The owner of the guest house we are soon to be subletting called me on Monday night to say that his plans of moving out by Tuesday morning had been postponed because of a flat tire and an unexpected amount of work. He said he'd reimburse us the 20 or so dollars we paid him for that particular day, and told me we could move in on Wednesday. This took him about ten minutes to get out, and it seemed after every sentence that he wanted some prompting. Whenever I said anything, however, it seemed like there was a note of distress in his voice, as though I had made a faux pas. This has been the nature of our conversations since the first time I spoke to him in early August. When we met him, we saw his even more unsettling face, the gray skin of which looked stretched and bony, with deep pools for eyes and compact, off-color lips, all under dry looking, short black hair. As Kay aptly pointed out, he is a David Lynch character.

After he was done telling me that we couldn't move in yet, his partner came on and, in a slightly less creepy but even mroe rambling manner, gave me a quick tutorial on the gas heater. "Good evening. How are you doing? Good. First, I wanted to tell you that I'm leaving a phone number for the plumber on the table here. Also, I wanted to tell you about the gas heater in case you never used one before. There's a spigot on the wall next to the heater, and it has to be turned either perpendicular to the wall to turn on the gas, or . . . have you ever used a gas heater? There's something called a pilot light that you have to light to engage the gas, and it needs to be lit before you turn the spigot. But you turn the spigot and it allows . . . it allows the gas to flow through the pipes and into the heater, and then if the pilot is lit, it engages the gas and the flow of gas heats the house. So, you turn this spigot ninety degrees, until it's perpendicular to the wall, and that turns it on. And, have you ever used a gas heater before? Probably it would be best to ask someone who has previously turned one on to come over and help you when you decide to turn on the heater. So, when you start having chilly days and you say to yourself, 'Hmm, I'd like to have the heater on,' you can know how to turn it on, rather than waiting and suddenly it's December and you don't know what to do. We leave it off during the summer months because even the pilot produces some heat, you'd be surprised, so we turn that off and it isn't on right now. And because there is some flow of gas, when the pilot light is on, it needs some gas to be flowing to stay lit, which is of course a nominal expense, but it is an expense. So, actually, I've never turned this particular heater on, and it isn't easy to describe the process over the phone, so maybe you can get someone who knows how to do it. Or you could even call the plumber, because I'm leaving his number on the table for you in case you need it. But, I hope you enjoy your stay here. We've had some marvelous summers here, and it's very nice, and off the street, and quit. The only time it isn't is when the neighbors sometimes have parties, just occasionally. But I hope you enjoy it here, and have a nice year."

We camped out in the library last night, with the library director's permission. She said that we couldn't turn on lights after dark except with the shadess drawn in the office of the Circulation Librarian, Laura Cooley, where we were to sleep; also, we could not have guests. We took two cushions from the couches, two pillows, and a blanket, and slept beneath Laura's beautiful ceiling with its endless expanse of stars and galaxies. Today, finally, we should be able to move in.

I see that I never wrote that description of Promissor. I should write that description of Promissor.

Anne and I finally saw the place we're subletting, and it looks wonderful: set back from the road, cozy and furnished, with a tree it's our duty to water and walls we can lock to repel intruders. We're still staying in the hotel, because the owner doesn't move out until Tuesday.

I write this from the Santa Fe campus library, where I once again work. I think I'll be very happy here. I always wanted the knowledge and responsibilities that I now have as a supervisor, and the position will give me a chance to figure out what it means to have moved out.

I've been given the first task of making sure that all the students who graduated or withdrew have been removed from the database. It's a good way to catch up to the school since I've left, to see everyone who has already left and those who have registered as alumni borrowers and whom I thus run the risk of seeing again. I especially like being able to see what books everybody has checked out. I could do this as a student as well, but now I can also add or remove fines or delete accounts. Oh, the power.

Anne and I went for a walk in the foothills yesterday, and I remembered what it's like to be in the high desert. My perspective has improved since I was here last. I more fully appreciate the beauty of the landscape, the variety of plants in their weird shapes and colors, the ever-changing sky, and the solitude. Everything seems familiar, and yet I notice now that I come back how it all has more depth than I thought when I was a student here.

This is the first time in a month and a half that I've been separated from Anne for more than twenty minutes. I feel like something critical is missing, like my glasses; or perhaps as though I forgot to wake up. She's looking around town to apply for jobs, and she has no phone. I wish she were still here.

Life is not fixed. None of it is solid at all, and the slightest wind can blow anything away. I learned this more every day as we travelled west, through lush eastern forest to rolling hills and farmlands of Tennessee, to the broken roads and dirt piles of Arkansas, the imposing sky and flatness of Oklahoma, and finally the desert nothingness of the Texas panhandle and the mountains and dust of New Mexico. Now that I'm here, I see that more even than I thought at first is transient and fluid. And yet there are patterns in the chaos, and principles to which a strong personality can hold.