Yesterday I wrote a post and we dropped out for some reason and it was lost. Even though it autosaves with regularity it doesn't do much good if we drop out for I can't retrieve it. Not that it matters much.
Cornelius is still with us. He was so sick, so weak, hadn't eaten in four or five days, that I was very close to wrapping him in a tea towel and taking a shovel to him (sounds horrible but without access to lethabarb it's the closest I can get to a humane death - if another, more humane way occurs to me I'd be very glad of it for any kind of death physically imposed is a violent death). I was very depressed thinking of what else I could do and whether I should just end his torture and put him down. Then a thin shaft of sunshine penetrated my gloomy thoughts; 'where there is life there is hope'. Now my mind never shuts up, as I've written before, and it's not as though that little piece of wisdom is unfamiliar to me - but the way that phrase occurred to me - like it was dropped in from outside made it as though a prayer had been answered, as though something or someone was was offering hope. Can't prove, qualify, explain or even make it sound special as I write it but it was special. Where there is life, there is hope. It saved Cornelius' life. I feared that by continuing to treat him while he grew weaker and displayed absolutely no tangible improvement I was being cruel. Like watching someone starve to death. Not only starving to death but starving to death while feeling like crap. But because of that silver phrase I waited. That evening, for the first time, Cornelius ate some seed. He hung over the bowl like an old drunk over spilled whiskey but, happy day! there were husks.
The next morning I wasn't so joyous. He was on the floor of the cage again, swaying, eyes closed, feathers fluffed. It was a fluke. He was going to die. But he rallied again, ate again. And so it has continued. He spends about half the time on the floor, but he continues to eat. He's also preened himself a little, swaying precariously on the perch and looking like he'll topple over at any moment.
Corny is not out of the woods yet. I may wake up one morning to find him stiff on the bottom of the cage. Birds are fragile creatures and he has undergone so much. Yesterday morning was the last time I used a crop needle on him. This morning I direct dosed one drop of Coccivet into his mouth.
I suspect that Tony, who had coccidiosis but was on the mend, introduced it all those weeks ago. Cornelius picked it up and slowly, ever so slowly succumbed. When I think back I think of all the signs that I took for behavioural changes because another budgerigar had been introduced rather than because he was falling ill. He stopped singing, he hung out on a wire at the far end of the verandah, pressed against the wall, he was reluctant to go in his cage at night. I just thought he was guarded because another male - with the exception of Dimitri, whose sex remains a mystery, they are all males on the verandah - had entered his space.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing, and very guilt inducing. I wish I had been more alert to the changes and hadn't jumped to conclusions. If I'd really looked and not assumed perhaps Corny would not be enduring this.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
These past two days have been eventful. Cornelius is still alive. I'm still in the dark as to what is wrong with him but I have continued the crop feeding with a drop of coccivet mixed in with 1/2 or 1/3 ml of 'First Aid for Birds' and water. He alternates between looking near death on the bottom of the cage and sitting on a branch. I saw him preen himself a little yesterday and in the afternoon, oh joy of joy, he was eating; his head hanging over his bowl. He ate in slow motion, not lifting his head, like a very old man drooped over his soup - but he ate. This morning, there he was on the cage floor again. I wasn't going to crop needle him as it is so stressful but when I saw that I decided to give him another dose. It remains to be seen whether I'll do it again. Yesterday I dosed him 3 times during the day. He was so weak I could pick him up with ease. I really thought I was being him unkind by not putting him out of his misery and then some words came into my mind; while there is life there is hope.
Now thinking and thoughts are a continuous phenomenon so it's not like that phrase is anything unusual - except it seemed that the phrase was inserted into my mind. Perhaps they arose spontaneously from that last vestige of hope I held onto which warred with the urge to put Cornelius out of his misery. I honestly don't know yet I clung to that phrase, that thought. He was alive and since he was there was some hope.
He's not out of the woods yet, not by a long shot but I am more helpful than I was yesterday. I am beginning to suspect he had coccidiosis after all. Tony had it, without a doubt, and even though he was recovering he spread the oocysts every time he defecated. It wouldn't take much for Tony to pick it up. What's confusing is that his faeces, up until a few days ago, looked fine, tiny, tight, the right colour. Still, he'd been 'off' for awhile. Nothing I could put my finger on but a slow, infinitesimal decline in activity and especially singing. I thought he stopped singing because Tony was here but I think now it was because he was starting to fall ill. Anyway, fingers and toes crossed. The next couple of days should tell the story. If he keeps eating he'll get his strength back and he'll live. As a precaution I'm treating all water dishes, and there are four, with coccivet. And changing them every day. I was a bit slack
about changing them every day as the birds are not exposed to outside birds or droppings from trees.
The other event of our eventful last day was flooding. We had 70mm day before yesterday and 50 yesterday. Dry Creek came down with a roar. It was already running but our neighbour saw and heard the wall of water which came down during the afternoon. It covered the creek paddock, covered the pipe over Dry Creek, swirled down through the back paddock depositing a layer of silt through the pig shed and uprooted a couple of trees. On Dry Gully Road trees fell covering the road in several places. There are mud slips on every mountain, ridge and hill plus a few onto the road. We've had no phone since yesterday. The three dams in the dam paddock are now one huge dam. A pair of grebes were taking advantage of it plucking cicadas from the surface, well one was the other was diving for insects or tadpoles. P.R showed up in the afternoon. He'd spent Xmas at Woodford with G but now needed to get home to the cockatoos which were without food. R took him to D. Cachels where he could hike across country, up country with only one creek between him and home. He left here about 10 and got home at 7;30. He had to wait four hours for the creek to subside enough for him to cross.
Now thinking and thoughts are a continuous phenomenon so it's not like that phrase is anything unusual - except it seemed that the phrase was inserted into my mind. Perhaps they arose spontaneously from that last vestige of hope I held onto which warred with the urge to put Cornelius out of his misery. I honestly don't know yet I clung to that phrase, that thought. He was alive and since he was there was some hope.
He's not out of the woods yet, not by a long shot but I am more helpful than I was yesterday. I am beginning to suspect he had coccidiosis after all. Tony had it, without a doubt, and even though he was recovering he spread the oocysts every time he defecated. It wouldn't take much for Tony to pick it up. What's confusing is that his faeces, up until a few days ago, looked fine, tiny, tight, the right colour. Still, he'd been 'off' for awhile. Nothing I could put my finger on but a slow, infinitesimal decline in activity and especially singing. I thought he stopped singing because Tony was here but I think now it was because he was starting to fall ill. Anyway, fingers and toes crossed. The next couple of days should tell the story. If he keeps eating he'll get his strength back and he'll live. As a precaution I'm treating all water dishes, and there are four, with coccivet. And changing them every day. I was a bit slack
about changing them every day as the birds are not exposed to outside birds or droppings from trees.
The other event of our eventful last day was flooding. We had 70mm day before yesterday and 50 yesterday. Dry Creek came down with a roar. It was already running but our neighbour saw and heard the wall of water which came down during the afternoon. It covered the creek paddock, covered the pipe over Dry Creek, swirled down through the back paddock depositing a layer of silt through the pig shed and uprooted a couple of trees. On Dry Gully Road trees fell covering the road in several places. There are mud slips on every mountain, ridge and hill plus a few onto the road. We've had no phone since yesterday. The three dams in the dam paddock are now one huge dam. A pair of grebes were taking advantage of it plucking cicadas from the surface, well one was the other was diving for insects or tadpoles. P.R showed up in the afternoon. He'd spent Xmas at Woodford with G but now needed to get home to the cockatoos which were without food. R took him to D. Cachels where he could hike across country, up country with only one creek between him and home. He left here about 10 and got home at 7;30. He had to wait four hours for the creek to subside enough for him to cross.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Cornelius
Cornelius, the little yellow budgie, is dying before my eyes and there's nothing I can do.
He has no discharge, no swelling, his poos until yesterday, were normal. I saw him yawning and stretching his neck and assumed he had trichomonas so started treating with Flagyl. But I've been treating him for 3 days and there is no improvement. One day there were some smears on the mirror in his cage but he's never had the telltale slimy vomitus on his head or chest. So perhaps I made the wrong diagnosis (obviously!) so began treating for coccidiosis yesterday afternoon. He hasn't eaten for days nor have I see him drink. He's weak and getting weaker. Today I started inserting a crop needle and giving him a little water. He goes to the seed dish but doesn't eat anything. I don't know whether I should just wrap him in a tea towel and take the shovel to him or give him another day to see if there's any improvement. Lay awake most of last night trying to figure out what's wrong with him. It's Boxing Day and K will be away celebrating and I know from working at the vets that unless it's a bird vet most vets know stuff all about birds. If there was some sign...I've been reading my Avian medicine book. Thought maybe there was a blockage but the crop needle goes in fine. Gout? Until today he has had no respiratory distress - even now I think he's breathing tough because he's on his way out. A few minutes ago, for the first time, he was on the bottom of the cage. God I wish I could help him. He's only a couple of years old. He was the bird that was found with a broken wing on the side of the road. MCC taped the wing and although he can fly because he's bright yellow there's no way he can be released so he's lived, quite happily I think, on the verandah with Tachimedes and Dimitri.
Why has this happened? Nothing has changed, same diet, same routine. Yes, Tony is new but he's been with us for nearly 2 months and he's fine - as are the other birds. Thought because I didn't change the water every day, like I do the outside birds, that he'd got trich from that. The water is boiled before use and it's the same water, same routine - but something is happening which is slowly sapping the life from him. The only other thing I can think of is a growth. His mouth appears fine although as it's such a small mouth it is hard to see inside. His nares are clear, his vent clear. I'm at wits end.
I'm also going nuts with cabin fever. It has not stopped raining all day, like every other damn day. Never thought I'd be sick of rain after living through years of drought but if it doesn't stop raining soon.... Can't ride the bike, walk the dogs, hard even to feed up and do the birds as the rain, solid soaking rain, never ceases.
Just gave Cornelius his last dose of water with diluted Coccivet for the day. He goes to the seed container but doesn't eat. At least there are no seed husks that I can see. Not eating is a sign of coccidiosis - except birds with cocci aren't interested in food. He clearly is yet doesn't eat. God, I wish I knew.
The creek is high and running fast. The aviaries are turning into ponds. At least the birds can get out of the wet with the shelters provided. I've never seen it rain like this, have never seen this much water. Closed the gate to the dam paddock and noticed the water which has been standing there for weeks now has a current. It is running swiftly down the hill towards the gelding's paddock where I suppose it makes its way to the creek.
We are lucky here in that being near the headwaters of the creek it is impossible for us to be flooded out. It would have to be a flood of biblical proportions for water to enter the house especially as we are on 2 foot high stumps, but those people downstream....they will be in trouble. I don't even think we could make it into town as the dams further down the road can no longer contain the water and it crosses the road. Usually the water depth would be a couple of inches but I suspect it will be much higher now.
Well, good thoughts and lots of prayers for Cornelius. We'll see how he is tomorrow. As R keeps saying, there is nothing more I can do but what I'm doing. He has to feel a little better with the fluids although it is enormously distressing to have a crop needle inserted. I have no followers on this blog but if I did I would ask everyone to keep the recovery of little yellow Cornelius foremost in their thoughts.
He has no discharge, no swelling, his poos until yesterday, were normal. I saw him yawning and stretching his neck and assumed he had trichomonas so started treating with Flagyl. But I've been treating him for 3 days and there is no improvement. One day there were some smears on the mirror in his cage but he's never had the telltale slimy vomitus on his head or chest. So perhaps I made the wrong diagnosis (obviously!) so began treating for coccidiosis yesterday afternoon. He hasn't eaten for days nor have I see him drink. He's weak and getting weaker. Today I started inserting a crop needle and giving him a little water. He goes to the seed dish but doesn't eat anything. I don't know whether I should just wrap him in a tea towel and take the shovel to him or give him another day to see if there's any improvement. Lay awake most of last night trying to figure out what's wrong with him. It's Boxing Day and K will be away celebrating and I know from working at the vets that unless it's a bird vet most vets know stuff all about birds. If there was some sign...I've been reading my Avian medicine book. Thought maybe there was a blockage but the crop needle goes in fine. Gout? Until today he has had no respiratory distress - even now I think he's breathing tough because he's on his way out. A few minutes ago, for the first time, he was on the bottom of the cage. God I wish I could help him. He's only a couple of years old. He was the bird that was found with a broken wing on the side of the road. MCC taped the wing and although he can fly because he's bright yellow there's no way he can be released so he's lived, quite happily I think, on the verandah with Tachimedes and Dimitri.
Why has this happened? Nothing has changed, same diet, same routine. Yes, Tony is new but he's been with us for nearly 2 months and he's fine - as are the other birds. Thought because I didn't change the water every day, like I do the outside birds, that he'd got trich from that. The water is boiled before use and it's the same water, same routine - but something is happening which is slowly sapping the life from him. The only other thing I can think of is a growth. His mouth appears fine although as it's such a small mouth it is hard to see inside. His nares are clear, his vent clear. I'm at wits end.
I'm also going nuts with cabin fever. It has not stopped raining all day, like every other damn day. Never thought I'd be sick of rain after living through years of drought but if it doesn't stop raining soon.... Can't ride the bike, walk the dogs, hard even to feed up and do the birds as the rain, solid soaking rain, never ceases.
Just gave Cornelius his last dose of water with diluted Coccivet for the day. He goes to the seed container but doesn't eat. At least there are no seed husks that I can see. Not eating is a sign of coccidiosis - except birds with cocci aren't interested in food. He clearly is yet doesn't eat. God, I wish I knew.
The creek is high and running fast. The aviaries are turning into ponds. At least the birds can get out of the wet with the shelters provided. I've never seen it rain like this, have never seen this much water. Closed the gate to the dam paddock and noticed the water which has been standing there for weeks now has a current. It is running swiftly down the hill towards the gelding's paddock where I suppose it makes its way to the creek.
We are lucky here in that being near the headwaters of the creek it is impossible for us to be flooded out. It would have to be a flood of biblical proportions for water to enter the house especially as we are on 2 foot high stumps, but those people downstream....they will be in trouble. I don't even think we could make it into town as the dams further down the road can no longer contain the water and it crosses the road. Usually the water depth would be a couple of inches but I suspect it will be much higher now.
Well, good thoughts and lots of prayers for Cornelius. We'll see how he is tomorrow. As R keeps saying, there is nothing more I can do but what I'm doing. He has to feel a little better with the fluids although it is enormously distressing to have a crop needle inserted. I have no followers on this blog but if I did I would ask everyone to keep the recovery of little yellow Cornelius foremost in their thoughts.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
There has not, in twenty years, been as much water on the ground as there is now. After weeks of rain (soaking down at least 8 feet according to a dam builder), the ground is so saturated it just can't absorb what continues to fall from the sky. Dry Creek is now Rampaging Creek. The Peach Paddock is Peach Pond.
We took a short drive to look at Spinach and Ma Ma Creeks. They are huge and wide and turbulent. Another 3 people have lost their lives in Queensland by trying to cross creeks in their vehicle - despite repeated warnings and news reports about the dangers of doing so.
Awoke in the night to hear the rain coming down like a tap had been turned on, coming so hard and fast that it no longer was a case of hearing drops but of hearing a cascade. Straight down, no wind, a 'means business' sort of deluge. We had two inches overnight. It's tailed off a little now, the worst has flowed southeast but the rainfall is set to continue, in the form of showers, for the next 5 days. It looks as though we will not go to Redcliffe for Boxing Day and may not even attempt Brisbane for Xmas - which is fine by me. I don't want to take the chance that we can't get home. We have too many animals depending on us.
It occurs to me that I haven't written of Natalia lately. She is a remarkable cat. Very bold. I've never seen her flinch or run away from Matisse when he has a go at her. That's saying something for he is a large and intimidating cat. She's called his bluff and now it's him that hisses and turns away. She likes to be close to me, even on hot days which I know is uncomfortable for me and must be for her too. She lies next to me on the couch while I'm drawing. She likes being beneath the plastic sleeve I use to protect the work. Perhaps the smoothness and the crackling noise it makes when it's crushed amuses her. When it's hot she stretches herself long, like a tube, arching her back and often rolling onto it to present her paws for stroking (she has very strokeable paws). Natalia is the only cat in the household to give kisses. She also shows affection by gentle nibbles on nose, chin, arm or hand. If she is not happy, the nibbles have a bit more 'bite' in them. She purrs when you look at her or speak to her. Where you are she usually appears. Like Matisse she has developed a taste for the yoga mat. When the mat is unrolled there she is. Not as often as Matisse but most of the time. I don't know why cats find the mat attractive. Even Nairobi has been known to show interest but as she is more timid than the others, I don't see her as often. The cats are endearing and I appreciate them, being as they are yoga masters, showing me how it's done except they are usually demonstrating an asana right where I need to put a hand, a foot or my chest.
The new sketch is coming along. The mirror ball image needs more work but I'm leaving it at the moment while I fiddle with the rest of the drawing. I think leaving it alone, trying not to see it, will show me where it needs more work. The nude is also half done. I got stuck on her head. It was in proportion, in the right position but I just couldn't figure out what to do with her hair. I even tried the nude with the head of a finch but that didn't work either. Anyway, I've got the hair started and I like the look of it (blown up and off her neck like a nest of snakes but I'm not going to accentuate the reptilian aspect). So now it's the soothing background to do which I'm doing in ink. Very slow, very painstaking but it makes the mirror ball and the nude jump out. The nude is going to be a real test as I want her to be as 3-dimensional and smooth and real as I can possibly make her. Certainly a learning prospect. I keep looking at Greek and Roman sculptures in books and on the net - that's the look I'm aiming for with the nude...well, one must aim high even if one falls short.
We took a short drive to look at Spinach and Ma Ma Creeks. They are huge and wide and turbulent. Another 3 people have lost their lives in Queensland by trying to cross creeks in their vehicle - despite repeated warnings and news reports about the dangers of doing so.
Awoke in the night to hear the rain coming down like a tap had been turned on, coming so hard and fast that it no longer was a case of hearing drops but of hearing a cascade. Straight down, no wind, a 'means business' sort of deluge. We had two inches overnight. It's tailed off a little now, the worst has flowed southeast but the rainfall is set to continue, in the form of showers, for the next 5 days. It looks as though we will not go to Redcliffe for Boxing Day and may not even attempt Brisbane for Xmas - which is fine by me. I don't want to take the chance that we can't get home. We have too many animals depending on us.
It occurs to me that I haven't written of Natalia lately. She is a remarkable cat. Very bold. I've never seen her flinch or run away from Matisse when he has a go at her. That's saying something for he is a large and intimidating cat. She's called his bluff and now it's him that hisses and turns away. She likes to be close to me, even on hot days which I know is uncomfortable for me and must be for her too. She lies next to me on the couch while I'm drawing. She likes being beneath the plastic sleeve I use to protect the work. Perhaps the smoothness and the crackling noise it makes when it's crushed amuses her. When it's hot she stretches herself long, like a tube, arching her back and often rolling onto it to present her paws for stroking (she has very strokeable paws). Natalia is the only cat in the household to give kisses. She also shows affection by gentle nibbles on nose, chin, arm or hand. If she is not happy, the nibbles have a bit more 'bite' in them. She purrs when you look at her or speak to her. Where you are she usually appears. Like Matisse she has developed a taste for the yoga mat. When the mat is unrolled there she is. Not as often as Matisse but most of the time. I don't know why cats find the mat attractive. Even Nairobi has been known to show interest but as she is more timid than the others, I don't see her as often. The cats are endearing and I appreciate them, being as they are yoga masters, showing me how it's done except they are usually demonstrating an asana right where I need to put a hand, a foot or my chest.
The new sketch is coming along. The mirror ball image needs more work but I'm leaving it at the moment while I fiddle with the rest of the drawing. I think leaving it alone, trying not to see it, will show me where it needs more work. The nude is also half done. I got stuck on her head. It was in proportion, in the right position but I just couldn't figure out what to do with her hair. I even tried the nude with the head of a finch but that didn't work either. Anyway, I've got the hair started and I like the look of it (blown up and off her neck like a nest of snakes but I'm not going to accentuate the reptilian aspect). So now it's the soothing background to do which I'm doing in ink. Very slow, very painstaking but it makes the mirror ball and the nude jump out. The nude is going to be a real test as I want her to be as 3-dimensional and smooth and real as I can possibly make her. Certainly a learning prospect. I keep looking at Greek and Roman sculptures in books and on the net - that's the look I'm aiming for with the nude...well, one must aim high even if one falls short.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
I think I'm finally getting into a rhythm. A retirement rhythm. Unfortunately although I like being spontaneous I function best with a routine, albeit a loose one. Perhaps I'm not the only one that, if I have an hour to do a, b and c will have no trouble accomplishing same, but if I have an entire day to do a, b, and c, I may not even get through a. Getting up early helps. Fell into bed at 9:30 so got up at 5:30. Took the dogs for a walk (before the heat) and have already done the yoga hour too - and it's only 10:40. Haven't cleaned the house yet but that's something that can be done even in the afternoon if need be. Or commercial breaks if I'm watching the midday movie and drawing, which is something I like to do. Unfortunately I'm not a purist and don't close myself away in the studio with classical music and a vision. I"m propped on the couch with a drawing board, a coffee and the tv. If it's a good movie, I'll watch more than I'll draw but if it's a bad movie I'll draw more than I watch. I've got the end tables to hold drawing materials, the aforementioned coffee and two good lamps. R bought me this lamp a year or so ago which is a good light for drawing by - no heat either.
The studio as such (computer room cum studio) is too small and stuffy. I can't get far enough away from my work to see it properly. And it's claustrophobic in that to get the light I have to face the wall. Here at the computer I'm facing the bank of windows and don't feel shut in.
Anyway, this is just a thank you entry really. I am very happy with my life. Contented. Perhaps it won't last but while it is it is appreciated.
(Not to say nightmares don't lurk in the undergrowth - dreamed R left me and was so despairing I woke up).
I suspect, with hope and optimism!, that consistency is making a tiny impact on meditation. Some days are just horrible and then today, all huge 11 minutes of it, there was a moment, half a breath, when I was brushed by a quiet and peace that was deeper and felt like a glimpse of what meditation may be all about. Reading an article in Australia Yoga about making a groove in your mind that deepens with practice so that it is easier to go there with each session. That made sense.
It's starting to rain again, no thunder at least. Tadpoles are in every standing body of water. Most of them will have the opportunity to turn into frogs. Many seasons eggs are laid, tadpoles form and then they die because the waterholes dry up. We have a chorus of frogs in the fernery off the bedroom. They are so loud you think you'll never get to sleep yet in some strange way they are soothing and I drift off listening to the chorus. I don't know how they do it but they'll sing in unison and then, on some hidden signal, stop. No one keeps singing, no one voice croaks on for half a note. It's as though a radio was switched off. Starting up again isn't as all-encompassing. One frog will make that initial, somewhat tremulous, croak and then it's on, wave after wave of sound.
The studio as such (computer room cum studio) is too small and stuffy. I can't get far enough away from my work to see it properly. And it's claustrophobic in that to get the light I have to face the wall. Here at the computer I'm facing the bank of windows and don't feel shut in.
Anyway, this is just a thank you entry really. I am very happy with my life. Contented. Perhaps it won't last but while it is it is appreciated.
(Not to say nightmares don't lurk in the undergrowth - dreamed R left me and was so despairing I woke up).
I suspect, with hope and optimism!, that consistency is making a tiny impact on meditation. Some days are just horrible and then today, all huge 11 minutes of it, there was a moment, half a breath, when I was brushed by a quiet and peace that was deeper and felt like a glimpse of what meditation may be all about. Reading an article in Australia Yoga about making a groove in your mind that deepens with practice so that it is easier to go there with each session. That made sense.
It's starting to rain again, no thunder at least. Tadpoles are in every standing body of water. Most of them will have the opportunity to turn into frogs. Many seasons eggs are laid, tadpoles form and then they die because the waterholes dry up. We have a chorus of frogs in the fernery off the bedroom. They are so loud you think you'll never get to sleep yet in some strange way they are soothing and I drift off listening to the chorus. I don't know how they do it but they'll sing in unison and then, on some hidden signal, stop. No one keeps singing, no one voice croaks on for half a note. It's as though a radio was switched off. Starting up again isn't as all-encompassing. One frog will make that initial, somewhat tremulous, croak and then it's on, wave after wave of sound.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Bad storms around us again. Harrisville and Ipswich are getting flogged. The horses are galloping past the window. Drifter bucked, which for a lazy horse is quite an accomplishment, but they are only feeling the cold rain. There is blue sky behind, no hail although I'd wager, from the look on the radar, that some places are getting hail. Yesterday there was hail as large as cricket balls plus damaging winds. We're very lucky to get a few more mls of rain without the damage. It's odd to watch the radar because there's something about the topography which causes a long line of storms to split just as they come over us. Perhaps it's the hilly country to the southwest through Heifer Creek which causes the bifurcation - now there's a word! Anyway, we get a heavy shower which cools and refreshes and which will make my afternoon bike ride very pleasant.
Walked sans dogs yesterday afternoon. It was too hot, 33 degrees and high humidity. Not worth the risk (took them at 7:30 this morning which will have to be the routine through summer if they are to get a long walk). Anyway, I was trying to be mindful. Walk with mindfulness, feel each step, listen to the insects, the sound of moving water, the birds, trying to sense the larger ancient trees as I walked past (a doomed effort but I think there is benefit in the trying as one has to listen so hard and with more than just one's ears). Then it occurred to me that walking outside on this country road is rather like exploring the virtual reality of second life. When I go to a new destination and 'walk' I am looking all around me, listening to the sounds the programmer has installed, taking note of the terrain, the flora and fauna (if any), all the things the creator has decided to decorate his virtual location with. Just like reality. There I am, my feet crunching on the gravel and my head pointing toward infinity as I traverse this sphere rife with sights, smells, sounds and sensations. But this reality isn't real any more than secondlife is real. Perhaps it's a bit more real in that SL is derived from it but it's still an illusion. It was a gentle and gently odd place for my mind to be and was helpful in keeping me mindful.
Not so this morning with the dogs. Dogs are so much of the world and so enthusiastic about everything they see, smell and hear. I just have to be there with them and discourage too much enthusiasm as well as sluice them down with water from the still running creek to cool them. Yes, even this morning. We were all wrung out when we returned.
It was so hot and sticky yesterday that I didn't work on the drawing. Went grocery shopping and found a couple of silver xmas baubles to use as mirror balls. (Just spent five minutes trying to figure out how to print a copy of Escher's drawing of his hand holding a mirror ball. Hasn't got a great deal of detail but at least it's a little larger than the small photo I have in the book of his work). Anyway, even though I didn't work on the drawing I kept looking at it, propped up against the woodheater, and seeing it almost as dessert. There's no nicer feeling than having a work in progress.
Had another look at the radar and there's a second stream of storms coming. These will miss us as well as, like the others, they are passing to the NW of us. Wouldn't have minded a little bit more rain but shouldn't complain as this place is absolutely perfect now. It really is a bit of paradise.
Released Reginald, the rainbow lorikeet that came in to work with nothing wrong but a bad case of 'swimmers' in his poo. He's been on medication since he came and had recovered sufficiently to be returned to freedom. It seemed a good time to do it as there are two juveniles hanging around. Mom and Dad did their job and nicked off a couple of days ago. Figured the juveniles wouldn't be so stringent about not allowing new members to their group, plus there would be two extra sets of eyes looking for danger. When he first flew out the door I thought he couldn't fly well enough but he soon gained height and flew to the wattles bordering the peach and dam paddocks. Today he's been hanging around with the others. The food I put out for him has been eaten so even though I haven't actually seen him eat it I suspect he's the only one who would recognise a coop cup. He's flying much more strongly today so I'm hoping all will be well.
Unlike with little Jack the Rainbow Lorikeet of P and G's. Jack was surrendered to the surgery because he was a biter. P&G took him, put him in an aviary and his personality underwent a complete change. He went from Mr. Aggression to Mr. Sook. He fell in love with Peter and went everywhere with him, murmuring sweet nothings into his beard, riding on his shoulder or the steering wheel of the truck, helping with feeding the horses or general chores around the place. He even got on with P's other love interest, Charlie Bob the cockatoo. One would perch on one shoulder, the other on the other. Then I got an email from P. He heard a squawk and went outside in time to see a falcon fly off with Jack. Jack's last words were 'OK Mate'. We are all heartbroken. I feel terrible so can only imagine how gutted P and G are.
And why, of all the words and phrases that Jack knew did he say OK Mate? Was it acceptance of his fate, of death? Why not hello or what are you doin'? Like P said, at least it was quick. Little consolation though.
Walked sans dogs yesterday afternoon. It was too hot, 33 degrees and high humidity. Not worth the risk (took them at 7:30 this morning which will have to be the routine through summer if they are to get a long walk). Anyway, I was trying to be mindful. Walk with mindfulness, feel each step, listen to the insects, the sound of moving water, the birds, trying to sense the larger ancient trees as I walked past (a doomed effort but I think there is benefit in the trying as one has to listen so hard and with more than just one's ears). Then it occurred to me that walking outside on this country road is rather like exploring the virtual reality of second life. When I go to a new destination and 'walk' I am looking all around me, listening to the sounds the programmer has installed, taking note of the terrain, the flora and fauna (if any), all the things the creator has decided to decorate his virtual location with. Just like reality. There I am, my feet crunching on the gravel and my head pointing toward infinity as I traverse this sphere rife with sights, smells, sounds and sensations. But this reality isn't real any more than secondlife is real. Perhaps it's a bit more real in that SL is derived from it but it's still an illusion. It was a gentle and gently odd place for my mind to be and was helpful in keeping me mindful.
Not so this morning with the dogs. Dogs are so much of the world and so enthusiastic about everything they see, smell and hear. I just have to be there with them and discourage too much enthusiasm as well as sluice them down with water from the still running creek to cool them. Yes, even this morning. We were all wrung out when we returned.
It was so hot and sticky yesterday that I didn't work on the drawing. Went grocery shopping and found a couple of silver xmas baubles to use as mirror balls. (Just spent five minutes trying to figure out how to print a copy of Escher's drawing of his hand holding a mirror ball. Hasn't got a great deal of detail but at least it's a little larger than the small photo I have in the book of his work). Anyway, even though I didn't work on the drawing I kept looking at it, propped up against the woodheater, and seeing it almost as dessert. There's no nicer feeling than having a work in progress.
Had another look at the radar and there's a second stream of storms coming. These will miss us as well as, like the others, they are passing to the NW of us. Wouldn't have minded a little bit more rain but shouldn't complain as this place is absolutely perfect now. It really is a bit of paradise.
Released Reginald, the rainbow lorikeet that came in to work with nothing wrong but a bad case of 'swimmers' in his poo. He's been on medication since he came and had recovered sufficiently to be returned to freedom. It seemed a good time to do it as there are two juveniles hanging around. Mom and Dad did their job and nicked off a couple of days ago. Figured the juveniles wouldn't be so stringent about not allowing new members to their group, plus there would be two extra sets of eyes looking for danger. When he first flew out the door I thought he couldn't fly well enough but he soon gained height and flew to the wattles bordering the peach and dam paddocks. Today he's been hanging around with the others. The food I put out for him has been eaten so even though I haven't actually seen him eat it I suspect he's the only one who would recognise a coop cup. He's flying much more strongly today so I'm hoping all will be well.
Unlike with little Jack the Rainbow Lorikeet of P and G's. Jack was surrendered to the surgery because he was a biter. P&G took him, put him in an aviary and his personality underwent a complete change. He went from Mr. Aggression to Mr. Sook. He fell in love with Peter and went everywhere with him, murmuring sweet nothings into his beard, riding on his shoulder or the steering wheel of the truck, helping with feeding the horses or general chores around the place. He even got on with P's other love interest, Charlie Bob the cockatoo. One would perch on one shoulder, the other on the other. Then I got an email from P. He heard a squawk and went outside in time to see a falcon fly off with Jack. Jack's last words were 'OK Mate'. We are all heartbroken. I feel terrible so can only imagine how gutted P and G are.
And why, of all the words and phrases that Jack knew did he say OK Mate? Was it acceptance of his fate, of death? Why not hello or what are you doin'? Like P said, at least it was quick. Little consolation though.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Started a new drawing, a nude this time. Couldn't work on it last night because we were inundated with flying termites. Light attracted them and as it was hot and humid and my skin was sticky it was annoying and uncomfortable to have a light on. Miserable night, actually. So couldn't work on the drawing.
Rained hard all day today, well over an inch already and the creek is down once again (yippee!). But rather than work on the drawing I explored a virtual world after seeing a documentary on them. Second life. No news to most people I suppose but news to me. Downloaded the software and joined and then proceeded to run into every tree, wall and solid object possible - or *fly* into the sea, fly up into ceilings, overfly, underfly, overwalk, underwalk - damn hard to walk around places. Tried to go to certain landmarks, failed, tried to find art inspired spots, failed until found one which was beautifully done with flowers and birds and rabbits, kittens, crashing waves and idyllic waterfalls and pillow filled pavilions and a bathtub and oh, what's this? A naked lady floating onto a wicker bed, oops I might just take my accident prone avatar self and go elsewhere. Then I met the designer of the place. Very inspired but very airy fairy; muse and all that and may peace be with you and no I can't use it as my landmark home space because I'd have to join a group and I was afraid to ask what that group was. Was it not a place of peace and tranquility but a rendezvous for cybersex? She was provocatively dressed in a split-sided blue tunic with longer than long legs and breasts out to here and blonde Rastafarian locks and she kept twirling one leg around the other and all I wanted to do was get out of there and stop making polite conversation. So I did.
But it IS addictive. Got in there to look at artwork - and found some great stuff created by a university (Texas). Really good stuff. Was it all created on the computer or was it painted and then transferred. Really original stuff. So it's worth exploring but there is a big accent on buying things; land and just 'stuff' which doesn't interest me. If I can't view it, explore it for free than I'm not interested.
At the way station for beginners I could hear conversations between other avatars. Not very enlightening. Was really out of my depth age wise there. My first contact was with a spanish speaking gentleman which was nice except I wanted to explore and learn how to operate so I bid him a polite good-bye. Not that I'm any better at it now but I did copy down some instructions. Must be careful. Let me repeat that, must be careful. It could suck me in to the detriment of real life if I let it.
Big day for Dimitri. As it was raining and I'd read that it was easier to introduce birds to bathing when it was raining thought I'd give it a try. I also read that for shy birds it often helped to hide the bottle in your shirt. So I did. Went out there with the bottle set on fine mist and wrapped in my shirt. He was initially hesitant but I was so happy to see he didn't panic that I kept praising him in a very very happy voice. As it was mist it was difficult to saturate him but he did fluff his feathers and raise his one wing. He preened for a long time afterward. I'm encouraged to try again when it's raining, maybe even have the setting on slightly harder than mist. It's been well over a year since he's had a bath. Bet he felt wonderful.
Rained hard all day today, well over an inch already and the creek is down once again (yippee!). But rather than work on the drawing I explored a virtual world after seeing a documentary on them. Second life. No news to most people I suppose but news to me. Downloaded the software and joined and then proceeded to run into every tree, wall and solid object possible - or *fly* into the sea, fly up into ceilings, overfly, underfly, overwalk, underwalk - damn hard to walk around places. Tried to go to certain landmarks, failed, tried to find art inspired spots, failed until found one which was beautifully done with flowers and birds and rabbits, kittens, crashing waves and idyllic waterfalls and pillow filled pavilions and a bathtub and oh, what's this? A naked lady floating onto a wicker bed, oops I might just take my accident prone avatar self and go elsewhere. Then I met the designer of the place. Very inspired but very airy fairy; muse and all that and may peace be with you and no I can't use it as my landmark home space because I'd have to join a group and I was afraid to ask what that group was. Was it not a place of peace and tranquility but a rendezvous for cybersex? She was provocatively dressed in a split-sided blue tunic with longer than long legs and breasts out to here and blonde Rastafarian locks and she kept twirling one leg around the other and all I wanted to do was get out of there and stop making polite conversation. So I did.
But it IS addictive. Got in there to look at artwork - and found some great stuff created by a university (Texas). Really good stuff. Was it all created on the computer or was it painted and then transferred. Really original stuff. So it's worth exploring but there is a big accent on buying things; land and just 'stuff' which doesn't interest me. If I can't view it, explore it for free than I'm not interested.
At the way station for beginners I could hear conversations between other avatars. Not very enlightening. Was really out of my depth age wise there. My first contact was with a spanish speaking gentleman which was nice except I wanted to explore and learn how to operate so I bid him a polite good-bye. Not that I'm any better at it now but I did copy down some instructions. Must be careful. Let me repeat that, must be careful. It could suck me in to the detriment of real life if I let it.
Big day for Dimitri. As it was raining and I'd read that it was easier to introduce birds to bathing when it was raining thought I'd give it a try. I also read that for shy birds it often helped to hide the bottle in your shirt. So I did. Went out there with the bottle set on fine mist and wrapped in my shirt. He was initially hesitant but I was so happy to see he didn't panic that I kept praising him in a very very happy voice. As it was mist it was difficult to saturate him but he did fluff his feathers and raise his one wing. He preened for a long time afterward. I'm encouraged to try again when it's raining, maybe even have the setting on slightly harder than mist. It's been well over a year since he's had a bath. Bet he felt wonderful.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Night Cat Dreaming
Finished it. Slotted it into the big black folder where all unframed art is kept. R was supposed to take the frame into town to get glass measured but forgot. Have to paint it anyway. One of the downsides of buying used frames can be the colour scheme. This one is streaked yellow and blue in a failed attempt, perhaps, to make it look antique. Not that I'll be improving it much. Going to use a test paint pot of lavendar. Guess one of the benefits of using varying shades of black and grey is it goes with everything.
Now trying to come up with an idea for the next drawing. Done some idle thumbnail sketches but no joy. Am also looking through myth and mythology books, rediscovered John Duncan painting in the style of the pre-Raphaelites. Love the mysticism, the mystery and the jeweled beauty of his work. Should I copy? For practice? Part of me knows I should for I'll learn alot by copying such an artist but another part of me rebels at doing anything that is not my own.
Feel a bit crappy and uninspired today. Too little sleep contributes. Went to bed at midnight after watching a documentary on Lennon vs the USA. Then awakened by one of the birds having a night fright. Still have to get up early for the birds however.
Anyway health, rather ill health talk is boring.
Looking for a road bike to buy. Not going to the gym any more. Since I stopped going my neck and shoulders feel much better. Probably due to yoga but not motivated to spend 40 minutes driving so that I can work out when walking the dogs takes place in a beautiful setting. I am very grateful for our dirt road, The other day I saw a dingo crossing the road in front of us. The whippets seemed to know this was not a domesticated dog for although they were interested and on their toes they didn't spin on the end of the lead like they, well Radar, does when he sees a neighbour's dog.
A few days ago I heard this wet metallic wheezy screech, which is the best description I can come up with for the warning call of a pheasant coucal. Up the side of the hill in low scrub a largish hawk, too far away for me to identify, was flying from bush to bush dodging mobbing crows, magpies and willie wagtails. We weren't close but it didn't seem as though it had anything in its mouth. In hindsight I wonder if in fact the hawk was in trouble and couldn't fly well enough to gain height.
The creek came down a few days ago after a heavy deluge. R and I took the dogs for a walk and at one of the causeways saw a fish, about 3 inches long. Looked like one of those rainbow fish which are native to Queensland. But how did it get there? Dry Creek is aptly named. If we're lucky it comes down two or three times a year and usually stops flowing within a day. With all the rain recently it ran for about 4 days but still, a fish? The creek is stony dusty dry. All the water holes dry up. When we moved here 19 years ago the water hole at the eastern edge of our property had quite a few small fish in it. We didn't know enough to be amazed assuming the creek (that was the last year we had a normal season according to the locals) ran all the time. So the fish mystery remains. Still I like that I can't explain it.
Have subscribed to an RSS feed from Leo Babauta called Zen Habits. He has a Short and Powerful Guide to Finding Your Passion which I've started by listing my likes and desires and talents. Then comes the next bit; researching those who are successful - it comes down to Art of course. Do I really want to get out there and hawk my wares? I don't need to make a living but if I want my ego stroked and have people like my work, they have to see it.
Now trying to come up with an idea for the next drawing. Done some idle thumbnail sketches but no joy. Am also looking through myth and mythology books, rediscovered John Duncan painting in the style of the pre-Raphaelites. Love the mysticism, the mystery and the jeweled beauty of his work. Should I copy? For practice? Part of me knows I should for I'll learn alot by copying such an artist but another part of me rebels at doing anything that is not my own.
Feel a bit crappy and uninspired today. Too little sleep contributes. Went to bed at midnight after watching a documentary on Lennon vs the USA. Then awakened by one of the birds having a night fright. Still have to get up early for the birds however.
Anyway health, rather ill health talk is boring.
Looking for a road bike to buy. Not going to the gym any more. Since I stopped going my neck and shoulders feel much better. Probably due to yoga but not motivated to spend 40 minutes driving so that I can work out when walking the dogs takes place in a beautiful setting. I am very grateful for our dirt road, The other day I saw a dingo crossing the road in front of us. The whippets seemed to know this was not a domesticated dog for although they were interested and on their toes they didn't spin on the end of the lead like they, well Radar, does when he sees a neighbour's dog.
A few days ago I heard this wet metallic wheezy screech, which is the best description I can come up with for the warning call of a pheasant coucal. Up the side of the hill in low scrub a largish hawk, too far away for me to identify, was flying from bush to bush dodging mobbing crows, magpies and willie wagtails. We weren't close but it didn't seem as though it had anything in its mouth. In hindsight I wonder if in fact the hawk was in trouble and couldn't fly well enough to gain height.
The creek came down a few days ago after a heavy deluge. R and I took the dogs for a walk and at one of the causeways saw a fish, about 3 inches long. Looked like one of those rainbow fish which are native to Queensland. But how did it get there? Dry Creek is aptly named. If we're lucky it comes down two or three times a year and usually stops flowing within a day. With all the rain recently it ran for about 4 days but still, a fish? The creek is stony dusty dry. All the water holes dry up. When we moved here 19 years ago the water hole at the eastern edge of our property had quite a few small fish in it. We didn't know enough to be amazed assuming the creek (that was the last year we had a normal season according to the locals) ran all the time. So the fish mystery remains. Still I like that I can't explain it.
Have subscribed to an RSS feed from Leo Babauta called Zen Habits. He has a Short and Powerful Guide to Finding Your Passion which I've started by listing my likes and desires and talents. Then comes the next bit; researching those who are successful - it comes down to Art of course. Do I really want to get out there and hawk my wares? I don't need to make a living but if I want my ego stroked and have people like my work, they have to see it.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
One of the most important parts of drawing, in my limited experience, is not drawing. The creative process benefits as much from a certain lassitude of the critical process as it does from putting pen, brush or pencil to paper.
My drawings are clipped to an art board and in summer, when the wood heater isn't burning, the board leans up against the heater where I can see it from the couch. I may think a drawing is nearing completion and the drawing will be sitting there looking more or less finished and then suddenly, a day or two later, I'll see either something that needs more work or a shadow or squiggle will suggest another direction I can take it. This is happening with The Night Cat. In the textured background was a shadow which suggested a sort of hill and when I looked harder it seemed to fit in and enrich what was already there. Therefore today, yet another rainy day, I've spent making that shadow view into something significant. While I was working it was obvious other areas needed more definition; darkening or lightening, more detail here, less detail there. I'm really starting to like it now. The downside is it happens with already completed work. It will be hanging there (work that I've liked well enough to frame) and then I'll see either a glaring error or something extra I've could have done with it.
Sometimes I think, no, I know, the awake mind needs to be quiet so that I can hear the creative mind. Monkey mind, that chattering jittering anxious self-condemning mind has the top spot in my little cranium. There is very little time when it isn't yammering away like a thousand air bubbles in a bottle of cheap fruit flavoured soda. Sometimes it's still during attempts at meditation, sometimes during yoga, always just before sleep when I'm so not there that I'm not productively aware of it. How to make use of the creative silence while still being with it enough to make use of what floats to the surface.
Recently read about an artist, sorry I don't know who - I was going through a whole list of artists and looking at their work - who used a technique of staring at a picture for 30 seconds and then meditating upon it for 30 minutes. Good grief, what discipline! I can hardly rein in my mind long enough to continually focus on 20 breaths without swanning off to some five and dime store of superficial thoughts. Read somewhere else (yoga magazine?) where some study found that 42% of our waking life is spent daydreaming but rather than the daydreaming being of happy thoughts and happy places it tended to make us sad and depressed. I'm there!
And one other thing occurs to me. Watched an Oprah show a while back in which the subject of overeating was the subject. Rather than focus on a diet the learned guest spoke of how compulsive eating (or in my case compulsive Mah Jong or Spider Solitaire playing) was a way to avoid having to confront some aspect of ourselves. Hear Hear! I don't think I've got some deep dark kernel of unexamined trauma that I need to examine but the game playing is a sort of drug which keeps the mind from thinking. It dulls me. Why I desire that I don't know. Why is there a need to escape from reality? My reality is quite good; companionship, love, food, shelter, an entrance to the entire world through books and the 'net - why then? Is it a form of simple procrastination so that I don't have to do anything serious? To live up to the great blessing of being alive. I mean, how miraculous is that simple fact? Life. Being alive. All the billions who have gone before me, Living breathing. Then their life stops. And their breathing stops. Stops. That's it. The End. FINIS! Now it's my turn. No wonder I get so cranky with myself; guilt compounding guilt. What a privilege to be alive and I waste time (and I'm 55 years old, damn it!) playing stupid computer games.
Enough rant. I've drawn. It's been a good day. And I think I forgive myself for not being perfect and creating non-stop for all my waking hours.
My drawings are clipped to an art board and in summer, when the wood heater isn't burning, the board leans up against the heater where I can see it from the couch. I may think a drawing is nearing completion and the drawing will be sitting there looking more or less finished and then suddenly, a day or two later, I'll see either something that needs more work or a shadow or squiggle will suggest another direction I can take it. This is happening with The Night Cat. In the textured background was a shadow which suggested a sort of hill and when I looked harder it seemed to fit in and enrich what was already there. Therefore today, yet another rainy day, I've spent making that shadow view into something significant. While I was working it was obvious other areas needed more definition; darkening or lightening, more detail here, less detail there. I'm really starting to like it now. The downside is it happens with already completed work. It will be hanging there (work that I've liked well enough to frame) and then I'll see either a glaring error or something extra I've could have done with it.
Sometimes I think, no, I know, the awake mind needs to be quiet so that I can hear the creative mind. Monkey mind, that chattering jittering anxious self-condemning mind has the top spot in my little cranium. There is very little time when it isn't yammering away like a thousand air bubbles in a bottle of cheap fruit flavoured soda. Sometimes it's still during attempts at meditation, sometimes during yoga, always just before sleep when I'm so not there that I'm not productively aware of it. How to make use of the creative silence while still being with it enough to make use of what floats to the surface.
Recently read about an artist, sorry I don't know who - I was going through a whole list of artists and looking at their work - who used a technique of staring at a picture for 30 seconds and then meditating upon it for 30 minutes. Good grief, what discipline! I can hardly rein in my mind long enough to continually focus on 20 breaths without swanning off to some five and dime store of superficial thoughts. Read somewhere else (yoga magazine?) where some study found that 42% of our waking life is spent daydreaming but rather than the daydreaming being of happy thoughts and happy places it tended to make us sad and depressed. I'm there!
And one other thing occurs to me. Watched an Oprah show a while back in which the subject of overeating was the subject. Rather than focus on a diet the learned guest spoke of how compulsive eating (or in my case compulsive Mah Jong or Spider Solitaire playing) was a way to avoid having to confront some aspect of ourselves. Hear Hear! I don't think I've got some deep dark kernel of unexamined trauma that I need to examine but the game playing is a sort of drug which keeps the mind from thinking. It dulls me. Why I desire that I don't know. Why is there a need to escape from reality? My reality is quite good; companionship, love, food, shelter, an entrance to the entire world through books and the 'net - why then? Is it a form of simple procrastination so that I don't have to do anything serious? To live up to the great blessing of being alive. I mean, how miraculous is that simple fact? Life. Being alive. All the billions who have gone before me, Living breathing. Then their life stops. And their breathing stops. Stops. That's it. The End. FINIS! Now it's my turn. No wonder I get so cranky with myself; guilt compounding guilt. What a privilege to be alive and I waste time (and I'm 55 years old, damn it!) playing stupid computer games.
Enough rant. I've drawn. It's been a good day. And I think I forgive myself for not being perfect and creating non-stop for all my waking hours.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
I'm retired. Officially retired with the cake and parting gifts and everything. I think it must be like going on holiday; it takes a week before you finally believe you're on holiday and then you have that final week to enjoy before returning to work. Retirement hasn't felt real yet. But I'm trying. It's been raining so much that there is little I can do outside, didn't even take the dogs for a walk yesterday. There's a part of me that rebels and doesn't want to start spring cleaning just because I've retired. Have read a couple of books, well almost finished with the second one, and have worked on the drawing.
The drawing. I'm going to call it The Night Cat. It's an outline of a cat leaping. It's 'framed' by a leopard pattern frame surrounded by surrealist trees in a night sky. The background of the cat is a patterned space partially filled by a knobbly somewhat surrealist tree. Naturally I don't know what it signifies, if anything. (There is a rather soggy looking kookaburra sitting on the hills hoist. Foraging for all birds will be difficult with this rain. I know flying foxes starve because the nectar is washed from flowers and assume the same holds true for nectar feeding birds. Insects would be taking refuge from the rain as would lizards. I am glad of the rain but admit to missing the sky and sun. This overcast drizzly weather has been continuing for weeks with little days of sun inbetween). Anyway, a day when one works at art is a good day. I've had a lot of good days. Again this drawing is in pencil and ink. I like the blackness of the ink contrasting with the malleability of pencil greys. Doesn't it just excite you to make something that was not there before? To create. It is our hand within God's I think. The Power That Is CREATES but we in our tiny little reality can mimic that greatness and pull something from nothing. It doesn't have to be world class, it only has to be ours. And original. Anyway, tomorrow, weather permitting we'll go to a garage sale at Helidon. They have pictures in frames for sale and I am always on the lookout for cheap frames with glass already in them. It makes framing work so easy since I don't have a clue how to frame things and have never bought materials. I have a huge frame, bought for $20 from St. Vinnies. I don't even have paper large enough to fit in it. Not sure what I'll do but other people work large so it must be possible.
Which brings me to an artist called Laurie Lipton. She works very large and in pencil and although her works are somewhat macabre, she is a tremendous draftsman. (Ah, the kookaburra got something from the grass and has flown off over the dam. Earlier a wallaby raced across the dam bank so fast I thought one of the dogs was in pursuit but they were hanging out on their beds. The rain has curtailed their activities too. Radar won't stand at the corner wallaby watching. Whippets don't like getting wet me thinks). I've gone to her website several times for inspiration - not the subject manner but the way that she portrays it. It's humbling. Not only is her work detailed and lifelike but she has this well of creativity. Her pictures mean something. You may not like the meaning portraying as it does death and a sort of hopelessness. It is not life enhancing, referring to a previous post, except with the beauty in which it is portrayed. There is one drawing called the kiss or the embrace or something like that. It is a close up of a man, alive and warm with that life being embraced by a thinly fleshed skull with a skeletal hand holding the man's cheek. It is awful and it is beautiful.
Just had a short email from a friend of ours. He and his wife have just split up. What a bastard. Why does it have to happen to the nicest people? I know, I know. There's a reason and it's all good in the end but it hasn't been so long that I don't remember how badly it hurts.
The drawing. I'm going to call it The Night Cat. It's an outline of a cat leaping. It's 'framed' by a leopard pattern frame surrounded by surrealist trees in a night sky. The background of the cat is a patterned space partially filled by a knobbly somewhat surrealist tree. Naturally I don't know what it signifies, if anything. (There is a rather soggy looking kookaburra sitting on the hills hoist. Foraging for all birds will be difficult with this rain. I know flying foxes starve because the nectar is washed from flowers and assume the same holds true for nectar feeding birds. Insects would be taking refuge from the rain as would lizards. I am glad of the rain but admit to missing the sky and sun. This overcast drizzly weather has been continuing for weeks with little days of sun inbetween). Anyway, a day when one works at art is a good day. I've had a lot of good days. Again this drawing is in pencil and ink. I like the blackness of the ink contrasting with the malleability of pencil greys. Doesn't it just excite you to make something that was not there before? To create. It is our hand within God's I think. The Power That Is CREATES but we in our tiny little reality can mimic that greatness and pull something from nothing. It doesn't have to be world class, it only has to be ours. And original. Anyway, tomorrow, weather permitting we'll go to a garage sale at Helidon. They have pictures in frames for sale and I am always on the lookout for cheap frames with glass already in them. It makes framing work so easy since I don't have a clue how to frame things and have never bought materials. I have a huge frame, bought for $20 from St. Vinnies. I don't even have paper large enough to fit in it. Not sure what I'll do but other people work large so it must be possible.
Which brings me to an artist called Laurie Lipton. She works very large and in pencil and although her works are somewhat macabre, she is a tremendous draftsman. (Ah, the kookaburra got something from the grass and has flown off over the dam. Earlier a wallaby raced across the dam bank so fast I thought one of the dogs was in pursuit but they were hanging out on their beds. The rain has curtailed their activities too. Radar won't stand at the corner wallaby watching. Whippets don't like getting wet me thinks). I've gone to her website several times for inspiration - not the subject manner but the way that she portrays it. It's humbling. Not only is her work detailed and lifelike but she has this well of creativity. Her pictures mean something. You may not like the meaning portraying as it does death and a sort of hopelessness. It is not life enhancing, referring to a previous post, except with the beauty in which it is portrayed. There is one drawing called the kiss or the embrace or something like that. It is a close up of a man, alive and warm with that life being embraced by a thinly fleshed skull with a skeletal hand holding the man's cheek. It is awful and it is beautiful.
Just had a short email from a friend of ours. He and his wife have just split up. What a bastard. Why does it have to happen to the nicest people? I know, I know. There's a reason and it's all good in the end but it hasn't been so long that I don't remember how badly it hurts.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
A bit blah today. H rang last night, before shower, before tea, and asked if I'd come in to assist with a caesarian (labrador, 7 live puppies, one dead from too long in the birth canal). Didn't get home until 10:30 but couldn't go to sleep until 11:30 as too wound up. No matter what time one's head hits the pillow the birds will sing at dawn which is at ten minutes to 5. They're actually singing before sunrise as I was awake at 4 listening to the kookaburras, always first out of bed in the morning, to be quickly followed by the dawn chorus which included ill-tempered honks from Algernon as he was up and where was his breakfast?
R is full of energy. Even though it's Sunday and he went to bed at the same time as I (although he was sound asleep on the couch when I got home) he's slashed the creek paddock which is full of shepherd's purse, nettles and cobblers pegs. I, on the other hand, have been looking at peoples sketches on the sketching forum, http://www.sketching.cc/index.html. Some talented artists to inspire. Hard-working too, sketching on subways, in the park or often, their own feet for want of a more convenient model. Out of all of them I've only bookmarked one artist. Yes, I admire the talent, the beauty and the detail of the artists but I'm looking for some intangible thing which involves technical expertise applied to the creative stream - not copying what is seen but what is created in the mind.
The last drawing, birds and a castle floating downstream is framed and hanging. This description does not sound very promising but I like it, perhaps because the birds, in ink contrasting with the lighter graphite, lend this a slightly menacing quality to what otherwise would've been just an attempt at drawing a building, something I have never done.
Then faced with another empty white sheet of paper I stalled. Not for long however. I was thumbing through The Noble Cat book and saw these photos of illuminations from a 12th century copy of a bestiary. The cats, stylized lions are 'framed' within the picture and stand against backgrounds of pattern; criss cross, a star spangled night sky, that sort of thing. The big cats are not lifelike and are crudely drawn, when compared to the realism today's artists are capable of, yet they have a charm and a punch that appeals to me. So. Rather than a big cat I've drawn the outline of an everyday house cat in mid leap. There is no detail, just a heavy outline and some light shading. I've only just begun it but the cat is framed within two drawn frames and will have a third *real* frame when finished.
R is full of energy. Even though it's Sunday and he went to bed at the same time as I (although he was sound asleep on the couch when I got home) he's slashed the creek paddock which is full of shepherd's purse, nettles and cobblers pegs. I, on the other hand, have been looking at peoples sketches on the sketching forum, http://www.sketching.cc/index.html. Some talented artists to inspire. Hard-working too, sketching on subways, in the park or often, their own feet for want of a more convenient model. Out of all of them I've only bookmarked one artist. Yes, I admire the talent, the beauty and the detail of the artists but I'm looking for some intangible thing which involves technical expertise applied to the creative stream - not copying what is seen but what is created in the mind.
The last drawing, birds and a castle floating downstream is framed and hanging. This description does not sound very promising but I like it, perhaps because the birds, in ink contrasting with the lighter graphite, lend this a slightly menacing quality to what otherwise would've been just an attempt at drawing a building, something I have never done.
Then faced with another empty white sheet of paper I stalled. Not for long however. I was thumbing through The Noble Cat book and saw these photos of illuminations from a 12th century copy of a bestiary. The cats, stylized lions are 'framed' within the picture and stand against backgrounds of pattern; criss cross, a star spangled night sky, that sort of thing. The big cats are not lifelike and are crudely drawn, when compared to the realism today's artists are capable of, yet they have a charm and a punch that appeals to me. So. Rather than a big cat I've drawn the outline of an everyday house cat in mid leap. There is no detail, just a heavy outline and some light shading. I've only just begun it but the cat is framed within two drawn frames and will have a third *real* frame when finished.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Viewing the world through the runny eyes of a cold. Frustrating how the cold defeats me. I do believe in the power of seeing oneself healthy and well yet come undone at the first sign of a sore throat. It's as though I give up believing I am in charge of my own well-being, throw up my hands and succumb to this little packet of energy designed for miserableness. Haven't figured out how to circumvent it so blow and cough in a welter of phlegm and handkerchiefs.
Stayed up to watch The Matrix just so that I could see the ending, which has implications far deeper than a computer program. It is as though it is a message sent from our deepest knowing if we only choose to see. I mean, we all know that we are but varying arrangements of energy packets. Quantum physics has sifted down to the common man, but we don't act as if it is true. That's the bugger. We choose to believe in this world of Maya - and perhaps that's as it should be. Why else come unless you're going to play?
Speaking of playing. I love my birds. I am so grateful to them. My heart swells with joy when I am with them. And these are some of the reasons:
1) Dimitri: He is learning to put the plastic ring in the bowl. I can see the light dawning and it is with a happy heart that I witness the increased bravery because it's all fun! No force, no fear, no failing.
2) Tony: Is eating and eating and eating. He looks better, he's in better feather. When he comes out he wants to give and get some affection before he has a fly around. I am very proud of him. He is so tiny yet his being is enormous.
3) Jake: I accept that Jake is a cranky poop in the morning. If he is on the ground I don't put his food in. Yesterday I couldn't put his food in even though he was on the branch as he had a go and tried to bite. That's all right. I've got plenty of time. Later he is pleasant and I suspect he even nurtures a sneaking affection for these odd people who carry him around on a branch crying 'Flying Bird' in funny voices while swooping him high and low.
4) Suki: Suki has chosen to come out voluntarily to forage for tasty blossoms or to hide under my hair in the evening or just to sit quietly on my shoulder and preen my neck. She is a brave and funny little soul who is growing tail feathers!
5) Marvin: Marvin is cock of the walk. He marches everywhere in unquestioning self-importance. The other galahs give him a wide berth due to his bad temper. He guards me sometimes, chasing Fern and Grevillea, who only want to say hello, away. We've been weeding bindi-eyes for weeks. The galahs, wild and domestic, love them. Marvin 'helps' by standing on the plant I'm trying to get out and tugging. He only wants to be the first to have the fresh picked weed and even stoops to raiding the bowl of plucked bindi-eyes that is bound for the verandah birds. Have to keep switching from plant to plant, working each one free a little at a time so that Marvin gets to help and I actually get some weeding done without hurting his feelings. Marvin can be very demanding of affection, standing on my foot when he wants to be picked up, cuddling in close to my chest while I preen his head. He makes little clucking whistling noises and closes his eyes while tilting his head back. When he's feeling playful he attacks my shoe and flips himself upside down. I see the wild galahs play like this. I can give him a poinciana seed to play with - he's too excited to be trusted with fingers - and he screams and chews and boxes with his feet. I can pick him up by a handful of tail feathers and he doesn't care. He screams in delight. If I right him he'll flip himself over again - but only when he's in this playful mood. I would never try and force him to play. He has to initiate it.
Stayed up to watch The Matrix just so that I could see the ending, which has implications far deeper than a computer program. It is as though it is a message sent from our deepest knowing if we only choose to see. I mean, we all know that we are but varying arrangements of energy packets. Quantum physics has sifted down to the common man, but we don't act as if it is true. That's the bugger. We choose to believe in this world of Maya - and perhaps that's as it should be. Why else come unless you're going to play?
Speaking of playing. I love my birds. I am so grateful to them. My heart swells with joy when I am with them. And these are some of the reasons:
1) Dimitri: He is learning to put the plastic ring in the bowl. I can see the light dawning and it is with a happy heart that I witness the increased bravery because it's all fun! No force, no fear, no failing.
2) Tony: Is eating and eating and eating. He looks better, he's in better feather. When he comes out he wants to give and get some affection before he has a fly around. I am very proud of him. He is so tiny yet his being is enormous.
3) Jake: I accept that Jake is a cranky poop in the morning. If he is on the ground I don't put his food in. Yesterday I couldn't put his food in even though he was on the branch as he had a go and tried to bite. That's all right. I've got plenty of time. Later he is pleasant and I suspect he even nurtures a sneaking affection for these odd people who carry him around on a branch crying 'Flying Bird' in funny voices while swooping him high and low.
4) Suki: Suki has chosen to come out voluntarily to forage for tasty blossoms or to hide under my hair in the evening or just to sit quietly on my shoulder and preen my neck. She is a brave and funny little soul who is growing tail feathers!
5) Marvin: Marvin is cock of the walk. He marches everywhere in unquestioning self-importance. The other galahs give him a wide berth due to his bad temper. He guards me sometimes, chasing Fern and Grevillea, who only want to say hello, away. We've been weeding bindi-eyes for weeks. The galahs, wild and domestic, love them. Marvin 'helps' by standing on the plant I'm trying to get out and tugging. He only wants to be the first to have the fresh picked weed and even stoops to raiding the bowl of plucked bindi-eyes that is bound for the verandah birds. Have to keep switching from plant to plant, working each one free a little at a time so that Marvin gets to help and I actually get some weeding done without hurting his feelings. Marvin can be very demanding of affection, standing on my foot when he wants to be picked up, cuddling in close to my chest while I preen his head. He makes little clucking whistling noises and closes his eyes while tilting his head back. When he's feeling playful he attacks my shoe and flips himself upside down. I see the wild galahs play like this. I can give him a poinciana seed to play with - he's too excited to be trusted with fingers - and he screams and chews and boxes with his feet. I can pick him up by a handful of tail feathers and he doesn't care. He screams in delight. If I right him he'll flip himself over again - but only when he's in this playful mood. I would never try and force him to play. He has to initiate it.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Tony
Tony has come home with me for a week. Tony is the clinic budgerigar, hand-raised by K, supposedly so that he could be adopted by M. In the meantime he lives at the clinic, where everyone looks after him and therefore no one looks after him. I worked last Saturday. The paper at the bottom of his cage was filthy. What water he had was slimy and his granivore mix was set like concrete. By blowing on his seed it was obvious he wasn't eating as there were no husks to be blown. We'd taken the pellets away as he wasn't eating them either. Two weeks ago I weighed him. He was 29 grams. I weighed him yesterday and he was 27. On Saturday, in a high dudgeon, I brought him home. He ate like a horse and seemed to welcome the company of the three birds already on the verandah. I let him out to fly under supervision while he was here and he adapted brilliantly although his favourite perch was on my head. I reluctantly took him back to the clinic on Monday.
For whatever reason, he doesn't eat at the clinic. I picked him some of those wild oats and he ate them but he's either running at the bottom of the cage or sitting quietly on his play perch. Quietly means not singing and for a budgie that's unusual behaviour. Cornelius sings all the time, even with his eyes closed when he's resting during the middle of the day.
Watching Tony today I notice that he's constantly eating and when he's not eating he's sleeping. He's had diarrhoea for weeks and his little bottom is featherless and scalded. I'm hopeful that, with a week of good eating and attention to hygiene as well as just having attention paid to him, he'll blossom. He's the loveliest little bird, affectionate and full of fun. Frankly, I don't want to return him to the clinic as it is just too busy with too many chiefs and not one reliable Indian. He's stuck in a lonely room and unless someone goes to the trouble of getting him out, sticking the 'Tony is Out' sign on the back door and closing all the doors to reception, which I don't think anyone but me does, he doesn't get a fly around. He's just there. It makes me weep, literally, when I think of this valiant little bird - and valiant is a word I've used to describe him before and it still is apt - living the life of a prisoner in solitary. I may not take him back unless specifically asked. He may become ours through default. At least I hope so. It's rather sneaky but I'm going to try it. His life and well-being is worth the aggravation. Besides, I retire in four weeks and I can ask that he be my retirement present.
Tony is significantly smaller than Cornelius, who I thought was a rather small budgie. His feathers are in poor shape. Some are clotted with dried granivore, others just frowsy. He smells like a mixture of granivore and bird poo. But I love him. He gives wonderful little nose kisses and adores, unusual for a budgie I think, having his right cheek rubbed. He even seems to like having his head rubbed. Gently of course. He's so small that one must be very gentle with him.
I am so glad to be leaving work. It's not the work. It's the sad animals I see. I'm sick of not being able to rescue everything - and of course I can't. It just hurts too much now . I am less tolerant in my old age than I used to be and cannot see why people don't really see their animals as beings, deserving of our highest regard and best effort to make their lives healthy and happy. Of course we have clients who adore their animals and go all out in their care and love for them. Unfortunately the vast majority seem to love them in a sort of remote way. They care for them, are fond of them but don't really see them as *people* in their own right. I suppose if they did they would become vegetarian. Thank goodness I don't eat meat. It is painful to watch all the commercials for chicken this and beef that and pork something else. It is akin to eating our siblings, a form of cannibalism made all the worse by our ignorance, and our failure to feel what these poor animals endure before we put them in our mouths.
For whatever reason, he doesn't eat at the clinic. I picked him some of those wild oats and he ate them but he's either running at the bottom of the cage or sitting quietly on his play perch. Quietly means not singing and for a budgie that's unusual behaviour. Cornelius sings all the time, even with his eyes closed when he's resting during the middle of the day.
Watching Tony today I notice that he's constantly eating and when he's not eating he's sleeping. He's had diarrhoea for weeks and his little bottom is featherless and scalded. I'm hopeful that, with a week of good eating and attention to hygiene as well as just having attention paid to him, he'll blossom. He's the loveliest little bird, affectionate and full of fun. Frankly, I don't want to return him to the clinic as it is just too busy with too many chiefs and not one reliable Indian. He's stuck in a lonely room and unless someone goes to the trouble of getting him out, sticking the 'Tony is Out' sign on the back door and closing all the doors to reception, which I don't think anyone but me does, he doesn't get a fly around. He's just there. It makes me weep, literally, when I think of this valiant little bird - and valiant is a word I've used to describe him before and it still is apt - living the life of a prisoner in solitary. I may not take him back unless specifically asked. He may become ours through default. At least I hope so. It's rather sneaky but I'm going to try it. His life and well-being is worth the aggravation. Besides, I retire in four weeks and I can ask that he be my retirement present.
Tony is significantly smaller than Cornelius, who I thought was a rather small budgie. His feathers are in poor shape. Some are clotted with dried granivore, others just frowsy. He smells like a mixture of granivore and bird poo. But I love him. He gives wonderful little nose kisses and adores, unusual for a budgie I think, having his right cheek rubbed. He even seems to like having his head rubbed. Gently of course. He's so small that one must be very gentle with him.
I am so glad to be leaving work. It's not the work. It's the sad animals I see. I'm sick of not being able to rescue everything - and of course I can't. It just hurts too much now . I am less tolerant in my old age than I used to be and cannot see why people don't really see their animals as beings, deserving of our highest regard and best effort to make their lives healthy and happy. Of course we have clients who adore their animals and go all out in their care and love for them. Unfortunately the vast majority seem to love them in a sort of remote way. They care for them, are fond of them but don't really see them as *people* in their own right. I suppose if they did they would become vegetarian. Thank goodness I don't eat meat. It is painful to watch all the commercials for chicken this and beef that and pork something else. It is akin to eating our siblings, a form of cannibalism made all the worse by our ignorance, and our failure to feel what these poor animals endure before we put them in our mouths.
Tony
Tonyhas come home with me for a week. Tony is the clinic budgerigar, hand-raised by Karen, supposedly so that he could be adopted by M
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Started a blog then a cracking great thunderstorm came through and I lost it. Not that it matters. Only 5mm of rain but gunshot claps of thunder and some hail. The dogs were shivering and shaking with fear. I don't know whether it's better to reassure them and therefore confirm in their minds that something is indeed wrong or talk to them in a hail and hearty manner as if nothing untoward is happening. Even the horses came into the yards and raced around. There was a little hail, not much, just enough to make one worry about the possibility of more.
Retire in 5 weeks and have begun to put in train a project to keep the brain from freezing up. French. Yup, finally got the first 4 lessons on the ipod. Not paying $25 to download the pdf files to go with it but have found a good free site where I can get the basics. And oh, how my tiny little mind is overcome. It's frightening. My memory is complete faecal material. The first phrase, the very first phrase is je m'appelle (my name is). I listened to it on the ipod half a dozen times and could I remember it? No. This is very scary. I know I've got a case of menopausal mind wherein the short memory is so short it's actually gone in reverse but I didn't realise it was this bad. All the more reason to undertake this, for me, daunting task.
Some people have a natural facility to learn languages. I am not one of them. Even in high school, when all my brain cells were operating at maximum capacity (doesn't the death of brain cells begin at 25?), I had to struggle to scrape by in Spanish. Not that it matters. There will not be a test at the end of the semester. This is strictly for my own amusement. Still, it will be helpful to try and learn something new and will perhaps help me when I watch the French films on SBS. Of course I'll always read the subtitles.
Am thisclose to finishing latest drawing. I like it. It's got more drama in it than the previous one even though the previous one has subject matter which is more fantasy and should be the more striking of the two. I've no inkling what my next project will be. That I need one is obvious.
Books have palled of late. I have about 4 going and none of them grab me. I think I'm just using them to distract me from what's really going on. I continuously look elsewhere rather than at what's really bothering me. So do I know what's really bothering me? Yes, and it's the same old story so I'm not going to repeat it here.
I have had 2 days where Dimitri has dropped the peg in the bowl. Lucky accident but hey, who cares? Made a big fuss, gave him heaps of treats and left. I wonder if he'll remember and get the idea. I stopped propping the peg on the end of the bowl each time he moved it. Allowed him to sometimes throw it far away and started c/t-ing when it moved even a millimeter closer. Poor fellow. It was confusing for him as he'd throw, chew and hold it in his foot and I wouldn't click as it wasn't going any closer to the bowl. He's such a dear boy.
Jake is a bit of a lad. He's so fierce and protective of his 'nests'. He'll even chase me when he's out when he's in a particularly 'bad' mood. But he loves his 'flying bird' trips when he stands on a branch and I run him around the yard gently waving the stick up and down. He isn't flapping his wings yet but he will raise and lower them. He keeps his comb up and he does have this look in his eye that makes me think he is having fun. He never hesitates to climb on the stick even though he knows ultimately it will lead back to his cage.
I am being quite tough on him and not giving him his big feed of seed in the afternoon. Only a teaspoon. There are lots of pellets however. I am hoping he will 'crack' and finally deign to eat them. This bit of seed in the morning and lots in the afternoon isn't getting us any nearer to converting him.
Retire in 5 weeks and have begun to put in train a project to keep the brain from freezing up. French. Yup, finally got the first 4 lessons on the ipod. Not paying $25 to download the pdf files to go with it but have found a good free site where I can get the basics. And oh, how my tiny little mind is overcome. It's frightening. My memory is complete faecal material. The first phrase, the very first phrase is je m'appelle (my name is). I listened to it on the ipod half a dozen times and could I remember it? No. This is very scary. I know I've got a case of menopausal mind wherein the short memory is so short it's actually gone in reverse but I didn't realise it was this bad. All the more reason to undertake this, for me, daunting task.
Some people have a natural facility to learn languages. I am not one of them. Even in high school, when all my brain cells were operating at maximum capacity (doesn't the death of brain cells begin at 25?), I had to struggle to scrape by in Spanish. Not that it matters. There will not be a test at the end of the semester. This is strictly for my own amusement. Still, it will be helpful to try and learn something new and will perhaps help me when I watch the French films on SBS. Of course I'll always read the subtitles.
Am thisclose to finishing latest drawing. I like it. It's got more drama in it than the previous one even though the previous one has subject matter which is more fantasy and should be the more striking of the two. I've no inkling what my next project will be. That I need one is obvious.
Books have palled of late. I have about 4 going and none of them grab me. I think I'm just using them to distract me from what's really going on. I continuously look elsewhere rather than at what's really bothering me. So do I know what's really bothering me? Yes, and it's the same old story so I'm not going to repeat it here.
I have had 2 days where Dimitri has dropped the peg in the bowl. Lucky accident but hey, who cares? Made a big fuss, gave him heaps of treats and left. I wonder if he'll remember and get the idea. I stopped propping the peg on the end of the bowl each time he moved it. Allowed him to sometimes throw it far away and started c/t-ing when it moved even a millimeter closer. Poor fellow. It was confusing for him as he'd throw, chew and hold it in his foot and I wouldn't click as it wasn't going any closer to the bowl. He's such a dear boy.
Jake is a bit of a lad. He's so fierce and protective of his 'nests'. He'll even chase me when he's out when he's in a particularly 'bad' mood. But he loves his 'flying bird' trips when he stands on a branch and I run him around the yard gently waving the stick up and down. He isn't flapping his wings yet but he will raise and lower them. He keeps his comb up and he does have this look in his eye that makes me think he is having fun. He never hesitates to climb on the stick even though he knows ultimately it will lead back to his cage.
I am being quite tough on him and not giving him his big feed of seed in the afternoon. Only a teaspoon. There are lots of pellets however. I am hoping he will 'crack' and finally deign to eat them. This bit of seed in the morning and lots in the afternoon isn't getting us any nearer to converting him.
Five weeks before I'm out of a job. Getting that feeling, which I haven't experienced in many years, when you know a job is coming to an end and you start to mentally and emotionally remove yourself from it. I'm still working as hard as ever but must admit to relief that I don't care about the foibles and fancies of my co-workers or whether someone's dudded us or the future of the surgery. I do care about the animals and some of the people. I have met and worked with some terrific people but there's a lovely freedom in that feeling of not caring. It's shameful that I couldn't be so balanced and, well, weightless, in my feelings before.
Perhaps weightless is a strange word to choose but it describes non-attachment. Perhaps that's the whole point of Buddhism or Zen or any religion which seeks to remove ones focus on self - an impossible order for me in this lifetime I'm afraid. If I haven't got it at age 54 I'm not going to get it. Still, it's good to be reminded what is possible.
Perhaps weightless is a strange word to choose but it describes non-attachment. Perhaps that's the whole point of Buddhism or Zen or any religion which seeks to remove ones focus on self - an impossible order for me in this lifetime I'm afraid. If I haven't got it at age 54 I'm not going to get it. Still, it's good to be reminded what is possible.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Yesterday grey, soft and still with only the sibilant sound of raindrops sliding down foliage. Today hard, bright and loud with wind like a fist pounding trees into unnatural shapes. At least there is sunshine.
Was trying to be all lyrical and otherworldly - to see the world from a more romantic point of view and I am dropped to earth with a thud by not having the software needed to listen to Orla Wren, a collection of songs by Tui who I found on one of the blogs I follow. There is such a world of creativity out there. It gives me faith in the human species that we have the infinite capacity to create such beauty.
Which brings me to something else. For many years I've spoken of things, usually music but sometimes films or books, as being life-enhancing. You could say it's just another way of saying I like something. If I like it and feel better for having listened/read/watched it then it is nothing more than that. Yet I feel that my choice of phrase was instinctive and right. I heard on that looking at a beautiful scene (listening to Margaret Throsby's interview with ?) actually *lights up* a particular part of the brain. Ancient healing centers were often sited where the ambiance, the view was particularly beautiful. We are made more by partaking of beauty wherever we may find it. A previously dark part of the brain is illuminated by the power of beauty (is that phrase Truth is Beauty and Beauty is Truth really true then?).
By the same token I know, because I feel it, when something is not life-enhancing. I feel it in my gut. I feel it in an emotional biliousness, a swaying off center, a tilting toward the abyss. If I'm smart I pull back but sometimes the fascination with the forbidden leads me on. And I wish I hadn't for once imbibed, poison lingers like a dark toxin in the blood.
I want a life of beauty; to create it, to share it, to live it. It is my choice, I know. It is my choice to find the beauty in the ugly, a habit I am able to form with intent and focus. Surrounding myself with beautiful things, thinking beautiful thoughts (now that's a hard one, petty creature that I am), speaking seeing hearing thinking feeling only beauty.
Sometimes I have doubts, not comfortable within my own skin. At my age too. It has to do with sociability, rather my lack of it. I'll watch a chick flick and see the way the group of friends interact, that easy tolerance of their foibles and characters, that energy. The energy to keep up with one anothers lives as well as meeting up and connecting. I on the other hand prefer my own company. Parties are a trial, no worse, a tribulation. Before we go I dread them, once I arrive I'm plotting my escape. I wish I was otherwise. I would like that comfortable camaraderie, the light laughter and honest sharing of intimacies that only girlfriends can enjoy. Alas it is not so.
Just transferred a sick wallaby into G's car. Our neighbour found a wallaby sitting in the middle of the road with her muzzle nearly touching the blacktop. Brought her to us and I rang G as I know nothing about wallabies. She had a peculiar aroma (the wallaby, not G), was thin and had a joey in her pouch. When G saw her she asked that I ring P and get him to warm up some Hartmanns. It's babesia (tick fever). She should know as they probably have more experience and knowhow in looking after wallabies than anyone in Queensland.
Was trying to be all lyrical and otherworldly - to see the world from a more romantic point of view and I am dropped to earth with a thud by not having the software needed to listen to Orla Wren, a collection of songs by Tui who I found on one of the blogs I follow. There is such a world of creativity out there. It gives me faith in the human species that we have the infinite capacity to create such beauty.
Which brings me to something else. For many years I've spoken of things, usually music but sometimes films or books, as being life-enhancing. You could say it's just another way of saying I like something. If I like it and feel better for having listened/read/watched it then it is nothing more than that. Yet I feel that my choice of phrase was instinctive and right. I heard on that looking at a beautiful scene (listening to Margaret Throsby's interview with ?) actually *lights up* a particular part of the brain. Ancient healing centers were often sited where the ambiance, the view was particularly beautiful. We are made more by partaking of beauty wherever we may find it. A previously dark part of the brain is illuminated by the power of beauty (is that phrase Truth is Beauty and Beauty is Truth really true then?).
By the same token I know, because I feel it, when something is not life-enhancing. I feel it in my gut. I feel it in an emotional biliousness, a swaying off center, a tilting toward the abyss. If I'm smart I pull back but sometimes the fascination with the forbidden leads me on. And I wish I hadn't for once imbibed, poison lingers like a dark toxin in the blood.
I want a life of beauty; to create it, to share it, to live it. It is my choice, I know. It is my choice to find the beauty in the ugly, a habit I am able to form with intent and focus. Surrounding myself with beautiful things, thinking beautiful thoughts (now that's a hard one, petty creature that I am), speaking seeing hearing thinking feeling only beauty.
Sometimes I have doubts, not comfortable within my own skin. At my age too. It has to do with sociability, rather my lack of it. I'll watch a chick flick and see the way the group of friends interact, that easy tolerance of their foibles and characters, that energy. The energy to keep up with one anothers lives as well as meeting up and connecting. I on the other hand prefer my own company. Parties are a trial, no worse, a tribulation. Before we go I dread them, once I arrive I'm plotting my escape. I wish I was otherwise. I would like that comfortable camaraderie, the light laughter and honest sharing of intimacies that only girlfriends can enjoy. Alas it is not so.
Just transferred a sick wallaby into G's car. Our neighbour found a wallaby sitting in the middle of the road with her muzzle nearly touching the blacktop. Brought her to us and I rang G as I know nothing about wallabies. She had a peculiar aroma (the wallaby, not G), was thin and had a joey in her pouch. When G saw her she asked that I ring P and get him to warm up some Hartmanns. It's babesia (tick fever). She should know as they probably have more experience and knowhow in looking after wallabies than anyone in Queensland.
Yesterday was grey and silent and still save for the sibilant hissing of rain sliding down foliage and kissing my upturned face. Today is hard and bright and loud with hammer fists of wind battering the air while torturing trees into unnatural shapes. I'm hibernating inside with two shirts, a vest and ugh boots with thick socks.
It's funny really. Here I am trying to be a bit more oceanic - in the Jung sense of the word - in my writing at the same time as I am earthed, with a frustrating thud, by my inability to listen to music because I can't run Flash. Have found an interesting artist called Tui through one of the blogs I'm following. There's a website where I can listen to or download his music. Had a tantalizing taste with The Doll and the Fish so thought I'd seek out what else he has done - to buy if I could, but it seems he gives his work away.
It's funny really. Here I am trying to be a bit more oceanic - in the Jung sense of the word - in my writing at the same time as I am earthed, with a frustrating thud, by my inability to listen to music because I can't run Flash. Have found an interesting artist called Tui through one of the blogs I'm following. There's a website where I can listen to or download his music. Had a tantalizing taste with The Doll and the Fish so thought I'd seek out what else he has done - to buy if I could, but it seems he gives his work away.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
New computer. Have spent hours setting it up. It works fine but using Microsoft 7 is like treading in an alien landscape. Have just downloaded Mozilla/Firefox and feel at home again. Unfortunately I couldn't use my old keyboard. The fitting in back doesn't fit into this CPU. Have to remember that my old computer was six years old which is positively ancient. It was on its last legs methinks as everything was taking a long time to load or even to switch between windows. This new monitor is huge - and the stuff doesn't begin to fill up the empty space. Must get off temporarily and start doing the livestock rounds. Everyone's been a bit ignored by me today as I fiddled with the new bit of technology.
Had a dog shot with an arrow come in yesterday afternoon. Barely missed his spine. M said he could feel it grating along the ridges as he pulled it out. Installed a penrose drain, flushed like crazy, gave heaps of a/bs and are hoping for the best. The owner said he thought he knew who might have done it but as he has no proof, and our fingerprints are all over it, the perpetrator will go unpunished.
Well, best go and do some work rather than leave R to do it all by himself.
Had a dog shot with an arrow come in yesterday afternoon. Barely missed his spine. M said he could feel it grating along the ridges as he pulled it out. Installed a penrose drain, flushed like crazy, gave heaps of a/bs and are hoping for the best. The owner said he thought he knew who might have done it but as he has no proof, and our fingerprints are all over it, the perpetrator will go unpunished.
Well, best go and do some work rather than leave R to do it all by himself.
Have spent all afternoon setting up new Dell computer. I'm sure other people have no dramas with this. Part of the problem - and admittedly it has worked well, the computer that is, is using Windows 7. I am so used to having Mozilla/Firefox as my online browser and email software that Microsoft seems like a very alien land indeed.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Freya
We put Freya down day before yesterday. Freya didn't come up for breakfast but we didn't worry as there's so much grass about she's been occasionally filling up on that and only coming up for tea in the afternoon. R was feeding up and W, who was visiting, and I went down to help. He told me I'd better have a look at Freya as she wasn't eating. She was standing in the yard and it was obvious at a glance that she was unwell. She was very tucked up below her flanks. She was tossing her head occasionally and pinching her nostrils. Went up to the house for the stethoscope and thermometer. Her heartrate was 54 (she used to be around the 34, 36bpm) and her temperature was 38. I didn't count her respiration. It was obvious she was breathing shallowly, almost panting.
For the past several months she's been having some diarrhoea. Some days were worse than others but it was common to find some staining on her hocks. That day she had manure coating the underside of her tail and thick streaks running down her legs. Called the vets and N got on to H for me. She'd be out within the hour.
In the movies almost all funeral scenes are shot in the rain. Suppose rain and grey overcast skies contribute o the mood. This day was no exception. It was grey, the ceiling was low and it was drizzling. When I rang the vets I told N to tell H to bring the lethabarb. Somehow I knew it wasn't going to end well.
H arrived and we all trooped down to see Freya. H had done some reading and went through all the types of cancers, bowel, kidney, liver problems she might have. But when we walked into the stall I could smell it. It's a smell once experienced never forgotten. Blood in faeces. Freya had had a big squirt while we were at the house. I scooped some onto a leaf and smelled it and then held it up to H to smell. The blood was invisible to the eye but not the nose. That clinched it. H had brought blood tubes in case we wanted tests done. She'd brought Flunixil and a/b's in case we wanted to give it a few days while we waited for the results of the tests. But there was really no hope. What had been chronic was now acute.
It seemed while we'd been away that the pain had eased. I suspect, like many gastrointestinal problems, it came in waves. She had another huge squirt of manure. She wasn't bobbing her head or looking at her flanks but her nostrils were still pinched. I'd led her out of the rain and into a stall. She never budged.
Luckily Dakota has been used to being on his own. Because we shut her up to feed her the other horses would tire of hanging around and go off to feed. When we led Freya away Dakota was down the hill and out of sight. He never saw her. She never called out for him.
We decided to take her to the dam paddock. Unfortunately we have to be rational and do things in a way that allows the front end loader access. Poor girl, she was very weak. I don't know how long she'd been suffering. It could have been 23 hours if the sickness had started right after feeding her the night before or in the last 30 minutes. Anyway, the dear soul followed me without protest. We made a sad line trudging to and through the dam paddock. W came as did R. The vet was right behind Freya and I. When we came to the ridge Freya hesitated because she was so weak. She was even swaying a little behind but I urged her on and after a moments thought she negotiated her way downhill.
I am so grateful she stayed calm and unafraid. She flinched with the insertion of the catheter but otherwise stayed still while H injected the lethabarb and I kissed her eyes and told her how much I loved her. She fell almost immediately. Even though she twitched I think she was dead by the time she hit the ground. H listened for a heartbeat and there was none.
And so ended an 18 year acquaintance. Freya was not an affectionate horse like Drifter and Balthazar are. She wasn't mean, she wasn't even offish. She tolerated caresses and kisses but didn't solicit them. She stood like a stone while I groomed her (and we'd nearly got all the long winter hair off her - she was looking very pretty that day) or untangled her mane. She'd nicker for her food but not as a greeting. Even so, she was my first endurance horse and she was game, brave and full of spirit. She did everything I asked her too and more. I retired her when I suspected she was becoming unsound and even though nothing was definite it was possible, the vet from UQ said, that she had some navicular issues. So I rode her for a year and retired her for 17. Not too bad a life I think. She had a honeymoon with a cute red stallion and lived with him for a couple of months, had Dakota at 14 and was an excellent mother. She kept the other horses in line with looks and pinned ears. Rarely did she resort to biting or kicking but wasn't afraid to impose her will by violence if she had to. Otherwise she was a graceful doe-eyed feminine and very beautiful lady. She will be missed.
For the past several months she's been having some diarrhoea. Some days were worse than others but it was common to find some staining on her hocks. That day she had manure coating the underside of her tail and thick streaks running down her legs. Called the vets and N got on to H for me. She'd be out within the hour.
In the movies almost all funeral scenes are shot in the rain. Suppose rain and grey overcast skies contribute o the mood. This day was no exception. It was grey, the ceiling was low and it was drizzling. When I rang the vets I told N to tell H to bring the lethabarb. Somehow I knew it wasn't going to end well.
H arrived and we all trooped down to see Freya. H had done some reading and went through all the types of cancers, bowel, kidney, liver problems she might have. But when we walked into the stall I could smell it. It's a smell once experienced never forgotten. Blood in faeces. Freya had had a big squirt while we were at the house. I scooped some onto a leaf and smelled it and then held it up to H to smell. The blood was invisible to the eye but not the nose. That clinched it. H had brought blood tubes in case we wanted tests done. She'd brought Flunixil and a/b's in case we wanted to give it a few days while we waited for the results of the tests. But there was really no hope. What had been chronic was now acute.
It seemed while we'd been away that the pain had eased. I suspect, like many gastrointestinal problems, it came in waves. She had another huge squirt of manure. She wasn't bobbing her head or looking at her flanks but her nostrils were still pinched. I'd led her out of the rain and into a stall. She never budged.
Luckily Dakota has been used to being on his own. Because we shut her up to feed her the other horses would tire of hanging around and go off to feed. When we led Freya away Dakota was down the hill and out of sight. He never saw her. She never called out for him.
We decided to take her to the dam paddock. Unfortunately we have to be rational and do things in a way that allows the front end loader access. Poor girl, she was very weak. I don't know how long she'd been suffering. It could have been 23 hours if the sickness had started right after feeding her the night before or in the last 30 minutes. Anyway, the dear soul followed me without protest. We made a sad line trudging to and through the dam paddock. W came as did R. The vet was right behind Freya and I. When we came to the ridge Freya hesitated because she was so weak. She was even swaying a little behind but I urged her on and after a moments thought she negotiated her way downhill.
I am so grateful she stayed calm and unafraid. She flinched with the insertion of the catheter but otherwise stayed still while H injected the lethabarb and I kissed her eyes and told her how much I loved her. She fell almost immediately. Even though she twitched I think she was dead by the time she hit the ground. H listened for a heartbeat and there was none.
And so ended an 18 year acquaintance. Freya was not an affectionate horse like Drifter and Balthazar are. She wasn't mean, she wasn't even offish. She tolerated caresses and kisses but didn't solicit them. She stood like a stone while I groomed her (and we'd nearly got all the long winter hair off her - she was looking very pretty that day) or untangled her mane. She'd nicker for her food but not as a greeting. Even so, she was my first endurance horse and she was game, brave and full of spirit. She did everything I asked her too and more. I retired her when I suspected she was becoming unsound and even though nothing was definite it was possible, the vet from UQ said, that she had some navicular issues. So I rode her for a year and retired her for 17. Not too bad a life I think. She had a honeymoon with a cute red stallion and lived with him for a couple of months, had Dakota at 14 and was an excellent mother. She kept the other horses in line with looks and pinned ears. Rarely did she resort to biting or kicking but wasn't afraid to impose her will by violence if she had to. Otherwise she was a graceful doe-eyed feminine and very beautiful lady. She will be missed.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
The galahs love the green bindi eyes. Small flocks graze in the paddock and have every day for the past week. The bindi eye seeds must be at their most delectable. Our galahs love them too. As many as they eat it seems we'd have no bindi eyes left. Yet every year we have more than the previous one. They're just getting to the point where it is painful to pull them up as the hardening burrs stab ones fingers. I collect a bowlful for the birds on the verandah. The plants looks soft and feathery now but later on when they've dried and break free from the flattened brown disk they'll coat the bottom of ones shoes to the point in a solid mass of needles.
We are very concerned about Algernon. He has a possible broken leg. It is not weight bearing. He is dragging himself about with his beak and is loathe to move once he has landed. In the vain hope that he'll understand my intention I have put a cocky cage on top of Marvin's aviary. In it is a feed cup full of seed. I spoke to him at length yesterday about why he needed to climb into the cage and allow himself to be caught. Perhaps it won't work but there's no harm in trying. He really needs to have that leg seen to. Perhaps it can be pinned or splinted. There is no obvious wound on the outside, no obvious swelling but it might be broken up at the joint nearest the body. I suspect he had a close call of some sort for on the right side of his head are new sheathed blood feathers coming through. What caused it, I don't know.
W is coming tomorrow for a day or two. I am going to offer her this computer. Once my new one is up and running there is no need to keep this one as well. If she takes it, learns to use it, it would be an ideal way to keep in touch. If she doesn't take it, I'll keep the keyboard, the mouse and the monitor as spares and ditch the CPU.
Had a lovely moment with Jake this morning. He made his usual aggressive overtures when I put his pellets out (that is still a battle of wills as I refuse to succumb and give him seed in the morning and he, just as stubborn, refuses to eat pellets - I do give him perhaps a teaspoon of seed mixed with the pellets but that's only an appetizer, not the meal). Anyway, he was on his perch waiting for me to leave when I noticed him blinking and wiping his eye on his wing. When I peered closer I could see a cobweb across his eye. "Would you like me to get that for you?" I asked. He didn't answer but he remained still so I slowly reached up, luckily got the end of it which was about a quarter inch above his eye, and pulled it away. He didn't budge. I was so pleased. Shows a small degree of trust.
We've been up to Toowoomba to get a memory device so that I can save everything on this computer and transfer it to the new one. As usual I am hesitant about breaking it out of the box and giving it a go in case I have another IT wobbly.
The other night I decided I'd give the hated Ipod another go. It had been packed away in a safe (for it) corner of the furthest cupboard. I'd had such a problem with it that I was sorely tempted to stomp it to death. As a good newbie I went to the website for the beginners beginner instructions. It said to download the itunes software. I should backtrack a bit. The ipod instructions said to plug it into the computer. That it should charge (from blinking orange light to serene glowing green) in about 4 hours. Eight hours later it was still winking sly smug orange blips. Okay, take a deep breath, it'll be right in the end. When I downloaded itunes, taking over an hour to do so, the light glowed briefly green then reverted to orange. Arrgh! And, to make matters unendurable, the itunes software at the very end said it had been incorrectly downloaded and must be done again.
I have not crushed the ipod under my disdainful heel. It sits on the desk in a tangle of white wires and wormy alien earpieces, waiting.
Am reading two books by John Updike; The Widows of Eastwick and a collection of short stories about the Maples, describing the marriage, divorce and grandparenthood of two people amazingly called...The Maples. The Eastwick story is a good story. The writing is fine but it doesn't hit me in the solar plexus like The Maples does. The writing doesn't intrude because it is so good but a part of me can't help but gasp - even as I race ahead with the story - at the beauty, observation and tightness of the writing.
Under the influence of Updike I walked to lunch as an observer of life rather than as a silent screen audience of my own thoughts. There was a man sitting on a wooden bench across from the entrance to Crazy Prices. He had on a forest green tee shirt which served to accentuate the soft tyre of fat around his belly. He was eating chips, completely engrossed in picking out an attractive one and then putting it to his lip. Would he only eat the most attractive fattest chips? Was he a connoisseur of mini fried potato girders? For a moment I wanted to walk over and gently poke his stomach, knowing my finger would disappear up o the second or third knuckle, and say perhaps you should lay off the fast food. I didn't of course.
When I returned the chip cup sat dead center of the bench. He was not a connoisseur after all. The cup was empty.
We are very concerned about Algernon. He has a possible broken leg. It is not weight bearing. He is dragging himself about with his beak and is loathe to move once he has landed. In the vain hope that he'll understand my intention I have put a cocky cage on top of Marvin's aviary. In it is a feed cup full of seed. I spoke to him at length yesterday about why he needed to climb into the cage and allow himself to be caught. Perhaps it won't work but there's no harm in trying. He really needs to have that leg seen to. Perhaps it can be pinned or splinted. There is no obvious wound on the outside, no obvious swelling but it might be broken up at the joint nearest the body. I suspect he had a close call of some sort for on the right side of his head are new sheathed blood feathers coming through. What caused it, I don't know.
W is coming tomorrow for a day or two. I am going to offer her this computer. Once my new one is up and running there is no need to keep this one as well. If she takes it, learns to use it, it would be an ideal way to keep in touch. If she doesn't take it, I'll keep the keyboard, the mouse and the monitor as spares and ditch the CPU.
Had a lovely moment with Jake this morning. He made his usual aggressive overtures when I put his pellets out (that is still a battle of wills as I refuse to succumb and give him seed in the morning and he, just as stubborn, refuses to eat pellets - I do give him perhaps a teaspoon of seed mixed with the pellets but that's only an appetizer, not the meal). Anyway, he was on his perch waiting for me to leave when I noticed him blinking and wiping his eye on his wing. When I peered closer I could see a cobweb across his eye. "Would you like me to get that for you?" I asked. He didn't answer but he remained still so I slowly reached up, luckily got the end of it which was about a quarter inch above his eye, and pulled it away. He didn't budge. I was so pleased. Shows a small degree of trust.
We've been up to Toowoomba to get a memory device so that I can save everything on this computer and transfer it to the new one. As usual I am hesitant about breaking it out of the box and giving it a go in case I have another IT wobbly.
The other night I decided I'd give the hated Ipod another go. It had been packed away in a safe (for it) corner of the furthest cupboard. I'd had such a problem with it that I was sorely tempted to stomp it to death. As a good newbie I went to the website for the beginners beginner instructions. It said to download the itunes software. I should backtrack a bit. The ipod instructions said to plug it into the computer. That it should charge (from blinking orange light to serene glowing green) in about 4 hours. Eight hours later it was still winking sly smug orange blips. Okay, take a deep breath, it'll be right in the end. When I downloaded itunes, taking over an hour to do so, the light glowed briefly green then reverted to orange. Arrgh! And, to make matters unendurable, the itunes software at the very end said it had been incorrectly downloaded and must be done again.
I have not crushed the ipod under my disdainful heel. It sits on the desk in a tangle of white wires and wormy alien earpieces, waiting.
Am reading two books by John Updike; The Widows of Eastwick and a collection of short stories about the Maples, describing the marriage, divorce and grandparenthood of two people amazingly called...The Maples. The Eastwick story is a good story. The writing is fine but it doesn't hit me in the solar plexus like The Maples does. The writing doesn't intrude because it is so good but a part of me can't help but gasp - even as I race ahead with the story - at the beauty, observation and tightness of the writing.
Under the influence of Updike I walked to lunch as an observer of life rather than as a silent screen audience of my own thoughts. There was a man sitting on a wooden bench across from the entrance to Crazy Prices. He had on a forest green tee shirt which served to accentuate the soft tyre of fat around his belly. He was eating chips, completely engrossed in picking out an attractive one and then putting it to his lip. Would he only eat the most attractive fattest chips? Was he a connoisseur of mini fried potato girders? For a moment I wanted to walk over and gently poke his stomach, knowing my finger would disappear up o the second or third knuckle, and say perhaps you should lay off the fast food. I didn't of course.
When I returned the chip cup sat dead center of the bench. He was not a connoisseur after all. The cup was empty.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Dream: I see a house. Within that house are small dark furred animals. Dogs? Raccoons? I am supposed to rescue them or something but have to come back later. I am driving down a dark highway. Beside the highway is a long shallow swale covered by a thick overarching hedge. I know there is a runaway who needs help. She has been living rough for weeks. I find her in the dark, lying on a filthy swag with her small dark dog or raccoon which we must leave behind. I need to get her to help. She has short dark hair and is wearing a pair of stained in the bottom cargo pants. She has sunk so low that she has fouled herself. I put a grey jacket surreptitiously on the passenger seat for her to sit on. She doesn't want to go to hospital. She wants to go to the beach. I say I will take her there but I know he has to get help. We are on a stretch of road I recognise from previous dreams. It is labeled 28th Street in the dream but it is not the 28th street of Grand Rapids. I always have trouble negotiating my way around this area; there is a cloverleaf and although I can see where I have to go, getting there is almost impossible for the road I choose leads me away instead of towards it. But I do get there and I recognise this place too. It is upstairs in a kind of mall. The entrance to the shop is off a balcony overlooking the first floor. It is nighttime and all the lights are on. It is an antique or 2nd hand shop run by Asians (Chinese? Thai?) There is always something interesting in this shop, made up of rooms leading off one another in a serpentine design. But I don't find anything I want to buy.
Then I am driving. Jack the cockatoo is in the car with me. He is his usual belligerent self. It is daylight now, a seaside sunshine. Even though I can't see the sea it feels like the beach. In front of the car are four cockatoos although as they stand one behind the other I have difficulty counting them. They have black tips to their feathers and so, I see, does Jack. Suddenly Jack drops all his defenses. It is wonderful, joyous, exhilarating. He allows me to love him. He trusts me. I am ecstatic.
R also had a dream last night. One of his violent dreams. The doctor said he probably suffers from post traumatic stress syndrome stemming from his days as a cop. Anyway, I heard him count, although he didn't enunciate the words, One! Two! Three! Four! and then in a frightened voice, "Who are you?" He was jerking, becoming quite agitated so as to avoid another session as we've had before when he's struck me or worse, once, when I awoke because he had his hand around my neck and was choking me, I woke him up. He didn't remember a thing this morning. I am intrigued by that fear in his voice and the question, "Who are you?" It would be interesting to know who he saw.
I have ordered a new computer this morning. $1400 (including 3 years hardware warranty). A Dell computer. I looked up the age of this one and it is almost 6 years old. It's been a good computer but it is starting to wind down. Programs take forever to load, it makes a grinding sound when it starts up. I don't like the fact that computers don't last for longer than they do. Recycling computers is a non-event around here and so contributes to landfill, poisoning of the ground, etc. Still, it is the age where a computer is a necessity...well, I suppose they aren't necessities but I've come to rely upon having one.
I told Jack about my dream this morning, my nose pressed against the mesh while he glowered from within. I even got teary recalling it, savouring the feeling of being able to love him and be accepted and trusted in return. Alas, my tears made no impression.
Then I am driving. Jack the cockatoo is in the car with me. He is his usual belligerent self. It is daylight now, a seaside sunshine. Even though I can't see the sea it feels like the beach. In front of the car are four cockatoos although as they stand one behind the other I have difficulty counting them. They have black tips to their feathers and so, I see, does Jack. Suddenly Jack drops all his defenses. It is wonderful, joyous, exhilarating. He allows me to love him. He trusts me. I am ecstatic.
R also had a dream last night. One of his violent dreams. The doctor said he probably suffers from post traumatic stress syndrome stemming from his days as a cop. Anyway, I heard him count, although he didn't enunciate the words, One! Two! Three! Four! and then in a frightened voice, "Who are you?" He was jerking, becoming quite agitated so as to avoid another session as we've had before when he's struck me or worse, once, when I awoke because he had his hand around my neck and was choking me, I woke him up. He didn't remember a thing this morning. I am intrigued by that fear in his voice and the question, "Who are you?" It would be interesting to know who he saw.
I have ordered a new computer this morning. $1400 (including 3 years hardware warranty). A Dell computer. I looked up the age of this one and it is almost 6 years old. It's been a good computer but it is starting to wind down. Programs take forever to load, it makes a grinding sound when it starts up. I don't like the fact that computers don't last for longer than they do. Recycling computers is a non-event around here and so contributes to landfill, poisoning of the ground, etc. Still, it is the age where a computer is a necessity...well, I suppose they aren't necessities but I've come to rely upon having one.
I told Jack about my dream this morning, my nose pressed against the mesh while he glowered from within. I even got teary recalling it, savouring the feeling of being able to love him and be accepted and trusted in return. Alas, my tears made no impression.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Suki the Beloved
We have a new family member; Suki (Japanese for beloved), a baby scaly breasted lorikeet. He came into work on Monday. Unfortunately he's a runner. Fortunately someone found him. He was the most terrified lorikeet I've ever seen, even more terrified than adults that have been brought in. I caught him in a hand towel to feed him and transfer him to a cage and he got me. Boy, did he bite and hang on. Took all my willpower not to shake him off or try and pry him loose. When I tried to feed him with a syringe he would go backwards so far he was hanging beneath the perch. He'd scream as soon as someone came in the room even with the cage mostly covered (had to keep him in the kennel room as if he is infected with PBFD he can't share the same air space with Tony).
N forgot to ring a carer and then when a carer did come on Tuesday to pick up a possum N forgot Suki was there. Lucky for me. I was a little concerned about his behaviour as he would hang upside down from the cage top then turn his body through his legs as though his leg joints were double jointed. He was such a pretzel. I'd never seen any bird do that and wondered if there was something neurological going on as well as the possible PBFD (PBFD signs in greenies can also be poor nutrition. When I had a chance to feel his keel bone he was rather thin).
By Wednesday I decided he would come home with me. Today is Saturday. He has gone from this wild-eyed screaming bundle of terror to a tame, semi-cuddly little friend. He fell asleep in my lap yesterday half wrapped in my sweatshirt. Today I got him out twice and although when we are outside I am nervous about him taking a sudden flying leap and don't keep him out long, inside the house he is quite content to sit on my arm. I've put him on coccivet as he wasn't eating very well; half a ml here, a quarter of a ml there. Not nearly enough. Today the medication finally kicked in and he is eating 2 to 4 mls at a time.
He is a typical greenie, that bright spring green with blue green feathering (wonder if it would glow under a black light) on the crown of his head. His breast is flecked with yellow feathers. The first few days he was still dropping flight feathers (all his tail feathers were already missing) but that has stopped. He has a dark brown beak and very brown, very baby eyes.
At night he lives in the spare room. During the day he hangs on the deck. We've made a little igloo type house out of cardboard for him which he uses. Eventually, when Felicity goes to P & Gs for flight training, and if he grows his feathers back, he can move in with Byron. In the reading I've done the jury seems to be out whether juvenile sufferers of PBFD are carriers when they are adult. Also, it appears that once a lorikeet has reached adulthood they don't seem to succumb to the virus.
I've written to the bird click blog as I am stuck with Dimitri and the retrieve. I inadvertently click just as he's picked up the peg and flung it out of the bowl and getting him to return the peg to the bowl just isn’t working. When he touches it he always seems to push it further away.
N forgot to ring a carer and then when a carer did come on Tuesday to pick up a possum N forgot Suki was there. Lucky for me. I was a little concerned about his behaviour as he would hang upside down from the cage top then turn his body through his legs as though his leg joints were double jointed. He was such a pretzel. I'd never seen any bird do that and wondered if there was something neurological going on as well as the possible PBFD (PBFD signs in greenies can also be poor nutrition. When I had a chance to feel his keel bone he was rather thin).
By Wednesday I decided he would come home with me. Today is Saturday. He has gone from this wild-eyed screaming bundle of terror to a tame, semi-cuddly little friend. He fell asleep in my lap yesterday half wrapped in my sweatshirt. Today I got him out twice and although when we are outside I am nervous about him taking a sudden flying leap and don't keep him out long, inside the house he is quite content to sit on my arm. I've put him on coccivet as he wasn't eating very well; half a ml here, a quarter of a ml there. Not nearly enough. Today the medication finally kicked in and he is eating 2 to 4 mls at a time.
He is a typical greenie, that bright spring green with blue green feathering (wonder if it would glow under a black light) on the crown of his head. His breast is flecked with yellow feathers. The first few days he was still dropping flight feathers (all his tail feathers were already missing) but that has stopped. He has a dark brown beak and very brown, very baby eyes.
At night he lives in the spare room. During the day he hangs on the deck. We've made a little igloo type house out of cardboard for him which he uses. Eventually, when Felicity goes to P & Gs for flight training, and if he grows his feathers back, he can move in with Byron. In the reading I've done the jury seems to be out whether juvenile sufferers of PBFD are carriers when they are adult. Also, it appears that once a lorikeet has reached adulthood they don't seem to succumb to the virus.
I've written to the bird click blog as I am stuck with Dimitri and the retrieve. I inadvertently click just as he's picked up the peg and flung it out of the bowl and getting him to return the peg to the bowl just isn’t working. When he touches it he always seems to push it further away.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Hawk Attack
Had a near catastrophe yesterday afternoon. We opened the aviaries for the regular 'grazing of the galahs'. Marvin was in front of his aviary (he has to live separately as he beats up all the other galahs if he has the chance. His aviary is only 2 feet from the main galah aviary so although he can see he can't 'rough'). Fern and Obama were out and were in the little alley between the aviaries. Jack was also out. Luckily I was still nearby, removing empty veggie kebabs, food and water. Suddenly a hawk attacked a bar-shouldered dove in the alley. The dove crashed to the ground in a cloud of feathers while the hawk shot back into the sky. If I'd jumped I'd have been able to touch him. The birds screamed and climbed the aviary wire. R and I herded the birds back into their aviaries and then caught the dove. It had been ripped open from throat to under the wing exposing what shouldn't be exposed. I had several looks at it, weighing up whether this bird could be saved but each time I peeked it looked just too extensive. R put the dove down. It so easily could have been Fern or Obama. They were inches from the dove.
Now I am nervous about letting the birds out. They tend to separate. Obama and Fern go one way, Grevillea and Casuarina another. Marvin mostly sticks with me. Jack, being a large white cockatoo, would not tempt a little kestrel or goshawk but even he would be at risk from a kite or eagle. I wasn't game to let them out so picked them bindi-eyes instead. I know I'll let them out again. I guess it's just a reminder not to be as lax as I've been. I've been quite content for the birds to wander off into the paddock. I can see them but I'm not right there with them. This has to stop. If they're out they must be guarded. I must be vigilant - not just with my ears as I've always taken note of warning calls but with my eyes as well.
Dream: I am driving into town at night coming around the curve near Primac. I have been smoking dope and am wary of being pulled over by the police. No one is about. I am going to the surgery to pick up sympathy cards. I haven't had time to write them at work so I'll take them home and do them where there are no interruptions. (this part is true, I haven't had time to send out 8 sympathy cards for deceased pets). The surgery is different. It's a house but a house set down from the road. M and A are peering out. There have been rowdy groups of youths on the street. They are keeping quiet, the lights are off. A lets me in. M is in a bare white room. The surgery as I know it doesn't exist, it is just this strange cold little sunken house. I leave (with the cards?) and start to walk back up the road, around the curve to where I've left the car. It is quiet and lit by moonlight. Suddenly Drifter is with me. M said that with the cancer he has he'll only live three more years (Drifter is cancer free). Drifter is more like a hairy friend than a horse. I am grateful for his warmth and proximity. He gives me a slobbery grass-scented kiss on the lips. I wake up.
Retrieving session with Dimitri this morning. He was on alert too much to do very well. It was okay but his mind and attention were elsewhere. That is one problem with doing it on the verandah; every alarm call, every unidentified noise and rustle is heard and noted by the birds.
Jack is almost back to his normal self. A couple of days ago, when Algernon had returned for a 2 day visit after missing for 10 (Nidji has been missing for 2 days now) Jack was very territorial. Whether it was that or some other reason, Jack was in a foul attacking mood. Very aggressive, very touchy. So we just leave him alone. You can't convince him otherwise so it's best not to put yourself or him in a position where you've got to defend yourself. Just causes disharmony.
One morning I let Jack out so that I could get his food in. He trundled around beneath the gazebo, walked completely around the aviaries and then, perhaps because I was busy getting food and was ignoring him, he decided to charge. I could only retreat (which is not good but what other option is there when there is no warning?). Jack is more interesting and, despite his curmudgeonly behaviour, more lovable than ever.
Now I am nervous about letting the birds out. They tend to separate. Obama and Fern go one way, Grevillea and Casuarina another. Marvin mostly sticks with me. Jack, being a large white cockatoo, would not tempt a little kestrel or goshawk but even he would be at risk from a kite or eagle. I wasn't game to let them out so picked them bindi-eyes instead. I know I'll let them out again. I guess it's just a reminder not to be as lax as I've been. I've been quite content for the birds to wander off into the paddock. I can see them but I'm not right there with them. This has to stop. If they're out they must be guarded. I must be vigilant - not just with my ears as I've always taken note of warning calls but with my eyes as well.
Dream: I am driving into town at night coming around the curve near Primac. I have been smoking dope and am wary of being pulled over by the police. No one is about. I am going to the surgery to pick up sympathy cards. I haven't had time to write them at work so I'll take them home and do them where there are no interruptions. (this part is true, I haven't had time to send out 8 sympathy cards for deceased pets). The surgery is different. It's a house but a house set down from the road. M and A are peering out. There have been rowdy groups of youths on the street. They are keeping quiet, the lights are off. A lets me in. M is in a bare white room. The surgery as I know it doesn't exist, it is just this strange cold little sunken house. I leave (with the cards?) and start to walk back up the road, around the curve to where I've left the car. It is quiet and lit by moonlight. Suddenly Drifter is with me. M said that with the cancer he has he'll only live three more years (Drifter is cancer free). Drifter is more like a hairy friend than a horse. I am grateful for his warmth and proximity. He gives me a slobbery grass-scented kiss on the lips. I wake up.
Retrieving session with Dimitri this morning. He was on alert too much to do very well. It was okay but his mind and attention were elsewhere. That is one problem with doing it on the verandah; every alarm call, every unidentified noise and rustle is heard and noted by the birds.
Jack is almost back to his normal self. A couple of days ago, when Algernon had returned for a 2 day visit after missing for 10 (Nidji has been missing for 2 days now) Jack was very territorial. Whether it was that or some other reason, Jack was in a foul attacking mood. Very aggressive, very touchy. So we just leave him alone. You can't convince him otherwise so it's best not to put yourself or him in a position where you've got to defend yourself. Just causes disharmony.
One morning I let Jack out so that I could get his food in. He trundled around beneath the gazebo, walked completely around the aviaries and then, perhaps because I was busy getting food and was ignoring him, he decided to charge. I could only retreat (which is not good but what other option is there when there is no warning?). Jack is more interesting and, despite his curmudgeonly behaviour, more lovable than ever.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Why is it I sleep well on days off and badly on days I've worked? I'm tired enough. I hit the pillow and think sweet oblivion will wrap me in slumber. I can feel it happening; the thoughts that are like flights of birds, birds that are without a compass and dive and sweep just for the sheer enjoyment. Then suddenly, without reason, I am yanked back into every day alertness and sleep has disappeared over some far horizon.
I stuck it out for an hour then decided to get up and do yoga. After forty minutes I was relaxed with that nice unobtrusive tingle which comes from yoga and still sleep eluded me. When I awoke it was nearly seven and the day felt like it had started for the train without me. I still feel that way. I've done the housework and the big push to get through the verandah (birds can do a lot of pooping in two days and that pooping takes alot of hands and knees scrubbing!) but I am without energy and have a tangible lassitude in my thinking, like cheesecloth makes a curtain between what I am capable of thinking and what I actually am thinking.
Had a great session with Dimitri on Sunday. We've just been working on targeting with him taking seeed from a small coop cup (he's so clever. I used to fill the coop cup but before taking it away he'd take a huge mouthfull of seed which would take minutes to eat. Now I use a shallow layer and he has to be content with a few seeds at a time). Anyway, we'd been working on that for awhile and I decided to try the retrieve again. I'm back chaining which means I put the wooden peg into the bowl and try and click when he picks it upand and drops it back in. He doesn't understand yet but just the fact that I wasn't clicking for when he dropped it out of the bowl and there was so much activity going on with clicks and treats and hands and movement he got quite (for him) blase with the exercise. I was very proud of him.
Even today while I was on hands and knees scrubbing the floor and he was in his 'penthouse' (a narrow 3' tall ex-compost bin with light and entrance holes cut in the sides with a ladder leading to a cocky cage with an entrance hole cut out the bottom) he didn't mind me being so close. He even preened himself! (His penthouse, now that he's learned to use it, has been very nice for him. He's up high and can see out and about yet he cannot fall and hurt himself. He had high perches before but if he got a fright he'd attempt to fly and would of course crash to the ground so this creation of R's has been a nice safe compromise).
There's a little budgie at work, handraised by K from the featherless stage. He's called Tony and is now old enough to fly. I was thinking about him on the way home the other day. I don't think his life at the vet surgery is ideal as he can get lost in the busy-ness of the day and not get time out for flying and one on one attention. Tonys valiant forgiving little heart brought tears to my eyes. Here's this bird, one of tens of thousands baby budgies bred and sold every day, often not regarded as more than a passing fancy, who is so sweet, so smart and so much a big BIG being it seems criminal the he and others like him are not lauded and loved more than they are. I know there are exceptions, many exceptions but they are out-numbered by the 'it's just a budgie' majority. But Tony is not 'just a budgie'. Neither is Cornelius. They are truly incredible creatures. I've love to 'rescue' Tony but of course I can't - and his life isn't bad. He's fed and watered. I brought him tree branches and showed how his cage could be lined with multiple papers on TOP of the wires so that a set could be removed each day and he would always have a sort of clean cage (budgies fossick on the ground like galahs and cockatiels). Still, for the most part he lives in the windowless tea room and only gets attention when someone has time - and in a busy vet surgery there isn't much.
I stuck it out for an hour then decided to get up and do yoga. After forty minutes I was relaxed with that nice unobtrusive tingle which comes from yoga and still sleep eluded me. When I awoke it was nearly seven and the day felt like it had started for the train without me. I still feel that way. I've done the housework and the big push to get through the verandah (birds can do a lot of pooping in two days and that pooping takes alot of hands and knees scrubbing!) but I am without energy and have a tangible lassitude in my thinking, like cheesecloth makes a curtain between what I am capable of thinking and what I actually am thinking.
Had a great session with Dimitri on Sunday. We've just been working on targeting with him taking seeed from a small coop cup (he's so clever. I used to fill the coop cup but before taking it away he'd take a huge mouthfull of seed which would take minutes to eat. Now I use a shallow layer and he has to be content with a few seeds at a time). Anyway, we'd been working on that for awhile and I decided to try the retrieve again. I'm back chaining which means I put the wooden peg into the bowl and try and click when he picks it upand and drops it back in. He doesn't understand yet but just the fact that I wasn't clicking for when he dropped it out of the bowl and there was so much activity going on with clicks and treats and hands and movement he got quite (for him) blase with the exercise. I was very proud of him.
Even today while I was on hands and knees scrubbing the floor and he was in his 'penthouse' (a narrow 3' tall ex-compost bin with light and entrance holes cut in the sides with a ladder leading to a cocky cage with an entrance hole cut out the bottom) he didn't mind me being so close. He even preened himself! (His penthouse, now that he's learned to use it, has been very nice for him. He's up high and can see out and about yet he cannot fall and hurt himself. He had high perches before but if he got a fright he'd attempt to fly and would of course crash to the ground so this creation of R's has been a nice safe compromise).
There's a little budgie at work, handraised by K from the featherless stage. He's called Tony and is now old enough to fly. I was thinking about him on the way home the other day. I don't think his life at the vet surgery is ideal as he can get lost in the busy-ness of the day and not get time out for flying and one on one attention. Tonys valiant forgiving little heart brought tears to my eyes. Here's this bird, one of tens of thousands baby budgies bred and sold every day, often not regarded as more than a passing fancy, who is so sweet, so smart and so much a big BIG being it seems criminal the he and others like him are not lauded and loved more than they are. I know there are exceptions, many exceptions but they are out-numbered by the 'it's just a budgie' majority. But Tony is not 'just a budgie'. Neither is Cornelius. They are truly incredible creatures. I've love to 'rescue' Tony but of course I can't - and his life isn't bad. He's fed and watered. I brought him tree branches and showed how his cage could be lined with multiple papers on TOP of the wires so that a set could be removed each day and he would always have a sort of clean cage (budgies fossick on the ground like galahs and cockatiels). Still, for the most part he lives in the windowless tea room and only gets attention when someone has time - and in a busy vet surgery there isn't much.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
dreams again
Dream: I am an observer for the first part of the dream. A tv journalist is reporting about the meat we eat. There is a huge elongated carcass hanging upside down, skinned and raw. It is divided into various cuts by diagrams so that we can see what we are eating. Behind and to the side is a woman, about 8 feet tall, thin and garbed in a orange and cream patterned skin suit. She is dark skinned and exotic with accentuated cheekbones and a long, kind of alien shaped head. She appears impervious to the fact that she will shortly be slaughtered. This, the reporter says, is tomorrows meat. Suddenly he realises what he is saying, what he is seeing and starts to cry. I think to myself, didn't you know? Where did you think the meat came from. The solution is simple, stop eating meat. The journalist quotes something, ta da ta da ta da tada TA DA! I don't remember it now nor do I remember who said or wrote it. It was apropos of the situation, the meat eating situation.
I am late for a flight. I have been living or staying in a two story house but my things are at another house, a duplication of the house I've been living in. When I go there however I see it is very different even though the houses were built at the same time and are the same age. The house I've been living in has been renovated. It's clean and has new aluminum window frames. I am shocked when I go into the other house. There is a kind grey haired woman living there but she is a bit vague and a terrible housekeeper. The house smells acrid. The carpet is worn and hasn't seen a vacuum in months, dirt and debris impregnate every last centimeter. There is clutter everywhere. The windows are different too. They are larger, longer and wood framed. I can't understand why this house is so filthy yet the woman is so nice. Then I am joining a queue waiting to check in for my flight. The queue meanders outside and down some steps. I'm last in line.
Deciphering the meaning? It's easy to see where some of the influences of the day were used in the dream decor; the carcass, the colouring of the skin suit, the houses but that's just window dressing for the meaning. I've no clue as to the meaning of the meat dream. The two houses dream seems a little easier. I believe the houses represent me, my inner life, my outer life. My outer life, represented by the renovated house, is sort of under control. The inner life, where I keep 'my things' is a mess; airless, filthy and cluttered. But the kind albeit vague grey-haired woman lives there. Me. Or some poor version of me who is stumbling along as best she can under the circumstances of neglect. The windows are a clue. They're old but they're bigger, longer. I don't remember what the view was from either house. Not sure how I can act upon this dream. Do know I need to keep a notebook again but as Natalia is sleeping with me (all 3 cats on the bed now), no pen is safe. She plays with anything that's not tied down.
I am late for a flight. I have been living or staying in a two story house but my things are at another house, a duplication of the house I've been living in. When I go there however I see it is very different even though the houses were built at the same time and are the same age. The house I've been living in has been renovated. It's clean and has new aluminum window frames. I am shocked when I go into the other house. There is a kind grey haired woman living there but she is a bit vague and a terrible housekeeper. The house smells acrid. The carpet is worn and hasn't seen a vacuum in months, dirt and debris impregnate every last centimeter. There is clutter everywhere. The windows are different too. They are larger, longer and wood framed. I can't understand why this house is so filthy yet the woman is so nice. Then I am joining a queue waiting to check in for my flight. The queue meanders outside and down some steps. I'm last in line.
Deciphering the meaning? It's easy to see where some of the influences of the day were used in the dream decor; the carcass, the colouring of the skin suit, the houses but that's just window dressing for the meaning. I've no clue as to the meaning of the meat dream. The two houses dream seems a little easier. I believe the houses represent me, my inner life, my outer life. My outer life, represented by the renovated house, is sort of under control. The inner life, where I keep 'my things' is a mess; airless, filthy and cluttered. But the kind albeit vague grey-haired woman lives there. Me. Or some poor version of me who is stumbling along as best she can under the circumstances of neglect. The windows are a clue. They're old but they're bigger, longer. I don't remember what the view was from either house. Not sure how I can act upon this dream. Do know I need to keep a notebook again but as Natalia is sleeping with me (all 3 cats on the bed now), no pen is safe. She plays with anything that's not tied down.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
4.9.10. Interesting night. Falling asleep I was aware of falling down/through/toward something. It is difficult to describe for I kept my *conscious* awareness at the same time as I was *falling* asleep. Yet there was the definite knowing that was aware of passing through/down/toward levels of consciousness that was connected to, at the same time as separate from, everyday consciousness. It was quite exciting.
Next day. Raining, raining, raining. Matisse, the Siamese and Radar, the whippet both have ringworm. My case has just cleared up. Not sure whether Natalia brought it into the house or I picked up from work and brought it home. Richard has it too. Not a big deal but annoying. Trying to treat Matisse is like trying to saddle an angry wasp. He's got two spots, one on each ear. I have to shut him in the bathroom with me and then scruff him to get it on.
We have two sick galahs hanging around. I wish we had some invention that could catch them from trees and telephone wires without harm. There is another galah with what I suspect is a broken pelvis. It looks all right otherwise and still seems to be in good condition. It can only move with difficulty and instead of standing on its legs it props on its keel. The other two are not in good condition.. There is one sitting on the wires in the rain, eyes closed, head drooping. By the time we are able to catch them they are usually too far gone to save.
The most bizarre galah death we ever witnessed took place in the big silky oak growing out of the old veggie garden. There was a galah near the top who caught our interest by its strange behaviour, flapping and jerking, and vocalizations. Suddenly it gave the most hair raising scream and fell from the tree. It didn't flutter on the way down. I think it was already dead. There wasn't a mark on it and it was in good condition.
Next day. Raining, raining, raining. Matisse, the Siamese and Radar, the whippet both have ringworm. My case has just cleared up. Not sure whether Natalia brought it into the house or I picked up from work and brought it home. Richard has it too. Not a big deal but annoying. Trying to treat Matisse is like trying to saddle an angry wasp. He's got two spots, one on each ear. I have to shut him in the bathroom with me and then scruff him to get it on.
We have two sick galahs hanging around. I wish we had some invention that could catch them from trees and telephone wires without harm. There is another galah with what I suspect is a broken pelvis. It looks all right otherwise and still seems to be in good condition. It can only move with difficulty and instead of standing on its legs it props on its keel. The other two are not in good condition.. There is one sitting on the wires in the rain, eyes closed, head drooping. By the time we are able to catch them they are usually too far gone to save.
The most bizarre galah death we ever witnessed took place in the big silky oak growing out of the old veggie garden. There was a galah near the top who caught our interest by its strange behaviour, flapping and jerking, and vocalizations. Suddenly it gave the most hair raising scream and fell from the tree. It didn't flutter on the way down. I think it was already dead. There wasn't a mark on it and it was in good condition.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Thursday afternoon. Dimitri doesn't want to play. Too nervous about dogs, with sleigh bells ringing on their collars, and birds shouting hawk alarms. Have dishes to do but decided I'd listen to a new cheap ($2) CD I bought at Crazy's while I write just to write. The CD I use for yoga, all north American bird song (just love those red-winged blackbirds!) with voice and harp I found at Crazy's. It was such a joyful surprise that I keep hoping to repeat it. This one is Peace of Mind by Current.
Had a dream night before last in which my backyard had grown lush with unmown grass, dark green, moist and thick. I watched in delight as rabbits started to appear in the deepening dusk. They made a beeline for the grass and came in such numbers they were crammed in shoulder to shoulder, whisker to whisker. From my vantage point their bodies formed a teardrop, the large end towards me. Then an elderly grey whiskered terrier type dogs sauntered through from left to right scattering rabbits. I knew he would not harm them and indeed, they immediately started to filter back to feed on the grass.
Shorts again today. Well and truly into spring. Even for the computer. Took the side off the CPU because it was starting to overheat again. A much happier computer now.
Watched The Living Matrix that P had lent me. Had quite forgotten I had it but wanted something to watch besides Dr. Phil or a made for TV movie and scanned the pile of DVDs. R came in halfway through and was intrigued enough to watch the rest of it with me. He says he'll watch the first half later. I'm glad he's interested. Basically it's mind over matter, how our thoughts influence our health. I so want him to feel well, to be well, to move without pain, to live long and happily. He said yesterday after spending so much time in a nursing home he would never go there. Neither will I. Die at home or in some accident, not in a hospital or 'aged care facility'. Even the name is without heart, without compassion. Old Persons Home has more love in it than Aged Care Facility. So, we will be on a quest to live long and healthy lives until we are quickly and painfully snuffed out at the end. Perhaps a death during sleep when the transition is so gentle one hardly knows one has left.
Oh, the miracle of life! How easily I forget what a miracle it is to be alive. In the billions that have come before me, lived their lives and died - now it is my turn to experience this creation. How little of it three score and ten can really live. It is a dust mote in the jet stream. There's not a moment to lose and I've lost so many. How can I trust myself and Life so that I live without fear to the fullness which this mind and body and heart are capable. How can I lose fear so that I can create beautiful things and leave something of beauty behind?
I glance through the art magazines at the newsagent and although there are paintings of beauty, so much of them are ugly. To look upon them every day would shrivel your heart. I would not want them in my home. Perhaps they have a *message* about the state of the world today but their message does not clarify or help to change it but only spreads the dis-ease. I can make mean-spirited ugly things, I can slash and dash on colours and draw monster faces with leering mouths and crazed eyes and slap them around some semblance of a head but what good does that do?
Like this music. The music of this person tells me more about them than any biography or photo would do. He could not create this music with the light and delicate touch if he was a heavy hearted stolid phlegmatic type. There is beauty and lightness in this person's soul.
This CD is quite good. Thought it would be all synthesizer and frou frou but it is mostly piano and has some heart. Actually alot of heart.
Had a dream night before last in which my backyard had grown lush with unmown grass, dark green, moist and thick. I watched in delight as rabbits started to appear in the deepening dusk. They made a beeline for the grass and came in such numbers they were crammed in shoulder to shoulder, whisker to whisker. From my vantage point their bodies formed a teardrop, the large end towards me. Then an elderly grey whiskered terrier type dogs sauntered through from left to right scattering rabbits. I knew he would not harm them and indeed, they immediately started to filter back to feed on the grass.
Shorts again today. Well and truly into spring. Even for the computer. Took the side off the CPU because it was starting to overheat again. A much happier computer now.
Watched The Living Matrix that P had lent me. Had quite forgotten I had it but wanted something to watch besides Dr. Phil or a made for TV movie and scanned the pile of DVDs. R came in halfway through and was intrigued enough to watch the rest of it with me. He says he'll watch the first half later. I'm glad he's interested. Basically it's mind over matter, how our thoughts influence our health. I so want him to feel well, to be well, to move without pain, to live long and happily. He said yesterday after spending so much time in a nursing home he would never go there. Neither will I. Die at home or in some accident, not in a hospital or 'aged care facility'. Even the name is without heart, without compassion. Old Persons Home has more love in it than Aged Care Facility. So, we will be on a quest to live long and healthy lives until we are quickly and painfully snuffed out at the end. Perhaps a death during sleep when the transition is so gentle one hardly knows one has left.
Oh, the miracle of life! How easily I forget what a miracle it is to be alive. In the billions that have come before me, lived their lives and died - now it is my turn to experience this creation. How little of it three score and ten can really live. It is a dust mote in the jet stream. There's not a moment to lose and I've lost so many. How can I trust myself and Life so that I live without fear to the fullness which this mind and body and heart are capable. How can I lose fear so that I can create beautiful things and leave something of beauty behind?
I glance through the art magazines at the newsagent and although there are paintings of beauty, so much of them are ugly. To look upon them every day would shrivel your heart. I would not want them in my home. Perhaps they have a *message* about the state of the world today but their message does not clarify or help to change it but only spreads the dis-ease. I can make mean-spirited ugly things, I can slash and dash on colours and draw monster faces with leering mouths and crazed eyes and slap them around some semblance of a head but what good does that do?
Like this music. The music of this person tells me more about them than any biography or photo would do. He could not create this music with the light and delicate touch if he was a heavy hearted stolid phlegmatic type. There is beauty and lightness in this person's soul.
This CD is quite good. Thought it would be all synthesizer and frou frou but it is mostly piano and has some heart. Actually alot of heart.
Friday, August 27, 2010
No More Title as They are Annoying
Finally remembered a dream, at least more of a dream than previously. I was in an urban area but it felt like the American southwest. An urban area but with the prow of a large grey ship jutting over ? There was a shop. The proprietor was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. His glory simply took my breath away. But he was very professional, very aloof. He showed me some totally inappropriate (for me) blouses. They were also sort of Indian/Southwest in style with flouncy bits around the loose neckline, cotton, pastel coloured. Nice blouses but just not me. Another woman came into the store and she had a lovely slim figure, was pert and nicely dressed. I felt frumpy, middle-aged and overweight in comparison. She seemed to click with him and I watched in frustration tinged with resentment while she chatted with this beautiful man who didn't seem to know I was alive. I remember going out on this 'ship's prow' in bright sunlight with the wind in my face and then going back into the store which was dark and rich and ornate. I glanced into one room and noted with surprise that it had rugs on the floor and was a meditation room. That made the beautiful man even more attractive. No, someone said or I somehow instinctively knew, it was a temple, a sort of mosque where Moslems would bow to Mecca.
The dream was vivid but mysterious. I don't know why I've remembered this one and no other. At least asking myself to remember my dream is starting to pay dividends. Having no remembrance of a dream life makes daytime life a little less rich.
Started the new drawing last night. Rather difficult as I had a determined little kitten trying to get on my lap. I'm writing this and clicking into a site to read about perspective. It seems straightforward enough reading about it but how does one decide where the extra vanishing points are. I get eye level and a vanishing point that is within the picture at the horizon line but getting that second (or third), which may be outside of the frame of the picture is a bit more problematical. I'm doing a loose copy of that castle as a background for the main feature, a floating dreamlike man. Well, that's the thumbnail sans castle. We'll see how it goes.
We're going to P and G's this afternoon hoping to see the wild cockatoos. R is so obsessed about the well-being of the long released Caruso it would be pure joy if he saw him today. P fed a wild cockatoo seed yesterday so G writes. Perhaps it's Caruso.
Jack is sunflower seed obsessed. I have been making sunflower and pellet rissoles for several weeks so that he would get the taste of the pellets and recognise them as food. No joy. He still refuses them. This morning I took Marvin in so he could demonstrate to Jack that pellets are edible. Jack was interested and even cracked a couple of pellets although he didn't eat them. Still, it's a start. I have removed all sunflowers from his seed mix. He's going to have to tough it out. He's not a happy bird this morning. I've asked R to pick up some shelled sunflower seeds. I plan to crush them with pellets, a half and half mixture so that he will get the taste of the pellets with the motivation of that lovely sunflower seed taste. The plan is then to reduce the amount of sunflower in the rissole until we're back to plain pellets. The problem is that pellet rissoles have a different look and texture from plain pellet. But we've got to try. He'll die of fatty liver disease if his diet isn't modified. By watching carefully I've come to realise that all Jack eats are the sunflower and safflower seeds - both with high oil content. Because he, we suspect, is an old bird, it is twice as hard to convert him than if he was a young bird. Even Dimitri, a wild caught corella, was easier to switch than Jack. Then of course there was Cambridge who never made the switch. He (she) lives with G and P and is on a seed mix with some vegetables. At least Jack will eat some vegetables; corn and apple. He isn't much chop on anything else.
Last night I dragged a comb through my hairbrush to clear it. Out came the strands which I rubbed between my palms to make them into a wad to throw away. I looked down at it and it was a mixture of brown and white hairs. It looked like a grizzled old man's chest hair. It just looked so odd and so not me. Is that what my hair is? If I was a man with a hairy chest that's what it would look like. Most of the time I go through the days and don't realise that I'm over half a century old then something innocuous will happen which brings it home. Life is short and fleeting and oh so swift!
I've come to the end of the blog for today and that blank title box waits. I've kept a journal for years without putting a title on each entry except for the date. The label box is okay for it is a good way to look up previous posts but this title void in just annoying. So I won't put one.
The dream was vivid but mysterious. I don't know why I've remembered this one and no other. At least asking myself to remember my dream is starting to pay dividends. Having no remembrance of a dream life makes daytime life a little less rich.
Started the new drawing last night. Rather difficult as I had a determined little kitten trying to get on my lap. I'm writing this and clicking into a site to read about perspective. It seems straightforward enough reading about it but how does one decide where the extra vanishing points are. I get eye level and a vanishing point that is within the picture at the horizon line but getting that second (or third), which may be outside of the frame of the picture is a bit more problematical. I'm doing a loose copy of that castle as a background for the main feature, a floating dreamlike man. Well, that's the thumbnail sans castle. We'll see how it goes.
We're going to P and G's this afternoon hoping to see the wild cockatoos. R is so obsessed about the well-being of the long released Caruso it would be pure joy if he saw him today. P fed a wild cockatoo seed yesterday so G writes. Perhaps it's Caruso.
Jack is sunflower seed obsessed. I have been making sunflower and pellet rissoles for several weeks so that he would get the taste of the pellets and recognise them as food. No joy. He still refuses them. This morning I took Marvin in so he could demonstrate to Jack that pellets are edible. Jack was interested and even cracked a couple of pellets although he didn't eat them. Still, it's a start. I have removed all sunflowers from his seed mix. He's going to have to tough it out. He's not a happy bird this morning. I've asked R to pick up some shelled sunflower seeds. I plan to crush them with pellets, a half and half mixture so that he will get the taste of the pellets with the motivation of that lovely sunflower seed taste. The plan is then to reduce the amount of sunflower in the rissole until we're back to plain pellets. The problem is that pellet rissoles have a different look and texture from plain pellet. But we've got to try. He'll die of fatty liver disease if his diet isn't modified. By watching carefully I've come to realise that all Jack eats are the sunflower and safflower seeds - both with high oil content. Because he, we suspect, is an old bird, it is twice as hard to convert him than if he was a young bird. Even Dimitri, a wild caught corella, was easier to switch than Jack. Then of course there was Cambridge who never made the switch. He (she) lives with G and P and is on a seed mix with some vegetables. At least Jack will eat some vegetables; corn and apple. He isn't much chop on anything else.
Last night I dragged a comb through my hairbrush to clear it. Out came the strands which I rubbed between my palms to make them into a wad to throw away. I looked down at it and it was a mixture of brown and white hairs. It looked like a grizzled old man's chest hair. It just looked so odd and so not me. Is that what my hair is? If I was a man with a hairy chest that's what it would look like. Most of the time I go through the days and don't realise that I'm over half a century old then something innocuous will happen which brings it home. Life is short and fleeting and oh so swift!
I've come to the end of the blog for today and that blank title box waits. I've kept a journal for years without putting a title on each entry except for the date. The label box is okay for it is a good way to look up previous posts but this title void in just annoying. So I won't put one.
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