I just finished my Spanish lesson for the day. Or for the double-day. That is, I did not do one yesterday, unfortunately. I spent yesterday, instead, working on the layout of this blog. The UI, vole. Yes. The part that this small pine marten hates. Overall, however, I have enjoyed my experience with ember.js and plan to continue its use with the new version of the radiotracking apparatus. I have big hopes for that project. If it falls by the wayside like many of my projects have in the past, I shall take it up with concierge in this special bed and breakfast in mustelid-land.

The plan now is to walk to the tiny shop (Alas!! The only shop the tiny town of Cihuri has!) and purchase some sort of alcoholic beverage. Tonight is Maribel’s very exciting presentation on her wildlife adventures in Canada. Yes, that means Madis and I shall drive to Logroño (a place to which I aim to move come February or March). I’m absolutely sure that I shall consume a great quantity of wine during the dinner we are being served. I mightily look forward to this hedonism.

Today was the last day of tracking. I am saddened, disturbed and partially astonished by the results. I came here knowing our aim was the European Mink (Martes Lutreola, vole), of course. I did not expect that we’d only (meaning not just Madis and I, but EVERYONE) capture one. In contrast, twelve American Minks (Neovison Vison - see the difference, vole?) were trapped.

I had also convinced myself we’d snag a Stone Marten (Martes Foina, old timer) or seven. Others did. I believe three were boxed in total, but none by anyone I was with at the time. I worked with Madis and Maribel, only. Perhaps I should stay away from humans with names beginning with nasal, labial fricatives.

So, off to the shop.

I wished to write every day in Spain, but I have slacked horribly. I am consumed by illness. Yes, it is only sinusitus, but it has taken me prisoner. Its cage is my bloated head. One three trap hike with Madis this morning destroyed me and I had to be returned to home. The last days have gone similarly.

I awaken early, judge whether it is practical for me to go help with the trap-checking, have discovered it practical both yesterday and today, and accompanied. I was wrong about my ablities today. Yesterday, I was spry and unweary. Like it or not, my nodding reader, I was proud of myself.

The afternoons have been spent learning EmberJs to create the front end of my blog. It is a frustrating process. One problem that I have noticed (and this is a problem that has a long history in all of my learning endeavours) is that I get to a point in the documentation where I want to experiment and I leave off reading it. I just start trying to make something work. When it does not immediately function, instead of going back to the documentation, I bash around with various hackey solutions until I give up in frustration. This method of work must change soon.

Madis summoned me to lunch (14.00 - this is Spain, vole) where I found Christina, Asun and a man I’d never seen before chatting in the living area of their flat. The man, whose name I do not recall, turned out to be very loud, talk-happy and generally annoying. That was my first impression. As anyone who knows me in the slightest might understand - I initially dislike loud, boisterous people. They grate on me. I’m a soft spoken dude, vole.

I realize once again that Spain is a very extroverted country. Or, mayhap, the culture forces even the introverts to act like extroverts. Spaniards gather in larger groups than I am normally used to and hurl words back and forth at one another, mostly not bothering to let anyone else finish a statement or question before voicing their own. I must get used to this behaviour to an extent, as I am planning to live in Logrono beginning in March (and perhaps earlier).

The cold, frozen landscape - personality - of the north calls me at times like this.

Madis expounds regularly about Esonia’s people. They are cold, closed and hard to get close to. He contrasts this with culture in Spain, where, as I have experienced both in my previous life in San Sebastian and in my current life in Cihuri, extroversion pervades. I am welcomed. I am pampered. I am endlessly given favours I never thought to even ask for. In Estonia, this was only true among those I called close friends (Tiit, Grisha?).

During our radiotracking week, Kairi told me she was all for gene sharing, ie, the interbreeding of different cultures. She, however, loves to travel, but always needs to return and spend most of her life in her home. A slight contradiction in her thoughts was her need to stay with an Estonian mate. All of this is in contrast to Maribel. Our conversation yesterday brought to light her fascination with living abroad, with learning parts of new cultures. She spoke of the peasant mentality (though she did not use that exact word) of humans who grow up, for example, in La Rioja and stay forever with no will to explore farther (further). This echoes a discussion I had with Christopher Bender decades ago concerning rooted and rootless people.

If we admit any ambiguity in the moral authority of nature, people worry that we’ll have no ability to recognize better or worse relationships to nature. All that will be left is whatever we want to do.

Oh? Does nature have moral authority? In my experience, most people think that it does not at all. I’ve heard humans expound on the beauty of nature and how they love being among it. Yet, they are still rabid consumers. There is a dichotomy in their minds. Perhaps they do recognize and appreciate the laws (lack of a better word) of nature and feel awe at how these laws shape the landscape. I think the landscape is all they perceive, however. The invisible forces are ones that I’d actually attribute to nature. Hello, multitudes of bacteria.

The quote puts man up against the dilemma of changing the world about him to fit his desires (see - capitalism) and allowing (in part) nature to run its course. Every species creates its niche in nature, so wouldn’t what humans are doing be only carving their own? Mass extinction says no. Environmental terrorism sounds better and better.

Madis asked me yesterday evening to read a paper he had received for review the night before. He wanted my opinion. I am trusted. Odd, but very welcome. I came to similar conclusions as Madis had. It was a gross simplification of data concerning American and European mink populations in Spain over the period of 2000 to 2011. Specific data were missing. Instead of mapping out how trapping was done in each river basin or even in each ten by ten kilometer block, a sweeping median throughout Spain was used. Therefore, the conclusions could not be remotely accurate. If he emails me the paper, I shall post quotes from it. I’ll query him this evening at the party.

The conclusion of the last paragraph is that the Italian chick seeking a PhD and using this paper as a ladder to climb to that goal will find it falls painfully short. Madis and Asun will ask to not have nothing to do with it. I wonder about the eventual conclusion.

I’m not a morning person. In fact, my mental capacities do not begin functioning at full capacity until circa eleven. Still, I conform.

Yesterday, we set thirty-four (?) traps over a course of many kliometers. The work was the most stenuous I have participated in for many a millenia. During the latter third of the process, my body was aching, I was having quite a hard time keeping up with Madis, and was overall rather miserable. And though my body still aches, I do not regret my decision to be a part of this.

Today, we shall check these traps for Mustelids, Genets, Rats, syphilitic toads, and like. The payoff of yesterday’s strain comes if a small, furry animal is waiting for release or testing.

I spend evenings with Madis and Asun. We talk about ecology. I throw out usually misunderstood sarcastic comments. I’m a fatalistic sort, as any reader knows. We consume wine and beer, but not in great quantity. Yesterday evening, a slight dinner of tomatoes topped with a soft cheese (I know not which kind) and anchoas accompanied by fried mushrooms (freshly picked in the wilderness) and garlic awaited me. It was delicious.

Now I shall prepare some sort of breafast for this hungry mustelid.

Five others arrive today. As usual, I am apprehensive. When in Estonia last year, it took days for me to even begin communicating with Grisha and Kaur. A portion of the reason was that I was in the middle of recovery days. A bigger portion was that I am an extreme introvert. First contact is difficult for me. It is if the other is a flame. I cannot get to close. I am afraid of pain - it is a hangover from my past - a hangover from rejection again and again. Surely Fort Stockton taught me a cruel and unnecessary lesson. For the remainder of the world is very unlike that cloistered community.

On the topic of workmates, I think of the email I received from Jeremy yesterday (was it yesterday?). He claimed he is getting used to California (Padeluma, in specific) and that the girls there are delightful to talk to. This was basically the extent of his message. A part of me wants to reply sarcastically, even bitterly. If the purpose of any place is to meet delightful women, wouldn’t any city with over 50 000 people work? Queue Still Life by VDGG. It is very nice to be around people whose idea of life is not centered around finding a mate. Of course, Madis already has a mate and two children, so the contrast is steep. It is telling, however, that he married a fellow Biologist. They share common interests and common work. Don’t get me wrong - I love Jeremy - but attempting to pick up random delightful girls in a bar seems a futility. Is a drinking establishment really a place to find a proper mate for oneself? Jeremy would surely argue that he’s only looking for a shag. Well, then, I could not argue. Perhaps a bar is the best place to find a floozy.

Stonecrop has increased Ryan’s salary to 60 000 USD / year because he claimed he needed resources to have a family. Right, Ryan. Right. I love that guy, as well, but he is either delusional or terribly naive.

Oh, and I am convinced that Doug is a psychopath. He lacks empathy. Self absorption is his key to the future. Fuck the little guy. You would not make a good conservation biologist, Doug.

Eggs and lentils squirm through my esophogas into digestion land. I contemplate my near future cleansing. I need more time to study. I need more time to work on the front end of this blog. Yesterday evening was the first time in (again) many millenia that I fell asleep within five minutes of tucking myself in.

Today will involve different adventures. I want a FOINA.

Radiohead blares from my tinny shittypie speakers. I am enjoying in immensely. The shuffle mix of four albums (Opeth - Watershed, Pink Floyd - Obscured by Clouds, Radiohead - In Rainbows, Univers Zero - The Hard Quest) I created yesterday continues. Perhaps Banshee will stop its slight irritation of stopping at the end of each track. We shall see soon.

So begins my second full day in Rioja. I live in a flat adjacent to Madis. It is huge (for a small animal such as me) and mostly empty. I spend most of the time in the bedroom. Madis loaned me a table to place mustela-ermina on. A place where I can work, he said. I shall do my best to actually work whilst I sit here instead of wasting time as I have been known to do in the past reading pointless dribble on Reddit, Cracked or Progressiveears.org.

Yesterday (which, if you have the ability to calculate, was my first full day in Rioja), we drove to a hillock (1200m above sea level at its peak) and walked up to a height sufficient enough to view the surrounding countryside. The quiet was refreshing. The only sounds came from Astrid’s whining. For some reason, those sounds did not bother me much, however. I snapped photos, got ahead of the group, rejoined, edged away again, rejoined, and generally enjoyed the slight hike. My new boots even treated my feet passibly well. Madis spent much of his voice on explaining the bureaucracy of the Spanish government, both local and national. Of course, this pertained mostly to attaining grants for European Mink conservation. He has recently received 20 000 euros. He’ll use this to research the distribution of European and of American minks along two tributaries of the Ebro which cascade through the valley in which are the towns (villages) of Cihuri, Casalareina and Haro. The latter is the largest and I expect we shall visit it today. I need a fucking Spanish sim card. Ah…. I have drifted from the subject.

Banshee crashed after Pink Floyd’s Biding My Time. Is there some symbolism to be seen in this? The universe let the song play, of course, but then rejected its premise (or, rather, the title’s premise) because I am not, actually, biding any time at all. I am revelling in my current time. The contrast to Stonecrop, the summer and early autumn, the swirling disarray of the management and general discontent is steep. I’m already in love with a life which is temporary. (One can argue that all lives are temporary.) Madis’s dream is to buy land in the Burgos region of Castilla y Leon for a mere 30 000 euros, build a house on it, etc. One can imagine the rest. He enjoys Cihuri, but he’d rather have a house than a flat. I would, as well. I share a dream such as this. This region of Spain (or Pais Vasco, which may be much more expensive), is alluring. I passed through Burgos on the train Thursday on the way to Miranda de Ebro (where Madis picked me up). The region still had a dry, deserty feel to it. The green, hillock spotted area did not begin until closer to Miranda de Ebro. Of course, I don’t know exactly where Madis is indicating, for the actual Burgos region includes more than just the city of Burgos. Necesito unos dineros, vole. I, too, can construct a structure in which to spend lonely, poignant days.

Los próximos días van a estar diciendo. And then again, would settling ever be correct for me? Next year (March?), I’ll be in Estonia again, as well. Oouh, baby.

I feel as if it has been a small eternity since my last flight. Let me see. When was it? Oh… From Prague to Houston. I recall vividly the police-type-person in the booth checking passports shaking his head disgustingly at me. I had been a few months over in my stay in the Schengen. He did not stamp my passport at all. After his disgusted head-shake, he just handed it back to me. I wonder what, if any, problems this will cause when I arrive in Madrid in nine-odd hours.

Nine-odd hours

That is, if the flight which just took off thirty-odd minutes late arrives on time. Yah. I have a mere an hour and a quarter to catch my flight at Heathrow to Barajas. And we all know how flighty Heathrow is! Oh yes! The terminals are mere kilometers from each other. I may be stuck in London for a time, after all. Damn them!

The ambient noise is much more noticeable to me than it ever used to be.

I blame that on Boston. I mentioned to Ryan (who was surprised - as if he’d never thought of such a thing) and to Jeremy (who concurred, to an extent) and to Steve (who ignored the comment) my distaste for the noise pollution in the city. Just today, actually, in the morning, walking my usual route, but pulling up short at REI, buzzing, drilling, digging, scraping and wailing blared from machines all around. There was little room for calm. Perhaps the only portion of the walk that was tranquil was the park I crossed at the Longwood T stop.

After requesting a wine or four, I shall watch the film Oblivion. I know little about it. Perhaps it will be entertaining. Perhaps not. I can always program. In fact, I should program.

My mother often created apple/tuna/mayo sandwiches for me (on white bread, desafortunadamente) when I was young. Accordingly, I created one recently and consumed it. Supplanting mayo was jalepeno mustard. Additions were cilantro and horseradish. It was yummy.

Justin gave Hope Roberts an 87 on her exam. He seems quite proud of his student. He mentioned that she had been lost at the beginning. I imagined a furry, brown mouse that had been kept for all of its darling life in a cloistered cage, cared for with devotion. Suddenly, she is placed in an utterly flabbergasting maze. It stretches and curves elastically. Bizarre angles greet her with each twelve and a half paces.

Actually, I am just testing testing testing the new martenblog entry uploading device. Once I get my lethargy under lashing whip, I’ll also have a much maligned (by me) UI up to view the damned posts.

Yeah.

The giant hammer stands, or rather squats, over the dry, patchy landscape. The scant blades of grass in its ever-moving shadow reach up almost reverently. Their capabilities of growth are limited, however. The denizens who call the grass their gods scurry beneath. They have no real concept of the hammer. It is too vast. A lifetime of one of these small creatures would pass were it to try to traverse from the base of the structure to its summit. It’s ever-moving summit.

So the three levels of existence perpetuate into eternity. The godhead, unknown to the tiniest, is solitary. Swaying middle men are also fixed in place, but have comfort in multitudes. In the context of the solitary godhead, multitude is an appropriate word. Only the lowliest creatures are fully mobile. They even have the option to leave the forest of grass. Few do, though, and none have returned.

Perhaps one can see the whole universe as a puppet show. The reverent blades of grass reach up, but at the same time, peer down on their subjects. The hammer pulls their strings (in this case, upwards). The manipulation is a farce, but still maintained for a sense of order. Considering carefully, and were there a place from which to consider outside of this bubble, the godhead is sensless. It’s endless pumping which moves the daylight from one part of the grass forest to another, is fully automated. It is as if it had a greater purpose not even known to itself.

The mobile creatures do as they are instructed by the swaying turrets all around. Or, rather, they interpret the tilts and yaws of sessile beings to be a language punctuating their lives. The illusion is maintained on three levels. Perhaps four, were one to consider the unnamed purpose of the atomaton - the hammer.

The story passes to one of the few who had the courage to leave the forest. She is a segmented creature covered with fuzz and moving at a rate of perhaps one length of grass per ten seconds. The flat wasteland she discovers beyond her known world is baking with a heat she has never experienced. Bizarre, quick shapes cover the light for moments at a time, but never leave her in their coolness for long enough for relief. She can only see flatness everywhere. A booming fills her body and a sensation of unrest shocks her body into the air. Fortunately, she lands with no harm done. She continues her tortuous course.

Eventually, swaying spires appear again in front of her. Having an excellent sense of direction (for it is the only reason she ‘escaped’ in the first place), she knows she has not travelled in a circle. Then what is this? Another world? Another forest? Are worlds seperated by vast, flat wastelands?

It is a new forest. She does not name it, for she does not know exactly what names are. The teetering grass is apathetic to her. It does not try to instruct, for it is not pulled upwards by some unknown and monolithic force.

I pain myself at the moment, as people beg my pleasure. I am immaculate. I stand proud to be loved. Or at least wanted. Or at least questioned. Well, what is the difference, really?

I encouraged Christián to create a blog. He will not because he craves immediate satisfaction. Oh… I know that I do, as well, but he is more adept at it and that is why it is easier for him to fail.