Spring found me traveling. Perhaps not the travel I had expected at the end of my career — the travel that would have carried me over the distant horizon to the places I dream most about — but travel nonetheless to places with strange folk with decidedly different customs, diets, and dispositions.
I have been a wanderer forever, but America is strange to me. I was born here (sort of — NYC is nominally an American city), but much of my historic wandering was abroad. My wandering this year was exclusively domestic. As a traveling companion, only a young hen of about 7 years (green thing pictured above).
If you’ve ever considered shacking up with a parrot, I would suggest careful thought. If you’ve ever considered driving cross-country with one, I advise medication. She was not a calming influence.
I am fond of her in the way a man might love a nutty mistress with whom he has a long association. As mistresses go, a parrot is a terrible choice. They can be very domineering, yet the physical intimacy isn’t really what you might be into — unless you’ve got some hook-bill bite-til-you-bleed kink. Or a screaming fetish. Or really like bird feces. I do not. It was a long drive.
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The exercise begs the question: how do true nomads… you know, not a tribe of nomads that all have one another, but a single nomad… how does she maintain those long-term connections? Who remembers her as a child? With whom does he seek solace when his dog runs away or his wife leaves him?
I don’t have an answer, only a question for now.
Cheers. Sweet dreams.