I am writing this as I sit in the bosque. I have been doing all of my writing in the woods lately. I guess that I had better get used to it because it is clear that I am not going to find peace enough to write at home or in the library. Even now as I write this, I am suffering from a sick headache that assailed me earlier. It is indisputable that the drugs are causing severe headaches, but this on I blam on myself. I knew how bad the drugs were, but I did not want to get up and leave until finally at 3 pm, the headache drove me out, as I sought surcease. I had to take a Fiornal last today, again today, and the way this headache is going, I expect I will be taking a Phenergan later tonight. Still, despite the pain from a sick headache, I am at peace.
First of all, I finished and delivered the letter to Dr. Huaman. It has been hanging over my head for over a month and apart from one drug free day at the very beginning, I had to write it in bits and pieces, whenever my head got cleared from the drugs. My head is not clear now, but it is easier to journal, and I am determined to write.
I guess that another reason for my happiness is because I found an easily accessible refuge from the drugs--the bosque. It is so fitting because as a child and teenager, the woods were always my place of refuge as well. The bosque is very different from the Appalachian woodlands of my childhood. There are significant advantages. There are fewer briars, no poison ivy or chiggers, and no lethal, completely silent copperheads. I've been rattled at a couple of times in my life, but at least Southwestern snakes give you a chance to retreat or defend yourself (one of the reasons I walk with a stick). Still, there is danger--of the two-legged variety. The bosque is home to the homeless of ABQ--nearly all of whom have substance abuse or mental health issues. I've already been approached with bad intent close to a major trail, and I am leery of what may happen as I get off the beaten track.
It doesn't help that I just had my hair chopped radically short. It's always a struggle within myself to get a short haircut. It is what I prefer--not for looks but just for ease of maintenance. Unfortunately, every time I get a really short haircut, I have to brace myself for the hate stares, for it compromises my ability to "pass" (as "straight"). Since this most recent haircut, I've encountered two incidents of homophobic hatres--and one was especially venomous. I'm sorry to say, but I believe that he was an evangelical Christian. I was in a farmer's market, and it must be owned by a fundamentalist, because all the employees seemed uncomfortable around me, even though I was dressed in my best casual shorts and a femme blouse. (Anyway, I confirmed it wasn't me because a few minutes later, I was at Smith's where I was treated with the utmost respect and courtesy). One employee in particular was full of hate. When he saw me, he vigorously shook the excess water from some turnip greens right into my face. Thinking it was inadvertent and innocent act, I laughed and said, "That felt good." Then I saw his eyes and realized that he had done it on purpose. His eyes were full of homophobic, murderous rage. He would have spit in my face if he could have. Christians have come a long way since their founding days--you can spot one now by the way they hate.
The hatred itself doesn't bother me. I got used to that years ago as a young lesbian in Claremont. When I went out into public by myself, I received nothing but courtesy and civil respect from people. But everything changed when I went into public with Colleen--even though we never so much as held hands together. Whenever I was with Colleen, I had to run the gamut of hate stares, shock and disapproval. So I accepted a long time ago, that I cannot control or change people's bigotry or hatred. Still homophobic hatred can reach a level of severe violence. My biggest fear now is running into a homophobic psychopath in the bosque, but I still prefer that risk over that of being sick with drugs. So I'm just going to look at it all as an adventure. When I was a kid, one of my favorite books was Tom Sawyer. Like Tom, and his best bud, Huck, I roamed all over the woods of my childhood "backyard" reveling in the freedom of escaping "civilized" rules and restrictions. I'm 45 years old, but I still am a kid at heart, and I think I'm going to play Tom Sawyer for the rest of this summer, just like I did 35 years ago. Of course, there are "Injun Joe's" out there, but a girl has got to be free to roam and have adventure. Of course, my adventurous spirit is more sublimated these days, and I go to the bosque to read, pray, or even just sit and enjoy the beauty of nature. Still, I am getting scratched, bitten, and dismayed from ruining and tearing my white socks and clothes, so I guess my mischievous little child is whooping it up for her last run.
And, I'm going to wear my hair as short as I want. For one thing, it's hot and sweaty out here in the woods. For another, I worry about ticks and Lyme disease. One of these days, I am going to have a life partner (oh yeah, God and I have been talking), and I am not going to stress about my hair ever again. The onus of responsibility for determining my hair length shall pass 100% to her. If she likes my hair short, it will be short, and I will wear it proudly, even when low life machos yell "maricona" out the window at me. If she likes it longer, I will put up with the aggravation, heat and sweat--just for her.
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