February 2, 2017
Today was a very productive writing day. At breakfast I was thinking about an essay I
wanted to write about our jungle guide, Oscar, when Ray and I saw what we think
are the same two parrots from the other day, which led to this quick essay.
I just saw what I think are the
same two parrots Ray and I saw the other day.
They were green with yellow tips on their wings and they were flying in
formation, one just behind the other, on the right. I don’t know if this formation is for the air
flow and lift like geese use or something akin to misogyny in the bird world
but I wonder the impetus to travel at the same time each morning. Do birds have a routine, clocking in and
out? Do they forage for food in a grid
pattern like police searching for a missing person? Do birds have jobs? Are these two commuting to heir appointed
perch somewhere up the mountain? Do they
notice me watching them? Do they
question the presence of this random house sitting precariously atop a hill
like something made of Legos placed by a child giant with little regard to the
physics required to reach the driveway in an earth-bound mode of transportation? These verdant hills, teeming with life, are
dense enough to hide even the largest of creatures. Maybe the parrots are the sentries sent to
ensure the humans remain unaware.
A few nights ago we watched the movie ‘Barfly’ at the behest of one of
our teachers, Will Viharo.
We just watched Charles Bukowski’s
‘Barfly’ starring Mickey Rourke and Faye Dunaway. I didn’t connect with the premise or the
characters whose lives revolve around drinking but I appreciate the glimpse
inside a life that exists not too far from mine, depending on the choices I
could have made. It’s set in Los Angeles
in the early 80s although the city itself isn’t one of the characters. It could have been anywhere. While I thought Mickey Rourke’s performance
was a caricature with the ridiculous gait and poor posture, I do understand how
he became famous as he comes to the edge of the fourth wall and dares you to
take your eyes off him. Faye Dunaway is
believable and a surprisingly sympathetic character even though she cheats,
lies, steals and pulls out a preppy woman’s hair at one point. I will admit I did enjoy some of the dialogue;
so real, so witty. “I don’t hate people,
I just find myself happier when they’re not around” and “The more things you believe
in, the better off you are” and “I don’t like you. Well, that’s just the way the world
goes. I don’t like you either” are but
three of the most memorable. I’m always
appreciative of learning new things to broaden my view, to crack my bubble just
a little more.
My jungle adventure, if you can call it that, has had me thinking about
how other people view me. Would I
understand who I was if I met me? I know
I always attempt to create a backstory when I see someone outside the norm but
I wonder if others do the same? My
mother always said, “Just because you’re talking about people, Dustin Terryll,
doesn’t mean they’re talking about you.”
Thus, my second essay about the jungle debacle.
Oscar is the name of the young
man who helped us into and then almost immediately out of the jungle this
morning. He is one of the workers here
at the villa. He stayed back with us,
the slow ones. When he saw we were
struggling, he cut branches into walking sticks with his machete and wordlessly
handed one to me. When we asked if we
could return to the villa early, he silently acquiesced and immediately began
carding a walkable path to the road so we wouldn’t have to re-trace our
perilous steps through the river. Unsure
of how to even thank him with more than a woefully inadequate muchas
gracias, I wondered what he thought of
me; this pale, overdressed American trying to push myself too much in a literal
jungle. Does he even think about
us? Is this just another day working in
an environment that includes a steady stream of foreign travelers? Are we an anecdote he uses to amuse his
family around the dinner table or is he the silent type who processes internally
and shares little needing to conserve his energy for things like rescuing gringos from themselves? I imagine I’m thinking about Oscar more than
he is thinking about me.
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