Post 45 of 92

Have just found a way to back up the work.  I'm not motivated or switched on enough to truly get the hang of computers.  And I have a short fuse.  So it's only taken about a two weeks to find a writing software that I like and can actually use and another week to find a way to back up the writing - not trusting that computers won't crash at some point - as they have in the past. 

Bought a USB thingy and can't figure out how to use it - every file on my computer already seems to be there which is unhelpful because I can never find what I'm looking for amongst all these random files.   Often I try and look at a file which has a name which is redundant and there's nothing there.  Or it won't open.  Other files I don't dare delete because no doubt they are necessary to the smooth running of the computer.  Makes me crazy as it's like having a desk piled chin high with scraps of paper.  I'm one of those anal retentive types that has to have a clean workspace to get anything done.

And it all gives me the shits really. I would rather just do what I want to do, look at some sites, write and read emails and not spend hours cracking on with stuff I don't give a fig about.

So I've started another blog and each blog will be a chapter.  Simple really.  Couldn't figure out how to start another separate blog on this site so have found another free blogging site and downloaded that.  Have all this stuff on the blog I don't need and can't seem to get rid of but that's okay.  Seems I do have to publish, ie make public, in order for the work to be saved but as the blog is not being promoted in any way I very much doubt, with all the millions of blogs out there, that anyone will stumble upon mine.  Even if they did, why steal the work?  To be tempted to steal something that something has to have value and this is a first draft of something that I would like to make good but surely isn't now - nor may it ever be. 

So it's a bit of a celebration.

I am putting off doing anything of note because ABC Classical is on with the harpist, Marshall Maguire ( http://www.marshallmcguire.com/about ).  The guitar is fun and frustrating and quite beautiful but truly my first love has always been and will ever be, The Harp. 

Today has been a good day.  I climbed WAY up on the roof, happily not a steep pitched roof like our former house, to saw off overhanging branches.  As the house is built atop a hill with cantilevered decks overhanging the side, I was quite a way up.  I wasn't 'pulled' downward by looking down but I sure did plant my foot while sawing away.  Especially while pruning the last branch which was quite heavy.  Didn't want to let them drop onto the steep ground below as they would be difficult to retrieve - and I wanted to save them for the birds who get so few branches now.  But I really didn't want to be pulled over the edge by trying to hang on to them either. 

Have also attached more thick styrofoam panels to the aviaries.  The difference between bare metal exposed to the sun and the insulated metal is profound.  Nearly burned my hand on the bare metal - and of course the birds are feeling that radiated heat.  But the insulated metal, although not cool to the touch, was barely warm.  Have more to do but not much more gluing, mostly painting although there are still some narrow strips needing styrofoam.  Although the current colour of penis pink is not attractive (that's the colour you get when mixing together all the free leftover paint given by a friend) it is much neater than the brothel mess of fraying carpet attached to shiny insulation paper.  The last of that has gone in the bin.

Looked up when R was first diagnosed with Parkinsons.  May 22, 2013.  The Parkinsons hasn't progressed all that much in 5 1/2 years.  The dementia has.  Know it pains him that I am on the roof sawing off branches, that I am the one that manhandles the extension ladder into place, that I am the one that does the measuring and cutting of the styrofoam (not that I did a stellar job there!).  His ability to communicate his thoughts grows more difficult.  Words are being taken away from him.  Oh, he still has words just not the right words.  Sometimes we are truly at a loss.  Mostly I can guess what he's trying to say but sometimes not...frustrating for both of us.  I prattle on about things but have accepted that a) he mostly doesn't hear me (I no longer nag about the hearing aids) and b) even if he does hear me, he doesn't understand.  But I have to talk still.  Maybe that's why I've started writing a book.

Post 44 of 92

What's changed?  It seems I'm having another crack at writing a book.  That writers group has tickled something into life again.   I used to want to be a writer and for years I wrote and wrote and wrote so that it was as much a part of me as breathing - but always, save for the two book attempts, only and forever journaling.  Keeping a daily journal kept me sane at times when I made a lot of bad choices.  Not sure how I would've coped if I hadn't been writing things out every day. 

As for writing?  When I was with the writer, that particularly disastrous relationship, I tried to write for publication.  Old dried stick writing.  Bloody awful.  Yet my love for making things that weren't there before never died - still do that with art but writing?  I'm not original or intelligent enough to do more than cover the same ground, awkwardly, that others have done.  I used to be able to think about things more deeply than I do now.  I don't read my old journals for that reason (and for the fact that they stink like mildew -shut away in that trunk as they are).

Yet here I am again several thousand words into another world that started with the words, 'the buildings were tall'.  Not a very prepossessing phrase to start a book with but there you go.

Have spent an inordinate amount of time trying and discarding writing software.  Notepad doesn't cut it.  Used yWriter before and remember why I hated it.  After trying it again thought I might check out the reviews.  One reviewer called it 'intutive'.  His intuition must be very well developed!  Write Monkey was another that I used before.  Know I'm not IT savvy but surely directions followed should elicit a successful outcome.  Used Office Libre for awhile but it's really not for novels.  Discovered I couldn't (easily) find a way to start another chapter which started me on the quest for the near perfect FREE writing software.

Now have Freewriter and save for a couple of niggly bits it works well.  It's straightforward and not too weighed down with, for me, unnecessary bells and whistles.  Now if I can only get the backing up onto USB sticks sorted.  Keep getting error messages.  Have bought a brand new one today so here's hoping.  Having lost one and a half books to dead and dying computers I am a Backing Up Convert.

Making no promises to myself about the book.  If I don't finish it, fine.  If I do, wonderful!

Realize part of this is trying to make a life for myself for the future when I won't have the freedoms I enjoy now.  There will come a time when zipping around the place like I do today won't be possible.  I don't give the job Full Time Carer as much thought as perhaps I should.  I'm too busy and it will come soon enough.  Bugger. 

Post 43 of 92...yeah, I know

Well, I'm writing again.  Joined a local writers group and have 'assignments' using writing prompts.  So a story is forming.  Very loose and already full of loose ends which will have to be tied up but must admit it is good to be writing again.  It won't be like before when I would sit down first thing in the morning with a cuppa and punch out 1000 words.  Life just doesn't work like that anymore, other commitments, different schedule - but I am starting to carry a small notebook and a pen on our afternoon walks as that's when the best ideas come. 

It's fun.

No pressure.

Like the guitar.  Have started over.  Somewhere I read that one should use a mirror to help with placement of the left hand.  That however has turned out rather awkwardly as I became dependent upon it and couldn't find the notes without it.  So have put the mirror away and am retraining without it.  It's muscle memory.  Finding the exact positioning of the fingers near the frets; too far away and the note buzzes, too close and it's dead.  Really difficult.  Odd too as a song came on and I grabbed my air guitar and I STILL hold it the opposite way to the way a guitar is to be played.  Thought as I had no bad habits to break I may as well learn to play with the left hand fretting and the right strumming.  But my air guitar is exactly the opposite; right hand fretting and left plucking.  Oh well.

Still drawing too.  Have one I rather like up on the easel and another on the floor waiting for the final touches.  Two people keep insisting I apply to have a show at Art Post Uki.  Thought no no no, as I don't do Opening Nights - get quite anxious and claustrophobic at other people's opening nights.  It's such a small space and it's always packed.  How would I cope if it was mine and I couldn't run away as I usually do?  That is if my work was accepted in the first place.  One makes an application which goes away to be independently evaluated by artists not associated with APU.

Actually got on their website to have a look for an entry form.   I could have an opening night where I wasn't there - but it all seems so childish and precious - and a bit pretentious - to not attend my own opening night. 

The idea of showing my work?  No worries!  Either people like it, don't like it, or don't care either way.  That's fine.  Because as conceited as it sounds, most of my work I like.  Sure I recognize the failings of them but they speak from and to me so I'm fond of them. 

Time to walk Mikaela.

My birthday yesterday and my birthday wish was to take Mikaela to the beach.  A grand day.  She is such a good and funny dog.  She runs and grins and leaps and bounces, crashes into me or cuts me off while running.  But whatever she does she doesn't run away and comes when she's called.  That's with no dogs on the beach.  Not sure she would be so amenable if there was a white fluffy within chase distance.  Hopefully we'll never find out.  Find if we go on a weekday there are hardly any dogs!
Anyway, 63 years old and life is god.

Found!

Just after we got home from walking the street in case he'd been hit by a car I received a text from our neighbours on the ridge above us.   A text with photo.  A photo of Matisse sitting on their wood box, looking sleek and at ease. 

By the time I'd rung them back he'd disappeared.  Disappeared because they'd chased him away.  Or tried to.  To protect the many little birds which live there.  Matisse, people lover that he is, couldn't understand why these people were chasing him around the house shouting.  So he hid.

I combed their hillside looking for him, calling and calling and calling.  My usually voluble Meezer Cat stayed silent.   After an hour I gave up and came home.  At least he was alive.  Whether he'd find his way home or to another house was the question.  To make matters worse we had severe thunderstorm warnings.  I could see muscular clouds swelling on the horizon.  My poor coddled cat.

But we had things to do so Richard and I drove to Bray Park for fuel, intending to carry on to town for groceries.  Then the phone rang.  It was Tina.  She'd found him.  Would we come right away?

You bet!

Poor Matisse was hunkered down behind some yoga mats right next to the house.  He hadn't gone anywhere after all.  He was stiff with fear.  Even his tail was fluffed.  After all that time had elapsed, still a fluffed tail and dilated pupils.  I carried him to the Caddy and we came home.

It's taken him almost 24 hours to return to normal.  His faith in humanity has been severely shaken.  His entire life has been one of love.  Even going to the vets he has been treated with kindness.  No one has ever chased or shouted at him.  He has always been a People Cat.  Loving attention and giving attention.

I thought when he came home he would, after eating, go to sleep.  He didn't.  He stayed alert and on guard for most of the day, only falling asleep in late afternoon.  He was also a little distrustful of me.  Wanted to be near me but not too near.  He wouldn't purr for me until late afternoon.  Happily he did sleep with us last night, even changing his usual sleeping position from the bottom of the bed to the middle.

I lock that door now. 

Matisse is Missing

My darling 15 year old Siamese cat, a strictly suburban cat with no street or bush smarts, cracked open an unlatched door and got out some time during the night.  This is a cat who loves his food and when he didn't turn up for breakfast it got serious.  It's 8:30am and no sign or sound of him.  I am very worried.

Post 42 of 92

Have no idea why I am still numbering these posts as the original purpose (getting me to write regularly) has fallen by the wayside.

Am writing today as I want to record - just in case it is of interest later - just when I started trying to learn classical guitar.  A couple of weeks ago, at a garage sale, I bought a beat up (broken bridge with screws to hold it together) Valencia guitar for $50.   It had steel strings so found a reasonable website devoted to teaching beginning acoustic guitar (justinguitar).  After a few days and excruciatingly painful fingers, realized I didn't have any desire to learn blues or rock or jazz - that what I've always enjoyed is classical guitar - a cousin to the harp - my real but unattainable love.  So off to the local music shop where I looked at $300 and $400 and $1000 guitars.  Then I looked on ebay and found a beautiful (to me) Yamaha G-55 guitar for sale in Brunswick Heads.  With nylon strings and good, to my uneducated ear - tone.

What is surprising is how much I am enjoying this.  It's been 50 years since I read music while taking piano lessons - so that is as good as never knowing.  Yet there is no pressure.  My fingers get tangled, the tips of my fingers are sore - my mind hurts with trying to memorize things but because I can stay on the same 'page' virtually forever, it's enjoyable and oddly relaxing.  A friend said when she was going through a particularly bad time learning the guitar helped her cope with the stress.

Another good thing is Richard.  For a very long time now he wages war during the night, or attends parties with lots of conversation and laughter, or runs half marathons, or practices boxing.  He wasn't sleeping a restful sleep and I wasn't sleeping much at all.  Even bought a cheap single bed so I could have a place to crash after an unsuccessful night on the couch. 

On a punt, reduced his Madobarb by a quarter of a tablet every four hours.  Voila!  He's sleeping through the night and I, although still coping with insomnia, am sleeping better too.  He also said he feels 'lighter'.  Know when the specialist increased his dosage Richard was affected badly, became 'lumpen', even sitting at an angle for minutes on end, or not moving at all during the night - fairly unresponsive during the day too. 

It's only been this week but I notice he's been busy in the shed, doing odd jobs and generally exhibiting more energy - and interest - than he has for awhile.  So life is good again.  Sleep makes all the difference in the world.  Even spurs one on to learn something completely new! 

Post 41 of 92

Have previously written of my opinion that art should be 'life enhancing'.  Not that art has to be pretty or chocolate box or that it shouldn't show the darker aspects of humanity (thinking of Goya's horrific images which certainly aren't 'pretty'), but even within his paintings there is a glimmer of life, of hope. 
 
Came across a quote of Albert Camus' which struck me as something similar only much more eloquently and clearly put.

In 1948 Camus spoke at a meeting of intellectuals for peace.  This was during the time of Franco's dictatorship in Spain.  Quoting from Herbert Lottman's biography of Camus:

'He described the contemporary world of terror, affirmed that art was opposed to such a world.  "In an era in which the conqueror, by the very logic of his attitude, becomes executioner and policeman, the artist is forced to be insubordinate...In the face of contemporary political society, the only coherent attitude of the artist ... is refusal without concession."  So it is useless to demand justification and commitment of the artist; he is committed, even if against his will.  "By his very function, the artist is witness to freedom...."  True artists are on the side of life, enemies of no one save the executioners.'

post 40 of 92

Am finally getting into the habit of spending time in the studio working on a drawing rather than just drawing with a board in my lap in front of the TV, although I do that too. The hard part is getting it to be a habit for Richard too who wanders in with various comments or requests.  Am quietly sticking to my guns (or charcoal sticks) and answering without getting involved in finding this or sorting that or having a look at...whatever it is which might take me away from the easel and back into his sphere.

Don't want to be unkind but really must insist (to myself if no one else) that what I'm doing is important enough to be worthy of my time.  Don't think he is trying to distract me deliberately.  If asked, he would be the first to say he wants me to draw.  It's just that in a practical semse, especially at this point in his life when he has few or no projects which interest him, it is easier for him to get through the day if I am with him.

Sad, huh?

Also resolved that while I can I am going to go out and do things without him.  There will be a time when leaving him alone will no longer be possible.  Last week I spent the afternoon with a friend (lunch and a walk on the beach).  On Saturday I went to a cat show with another friend.  On Sunday arvo attended my first book club meeting which was a novel and interesting experience. 

It is hard because Richard no longer drives and has made few friends since moving here.  He is the best of friends; kind and loyal but his friendship is weightier than it used to be, hence he has no one with whom he is on par.  Do people with dementia find it easier to be with other dementia sufferers?  Do they understand one another better? 

So I am being a bit hard.  Did invite him to the cat show but he didn't want to come.  The book club he wouldn't have attended in any case nor the girlfriend lunch.

It's a tightrope.  Do feel saner and more connected however.  And I have finished a drawing which I like enough to take to the framers so that I can put it in the Images of Uki show.  And came up with a neat name which will cover a multitude of sins.  Dreamshot #2.

Post 39 of 92

Don't know what I'll do when (if ever) I reach post 92.  Start again, I suppose.

Well, have done my bit of procrastinating but as I've been on my feet most of the day concentrating quite hard during life drawing class, I don't feel too bad for zoning out for 30 minutes or so. 

Funny thing with portraiture.  It's hard.  Not funny, I know, but I don't remember it being this hard to get a close likeness to someone.  We had a male model whose finished portrait was a dead ringer for Vladimir Putin.  Another male model who has resembled Jack Nicholson in one sitting and Paul Newman in today's sitting.  Managed to fit in two portraits; the second one looked like a mug shot for a zonked out vampire.  Don't know how I'm getting it so wrong. 

The other week I drew the same (female) model 4 times in 3 hours.  By the fourth portrait I was pretty close - no cigar but at least a cigarillo. 

While Paul Newman was emerging from beneath my charcoal I got the giggles.  David was facing me and he has this look of a slightly impish faun anyway and, knowing how far off the mark I get, he knew I'd missed again.  I could see it in his eyes.  He has to hold perfectly still so I'm trying to hold in my laughter so as not to affect him which only made it worse.  Shirley thought I was crying and came to see what the matter was.  That was the cool shower I needed to pull myself together. 

Even so, despite my repeated failures I am just so glad to draw.  What a privilege it is to make marks on paper.  No wonder early man was driven to draw on cave walls.  It's a magical act. 

Post 38 of 92

Doing everything I can to procrastinate.  The Queen of Procrastination.  A recurring, even dominant theme throughout my life.  It's a form of self-sabotage.  I don't understand why but suspect, when all is said and done, it is fear which underlies this weird action resulting in non-action.

I know a man, an extremely creative man.  He paints and his paintings sell, he composes and his compositions are played in the public arena, he writes and his books are published.  Obviously he is naturally, one could say preternaturally talented, but he is also disciplined.  He allocates time to each of his creative talents.  He says it's because it's because he has a mortgage to pay but I suspect it's more than that.  Being fearful and procrastinating is kind of shitting on the gift one was given.  I'm no genius but I was always one of those kids that could draw - not as well as others in class but enough to get asked occasionally to draw something.  (Colleen Moore, wherever you are, you were the one that could draw - what did you end up doing?  I heard you took your drawing and your flute playing and went to Africa).  At any rate, I admire this man and his discipline.  I also find him a bit scary.  He's as gentle and nice a man as can be but the will which underlies that discipline is iron.  And he's courageous.  Not afraid of failure, not afraid of having a go  - or not afraid in any way that matters.

Joined a new yoga class this morning after a few tryout classes.  This studio has mirrors.  Oh the brutal truth of wall to wall mirrors.  Looking out from behind these eyes, catching my image in the odd window or from the waist up in the bathroom (avoiding the mirrored doors of the closet) I thought, eh 62?  not bad for my age.  Oh, the lies I tell myself.  The mirror on the yoga studio wall...the first class, after the initial shock, I managed to pretty much avoid seeing myself focusing instead on the floor or the ceiling, the instructor or some vague indeterminate point in the middle distance. 

But the truth will not be avoided.  In the scheme of things with war and famine and global warming my body image matters not one whit.  And yet, and yet.  It is everything too for it reflects the person I am - a bit lazy, a bit lacking in will power, a bit sloppy, a lot overindulgent. 

So I decided today to look squarely at myself in the mirror.  I was next to a floor lamp so couldn't really avoid it as I was well lit.  

In my long life I have made many resolutions, some of which stuck, most of which have fallen by the wayside like so many banana peels.  One thing I haven't done however is give up.  So I try again, to not be afraid of what might be beneath this fear, this comforting layer of fat which I use to protect myself from life's hard knocks, and to - what a horrible phrase - be all I can be...or better, be all that I already am.

Oh scary!!

Post 37 of 92

Had a fleeting but profound sensation of the unreality of reality this week.  It's been a week, two weeks actually, of elderly cat dramas.  One having a hiccup after a routine dental and the other having profound and critical pancreatitis for which he was hospitalized for 4 days.  Matisse, the Siamese, has, I think and hope and pray, turned the corner.  Brought him home yesterday, profoundly depressed as he is not a cat who copes well with changes in routine. and being sick AND being hospitalized has taken its toll.  It's been a stressful and expensive two weeks ($2000+). 

Yet, despite or perhaps because of this, while feeling weepy and overly sensitive, worried to the point of feeling sick to my stomach, there was this other sensation, The Observer, which saw this for  what it was; ripples on the surface.  The depths are unaffected.  Save for taking note of the surface disturbances, nothing changes in the Is-ness of it all. 

Feeling that helped somewhat - even though I am caught up in the drama of apparent reality and am reluctant or unable to let it go. 

It's humbling to have your own advice dropped back on you.  At the gym one day recently one of the staff was crying in the ladies bathroom.  She was talking to the woman who oversees the creche and had obviously been crying for awhile as her face was very blotched and swollen.  As I walked past I said, whatever it is I'm sorry.  This woman, not hard and fit and smilingly conscious of her physique, on the contrary wears glasses, is slightly overweight and when she smiles her smile is genuine.  Have always liked her.  While the others seem decorative she exudes infrastructure.

I had my shower while listening to their murmured voices and the occasional hiccuping of a crying jag not yet finished.  Had no idea what was wrong.  It was none of my business but as I walked out I touched her shoulder and said, this too shall pass.

And so it does.  Joy, grief, excitement, ennui, love and loss.  All surface ripples over the serenity of the changeless depths.  Even sick cats.  They either get better or they pass away. 

But I'm glad he's on the mend. 

Post 36 of 92

Just back from Kyogle where we took Mikaela for a teeth clean and polish.  Cheap as chips going to a country mixed practice vet rather than a town small animal vet.  Dachshunds everywhere (vet's wife has 5, plus 2 of her sons that she's looking after).  Reception was clean and simple, no clever tech advertising stuff to sell you stuff.  Felt like home.  Mikaela fine with good breath and squeaky clean ears.

And that's all I've time to write as R came.

Post 35 of 92

Wow, two posts in two days.

Up early, well before dawn to do chores before attending an Iyengar class.  My second.  Went last week and didn't like it.  It's referred to as Furniture Yoga with good reason; blocks, straps, cushions, bolsters, folded blankets, ropes attached to walls, chairs (for some). Got a little impatient and muttered, I hope inaudibly, under my breath adjusting the blocks for the umpteenth time so I could do shoulder stand, a pose I have no problem doing.

The reason I am going today is it seems to be helping my neck.  For months now my neck has been getting progressively stiffer, so much so that I was having to turn my upper body to check for traffic while driving.   Gave up headstands thinking that might help.  It didn't.  Didn't know what else to do save go to a doctor which I have managed to avoid for about 15 years now.  So went to class, came home happy to have given it a try but knowing it wasn't for me.  Except.  Late that afternoon while walking suddenly realized I'd turned my head to look for a bird singing in the roadside and I had almost full range of motion back again.  Still hurt to turn my neck but not nearly as much.

Might be coincidental or it might be Iyengar is popular for a reason.  Even the woman who introduced me said she disliked it at first but adores it now.  Has lots of books for me to read if I'm interested.

One of the many unlooked for side effects of yoga is introducing oneself to the extreme bias of the body.  Never understood how crooked I was, even to how much weight I put on each leg, until doing yoga.  I'd hoped consistent practice would help to make me more even-handed or footed, but although I think it has helped, it hasn't cured.  Perhaps this form of yoga will help.

This is all part of me saying Yes to things rather than no.  More on that in another post. 

post 34 of 92

Posts are getting further and further apart.  So much for a few minutes daily to forge new good habits.

Since writing I have taken part in my second ever group exhibition (the first one over 40 years ago!).  I sold 3 drawings and one painting - which almost makes me break even financially.  But money making has never been the point.  Although I must say selling anything I've created has never happened before.  I've bartered, traded and given away but never sold.  So that was a new feeling.

Another new feeling was winning an award for one of my drawings.  I didn't attend the opening night (hundreds of people in a small noisy venue - my idea of crazy) and although a friend accepted the award on my behalf she didn't remember for which drawing.  Understandable as only seconds before she'd won an award for one of her paintings, had just stepped off the stage and then had to return to get mine.  Slightly giddy I suspect.  Kind of a big deal as our little pop up gallery won two of the 9 awards on offer.

When I heard about it I was happier than I have been in a long time.  Couldn't stop grinning.  And even while I floated around the house showing lots of teeth, I was aware how fleeting this feeling was so tried to extract squeeze suck every ounce of joy from it.

Another friend had a showing at the Uki Post Office (Featured Artist).  She asked for input from friends.  What phrases, words, sayings had special meanings for them.  She would take those and match them with one of her paintings.  I submitted Gratitude and Trust.  She used Gratitude. But there was another saying, which has been helpful throughout my life; through good and bad, through opportunity and disaster.  This Too Shall Pass.

So it was with the joy of winning and selling.  Oh, I lived that feeling, fleeting as it was.   It is unbecoming to brag but golly gee it was nice.

Post 33 of 92

9:27am.  There is a steady rhythmic thumping in the background.  Our neighbours married yesterday.  They are young with many young friends.  The 'music' (I use the term with reservations) went on loudly until midnight and began again at 6:30am.  I applaud their endurance. 

When I took Mikaela, prompt as ever waking me at 6:22am, to the A frame, I could hear the men talking and laughing, fresh as though they'd just arrived. 

The newly married couple had the foresight, wisdom and politeness to warn us and the other neighbours of what was about to transpire with a letter drop.  Otherwise the neighbourhood would be cranky with those 'young people and their crappy music'.  As it is, we just wait.  Eventually - tonight? - they'll wind down and go home to prepare for work Monday morning.

I hope.

Guess every generation is destined to misunderstand and dislike the music of the generation that follows.  This music, as far as I can make out, is entirely electronic.  There is no singing.  The only voice I've heard is what appears to be a question and answer segment in some of the 'songs'.  The accent is on the beat, like a quickened heartbeat, which is hypnotic as the other sounds (not melody) weave in and around it.   At least it's not heavy metal and screaming guitars which, although disastrous for the ear drums, at least has emotion.  This music seems to be a product of our digital age; precise, clean and entirely soulless.  9:39pm

Post 32 of 92

3:56pm.  I have been asked by a friend to contribute a pithy one or two sentence saying to go with an art book she is putting together featuring her paintings.  These words of wisdom have to have something to do with concepts she has assigned.  I wrote back, one word.  She has replied with a couple of suggestions as the word I suggested has already been assigned to another friend and another art work.

There is no problem with this but as I was pondering what to say I noticed that feeling within me, so nebulous as to almost slip by, of anger/frustration/resentment.  Now why is that?  Got it big time when trying to put together that art application, get it frequently when things go wrong with the computer that I somehow have to fix (an imploded modem is easy by comparison, just buy a new one).   Experienced it the first time, that I remember, when i tried to balance a chequebook under Mom's tutelage.  I just didn't 'get' how to do it. 

And here it is again, a wasp's wing of rage, touching so lightly, so fleetingly it was almost gone before I noticed.  Am I so spoiled that if things don't go smoothly the first time I have an inner tantrum?  Have had my fair share of dramas in life and don't get that particular toxic feeling while dealing with them. 

It's a mystery.  Not a nice one either.  Something smelly and sticky under a rock somewhere.  In the meantime, guess I'll keep working on that pithy saying.  4:07pm

Post 31 of 92

4:50pm.  Every day I think about writing, compose stuff in my head, and every day I don't.  So be it.

All in all however, not too bad here.  I've been drawing a lot.  A lot.  Have had a few things on the go.  Nothing nicer than to wake up in the morning and look forward to working on something.  Just about the nicest feeling there is.  Spent weeks on a drawing, overworked it, ruined it, cut it in thirds as thought I could kind of make do with part of it.  Natalia, one of the cats, played with it, walked on it and creased it.  Just as well.  When something is stuffed it's stuffed and just because there might be thirty hours work in it, is no justification for keeping it.  If it's shite, it's shite.

Drawing is a solid ground of joy.  There is something undeniably seductive about making something which wasn't there before.  It's a bloody miracle.  Every moment of every day, I realise, is the same creative process; a word spoken, a thought thought, a meal made, steps taken, always a movement from the past to the future that is never anything but right here, yet creating something tangible from the mind, a kind of testament to the past and future coalescing in a visual record of the infinite now....

Gad, I know what I want to say but I can't say it.  The more I try to pin it down the more elusive it gets.  Suffice to say, it's a gift that I am so grateful to make use of.

And now it's time to take a walk.  5:05pm

Post 30 of 92

8:37am.  Have spent too long reading Maria Popova's blog, Brain Pickings (https://www.brainpickings.org/) and now the sun has topped the eucalypts and is arrowing,  with brilliant intensity, straight into my eyes. 

Ah, but what a refreshing dip of the toes I've had into the admirable minds of writers, artists and philosophers.  Gives me a kick up the backside too for it is too easy to let yet another day pass without making an entry here.

Had a chat with my stepson a few days ago about a practical matter but was relieved and heartened by his acknowledgement of Richard's decline.  Neither son has really spoken of it and although I've said a few things, it is the elephant in the room that everyone pretends isn't there.  Except it is and the elephant has morphed into a mastodon.  Hearing him say that he loved me and that he knew how difficult it has been and how difficult it will be made me feel I wasn't entirely alone. 

I realize how it must hurt them too to see their father change and this only a couple of years after their mother died.  It's a raw deal all around.  Strangely, the one person who seems least affected is Richard himself.  In some twisted sort of humanity, the worse he gets, the less he seems aware of it.  What has bothered him most is not driving.   That he is slowly losing his ability to communicate effectively, that he can't remember names (even of Mikaela who he adores), that even his body is losing it's sense of itself and becomes 'frozen' until prodded into the next moment; none of that seems to depress him.  Rather he is becoming more childlike, happy with the purrs of his favourite cat, with tasty meals, with warm clothing on a cool morning, and a warm bed at night. 

On the distaff side, he digs his heels in about things that aren't important.  We are looking to buy a VW Caddy to carry hay.  I spent 20 minutes yesterday explaining that they do indeed have turn signal lights near the headlights.  Finally found a photo online which showed it. 

I want to include him in decision making but it is getting more difficult as he doesn't understand.  What is worse is not understanding him.  Sometimes he says things to me and it's not that I don't understand the words, but because he can't remember the word for the thing he wants to say, he substitutes another word and I have to decipher what he means.  Frustrating for both of us.

But we're good today.  And that's enough.

Palindrome Post

4:10pm.   If anyone was going to see a UFO I think it would be me.  I spend so much time looking at the sky; admiring clouds, admiring stars, ogling the moon, it seems a bit of bad management on the part of UFOs that a committed skywatcher like myself should fail to see one.  And now, in the age of cheap and available drones, almost any anomaly in the sky will be suspect.  I seem to have missed my chance.  I suppose if some truly remarkable vision akin to something CGI and Hollywood could make presented itself I could accept that I'd seen one.  

Sadly I don't think that's going to happen.

What prompted this was not something I thought I saw but the extraordinary number of people I see who walk while looking at the ground.  Perhaps these people, with their necks tilted at 45 degrees, are thinking deep and profound thoughts.  Perhaps they are thinking of the conversation they had with the salesperson at the supermarket.  What they aren't thinking about is the stagecraft of the world around them.  Whether it's nature or a city street, the world is a fascinating place. And it's big, truly big.  There's enough going on to keep the most jaded observer endlessly entertained.

Perhaps that's the problem.  It's too big and looking up invites a form of agoraphobia so looking down keeps the sensory input to a manageable level.

Whatever the reason, I'll bet my bottom dollar that if a UFO is sighted in this area,  the groundlooking person will look up just in time to see it while I will have just missed it.

Post 28 of 92

4:26pm.  Creativity in art; writing, drawing, daydreaming ... I am so so at.  Creativity in avoidance I am a Master.  I can put off, postpone, ignore, reduce, forget, forget again, all in order not to face up to writing something that might mean something.  Or writing something that means nothing. 

When I remember how my journal and I were joined at the wrist when I traveled I marvel.  It was my best friend, confidante, release and strength.  Even if I didn't write well, I wrote easily, bravely, constantly.  I wrote when I was happy and strong, I wrote when I was weak and distressed.  I wrote sober, I wrote drunk.  I wrote all the time in all circumstances.  I wrote and wrote and wrote. 

Now I am seized up, constipated, cramped and chin full of cowardice.  Why?  I want to know why?  My life is not the exciting life of travel and new experiences.  I no longer ride the crests and troughs of love, but my life still has meaning.  I still have a life of the mind.  Don't I?

What I don't have is uninterrupted solitude.  Perhaps that's the difference.  My journal was my companion because when all was said and done; exploring, working, loving, at the end I was alone.  Now solitude is something rare.  Within minutes of coming in here Richard comes in too.  I'll leave you alone, he says when he sees I am blogging but the damage, so to speak is done. 

That 'pull' is back.  The pull to be with him, company for him because he is not company for himself.  Sad but true.  And the thread is lost and the desire is lost and it's 4:41pm.

Post 27 of 92

4:59pm.  Cloudy but no rain.    Tired but buzzing from an unaccustomed second cup of coffee after lunch.  Unwise for I get the shakes.  Not sleeping again after a good run of good sleep.  What a difference sleep or lack thereof makes.  Everything affected.   Never mind.  Good sleep will come again.  In the meantime, I just keep putting one foot in front of the other. 

My good friend, perhaps my best friend, Matisse, has made a habit of joining me on the yoga mat every afternoon.  He yells until I come get him (have to carry him from the living/kitchen pod to the yoga/studio pod).  Matisse has followed me in here now and is sitting on the second chair.  He is a loyal friend.  Old now.  Bony face, very dark coat, reluctant to jump up on the laundry bench where I used to put his food but still strong enough to open the magnet reinforced pocket door with his paw.  Richard can't.  I can but with difficulty.  We installed the magnets to try and keep him in so he wouldn't gorge on the other cats' food.  It didn't work.  Nevertheless he has aged, as have we all!

Matisse can be aggressive, badly aggressive to Nairobi, although he seems to have mellowed somewhat these last few  years, but he has never raised a paw in anger to either Richard or me.  Even loving Natalia can get overexcited and lash out in play aggression and we won't even speak of Nairobi who can be quite the nasty piece when annoyed, although she has mellowed too over time or maybe I just read her body language better. 

Matisse however is content to be near me, quietly purring.  He loves my lap when it's cool and often sits or lies so that his tail is draped over some part of my anatomy.  Introducing Mikaela into the mix has complicated his life but he has rallied and hisses mightily when he thinks she is crowding him.

I love him.  I hate that he is an old cat now but am so glad I've shared all these years, 14 years? with him.

post 26 of 92

4:58pm.  How I would love to be one of those lucky people who have an ear for languages.  I clearly do not.  Duolingo, bless it, has a new section where little vignettes are told through conversation.  They speak, or I assume they speak, 'normally'.  They speak and the words they speak are on the page so the student can follow.  Occasionally a phrase is spoken and not written so the student gets to practice writing what they hear.  This new section is very helpful and also quite depressing as after how many years of practicing French, I still don't understand it when it's spoken.  Studying has been invaluable in my ability to translate the written word in books, but understanding someone who is speaking French....hopeless. 

Occasionally we watch French films or catch the French news on SBS.   Occasionally I understand a word, sometimes two on a good day.  Even with subtitles I am unable to process what seems to be machine gun delivery.  Machine gun delivery delivered through a sieve,

And speaking?  If I were in France I would be arrested for cruelty in torturing a language in front of native speakers.  Quite sad.  Quite true.

So the little spoken vignettes, while illustrating how little I have mastered the language, are another way to practice and perhaps, improve.   C'est mon souhait.

Post 25 of 92

3:13pm.Well, it's been awhile.  About 6 weeks.  Almost dead in the water.  The computer was down for two weeks after a bad storm but that doesn't account for a month of silence.  Was a bit depressed.  Thought if I can't write the truth of why I feel down, why bother?  But of course it's not just about me and although I thought, seriously thought, about writing the truth of everything, I decided silence...no, I didn't decide, I just apathetically didn't write.

Which was wise for if I do feel the need to spill I can physically write it out in longhand where it remains private.  Marriage or any intimate relationship, is about trust and respect and sometimes keeping secrets.  That's more important than keeping up some random blog.

A friend offered to come and stay here for a couple of days while I go to a yoga retreat or something similar for some 'me time'.  I don't even know what that means.  My entire life is 'me time'.  Sure, there are compromises and company and chores but basically I am leading the life I've chosen.  Then I think, hmmm, what about a couple of days on my own in a hotel on the beach.  No chores, no company, no schedules just the sea and the beach, a notebook to write in, a sketchbook to not draw in and a good book to read.  That would be bliss.

Just looked at a few yoga retreat advertisements.  One of them is across the street!  Another is up Bonnydoon.  Neither of which I would go to.  Actually the idea of a yoga retreat is already too regimented.  Just looked at some beachfront accommodationin Byron, $444 per night.  Can't really justify that amount of money. 

Now I'm just wasting time looking at places to rent in Byron.  Best go do some yoga now as I've seized up after sitting so long.  Sheesh.