What you put out is what you get back. I'm slow to learn this key and valuable lesson. Just wrote in Balthazar's training log how I instinctively slapped him when he started to mug with his muzzle on my breast. He pinned his ears and why wouldn't he? I'd just hit him. Not hard. I could've slapped the cats that hard and they'd think I was just showing them attention yet the intention behind it was not one of affection. So I received what I gave.
Richard can be of a dour disposition. In private smiles don't come readily to his face. Sometimes I feel like the court jester capering about in a vain attempt to make him laugh or at least crack a smile. This morning he came out while I was feeding the birds. 'Good morning,' with this cat's behind set to his mouth. I started to smile a greeting but then, being in a contrary mood, I returned his expression and his greeting. He grimaced. I grimaced. Then he came over and gave me a hug. I notice when I 'chase' him for a smile or a pleasing demeanour it seems to have the opposite affect but when he perceives my face as 'set' or grim he's after me, 'Are you all right? You look sad.' So who is to say?
I worry about Richard. Try not to, remind myself that in *this* moment, all is well yet the niggling voice of unease whispers in my ear. As I said, in frustration, when Helen was here, I believe him to be mildly depressed. Depression would account for or be a symptom of the underlying worrying he grapples with most of the time. It would account for his negative attitude. If I say the sun is shining, he says it's too hot. If I say we're going to get some welcome rain, he hopes we don't get floods. If I point out the beauty of a flowering tree, he reminds me that it needs pruning. Perhaps it's only the difference between the way men and women perceive the world. Perhaps I am nit picking. But I can say that I perceive *him* as not being happy, not even content. Sometimes, he is reminded of how fortunate we are to live how and where we do when he sees how most of the world struggles for food, freedom, shelter, the basic human necessities, but those times are rare.
I lost patience with him the other day. He'd gone to get his knees seen to by the doctor who sent him for xrays which showed nothing wrong. His knees don't hurt, they get tired. I believe what he feels is true. I'm not denying that. And I am very proud of him for walking as much as he does. But otherwise, like most men, he does little to preserve his own health. Sometimes I even think he has given up and decided he is an old man. He's only 65. When I see him shuffling his feet, bowed forward like an elderly decrepit I am overcome with sadness imbued with annoyance. When we walk our beautiful walk down a spectacular dirt road surrounded by hills and wildlife, Richard is walking while staring at the ground in front of his feet. We walk separately. I am *there* enjoying the scenery, the feel of the wind on my face, looking for what creatures may be visible that day and Richard is a million miles away thinking/worrying. I used to remind him where we were and didn't he want to look but saying anything just made him cranky and I quit. I quit looking at him too for seeing him staring at the ground as he walked ruined my walk. I was resenting him rather than enjoying what I was doing.
It is useless to try and get someone to live their lives as you see fit. It only makes for friction when they don't comply. I *know* that. I do. One can only set an example by the way one lives ones life and if it appeals to others then great, if not, fine. That is a hard thing to do when married and your life is tied in with another. I get mad when I see him give up. I see the difference when he's inspired. He comes alive. His being is imbued with energy and purpose. But I cannot find him his joy. He has to. When we walk I get ahead of him and then wait for him to catch up, then walk on again. Unfortunately, I cannot amble. I need to stride out. A failing on my part but when I have tried to walk with him our walk deteriorates to a saunter. A few weeks ago, however, Richard was animated about something we were talking about. I can't remember what it was but I had to stretch out to keep up with him. He was alert, energetic, ALIVE. How can I help him to feel alive all the time? How can I help him remove this cheesecloth curtain he has placed between himself and life?
When I lost patience with him, after his visit to the doctor, I told him what I thought, that he must take responsibility for his health, that a doctor isn't going to give him a pill to fix his knees. I know how crooked Richard is from years of compensating for a sore back (which troubles far less than it used to). I see the bottom of his shoes which are worn very differently. I see his left knee larger than his right because that's the knee he always uses when kneeling. I see the natural crookedness and one-sidedness of anyone multiplied and magnified in him. Of course, I see yoga as an answer to help him. I want to share the positive difference it has made to me with him. More, I want the mental aspect in learning how to meditate, the relaxation, the mindfulness, to be a part of his life too. Naturally, I don't have those things all the time. It's a process but I am aware of them and the benefits are more obvious in my life than they used to be. Most of all, however, I want him to find his joy. I guess the only answer is to love him. Just love him, no matter what. And if he chooses to believe the self-made myth that he is old and shuffling and bent over with care, then I must love that too.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Cat Boundaries and an Art Habit
I've been mean and closed the door on Natalia. Natalia the Love Biter. The biter of elbows and chin and arm and nose. A purring chainsaw of pain. Natalia of needle sharp claws into my pillow thighs looking for a comfortable position. Natalia the Scamp. Sometimes I just have to say no to the cats. I am not the Chinese Emperor who cut off his sleeve rather than disturb his sleeping companion. No, I pick them up and move them out of the way. I encourage Nairobi to sit beside rather than on me because she makes my legs look like pages of Braille. When Matisse sleeps between the crook of my knee I have no compunction in rolling him to the outside. He weighs a lot. Having Matisse sit on my legs is like being weighed down by a furry boulder.
It has been raining steadily since last night. Although the cats are totally indoor cats, I suspect they get cabin fever when the rain brings the outside inside as a green gloom. I can almost hear them say, 'I'm bored!' Natalia doesn't usually notice whether I'm on the computer or not. She may come in and check out the bird tv through the window or hunt a wild fly on the pane, but sit on my lap? No, she's too busy. But this morning, my lap was a prize to be won despite gentle discouragement. Frankly, if she quickly found a position and went to sleep, no problem but being a rather large cat, she had to twist and turn and try this position and then that, digging claws in to steady herself. I removed her three times. She was like the boor at a party who just doesn't get it that you don't want to hear the fine details of his trip to the dentist. I put her out and shut the door.
Have finished, signed and framed the latest drawing. It's not pretty. It's not logical. But it has presence. It is pencil. A man's bald but beautifully formed head stares through his cupped binocular hands but the hands are joined at the elbow forming a sort of heart shape. Another pair of hands, striped and joined at the wrist form the bottom of the drawing. Massive shadowy shoulders frame the binocular hands. I should (oh, there's that word!) take a photo and try and get it up here but as I've used the word 'should' of course I won't. If I wanted to market my work I'd do so. It's still the work for it's own sake. These walls don't need any more pictures (although I've always admired the shot of Gertrude Stein's Paris salon which was hung with art from ceiling - and high ceilings at that - to floor) but when there's something on the board I breathe more easily. So I keep working.
Have started another work, coloured pencil. One day I sat in the chaise lounge under the poinciana tree and looked up. The sun coming through the branches, the green leaves and the orange-red blooms was a vision that I can never replicate. Yet I have to try. It's odd that artists know they can never truly recreate nature but are compelled to attempt it again and again and again. How frustrating to see the result of hours of work and know that it bears little resemblance to that golden kernel of joy that inspired its creation in the first place. When I looked up through the branches and saw the sky/tree/blossom/sunlight vision, I knew I would have to try. I'm not a plein air painter. I won't take the pad outside and try and copy what I see. I will try (and how impossible and at the same time laughable this is) to recreate the feeling it gave me when I first saw it. What else can I do?
I have copied many things; drawn people from life, copied images from photos, but the paintings which give the most satisfaction are the ones that come from my head. I read of artists who project a photoshopped image onto the canvas and then paint it in. That wouldn't work for me. In one sense it would seem like cheating, a paint by numbers exercise for adults. Trying to recreate the inner life is what interests me, even if it's only my interpretation of an image I've seen and then scrambled with memory and emotion.
It has been raining steadily since last night. Although the cats are totally indoor cats, I suspect they get cabin fever when the rain brings the outside inside as a green gloom. I can almost hear them say, 'I'm bored!' Natalia doesn't usually notice whether I'm on the computer or not. She may come in and check out the bird tv through the window or hunt a wild fly on the pane, but sit on my lap? No, she's too busy. But this morning, my lap was a prize to be won despite gentle discouragement. Frankly, if she quickly found a position and went to sleep, no problem but being a rather large cat, she had to twist and turn and try this position and then that, digging claws in to steady herself. I removed her three times. She was like the boor at a party who just doesn't get it that you don't want to hear the fine details of his trip to the dentist. I put her out and shut the door.
Have finished, signed and framed the latest drawing. It's not pretty. It's not logical. But it has presence. It is pencil. A man's bald but beautifully formed head stares through his cupped binocular hands but the hands are joined at the elbow forming a sort of heart shape. Another pair of hands, striped and joined at the wrist form the bottom of the drawing. Massive shadowy shoulders frame the binocular hands. I should (oh, there's that word!) take a photo and try and get it up here but as I've used the word 'should' of course I won't. If I wanted to market my work I'd do so. It's still the work for it's own sake. These walls don't need any more pictures (although I've always admired the shot of Gertrude Stein's Paris salon which was hung with art from ceiling - and high ceilings at that - to floor) but when there's something on the board I breathe more easily. So I keep working.
Have started another work, coloured pencil. One day I sat in the chaise lounge under the poinciana tree and looked up. The sun coming through the branches, the green leaves and the orange-red blooms was a vision that I can never replicate. Yet I have to try. It's odd that artists know they can never truly recreate nature but are compelled to attempt it again and again and again. How frustrating to see the result of hours of work and know that it bears little resemblance to that golden kernel of joy that inspired its creation in the first place. When I looked up through the branches and saw the sky/tree/blossom/sunlight vision, I knew I would have to try. I'm not a plein air painter. I won't take the pad outside and try and copy what I see. I will try (and how impossible and at the same time laughable this is) to recreate the feeling it gave me when I first saw it. What else can I do?
I have copied many things; drawn people from life, copied images from photos, but the paintings which give the most satisfaction are the ones that come from my head. I read of artists who project a photoshopped image onto the canvas and then paint it in. That wouldn't work for me. In one sense it would seem like cheating, a paint by numbers exercise for adults. Trying to recreate the inner life is what interests me, even if it's only my interpretation of an image I've seen and then scrambled with memory and emotion.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
A Meditation on Meditating
Meditation is one of the hardest things I've ever tried to learn. The other day there was a point where I think I can truly say I was meditating but it was difficult to maintain. Just goes to show how ferociously unfocussed my mind is. If I *try* I lose it but there is a level of effort involved. It's somewhat like balancing on a knife edge. Too much effort and I'm thinking about thinking. Not enough effort and I'm just thinking. Yet, in that infinite moment of now, when I am balanced it is, conversely, without effort. And it is a very peaceful place; quiet and still although I remain aware of everything around me, including myself meditating.
It is difficult to find the time. The best approach is just after doing yoga when I am energized yet relaxed. Rather than taking the classic meditation pose, I lay in shavasana (corpse pose). Figure if I can't meditate at least I can absorb the benefit of having practiced. The problem is and it's just one of space, is that I share the house. I can't very well ask Richard to bugger off for 20 minutes, especially when it's hot and miserable outside. If I shut myself in a room the cats would be pawing to get in and most rooms are too airless anyway. The living room is the only one with cross ventilation. But it seems Richard knows the time I should be about finished and comes in. I sit up and it's over for the day. As it is, the practice is getting longer and longer. I used to be satisfied with 20 minutes, then 30, 40 and now it's edging toward an hour and a half. I don't begrudge the time. Doing the practice is kind of timeless. It feels as though it takes much less time than it does and I'm always a little surprised when I look at my watch.
The more I practice yoga, the more I see and feel the need to try meditation afterwards. In a way, that's where the real benefit lies. Especially as I'm engaging my mind (or disengaging) in a new and significant way. It's like trying to flex a muscle that hasn't been flexed before. I remember when I tried to learn how to wiggle my ears. The muscles that control ear wiggling had never been used before. I was just a kid then, envious because Mom and Tam could both wiggle their ears. I'd sit and think about wiggling them and that somehow awakened those muscles so that I eventually could move my ears up and down. And still can. So, the *muscle* for meditation exists, it's just never been used before. I trust the more I attempt to meditate, the stronger it will become and the easier it will be to do it. I've even *felt* (oh, how flimsy words are in description!) that meditation space when walking the dogs. I've read of people who can meditate at will anytime anywhere. I know now that it can be done and that one day I'll be able to as well.
It is difficult to find the time. The best approach is just after doing yoga when I am energized yet relaxed. Rather than taking the classic meditation pose, I lay in shavasana (corpse pose). Figure if I can't meditate at least I can absorb the benefit of having practiced. The problem is and it's just one of space, is that I share the house. I can't very well ask Richard to bugger off for 20 minutes, especially when it's hot and miserable outside. If I shut myself in a room the cats would be pawing to get in and most rooms are too airless anyway. The living room is the only one with cross ventilation. But it seems Richard knows the time I should be about finished and comes in. I sit up and it's over for the day. As it is, the practice is getting longer and longer. I used to be satisfied with 20 minutes, then 30, 40 and now it's edging toward an hour and a half. I don't begrudge the time. Doing the practice is kind of timeless. It feels as though it takes much less time than it does and I'm always a little surprised when I look at my watch.
The more I practice yoga, the more I see and feel the need to try meditation afterwards. In a way, that's where the real benefit lies. Especially as I'm engaging my mind (or disengaging) in a new and significant way. It's like trying to flex a muscle that hasn't been flexed before. I remember when I tried to learn how to wiggle my ears. The muscles that control ear wiggling had never been used before. I was just a kid then, envious because Mom and Tam could both wiggle their ears. I'd sit and think about wiggling them and that somehow awakened those muscles so that I eventually could move my ears up and down. And still can. So, the *muscle* for meditation exists, it's just never been used before. I trust the more I attempt to meditate, the stronger it will become and the easier it will be to do it. I've even *felt* (oh, how flimsy words are in description!) that meditation space when walking the dogs. I've read of people who can meditate at will anytime anywhere. I know now that it can be done and that one day I'll be able to as well.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Thoughts are Things
It is easy to be disheartened when tuned in to too much technology. I subscribe to a few *cause* newsletters having to do with the environment and animal welfare. The television is awash with stories about corporate greed, environmental apathy, loss of habitat, species extinction, etc. Although I care deeply about the environment and animals it has come to the point where I delete or another documentary on village life being destroyed by toxic runoff from some mine in PNG. Or just now on Deutsche Well TV, Asian carp taking over the Mississippi River moving in on Lake Michigan. The bad news is relentless.
I started to believe it. Started to believe we are past the point of no return. That the earth is screwed due to runaway global warming and we may as well open another bottle of champagne - and not recycle the bottle. That we have become so estranged from our mammalian ancestry that we treat ourselves, our animal cousins and the earth as though they are The Other, something to be dominated if not eradicated.
Of course this mindset had to stop. Even during the 'good thought' section of my daily yoga routine I was focussing on the negative; help this, stop that, change this. I was getting pretty depressed. Very dangerous. Thoughts are things. As I've quoted Arthur Eddington before, I don't mind doing so again. 'The stuff of the Universe is Mind Stuff'. So you think, so you are. So how does one fly in the face of all this bad news? Being blind to it all, pretending it isn't there won't make it go away. So how to help without succumbing?
By community. I realized that while I am thinking good thoughts, sending out thoughts of loving kindness, there are tens of thousands of people doing the same thing. I may not be very good at it but the intention is clear. I can add my good thoughts to the stream of prayer being created all over the world all the time. I did this and immediately felt better, felt part of a powerful merging of minds to save ourselves and the world. For all the bad news, there is much good news. And good people, people who are doing their bit. I don't have controlling shares in Rio Tinto but I can grow my own veggies, recycle almost everything, live in an eco and animal friendly way and, to save power turn off the darn TV.
I started to believe it. Started to believe we are past the point of no return. That the earth is screwed due to runaway global warming and we may as well open another bottle of champagne - and not recycle the bottle. That we have become so estranged from our mammalian ancestry that we treat ourselves, our animal cousins and the earth as though they are The Other, something to be dominated if not eradicated.
Of course this mindset had to stop. Even during the 'good thought' section of my daily yoga routine I was focussing on the negative; help this, stop that, change this. I was getting pretty depressed. Very dangerous. Thoughts are things. As I've quoted Arthur Eddington before, I don't mind doing so again. 'The stuff of the Universe is Mind Stuff'. So you think, so you are. So how does one fly in the face of all this bad news? Being blind to it all, pretending it isn't there won't make it go away. So how to help without succumbing?
By community. I realized that while I am thinking good thoughts, sending out thoughts of loving kindness, there are tens of thousands of people doing the same thing. I may not be very good at it but the intention is clear. I can add my good thoughts to the stream of prayer being created all over the world all the time. I did this and immediately felt better, felt part of a powerful merging of minds to save ourselves and the world. For all the bad news, there is much good news. And good people, people who are doing their bit. I don't have controlling shares in Rio Tinto but I can grow my own veggies, recycle almost everything, live in an eco and animal friendly way and, to save power turn off the darn TV.
Monday, January 16, 2012
The Dangers of Should
There is baggage attached to the world 'should'. Hefty knapsacks you sling over your own shoulder or bulging holdalls you attempt to hand to others. 'I should, you should', are loaded with much more than the desire to accomplish something laudable. They are loaded gun weapons used to force acquiesence to some scripted life plan. How much nicer is the word 'could'? Could implies free will, free from judgement and the shackling opinon of others, or yourself.
I'm a bad person because I should have done this rather than that. I should quit smoking, be more sociable, be a better artist/writer/wife/woman/human. I should be more tolerant. I should have more patience. I should stop swearing. I should should should. What if it read: I could have done this rather than that. I could quit smoking, be more sociable, be a better artist/writer/wife/woman/human. Those sentences are ripe with possibilities rather than a report card of my failings. And there's a finality inherent in the world 'should'. I don't know why it strikes me that way. I have no logical explanation yet should, rather than being an avenue to new vistas, is limiting. Perhaps because should is used when trying to change someone who isn't ready or open to that change. By using it I am marking out a clear path of behaviour. This not that. Could, on the other hand, marks the start of possibilities, avenues of choice.
I've been aware of the negative connotations associated with 'should' for many years. I haven't been successful in expurgating it from my vocabulary. Yet. I'm better in not saying it to others but I haven't extended that same courtesy to myself. Yet.
What brought this post on? I used should to myself today. Not a big deal. Small potatoes kind of situation but as soon as the word erupted into my mind, a course was fixed, one I purposely did not take even though I could. One might even say I didn't take that course because I 'should'.
I'm a bad person because I should have done this rather than that. I should quit smoking, be more sociable, be a better artist/writer/wife/woman/human. I should be more tolerant. I should have more patience. I should stop swearing. I should should should. What if it read: I could have done this rather than that. I could quit smoking, be more sociable, be a better artist/writer/wife/woman/human. Those sentences are ripe with possibilities rather than a report card of my failings. And there's a finality inherent in the world 'should'. I don't know why it strikes me that way. I have no logical explanation yet should, rather than being an avenue to new vistas, is limiting. Perhaps because should is used when trying to change someone who isn't ready or open to that change. By using it I am marking out a clear path of behaviour. This not that. Could, on the other hand, marks the start of possibilities, avenues of choice.
I've been aware of the negative connotations associated with 'should' for many years. I haven't been successful in expurgating it from my vocabulary. Yet. I'm better in not saying it to others but I haven't extended that same courtesy to myself. Yet.
What brought this post on? I used should to myself today. Not a big deal. Small potatoes kind of situation but as soon as the word erupted into my mind, a course was fixed, one I purposely did not take even though I could. One might even say I didn't take that course because I 'should'.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Addendum
Two days since Drifter died. Dakota still calls for him, trotting from one paddock to another looking. Not all the time, just once or twice a day. The others are more prosaic but they didn't know him as long as Dakota. Dakota was born here. He's known Drifter all his life. He lost his mother last year and now, for want of a better description, his uncle. It's only natural that he'd miss him.
One of the saddest things of this episode is knowing that Drifter was trying to get me to help him. All his life, if he was in trouble, he would leave the other horses and come search for us. Once he split his lower lip. We don't know how it happened but it was a two inch slice that separated one half of his lower lip from the other. It needed stitches. He was in the creek paddock when it happened and came to the fence, blood dripping, until we noticed him. He left the other horses to seek help. You can't tell me horses aren't smart. Another time, two times actually, he was stung or bitten by something and had a reaction. He came out in welts and his lips swelled (after the second time we kept a bottle of histantin in the fridge). As with the cut lip, he came to the fence for help. He actually whinnied until he got our attention. So when I went out that morning and he was on his brisket next to the fence at the closest possible point to the house, I know what he was thinking. We'd help him with this pain as we had always done. Well, we did try but this time it wasn't to be.
After Drifter died, I thought I'd try a technique, bibliomancy, I'd been reminded of while reading an article in Mind, Body, Spirit magazine Issue 27 (which is really one big advertisement for Watkins Bookstore in London). In it the author of the article used the Arthur Conan Doyle books as a sort of of psychical communication wit ACD. (Proof of Survival? Elementary, My Dear Watson! by Roger Straughan, page 28). I thought I'd use it in a slightly different way, opening the magazine at a random page and, with eyes closed, placing my finger on a random bit of text. What I got was this: 'The consequence of this is that we come into suffering.' And then, 'We observe that bodies feel pain, suffer disease and die, so we are convinced that we will die also.'
I was suffering, not from my own disease or pain but from witnessing Drifter's. A small thing perhaps and probably if I'd had Womens Weekly rather than MBS, the outcome would've been different but it still rings a distant bell of synchronicity. It wasn't divination as what I may have attempted to avoid had I known about it had already happened but I still think it's eerily appropriate.
One of the saddest things of this episode is knowing that Drifter was trying to get me to help him. All his life, if he was in trouble, he would leave the other horses and come search for us. Once he split his lower lip. We don't know how it happened but it was a two inch slice that separated one half of his lower lip from the other. It needed stitches. He was in the creek paddock when it happened and came to the fence, blood dripping, until we noticed him. He left the other horses to seek help. You can't tell me horses aren't smart. Another time, two times actually, he was stung or bitten by something and had a reaction. He came out in welts and his lips swelled (after the second time we kept a bottle of histantin in the fridge). As with the cut lip, he came to the fence for help. He actually whinnied until he got our attention. So when I went out that morning and he was on his brisket next to the fence at the closest possible point to the house, I know what he was thinking. We'd help him with this pain as we had always done. Well, we did try but this time it wasn't to be.
After Drifter died, I thought I'd try a technique, bibliomancy, I'd been reminded of while reading an article in Mind, Body, Spirit magazine Issue 27 (which is really one big advertisement for Watkins Bookstore in London). In it the author of the article used the Arthur Conan Doyle books as a sort of of psychical communication wit ACD. (Proof of Survival? Elementary, My Dear Watson! by Roger Straughan, page 28). I thought I'd use it in a slightly different way, opening the magazine at a random page and, with eyes closed, placing my finger on a random bit of text. What I got was this: 'The consequence of this is that we come into suffering.' And then, 'We observe that bodies feel pain, suffer disease and die, so we are convinced that we will die also.'
I was suffering, not from my own disease or pain but from witnessing Drifter's. A small thing perhaps and probably if I'd had Womens Weekly rather than MBS, the outcome would've been different but it still rings a distant bell of synchronicity. It wasn't divination as what I may have attempted to avoid had I known about it had already happened but I still think it's eerily appropriate.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Drifter is Dead
Friday the 13th. Not a good day. Drifter was euthanized this morning for a twisted bowel.
When I went out to feed the birds I noticed Drifter down on his brisket near the fence. Balthazar and Dakota were standing with him, licking his eyes. I stopped feeding the birds and went to get a halter. Colic. I didn't notice his eyes until I was next to him. Worse, much worse, than I thought. Dropped the halter and finished feeding the birds. He was sitting quietly, not thrashing so I had time.
When I slipped the halter on and asked him to get up he did, wobbly and shaking, hind legs spread for balance. I gradually led him over to the gate so the other horses could go out and then we made our slow way back to the yard gate. Thought if he was going to go over then best he go over on the softer ground of the yard. Richard rang Laidley vets. Talked to Kerri. Too busy to come. I came in and rang Gatton (Exclusively Equine) and spoke to Gemma, a vet I haven't met before. Told her what was happening and she said she'd come.
While we waited I kept Drifter away from obstacles in case he went down but he didn't try. He was sweating and shaking. He had haematomas under his chest where he'd struck himself and one eye was nearly swollen shut. The other eye had pus in it. The skin around both eyes on the orbital bones was raw and hairless.
The sad thing is I couldn't sleep last night and heard a horse trotting in the paddock making that rhythmic snuffling sound a horse makes when it's relaxed at the trot. I should've gone to investigate but figured that snuffling sound, and the fact it was only one horse, meant things were okay. I did look out the laundry door and saw one horse, I don't know who, standing quietly in the moonlight. Perhaps if I'd gone to check, he'd be alive.
Gemma came with Nicole as offsider. Led Drifter, dear compliant Drifter, through the stone walk past the bird bath to the driveway. Gemma took his vital signs. Heartrate 76, almost no gut sounds, the pelvic muscles along his spine hard. He was sweating and shivering. After she took his parameters she gave him drugs for pain and mild sedation so that she could tube him with Timpanyl, Lectade (he was dehydrated) and paraffin oil. Before that she did a rectal exam to see if she could detect an obstruction. There was none but she suspected it was more cranial (small bowel) as there was very little manure in his rectum and it was covered with mucous indicating that it had been sitting there for awhile.
When she tubed him there was reflux. He never got the tympanyl or parrafin. Quite a bit of crap was coming back through the tube. She asked would we consider surgery. No, Drifter had Cushings, he was 21 and I didn't want to put him through it, especially as it isn't always successful and it costs a great deal of money. That sounds harsh but with an older horse who has Cushings his life expectancy wasn't great anyway. The drugs were making no difference. I took his heartrate. It had only come down to 72 even with the second lot of pain relief. He was foaming sweat between his ears. His muscles were jerking and shivering. Sweat darkened his neck and withers and hips. He was in so much pain and I couldn't bear to let him suffer. If she went away without him feeling better than he would only suffer until I could get her back again. I asked her to put him down. She did. I held him, kissed him. He was brave and a gentleman through the entire process, even the rectal. Drifter was a gentle soul and although he did suffer and suffered for many hours, his suffering ended,
We've dragged his body into the dressage arena. The backhoe will come this afternoon to bury him. It's always the same with a dead body of someone you love. Drifter is gone, only that beautiful red shell remains. Came in and heard Eliza's Aria by that Australian female composer whose name escapes me. It was beautiful and so fiting to have that play as his requiem. I imagined him galloping free, mane and tail flying in the wind, no human on his back, just the wind on his white-blazed face and long green grass whipping around his legs. Free and young and strong.
When I went out to feed the birds I noticed Drifter down on his brisket near the fence. Balthazar and Dakota were standing with him, licking his eyes. I stopped feeding the birds and went to get a halter. Colic. I didn't notice his eyes until I was next to him. Worse, much worse, than I thought. Dropped the halter and finished feeding the birds. He was sitting quietly, not thrashing so I had time.
When I slipped the halter on and asked him to get up he did, wobbly and shaking, hind legs spread for balance. I gradually led him over to the gate so the other horses could go out and then we made our slow way back to the yard gate. Thought if he was going to go over then best he go over on the softer ground of the yard. Richard rang Laidley vets. Talked to Kerri. Too busy to come. I came in and rang Gatton (Exclusively Equine) and spoke to Gemma, a vet I haven't met before. Told her what was happening and she said she'd come.
While we waited I kept Drifter away from obstacles in case he went down but he didn't try. He was sweating and shaking. He had haematomas under his chest where he'd struck himself and one eye was nearly swollen shut. The other eye had pus in it. The skin around both eyes on the orbital bones was raw and hairless.
The sad thing is I couldn't sleep last night and heard a horse trotting in the paddock making that rhythmic snuffling sound a horse makes when it's relaxed at the trot. I should've gone to investigate but figured that snuffling sound, and the fact it was only one horse, meant things were okay. I did look out the laundry door and saw one horse, I don't know who, standing quietly in the moonlight. Perhaps if I'd gone to check, he'd be alive.
Gemma came with Nicole as offsider. Led Drifter, dear compliant Drifter, through the stone walk past the bird bath to the driveway. Gemma took his vital signs. Heartrate 76, almost no gut sounds, the pelvic muscles along his spine hard. He was sweating and shivering. After she took his parameters she gave him drugs for pain and mild sedation so that she could tube him with Timpanyl, Lectade (he was dehydrated) and paraffin oil. Before that she did a rectal exam to see if she could detect an obstruction. There was none but she suspected it was more cranial (small bowel) as there was very little manure in his rectum and it was covered with mucous indicating that it had been sitting there for awhile.
When she tubed him there was reflux. He never got the tympanyl or parrafin. Quite a bit of crap was coming back through the tube. She asked would we consider surgery. No, Drifter had Cushings, he was 21 and I didn't want to put him through it, especially as it isn't always successful and it costs a great deal of money. That sounds harsh but with an older horse who has Cushings his life expectancy wasn't great anyway. The drugs were making no difference. I took his heartrate. It had only come down to 72 even with the second lot of pain relief. He was foaming sweat between his ears. His muscles were jerking and shivering. Sweat darkened his neck and withers and hips. He was in so much pain and I couldn't bear to let him suffer. If she went away without him feeling better than he would only suffer until I could get her back again. I asked her to put him down. She did. I held him, kissed him. He was brave and a gentleman through the entire process, even the rectal. Drifter was a gentle soul and although he did suffer and suffered for many hours, his suffering ended,
We've dragged his body into the dressage arena. The backhoe will come this afternoon to bury him. It's always the same with a dead body of someone you love. Drifter is gone, only that beautiful red shell remains. Came in and heard Eliza's Aria by that Australian female composer whose name escapes me. It was beautiful and so fiting to have that play as his requiem. I imagined him galloping free, mane and tail flying in the wind, no human on his back, just the wind on his white-blazed face and long green grass whipping around his legs. Free and young and strong.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
In Nature of Good and Evil and The Other
Humans have a propensity to squabble and fight. We look to the animal world as an example of how to live peaceably together, thinking that predators hunt purely to eat and that other creatures fight only during mating season or in defense of territory. Perhaps that's not quite true. Being a lover of all things avian I spend alot of time watching wild birds. I've seen a gang of mickey birds attack a blue-faced honeyeater for no apparent reason. They piled on top of the bird, like players in a rugby scrum, until the honeyeater was on his back on the ground, screeching in anger and fear. Another time grey crowned babblers attacked a crested pigeon, poking out his eyes and pulling blood feathers. That was an awful moment. I tried to catch the pigeon to put him out of his misery but he flew blindly off into thick bush. I hope he was lucky enough to be stumbled upon by a goanna or a fox. Those same babblers attacked a flightless cockatoo we had and bloodied her as well. If I hadn't heard her screaming and driven them off who knows what may have happened? Perhaps they attacked as they thought she was injured and would draw the attention of a hawk. I don't know. But that explanation doesn't work for the mickey birds and blue-faced honeyeaters. When I watch them repeatedly gang up on a blue-faced and drive them away it reminds me of racism. Honeyeaters don't compete with mickeys. Mickeys will drink nectar from flowers, they are mostly insect eaters. The mickeys tolerate Little Honeyeaters, galahs, pigeons, figbirds, pee wees and babblers but not the blue-faced. Is it that that their faces are blue? Is it a colour thing? To mickey birds is blue the black (yellow, red or brown) of the bird world?
All internecine squabbles are forgotten when a true predator arrives. Mickeys, especially mickeys, but willie wagtails, pee wees, magpies and blue-faced will fly screaming to mob a kookaburra or hawk. When the predator is driven off, the birds will resume their feuding.
Perhaps the human race needs an alien invasion to find peace. When I was in school I saw how easily kids could be divided or united depending upon who was named the common enemy. Homerooms competed against homerooms, classes against classes, males against females, even competitions whose teams were formed depending upon the first letter of your surname. Then of course we would be united when competing against another school in sports. There always has to be an Other to hate as common cause. Bananabenders (Queensland) against cockroaches (New South Wales), the Maroons against the Blues. But we are all Australians when it comes to cricket. Or white-skinned Europeans when it comes to Asians or Aborigines.
Yet when the floods of last year wrought such death and destruction, total strangers appeared at victims houses armed with shovels and buckets and brooms. Not just for a day but for weeks. Thousands of them. An army of volunteers. Our Premier, who was a rather lacklustre leader prior to the flood, absolutely shone. She was inspired and inspirational. We had common cause. The Other was the enemy, something we could all agree upon and work to eradicate.
The Other is an interesting concept for it suggests the opposite of the person naming it. The opposite in race, creed, locale, religion, age or sex. The opposite in contrast. Which brings up the nature of good and evil. Something I've never understood. I wonder sometimes if evil exists only because there is good and vice versa. The more good exists, the more evil MUST exist to keep the balance. There is either light or the absence of light. The light may be very dim. It might be difficult to make out shapes but if you can see anything there is still light. Then, finally, there comes a point when there is no light and true dark reigns. Does absolute darkness imply absolute light? Because we have access to global news, Evil is as close as our home technology. And there is so much evil. Homo sapiens is a clever creative creature and when we turn that cleverness to cruelty we are very creative.
Yet we are also very clever and creative in our goodness. As one flourishes, so does the other. Would heaven be boring because contrast doesn't exist? No salty or sweet, no heat or cold, no dry or wet? Is contrast, ie, duality, the admission price we pay to be born, to enter into the richly textured, painful, joyous, confusing and crystalline tapestry of Life?
When I meditate in a vain and failed attempt to know the Absolute, what would I find should I succeed? The Absolute implies One. Non-duality. I am me yet I am also dimly aware of the Watcher who watches me thinking. The duality of existence. The suffering of duality. Yet also the Joy of Being in this frail, confused, rather dim creature that I Am.
All internecine squabbles are forgotten when a true predator arrives. Mickeys, especially mickeys, but willie wagtails, pee wees, magpies and blue-faced will fly screaming to mob a kookaburra or hawk. When the predator is driven off, the birds will resume their feuding.
Perhaps the human race needs an alien invasion to find peace. When I was in school I saw how easily kids could be divided or united depending upon who was named the common enemy. Homerooms competed against homerooms, classes against classes, males against females, even competitions whose teams were formed depending upon the first letter of your surname. Then of course we would be united when competing against another school in sports. There always has to be an Other to hate as common cause. Bananabenders (Queensland) against cockroaches (New South Wales), the Maroons against the Blues. But we are all Australians when it comes to cricket. Or white-skinned Europeans when it comes to Asians or Aborigines.
Yet when the floods of last year wrought such death and destruction, total strangers appeared at victims houses armed with shovels and buckets and brooms. Not just for a day but for weeks. Thousands of them. An army of volunteers. Our Premier, who was a rather lacklustre leader prior to the flood, absolutely shone. She was inspired and inspirational. We had common cause. The Other was the enemy, something we could all agree upon and work to eradicate.
The Other is an interesting concept for it suggests the opposite of the person naming it. The opposite in race, creed, locale, religion, age or sex. The opposite in contrast. Which brings up the nature of good and evil. Something I've never understood. I wonder sometimes if evil exists only because there is good and vice versa. The more good exists, the more evil MUST exist to keep the balance. There is either light or the absence of light. The light may be very dim. It might be difficult to make out shapes but if you can see anything there is still light. Then, finally, there comes a point when there is no light and true dark reigns. Does absolute darkness imply absolute light? Because we have access to global news, Evil is as close as our home technology. And there is so much evil. Homo sapiens is a clever creative creature and when we turn that cleverness to cruelty we are very creative.
Yet we are also very clever and creative in our goodness. As one flourishes, so does the other. Would heaven be boring because contrast doesn't exist? No salty or sweet, no heat or cold, no dry or wet? Is contrast, ie, duality, the admission price we pay to be born, to enter into the richly textured, painful, joyous, confusing and crystalline tapestry of Life?
When I meditate in a vain and failed attempt to know the Absolute, what would I find should I succeed? The Absolute implies One. Non-duality. I am me yet I am also dimly aware of the Watcher who watches me thinking. The duality of existence. The suffering of duality. Yet also the Joy of Being in this frail, confused, rather dim creature that I Am.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
The Emperor's New Clothes
Wonder if other people are addicted to the games that come already installed on their computer. I've just spent the last hour and a half playing them. Disgusted with myself, of course. Got up and started to do the chores and thought, no, I must come back, ignore the damn games and write. Write anything. Write something. So here I am. It's getting hot already. Supposed to get to 39 or 40 degree again today so if I do yoga while dripping sweat all over the mat I've no one to blame but myself for leaving it so long while I played. Perhaps others are addicted but don't see it as such or if they do they keep it a secret as I do. I've been known to get up from a TV program I'm enjoying just to come in and have a quick game of solitaire. I'll write and when I can't think of a word or have come to a natural pause will flip up a game. I think this time, today, yesterday, tomorrow, I'll not play any more but will devote my time to creating or reading or something constructive. That will last until the next time I bring up 'games'.
There, I've come to a natural pause and the urge arises to play. It's worse than quitting cigarettes. Another bad habit of mine that I've come to terms with, more or less. Probably less but I smoke and there it is. When someone points out that smoking is such an odd thing for me to do given my otherwise healthy lifestyle, I flippantly reply, 'moderation in all things' which fools no one. Least of all me.
Why are we at war with ourselves? Rather, why am I at war with myself? I know the correct way to live. Correct is perhaps not the correct word. It implies an outwardly imposed law when the rightness of living comes from within. An inner knowing even if I didn't have the media telling me smoking is bad for me. It's akin to knowing that this person is, despite their entertaining manner and colourful persona, not a good person to be around, at least for me. But I can be dazzled by their glamourous aura somewhat like the moth around a flame. I know they're bad but I can't help but be attracted. Must say, bad is a relative term. I can be tremendously strong and easily led at the same time. That effort to please, to be accepted, don't we all have that? We're social animals and it's important to be part of a group. Perhaps in the dim past, our lives depended upon it. Outcasts wouldn't have survived as well, the pariah dog that others threw stones at and drove away from the fire.
Just read an article by Spengler in the Asia Times about the big con of modern art (http://www.atimes.com/atimes/Front_Page/IA30Aa03.html). In it Spengler compares modern art to modern atonal music a la Schoenberg. He writes, 'By inflicting sufficient ugliness upon us, the modern artists believe, they will wear down our capacity to see beauty.' Perhaps not consciously but there does seem to be this trend to glorify the ugly, the sadistic, the scatalogical, death and destruction. Perhaps it's a reflection of the dark fear of modern man, that we are skating on the edge of self-created destruction. We are the authors of our destruction, we know what is the right thing to do, yet we persist in doing the exact opposite, rather like my small beans game playing. A macrocosm in the microcosm. Humanity seems to have gone collectively insane. He writes that in a gallery we are in control of how much time we spend in front of an artist's work, while in the concert hall we're stuck for the duration. But that doesn't explain why people pay such huge money for crap (sometimes literally). He (perhaps Spengler is a she but I'll use he for simplicity) uses the example of a cow's head in a glass jar covered with maggots *created* by Damien Hirst. It was purchased by an ad executive called Saatchi.
Why?
It's makes me laugh. Really. Richard and I spent months holding our breath as we walked past a maggot-ridden dead horse which had broken it's neck against a fence post. The owner of the horse didn't bother to drag it away. Granted it had died on an inhabited stretch of our country road and as we are the only ones that walk it, probably no one was affected but us (except the dogs who thought it was smelled delicious and tried to drag us over). Spengler didn't write how much was paid for it but having just googled Hirst I see he is touted as Britain's richest living artist for works celebrating death and animals preserved in formaldehyde. Ye gods, a tiger shark preserved in formaldehyde in a vitrine tank sold for $8 million pounds. This HAS to be a case of The Emperor's New Clothes. Doesn't it? I have visions of the 'artists' laughing behind their hands as they collect their money. A huge joke because we believe their hype that if we don't 'get it' we're uncivilized philistines. A title we should wear as a badge of honour.
There, I've come to a natural pause and the urge arises to play. It's worse than quitting cigarettes. Another bad habit of mine that I've come to terms with, more or less. Probably less but I smoke and there it is. When someone points out that smoking is such an odd thing for me to do given my otherwise healthy lifestyle, I flippantly reply, 'moderation in all things' which fools no one. Least of all me.
Why are we at war with ourselves? Rather, why am I at war with myself? I know the correct way to live. Correct is perhaps not the correct word. It implies an outwardly imposed law when the rightness of living comes from within. An inner knowing even if I didn't have the media telling me smoking is bad for me. It's akin to knowing that this person is, despite their entertaining manner and colourful persona, not a good person to be around, at least for me. But I can be dazzled by their glamourous aura somewhat like the moth around a flame. I know they're bad but I can't help but be attracted. Must say, bad is a relative term. I can be tremendously strong and easily led at the same time. That effort to please, to be accepted, don't we all have that? We're social animals and it's important to be part of a group. Perhaps in the dim past, our lives depended upon it. Outcasts wouldn't have survived as well, the pariah dog that others threw stones at and drove away from the fire.
Just read an article by Spengler in the Asia Times about the big con of modern art (http://www.atimes.com/atimes/Front_Page/IA30Aa03.html). In it Spengler compares modern art to modern atonal music a la Schoenberg. He writes, 'By inflicting sufficient ugliness upon us, the modern artists believe, they will wear down our capacity to see beauty.' Perhaps not consciously but there does seem to be this trend to glorify the ugly, the sadistic, the scatalogical, death and destruction. Perhaps it's a reflection of the dark fear of modern man, that we are skating on the edge of self-created destruction. We are the authors of our destruction, we know what is the right thing to do, yet we persist in doing the exact opposite, rather like my small beans game playing. A macrocosm in the microcosm. Humanity seems to have gone collectively insane. He writes that in a gallery we are in control of how much time we spend in front of an artist's work, while in the concert hall we're stuck for the duration. But that doesn't explain why people pay such huge money for crap (sometimes literally). He (perhaps Spengler is a she but I'll use he for simplicity) uses the example of a cow's head in a glass jar covered with maggots *created* by Damien Hirst. It was purchased by an ad executive called Saatchi.
Why?
It's makes me laugh. Really. Richard and I spent months holding our breath as we walked past a maggot-ridden dead horse which had broken it's neck against a fence post. The owner of the horse didn't bother to drag it away. Granted it had died on an inhabited stretch of our country road and as we are the only ones that walk it, probably no one was affected but us (except the dogs who thought it was smelled delicious and tried to drag us over). Spengler didn't write how much was paid for it but having just googled Hirst I see he is touted as Britain's richest living artist for works celebrating death and animals preserved in formaldehyde. Ye gods, a tiger shark preserved in formaldehyde in a vitrine tank sold for $8 million pounds. This HAS to be a case of The Emperor's New Clothes. Doesn't it? I have visions of the 'artists' laughing behind their hands as they collect their money. A huge joke because we believe their hype that if we don't 'get it' we're uncivilized philistines. A title we should wear as a badge of honour.
Monday, January 9, 2012
It's ten after five. I've been awake since 4. Mosquitoes. The hole uncovered in the corner of the bedroom, beneath the cat pee saturated carpet, is a portal for all the blood denied mozzies who sing at the screen door every night. My body was safe beneath the fan but my hands, dangling over the edge of the bed in the heat sprawled posture of insomnia, are pebbled with bites. Damn them. The cat pee? Never a problem until we had the termite men clomping around looking for damage. Since then someone has lost their map to the three kitty boxes. Not always but enough that I've removed two squares of carpet. The culprit remains a mystery. I am pretty sure it's not Nairobi. That leaves Natalia or Matisse.
Today it's supposed to get to 39 degress (104 Fahreinheit). Even now a fine sheen of sweat slicks my upper lip and forehead. I can take the heat, don't like it but it's okay. But I worry about the animals, especially the verandah birds. It gets very hot even with screening the full length and two doors into the house for airflow. The saving grace is that storms and showers are a possibility, especially welcome as we've not had good rain in nearly a month. Only 2.5 mm. The grass is parched and yellow. Of course the danger with this heat and the long summer drought is that the storms can be severe, hail being the most dangerous. I've watched storms dance toward us on the radar only to skip around at the last moment. Today might be our day,
Yoga has unlooked for side effects. Twice now I've stood on one foot while removing a shoe to free it of a stone. Taken the shoe off, shook it and ut it back on, tying laces and everything without ever overbalancing. Two years ago I couldn't have done that. Then there is the awareness of posture. Standing at the sink, one legged, feeling it and planting my legs in a soapy handed mountain pose. Or feeling myself slide down the couch or chair into a teenage posture of supreme ennui only to pull myself erect. The mental or spiritual benefits are less obvious. Getting off dairy foods (except those found in chocolate and the milk powder I use to make bread) because I don't want to take advantage of cows and their orphan calves is one. I do feel better about myself for that. Less guilty. Am I better person? I don't know. My spiritual side gets flattened beneath the weight of ego. At least I'm aware of it, sometimes. I get cranky with Richard and try to let go of resentment sooner, not easy for me who mulls and steeps and simmers in quiet anger that I, ME! should be thwarted, ignored, or worst of all, not be seen to be right. The curse of needing to be right. For instance, we go on our afternoon walks wth the dogs. Fresh air, sunshine, country beauty and Richard is stariing down at the road a million miles away. How dare he not be in the moment, be there with me! So I simmer. Then of course, I am not there in the moment either. I'm stewing. I'm better now at stopping that train of thought to nowhere but not free of it yet.
Found a new blog from which I've asked to get newsletters. Goins, Writer. There's a photo of him. He looks like an Irish pixie. Red hair, round face, looks about 12. But he writes well with fervour and feeling. About being a writer. I'm a toe in the water writer. One book, another half a book, lots of notebooks with stuttering story starts that peter out as soon as the buzz of something new falters. And this blog and the trunkful of journals that I'll reread someday when I'm really old. So really, I've written my entire adult life. But am I a writer? Or an artist for that matter with the dozens of drawings and paintings either on the walls or collecting in the dark folds of an oversized notebook. Or just someone who needs to write or draw when the mood is upon me but that hasn't the spark or drive to do anything about my output. Or to try to be good enough to do something about it? Writing and painting are crafts. I use them as self-indulgences. The urge to write and paint are akin to needing to love. The times in my life when I was between love affairs were times when I felt this overwhelming urge not to be loved but to love. Like I was swelling up and would burst if I couldn't find someone upon whom I could focus that feeling. It's the same with creativity. I get restless. There's the feeling of having to do something, make something, create something. Whether it's good or commercially viable doesn't enter into it. I just have to do it, without judgement (at least at at the time).
Today it's supposed to get to 39 degress (104 Fahreinheit). Even now a fine sheen of sweat slicks my upper lip and forehead. I can take the heat, don't like it but it's okay. But I worry about the animals, especially the verandah birds. It gets very hot even with screening the full length and two doors into the house for airflow. The saving grace is that storms and showers are a possibility, especially welcome as we've not had good rain in nearly a month. Only 2.5 mm. The grass is parched and yellow. Of course the danger with this heat and the long summer drought is that the storms can be severe, hail being the most dangerous. I've watched storms dance toward us on the radar only to skip around at the last moment. Today might be our day,
Yoga has unlooked for side effects. Twice now I've stood on one foot while removing a shoe to free it of a stone. Taken the shoe off, shook it and ut it back on, tying laces and everything without ever overbalancing. Two years ago I couldn't have done that. Then there is the awareness of posture. Standing at the sink, one legged, feeling it and planting my legs in a soapy handed mountain pose. Or feeling myself slide down the couch or chair into a teenage posture of supreme ennui only to pull myself erect. The mental or spiritual benefits are less obvious. Getting off dairy foods (except those found in chocolate and the milk powder I use to make bread) because I don't want to take advantage of cows and their orphan calves is one. I do feel better about myself for that. Less guilty. Am I better person? I don't know. My spiritual side gets flattened beneath the weight of ego. At least I'm aware of it, sometimes. I get cranky with Richard and try to let go of resentment sooner, not easy for me who mulls and steeps and simmers in quiet anger that I, ME! should be thwarted, ignored, or worst of all, not be seen to be right. The curse of needing to be right. For instance, we go on our afternoon walks wth the dogs. Fresh air, sunshine, country beauty and Richard is stariing down at the road a million miles away. How dare he not be in the moment, be there with me! So I simmer. Then of course, I am not there in the moment either. I'm stewing. I'm better now at stopping that train of thought to nowhere but not free of it yet.
Found a new blog from which I've asked to get newsletters. Goins, Writer. There's a photo of him. He looks like an Irish pixie. Red hair, round face, looks about 12. But he writes well with fervour and feeling. About being a writer. I'm a toe in the water writer. One book, another half a book, lots of notebooks with stuttering story starts that peter out as soon as the buzz of something new falters. And this blog and the trunkful of journals that I'll reread someday when I'm really old. So really, I've written my entire adult life. But am I a writer? Or an artist for that matter with the dozens of drawings and paintings either on the walls or collecting in the dark folds of an oversized notebook. Or just someone who needs to write or draw when the mood is upon me but that hasn't the spark or drive to do anything about my output. Or to try to be good enough to do something about it? Writing and painting are crafts. I use them as self-indulgences. The urge to write and paint are akin to needing to love. The times in my life when I was between love affairs were times when I felt this overwhelming urge not to be loved but to love. Like I was swelling up and would burst if I couldn't find someone upon whom I could focus that feeling. It's the same with creativity. I get restless. There's the feeling of having to do something, make something, create something. Whether it's good or commercially viable doesn't enter into it. I just have to do it, without judgement (at least at at the time).
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Haven't written in over a month. Nothing to say which comes, I think, from an extremely mild form of depression. Not clinical but a sort of self-disgust stemming from doing nothing much constructive...then of course I don't do anything which makes me feel worse so I don't do anything which makes me feel worse, ad nauseum. Have started keeping a record of c/t sessions with Balthazar on another blog which is something. Too much time playing games, the usual solitaire, free cell, spider solitaire and mah jong. They are a way to do something while keeping my mind numb.
Then I read this morning a quote by Marianne Williamson, a 'spiritual activist' and author who I had never heard of until now. She wrote, "Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us." It is the fear that once I begin something I must keep on with it. I cannot just languish in the middling ground of existence. I must make my existence count for something. I don't mean earthly success or at least the success measured in money or fame or power but the success of exceeding my own expectations, no matter how little they are. So I pass time (how sad a phrase is that?) playing mindless games rather than raise the bar of my own life. (I suspect others camouflage this urge with alcohol, drugs, food, parties, sex, noise, anything to silence that 'still small voice within' even if it's only for the duration of the game or until the last donought is eaten).
But it is the new year, albeit over a week old. The old games don't satisfy and the guilt and sadness become too burdensome so something must change. Thought a good start would be to blog something other than clicker training sessions.
It's very hot, no clouds and in the thirties. Think I could/should do a quick session with Balthazar (want to start doing more than one session daily) but the thought of standing in the sun defeats me. Even with a hat, the rays cut and burn. Walking the dogs between 3:30 and 4:45 is hot; dogs are hot, sweat runs down my scalp and drips onto my neck, socks are soaked within my shoes. Direct sunlight is not something to be sought out in the midst of a subtropical queensland summer.
Found an old dream notebook full of tiny cramped writing where I've recorded dreams while barely awake. The first one is written on December 4 but I don't know what year. It's not more than twenty years old though because I remember keeping this notebook by the bed in this house.
It reads: "I've been travelling and brought paintings with me to where I stop. It's like East and West Berlin before the wall dropped. I've made it to the free side from the unfree side. My paintings are hung at a friend's. An old man,, a critic, and his young female assistant come to view the paintings. They're in pastel. They're good enough to put in an amateur show they say. But look at this one and this one! Along with my work is work by another artist - in oils and she's very good. One painting is very vivid, a yellow face in the clouds, perspective-wise near, emerging from the roiling grey clouds. In the lower part of the picture are 3 lights, 3 UFO lights. The signature is 3 tiny figures, stylized bare-breasted women. It was painting by a woman. I think to myself how brilliant (I"m really disappointed they only think my work mediocre) and why couldn't I have painted that, then realize I've dreamed it and I certainly can use that one or any of 'her' paintings. I did not go on to a lucid dream from this. At this same place I can trade in books and pay my way. They (Jimmy Barnes) don't want me to pay what I owe in book rental and petrol."
This is like the dream of a stranger. Am immediately struck by going to the free from the unfree, by the superiority of the unknown female artist's work, by the realization that she and I are the same as I have created her oils as well as my pastels and finally by the three UFO lights and the three sylized female figures as a signature. Of course I cannot now recall what that yellow face in the grey clouds looked like but I do remember a few years ago seeing an abstract painting in the background on some tv show and being struck by the absolute beauty of sunshine yellow against steel grey - and how I unsuccessfully tried to recreate that explosive colour statement in a painting.
Then I read this morning a quote by Marianne Williamson, a 'spiritual activist' and author who I had never heard of until now. She wrote, "Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us." It is the fear that once I begin something I must keep on with it. I cannot just languish in the middling ground of existence. I must make my existence count for something. I don't mean earthly success or at least the success measured in money or fame or power but the success of exceeding my own expectations, no matter how little they are. So I pass time (how sad a phrase is that?) playing mindless games rather than raise the bar of my own life. (I suspect others camouflage this urge with alcohol, drugs, food, parties, sex, noise, anything to silence that 'still small voice within' even if it's only for the duration of the game or until the last donought is eaten).
But it is the new year, albeit over a week old. The old games don't satisfy and the guilt and sadness become too burdensome so something must change. Thought a good start would be to blog something other than clicker training sessions.
It's very hot, no clouds and in the thirties. Think I could/should do a quick session with Balthazar (want to start doing more than one session daily) but the thought of standing in the sun defeats me. Even with a hat, the rays cut and burn. Walking the dogs between 3:30 and 4:45 is hot; dogs are hot, sweat runs down my scalp and drips onto my neck, socks are soaked within my shoes. Direct sunlight is not something to be sought out in the midst of a subtropical queensland summer.
Found an old dream notebook full of tiny cramped writing where I've recorded dreams while barely awake. The first one is written on December 4 but I don't know what year. It's not more than twenty years old though because I remember keeping this notebook by the bed in this house.
It reads: "I've been travelling and brought paintings with me to where I stop. It's like East and West Berlin before the wall dropped. I've made it to the free side from the unfree side. My paintings are hung at a friend's. An old man,, a critic, and his young female assistant come to view the paintings. They're in pastel. They're good enough to put in an amateur show they say. But look at this one and this one! Along with my work is work by another artist - in oils and she's very good. One painting is very vivid, a yellow face in the clouds, perspective-wise near, emerging from the roiling grey clouds. In the lower part of the picture are 3 lights, 3 UFO lights. The signature is 3 tiny figures, stylized bare-breasted women. It was painting by a woman. I think to myself how brilliant (I"m really disappointed they only think my work mediocre) and why couldn't I have painted that, then realize I've dreamed it and I certainly can use that one or any of 'her' paintings. I did not go on to a lucid dream from this. At this same place I can trade in books and pay my way. They (Jimmy Barnes) don't want me to pay what I owe in book rental and petrol."
This is like the dream of a stranger. Am immediately struck by going to the free from the unfree, by the superiority of the unknown female artist's work, by the realization that she and I are the same as I have created her oils as well as my pastels and finally by the three UFO lights and the three sylized female figures as a signature. Of course I cannot now recall what that yellow face in the grey clouds looked like but I do remember a few years ago seeing an abstract painting in the background on some tv show and being struck by the absolute beauty of sunshine yellow against steel grey - and how I unsuccessfully tried to recreate that explosive colour statement in a painting.
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