I’ve been doing research into stress and the chemicals that stress pumps into your body and how some people get almost high on it.

I get edgy and my heart beats fast and I feel like I’ve had ten cups of coffee . . . my nasal passages open up so I can breathe fast, shallow breaths. Everything moves like sound that is sped up. But it’s the electricity firing off in my brain that really creates the buzz. Brain spins so fast, it’s like it’s doing jumping jacks, thoughts moving, flicking so fast that you aren’t conciously processing any of them anymore . . . it’s just like a steady stream of color or a cloth.

And you are focusing somewhere with your eyes at a tangible fixed point in front of you, but you aren’t seeing that fixed point - you are seeing that colored cloth pipeline that only exists in your sped-up spasming grey matter.

Somewhere up there in your noggin you know every single stitch and molecule of that rapidly moving, dazzling tapestry, but conciously, it’s just moving, flicking through your head like film at 24 frames per second, never seeing the gaps between the frames. You cannot hold a conversation or be present to another human.

It takes a long time to cool down and unwind. Sometimes it takes days or weeks. Sometimes months. Sometimes sleep patterns are disrupted; sometimes not. The managable peak, the worst I’ve ever experienced without cracking is the conversation point where when you are talking with someone, your end of the conversation is a hurried, broken, stuttered, “Um huh. um hm. uh huh.” You’re shaking your head uncontrollably like some kind of drug addict.

Because you are. That’s stress juice, baby.

Sometimes I get visions of a needle in my arm. That’s my inner voice, showing me that stress is my junk. And then . . . there’s the unmanagable kind of stress. ABQ has shown me mountains of it. I just want my regular stress level back!

*Sometimes we meet the best people in the worst of circumstances.

*The grass isn’t always greener, but it’s clear where the septic tank lies.

*Oh Fuckity-Fuckn-FiddleFuckstix!

*The more stratified and crazy the world becomes, the more I am an axis unto myself.

*I’m a human being human, god dammit and sometimes that means tears flow.

It’s Monday, this is how I feel. No, I’m not PMS’ing.

I have a confession.

Over the years, I’ve acquired the habit of compulsively listening to certain music while driving my car. I’m like the mini-bus driver in a Latin American locale, going for months sometimes, spinning that one CD over and over and over again. I let it roll on like that til I tire of it, but sometimes it takes months to get to that point.

The current compulsion is Paul Simon’s Rhythm of The Saints. I drive one hour each way every day from ABQ to Santa Fe and still I allow it to play. And still I sing along wholeheartedly, gleefully and loudly. It’s been two months and I’m still not tired of it. It’s like hypnotizing myself with good jungle vibes.

Other artists on my compulsive music listening list are: Lyle Lovett, Prince, Beck, Calexico and Devandra Banhart. I notice these are all male artists and I don’t really know what’s up with that.

Anyway, my question for you all out there is - what music do you  compulsively and (happily) listen to?

The first time I drove into Santa Fe was last week. I noticed work crews of prisoners in orange jumpsuits picking up trash by the city roadside, in a heavy traffic area. A city bus pulled away from the corner, revealing more orange-clad workers, trash bags in hand, bending over.  And then all of a sudden, it was like slow motion. I watched one of the guys stumble and try to catch himself, but he just kept falling. I actually had time to think, “Oh my god, I think that guy’s gonna fall in the street!”

And then that is exactly what happened. I watched the guy fall - right into the busy six-lane divided highway - right in front of my car. Only thankfully he was up the street nearly a block, so by the time I approached, he’d already scrambled back up to the sidewalk.

It reminds me of the time I was riding my bike in Chicago under the Fullerton street exit off of I-95 . It was about 10PM. I was on a neighborhood street that sort of branched off from the on-ramp. I had to ride past the on-ramp entrance to continue down the street. And for some unknown reason, just as I rode across the on-ramp, I busted HARD and fast on my bike, a rarity for me.

The side of my face was all of a sudden lying flat on the smooth, oily pavement of the busy Interstate on-ramp and the wind was knocked out of me.  I actually had enough time to think to myself, “Holy Shit! I’m lucky that there are no cars coming at this moment!” before scrambling up and picking up my bicycle and getting the hell out of that busy thoroughfare.  

I just turned off the television.

In my last post, I alluded to the fact that I’m about to step it up a notch in the tech department. I admit, I’m slow to change, especially in the technological realm. I’ve been handwriting my journals and stories for ten years now. Computers and word processors have helped me greatly, but I haven’t really cared too much for tech gadgets like I-pods, digital cameras, I-phones and the like. My phone won’t accept your picture mail and I only recently acquired the ability to text message. I am, Anna the No-Tech Nanner - proudly.

Start talking about ‘Blue Ray’ and I’m liable to think you’re talking about some kind of marine life.

But times they are a-changin’. My roommate Michael and I geek out on giving one another tips on how to travel well, comfortably and effectively. Through watching him, I’ve seen how a few well-made gadget purchases could be a good investment for an artist adventurer. An I-phone is a great example - you can use the thing to listen to music, call a friend, take decent enough pictures and get a Google map to the closest Chik - Fil - A . . . all within seconds. Amazing.

But, there’s something about that much technology right there in my palm at my beck and call 24/7 that makes me want to stay in the dark shadows of regular life. As crazy as this may sound, I really enjoy figuring out a place by way of intuition. It takes longer, sure, but I’m not in a hurry. Besides, I’ve met some interesting folks along the way.

I-phones, with the constant internet connect would mesmerize me and ultimately, I believe change the way I interact with the world. As it is, I don’t turn my cell phone off nearly enough. I like the meandering way I’ve developed of taking in my world. As long as magical moments continue to happen, telling me on I’m the right track, I see no reason to change.

Yet, there is a pull for me to jump in the river of Tech and get a small, sexy, intuitive and most importantly, singular device to entertain me, give me a constant info feed and keep me interacting with the world through it. Wait . . . OK, obviously, I still need to think on it.

Life moves fast for me - always something going on - moving, doing, going. I’m not sure I could handle the increase in pace and speed if I always had an exact satellite tracked road-map. I might forget to stop and smell those spring daffodils.

Which gets me back to the beginning of my rant. I just turned off the TV. It was all ridiculous commercials geared to hypnotize watchers into buying some MORE shit that they really could live without.

I’m going for a hike. To a place where cell signals don’t reach. To see some spring daffodils. As a Lakota elder once said, “Have you ever seen a shy daffodil?” They’re right there - for a short time - if we don’t ignore them. I’ll try to get a snap. (With my digital camera.)

I hate to keep harping on the whole housing in Albuquerque subject, but folks . . . ! It ain’t easy findin’ good digs in The Burque, yo!

I’ve finally settled into this awesome condo, but it too has it’s definite down side. It’s VERY expensive for ABQ. It’s exactly 35.29% more expensive than my bungalow rent in Venice Beach, California, just six blocks from the water and in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in all of Los Angeles. This sleek, newly constructed place in ABQ is architectural dreaminess with it’s sexy concrete floors and tall ceilings of openness and light, be sure. But this is Albuquerque. No offense to ABQ, but my pad in Venice Beach is sweeter.

The ad said it was furnished. It’s Ikea. Does that count? I’m not sure.

The neighborhood of Nob Hill rocks. I like that, but even though it’s a cool ‘hood and all with a co-op and great coffee shops, there is still a noticeable tweeker contingency. That, and well on Saturday night there was a guy on the street with a high powered telescope, herding everyone who was walking by to take a look at Saturn in the sky. That was fuckin’ cool. It felt very Burning Man like. But also on Saturday night there was some wierd murder down the street. Both incidents are kinda like my ‘hood in Venice . . . in California . . . near the beach. Where I pay 35.29% less. . .

So, why didn’t I go for something less expensive in a dull neighborhood? Well, here in Albuquerque, it’s either some squat, cold adobe in a really scary and especially drab part of town . . . or this trendy part of town, that’s still kinda wierd and rough, which I like . . . sort of. I live in a rough neighborhood in Venice, which I love and feel mostly comfortable in. I’m here to report that so many more white girl alarms trip inside my head in Albuquerque than they ever do in my gun-toting cracked-out Venice ‘hood. Those freak-o’s understand me. Here I’m on guard.

There is no in-between kind of neighborhood here, not unless you want to rent an unfurnished four-bedroom soul-less house out in the vast Intel sub-divisions of Rio Rancho. No, Thank-o.

So, basically - as I throw my hand against my forehead dramatically - I have to live in the lap of luxury. Except, with Ikea furniture. And a sub-standard model TV. Shocking as I proudly have not lived in a televisioned home for about seven years now. I’m going high-tech. More on this later. The TV needs serious updating. Oh, and apparently ‘furnished’ also means you get four sets of silverware, again Ikea, but no cutting board or kitchen knife. I’m a grown-up. I cook. The agent who furnished this place is probably all of 23. I know, I’ve met him. I don’t think he cooks.

Ahh, luxury . . . sort of. Except come on - thirty-five point two nine percent.

Venice. ABQ.

And hey, in Venice, utilities are included.

Last night, my friend Stu and I were having a bit of late, post-dinner conversation for my last evening in Venice.

“I’m gonna have to look up your blog. Read the stories. Because I know I’m in some of them!” he said with a big grin.

“But, not necessarily,” I told him. “the ‘really good stuff’ doesn’t make the blog. That’s the material for my books!”

So just imagine what’s NOT making it up here. Ah, ya’ll will know soon enough. I’m sequestering myself inside a kiva in Albuquerque in the coming months, all with the intention of doing some serious writing. Don’t worry - I’ll change the names/identifying characteristics of all guilty parties.

OK, but since I’ve told you about Stu, here’s a picture of us causing trouble several years ago, one night during an episode of the Santa Ana winds. That’s one of the stories too good to make the blog. Coming soon to you in another format.

1. I don’t own an I-pod.
The ubiqitous billboards advertising them are enticing, yes, but I already live in my own colorful world. I’d rather be plugged in to real life when I’m walking down the street.

2. I don’t own a high-tech phone . . . ie, Blackberry, I-phone
In fact, I just last year got a new/used cell phone that can accept ur txt msg. Besides, I lose stuff, so better it be someone’s old cell phone from Craigslist than an expensive portable hard-drive.

3. I don’t own a TV.
And don’t miss it. I figure when I move to a retirement center, I can catch up on “Friends”. That’s right, if you hang out with me, we actually have to talk.

4. My car is older than the year 2000.
According to “The Millionaire Next Door”, most people who have amassed any sort of wealth do not have car payments. Or in my case, if you want to work less and live more, having no car payment is the way to go.

5. I walk/bike when/where I can.
To an extreme even, meaning that oh my god, yes, I will brave the Los Angeles Mass Transit System, which is a complete joke, when I can. Besides, sometimes seeing the world flee past in a car is just too fast. I need to be able to stop and smell the jasmine!

6. Never used Netflix.
Nope, not once. I still walk down to Windward Circle and pick out my videos, which I must mention is a rare activity as I probably only do this a few times a year. Keepin’ it local. Think about all the fuel energy it takes to ship that stuff to you. I’d rather have face-time with a real human at the video store. I’m shocked that Main Street Video in Venice is still open. Remember to support your local small businesses!

7. I got library cards in several major metropolitan areas and I know how to use ‘em!
Yes, it helps that I have a few librarian friends, including MightyBob, but I swear I acquired the Chicago Public Library Card legit and without his help! Anyway, borrowing books is much less expensive and there’s no gamble - if the book sucks, you’re not out-of-pocket.

8. Most chain grocery stores, especially Whole Foods, scare me.
People! I grew up on a farm in the Midwest. I know what real produce looks like and it ain’t at your local chain store, no matter how many ‘organic’ stickers they slap on that melon. Real tomatoes are bulbous and irregular in shape and never mealy. Real produce is not perfect and not-surprisingly, it actually has flavor! Get up early on Farmer’s Market mornings and support your local small farmer. They need it more than anybody else.

9. Never met a thrift store I didn’t like.
Most of the time I can find better and more unique clothes while thrifting than in a department store. Same for yard sales. I’m a sucker for older well-made items.

10. Cooking from scratch rocks!
If you need some tips, my friend’s Food Rockz site will convince you that food indeed, does rock. Our interface with food is important. Slow down, taste the satisfaction of knowing that you are feeding yourself by way of your own actions. It’ll taste better than anything you will ever find from a shiny bag, a labeled can, or a glossy box. And you will be giving yourself the timeless gift of less stress and more time to do the things you love.

It’s come to my attention that there is a huge hull-bubble-balloo regarding the Los Angeles county ballots in the presidential primary race. Here’s what I know:

All Non-Partisan voters were able to cast their vote for a presidential nominee from the Democratic ticket or the American Independent ticket. If you came through my polling place, and you were on the roster as Non-Partisan, you were told that you were also allowed to choose from the Democratic and American Independent tickets. All Non-Partisan voters were still given a Non-Partisan ballot and told to go to their voting booth of choice: Democratic, American Independent, Non-Partisan. We told everyone to very carefully read #6!

Number 6 was the infamous bubble question of - “do you want to be disenfranchised . . .” Appparently this bubble needed to be punched in order for the vote to count. I think this is too tricky for voters. If the Dems and the AI party opened up their tickets to NP voters, then let the floodgates open, with no hoops, tricks or confusion. It’s akin to being ‘kinda pregnant.’ You either are or you aren’t.

As one of the pollworkers, I’m not even sure which is correct - that if you are an NP voter and you wanted to vote as a Dem that you get a Dem ticket or if you still should have voted on an NP ticket and checked bubble #6. I voted on the Dem ticket (provisionally, I might add!) and there was no #6. So, that would mean that only the NP tickets had question #6, the question that you had to punch, which we’ve all agreed is redundant.

And, if it makes anyone feel any better, my vote probably ‘won’t count’ because I forgot that I am an NP voter and when I voted provisionally, I couldn’t remember how I was registered, so I voted on a Dem ticket.

Is my blood boiling that my vote ‘may not count?’ No, not so much as the mistake was a call to get my own politics in order . . . as in . . . know which party I’m affiliated with and go in to the polls a little better-informed. Maybe look-up ‘disenfranchised’ in the dictionary.

Am I annoyed with the continual shenanigans in our voting system? Yes! But I believe that community involvement can help foster awareness, which will lead to a better system. I consider this primary as practice. Let’s not get too agitated over the primary, fellow Angelino NP voters! Let’s all take this as a big lesson to open our eyes for whatever they try to pull over on us next time.

Also, I’ll say this: I don’t have a TV, nor do I listen to the radio, so I’m thankfully not sitting here being fed an AP story about “Bubble-gate” every hour on the hour.

If you can only remember one thing about voting, then remember this: One signature, one vote; that’s why you sign the roster.

Here’s a picture of the inspector of our precinct and another pollworker officially sealing the red ballot box after closing the polling place.

I was so wiped out, I slept nearly the entire day after the primaries, but I did have time to meet for coffee with a friend, who vocalized his reservations regarding the ability of pollworkers.

“The people running my polling place were lucky if they could put their teeth in,” my friend said. “There’s no way the vote is untainted, it’s scary, there’s so much room for error! These were little old ladies who need help putting on their pants in the morning and they are the ones handing out ballots??!” he snorted. From my work at a polling place, I can tell you first-hand that alot of voters automatically assume that the people running the polls are about 2 IQ points away from retardation.

And sadly, he’s probably correct. I’m sure that many people who sign up to work the polls are often elderly or . . . ahem . . challenged in some way. “Call the county - they never have enough help. They’d love to have more competent community leaders running their polling places,” I urged my friend, “get involved! Quit yer bitchin’!”

In addition to worries of pollworker competency, people also get really empassioned about whether their vote ‘counts.’ Especially if you bring up the word ‘provisional.’ It’s like a big, bad, ugly word. One friend of mine said, “Oh, they don’t count the provisional ballots. They just throw them in the trash.”

Well, I’ve got something to say about that and about the entire voting process. We had thirty provisional voters. Every time we give a provisional ballot to someone, we have to watch them to make sure that after they vote that they put their ballot in their matching provisional ballot envelope, before it is deposited into the ballot box. That’s because the provisional ballot envelope has the voter’s information written in on the front, including the ever-important signature as well as all the information necessary to confirm that the person whose ballot is inside that envelope is indeed a registered voter. Because remember, if someone votes provisionally, it’s because their name was not on the roster of registered voters.

So, how much does your vote count? Well, we had one of those thirty provisional voters sneak by us and drop his ballot, sans provisional info envelope, into the counting machine that tallies all the verified voters’ ballots. So, at the end of the night, we had 29 provisional ballots and 30 provisional voters. I know the name of the guy who mistakenly mis-cast his vote because we have to write down the first and last name of everyone who is a provisional voter. So, we had one ballot not verified, shuffled somewhere in the mix and no way to figure out which vote doesn’t count.

So now what happens? The precinct I worked for was one lil’ vote off, and after our long day, we were pretty happy with being one vote from perfection. Now here’s my question - who’s vote shall we dismiss?