about having a site on WordPress.
Time to recover it.
about having a site on WordPress.
Time to recover it.
According to the Oxford Dictionary, weed(s) is defined as:
“A wild plant growing where is not wanted and in competition with cultivated plants.”
Watching this morning at my pots, I quite like them, their unexpected presence, so I will encourage them where I can.
That was my address in Vina del Mar. It had taken all this time to realize that address was well above our income. After the original owner died, I presume, her family raised the rent (or put the house for sale) to the market rate, so that my mother could not afford it, and had to move out.
So what I am saying that our time on that house was a dream.
Since my dad died all those years ago, I was six then, our lives were based on shaky grounds.
I had for years dreams regarding the death of my father, directly or indirectly, the details of which were kept away from me, so my dreams tried to fill the void. On those dreams I was always falling upwards on a void which I could not escape from…
I still remember that petite blonde girl, with the uniform of the Colegio Aleman in Valparaiso, who would would walk from the bus stop up the hill. I wondered if she lived on one of those apartments I could see from my home. Although I think that was unlikely.
Probably she lived on one of those houses I could see up the hills, across the valley. In spite of my exploratory wanderings, I never learnt were she lived.
I wonder how is she doing after the coup, which changed my life so dramatically.
The lesson learnt was that, I believe, I was used by the “companeros”.
The end justify the means? Or the “means corrupt the end”.
That is the lesson I learnt from those years. Now, I take each year, each month, each day, as they come, and navigate through them.
Perhaps I would like to live on a small house in a nice area, with a small garden to take care of without the intrusion of a young man who thinks that the world should be as he thinks of, incapable of seeing, and dealing, with different views.
After the coup, as a member of MIR, I went to Valparaiso, up the hills, to hide in one of the secure houses. I was greeted by a young girl, wearing a mini skirt, as it was the fashion: she was very skillful how to deal with it, as I never saw her panties. She was good, and pretty.
I wonder what happened to her?
Would I go back to Chile? Apart of the money side, if I were, I would go to the South, not to my birth place, Vina del Mar. Probably inland rather than on the coast, although that would depend of what I find. I would like to have a small house up the mountains, up Los Andes, la cordillera, that clear air, that clear atmosphere, away from the pollution of the cities, to wake every day in those mountains…
Dreams… just dreams…
I try to shape the environment where I live, whenever I do, to the lives of birds, animals, plants…
By looking forward, relying on a technology shaped by capitalism, are we walking away more and more from our inner lives, away from the environment where we live?
Time to recover my own inner live…
Yannick got upset for a moment, leaving the reassuring feel of my lap to sniff some plant pots in the balcony while the wind drives the chimes, the sound being so soothing and reassuring that makes me sigh with pleasure.
It is morning.
The soft undulations of the grey of the sky drifting from west to east, valleys and peaks changing as it does so, punctuated by the sudden flights of pigeons, explosions of wings flapping, disturbing the serene stillness of the morning, to the delight of the watching seagulls.
The pages of the notebook following the rhythm of the wind, if the passing of time needs a reminder.
#climatechange #wind #pigeons #seagulls #chimes #morning
Silence with the drone of industrial activity, the flapping of wings by the pigeons, punctuated by the calls of sparrows and tits, this morning. No sign of the seagulls, not yet.
Flocks of pigeons flying around, around…
As usual, pigeons alighted on the TV aerial across the street.
Another day is on its way.
#morning #pigeons #tits #industrialactivity #sparrows
Pigeons impatient, asking for their breakfast, as the sparrows are not coming to the feeders in this cold January morning, splashing the seeds, as they do.
Their voice is comforting in the background as I have my morning coffee in the balcony. The white with grey markings one is watching, in case that the seeds come on her way, all interrupted by the explosive departure of the flock, leaving her back for a brief moment, as they become aware of something that I did not.
A door closing as my neighbour went inside.
The sound of bells tolling calling for the morning service fills the air. Then silence, for the sound to come back for a while, first with three calls.
A tit, briefly, flew to the feeders. Not many birds this morning, foggy but cold.
Bella is running about, I love when she does that. Full of energy.
It is early in the morning, kind of, 9am is early enough for a Saturday. I am in the sunny balcony, the stone owl is looking at me with its impassive eyes and the smirk of its mouth, impervious to the cold.
My memory tells me that forty years ago the ground was covered with the deadening white blanket, absorbing all sounds until the morning become as it is supposed to be, as it was all those years ago, becoming less and less cold with every passing year until now, when snow became a memory how the weather was.
Yannick is on my lap, she likes to come with me into the balcony, even in winter. This morning, after breakfast, she was waiting for me.
I haven’t seen the sparrows, tits, and other birds, coming to the feeders. However, I am in the process of changing the main feeder from a plastic to a clay one, it is new, so they need to get used to it. Although I have already seen some blue tits feeding from it.
Give time to time.
It is a cold morning, too. I will be monitoring the situation. If I remember well, the clay feeder has the blessing of the RSPB.
Yannick got fed up with me as I was not giving her the attention she craves, and left my lap.
The sun is warming me now. The black coffee I am having is invigorating.
Yannick is so beautiful when the tangential sun rays illuminate her, the reddish tones of her black coat and her white whiskers becoming highlighted.
She is so graceful, so elegant. She is a sacred cat coming from ancient times.
My coffee is getting cold.
The spider webs, illuminated by the warmth of the sun, fill my eyes, now.
The chirping of birds can now be heard as the coldness of the morning is receding, their cheerful sound caressing my ears.
Oh, the green eyes of Yannick! As the warmth increasingly surrounds us, she is becoming more attuned to the cheerful sounds and sights around us.
Otherwise, the silence is every so often disrupted by the wing flapping of the pigeons flying away, disturbed by something I could not see or hear, or feel.
I look now thru the kitchen window, past Bella, the shadows of the balusters imprinting the white surfaces of the plants shelf.
It is early morning, still dark.
The cats are already wandering around, impatient.
He stretches, then throws the bed clothes away.
The cats follow him, expecting their breakfast.
After the shower, he is ready. The cats are, too, waiting in the kitchen.
He looks out, the darkness is receding.
Black coffee follows, the morning ceremony of preparing the pot.
A shadow disturbs him. He look out, a pigeon sits on the sill, waiting for him.
He looks at the bird.
He heard steps on the floor above. His ears are wide open, to see, to hear, how they will develop.
He waits a bit more.