It’s Curtains for Me

[Photo by Carol Buchanan. That lifeguard never forgot me.]

One thing I love most about this old ranch house is that it’s set back far enough from the road that curtains aren’t necessary, at least not for privacy. I’ve been here nearly nine years now, and for most of that time the living room and dining room windows remained naked, offering unfettered access to glorious sunrises, sherbetty sunsets, lovely views of so much flora and fauna, and breathtaking storms when wind whips through the trees and jagged white bolts punctuate the sky, illuminating cartoonishly sinister thunderclouds.

You might not think there is much of a difference between an open-curtained window and an uncurtained window. I would cheerfully disagree. Nuanced and subtle, true, a discernible difference exists nonetheless. There is something I deeply savor about being fully exposed like that, right up against nature, separated only by a thin transparency of glass.

There is an added benefit to a curtain-free life, beyond enjoying the daily rhythmic beauty of the lightening and darkening sky, the joy of watching livestock wandering by, birds soaring overhead. I am light sensitive. I need an abundance of sunshine to prolong remissions between the bouts of crippling clinical depression that have plagued me since adolescence. Foregoing curtains is an honoring of this, an easy way to meet my needs.

But, cue one of my favorite Neil Young lyrics—The same thing that makes you live, can kill you in the end. I cannot have my life-sustaining light without suffering the traumatizing heat. Whatever benefit I reap from the former is suffocated by the latter. I have to shut out this heat even as it means extinguishing the light. Also, more practically, my five-ton a/c unit cannot keep up, cannot cool down this long, low brick house that will be a pizza oven from now until at least October.

So it was with a very heavy heart that I recently ordered several sets of blackout curtains, my latest concession to the brutal heat and my pitiful efforts to beat it back. Both blessing and curse, these curtains will lend the a/c a decent assist but they will also plunge us into literal darkness for months, shut tight all day and all night, rendering this once ever sunny house into a tomb.

The first triple-digit day arrived last week and set off an explosive panic in my mind, hurtling me back to last summer when two of my sheep dropped over dead and I spent a good bit of time in bed, crying and scrolling through Zillow, dreaming of moving to New Mexico or Upstate New York. The panic reminded me I have got to have better coping strategies this year.

And so, in addition to acquiring the curtains, I proactively had my a/c guy come out and give the system a tuneup. I have resumed carrying my water bottle with me everywhere (sometimes I even remember to drink from it). My summer wardrobe consists of dresses so lightweight that I can barely feel them at all. I am determined to jump in Barton Springs as often as possible, an activity so immediately rejuvenating I have heard it aptly referred to as A Texas Oil Change.

Yesterday as I left work, I had a debate with myself. On the one hand, intellectually I understood that finding a parking spot at the Springs on a one hundred degree holiday weekend Sunday would be impossible, a fool’s errand if ever there was one. On the other hand, I do love a challenge, so I brushed away logic and magically thought my way into believing that the gods of parking would recognize and honor my desperate need for a cold plunge. 

One hour and three miles later, after enduring (and contributing to) the gridlock of Barton Springs Road and driving from parking lot to parking lot in Zilker Park, after being aggressively cut off by numerous drivers who seemed to think that being mean would improve their own dismal odds, I gave up, shook my fist at the parking gods and exited the park. My sadness deepened as I drove away—not only had I failed in my efforts, I’d sent an hour’s worth of fossil fuel emissions into the already hazy air deemed to be hazardous by the powers that be who gauge these things. 

Last night, as I was recounting all of this to my roommate Chad, he responded by quoting a bumper sticker he’d once seen in Florida: “It’s not the heat, it’s the stupidity.”

This prompted me to laugh hard, the sort of laughter I call funeral titters, spontaneous and inappropriate, reflexive and untameable, driven by nerves more than amusement. I am such a fan of succinct bumper sticker wisdom and Chad’s offering distilled for me a blob-esque uneasiness that’s been engulfing me for some time now. There is something beyond the heat that is freaking me out. It is our collective stupidity in dealing with it—or, rather, in not dealing with it.

I listen to reports of record breaking travel predicted for this summer and wince. How do people continue to rationalize all these trips, this so-called revenge travel? Am I naive to have hoped that one positive lesson from lockdown might have stuck—remember, in the very beginning, when the planes were grounded and the skies cleared up and we could see with our own eyes, literally, the positive power of stopping all this excess that is quantifiably ruining the planet? 

Sometimes, in a futile attempt at self-absolution for the part I’ve played in climate change, I indulge in the sort of arrogance common to proselytizing new converts. I congratulate myself for not having flown in more than four years, conveniently setting aside the fact that for decades I flew all the time. Then I challenge myself—have I really stopped traveling out of conscientiousness or is it more true that it’s just hard to get away because I have so many animals? (Probably both are true.)

Even going nowhere, I am a consumer.  And though I consume so much less than so many other people I know, I still consume way, way too much. All those toilet flushes wasting all that water, my addiction to Topo Chico, how regularly I drive to the city in my fuel inefficient truck, all the objects I unnecessarily possess (and rarely use) crying out like telltale hearts, visible reminders of my culpability in this mess.

I don’t know what to do with all of these feelings. I have yet to receive the curtains (wrapped in plastic, boxed in cardboard, shipped to my door in a fuel hungry truck), let alone hang them, and yet a darkness has already descended. It really seems like any effort great or small, individually or collectively, will be way too little entirely too late.

I’m trying to do the best I can. An odd lagniappe of chronic depression is that some of us who suffer from it learn to understand the affliction comes in many shades and flavors. This can help with manageability, knowing what you’re dealing with. Which is why I understand that, though the dread I am currently experiencing feels nearly identical to the dread of capital D Depression I’ve had in the past, there is a difference. Like the difference between open curtains vs. no curtains, it’s subtle but real. 

This heat panic is a current external force pushing in, not an ancient internal trauma memory pushing out, It doesn’t require the assistance of a licensed therapist to untangle and understand. The writing is on the wall: The planet is fucked and that’s really, really sad. 

So my sadness is an appropriate response. It’s also a huge pain in my ass. For now I’m going to sit with it, listen to it, and try to figure out how much light to shine on it and examine it, and when it’s better to pull the curtains shut for a bit and block it out. 

What about y’all? Are you plagued by daily climate anxiety? Have you made any lifestyle changes? Are you terrified? Resigned? How are you coping? 

NOTES:

Thanks for reading y’all. If you can fit it into your budget to subscribe for $5 per month or $50 per year I sure would appreciate it. Your support helps me keep the ranch and the writing going. One time tips also gratefully accepted via Venmo: @spike-gillespie. If doling out dough isn’t your thing, you can still help by sharing this with others who might enjoy it. 

If you are in the Austin area and have clothes, linens, toiletries or reusable water bottles you would like to donate to help Austin’s Unhoused population, I’m happy to take that stuff off your hands. Email me to schedule a hand-off. It super sucks to be homeless in Austin in this heat —I’m especially hoping to gather water bottles.

I’ve got a couple of upcoming crafting events: 

Free arts and crafts at Susanna Dickinson Museum on May 31st—we’ll be beading and making friendship bracelets.

Hand Quilting lessons at the French Legation on June 1st, 10 am. All levels welcome including total beginners. $25