possible, clothing became more elaborate, with curved cuts allowing more form-fitting and creative styles to emerge. However, even though this is obviously modern machine-made cotton broadcloth, the maker is faithful to the tradition of  how a garment is made - no patterns, just a few measurements from the intended wearer (chest circumference, arm length, neck opening, finished garment length)

Incredible stitch density and control of tension, but obviously NOT machine-done!

handworked buttonholes. Buttons stitched on in an X pattern, not parallel I I, as machines do. Thread knotted on the back for security. Not going to pull these off.

interior view of cartridge pleated lower front attached to yoke. Fabric folded over and pleated and sewn down first, then smocked (decorative stitching over pleats) then attached to the yoke piece with some kind of bridging stitch between the two pieces done in embroidery floss. 

inside view of cartridge-pleated smocked section. These sections occur on the tops of sleeves, at the cuffs and on both front and back yokes.

two snaps on each cuff, also hand-sewn. Notice large decorative floss topstitch on edges. The hand-done Zig-zag suggests the maker has seen a zz stitch on a modern (1950+)  sewing machine

 Reverse side of embroidery, all threads carefully knotted and fastened.

Lower edge hem, turned twice and hand-topstitched.

 Exterior view. Look at that beautiful smocking. Good view of the lace-like connecting stitch that holds the major pieces together. 

So what do the colors mean? Pink and green and white? I love this sceme, but wonder if there is a meaning attached. If i had to guess, i think the shirt is some kind of Middle Eastern origin. But then again, maybe Mexico? In any case, i'm glad it was not ruined by machine washing and drying - which would cause all kinds of puckering and ugliness with the embroidery. Handwash cold, dry flat.

I paid $10 for this lovely garment. It fits in the body, but the neck-hole is too tight if buttoned, as are the cuffs. I bought it not so much to wear as to study the construction, as i will be handsewing several garments in the desert this winter, and this shirt is a textbook. I sewed several shirts entirely by hand when i was in high-school, but they were from a McCall's pattern, not real folkloric stuff. 

 I look forward to recreating this (sans embroidery) this winter!

 

Zillow Rots my Brain

You all know the feeling; it's late at night, you're not ready to go to sleep, you need something mindless for your mind. YouTube air disaster videos are no longer exciting. Plane has malfunction, explodes. Lather, rinse repeat. So sorry.

May i suggest an alternative; a combination of Zillow and Google Earth. Now that i have blazing fast unlimited net access, this keeps me mesmerised for hours on end, looking at land and houses, imagining how i would interact with the place. I am old enough to know better now; i can't fix up shit, and my ability to encourage others to do it for me is limited by lack of capital. I am an easily sidetracked visionary.

So many of the grand old houses available to buy in my time/price range (pre-1900, under 50K) have been happily gutted and had a little rehab started, then abandoned. Photos of lath walls stripped bare, dangling wires, piles of debris,"ready for your vision"..... hehe. The last person who had vision was broken by it. They ripped up and wrecked all the good old stuff and left the mess half-done. Pile of kindling. The final fate of wood houses is to burn. Always. Some places, like western Oregon, rain-fueled dryrot is the slow fire. Wood is not durable. Wood houses are on loan from Time.

There is a certain kind of romantic soul who gets caught up in dreams and broken by the reality of a 100+ year old wooden house. The hard reality; you don't get to paint and sew curtains, and pick out your backyard chickens until you fix the foundation, the roof, the walls, the lead paint, the asbestos ducting, the frayed wiring, the stolen copper pipes, the dry rotted, rat-infested, leaking hulk of a dream that just wants to melt back into the earth already.....

OK so what if i DID have several million disposable dollars? Would i buy the 1873 Italianate doctor's mansion on the Erie Canal Bikeway in upstate New York and open a wonderful hostel/B&B for cyclists? Organic, acoustic, historic, folkloric - i have so many ideas and no way to make them go. Because even if i DID do the above, i have no ability to maintain and run such a thing without a dedicated staff. I want to see all the places, live in all the houses, hear all the stories, learn all the history. But my restless mind can't settle into a project and have that be the career track for life. I think too fast, too far, too often. Living in an RV with the ability to move is finally an acknowledgement of this reality.

OK then, which brings us back to Zillow and Google Earth!
The West has very few truly old houses west of Omaha, but the West IS full of cheap little plots of desert for a few thousand bucks, and the ads exhort you to bring "The kids, the dogs, the toys - cut loose!", this sort of advert on a quarter-acre property. Probably can't fit all the kids, dogs and toys, etc on the lot to start with. But some take the bait, scrape together a few thousand bucks to go live for "free" on their "own land" and go "off grid".




So many real-estate scams of the 50s and 60s preyed on the dreams of working class people who wanted "out." California City in the Mojave Desert is the classic example. So is Christmas Valley in Oregon, Rio Ranchos in New Mexico, The jackrabbit cabins of the Mojave near Joshua Tree, Rio Rico in Arizona, many many more. Most famous scam, the whole Salton Sea. 

Most of these were "Sagebrush subdivisions" - buy an old ranch, scrape a street grid into it, maybe even a lodge and some landscaping, sell dreams to the city-folk for $50 down, $50 a month, outrageous interest. No infrastructure. No city, no industry, nothing but a bulldozed grid and a dream and fear of missing out on an opportunity. None of that land appreciated in value without a lot of "improvements".

I bought a bare .33 acre lot in Christmas Valley for $3000, which is far less than it sold for (in adjusted dollars) back in 1961. I'm the third owner. Nothing has ever been done on the land. The survey pins were still in, the dirt road had sagebrush in the median but was passable. Slapdash little homesteads are scattered across the prehistoric lakebed. Dead cars, trailers, cabins built of scrap lumber and tin; dogs, kids, toys. Foodbank day is Tuesday, they all line up.

Why did i buy it? I have my dreams too, and in a moment of mania, i wrote a check. We've had a driveway scraped in, we've cleared a lot of dead brush, we've hosted family campouts in RVs on a tiny lot in the middle of a grid for a city that never happened. What dreams sent me to the high desert?

Space. Darkness. Quiet. Sky. Emptiness. No wreck of a house to maintain, no utilities to go wrong. But certainly not going to try and live there year-round in a trailer, like so many think they'll do. Drag in an old singlewide, and then find that there is no way to keep it warm when the temperature goes below 0F regularly in the winter. Not enough firewood, propane is expensive, and no way can you run electric heat off a solar system. Someday, i may actually get a 12x12 stone cabin on that lot. But for now, we can go there and park the RV and watch the stars and birds. It costs $52 a year in taxes.There's a store and an RV dump and propane available in town. For now, it's a stop on our seasonal round. No drain, no pain, no house.

Zillowing about the countryside - set the filters to "pre-1900" and the price to $50,000 or less and look at all the fantastic old wrecks that come up. Mostly just broken farmhouses, but occasionally an old mansion or grange hall or something that could BE SOMETHING, if vision and money collided just so. I'm enamoured of the whole upstate NY area. Can i move to Ithaca and be a caretaker at the Cornell Lab of Ornithology or something?

No. But you CAN travel. And be here now, wherever here is. I can enjoy those old wrecks from afar, stay in the rehabbed ones for a price, a different one every night. I am not a person who can pick a huge project and stick with it. One song at a time is good. One week at a special camping place is good. Small places to live are good. Small amounts of money, i can keep track of. Big dreams, small realities.

And after a few hours of intense Zillowing, i feel like i really HAVE travelled. Last night i spent time mostly intently contemplating tiny places in both New York and Nevada, states about as opposite as can be in this country, politically and ecologically. And i found appealing things about both places. And like my partner, i could live anywhere. And everywhere.

We'll keep RVing and gradually finding our way around the country with no particular place to go, and in that mindset, we will manage to go a lot of cool places. I really want to ride that New York bike trail along the Erie Canal!

Straining at the bonds of habit

 Once again we dust off the furniture and turn on the lights here at meowblah3!

 Back in the Singer-Songwriter era, this was where i stopped every morning or so to offload some thoughts for the other cats to shred and roll on. Then Facebook became a daily brain suck as well as a place to get some instant gratification. People are reading and reacting! I must Post more, I must Friend! I must Like and Share! Sure i got sucked in! It's about words! I have no social life! I've learned how to Block and Unfollow

People used to like my blog as well.  The glancing blows of Facebook engagement may be more biggerized and numerous in terms of "hits" but the quality of hits here is different. People actually come to read and think, i'm not just a stop on the scroll wheel of tired memes and political arguing. Snooze that shit.

So again, i whack myself repeatedly and with vigor: Zuckerberg does not deserve to use my well-written, chewy content for free to drum up eyeballs on his ad-riddled algorithms. TR's going to throw some content at the wall here and see if it still sticks. I've lost some of my best readers because they don't do Facebook. I'm going to join them.

This is where i write now.

 Attempting again to break free of the Zuck-o-verse, this time back in Oregon. I see that it's been over a year since i blogged. There was this greatly disturbing event in the force which shook the whole planet. COVID19.  Masks, quarantines, disinformation and general mayhem. I also cut off the orange hair. I'm still an orange tabby at heart though.

So instead of writing my first essay of the day on Facebook, it's going to go here. I'll put a link on the other think so you can find me. I find myself wasting too much time over there. They designed it like that. I quit drinking, i can quit Facebook. Or at least put it in it's place, like the one beer with friends at a cafe, rather than all day scrolling and an IPA at noon to start the day off right.... and the rest of the 6-pack to keep the evening flowing..... as long as you're not dead, it's not too late to change.

Diahreea of the mind and body

230 months.....

Yesterday, fiddling about with papers and pencils, i decided to write down some TR life stats about where i have lived, adding up the months. This is all part of a larger exercise - figuring out when i was most content/most depressed and what the parameters were among other things.

As someone whose life was marked by incessant moving, it was starkly obvious what has gone awry. Longest time occupying any one place - 230 months at LeisureLand before we started yearly migrations in 2017. Nearly TWENTY years. No wonder i got moldy, settled, depressed, isolated and stale. This bird needs to fly. Often.

Also, 42 total months spent homeless: on tour with bands, couch-surfing with friends & relatives, between bands on the streets. No address, no phone, living out of suitcases and boxes and storage units.....

....but in crunching numbers and memories, it became clear to me when TR's America was truly Great: 1966, from March to August. Six months of preschooler bliss, that time between when we moved from LA til I had to start kindergarten in Elmira, Oregon in the Fall. Life will never be that way again. I'm OK with that.

It also was pretty good for a 2-year stretch from 6-1978 to 6-1980, and again from 9-1990 to 1-1992.

Bad times? yeah they're in there too. The 9 month stretch of homelessness when i was 10 was awful. The homelessnesses of my early 20s were different, i was on my own and able to fend for myself quite well, as much as an autistic person can. Semi-feral, quiet, unnoticed....

Late Winter, Early Spring - When Everybody Goes to Mexico

Do you recognize that title? It popped into my mind this morning, i heard it in the theatre of my mind. Great reverb there.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aTNaO0xSYsI - hear it here.

It's early John Denver, a deep cut from Rocky Mountain High album. Released in 1972, an instrumental precursor to the Windam Hill acoustic guitar sound of the 80s. I used to listen to this repeatedly for hours as a kid of 11, wondering how it could be in the actual key of C, but sound like a D-shape chord on the 12-string. It didn't occur to me until I read an article a few years later by Leo Kottke in Guitar Player magazine about the necessity of tuning 12-string guitars down from standard E tuning to compensate for the higher tension on the neck. So John WAS playing in D-form, but it was actually C-sound.

Well then!
(slurps tea)

Woke up before sunrise this morning and was mildly surprised that the first orange rays of El Sol didn’t stab into my eyes like usual as i was sitting at the table with the first cup of tea. We're past the Solstice by 6 weeks, and the Sun is obviously rising substantially farther north now, having moved just out of the frame of my SE-facing window here at 31 degrees north latitude.

The Earth has moved in relation to the Sun - last Sunday was the first day of Early Spring, known as Groundhog Day in the US, Imbolc and Brigid to the Old Ones, Candlemas to the Church.  My chickens will start laying soon at home in Oregon. Here in the Borderlands, flowers are starting to bloom, things are green, the young male blackbirds are starting their rusty attempt at calls. Today’s temperature will be near 80F

I am coming up on FOUR solid weeks of good mood, no depression at all. Remission.

Is it the Sun, 

the addition of huge amounts of B12 to my diet, 

the lack of alcohol, 

the good weed ...

…. the onset of Baby Crone maturity as I approach my second Saturn Return and seven years of no Blood? 

Whatever it is, I like it and hope it follows me back to Oregon in another 7 weeks or so. 

Stay tuned. I want to stay tuned. The music is better.

Living Truly Tiny Spaces

Check out my Pinterest board of really small humanspaces. They're no more than backyard forts some of them, very useful and practical to many people, especially the unhoused. Lockable, dry, critter-proof. A warm safe place to sleep. Anyone who has ever tried to find one outdoors in a city knows how difficult it is and how brutal the resulting lack of sleep. A little wooden cube-home is far better than a cardboard box, a tent or a tarp, and some can even be moved by bicycle or hand-pushing as well as small cars. I would allow villages of these types of shelters in cities experiencing housing crises. Bring back "Hooverville", but with style, dignity and services. Yes, in my neighborhood. It's being done in Eugene.

That's another topic.

When I say "tiny house" in my universe, I mean under 200 square feet, not some of the bungalows and cabins and such featured on so many "tiny house" websites, where they sometimes stretch the definition up to 1200 sf. That's a generously sized 2-bedroom house for a family of 4-6 where I grew up. Tiny compared to a starter McMansion i guess.

My little writer's cube, the  "CactiShack" or "RatCube" is 24 sq ft (6x4x6) and i could take care of all my functions if needed, if i lived in it in a tiny village. Sleep, eat, drink, art, body-care, communications, crafts.
Yes, Even that function.
But usually it's most convenient and hygenic to be close to a shower and toilet facility if your space is this small. I'll show you the inside in a future post.

( How do i do doo when there's nowhere to do da doo? Shit in a sturdy bag, wipe if needed, put wipe in bag, tie it shut. Pitch it in the trash. Just like a bag of dog-shit, a load from the catbox or a dirty diaper. Extra nice if you put clean dirt, pine-needles, kitty litter or sawdust in your bag first, especially if there may be urine as well. Use a small wastebasket or bucket to hold your bag if you need help with aim. Wet-wipes are a nice way to keep clean. I've not needed this system here. My RV is 30 ft away.)

I have lived small in hotel rooms, rented rooms, curtained-off corners, old single-wide trailers, old station wagons, old vans, and now an actual new-ish self-contained RV.  It's 200 sq. feet. No slide-out rooms. We find it very useful and practical space so much that we live in it full-time. We even have a mobile recording studio in the back "bedroom" area. No kids, no pets, no cigarettes......

But something about the nestlike confines of a very tiny space inspires great bursts of creative thought from yours truly. Let's build a blanket fort under the table and invent something.....

Here's the current state of the CactiCube. There's a bird on it.