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.

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.

Back from Hiatus

Though not pre-meditated, I've found myself not having blogged in 2 weeks. Spring has arrived, completely arrived, here in Chicago, so I now find myself lounging in the hammock during rare free moments. I've also taken up tanning, as in using the tanning beds at the clubhouse at my apartment complex. After playing it very safe without any appreciable results, I managed to finally overdo it today. My ass is totally pink, as is my back in a few long streaky patches. I'm looking forward to watching the burn evolve.

The other distraction is the imminent end of my teaching responsibilities at RMC. Two more weeks! So, now that it's winding down, there's plenty to do. Though I've enjoyed it, and as always I have learned so much from my students, I am officially ready to have a little more time. I'll be off next term, and it's yet to be determined if they need me/I can handle doing it again come July. The extra money has been great, as has the additional experience for the resume. But the time will be priceless.

Oh, and there's that little thing I mentioned last time, the online dating thing. It's going well. I recommend it highly. And I'm not saying any more about it ;)

So yeah, I'll be trying to make more time for this. But only between dates, and if I can get my variegated pink ass out of the hammock.

Hat in Ring

I cannot believe I am admitting this, because there is still an ever-so slight taint to the whole business in my mind. But, what the hell.

Tonight, I signed up for an online dating service.

This is slightly mortifying. I have never had a problem finding dates, and I'm not having a particular problem now. Being single is fine!

But I don't know many people in Chicago, other than co-workers and students --- both of which are groups best left alone in terms of dating. It's hard to meet people. The deciding factor was lunch today with DH and his boyfriend, who met online; in addition to all the other friends, gay and straight, who have used such services and been very pleased with the results.

The thing is, it IS better than a bar. You can pre-screen the candidates and try to target something that won't just be another waste of time. I guess the best reason of all for trying this, testimonials aside, is that I kind of like the idea of at least TARGETING my efforts in dating, rather than just aiming wildly on some dance floor and hoping I hit someone decent. It's not like I have all the free time in the world, and I don't want waste it.

So, I'll keep you posted. Right now I'm waiting for my profile to clear the censors (lest I tried to post any objectionable, lewd, or otherwise scary content); and once it does, there are few guys I'd like to wink at.

Heaven help me.

In a mood like this . . .

. . . there are only two things to do. Smoke, and listen to Elvis Costello.

I adore this man.

Specifically, tonight it's ONLY Blood and Chocolate, an album that took me a year and a half to get into. This happens with Costello. There's a dark, boozy, anxious, sedate, dark country road in my past, in Iowa City, when only All This Useless Beauty would do. Literally. I was physically incapable of listening to ANYTHING else.

Tonight, I have woken up from the most beautiful dream.

I'm learning that the biggest things can happen in the tiniest, most intimate and impossible spaces. These spaces are dreams when we are asleep, but when they spill over into real life . . . you become a sleepwalker. You move through the day, longing for your little spaces, perfect little pockets of play in a tapestry of work.

Did I love the dream itself? Or was it just that I loved the idea that the dream might not actually fade in daylight, or in the scope of what is possible? The former is more likely, and the latter is what will help me stop chiding myself that I am smart enough to have known better. Maybe it's about the difference between faith and stupidity. I like to think that I am learning to be faithful, and that I am not just perennially stupid.

The worst part is that I find myself finding hope. Well, looking for it. I'm too smart to delude myself into thinking I've FOUND hope, but I am faithful enough to look for it. Can I just go back to sleep now, and return to my dream? Probably not. After all, I've been trying to wake up.

But I know myself, and I'll dream again tonight. Maybe it's a new dream, and maybe it's the residue of the old one, but something will be there. And I'll be waiting for it.

$44.07/month savings:

Whilst in Iowa City this weekend, I figured out how to turn on the wireless function on this here company laptop. One advantage to corporate slavery: the $2000 in laptop equipment I got at the first of the year. I freakin' LOVE this thing and I'm chagrined to think someday we will be parted.

So, I switched on the laptop at home and the wireless connection worked. I double-checked the strength of it by unplugging the modem in my living room, just in case it was somehow pulling the signal from there.

It's not. I have wireless.

Which means, to hell with ComCast! To HELL! I don't watch the cable enough, and the internet is now available in the tub or on the porch or in bed, all for FREE!

Granted, I just gotten bitten by the zombie of NetFlix, so now, drooling and braindead, I'll be dropping 20 bucks a month on that. But, it's a good chance to catch up on some films and even get things for school, without having to go out. Again, in this case, FREE was better when I would rely on the Public Library. But after getting confused and not returning two discs, the $10 fine alerted me to the merits of no late fees, and movie returns I can make at the post office box while waiting for the elevator in the morning.

Anyway, off to watch Donnie Darko. Amores Perros last night was incredible, by the way. You should queue it . . . .

In Town Again

KK is doing KR's hair in the bathroom, and we're debating whether or not KR has "man hair," "lesbian hair," or "anorexic hair."

This town has wrapped itself around me again, in the most pleasant way.

I miss having friends who are NOT tied to my job. First thing I do when I return to the city is STOP being a nun and get myself a life.

We're getting ready for a night of dancing at the only gay bar in town, with an entourage of friends and acquaintances. I haven't been here in over a year, but I'll know people there. That never happens in Chicago, with one very odd exception. And that exception is this girl from Iowa City I keep running into, to the point that it's becoming scary.

I know that I can wander into the Tobacco Bowl and wait. Before long, someone will come in.

I also bought a pair of Versace pumps at Revival, a fantastic consignment shop on Linn St. With the store credit for items I brought in, I paid less than NINE dollars for them. Yay! They're slightly 80's fabulous, white open-toe 3" slingbacks with rainbow neon spraypainted stripes, but they tone right down with a pair of jeans.

I won't wear them out dancing tonight.

My apologies to the good "Professor"

In the posting "Auto da Fe" a few days ago, I alluded to "the second season" of "Father Ted," an Irish sitcom I watched again recently. One "Professor J. Grubelsnatch" of the UK commented on the posting and chastised me for not calling it "the second series" as is the British custom.

My apologies. While I do recognize that the terminology is different on either side of the Atlantic, I did not wish to confuse my largely (term used relatively) American audience. To the both of them, "series" means the entire length of a program, and not the individual years which are instead called "seasons."

But if I am correct as to the individual's true identity, Professor Grubelsnatch is well-versed in teasing me about my Yankee-isms, I must confess I appreciate the close reading.

The Dry Run

So, tomorrow afternoon I'm off to Iowa City. The friends I want to see are busy, working and such, so I will have time to catch up on my grading and correspondence, both professional and personal.

And I realize that this is the first test of my proposed change of livlihood to adjunct online faculty/world traveler extraordinaire.

I already got the word from KK about the weekend's itinerary, and about where I can get wireless internet access on the Ped Mall. I have mid-term grades due by Monday at noon, so this should work out well.

It's LIKE a vacation, but it's really a time trial for the telecommuter. Let's see if I qualify.

But this trip is also about moving forward, letting go. I'm going back to go forward. I didn't always get what I wanted there, but from Iowa City I will take what I need.

Auto Da Fe

Without my noticing, Spring arrived officially yesterday morning. I've been grousing about the seasons long enough now, and winter finally ended with little fanfare.

Of course, it's not the seasons that really affect me. All of the things that were bothering me yesterday haven't gone away today just because of a little cosmic slide.

I've never been a very faithful person, but suddenly this year I have found myself in a position of believing in something, and being called upon to have faith in it. I continue to struggle to maintain my faith, even without much encouragement or justification from the object(s) of that faith for continuing to do so.

I'm beginning to understand being Catholic, though my faith and need for that faith is not strictly along traditional religious lines.

I understand now that Catholics are waiting for the return of Jesus, who will come again to judge the living and the dead. Until this weekend (thanks to my current crisis of faith and the second season of the Irish sitcom "Father Ted") I didn't understand that Catholics, like lovers, are the ones who wait. We martyr ourselves to the promise of things that will likely never come to pass. We spend so much time looking ahead for the pending miracle that we could miss the actual in the every day.

I realize now why "aqui y ahora" is so difficult for me to fully grasp. It's the opposite of what I have ever known, ever been taught, or ever socialized into. It makes me feel a little bit better on the one hand. However, I am also more Catholic, more nun-like, more ascetic than I think I ever have been, in all aspects of my life right now. I want something I cannot have yet, and I have to have faith that someday I will have it, and I have to try to not destroy it while I wait.

But waiting for the miracle is precisely why I think I left my Catholic roots as a teenager. It was all so rarefied and arcane, so out of touch with what was my here and now at that time. More than anything, I'm terrible at waiting, I hate waiting, and I constantly fear that the line between blind faith and glaring stupidity is ever-blurring.

However, I get it. This is a lesson that for 26 years now I've fought against having to learn. I have waited, have been waiting, and I continue to wait. What choice do I have? Faith compels me to wait. Though it seemed like winter would never end, it did end after all. The days are still cold and will be, but it's on the run now. And who knows, maybe my ship will come in and the wait will actually end favorably. . . and hopefully before Jesus decides to return for his encore.