I have no idea how this website knows I'm in Latin America, but all of a sudden, Blogger is totally in Spanish. It's a little strange.
I write tonight from "Nemo's Chat," el local de mi cunhado Cesar, in Valencia, Venezuela. The local is a little room with dirty blue walls up a steep flight of stairs, full with 8 computers and a bevy of teenage boys playing games and chatting online for 1000 bolivars. I don't know if this is hourly, but I do know that 1000 bolivars is about 50 cents, USD.
I am staying here outside Valencia in Trigal Norte with my sister, Luisana. Cesar is Luisana's boyfriend, ergo he is my "cunhado" or brother-in-law. Of course, Luisana is not really my sister, not by blood anyway. Many years ago, my dear darling friend Amity lived here in Valencia, with Luisana and her family, as an exchange student. When Amity returned to visit last summer, she brought me along.
For all of the challenges and all of the strangeness, I loved it here from the first moments. And I still do. In fact, I was so happy here, and relatively unhappy in Chicago, that I thought about picking up and leaving yet again, for a sojourn in South America. Amity plans to return here in the fall to teach at a local bilingual school, and I have a home whenever I want it on Calle Acuario with Luisana and her family.
When I started this blog in January, I was pretty well convinced that come summertime, I'd be on my way down here to live. I think I can safely say that this will not come to pass, though not because I don't love the people, and love my Venezuelan family. I have decided to try to put down some roots. Ack.
I needed a vacation so that I could get some perspective on my life. In less than 2 weeks, I will be 27. This has always been a bit of a witching age for me. For some reason, those who have lived fast and died young, as the saying goes, seemed to expire at this age. I'm also definitely on the downward side of my mid-twenties, now. Pretty soon, it's going to be difficult to avoid being in my late 20's. I've been coming around to the idea that adulthood means something different than that which I have been doing, but I think I used to see it as a prison, not as a liberation.
Here's the thing. Getting away from it all, and coming to the place to which I had intended to flee, has been a way of coming full circle. I am staying in Chicago, though I hope to visit Valencia again at some point while Amity is here. If she's here. Mi amiga es una igualita de yo, y todo pueden cambiar.
The other thing that's working nicely in my life, though I know it's all rather too new to bank on too heavily, is Bachelor #3, who I've been seeing only less than a month now. But so far so good. I really like him, I like the dynamic between us, and I think it's worth working on and seeing where it goes.
Overall, I find that from time to time, I need to get away from my life in order to get some perspective on it. In the day to day, I'm too close to it to see the entire picture. And speaking of pictures, I took some gorgeous photos here. I need to get home, edit, and get my act together, but I think I have enough material for shopping around to exhibitions. And I want to write. For my birthday, thanks to this trip, I am making some changes in my life, and improving upon all of the ways in which I know myself, and know what will make me happy, rather than running again.
Okay, time for pizza, or dinner of some sort. More later. Mi hermana linda espera por mi. Chau!
5.30.2005
5.21.2005
Baby Bird
I've got pix! And they WILL be posted.
About a month or six weeks ago, I bought a lovely hanging plant with these riotous fuschia bell-like flowers. I hung it on a nail out on the balcony, and when I lay in my hammock I could enjoy it as a sign of spring.
Well, on a dreary Friday morning about three weeks ago, I saw an enormous bird fly out of my plant. Hmm. Ok. I didn't think much of it until that evening, when JS from work came over and I told her the story. As emphasis, I walked out onto the porch to look in, and there was the bird. JS insisted it was a pigeon. I protested, guessing it was a mourning dove, though I didn't think I had ever seeen one before. Turns out it is a mourning dove. But mourning doves are in the pigeon family, so we were both right.
Evidently I spooked the bird, because she flew away. JS suggested the bird might be nesting. Absurd! Why would a bird nest in my plant? So I took the plant off the nail, and sure enough, a perfect pearlescent gray-white egg lay nestled inside, just off-center, in the little hollow its mama had made.
My first reaction was disbelief, then shock, then pride. Finally, as the days and weeks passed, I was like a nervous first-time parent. I scoured websites for information on mourning dove gestation, and read that it takes two weeks for eggs to hatch. So, I watched and waited, and witnessed such a vigil as I could not have imagined. That mama bird DID NOT MOVE. Not once in three weeks. Not when Mojo or I would hang out on the porch. Not when papa bird would stop by. Not when a spring storm literally rained torrents onto her head the other night, and she gasped for air under the coursing water.
The night of that rainstorm, I had a terrible dream. According to that first website, my baby bird was a week late. Was it dead? Would it never even hatch? The idea of that mother bird nearly drowning to protect a dead egg evidently really preyed on my subconscious. In my dream, the mama bird finally gave up and left. I took down the plant (which was, in my dream as it is in real life, pretty much dead. I can't very well dump Miracle-Gro into a birds' nest, can I?)
Anyway, when I examined the abandoned nest in my dream, there were three eggs. The largest was the one I had actually seen, but now it was half-melted, sticky, chalky, and very cold. Parts of the shell were so thin I could see the suffocated chick pressed against the membrane inside, eyes clenched. The other two eggs were in the same condition, but much smaller and deformed. They were never even viable.
The sight of these abberations in my dream disgusted me, but I couldn't help but look and look and look. More than anything, I felt this inchoate sadness, like it was me who had had lost my own offspring. When I woke up, I could hear the endless chorus of birds roosting in the trees outside my bedroom window, and felt that quiet, distance loss.
So later that morning, I got online at work and did a little more research. Come to find out, according to a different source, hatching can take 4 or even 5 weeks after a mourning dove lays the egg. Mourning doves live in all 48 states, and I can only assume that differences will evolve even within the species. At any rate, the news was encouraging.
And then this morning, papa bird returned. I found him sitting stoically on the railing of the balcony, tormenting Mojo with his very presence. My sources say that papa makes himself scarce during the chick's development, but returns to assist mama in feeding the very demanding newborn. So, trying not to upset anyone, I climbed onto some crates and peeked in. Sure enough, a very gray, very wet, very bewildered little critter cuddled against his mother and peered back at me. He even has her beady little black eyes.
I couldn't be more proud than if it were my little chick. Welcome to the world, baby bird! Christ, does anyone else hear that alarm going off? Ignore it. Seriously.
About a month or six weeks ago, I bought a lovely hanging plant with these riotous fuschia bell-like flowers. I hung it on a nail out on the balcony, and when I lay in my hammock I could enjoy it as a sign of spring.
Well, on a dreary Friday morning about three weeks ago, I saw an enormous bird fly out of my plant. Hmm. Ok. I didn't think much of it until that evening, when JS from work came over and I told her the story. As emphasis, I walked out onto the porch to look in, and there was the bird. JS insisted it was a pigeon. I protested, guessing it was a mourning dove, though I didn't think I had ever seeen one before. Turns out it is a mourning dove. But mourning doves are in the pigeon family, so we were both right.
Evidently I spooked the bird, because she flew away. JS suggested the bird might be nesting. Absurd! Why would a bird nest in my plant? So I took the plant off the nail, and sure enough, a perfect pearlescent gray-white egg lay nestled inside, just off-center, in the little hollow its mama had made.
My first reaction was disbelief, then shock, then pride. Finally, as the days and weeks passed, I was like a nervous first-time parent. I scoured websites for information on mourning dove gestation, and read that it takes two weeks for eggs to hatch. So, I watched and waited, and witnessed such a vigil as I could not have imagined. That mama bird DID NOT MOVE. Not once in three weeks. Not when Mojo or I would hang out on the porch. Not when papa bird would stop by. Not when a spring storm literally rained torrents onto her head the other night, and she gasped for air under the coursing water.
The night of that rainstorm, I had a terrible dream. According to that first website, my baby bird was a week late. Was it dead? Would it never even hatch? The idea of that mother bird nearly drowning to protect a dead egg evidently really preyed on my subconscious. In my dream, the mama bird finally gave up and left. I took down the plant (which was, in my dream as it is in real life, pretty much dead. I can't very well dump Miracle-Gro into a birds' nest, can I?)
Anyway, when I examined the abandoned nest in my dream, there were three eggs. The largest was the one I had actually seen, but now it was half-melted, sticky, chalky, and very cold. Parts of the shell were so thin I could see the suffocated chick pressed against the membrane inside, eyes clenched. The other two eggs were in the same condition, but much smaller and deformed. They were never even viable.
The sight of these abberations in my dream disgusted me, but I couldn't help but look and look and look. More than anything, I felt this inchoate sadness, like it was me who had had lost my own offspring. When I woke up, I could hear the endless chorus of birds roosting in the trees outside my bedroom window, and felt that quiet, distance loss.
So later that morning, I got online at work and did a little more research. Come to find out, according to a different source, hatching can take 4 or even 5 weeks after a mourning dove lays the egg. Mourning doves live in all 48 states, and I can only assume that differences will evolve even within the species. At any rate, the news was encouraging.
And then this morning, papa bird returned. I found him sitting stoically on the railing of the balcony, tormenting Mojo with his very presence. My sources say that papa makes himself scarce during the chick's development, but returns to assist mama in feeding the very demanding newborn. So, trying not to upset anyone, I climbed onto some crates and peeked in. Sure enough, a very gray, very wet, very bewildered little critter cuddled against his mother and peered back at me. He even has her beady little black eyes.
I couldn't be more proud than if it were my little chick. Welcome to the world, baby bird! Christ, does anyone else hear that alarm going off? Ignore it. Seriously.
No, really. I'm back. For now at least.
A couple of things. Like the seasons I so obsessively dwelt upon during winter, things change. I'm not teaching anymore, and the hiatus has been like a rebirth so far. I do not wish to do that to myself again. However, I miss the extra money, and find myself rather skint almost immediately after payday.
Something else. I'm not smoking anymore. At least for now. I know better than to ever say anything too definitive. It's part of the self-awareness that comes with adulthood. So I'm not smoking, and smoking was a habit that dovetailed nicely for me with this here blogging habit. But here I am, so I guess I CAN blog without my other vices in tow.
Also. The online dating thing. It's been a slice. After about 5 dates each with a couple of very-nice-but-not-quite-right guys who, in fairness, looked like GREAT catches in profiles, Bachelor #3 has turned out to be completely delightful. Good stuff. And very distracting. In the absolute best possible way, though. Mmmm.
And. I'm sick of my job, of course, but the fates have still not seen fit to send something else my way yet. However, according to my horoscope, big changes are afoot career-wise in July. Here's hoping.
So. I'm off to Venezuela for a week on Tuesday, on an unspeakably early flight. But God Bless frequent flyer programs. Thanks to Citibank and American Airlines, I will fly round trip from O'Hare to Caracas for 30,000 miles and $72. The plan is a weekend in Morrocoy at the beach house in Chichiriviche with la familia; and come hell or high water I'm getting myself to Las Trincheras for a totally self-indulgent day of spa heaven. Overall, I need some Latin time, and I look forward to improving my Spanish, writing, photographing, etc. And chances are I'll have some internet access, so perhaps there will be a post or two this week.
Something else. I'm not smoking anymore. At least for now. I know better than to ever say anything too definitive. It's part of the self-awareness that comes with adulthood. So I'm not smoking, and smoking was a habit that dovetailed nicely for me with this here blogging habit. But here I am, so I guess I CAN blog without my other vices in tow.
Also. The online dating thing. It's been a slice. After about 5 dates each with a couple of very-nice-but-not-quite-right guys who, in fairness, looked like GREAT catches in profiles, Bachelor #3 has turned out to be completely delightful. Good stuff. And very distracting. In the absolute best possible way, though. Mmmm.
And. I'm sick of my job, of course, but the fates have still not seen fit to send something else my way yet. However, according to my horoscope, big changes are afoot career-wise in July. Here's hoping.
So. I'm off to Venezuela for a week on Tuesday, on an unspeakably early flight. But God Bless frequent flyer programs. Thanks to Citibank and American Airlines, I will fly round trip from O'Hare to Caracas for 30,000 miles and $72. The plan is a weekend in Morrocoy at the beach house in Chichiriviche with la familia; and come hell or high water I'm getting myself to Las Trincheras for a totally self-indulgent day of spa heaven. Overall, I need some Latin time, and I look forward to improving my Spanish, writing, photographing, etc. And chances are I'll have some internet access, so perhaps there will be a post or two this week.
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