You can’t be running off like this,
all knotted up with yearning,
following some train whistle,
can’t hang onto anything that way.
Maggie Andersen, from Ontological
This is my 300th post and I didn’t have a topic until I learned this morning that Mexico has lowered the income/savings requirements for the temporary and permanent resident permits. The income requirement is still above my income level, but maybe there’s a way around that as I’m somewhat close to the threshold – and I’ve been living here almost two years, so the authorities should be able to see that I’m able to survive here without ruining the Mexican economy.
I heard this news the day after I set about creating my massive “where do I go next” project. It consists of many 3×5 cards with destination information such as airfare, residency requirements, medical insurance requirements, etc. etc. I had planned to compare one destination against another to see the feasibility of each as they’ve become a vortex of information, too much to process without formalizing it in some way. It’s also the day after I thought “Medellin, Colombia” the likely solution. It’s the day after I started listening again to my Spanish (instead of Italian) lessons. It’s a month after I started packing, sorting things into a summer suitcase, a winter suitcase, a storage duffel, and a “give to family” suitcase.
I took a shower this afternoon, then sat down to a coffee (a reversal of my recent afternoon tea-morning coffee pattern) and opened my email. There was a notification from a screen-writing contest that the quarter-finalists had been announced and I was about to send the email to the recycle bin. I had submitted a script to five contests earlier this year, four in the U.S. and one in England, all with no success. I opened the email from the English contest: lo and behold, my script was listed first (they’re in alphabetic sequence) among the feature film quarter finalists – along with more than 80 other scripts. But I’m happy with that, a nice surprise with my coffee on a sunny afternoon as I listened to the kids in the schoolyard release their Friday-before-the-weekend pent-up energy. I had hoped the story – which is a stretch for the American is-it-saleable-to-Hollywood script reader – might appeal to a European reader. The female-centered story (again not of very much interest in the U.S.) has an international setting (Chisinau, Montreal, Washington (DC), Hawai’i, Gulf Coast Texas, Miami, Panama and Mexico) and it’s my feeling that unless an international story is 1) set in Paris, London or Italy for romance, 2) is a war/spy story or 3) is a drug story, then Hollywood-focused readers won’t be very interested. So far my thinking has proven correct.
Foghorn has just a few weeks left before she heads to her home on the coast. She and her friends have smoked so much that when she throws her windows and doors open in the morning, the stale air laden with cigarette chemicals flows into the courtyard. It’s reminiscent of those cheap hotels with terribly soft beds, televisions mounted on bars high above furniture, and with drapery and bed coverings that have shared too much time with people for whom fast food is a way of life.
This weekend is the second annual hummingbird (colibri) festival here; I haven’t seen hummingbirds on the patio since Foghorn’s cats arrived three months ago.
The Cervantino music festival begins this month and the Biblioteca (and other locales around the country) will be showing performances gratis.