Tiza means chalk in Spanish, and for several years the local Rotary Club in Atlántida has held an event called Atlantiza, where they close off a street and provide chalk and a 3 x 3 meter artist’s space. Some people use the chalk to draw; others mix it with water and paint.
With rain threatening, this year featured a significant number of no-shows. While some of the creations were nice enough, I saw nothing outstanding. I expected at least one convincing 3-D rendering, but saw only unconvincing attempts, like the one in the photo. It might have been fun to participate; I indicated interest but when I got no response decided not to pursue it.
Incidentally, if you’re curious how artists create magnificent 3-D street art illusions, here’s a clue:
First, I wore a dark shirt. Most days I wear T shirts, and since yesterday was hot and muggy, I chose one with the thinnest material — which happened to be dark blue. Of course, I had no reason to anticipate what was coming. Have you ever seen a beekeeper’s outfit? No doubt you remember what color it was. Hint: opposite of dark.
Second, I did not immediately identify the insect that was buzzing me. This happened a couple months ago, and then I also did not identify the molester, but that passed with no harm.
Third, I did what most people would do without thinking: I swatted at it with my cap, then with a branch from a bush. I knocked one to the ground and stepped on it. It looked like a honeybee, and there are hives nearby. We’ve walked right by them at times.
When the first sting came, I kept walking. I had the urge to run, but I was with two other people. Gotta keep cool, right (as if swatting at bees with a branch from a bush is cool)?
This morning, over twelve hours later, I awoke with my right eye swollen almost half shut. I might have gotten as many as three stings in the right temple area, definitely my left ear and perhaps another on the neck nearby, and up to three on my left shoulder and back.
So this morning I did some research. When bees start hassling you, they’re telling you to go away, which is a good idea. When you wave your arms around, they take the motion as a threat because they use vision primarily to detect motion. And then —
Once embedded in the skin stingers also release tagging pheromones, potent chemical signals that attract and arouse other bees. When released near a colony, these pheromones can provoke a massive defensive swarm from the females guarding the nest. “The chemical signal says, ‘Here, sisters, here is where I found a chink in the armor of this big attacking predator,’” Schmidt says. “It really arouses them.”1
So more bees will be drawn to sting in the same area as the first stings. And the dark color (bees see red as black btw) reminds bees of dark-furred animals they have evolved to recognize as a threat.
What I should have done:
worn a white shirt
not automatically swatted
gotten the hell out of there
and, after being stung, gotten the hell out of the as fast as I could
I enjoyed a dollop of local honey (this area is big into bees) in my oatmeal this morning, after getting up early and walking Benji on the beach at 7. I think that will be my dog-walking routine for a while. Once stung, twice shy.
As far as I can see, there’s no telling why a dog chooses to dig a hole. Kiya (pronounced KEEsha) decided on one particular spot in the trail, and has been working on it sporadically for months. Benji, who has only two speeds — ON and OFF — spotted Kiya taking a break yesterday and charged into the hole at full speed, half of him disappearing under the exposed root you can see.
Alas, I didn’t catch his entrance.
While certainly enthusiastic, he lacks Kiya’s finesse. She first excavates, then backs up a bit to clear the hole. Benji’s approach is more bull-in-a-china-shop. Kiya doesn’t seem to mind. Or even notice, for that matter. When it’s time, she’ll start another hole somewhere else, equally for no apparent reason.
A bird in our backyard pine tree, which is not particularly attractive but, as Syd told us long ago: “In Uruguay in summer, shade is good.”
Volunteer squash plants from the mound of dumped non-composted compost, taking over the side passageway of our house, fortunately not otherwise needed. Slightly wilted in the midday sun.
The squall-like wind did not last long the other day, but it came from every direction, which is why I so thoroughly sealed the stairway windows.
In Atlántida, a rather majestic tree was uprooted, taking part of the sidewalk with it. I don’t think winching it back into place is an option. Too bad.
A few meters away, the roots of another tree that fell the same direction, but was cut up to clear the street.
On a less-traveled street, a red rag warns passersby of a downed cable.
So was New Year’s Day. I’m starting to wonder if this forecast “hot and dry” summer might end up looking like 2014.
I “repaired” the incompetent window installer’s botched fix (see first link above). Turns out when he smeared everything with silicon, he covered up the drain hole. Someone else advised me to drill holes on the outside channel every 20 cm or so, and I drilled through the aluminum — but forgot to cut away the silicon on the outside. Anyway, in the yesterday’s bad storm, it (finally) didn’t leak.
The rain cleared and we had a lovely sunset at 8:30,
and a clear view of the waxing moon.
The second of January didn’t bode well. I got bitten by a dog.
Alas, it was my own dog. Accosted by an obnoxious and too-often-loose dog, Benji and Syd’s five predictably went crazy. Apparently when I pulled Benji back quickly he assumed my leg was the enemy. No harm done.
Today I noticed that one started ten months ago is finally finished.
Meanwhile at the beach, the saga of the buried boardwalk seems almost over.
The exposed part is getting a little dangerous to walk on (but could be worse),
and while the dune has regained its height on the left, burying the elevated boardwalk, the path of least resistance has once again become the breach in the dune, which is now larger than ever. For a fun comparison of its early days, see this from October 2013.
And a much-traveled beach throwing stick that now — after ten or more trips up and down the beach — probably deserves to be retired.
Finally, more rain is forecast. I’m ready!
No, these are not in progress. They are finished. They are above the stairs, where no one sees them, and even though I have repeated sealed them, after water pouring down the wall inside during yesterday’s rain/wind storm I said enough! The goop I happened to have on hand is white.
They don’t even open. I intend to replace them with glass blocks eventually.
The room in which my tiny office space resides was recently repainted, which involved removing a bookshelf. After I replaced it, I realized I didn’t want all that stuff back on it. Including a little pile of journals I’ve kept off and on over the years. I think about getting rid of them, but they’re full of gems.
May 1991: my accelerated Mac SE operates at 20 MHz and has a 105 MB hard drive and a 19″ black and white monitor. Current: 5 year old Mac Mini operating at 2.3 GHz (115 times faster) with 500 GB hard drive (4,876 times greater capacity).
September 1993: my Mac IIsi has 17 MB of RAM. Current: 16 GB (964 times more). That was the computer I used to put together Post Card Passages. Each full-page image required 32 MB, so every time I made a change to an image it switched to virtual memory, and I’d listen to the hard drive chattering for several minutes. Maybe go to the kitchen and brew a fresh pot of coffee.
In a later one, a page bookmarked by a $5 bill from Trinidad and Tobago.
In 1989, I served on the board of the Northwest Association of Book Publishers.
“Special Bylaws. Meeting #3 (or is it 4?) — like doing jury duty. Wrote ‘Another way of looking at Professor X’ afterwards:
A silent moan when X is found at monthly meetings of our board, his academics to expound with functionality ignored.”
I don’t remember who Professor X was.
And going back to the mid 1980s, sketches from Florence, Italy.
This probably from home, Hochheim am Main, West Germany.
So *sigh* guess what has just gone back on the bookshelf
