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.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
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
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