". . . But the past does not exist independently from the present. Indeed, the past is only past because there is a present, just as I can point to something over there only because I am here. But nothing is inherently over there or here. In that sense, the past has no content. The past -- or more accurately, pastness -- is a position. Thus, in no way can we identify the past as past." p. 15

". . . But we may want to keep in mind that deeds and words are not as distinguishable as often we presume. History does not belong only to its narrators, professional or amateur. While some of us debate what history is or was, others take it into their own hands." p. 153

Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (1995) by Michel-Rolph Trouillot

Friday, May 6, 2011

Fly Like an Eagle

The rain had quit, and the sun was finally coming out of this damned cold day.  I caught sight of an enormous wing span against the blueing sky, the sunlight caught in the pinions, and sure enough, there, gliding above Queen Street, a baldie.  There wasn't a chance of mistaking that winged silhouette for thouse of the ubiquitous buzzards. 

Early mornings are one of the times of day that the backyards are at their most lively -- not just down here, but anywhere, surely, there are backyards, or fields plus trees and all the rest of what birds like.

In my backyard the birds -- so many different kinds of birds -- are complaining at the tops of their voices, because they've spied the food I scattered around the yard about an hour ago, but they've also spied Cleo, who thinks she's invisible between two bushes, as she cleverly waits for a bird to fly down for her claws. I've seen her attempts several times, yet I've never seen her have a success. She seems remarkably slow and clumsy for a cat. Maybe she doesn't see so well? In any case, she's fed by the Ladies on the block, who have concern meetings about her when she's not been seen for a few days, who have even gone searching for her during one of her desertions of Queen Street.

I call it Kitchen Window TeeVee. I watch as I prep some ingredients for the Mediterranean Shrimp Cous-Cous I'm going to serve this afternoon.
According to the Ladies, for whom I'm preparing this shrimp, Cleo would prefer to die than enter the house of anyone. She is willing to sit on your porch in the sun and eat what you put out for her, and when it's winter, sleep in the warm shelters you provide. But that's as far as she's going, no thank you, not very much.

In a while el V's taking off for NYC with a load of what we need to take back home.  He'll hang out with Los Muñequitos, who are there, as the last stop on their first U.S. tour in 9 years -- we saw them in D.C. two weekends ago.  When he returns we pack up the car again, for Thursday's final run between here and home.  The Eastern Shore Adventure is nearly over.  I'm going to miss the backyard, with the flowers, the birds, cats, foxes, extremely.

OTOH -- New York, home, ye olde Friends, and New Ones we don't know yet!  The new friends here will come and visit! No need for a car!  I will be independently mobile again, yay!

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