Dice living today. First roll said water the fernery which I have done, the next said write here. The other choices were write my Aunt, wash the car (ick!), do yoga, plant the leek seeds in a seedling box, draw (which I'll do after lunch anyway). As I do one activity, I cross it out and add another. I can add something fun or something I procrastinate doing. Dice-ing works on those days when I am not terribly focussed or motivated to do any one thing but have a lot to do. It's also fun and engenders a small thrill of excitement. I suspect that small thrill is because I am aligning myself in a small way with the hidden vibrations of the universe. Too lofty a claim for such a small thing? Perhaps but why does the Tarot so often prove correct or apt for the questioner? Ditto the I Ching? Jung didn't scoff at it and neither do I. There are more things in the Universe Horatio, etc.
We seem to have a permanent population of whistling ducks in the peach paddock. About twenty of them plucking the grass like little web footed lawnmowers. We also have a young scrub turkey who shows up nearly every afternoon to scratch around the gardens. He's very bold and doesn't seem frightened of us or the dogs. If we get too close he scuttles into the long grass but we have to be pretty close before he takes off.
Yesterday, R went with our neighbour to his cousin's house. Her husband died a month or so ago. He was a hoarder of sorts and as alot of his stuff is large and unwieldy R wants to give her a hand. The husband collected Buddhas. R asked if I was interested in having one. Sure I said so he brought home about twenty of them. Most of them are resin or plaster, very ornate and not very appealing but he did bring have a few wooden ones that are delightful. Especially this large (3/4 computer CPU size) wood fellow with a cheery grin and an ample, very ample belly. Loved him on sight. But I have taken a few others. One very large red resin fellow, very complicated with wicker hat, chinese characters (ideograms?), bags and a string of coins I have put in the fernery. He is too fussy to be in the house (too fussy to clean properly either) but his deep red looks great in the green of the fernery. I'm quite chuffed. Also in the collection were 3 soapstone figurines; one of Kwan Yin another of Ganesh but I don't know who the third guy is. I think he's a Buddha but he's different in form, more like an Indian god than Chinese. I've always liked soapstone.
I have had a small wood Buddha here in the office for a few years now. I bought him somewhere in the States at a second hand shop or a garage sale or something. He's a laughing Buddha. He finds life not only amusing but a downright hoot. I couldn't resist him then and I still love him now.
The convex mirror drawing is going well. I am working on the area surrounding the mirror. Decided against trying to copy the actual frame that the mirror is in. Just wouldn't have worked. It has been a very fiddly piece but I have enjoyed it. It isn't as well done as I'd like. I'm really trying to slow down and take the time it takes but even though I'm not rushing through I just don't have the skill to make it as good as what is in my head.
I see the Archibald is on again. One day I'd like to get down to see it. 800 entries of which only 40 or 50 will be hung. There are some talented people out there. Saw some of the works in the packing room on TV. I love it that people still love to draw and paint. I guess I'm just too old and set in my opinions to be agog about some of the stuff which is considered art today. (Still suspect a good few of them are having a wank).
Watched a piece on ABCs Art Nation about the new gallery MONA (Museum of Old and Modern Art). It features the collection of David Walsh. No doubt there are many beautiful pieces in it but what grabs the news and therefore what we see are the more dubious 'works of art'. One is a machine which makes faeces. Put the food in one end and through a series of tubes and beakers the end result are blobs of poo. What an inspiring work! Another was a painting, perhaps a photograph, of people spreading their cheeks so their anus was on view. Inspiring! Another was of beef carcasses hung on a wall. I'm faint with awe! What a load of codswallop! It's privately funded and it does reflect the taste of the collector so if that's what blows his hair back, good for him. But I can't help but think some 'artists' are laughing all the way to the bank.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Non Zen Zen
Mid-afternoon sliding into late when the day has been what it's been and the golden light seals the remains of the day. Last night while lying in bed a cool breeze flowed over my cheek. Such a small thing but it made me so happy. That breeze that touches everything, changes everything and is changed in turn. It is at once separate yet part of all. Again, this morning, on the yoga mat, my humid curly hair swayed in a breath of wind coming through the window. I don't know why this small everyday thing fills me with such joy. It is enough that there is a breeze and I am here to feel it.
I am going out to plant some parsley and spinach in the garden. It is too nice an autumn afternoon to stay indoors. Then I might wash the dogs before we take them for their afternoon walk to dry off. It is such a perfect day.
I am going out to plant some parsley and spinach in the garden. It is too nice an autumn afternoon to stay indoors. Then I might wash the dogs before we take them for their afternoon walk to dry off. It is such a perfect day.
Friday, March 18, 2011
A Fainting
For the first time in thirty years I almost fainted last night. Watching a program about a young girl receiving chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant to repair her immune system. Me, who has assisted in many surgeries, seen blood and guts and protruding bone, eyeballs and viscera. I didn't even know how it was affecting me until I felt a little strange and thought I'd get up, go to the loo, brush my teeth and go to bed. By the time I'd got to the laundry room I was on my way out and took the downward dog position in an effort to get blood to my head. Not good enough so I went and lay down on the cool wooden kitchen floor.
It took time but of course I recovered. What surprises me is that it happened at all. I've fainted while watching Bob Fosse's heart attack scene in a movie made about his life, during the simulated abortion scene in the movie The Other Side of Midnight, almost fainted when reading an article about woman's trouble in the Readers Digest and many times during visits to doctor's offices for shots and examinations (which is why I don't go anymore. Much easier to stay healthy rather than undergo that particular form of torture). I'm 55 years old and still fall victim.
Fainting or almost fainting is the most horrible sensation. My vision starts to fade, my body gets hot, the world goes black and when I wake up I still feel wobbly and unwell but have an overpowering urge to get to the toilet. I suspect it's the body readying itself for flight by flushing out the bowel but wonder at the same time that if I'm getting ready for flight why am I on the ground weak as a kitten? Read some files on syncope and the theory is that it is the body's way of averting danger by playing possum.
Was so relieved to get into bed. Thought sleep would come easily. My face, while brushing my teeth, was still pale and greasy looking. The bed felt wonderful. Gave myself up to gravity and the scent of clean sheets. But sleep would not come and when it did it was restless. Dreamed several dreams. One of which was of aliens. In the sky was a lopsided pentagram streaked like tortoiseshell. It was supposed to be a weather anomaly but at some signal it began moving. We were being invaded! Don't remember beyond that. Another dream had to do with Karla and work and a third was about a horse, perhaps Balthazar. Was going to ride him but was concerned about his discomfort with having a weight on his back. Found a hornets nest beneath the saddle flap. That's a pretty clear message.
This last dream portion is tied in with a partial story I caught on Horsetalk TV about a Russian trainer called Alexander Nevzorov. He is totally against horse sports as cruel, no exceptions, has a petition on his website calling for their ban, which I signed, yet manages to train his horses to do extraordinary things with nothing more than a string tied around their neck. He doesn't believe in bits, bitless bridles or halters. I was enthralled. I, who have taken the whip to my horses in an effort to make them comply with my wishes. Always forgiving horses who greet me the next day as if nothing had happened. Their greatness of spirit is humbling. I am very ashamed of the way I have behaved. Especially as always I have known in my heart he is right. Even as I beat them, I knew how wrong I was to do so. It shames me to write these words. But shame is a pointed prod to change. I now cry when poddy calves are ridden by children at rodeos, I don't watch horseracing on television, I always think of the animal that has given its life to make some kind of burger for the big chains, an animal that hadn't much of a life while it was alive, I think of the animals that died during the tsunami, during the battles in the Middle East, those that were frightened, who lost their homes or their people. I'm a different person in many ways to that person who raised a whip in anger and frustration. Not altogether different but trying to be totally different.
It took time but of course I recovered. What surprises me is that it happened at all. I've fainted while watching Bob Fosse's heart attack scene in a movie made about his life, during the simulated abortion scene in the movie The Other Side of Midnight, almost fainted when reading an article about woman's trouble in the Readers Digest and many times during visits to doctor's offices for shots and examinations (which is why I don't go anymore. Much easier to stay healthy rather than undergo that particular form of torture). I'm 55 years old and still fall victim.
Fainting or almost fainting is the most horrible sensation. My vision starts to fade, my body gets hot, the world goes black and when I wake up I still feel wobbly and unwell but have an overpowering urge to get to the toilet. I suspect it's the body readying itself for flight by flushing out the bowel but wonder at the same time that if I'm getting ready for flight why am I on the ground weak as a kitten? Read some files on syncope and the theory is that it is the body's way of averting danger by playing possum.
Was so relieved to get into bed. Thought sleep would come easily. My face, while brushing my teeth, was still pale and greasy looking. The bed felt wonderful. Gave myself up to gravity and the scent of clean sheets. But sleep would not come and when it did it was restless. Dreamed several dreams. One of which was of aliens. In the sky was a lopsided pentagram streaked like tortoiseshell. It was supposed to be a weather anomaly but at some signal it began moving. We were being invaded! Don't remember beyond that. Another dream had to do with Karla and work and a third was about a horse, perhaps Balthazar. Was going to ride him but was concerned about his discomfort with having a weight on his back. Found a hornets nest beneath the saddle flap. That's a pretty clear message.
This last dream portion is tied in with a partial story I caught on Horsetalk TV about a Russian trainer called Alexander Nevzorov. He is totally against horse sports as cruel, no exceptions, has a petition on his website calling for their ban, which I signed, yet manages to train his horses to do extraordinary things with nothing more than a string tied around their neck. He doesn't believe in bits, bitless bridles or halters. I was enthralled. I, who have taken the whip to my horses in an effort to make them comply with my wishes. Always forgiving horses who greet me the next day as if nothing had happened. Their greatness of spirit is humbling. I am very ashamed of the way I have behaved. Especially as always I have known in my heart he is right. Even as I beat them, I knew how wrong I was to do so. It shames me to write these words. But shame is a pointed prod to change. I now cry when poddy calves are ridden by children at rodeos, I don't watch horseracing on television, I always think of the animal that has given its life to make some kind of burger for the big chains, an animal that hadn't much of a life while it was alive, I think of the animals that died during the tsunami, during the battles in the Middle East, those that were frightened, who lost their homes or their people. I'm a different person in many ways to that person who raised a whip in anger and frustration. Not altogether different but trying to be totally different.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Dream Vivid
Vivid dream after a night of insomnia. Got up at at 11:30 and read until quarter to two. Don't like to admit it for I do believe our thoughts contribute to reality and I don't want to contribute my fear to the fear of the world. Still, with the aftershocks to the aftershocks in Japan and the deteriorating situation in the Middle East the small traitorous voice of fear in the 2012 End of the World scenario rat scratches in my skull. Nostradamous, Red Indian predictions. Even the astrological slant with the beginning of a new more holistic age breathes anxiety. What would I do? Would I be brave, honourable, unselfish? Because I can't answer that question I will describe this dream:
I am at Wilma's house somewhere in Brisbane. She shows me the dim mustard walled rooms with kelly green patterned carpet. See how we've knocked this wall out and moved the bed over there against the opposite wall. Yes, it's an improvement, I say. In truth the house is depressing. It seems cheap and loveless and very dark. Here is Roy, he is falsely friendly, trying hard although it is not in him and social niceties are a trial. For me too. His face is too close to mine and it is lined with age and weight loss. There are three horsemen, two men and a woman. One of the men and the woman have had a fight. She is crying as she wheels away with the men in hot pursuit. I was supposed to follow them home on my bicycle but they are soon out of sight. Why Wilma isn't riding isn't explained although we have all met at her house. I say my good-byes and make my way west. I hope. It is a part of Brisbane I am unfamiliar with. We are near the sea. It is the middle of the night and I am in the columned walkway of a shopping mall. The people of the night wander in the fluorescent light. I don't feel particularly worried. A young man, crippled with some spinal dysfunction follows me. He has one arm twisted up and behind his head. It bends his head forward and to the side. After he follows me for awhile I confront him. I smack him with my hand and ask why he follows me? I am harmless, he says. But he has nicked my watch. He's a pickpocket. I am amazed that he could undo it from my wrist and palm it without me feeling anything. But I grab it back. Beneath it is another watch. Surrounding the dial are pink flowers with green leaves picked out in plastic. Somehow I end up with that watch. I am looking for a shop to buy food or cigarettes or information. I don't know my way home. I hide my bike in an alley and climb two sets of stairs to a lighted room. When I return my bike has been stolen. I'll have to walk now. (In an addendum to the dream I know that my bike has been found although it almost unrecognisable with new handlebars and paint job. How they found it is beyond me. I didn't report it stolen).
I still don't know my way home, what direction I should take. I can't find a major road leading west. They all seem to run parallel to the coast. Or if I see a road I can't get to it because it is on the other side of wide water filled canals. I wander along and meet a young man with black hair and an elfin manner. He doesn't speak English but leads me to a tea room manned by Buddhist monks. He waves me inside and disappears. An old monk tells me to sit down and shoves me into a seat with his hands on my shoulders. I realise he means me no harm it is just his way. Another monk, a waiter monk, brings me tea. I wait for the young man to join me but he doesn't return. I leave.
The dream becomes more disjointed now. I can't call Richard to pick me up as my phone is in the car. Part of me doesn't want to call him anyway. I haven't been on an adventure for a long time and I think I'll walk until I get to the boring highway and then I'll call him to come get me. In the meantime I am in the city in the middle of the night and it's fun to be alone again with no one knowing where I am or what I'm doing (similar to how I often felt when I was traveling in my twenties). I am in suburbia but it is a wealthy suburbia. I make my way through peoples houses. There is evidence of a party in one, people sleeping just anywhere. A woman in a bikini slumbers on a chaise lounge. I walk through the house and come out the other side. There is a deep lagoon surrounded by docks. I lower myself into the water and swim to the other side. I glimpse another road, again travelling parallel to the coast but figure it must eventually lead to another road heading west. The water is crystal clear and green. The sky is starting to lighten. The sun will be up soon and I'm no closer to getting home than before. No dogs bark. The world seems unaware of my presence. I wonder why these people don't secure their houses after dark. If I can get in anyone can. I have no wish to harm them or steal their belongings yet I am an intruder. The nocturnal trek is very vivid. Houses and wasteland, water and sand dunes, children's toys and damp towels, dim light and silhouettes.
I am at Wilma's house somewhere in Brisbane. She shows me the dim mustard walled rooms with kelly green patterned carpet. See how we've knocked this wall out and moved the bed over there against the opposite wall. Yes, it's an improvement, I say. In truth the house is depressing. It seems cheap and loveless and very dark. Here is Roy, he is falsely friendly, trying hard although it is not in him and social niceties are a trial. For me too. His face is too close to mine and it is lined with age and weight loss. There are three horsemen, two men and a woman. One of the men and the woman have had a fight. She is crying as she wheels away with the men in hot pursuit. I was supposed to follow them home on my bicycle but they are soon out of sight. Why Wilma isn't riding isn't explained although we have all met at her house. I say my good-byes and make my way west. I hope. It is a part of Brisbane I am unfamiliar with. We are near the sea. It is the middle of the night and I am in the columned walkway of a shopping mall. The people of the night wander in the fluorescent light. I don't feel particularly worried. A young man, crippled with some spinal dysfunction follows me. He has one arm twisted up and behind his head. It bends his head forward and to the side. After he follows me for awhile I confront him. I smack him with my hand and ask why he follows me? I am harmless, he says. But he has nicked my watch. He's a pickpocket. I am amazed that he could undo it from my wrist and palm it without me feeling anything. But I grab it back. Beneath it is another watch. Surrounding the dial are pink flowers with green leaves picked out in plastic. Somehow I end up with that watch. I am looking for a shop to buy food or cigarettes or information. I don't know my way home. I hide my bike in an alley and climb two sets of stairs to a lighted room. When I return my bike has been stolen. I'll have to walk now. (In an addendum to the dream I know that my bike has been found although it almost unrecognisable with new handlebars and paint job. How they found it is beyond me. I didn't report it stolen).
I still don't know my way home, what direction I should take. I can't find a major road leading west. They all seem to run parallel to the coast. Or if I see a road I can't get to it because it is on the other side of wide water filled canals. I wander along and meet a young man with black hair and an elfin manner. He doesn't speak English but leads me to a tea room manned by Buddhist monks. He waves me inside and disappears. An old monk tells me to sit down and shoves me into a seat with his hands on my shoulders. I realise he means me no harm it is just his way. Another monk, a waiter monk, brings me tea. I wait for the young man to join me but he doesn't return. I leave.
The dream becomes more disjointed now. I can't call Richard to pick me up as my phone is in the car. Part of me doesn't want to call him anyway. I haven't been on an adventure for a long time and I think I'll walk until I get to the boring highway and then I'll call him to come get me. In the meantime I am in the city in the middle of the night and it's fun to be alone again with no one knowing where I am or what I'm doing (similar to how I often felt when I was traveling in my twenties). I am in suburbia but it is a wealthy suburbia. I make my way through peoples houses. There is evidence of a party in one, people sleeping just anywhere. A woman in a bikini slumbers on a chaise lounge. I walk through the house and come out the other side. There is a deep lagoon surrounded by docks. I lower myself into the water and swim to the other side. I glimpse another road, again travelling parallel to the coast but figure it must eventually lead to another road heading west. The water is crystal clear and green. The sky is starting to lighten. The sun will be up soon and I'm no closer to getting home than before. No dogs bark. The world seems unaware of my presence. I wonder why these people don't secure their houses after dark. If I can get in anyone can. I have no wish to harm them or steal their belongings yet I am an intruder. The nocturnal trek is very vivid. Houses and wasteland, water and sand dunes, children's toys and damp towels, dim light and silhouettes.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Japan
Here the sun is shining, a soft wind gently bounces the poinciana leaves and a resident pair of magpies carol love songs to each other. On the northern curve of the planet a small island country is drowning in debris, grief and fear. Of course I mean Japan. Not only have they had to endure an earthquake and a tsunami but now they are faced with the possibility of a nuclear meltdown from two different sites. It is unprecedented. They are talking about 10,000 people missing but I suspect the figure will be much much more. Whole villages have disappeared. They found a 60 year old man clinging to his roof 15 miles out to sea. His wife was swept away. Before his eyes. The immensity of the disaster is so huge that relief workers can't even get in to the places where they are most needed.
It is a reminder to us how brief and precarious life is. R and I were taking our whippet-led 6km walk yesterday at dusk discussing it. A local resident died a week ago, drove his truck into a dam. Was he accident-prone, drunk, suicidal? No one knows. But it was unexpected. He lived alone, no pets, not particularly well liked. He was actually a bit creepy. At least I found him so. He struck me as a man who would have creepy magazines in his bedroom. Perhaps I am being unfair and he was religious and honourable and misunderstood. But he's dead. Unexpectedly dead. As are those unfortunate souls in Grantham, in Christchurch and now Sendai and beyond. I got rather fierce in discussing this because all of us, me included, live as though we will live forever. We won't. But and it's a big BUT, as long as we have breath, we have the greatest miracle. In all the billions that have come and expired before us and those billions that will come and expire after us WE are the lucky ones. We breathe. How can anything truly bother us as long as we breathe? The things I get upset about, the things that depress or annoy me, what of them? They are nothing for I, out of all the billions, I breathe. That very fact is a miracle beyond miracles. And I am so so grateful. The dead of Japan have stopped breathing, for them the miracle of this place, this planet, this time, has stopped.
It is a reminder to us how brief and precarious life is. R and I were taking our whippet-led 6km walk yesterday at dusk discussing it. A local resident died a week ago, drove his truck into a dam. Was he accident-prone, drunk, suicidal? No one knows. But it was unexpected. He lived alone, no pets, not particularly well liked. He was actually a bit creepy. At least I found him so. He struck me as a man who would have creepy magazines in his bedroom. Perhaps I am being unfair and he was religious and honourable and misunderstood. But he's dead. Unexpectedly dead. As are those unfortunate souls in Grantham, in Christchurch and now Sendai and beyond. I got rather fierce in discussing this because all of us, me included, live as though we will live forever. We won't. But and it's a big BUT, as long as we have breath, we have the greatest miracle. In all the billions that have come and expired before us and those billions that will come and expire after us WE are the lucky ones. We breathe. How can anything truly bother us as long as we breathe? The things I get upset about, the things that depress or annoy me, what of them? They are nothing for I, out of all the billions, I breathe. That very fact is a miracle beyond miracles. And I am so so grateful. The dead of Japan have stopped breathing, for them the miracle of this place, this planet, this time, has stopped.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
It is Saturday evening. I'm on my second glass of red. R is in the shower. Outside it is blustery and cool, overcast with clouds that despite their threatening demeanor have not let go with their belly full of rain. It has been a good day. Not remarkable. R asked the other day what I was going to do with that particular day and I answered the same as usual, nothing special. But it is all special - if I can regard it as such. It's all in the mind, in the attitude of the mind. I can see this present life as limited and boring and unproductive or as the opposite; limitless, exciting and creative. Yes, the routine is basically the same. Get up between 5 and 6:30 am, feed the cats. That's the first priority. If that isn't done nothing else is possible. Put the kettle one, make the coffee, use the mixture of hot and cold (previously boiled) water to make the lorikeet food. I am down to three coop cups now so it seems easy. Measure out seed for Jack, measure out coccivet for whomever needs it (as of today the galahs and Jack still as he was off his food as mentioned in a previous post). Go outside, greet the dogs, put out wild bird seed for the galahs waiting on the overhead wires. Greet Jack, Marvin and all the birds. Do the c/t with Jack, put the food out, let the horses out into the dam paddock. By this time R might be up and taking up the dogs for their morning constitutional. If R hasn't surfaced by 7 I take the dogs for they are standing there with their legs metaphorically crossed and a strained look on their sweet whippet faces. (Radar this morning left two huge poos after having his usual walk yesterday afternoon in which he did one - plus two that morning - and they stunk! Had to hose then slosh disinfectant around. Suspect the treat of a bone each did the trick). Anyway, then back inside, swig a mouthful of coffee then head to the verandah to do some c/t with Dimitri (more about him later) and then when that's done to let the little birds out. Found that Dimitri will not participate if Tony is cavorting around. Then and only then can I sit with R and have our morning cuppa.
After letting Natalia out of the bathroom of course. She has to be fed separately as she's on CD for her urine. Matisse is fed on top of the fridge and Nairobi in the usual cat dish in the usual cat dish place beside the dish cupboard. Matisse and Nairobi, almost 7 and 8 years respectively, have become somewhat portly. It is especially important that Nairobi retain a svelte figure as she has only three legs. One was amputated because she blew her cruciate. If she blew the other one because it was strained with too much weight, and it is taking the entire weight of her hindquarter, we would have no choice but to euthanise her. Matisse, being a Siamese, had remained slim until the arrival of Natalia. Then we noticed he was eating his food, Nairobi's food and then Natalia's. He got quite thick through the middle and looked much like a watermelon with a pimple on one end.
So that's the morning, every morning seven days a weeks, 365 days a year and I wouldn't have it any other way. Yes, some mornings I think oh bloody routine but once I step outside under that big sky with the birds singing and the freshness of morning seeping through my skin I am okay. It is a privilege.
About Dimitri. I am working towards getting him to drop the plastic toy in my hand rather than the dish. Every time I work with him (twice daily) I have to court him to come closer. He is always wary, always on high alert. But it does get easier. Once he's dropped the toy in the dish the first time he usually gets braver and will take the treat standing quite close to me. It has been almost two years since he came and the trust is increasing with painful slowness- but it is better. He needs all the time he needs. I love him and am quite happy to work at a pace he's comfortable with. I should have another 30 or 40 years at least. If it takes that long to win his trust, it takes that long.
Tony, the former surgery budgerigar, has learned to say 'Pretty bird'. I am thrilled. We've had talking cockatoos. Jack talks. His repertoire is limited but he does talk. But I have never had a bird that I learned to speak from me. I know Tony doesn't know what he's saying. He only mimics what he hears but when he's perched on my shoulder and speaks in his tiny tinny voice, pretty bird, I am very pleased. It is such an odd thing. I never understood why people wanted talking birds. Having a bird in your life is fascinating/entertaining enough but there he is, half a normal budgie size, nibbling on my ear, clicking and whistling and then saying, oh there it is again! "Pretty bird!" I am undone.
After letting Natalia out of the bathroom of course. She has to be fed separately as she's on CD for her urine. Matisse is fed on top of the fridge and Nairobi in the usual cat dish in the usual cat dish place beside the dish cupboard. Matisse and Nairobi, almost 7 and 8 years respectively, have become somewhat portly. It is especially important that Nairobi retain a svelte figure as she has only three legs. One was amputated because she blew her cruciate. If she blew the other one because it was strained with too much weight, and it is taking the entire weight of her hindquarter, we would have no choice but to euthanise her. Matisse, being a Siamese, had remained slim until the arrival of Natalia. Then we noticed he was eating his food, Nairobi's food and then Natalia's. He got quite thick through the middle and looked much like a watermelon with a pimple on one end.
So that's the morning, every morning seven days a weeks, 365 days a year and I wouldn't have it any other way. Yes, some mornings I think oh bloody routine but once I step outside under that big sky with the birds singing and the freshness of morning seeping through my skin I am okay. It is a privilege.
About Dimitri. I am working towards getting him to drop the plastic toy in my hand rather than the dish. Every time I work with him (twice daily) I have to court him to come closer. He is always wary, always on high alert. But it does get easier. Once he's dropped the toy in the dish the first time he usually gets braver and will take the treat standing quite close to me. It has been almost two years since he came and the trust is increasing with painful slowness- but it is better. He needs all the time he needs. I love him and am quite happy to work at a pace he's comfortable with. I should have another 30 or 40 years at least. If it takes that long to win his trust, it takes that long.
Tony, the former surgery budgerigar, has learned to say 'Pretty bird'. I am thrilled. We've had talking cockatoos. Jack talks. His repertoire is limited but he does talk. But I have never had a bird that I learned to speak from me. I know Tony doesn't know what he's saying. He only mimics what he hears but when he's perched on my shoulder and speaks in his tiny tinny voice, pretty bird, I am very pleased. It is such an odd thing. I never understood why people wanted talking birds. Having a bird in your life is fascinating/entertaining enough but there he is, half a normal budgie size, nibbling on my ear, clicking and whistling and then saying, oh there it is again! "Pretty bird!" I am undone.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Dreamed a cockatoo dream. It was dark or near dark. I was reclining on something when a bird landed on my chest. It was big. It was a cockatoo. Because I have a healthy fear of their beaks I quickly wrapped my hands around its body and placed it on the floor. It climbed back. Then the lights came on and I saw it was a one-eyed cockatoo that Karen had worked on. It was a nice, non-biting bird. That's all I remember. In real life Karen has not removed the eye of a cockatoo to my knowledge. It would be nice to know the meaning of this dream. I assume it's related to Jack somehow.
Jack is progressing. He's fascinated with R and is less aggressive with me even allowing me to pet him a little. He wants to come in the house, making his way to the deck at any opportunity. Yesterday I thought I'd bring him inside but he saw Natalia waiting just inside the door and started to panic so I didn't pursue it. Makes me think he was a house bird. Would love to know what his early life was like. He laughs, says hello, hello cocky and scratch. The other day he said 'what are you doing?' but hasn't said it since. Why did a talking bird that doesn't know he can fly end up walking beside the road on the Sunshine Coast?
This morning Jack hesitated as usual when I first went in with the target stick and sunflower seeds. I cut the time I waited to less than five seconds. Fed the greenies (Suki is still doing well as a free bird but until he leaves he is getting supplement food) then tried him again. As usual, he attacked the stick the first time. The other three times he just mouthed it. It helps that I ignore the savageness of that first bite. I want him to bite it, it doesn't matter whether he attacks or mouths it. Put his seed in afterwards - all the normal routine except he didn't go and eat breakfast. Instead he came to the front of the aviary. Let him out and he made his way to the deck. We still have the t-stand so we put him on that while we had our coffee. He seemed content. He showed off a little with his little wave and his wing and head flipping. Afterwards he was returned to the aviary and he went and ate. Noticed his poo was a little sloppy, a little mixed so have put coccivet in the water.
Working on another convex mirror image drawing. Liked my first one, liked the concept and the look. Love Escher's work. One problem I'm having, besides the usual lack of technical expertise, is that I can't SEE. Am working on my reflection and I can't see the details well enough to get a good likeness. Ditto details in the background where the mirror picks up objects in the distance. Have to use artistic license in cutting out and rearranging things a bit of course but I am forced to cut a little more than I'd like because I can't see it well enough to sketch it.
I do love seeing a drawing emerge. It's a long way from being finished. Getting the perspective right was very hard - it's still not quite correct but close enough to live with. Practice will improve my technique but it is frustrating to see something right there and not be able to duplicate it. My hand doesn't shake. For most of the drawing I can see details, yet the ability to get those details down eludes me.
Yesterday P was supposed to visit for a coffee. The flood destroyed fence was being repaired by his employee and a guest and P thought he'd drop in while they were there. I chickened out. At 55 one would think I'd be easier with company but company still makes me nervous so I wrote him and said R would be away until early afternoon, assuming, correctly as it turned out, that he would defer a visit until R was home. It's not that I am worried about being alone with him or what the neighbours would think - I just am a better hostess with the buffer of R to help. Not with N when she was visiting. Seeing her was easy. It was as though she'd never left. We kind of picked up where we left off. She hasn't changed and neither, I guess, have I.
Jack is progressing. He's fascinated with R and is less aggressive with me even allowing me to pet him a little. He wants to come in the house, making his way to the deck at any opportunity. Yesterday I thought I'd bring him inside but he saw Natalia waiting just inside the door and started to panic so I didn't pursue it. Makes me think he was a house bird. Would love to know what his early life was like. He laughs, says hello, hello cocky and scratch. The other day he said 'what are you doing?' but hasn't said it since. Why did a talking bird that doesn't know he can fly end up walking beside the road on the Sunshine Coast?
This morning Jack hesitated as usual when I first went in with the target stick and sunflower seeds. I cut the time I waited to less than five seconds. Fed the greenies (Suki is still doing well as a free bird but until he leaves he is getting supplement food) then tried him again. As usual, he attacked the stick the first time. The other three times he just mouthed it. It helps that I ignore the savageness of that first bite. I want him to bite it, it doesn't matter whether he attacks or mouths it. Put his seed in afterwards - all the normal routine except he didn't go and eat breakfast. Instead he came to the front of the aviary. Let him out and he made his way to the deck. We still have the t-stand so we put him on that while we had our coffee. He seemed content. He showed off a little with his little wave and his wing and head flipping. Afterwards he was returned to the aviary and he went and ate. Noticed his poo was a little sloppy, a little mixed so have put coccivet in the water.
Working on another convex mirror image drawing. Liked my first one, liked the concept and the look. Love Escher's work. One problem I'm having, besides the usual lack of technical expertise, is that I can't SEE. Am working on my reflection and I can't see the details well enough to get a good likeness. Ditto details in the background where the mirror picks up objects in the distance. Have to use artistic license in cutting out and rearranging things a bit of course but I am forced to cut a little more than I'd like because I can't see it well enough to sketch it.
I do love seeing a drawing emerge. It's a long way from being finished. Getting the perspective right was very hard - it's still not quite correct but close enough to live with. Practice will improve my technique but it is frustrating to see something right there and not be able to duplicate it. My hand doesn't shake. For most of the drawing I can see details, yet the ability to get those details down eludes me.
Yesterday P was supposed to visit for a coffee. The flood destroyed fence was being repaired by his employee and a guest and P thought he'd drop in while they were there. I chickened out. At 55 one would think I'd be easier with company but company still makes me nervous so I wrote him and said R would be away until early afternoon, assuming, correctly as it turned out, that he would defer a visit until R was home. It's not that I am worried about being alone with him or what the neighbours would think - I just am a better hostess with the buffer of R to help. Not with N when she was visiting. Seeing her was easy. It was as though she'd never left. We kind of picked up where we left off. She hasn't changed and neither, I guess, have I.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Has been a while since I wrote. Keep thinking I'll make a habit of getting on and writing rather than playing stupid games while I wait for some program to load. Have had a busy last week however. Nicki came to stay from Wednesday to Saturday. Picked her up from the airport on Wednesday, spent Thursday with K and C doing art at K's house (although I didn't get much done - must take something in progress next time). Friday we went to a rodeo for N's birthday and Saturday I took her into Brisbane to a friend's. The friend would take her to the airport Sunday morning thus saving me another trip.
Going to the rodeo was not the joyous occasion it should be. I am getting more and more sensitive to animals as I age. Watching the bulls and horses being ridden (or attempting to be ridden) was difficult enough but I consoled myself with the good condition they were in and the fact that their discomfort lasted only a few seconds (or minutes if you count the tacking up with the bucking strap). But then they had the junior section. Poddy calves being ridden by young boys. Everyone thought it was great. There was yahooing, cheering and clapping from the spectators. I cried. Tried not to show it. After all, this was N's birthday celebration and she was so excited about going to the rodeo, I didn't want to ruin it for her or make her feel guilty (she works for the government in NZ in setting standards for animal welfare). Yet I could see their faces. The babies, for that's what they were, were terrified, crying for their mothers. Could no one see it? We were frightening them, hurting them (for those young bones are not meant to carry weight) for our entertainment. Some of them fell as they came out of the chutes. I couldn't look.
Then there were the barrel racers. Girls on horses so soured by the sport that some of them had to led into the arena. And why wouldn't they be sour? They must go at full gallop to the first barrel where they are yanked back and around, then on to the next where the same thing happens and finally the third. When they get around the third barrel (and many fell, some to their knees others onto their sides because of heavy sand) the whip comes out and they were whipped across the finish line. What's in it for the horse but pain? Run, pain in the mouth as the rider yanks back and leans on one rein to get the horse around, flog on to the next barrel and so on. Many of the horses had very severe bits on with long shanks. It was a nightmare to watch. Where we sat I could see their eyes. Eyes rolled back in terror. I vow to never go to another rodeo as long as I live. I know there are standards in place for the welfare of the animals involved but there really is no excuse. It is a cruel 'sport'.
Started the beginners yoga class. Very good. I'm sore the next day although during the class, with one or two exceptions, I don't think I've worked very hard. You should see the arms on J the instructor. Feminine but powerful. She has a beautiful physique. Trim and solid without being hard. I like vinyasa but I also like my hatha. I like holding the poses for I think the effort involved trains the body. Vinyasa feels a bit like dancing (the little that we are doing, we are beginners after all). There were twenty people the first night and only nine on Monday. Don't know what's happened to them. You have to pay up front which would be incentive to keep going. I've been pretty regular at home too. Don't know what I did before yoga. I would hate to lose this hard gained flexibility. I'll never be as flexible as I was when I was a kid but I've surprised myself with the return of suppleness I thought lost forever.
Going to the rodeo was not the joyous occasion it should be. I am getting more and more sensitive to animals as I age. Watching the bulls and horses being ridden (or attempting to be ridden) was difficult enough but I consoled myself with the good condition they were in and the fact that their discomfort lasted only a few seconds (or minutes if you count the tacking up with the bucking strap). But then they had the junior section. Poddy calves being ridden by young boys. Everyone thought it was great. There was yahooing, cheering and clapping from the spectators. I cried. Tried not to show it. After all, this was N's birthday celebration and she was so excited about going to the rodeo, I didn't want to ruin it for her or make her feel guilty (she works for the government in NZ in setting standards for animal welfare). Yet I could see their faces. The babies, for that's what they were, were terrified, crying for their mothers. Could no one see it? We were frightening them, hurting them (for those young bones are not meant to carry weight) for our entertainment. Some of them fell as they came out of the chutes. I couldn't look.
Then there were the barrel racers. Girls on horses so soured by the sport that some of them had to led into the arena. And why wouldn't they be sour? They must go at full gallop to the first barrel where they are yanked back and around, then on to the next where the same thing happens and finally the third. When they get around the third barrel (and many fell, some to their knees others onto their sides because of heavy sand) the whip comes out and they were whipped across the finish line. What's in it for the horse but pain? Run, pain in the mouth as the rider yanks back and leans on one rein to get the horse around, flog on to the next barrel and so on. Many of the horses had very severe bits on with long shanks. It was a nightmare to watch. Where we sat I could see their eyes. Eyes rolled back in terror. I vow to never go to another rodeo as long as I live. I know there are standards in place for the welfare of the animals involved but there really is no excuse. It is a cruel 'sport'.
Started the beginners yoga class. Very good. I'm sore the next day although during the class, with one or two exceptions, I don't think I've worked very hard. You should see the arms on J the instructor. Feminine but powerful. She has a beautiful physique. Trim and solid without being hard. I like vinyasa but I also like my hatha. I like holding the poses for I think the effort involved trains the body. Vinyasa feels a bit like dancing (the little that we are doing, we are beginners after all). There were twenty people the first night and only nine on Monday. Don't know what's happened to them. You have to pay up front which would be incentive to keep going. I've been pretty regular at home too. Don't know what I did before yoga. I would hate to lose this hard gained flexibility. I'll never be as flexible as I was when I was a kid but I've surprised myself with the return of suppleness I thought lost forever.
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