Just came in from working with Balthazar at liberty in the paddock. Have been unable to work with him consistently because of rain and slop. Have a window of a few days before we get another onslaught of forecasted heavy rain. He mugged a little today but gave it up sooner, knowing despite the temptation of having the carrots RIGHT THERE, that he doesn't get any until he is away from me. Tried getting him to circle and he was but distracted too by the horses in the front paddock. Then, because I have trouble getting into a playful mood myself, I mixed it up with some turns on the hindquarter and backing. I want to reinforce him often for any attempt made, to get *me* out of 'this is work and we have to do well' mode. It was better at the end when we did a little of this and a little of that. I am happy because when I finished grooming him and let him go he galloped over to the fence where the horses were congregated. I stood in the middle of the paddock and called him. He took a few steps toward me. I took a few steps toward him. He took a few more. I took a few more. When he moved, I moved. When he stopped, I stopped. We met in the middle, I c/t'd him and then he followed me back away from the others and we began.

He only wants to circle clockwise and getting him to change direction and continue in that direction is something we'll need to work on but for now just to have him circle me is good. I suppose the more I work with him the more he'll realise it's a Good Thing and will be eager to have a go, perhaps to the point that he isn't so keen to be with the other horses. Granted, after he joined me, although he looked toward them he didn't leave me to go to them. I realise I need as much if not more work than Balthazar does. For instance, clucking. I clucked to get him to move and kept clucking, which he would naturally tune out. I would. So cluck once, c/t for a response or shut up and try again later.

Haven't ordered the trail rider boots yet. Was going to today until I saw on their website that I can only order online if I use PayPal which I don't use anymore. Will call them next week and order them, plus two pads to go on the front feet. I have to ride him sooner or later. Don't know when I became such a chicken but know that I'm procrastinating big time about riding him, despite cleaning the tack room and moving saddles, etc. back in it.

The Naked News

Confession time. I'd like to say that when I'm working on art I've got music playing, preferably Debussy, and am sitting at the easel table in creative contemplation. The reality is this. I'm sitting cross-legged on the couch with the Montmarte art board across my lap and the TV on. Therefore I am familiar, to my endless shame, with Daytime Television. In my defence, I must say I don't watch soap operas or game shows. Usually it's the midday movie and then Duestche Welle or Al Jazeera news. Occasionally there's a foreign film on SBS but as I have to watch it to read the subtitles I get little or no work done. Having said this, I did watch Entertainment Tonight recently, rather it was on and I didn't bother changing channels. Normally I don't watch it. It's kind of a scary show in that such a big deal is made of such small beans. Also, I don't know half of the people they talk about with so much glee. But it was on and I left it on. I was doing background on this latest drawing, lots of meditative filling in, when the words, 'naked news' interrupted my reverie. What? I looked up. Yup, apparently somewhere (or everywhere) in the US one can get access to the news delivered by naked women. Let me say this again, the newsreaders are naked. They are not sitting behind a desk but are standing in full view, as it were, delivering the news. What the calibre of the news is, I have no idea. Probably the viewers have no idea either.

I'm not a prude. Nakedness is not something to be ashamed of. The human body is beautiful. Some of my best friends are naked beneath their clothes. It's a personal choice. But Naked News? Are we so sated with sensation that the only way to take an interest in what is going on in the world is to have information delivered by naked women? Ah, the women. "Hi Mom, got a job in journalism. On television. Broadcasting. Front desk. I'll be naked but at least I've got a toe (or some part of my anatomy) in the door!"

I was a little young to take part in the feminist movement but I watched the news, delivered by men in suits. Lots of men in suits. Barbara Walters is the only female broadcaster I can recall (save for weather *girls*). What was it all for? Women appear to be more sexualized than ever judging by music videos, ad campaigns and the Cult of Celebrity. Watched Mona Lisa Smile with Julia Roberts the other night (ok, I watch too much TV). It was set at Wellesley College in 1953/54 when women really were the second sex. Robert's character, an art history teacher, was trying to wake up her pupils to the possibility of their own potential. Yesterday I saw a commercial advertising one of those hand held mixers. The commercial could have come straight from 1953. The actress was wearing something that was so similar to a twin set and pearls that if it was different I can't remember how. Even her hair and makeup were straight from the 50's. And she smiled so smugly, with a tinge of sexual satiation, at her phallic shaped kitchen gadget. I nearly gagged.

Then the other side of me says step back and take a look. For every reaction there has to be a reaction. Women do have more equality than before, they have clawed their way into positions of influence, whether it's in politics, the boardroom or the 6 o'clock news. So what if they equally get as drunk and foul mouthed as their male counterparts, fight and vomit in public and have as many one night stands? For every upside there is a down side. You see, I want the best of both. I don't want to be patronised by men yet I love it when a man opens the door for me. Long gone are the days when men would rise from their chairs when a woman entered the room. I don't expect those days to return for the trade-off would be too great yet I missed those days by a whisker. I would have enjoyed tasting both worlds; a world where men, by virtue of their greater size and strength, took protective roles that didn't reflect badly on my intellect (or lack of). If a man wanted to pull my chair out for me at dinner, great. Offer his arm while we walked, marvellous. Race around to open the car door for me, not so good. Unless my arm was in a cast. But with those idyllic scenes come visions of having to seek approval and permission on how I led my life. Guess I'd rather puke in public and know that somewhere there is a sad game played between naked female newsreaders and sadder voyeurs. Who is the most pitiable, the women who get paid to bare all or the men who feel a sense of leering superiority over women they can never touch?

More Art and a Dying Moth

Fickle creature. Am on to the next Big Thing. At least I am eternally optimistic that my next attempt at drawing will be better than the last. Finished the Parrot Looming Over Woman Dreaming in Red Armchair painting/drawing (is it a painting if paint is not used? This last is a combination of oil/chalk pastel, coloured and graphite pencil). Dropped the finished work into the somewhat bulging art folder along with all the other rejected unframed projects. Have given up on getting anything framed. Buy all these cheap frames with glass at the op shops then leap into a new drawing without measuring first to fit (in case it turns out okay). When I am at my most egotistical (and my most delirious) I have a vision that I'll be *discovered* after my death. Like a modern age Grandma Moses...yet I allow none of the grandkids to call me grandma (whole other post on this, by naming we define, by naming we make real. I will not be named Grandma. Vain, yes. Do I care? No).

So this next drawing was just an exercise to get down an idea I had for a larger piece. But I liked it so much that I've kept going. It's different enough from what I hope to do as a larger work that I won't feel I'm repeating myself. Have much admiration for artists who will do the same painting half a dozen times in an effort to get it right. Admiration that falls short of emulation. Just had a thought tho - stemming from yoga practice. I do the same routine (takes about an hour and 20 minutes) every day. Why does it not bore me? Because each time I am in the moment which is eternal and eternally different. It must follow that if I drew, for example, a brass vase every day for a year, those 365 drawings would be different because I would be different. And perhaps if I did draw that vase 365 times I would discover that it was not boring. One of those great many questions I'll never have an answer to.

There's a moth clinging to the screen in the loo. It's brown and tan, rather bland and nondescript, about the size of a 20 cent piece. I wouldn't have noticed it, as one ignores bland brown moths, except I was sitting there and it was clinging there. Then I saw its translucent wings were somewhat ratty with crenellated edges and of its six legs I could only count two. So this moth is on its way out. What goes on behind those dark unfathomable eyes? Is it aware that it's dying or does it only know great tiredness? Has it bred and therefore will live on in its descendants? Does it drink from the showy cactus flowers which bloom nightly and daily die? What adventures has it experienced under the black eternity of stars while we sit cocooned inside a wooden box mesmerized by a flickering blue glow? The wings have lost most of their *dust*. It has flown...miles? Following the pheronomes of a female or trailing scent like an insect Salome? Dodging predators, guided by what mysterious filaments of knowing that we, with our heavy corporeal intelligence, cannot even imagine. The Night is another dimension, another world. And this moth, holding with one leg to the dusty screen of a country house toilet, the day light shining through its dull brown wings, noticed by one small woman from a crowd of 7 billion, what of it. What of it, indeed?

Hadn't worked with Balthazar for two days as it was just too hot. Those two days off must have given him time to assimilate the non-mugging sessions. Played around for 20 minutes yesterday and he didn't attempt to mug once. The session wasn't a scintillating success other than the non-mugging but that's all right. He was a little distracted by the other horses, specifically Dakota who kept nickering. Fortunately or unfortunately, they have all done c/t so would like to have a play too.

Despite that there is much to work on. One of the things I am trying to instill is staying out on the circle. To do that he needs to move away from me when asked. He has to learn a cue, the cue being my upraised hands going towards him. Eventually that should be refined to a finger point. Also, he needs to learn to walk on, back up and trot. I was pleased to see him break into a trot after he'd done his usual reluctant trot which subsided into a walk. I didn't c/t so he broke into a trot again. That's the first time he's offered something. Anyway, although the session was a little lacklustre he didn't mug and that's a huge step.

I've noticed practicing yoga at home that music is starting to bother me. I've some quite lovely CD's; Eastern Meditation, harp and bird song mixed, summer storms complete with thunder and rain, all very soothing and conducive to a calm and meditative practice. I thought. At first I thought it was because I was in a 'mood' and music was just irritating. Now I think I've finally come to a point where the asanas and pranayama have to be done by themselves. The music is a distraction. Can hardly believe I have reached a point where I voluntarily jettison a distraction. I will do almost anything to avoid having to finish something. When I worked it was easy to multi-task. I could do this and this and this and on the way to completing this and this and this, do this and this as well. Very busy. Works well in the work environment when there's much to be done and little time to do it in but isn't as successful at home.

Two days since writing the above. Worked with Balthazar yesterday. Because I've been unsure about whether to use pressure, ie a cue, and then build upon that or just wait for him to do something I've been a bit stuck. Yesterday I decided to just let him be, give no cues and try and shape any forward movement. It wasn't very successful. He gazed at the cattle on the ridge, he gazed at the horses over the road, he gazed at everything but me. When he did take a step I'd c/t but it was a long time between drinks. I couldn't heavily reinforce forward movement because there wasn't even a weight shift.

I realise there is a break in the chain of communication. He looks to me for orders and so hasn't learned to offer anything yet. Despite the treats, it's not a game for two yet. To try something different I decided to take the halter off to see what he did. That was more successful. He'd start to walk away toward the yards where the other horses were then decide that treats lay in the other direction, with me. He circled (using the word loosely, it was more a trapezoid) around me and was c/t'd like mad. Unfortunately he did try and mug a bit. Thought we were past that but guess not. Anyway, we played around with the circling, him choosing the direction and shape of the *circle* and I rewarded everything. When he walked away, seeming to lose interest (although he was on the point of changing his mind and coming back) I quit. It will be interesting to see what eventuates. For us to proceed Balthazar has to recognise that he is a free agent who can choose to play and offer behaviours.

Incubi, Butterflies and a Snake

Another wake-me-up nightmare. Snakes this time. Particularly a very large determined snake which followed me from room to room. It was about 20 feet long with a small head and a body as thick as a fat man's thigh. Somehow it could squeeze through the smallest of spaces. It never hurried yet it was relentless. At first I was worried about the animals but it ignored them. I was the goal. I woke when I looked up and saw a dozen pale snakes watching me from the ceiling.

Nightmares used to be a feature of childhood. Always had the same one where I was smothered in the corner of a room by an amorphous grey blob. That nightmare accounts for my tendency to dislike small spaces. As far as I can remember the nightmare never varied. Perhaps my memory is faulty but I don't think I had nightmares, or if I did very few, once I reached adulthood. I used to get the odd incubus laughing manically in my ear while I lay in frozen fear unable to even wiggle a toe, which incidentally was supposed to be the way to throw off an incubus, wiggle a toe and the body would follow. That was the worst feature of an incubus dream, the inability to move even though I felt as though I was fully awake. No matter how much I strained I remained frozen, like I'd been given some drug which incapcitated me physically while leaving my mind untouched.

Incubi visited mostly in the daylight hours, during naps. I suspect my weakened state, due to a dissipated lifestyle, accounted for their frequent visits. I was morally porous. How else would I succumb (is the word succumb related to succubus, the female version of an incubus?) so easily. At any rate, I haven't been *visited* for many years of which I am thankful. Instead I have these new, always different, nightmares. Rational thinking soon soothes my fluttering heart yet I find it odd that I am experiencing so many. I don't always write of them and perhaps I should just to keep track.

The air is alive with monarch butterflies. At least I think they are monarchs. If they aren't they look very similar. Occasionally a monarch will flutter past with another monarch attached to its abdomen in an amorous embrace. I wonder about the butterfly hanging upside down. It's wings are tightly closed, pointing like a guillotine towards the earth. Does it get vertigo? Does it get dizzy as it bounces through the air and have to fight the urge to flutter? Does it pray that it and its partner don't become prey for a passing bird?

I don't remove native cotton weeds because the monarch caterpillars feed on them. When we first moved here 20 years ago the land next door was thick with native cotton. We noticed hundreds of butterflies visiting the plants and when we walked the SE corner of our property, where the creek meanders through, we saw thousands of butterflies. They were resting in the trees. If we clapped our hands, the trees seemed to explode in orange shards of fire as thousands of butterflies erupted into the air. Sadly, the owner returned, stocked the property with dozens of donkeys and the butterfly colony disappeared.

Cushings Disease and Drawing Disasters

There are four horses outside the window. Occasionally one, usually Drifter, looks at the house. They know I'm up so why have I not come out to let them through to breakfast. The peach paddock has become the Jenny Craig paddock. They are all too fat but locking them into the yards, although denying them food for the night, is just a bit tough. Its hard ground isn't conducive to a good night's sleep and although horses sleep standing up, for a really good sleep, they like to lie down.

Suspect Drifter has Cushing's disease. Peter is going to give me some Chaste Berry which has helped horses with Cushings. Anecdotally at least. A study was done that says it made no difference while lay people have used it with success. Want to give it a try before going to drugs which can have side effects (especially to the liver). Should've known last year that Drifter had Cushings. He grew enough hair to pass for a buffalo and shed it in the same way, in great strips. This winter he again grew a long hairy coat and although most of it has come away, not all. Another sign was the sweating. In winter. But I passed it off as a result of the extra long coat. Plus he's been dull and rather lack lustre in his bearing. This sign was particularly difficult to notice as Drifter has always been an extremely laid back, shall I say, bone lazy, horse. But now, even without the drug tests, I am willing to wager he has it. He's the right age (21) and Cushings usually manifests around age 20.

Cushings is a disease which results from a benignn tumour growing on the pituitary gland. It prevents the pituitary gland from releasing cortisol (if I remember correctly). There is no cure. So again, we have a horse that we know is doomed and will one day have to make that difficult decision. Until then we can find something, whether it's chaste berry or traditional medicine, to help him spend his last years in comfort.

Strange how the animals one shares one's life with are like family. I know it's trite to say so as people talk about their furred or feathered family but when I think I've known Drifter for 19 years, that's a bloody long time. We've been through a lot together. He's taught me more about humility than anyone else. Because he forgave me. Always, all my mistakes, my pique, my temper, impatience, dumb arse ideas and misplaced enthusiams, were borne with equine equanimity. He is a wise old soul in a rough red coat.

I haven't written about the latest painting because it's a disaster! Most of it I like; like the concept, the look, the atmosphere, even the workmanship but the blasted woman sitting in the chair has been reworked and reworked and reworked to the point of possibly no return. The paper has held up well but there are just so many times that colour and material (pencil, chalk pastel) can be removed before it is no longer workable. The drawing is okay but it's the darned colour. Does she pick up the colour of the big red chair and if she does, how much? Is she in deep shadow (in dim light and with eyes half closed, it suits the mood of the painting best. Unfortunately, I have been unable to duplicate that look in bright light with eyes wide open). I'm gettingn to the point of putting it away and starting on something else. Perhaps a solution will come when it isn't before me every day. And I need to be working on something and this is just reworking with no reward.

The previous painting is a write-off too. Thought I could cut up portions of it to keep but with a second look it isn't worth saving. Thankfully, it will make good fire starter for next winter.

Mugging, Clicker Training and Licorice

I don't think I've written before about Balthazar, licorice and mugging, but if I have and am experiencing another menopaual moment, of which there seem to be many, than that's too bad. I have been building up to riding again with ground work. Peter, with an innocent air, told me how much horses like licorice. We've done well with carrot pieces but always on the lookout for some other way to ingratiate myself with Balthazar (and the others) thought I'd purchase some and give it a try. Incidentally, despite my weakness for licorice I've been steadfast in not nicking their share. Anyway, with the exception of Drifter, the horses adore it. Balthazar, who always got erections with clicker training, behaved in a way that was quite scary - and totally inappropriate. Our platonic relationship was in danger of becoming something much more intimate. Seriously. When doing ground work the idea is to move the horse around while maintaining ones position. With clicker training it is much less about pressure and dominance (in my opinion) than indicating what is required and rewarding the horse for, if not actually doing it, trying. The try is built upon until the horse is keen to offer behaviours that might elicit a reward. Balthazar's offered behaviour was mugging. Mugging while nickering sweet nothings in my ear, mugging while licking the treat pouch (and me), mugging while drooling, mugging while kicking at his erection. Mugging until I was saturated and he was prancing on the spot in anticipation, of what I hate to imagine.

This wouldn't do. I gave up and wrote to the clickryder group on Yahoo detailing my problem in a way that would not earn an X rating for the young readers. The responses and advice received were fantastic. The first writer wrote that I should carry a dressage whip and swish it through the air to get him off me and let him know what was an acceptable distance to be maintained. Yes, I thought, I could do that but I had written that I wanted Balthazar to voluntarily choose not to mug and to keep a distance. What is he learning except what he's always known, that a whip is an implied threat of pain. Sure, he'd stay away but it wasn't quite what was required. Still, if worse came to worse, and in the interest of safety, I could use a swishing whip. The second writer was gold. She suggested that Balthazar choosing not to mug so that he could get a treat was only part of the solution. He also had to learn to stay away. As he saw it, she said and it was proved true in his behaviour, he mugged, backed up or swung his head away, he got a treat, so he mugged, moved away, got a treat, etc. If I wanted to break that cycle he had to learn that treats came thick and fast for keeping his head away from me. Well, duh! Of course she was right. The third writer said, safety first, put a barrier between Balthazar and I until he got the idea. Well, duh!

So last night I cut up so many carrots the treat bag was bulging, left the licorice in the fridge, put Balthazar in the stall with me on the outside and began. Balthazar was frustrated by the railings from getting to me and the treat bag. That meant he had time to draw breath and actually think of what was happening. What was happening was this: when he moved away, I c/t and then c/t 5 or 6 times while his head was pointed elsewhere. This is great, he thought. I'm doing nothing yet getting lots and lots of treats. It went so well that I braved opening the stall door and letting him out. Ah Ha! I could almost hear him. The treat bag! He mugged. I waited, withholding a treat until he backed up and then c/t'd like a mad thing. Stopped. Waited. He mugged. No reward. He backed up. I c/t'd like a woman possessed. The light started to come on. I think he mugged once or twice more but without conviction. It just wasn't getting the response he'd had previously.

So we had success while I stood on his off side. As trainers always say do things from both sides as horses almost seem to have two brains, thought I'd better work from the near side too. He mugged. But again, it didn't take long before he got the idea and kept his distance. We were doing so well and I should've quit then but I had a few carrots left in the bag. Wouldn't you know at the second to last carrot piece he mugged? Only half heartedly, just swung his nose into my torso yet I'd rather the session had ended on a completely positive note. Still, I am very happy with how things progressed and feel confident that we can start serious work very soon. Once he's completely fore-sworn mugging, I'll reintroduce licorice as the Jackpot of Jackpots. And thank Peter for the tip.

Wellness as a State of Mind

Richard is fine. Couldn't stop touching him the first day, tangible reassurance he was home. How green the grass looked, how blue the sky, how quickly can it change from vivid to bleak. And back again. I can look at death objectively. I know it is the fate of everything. I don't think, in my fine health and middle age, that I am frightened of it (of pain, yes), but when the shadow looms, however faint, on the horizon for someone close to me, I am not so sanguine. I have not lost someone close to me since Mom. I was 24. Her death was not a surprise. It took me six months before I really grieved. I suppose because I believed then, as I do now, that she had only gone somewhere else it wasn't so difficult to cope. Like she'd moved to another continent without phone or mail or carrier pigeon.

Richard is 65. His span of years is inevitably shorter than it was. We work hard at staving off the effects of old age. We walk 5km almost every day, we eat well. He's stopped smoking. There is no reason why death cannot come at the end of a healthy life rather than as the release from a long debilitating sickness. That is why this heart thing, which seems to only have been a reaction to the anaesthetic, was at first so frightening. I saw the long white corridors of hospitals, those sterile death traps of infinite boredom accented by black doors of fear and pain. And me, unable to effect an escape for my beloved. Against science and doctors and beige machines that beep I would be using a pea shooter. Against the edifice of corporate Medicine I would, with my good thoughts and thoughts are things philosophy, be as effectual as a window trapped blow fly. Yet we have won ourselves home and freedom.

It seems to be the mindset of many that reaching a certain age inevitably entails ill health and pill taking and regular doctor visits so that one can find one's place on the medical treadmill the destination of which is a foregone conclusion. I don't believe this has to be true. I know we are thrown fast balls which come out of left field and then we must choose the safest most beneficial route back to wellness but Medicine is such a lucrative field that it profits them for us to be sick and to be made to believe that sickness if inevitable. For instance, there used to be a commercial on television which advertised a cold/flue product for 'the cold you *will* get this winter'. As if because of a change of season it was inevitable that we catch a cold. Thoughts are things. How dare they air a commercial which asserts, from their unassailable position of medical expertise, that we will be sick.

For all the medical advances, the technology, the specialists, the billions of dollars spent on the health of a nation, are we really healthier than before? We eat badly, don't exercise, rely on pills and powders rather than our own common sense and native mammalian intelligence. Then we crawl to the nearest GP confident of the silver fix it pill. It must be frustrating for the GPs treating people with health issues that are soley related to lifestyle. What else can they do but prescribe tablets and place the patient's feet on that damned treadmill?

Hospital

Richard is in hospital. He went in for a routine inguinal hernia operation and is now in CCU for observation. All went well beforehand. At the pre-sx med check his blood pressure was brilliant, his ECG normal. He was a little apprehensive as one would expect but good. I left him at 1pm as the animals needed doing. He was going in for surgery at 5:00. I was to call at 6:30 when he should have been back in his room. At 6:20 Cameron rang. His sx was delayed, he'd just gone in. I was to ring his room at 8:30 instead. At 8 I got a call from Richard's sister. He was in CCU, something about his heart playing up during surgery. Rang the hospital, couldn't get anyone who really knew the details except he was okay and was only being monitored. Cameron rang, he'd managed to speak to a doctor. Richard would be monitored all night, perhaps sent home with a halter heart monitor, if that showed up any anomalies, it was possible he'd have to be fitted with a pacemaker. Rang the hospital again, got Peter on the CCU ward. Yes, he confirmed all that Cameron said plus telling me that Richard's heart had not beat fully for ONE or TWO MINUTES during surgery. It was half beating but the ventricle was not closing - if I've understood correctly. Perhaps it was only a side effect of the surgery and the drugs but if not....

I'm going down this morning, very soon in fact. Having coffee now which I need as I've slept like crap. Talk about a runaway mind. Two a.m. and I'm still running the same loop through my head. Richard is my everything. I've been thinking the past week about how to write about him, how I feel about him, some of the worries I've had, not related to his health, but hadn't because I wasn't ready. I'm not ready now except to say he must be well. He is strong and good and full of love. He does not need this. Besides his good qualities he does have one that is not so good. He is a worrier. Like his mother. Like his eldest son. He is like a terrier with a bone when he worries. He obsesses. During and after the floods in January I was concerned about it. Before it was just one of those idiosyncrasies that he had that could be passed of as nothing serious but his behaviour post-flood was worrisome. Weight melted off him, partly because we were walking more but more because he worried, lost sleep, didn't eat as much. The next big worry was the termites and just when he was getting to accept that would be all right too this has happened and worry will only aggravate his condition. If he has a condition. Please God, let there be no condition.

I try and discipline my mind to think good thoughts, not to make nightmare scenarios but those gloomy goblins creep in regardless. If something happened to him, I would survive. Of course I would but life without him would be bleak. He is my everything. After 30 years of strangers I met my best friend and lover. I've only had him for 25 years. Not nearly long enough.

There are some good aspects about this (and I know I'm anticipating as the whole story is not known). If he does have a *condition* , than it is best to find out now. Steps can be taken to manage or rectify it. Also, this episode might impress upon Richard the fact that time is not indefinite. He is always going to do something fun later, when he has some time. Fishing, exploring, I don't think he would hunt any more, activities that he's talked of are always in the future, 'when I have time'. He makes time for everyone else. If they need something, especially his sons, he drops everything and goes. As he should. But that same care and attention should be lavished on himself. Perhaps having a scare like this, although he was unaware of it at the time, will cause him to reassess his life. Perhaps to my detriment if he insists we move to the suburbs. I don't know. I don't know what the future holds but as long as he's in it physically and mentally healthy I won't complain.

Just got off the phone to him. He's fine. His heart was fine all night. It's still possible they may keep him in hospital another night. Hope not. Still, we'll do what is required.

A Yoga Side Effect

There is an unlooked for side effect of doing yoga. It is an awareness of my thoughts, often not very nice or healthy thoughts. Thoughts that shame or depress me. Thoughts which lead to actions that were better left unacted upon. It isn't that before yoga I was blissfully unaware of my less than shiny thoughts, I was but it was easier to let them slip under the radar unexamined. Now the general tone of my thinking is cause of concern. (Two blue faced honeyeaters have just enjoyed an intimate moment in the poinciana tree just outside the window). Isn't there a quote about the unexamined life not being worthwhile or something like that? Thinking, always thinking, is really living life with my eyes closed. One of the eight limbs of the Yoga Sutra is pratyahara or turning the attention inwards. I don't think that means thinking. When I wake up in the morning I now notice, where I didn't before, how I immediately vacate myself from being by turning my attention to the surface of the thinking bubble. I must do this and this and this and what about that and so forth. It's as though I've put myself in a rocket and shot through to another galaxy far far away. Now I am starting to catch this runaway rocket and turn it around. Whoa! Stop, be and breathe. Yes, there's the bird song, there's the pressure of my body on the bed, there's my breath and oh, surprise, there *I* am.

That's a start but soon of course I'm away, behaving and thinking from habit and therefore thinking, saying or behaving in a way that is not in a sense, true. It's a daunting task to learn mindfulness and in my weak moments, I don't believe I am up to the task. Not only in my weak moments but most moments of the day when I am not mindful and therefore unaware. Despite the seemingly insurmountable mountain before me I suspect that the way to peace and serenity lies in that mindfulness, of living life examined breath to breath.

Then there's the act of measuring. With our literal logical minds we are always weighing up, comparing, labelling, dissecting and defining. Somehow in all this the essence of the thing is lost as is the person doing the measuring. I went to an art date a week or so ago. Enjoyed the day but in reflecting upon it later I noticed how much I compared things, not only the art work but the people, the environs. What good does this do? Of course the measuring is all in relation to me and the idea of what is good that I have formed (based on what shaky foundation - there's a dissertation in that!). In some things the ideal is exceeded, in others it is not met. I suppose it's another way of asking what is truth. It's all in the perception and what's true for Richard, with his colour blindness in blues and greens for instance, is not true for me. If reality is just different vibrations of packets of energy than the truth is fluid and only fixed when it is observed and compared to the past experiences of the perceiver. So a truth that is only fixed by observation and defining is no truth at all Is that part of the reason why we should "Judge not, that ye be not judged"?

The End of the World

Dreamed about the end of the world. Knew it was coming in the form of an atom (or hydrogen) bomb which would be detonated just a few miles up the beach from where I was living. Wilma and other people I had some kind of history with were also there. It was some kind of meeting place. There was an operations centre with computers and phones and lots of energy, even with the knowledge that nothing could be done. I was trying to get online to blog a last post but was unable. We were allowed to *take* three things. I only remember a blue marble, roughly carved, bird.

As can be imagined the feelings aroused by this knowledge ran the gamut from fear to acceptance, from frantic useless energy to a kind of glazed ennui. I wanted to be with the horses. I was sorry they were going to pay for human stupidity. The helplessness was what grated.

Then I was walking along the beach, a beach that resembled Four Mile in Port Douglas, when there was a flash in the distance. This is it, I thought. I love you God, I thought and waited to be obliterated. But I wasn't. I woke up.

And thought why did I say I love you God as my last thought. Was it a plea to be noticed and saved? Was I sincere or just bargaining? And why these disaster dreams? The Mayans predicted the end of the world in December 2012. December 21 to be exact, the day of the summer (or winter) solstice. There was some religious quack who predicted the end of the world this year. His followers sold or gave away everything they had in preparation. Oddly enough, the world did not end and the leader has slipped into obscurity. One wonders why perfectly normal people would believe such a man especially as he'd predicted the end of the world once before and was proven wrong. But then end of the world predictions have a history as long as mankind has looked up at the night sky and wondered.

Perhaps this disaster dream is a plea from my subconscious to make my life memorable rather than coasting along thinking I have all the time in the world. I don't but we all think we're immortal. Logically we know we are going to die but we live our lives as though we'll live forever. Having said that I best go make the bed and clean the cat litter trays.

NB:  Why I can't make paragraphs in the final cut is beyond me.  Something to figure out another day.

Good day today as opposed to yesterday when I was tired, uninspired and headachy. It is the difference between if not night and day, day and dusk. I don't understand why I succumb to such days. I'm sure I'm not alone. I wasn't sick per se yet for all that I accomplished I may as well have stayed in bed with a good book. Anyway, today, despite little sleep I feel great. Have worked on the new drawing and after an unpromising beginning it now has a little life. I will take it to the next Art Day. Last Thursday I met Karen and Caroline for a day of art and conversation. Spent the first hour cuddling a cockatoo which is always a good way to start a day. Sully, a young female, is a delight. If I stopped massaging her head she would gently take my fingers in her beak to remind me of my obligations. Karen finally took her away and put her in her cage. I think I was as disappointed as Sully. I was over caffeinate unfortunately and am sure I talked too much. I don't like to regret actions and I do regret it when my mouth opens and closes with little of substance coming out. Three cups of coffee before noon is more than I can handle. But no one has contacted me to say Thursday has been cancelled

Lazy Sunday afternoon. Today's a good day, a happy day. Yesterday, not so good. Nothing happened just blah and tired and headachy. The difference between, if not night and day, at least day and dusk. Why are we so susceptible to, what? Moods? Physical health? Planetary configurations? Woke up happy and enthusiastic and have stayed that way. Researched bitless bridles on the net (already have one made from an old endurance rope bridle with nose band added by the expertise of Peter) and watched you tube pieces on Parelli, Mark Rashid and clicker training.

Going out today, for a social event no less. Me, who doesn't go out. Yoga and grocery shopping, that's about it. KL rang, she and C having an art day at KL's house today. Would I like to come? We've met twice before, once for a trip to the art gallery in Brisbane, another time for a get together such as this one. I wasn't prepared and didn't get much done. Did a sketch of a cockatiel and played with K's cockatoo. Today I'm organized as I'd already started a bare bones sketch from an idea I'd had. Blue inked the whole sheet which had the ink dragged drop spots on it. Stared at it a bit but the idea had nothing to do with what may or may not be seen in the paper, it came while trying to meditate. Anyway, of course the idea is far better than my ability to convey it but I'll give it a bang and see. Jack is loving his new home. Since Crock and Irene have moved out the others have been released from the tiny territories they were confined to by Crock's tyranny. Jack is interacting with all of them and screaming insults at the wild birds.

Dreamed I saw a UFO. It was such a realistic dream that I think I can let go that dream of seeing a UFO. A dream and a dream. Funny, eh? It was dusk. I was at a ranch taking last orders from the boss about fattening a cow, *his* cow and advertising her sale. The sky was an odd colour, that clear green blue tinged with yellow sometimes seen before a storm. The country was flat. There were street lamps at the inbetween stage of flickering on and flickering off. Higher in the sky there was another light. At first I took it for another street lamp as it too was flickering on and off except it wasn't flickering, it was fading in and out. And it had a halo, as though observed through fog. Just as it was starting to dawn on me that this was no streetlight, two fast moving yellow lights (same colour as it but brighter), popped into existence in front of the larger light. I knew then they were no ordinary lights. Suddenly all three lights streaked at an angle toward the horizon and were gone. Except for working on a ranch and taking orders about a fat cow, the above could be a real description of a UFO sighting. It certainly felt real enough. Perhaps it's a premonition. A few nights ago I dreamed of seeing a black and silver passenger jet crashing to the ground on a neighbour's land. We were driving home and I'd just been pleasantly surprised to find my little car had a cruise control button. We crossed the bridge, looked up and there it was, upside down and falling nose first. It exploded on impact. We drove into the paddock to help and saw the victims, mostly unhurt, walking to the road. No one wanted to be taken to the hospital. That night, on one of SBS foreign news feeds (Polish? Russian?) footage was shown of a jet, probably at an air show plummeting to earth and bursting into flames. The pilot ejected before impact. But enough of dreams. Jack is gone. Peter and Gabi came and got him on Sunday. I've been haunting the computer looking for an email from them to tell me how it's going. They moved the troublesome couple into their own marital quarters. Crock was the one who chewed Jack's toes. He is a very jealous and cranky bird. There are four birds left in the big aviary, none of which have big bruiser personalities so hopefully Jack will find someone to befriend to fill the hours while Gabi is gone. Two of the four birds are a bonded pair. The king parrots here are quite tame and very demanding. Yesterday morning one almost landed on my head so keen was he to let me know that if I didn't put out seed RIGHT NOW he was going to die of hunger. They hang upside down off the gutter to grumble at us. One even followed us half a mile up the road to tell us there was no seed. Richard had topped up the afternoon feed because of their complaints but still they griped. One swore at us from the banana tree. Right, I said. You want seed? Earn it! I put seed on the palm of my hand and held it up. Damn if he didn't, after some consideration and a few false starts, fly to my hand to eat.

The Smallness of Being

The sun rises earlier as spring ages into yellow summer. I wake with the birds. I may not always get up. We've had noisy fast moving storms over the past few days. After the last storm cell strode across the sky to the east, herding deserter clouds before it, it was desert weather. Crystalline skies, no summer haze, no, thank god, smoke haze. Cold. Coming outside this morning in shorts, as a tribute to spring, and a padded jack, from necessity. Sun hadn't touched the mountain yet. Silver dew on the grass. Horses, kept in overnight, erupted through the gate and galloped across the paddock, even Drifter, who gallops less and less these days. Finished the chores and tacked up the whippets for their morning constitutional. Like a brace of chariot horses they tugged me along the drive. Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! Part call of nature, after all they must hold their bowels and bladder from 9:30pm until the following morning, part the dog's natural enthusiasm for everything that doesn't involve vets. Sometimes, not often enough, I am struck anew by the beauty of the country. Not any country, but *this* country. Australia, yes. Queensland, yes. And this little dead end dirt road that follows the long narrowing valley into Paradise. Sometimes I can make myself see familiar things with new eyes, sometimes, with more joy, the newness is impressed upon me from without. This was one of those mornings. The dogs know I will walk as far as Bird Hill, a natural rise with trees on both sides of the road that is a bird corridor between the mountain and the juncture of two creeks below. There we stop, look and listen. All three of us. At first I am trying to identify bird calls; dollar bird, grey butcherbird, fig bird, black butcherbird (beautiful!), crow, double bar finch and then I stop. There is too much carolling, piping, squeaking, yodelling. It is just sound, a symphony of sound. All those dark shiny eyes, those quivering throats giving a voice to what it is to be alive. The very air vibrates with it. I vibrate with it. My heart seems to burst and for a moment, just a moment, I leave behind the minutiae of being and just Be. Then the moment passes and I shoulder the shell of Me-ness, the thoughts, the lists, the naming, the continuous internal dialogue returns and I and the dogs return with it, to home and breakfast and chores and the smallness of being.

Jack

Jack is going to live with Gabi. I am so pleased. Ever since he came to live with us he has been yearning for Gabi. When she visits he is Mr. Friendly and screams long and loud when she goes. At first I thought it was Peter he missed as Peter is the one with the knack for cockatoos. Last night proved without a doubt that Jack loves Gabi. They'd come for dinner, champagne and beer, a sort of routine we've got into when they can visit, but with less junk food than before (they are a very good influence!). We sat around the island bench while I prepared the food and talked. Jack, despite the dark, shouted, yelled and screamed without letup. I'm pretty easy going as far as noisy cockatoos go but Jack hardly stopped to draw breath and it was annoying...except to Gabi. "I kind of like it," she said. Huh? After dinner I slipped outside for a smoke. Jack was still yelling so I turned the light on under the gazebo so he could see to climb onto the standing perch which he did without hesitation. I carried him to the kitchen window and although part of him was wary (there are cats in there!) he looked happy to be finally gazing at his beloved. Peter came out to say a cautious hello followed by Gabi. And that was it. Jack climbed onto her arm, preened her arm, nuzzled into her sweater, gazed adoringly at her face with that soft expression which only sulphur crested cockatoos in love can make and generally proved to the best of his ability that Gabi was his Lady Love and if we didn't see that and let him go live with her than we were cruel, inhumane and completely stupid. So it's settled. Gabi was willing to take Jack last night but Peter thought it best to prepare one of the aviaries for him, either the huge but disused bat creche or the smaller but closer to the resident cockatoos aviary. Frankly, as Jack does not attempt to fly, ever, even when he thinks he's in mortal danger, a large aviary is wasted on him. But that's for them to sort out. Part of me is a little sad for although we've had our moments, Jack is such a significant person, that we will not but notice his absence. No more "Hello Jack!' each time we walk past. No more afternoon grazing. No more of those searching direct looks he gives that are so full of meaning yet indecipherable. I will miss him but I am so glad he is going to be with his One True Love.

Had a terrific session with Balthazar last night. I let myself get too stressed about a less than perfect training cycle. Should be less hard on myself and give both of us TIME. Have always wanted everything perfect straight away. Comes from living the good life all my life. Spoiled. Anyway, Balthazar was much better. Yes, I did have to up the pressure to get him to trot but once he was trotting the glitches smoothed out. We had better departs, he even gives a little jump in the front to start the trot. Not quite a nano-rear but he has to use his hindquarters to do so and anything that gets him off the front end and onto the back is a good thing. One problem we do have, which we've always had, is his very visible excitement in the pizzle department. Why carrots are so arousing is beyond me. Sometimes when being ridden with lots of carrot reinforcement he even begins to 'sound' like a stallion courting a mare before the coup de etat. He's not quite so bold on the ground but he does nicker alot and stay visibly excited, to the point where trot departs are impossible because it is out and interfering. I've tried to join the click that teaches on Yahoo groups but haven't heard back yet. Wonder if other people have this particular phenomemon and if so, what they do about it. Drifter was the same. Don't remember that Dakota or Pagan were much of a problem. I mean, they are all gelded. That sort of thing shouldn't happen, although I do see them enjoying themselves occasionally. Anyway, we just have to work around it. Once it's been withdrawn is the best time to work on gait changes. Just hard (no pun intended) to give alot of reinforcement for good work without it rearing it's ugly head (pun intended). Peter suggested I try licorice as a treat. Wow, what a revelation. Balthazar became quite predatory. He watched like a hawk when I game some to the others. Drifter, as usual, stuck his nose up and said I'm not having any. Pagan and Dakota were equally pleased. Balthazar however, was in Mach III Enjoyment Mode. Would be nice to use it as a c/t treat but as it's chewy it takes too long. Will use it as a jackpot piece for a job really well done. Haven't written anything on art. Have about finished the work started with the ink dripped onto wet watercolour paper. It's a but busy and I'm not entirely pleased with it but it's been a good learning process. There are parts I quite like, images half seen which are brought out but because the images are from chance, there's no cohesive theme that I could find and make work. It's a hodgepodge. Used ink, chalk and oil pastel, pen and coloured pencil. Think I've done all I can with it. Time to start on something else, what that might be I have no idea. But have to do something. I'm always better in myself when I've got a project going. I don't want to move but part of me would love to have a small private studio. A place where I could make a mess and leave it. Where I could spread out and breathe. Oh, and large enough for a stereo and a yoga mat.

Dapples and Termites

For the first time since I've had him, Balthazar has dapples. Not huge, not gaudy but definitely there. Have had him on Pat Coleby's Natural Horse Care diet for about three weeks. I put the blame squarely in Coleby's court. Whatever magic ingredient he was missing in the expensive Equilibrium he's getting from the basic ingredients of Coleby's recipe.

And yes, we have termites. Our 100+ year old Queenslander has had her defenses breached. Richard had gone beneath the house to check the floorboards of our bedroom. We're going to get it sanded and polished. While there he discovered they'd built a bridge from the stump OVER the metal stump cap and onto the wood. They have eaten through five VJ boards. That we know of. Now that we know what to look for it's obvious. Painted boards with ripples and waves. When you touch them they give under pressure. A lot. Pest man comes today.

Got very discouraged with myself and Balthazar on Friday. I seemed to be back to my old tricks as did he. In the rut I didn't want to be in again. Resolved I would just work on one thing, that the problem is I wanted him to do this and this at the same time which only confuses him.

In clicker training the behaviour is offered and rewarded. The trainer sets it up so that the behaviour occurs without coercion, ie pressure. Think of the dolphins. And Dimitri. Couldn't force Dimitri to retrieve, I had to reward small increments of movement which added, finally, to him picking up the object and dropping it in my hand. With Balthazar on the end of a line, there is already pressure. He can't choose to do the behaviour because he is constrained to a circle with me at the center.

For instance, asking for a trot. The other day we had wonderful departs, quick and decisive. On Friday we dribbled into a trot or only walked faster. I resorted to slapping the end of the line on the ground. That got the sought for response but as soon as I did it I regretted it. I used pressure and fear to get what I wanted. Which is what I don't want. He got stressed. His sheath was squeaking and again he was holding, not chewing the carrots. Time to quit and regroup.

Also, we still have the problem of him spiralling in on the circle. I have to use pressure, alot of pressure to get him away. That was what I was going to work on, that one thing, getting him to sidestep away from me with pressure but reducing that pressure until it was only a small movement from me that would get him out. But I had little success.

What was worse was that he walked away from me when I went to halter him. Sure sign he's not enjoying the sessions. And he should. The whole point is that he should.

So what will I do differently today? The KISS method. Keep to what works and what he does well. Stop at any sign of stress. High rate of reinforcement. If he wants to change direction on the circle let him and reward that as a test for that seems to get him 'up' and motivated. We can always stop that later if it gets to be a problem (she says confidently). That will have the added advantage of getting him working off his hindquarter which will build muscle and topline.

Had an excellent 15 minutes with Balthazar yesterday afternoon. Having 24 hours to think about what we'd attempted the previous day seemed to help him work it out. There was one exercise where I place my hand on the halter between his cheek and muzzle and gently push his head away from me so that he eventually executes a turn on the hindquarter (an awkward way to do it but I think the exercise is just to instill a feel and a sensitivity to pressure). When Peter was here, Balthazar bobbed his head, swung it to the ground, swung it high, everything but just follow my asking hand. That was where Peter said I should bump his head with my hand (closed as a fist) to get him to move but I think that would've made things worse. He was obviously not comfortable with following the feel so best to just stay with him using an even pressure, as even as I could keep it anyway given that he was swinging his head all over the place. That was Tuesday. Wednesday I asked and he quietly followed my lead and swung his head around until he did a turn on the forehand, or part of one. I didn't push my luck and ask for too much. I rewarded what he offered. He did the same on the other side.

One thing I noticed which is something I need to work on is Balthazar's sensitivity. Yesterday afternoon was cool, not cold, not warm. By the time I'd walked Balthazar to the arena he was hot to touch. A few minutes more and he was starting to sweat on his flank and chest. The 15 minutes of c/t involving some turns, some longeing, a few changes of direction on the longe, a tiny bit of full pass (couldn't believe he remembered it), a couple of turns on the hind and fore quarter and some backing up, was done calmly and with many rewards. So although he appears calm on the outside his anxiety is betrayed by the fact that he is breaking into a sweat. The only thing I can do is continue to work him with the same patient and calm attitude. In time he should trust that nothing bad (me losing my temper and whacking him with the end of the lead rope) will happen. His anxiety is my fault. How can he trust someone so untrustworthy? My modus operandi has been cool calm collected with flashes of temper peppered sporadically throughout. I feel guilty about this but I'm not going to beat myself up for 'when I know better I do better'. And it didn't happen all the time just often enough to make him sweat when he comes to the arena.

Working on patience is paying off. Didn't realize how ingrained the habit of asking him to do something else before he'd finished chewing the reward carrot was until finding myself starting to ask for another behaviour. Now at least I'm catching myself.

Yesterday he stayed out on the circle better and his trot departs were snappier. It pays to work on one thing with lots of reinforcement. It writes a clear message.

Natural Horsemanship Play Date using c/t

Good day today. Peter rang this morning to ask, seeing that it was such a perfect spring day, could he bring Emmy down and we'd have a Natural Horsemanship play. For the first time Balthazar ran away when I went to get him but I think it was the excitement of having a strange horse in the yards. He wasn't hard to catch. Cleaned both horses up and took them to the arena. Peter helped me with the preliminary 'games' to assess the readiness of the horse to work. Balthazar was a bit 'up' at first but soon settled. Emmy, an old hand from many camps and much practice at home, was unfazed by the strange surroundings and strange horse. Peter helped me with some problems, specifically Balthazar spiralling in on the circle. Also, going through the games gave me some homework. I did use c/t during todays session. I don't want to bump him, as Peter suggested when I was attempting to get Balthazar to give to a turn on the hindquarter. I want to just use consistent pressure and when he gives, to reward that give. Balthazar did pick it up so I'm very pleased. Also, I don't want Balthazar to disengage his hindquarter to stop on the circle. He is too ready to face me already. I want him to stop on the circle, ideally bent to the same degree on the circle when he halts as when he's is going.

Certainly I don't have the xperience of Ken Falkner or Pat Parelli and am probably wrong in attempting to do things my way but I want everything I do on the ground to be relevant when I am on his back. For example to halt when walking beside the horse, Ken advises asking them to give the head *away* from the handler. There's something else too whether it's a tug on the lead or what I don't remember, I just remember thinking I wouldn't be riding the horse and asking him to move away from my hand flapping at his eye. I've been walking parallel, saying whoa and raising the hand with the lead rope, trying to duplicate from the ground what Balthazar would 'feel' when I was riding (plus using the voice of course). So that's what I did. It's not Faulkner, it's not Parelli but until I can see the sense of asking him to give way to a flapping hand, it's what I'll do. If he learns the commands through clicker training, it's not so much 'giving to pressure'. He can learn everything he needs to know with a reward as the goal to have an attempt at it.

Instead of asking for a complete sloppy circle of turning on the forehand or turningn on the hindquarter, I would ask for one good step and reward that. Because we moved on to other exercises I didn't attempt to perfect them. I just wanted the basics to practice when Peter's not around. I can look for improvement when we practice solo. I truly believe c/t is a far superior method of training. Giving to pressure works but what's in it to motivate the horse? Why should he try for you?

Unfortunately Balthazar was lame. Not badly. It only showed up at the trot on the circle as a bit of unevenness. Still, he's been 'spelling' for two years so I'm not sure what else to do. It's the same hoof that had the abscess but that's long ago now and shouldn't be affecting him. Could find no swelling or heat in leg or hoof. Of course I don't have hoof testers so can't tell if it's the hoof or not. The lameness is very minor yet I don't want to ride him when he's not right. Took the saddle down and thought if everything went well I'd have a ride on him.

Peter is goingn to modify my old endurance bridle, made of lightweight nylon, so that I can attach reins to it. He took Balthazar's measurement (above the muzzle). Riding with this modified bridle will give clearer signals than riding with the knot below a regular rope halter like a pseudo bosal.

I didn't realize I missed horses so much. I fed them every day, turned them out in the morning, patted them, checked them over for problems, sometimes groomed them, especially in the spring when they are losing their winter coats, but otherwise I hadn't interacted with them for such a long time. Now I'm excited, looking forward to going bush, riding in company (Peter's got an old friend, also a horseperson who is keen to trail ride), and just spending special time with my special horse.

LIFE, not life, but LIFE has a funny way of making you do things. I often wake up at 5, see that it's cold and inhospitable and go back to sleep. This morning I again awoke at 5. Thought the same thing (in my defense, we are having another cold snap) and closed my eyes for another hour of blissful repose. Then my ears were cleaved by the staccato scream of the fire alarm. Poor Natalia was just waking up, having a leisurely downward dog cat stretch when it went off. She levitated off the bed and landed somewhere in the living room. I plugged my ears while R found a broom handle and silenced the alarm. Under torture I would spill anything in the first 30 seconds of a fire alarm at close quarters.

So there I was, crouched on the side of the bed when it occurred to me that LIFE had intervened and I'd better get up. In the book The Right to Write, the author suggested that one way to foster creativity was to get up and write three pages (by hand) first thing in the morning. First thing meaning before coffee or ablutions or getting dressed. The only exception was that one could empty one's bladder first. I did that three pages for a few years. Impossible now. For one thing I'm older and feel that a hot sweet coffee is imperative before facing anything of consequence, even if I can only have a sip or two before starting the animal chores. The other thing is of course the animals, specifically the three cats. They have learned not to shout while I shut myself in the bathroom to wash my face and get dressed but as soon as the door is opened they are at my feet, mouths agape, emitting a feline version of the fire alarm. Quieter perhaps but more intense as it's multiplied by three pairs of laser beam blue and green and yellow eyes.

Cats fed I thought would it be better to take my coffee and sit on the deck to enjoy the morning symphony while the sun rose or come in here and stare at a monitor? Of course if I go outside to sit in zen like silence and absorb the serenity of a new dawn I have to ignore the dogs, the birds and the horses, two of which are locked up overnight and hang over the gate nickering as soon as they hear the front door. The dogs need to be greeted and tucked back into bed to stay warm and the birds? The birds are more difficult and I'm not even talking about the aviary birds. There is a male king parrot, I call him Elvis (The King) who does not take no for an answer. He flies to the hot water tank in front of the kitchen window to get my attention first thing in the morning. He's hard to miss dressed as he is in scarlet and forest green. I say good morning while making coffee and lorikeet food but don't drop everything to rush out and feed him. This is poor service and he lets me know it. When I finally do go out with food tray in hand, he is on the gutter upside down, to continue his harangue. When I put the tray in the gazebo, he is there. When I walk to the yards he is with me. When I finally go to the garage, he lands on the boat, increases the volume of his squeaks and squawks and can hardly keep himself from flying to my hand to grab the seed container. So there really is, in this household at least, no such thing as a zen like morning of serenity and silence and peace.

It is of course a creation of my own making. Even as I type this, Dimitri honks on the verandah, Tachimedes, also on the verandah, does his version of the keening call of an inmate in a padded room and Natalia meows to be let out of the laundry (she is fed separately as she is on special food). But it is 6am and R asked that I wake him for he has an early appointment - and so the day begins.

Balthazar and I

Had a really good session with Balthazar this evening. Have been trying to fit in a few sessions a week of only 10 or 15 minutes to re-introduce both of us to work. He's been on holiday for about two years so I don't want to overload his brain or his body. Not that it's hard although trotting around on a short longe can put some strain on joints, muscle and sinew if overdone. Short sessions should start to build some topline and flexibility before I put a saddle on. Being a thoroughbred he's not overly developed along his spine.

Reread Alexandra Kurland a few days ago and wanted to approach the clicker sessions more slowly. I have always been impatient and have to force myself to slow down, let Balthazar finish chewing before asking for something else. The last time I worked with him it was obvious I was going too fast because he started to get a little anxious and he was taking the carrot but not chewing it. It was a wake up call for these sessions should be pleasant for both of us. And I was getting anxious too. So I went out tonight with the idea that I would only work on the back up. We didn't fare well at first. Balthazar was so uninspired that he looked as though he was falling asleep. The softly softly approach was too soft. What to do? Send him around in a circle. He is eager to trot and keep trotting going left and reluctant to start going right. We work more to the right, his stiff side. Pushed him off me, first with the end of the lead (not hitting) and then with a gesture for he tends to spiral in on top of me. Also, when he halts going either way, but especially to the right he often backs up without being asked. He also wants to change direction. Eventually he did a few circles either way that were good. He wasn't stressed either, relaxed and nickering for his treat which he chewed rather than holding in his mouth. When we returned to the back up with a hand gesture he was brilliant. Instead of one lazy step he smartly backed up for four steps. I was very pleased. I think he was too. I grazed him on the green grass over the septic tank for a few minutes as well.

Having a break from riding or even working with Balthazar has given me the opportunity to try and do things differently. I'm not in a rut. Neither is he. I want this to be a real breakthrough time for both of us. I'm reading some Parelli notes Peter has given me as well as looking at clickerhorse on the net. I am hopeful that I am more mature and that doing yoga for two years has made a difference not only in my body but in my mind. If I am in touch with my body and mind and breath, I can stay grounded and calm. And patient.

I know I am quick to anger. I don't get angry often but am amazed at how quickly and with how much force anger manifests when it comes. It's like a whole other person lurks inside me, a very scary person. The things I am ashamed about in my life have to do mostly with allowing anger full rein. I do think anger, righteous anger, can be constructive in motivating me but anger born of frustration or fear is not. And that flavour of anger is unfortunately the one I am familiar with. I'm still alive, mobile and breathing so still have the opportunity to grapple with that ugly aspect of myself. It was a small step tonight but a powerful one for it showed me that taking the time, remaining calm, making decisions based on objective observation make for a happy relationship between Balthazar and I.

Fire Fire and More Fire

Mid-Afternoon: My eyes sting. They have burned across the road, from the high paddocks to the roadside. Smoke, thick and blue, marches across our paddocks like an advancing army. Ash drops from the sky. The cats are huddled in the middle of the house. The wild birds have flown away. No such luck for the caged birds. They have to stick it out and fill their air sacs with crap.

Yesterday I cried. Today I am angry. We went into town this morning. The entire east side of Mt. Sylvia is black. The land is so steep I don't think anything can graze on it but it was a thick mat of lantana and bush, doubtless home to many wild creatures. Now it is just a charred black landscape.

The reasons given by the farmers as to why they burn are these: 1. To make firebreaks, to get rid of the dead grass fuel. 2. To control lantana. 3. To sweeten the ground with ash and bring forth fresh grass.

Oddly enough in the twenty years we have lived here the ONLY fires which got out of control and threatened neighbouring properties were fires lit for the above three reasons. In other words, they are lighting fires to protect themselves from their neighbour's fires which are lit to protect them from their neighbour's fires which are lit... Not once has a fire been started by lightening or even a cigarette butt tossed from a passing car.

Lantana adores fire. Fire destroys the green panic which competes with it and fire hardens the branches so that cattle can't get in and graze the grass when it does come back.

As for sweetening the ground, perhaps the first burn might but these idiots burn the same ground year after year after year. What they wind up with is rubble. All the humous and micro-organisms which make for healthy soil are destroyed.

Reading about Buddhism again and am again struck by its basic negativity. It's related to Catholicism. In Catholicism you have guilt. In Buddhism you have suffering (if you're alive which means you're caught on the wheel of life which means suffering).

I cried yesterday. I 'suffered'. The locals are burning again as they do every year. The ridge behind our property was burned. I thought of all the baby birds who lost their lives, the skinks and lizards, and the insects and I cried. In the afternoon I watched Felicity and Suki, the two freed greenies, canoodling on the poinciana branch above my head and I smiled. There can be no suffering if there is nothing to compare it to.

We walked the dogs in the afternoon. It was 30o and coming out of winter we all were feeling the heat. We walked into the dip and coolness. Richard said wouldn't it be lovely if it was this temperature all the time. Personally I would quickly become bored with no contrast in temperature. How can we welcome summer if we haven't endured winter? Or winter after sweltering through a summer? Suffering comes because we've known its opposite; joy.

It seems, as in Catholicism, it is a basic 'sin' to have been born, as though rather than finding the joy in the basic wonder of being alive, we have been condemned through ignorance, or Original Sin, to endure this hell because we're too sinful, ignorant, lazy, vain to earn Heaven or Nirvana. It seems a poor way to acknowledge the basic miracle of Life, of the life giving qualities of breath.

Our farrier came out and did the horses in an introductory version of the 4 point trim. Introductory because he was familiar but not experienced with it and because we did not go too severe with the horses. Oddly enough, Balthazar is the only one who is foot sore. I would've thought Pagan, who we have to tiptoe around so as to not take too much away, would have been the sore one. Drifter's feet, being the worst shaped, looked the best. It will be interesting to compare his feet in 6 weeks with the shape they had pre-trim yesterday and the shape they have then. I'm very pleased with the effort. Lee did a good job.

Worked with Balthazar for ten minutes with some ground work yesterday. On the grass, he doesn't tiptoe on the grass. He did very well considering neither of us had done anything for two years. Plan to do a fair amount of ground work before I get on. I don't want to scare myself or him and suspect I'll be a bit more timid than I was two years ago. I'm almost 56 and know I don't bounce anymore. Wonder if I'll notice a difference in my riding since I've been doing yoga. I'm still one-sided but perhaps less so?

Have also put Balthazar on, starting yesterday as we didn't have any chaff until then, the Natural Horse Care diet. He always looks okay but he doesn't bloom as the others do. The biotin hasn't helped his feet in any appreciable way and his coat doesn't have the irridescence of Pagan or Drifter. Perhaps this new diet will help. It certainly helped Drifter with his greasy heel and grass acid nose (I'm sure there's a term for it but I don't know what it is. Drifter used to get scabs on his nose which I suspected at first was from the sun but realized later was from wet grass and grazing).

Coincidentally, after deciding I wanted to ride again, our neighbour came down, spontaneously, to tell Richard that I was welcome to ride anytime, anywhere on their land. Part of the reason I gave up riding was because of losing so many of the areas I used to ride, chiefly among them this magic mountain behind our property. They never said I couldn't ride there. I just assumed since they built their home on the adjoining ridge with a view of the entire mountain, they would want their privacy. That seems like a good sign. I will have to get Balthazar some easyboots but if that's what it takes, so be it. This means I can get on, go for a quiet burn in the wild as I used to do. Half of the pleasure of riding is just getting away from it all. There are places where I can't see or hear any sign of humans or human habitation. I can sit in the saddle and watch the bee eaters hunt for insects or listen to the silence while Balthazar grazes.

I'll write to Peter, tell him about playing with Balthazar, about the permission to ride, about the trimming. He has a Parelli clinic in October. He was keen to ride. I hope he remains so. Peter and Gabi have the best place to ride in the district. Even if you didn't go off his driveway his tracks are spectacular. Have already thought about floating Balthazar to the bottom of the driveway near the old Baines place, offloading him there and riding/walking (if he's not fit I'll get off and walk the steep bits) up to meet Peter on his horse. It would be a good day out and not hard on the horses.

A (Dream) Affair to Regret

So cold my fingers can hardly type. Winter's last hurrah? I hope.

Two nights ago I awoke from a nightmare in which I discovered Richard had a mistress. Last night I awoke from a nightmare in which I almost had sex with another man and I had to tell his wife ("what will happen if I tell her?" "It will ruin everything") and Richard (ditto). Have no idea what these mean. Why him and then me? At least having a scary nightmare is straightforward. You're being chased or attacked or, in the case of my recurring childhood nightmare, smothered. These adult nightmares fraught with grief and guilt are much worse.

Worse too was the exposure. We were in a busy restaurant. The windows were darkened and as the man was unconcerned about all the people dining on the far side of this long cavernous room, I assumed there was some kind of two way mirror separating us. Then the maitre d' came over and asked him just what was he supposed to do (my ersatz lover was the owner) and customers were getting up from their tables in anger, children in tow. I cowered under the covers until someone brought me a sarong. Then his wife came home early, bubbly and too too bright. She had to know. She was my friend. How could I not confess?

One strange aspect which I caught as I was waking was the emotions and actions somehow became fused into colours and shapes which my conscious mind grabbed as a possible painting. The images aren't clear now; swirling vortexes of black red, orange and brown. Not very exciting when within the dream they were vivid and spoke volumes about the emotional context of the dream.

Often with the purchase of Yoga Australia magazine a CD of music or meditations will be attached. Found one I'd pulled off and hadn't listened to and put it on. Listening to song 6, Garuda by Pravana (Eastern Meditation) was one of those moments when it is confirmed yet again that although we may have forgotten, we are gods. What is one definition of God. The Creator. We create every day with every breath, thought and deed. Some of us create for themselves and others; composers, writers, musicians, artists, poets to name a few. Of the arts, music is one of the most sublime, perhaps because it is creation of a thing over time and space that ceases yet leaves an image after it is gone. Garuda was one of those moments. With the first few notes I was transported. The composer had tapped into something which spoke directly to my heart. Would other listeners feel the same? Perhaps not. But the creative instinct within us is as diverse and varied as we ourselves are.

Through some of the darkest times of my life, Debussy was the lifeline to which I clung. An unbreakable connection from darkness to light.

My dreams give me no quarter. When I've been slack, and I have been so very slack, my night life reveals the truth though I may day dream my failings away during the daylight hours. Dreamed I was in a wheelchair desperately trying to get out in the rain. Crippled and yearning for aqua vitae which I could not have.

But it's here all the time. Lay in bed this morning (not for long thankfully, this day WILL be better) and thought about the fear factor. I think it plays a part in my meditation and I think it plays a huge part in any creative endeavour and in my life.

What if? What if I let go? What if I really got down and dirty with creativity? What would I have to give up to have it? What lies would have to stop for me to swan dive into the well of Self and record what I found there?

But does it have to be painful and searing and gut wrenching? Just to do. Isn't that all there is? I use the opiates of tv and spider solitaire to keep me dull. Instead of writing, I play. Instead of doing, I watch tv. Hours and hours wasted when I could live. Creativity is not about giving up, it's about giving freely.

So now that's off my chest. My interest in the horses has been reignited by the two days spent at Peter's playing with Monty. Have researched the 4 point trim and sent information about it with a friendly but firm ("I'm very keen to have my horses trimmed this way from now on") to my farrier. Lloyd used it when he was my farrier with great success. It might be the way I can ride Balthazar without having him shod. If not, it will at least put Drifter's feet right. For years now they resemble bedroom slippers; long underslung heels, long toes and flares. If the 4 point trim doesn't work with Balthazar, in that he can work happily on rough surfaces, I will get him some easyboots. Also reaquainted myself with clicker training for horses. Would like to amble about on Balthazar when I feel like a ride without having to 'train'. After years of endurance riding and training I don't want that kind of committment.

Started a painting using the new Van Gogh oil pastels. Huge mistake. Should have used the hard oil pastels first and the soft VGs on top. Now I have this rich buttery layer that won't take any more colour. Going to dig out some turps and use a brush to blend the colours. That should thin it as well. It's not a lost cause. It's a learning process. The painting is derived from a dream image. Spent an hour or more trying to get this particular colour, a orange tinted teal. Didn't get even close. Frustrating as I can see the colour clearly in my imagination.

I've got a greenie staring at me through the window. They know where we are when they want food. Yesterday Suki and Felicity were fighting with two rainbows over the tree holes in the poinciana - out this same window. Went out to 'help' but realized they had to sort it themselves. They are ready to keep house and raise a family. The rainbows are bigger and pugnacious. The greenies didn't stand a chance. We have hung a nest log for them under the gazebo. It's not ideal but it is an option.

Spent two days doing horse stuff. Peter rang. Monty had had a bad experience on the float with his bum under the bum bar and his head jammed on the divider and wouldn't (understandably!) load. Peter adores his horses and looks after them but is the first to admit they also intimidate him. Would I help? Monty had an appointment at the University on Friday. I went up Thursday so we'd have a day to practice. Nothing worse than having to try and load an unwilling horse when there's a deadline.

Went up with a loose plan of how I'd try and load him, a Parelli inspired ploy that has always worked in the past. Got there and Peter said he had a Parelli DVD on loading so we watched that before heading for the round yard. Watching the video changed my approach. Instead of leading him in I was going to attempt to drive him in. But first we had to catch him.

Unintentionally Monty's reluctance to be caught meant I got to experience Join Up. Have never done it before but by gum it worked. Had to drive him around the round yard again and again before he followed me into the center. Then when I lifted the halter off he'd go again. Peter said he always puts the rope around his neck and then halter him. I'm spoiled with my horses as I just walk out in the paddock and put a halter on. So I was determined to do it that way. That determination unfortunately set the tone.

When I got the halter on I started out slowly enough, walking him past the float and rewarding any try with a break. But Monty was determined not to go too close to the float. He'd push in with his right shoulder, swing his haunches and kick. Not while he was being led up close but when circling to the right. Very stiff and bulging rib cage to the right which made it easy for him to kick. There was a lot of kicking. And he wouldn't move away. He'd crowd in and I would make myself big and raise my arms to ask him to give way. He wouldn't budge so I'd slap both hands, one on his cheek, one on his neck to get him to give.

In hindsight I was too strong. Fear made me strong for a couple of times I was in a vulnerable position. I did get him with three feet on the ramp but, in Peter's words, to be expedient, it was best to lead him on – which was my first plan. Why didn't I stick with the first plan?

I arrived at 10, guess we were at the round yard by 11. At one thirty he was loaded. Loaded him many times, took him out many times. At the end he was standing quiet and relaxed while I scratched his back and Peter fed him wisps of hay.

The next morning I apologized to Peter for being too strong. He was very gracious and said I was only human. It wasn't as though I was beating Monty but sometimes to get him to change direction when he was roaring around I'd really lean on the lead rope to the point where my right arm is, two days later, still sore.

The day of Monty's appointment, went without a hitch. He loaded like a trooper as did Emmy, who was also going for a trim. They travelled well, although a bit sweaty as Peter's driveway is steep and curvy (takes 30 minutes to get to the bottom). Don't like those closed in floats. Horses generate so much heat, especially two in a float, that even with the side windows and overhead vents open, there isn't enough air flow. They both visibly relaxed after they were trimmed. They knew then what the trip was for. Who says horses are dumb? You could tell by their demeanour that they knew whatever they'd had to load on the float for was finished and they could relax.

Infinite Gravity and Infinite Mysteries

I've got the memory of a paramecium. Got all excited watching a program about black holes a couple of nights ago and champed to get the ideas it sparked down. Thought about it after I went to bed and now I can only remember half of what I intended.

It was about these equations. One of them was using quantum mechanics to try and figure out the gravity of the singularity at the center of the black hole. The gravitational pull is so great, as we all know and marvel at, that even a photon of light cannot escape - hence the black of black holes. Anyway, it was troubling to these theorists for the equations they came up with always equalled infinity. Not infinity once but infinity many times. Infinite gravity cannot be. Can it?

One black hole being studied had the mass of 143 million suns. That's huge yet it is a finite mass, even if it is pulling in every bit of matter within reach. How can there be infinite gravity? Does having a singularity always entitle the black hole to infinite gravity, like having a gold card, or is it just for the really big and showy ones?

Then there was this other equation, the one I've forgotten (damn!). The weird thing was it too equalled infinity. Even seeing the infinity symbol gave me goosebumps. It was like for all our smarts, all our advances in technology and mathematics and thought, we will never ever uncover the infinite mystery of, god I hate using the word God for all the baggage it's collected over the years, but there it is; Powers that Be is just too cumbersome, The Is sounds too much like a bad musical and the Creator is the first cousin to God. Still, you get the drift. For every layer uncovered, and every pat on the back for another mystery solved, another mystery appears.

On to a more mundane subject. Went to Murray's Art supplies yesterday and bought about a dozen Van Gogh oil pastels. They are so colourful and bright and pure I almost don't want to mess them up by using them. Unlike the student grade pastels I bought in the local newsagent these feel buttery and rich. Should make for some interesting effects. I've been so used to grinding the student sticks onto the board that using the Van Gogh's will be like driving a Rolls after a mini-moke.

Supposed to go to yoga tonight but there is a line of thunderstorms sweeping down from the northwest. We had a storm at 2am. I woke up with the rain and stayed awake until 5. Not sure why. Wasn't worried about the storm but with lack of sleep I've been a little bleary today. Lay down with Natalia, what a good bed cat! this afternoon. Couldn't sleep but it was nice just to lie there and listen to the birds and thunder and Natalia's purrs. The greatest gifts are in the small things.

The Cow and the Calf

Raining yesterday, sometimes steady, sometimes a foggy drizzle that blurred edges and made the familiar mysterious. On the ridge behind our house a white Brahman cow paced the edge, lowing. Didn't worry about it at first. Perhaps she was separated from the herd. Then Richard heard a calf.

The top of the ridge is ringed by black basalt boulders. Grass grows right to the edge of the boulders encouraging hungry mothers and playful calves into danger. If a step too far is taken it's a vertical drop of about twenty feet to the grass and lantana scrub below. Even if the fall is survived it's a hazardous and steep descent to level ground. I know. I climbed and descended it twice yesterday.

Richard came in for lunch and said he could hear a calf. The mother was still lowing on the ridge so we left lunch uneaten on the table and headed out. Walked down the back paddock and climbed through two barbed wire fences to reach the base of the ridge. The calf was now silent but we judged the position of the calf by the position of the mother. We started climbing. The lower level wasn't difficult but as we ascended the angle became sharper and the going more hazardous. Several land slips from the January floods had us climbing on our hands and knees. Worried about Richard but he was right behind me. Unfortnately no calf was in front. Above us was the shiny black vertical face of the boulders. We couldn't climb any more and had to turn back.

I'm a decent climber but I'm hell on descents. Same feeling when I'm walking on a pitched roof. I'm not afraid of heights but clambering around at an angle is unsettling. Richard went down on his butt. I worried he'd topple over and roll down the hill but his method was the right one. I stuck my butt in the clay and slid or fought through tangled grass and lantana. Deceptive because rocks were hidden in the grass so it was wise to feel with your feet first, if you could, before adding weight.

Decided Richard would go home and fetch the truck while I climbed up the track and approached the ridge, and the cow, from the top. Richard would drive to the owner's house. He is away but the property is being minded by his son. We'd rung before leaving the house but got no answer. Yet we could see two vehicles at the house.

I was wearing wellies so the trip to the top wasn't fast. Crossed the top and found the cow with a very full and painful looking udder waiting in the same spot. Told her what I was there for, that we'd do everything we could to find her calf. Brahmans can be testy about newborn calves. I didn't want to be hit in the chest by an angry mother and knocked over the cliff. But she just looked off in the distance and bellowed.

After seeing the land slips in January I was cautious about putting my weight on these rocks jutting out from the ridge, especially as it had been raining since the night before. But I did. To no avail. I couldn't see the calf nor could I hear it. Then the little blighter started bawling. I retraced my steps until I figured I was right above it. It sounded as though it was just at the base of the boulders. Sighted on a couple of trees so I could find it when I climbed from the bottom and went to meet Richard.

He'd returned without the son. Told him what I'd heard, what I was going to do. He went back for the son and I started climbing. I was certain I'd find the calf. I'd pinpointed his location from the top, memorized the position of trees and shrubs so I'd find him. Climbed to within two feet of the base of the cliff and came up with nothing.

Unattended calves will lay perfectly still to avoid detection by predators. Well, this little guy wasn't saying or doing anything. I could have cried. I couldn't travel along the cliff. As it was I was holding myself in position with handfulls of grass and lantana. The son, Mark had come in the meantime and was atop the ridge. He decided to search by going down the shallow southern end of the cliff and then working his away along to the base of the cliff where I was. I, completely soaked through, caked with clay and mud, climbed down again.

Richard stayed behind and I went home to get into dry clothes. I could see the white dot of Mark's tee shirt working along the middle of the escarpment. I didn't want to dwell on the future of the calf. He could've fallen through the thatch of dead grass and not be seen by anyone standing right above him. It was like those fake forests in Tasmania where you think you're stepping onto hard ground and fall through the foliage never to be heard from again.

But this story has a happy ending. Mark did find the calf, about twenty feet from where I had been. It was only about a week old so light enough that the fall didn't hurt it. It was stuck in a clay swale which was so slippery it couldn't get out. By this time Mum had come down from the top and was making her way along the base of the ridge. Mum and calf were reunited. The calf got a drink, Mum got relief. We all got dry clothes and a good feeling.

Matisse never looks me in the eye. I've never met a cat who won't enter into a staring contest, much less look directly at you. And if I was to meet such a cat, I would never expect it to be a Siamese.

Hadn't given it much thought before. Matisse is nearly 8 years old. His shyness has never been a problem. I mean, he isn't shy. He's the first cat to come out and greet visitors. Usually we're grouped around the kitchen island bench on stools and Matisse will jump on my lap to be involved. If we're in the living room he'll make hs way from person to person, not in any obvious way but if you watch him you'll see he'll amble from one person, stay there a while, stroked or unstroked, and then unobtrusively walk over to another. If he isn't doing that he's sitting in the center to soak up the energy. So why doesn't he look me in the eye? If I try to make eye contact he'll look 10 or 15 degrees to my left or right. If I also play that game and face him without looking directly at him, I never catch him having a good look at me. In every other way he is the most affectionate of cats. A typical Siamese. He loves to be loved. He loves to be touched and will often sit at my feet with his tail draped across my instep, just to have that contact. He purrs constantly and marks me with his whisker pads, rubbing head and face on any available body surface. Except my face. He never kisses. Unlike Natalia who kisses all the time and even nibbles my chin or nose.

The only time when Matisse looks directly at someone is at Richard. Every night is the same routine. Richard sits on the couch, Matisse jumps up beside him. He places a paw on Richard's arm and then stares up at his face, asking permission to be allowed onto Richard's lap. If he is refused he lies beside him and tucks his paws under Richard's leg. Most of the time he is allowed. Who could refuse those blue eyes? Especially when they stare straight into your soul.

Thoughts are things. I know that. I don't want to think the quarry into existence but judging by the reams of expert reports and the results of the mediation of the experts held this month, there is a great wall of pro-quarry thoughts to overcome. The noise will be overcome by some architecural alterations on the residences closest to the road in the way of double glaze windows and reverse cycle air conditioning. The destruction of this rare and precious environment will be offset by land purchased at Blenheim which has a tiny patch of dry vine scrub that will be enhanced by planting and protection from cattle, fire and weed. The quarry, all agree, will be economically marvelous. There is a huge need, according to the experts, for basalt quarried cheaply (no blasting necessary) and sold cheaply because the markets will be nearby. The consensus is that the quarry is a resource that the court would be mad to refuse.

I look at land and houses for sale constantly, bordering on compulsively. Try and think that if we lose and the quarry is approved then that means it is time for us to have a new life, a new adventure. Richard is worried about aging and his ability to keep up with these 10 acres. There are some ideal places for sale. Most of them are too expensive but I am hopeful that at the time we need the money, the money will be there.

We have to have some room, even if we don't have enough room for the horses and have to agist them. The aviaries and the needs of the dogs require that we have a good sized block. To contemplate a move to suburbia is chilling but we may have no choice. On the other hand, if we do move to suburbia, we will have access to things that we don't have here.

Gatton, specifically here in the wild outskirts, has been glorious, but Gatton itself is sometimes a little conservative. I'm not a city person but cities do offer the variety lacking in farming community Gatton. And a different outlook. So it could be a good thing. One thing I know, I do not want to witness the demise of that mountain. If we lose, we lose. We gave it the good fight so there are no regrets but it would kill something inside to have to watch the death of that wild and secret place.

Dogs to continue to improve. Both got up from their beds yesterday when we had a visitor. Previously they couldn't be bothered. Notice tiny weight gains. Ribs not quite so sharp as before. Lights in their eyes brighter. Radar even thought he might go for a walk with us in the afternoon. At least he looked interested.

It's just after six. Coffee and cigarette to hand but am torn because the birds, wild and domestic, are starting to call/sing/squawk and I should start the catering. Three days ago I released Felicity. Suki, her beloved (and his name also means beloved) was released months ago. He returned in July, left again and then came back. The bond was so strong that I coaxed him into the aviary for a night of love. The next day I thought, what if? Felicity has tried to fly in the aviary but I was unsure whether she could gain height. Thought if I let her out we'd eventually catch her if she couldn't fly. That first flight was long and low but at the end, with great effort, she did gain a little height and flew into lower branches of the bahinia tree. Since then she's been in the veggie garden silky oak and yesterday in the poinciana where she came down and ate and ate and ate. Suki joined her and also ate. Then they tried to attack poor Byron through the mesh. The fighting and screaming was fierce. Byron gave up and plopped to the ground (he will never fly and with his deformed beak, even if he could fly he couldn't be released). So it's all good. It won't take long before Felicity is as strong a flier as any wild greenie. The first few days of release are always the most dangerous as they might get unwanted attention from a passing hawk - and we've got lots of passing hawks. Just have to find a friend for Byron who looks very lonely in that big aviary.

Meditation. Read an article on it in a yoga magazine and was reassured. Felt that I wasn't really getting any further along with it, that I must be especially ditzy because of thinking so much and reaching a certain level *sometimes* and not progressing any further. But it's not just me. It's normal. The mind might be recalled from thinking thousands of times before it can be retrained.

A few days ago I was having a good meditation, sort of, but I reached the place where I come to a halt. I'm focussed and at a level that is not quite daily consciousness, perhaps Kindy Meditation, and then I'm stuck. I don't think I'm thinking but perhaps I'm thinking because I'm aware of the 'barrier'. I feel focussed but also a little unfocussed as though my eyes are slightly crossed and the image is not quite sharp. And I'm antsy. 'Pushing through' isn't something that I associate with meditation as it is a state of relaxation but there's that feeling of something to be pushed *through*. And the unsettled antsy feeling finally halts my attempt and I come out, slightly frustrated, which is a feeling very conducive to meditation! Another problem I'm encountering is the difficulty in staying with it for more than 10 minutes. Set a goal of 15 minutes and made it to 13. Seems impossible that people meditate for an hour or longer. I'm aiming for twenty.

During our morning coffee on the deck yesterday we heard a woman screaming, screaming as though she was being attacked. Ran over to the dam paddock to see and it was someone, not Kylie, yelling at one of the dogs! I would've bet good money that she was being murdered. Don't know what the dog did but it was obviously a very bad dog. Brought a memory back of living in Port Douglas when I heard a woman screaming in the night, one of those still airless nights when sound carries. I did nothing. Neither did anyone else. Found later that she'd been beaten by her husband and hospitalized. Still feel guilty. Should've found a phone box and rung the police at least.