RANT:  Jesus, I just sent the boys (men) and Richard's sister and Helen, a trained nurse, an update about Richard and his weight loss and what is being done about it and I get another fucking email about looking into antidepressant drugs and supplements and low sodium/iron levels and assessment by a primary care team.  What fucking team is that?  

RICHARD is DYING.  This is the reality of Lewy Body Dementia and Alzheimers.  Death is the final result arrived at by the Primary Care Team. 

Again, I have deleted the fucking email.  I am so angry I could spit.  THE END is inevitable.  Why play this stupid game that, his life can be prolonged in a meaningful, and I mean, MEANINGFUL, way with these nickel and dime 'remedies'.   

Helen wrote back and said thanks for the update, good to know.  Nothing from Anthony.  Nothing, so far, from Noelene although I expect Noelene will write soon.  It is her birthday today and believe she is entitled a day to be jolly rather than dwell on the fact of her brother's disintegration.

I'd like him to be reviewed and some opinion/feedback re my points raised on the 04/03... per below

"I've given some thought to Dad's deterioration and certainly I understand that there's a disease process at play, however

I think it would be pertinent to consider reversible causes

1. Depression.... common in our aged population, an anti depressant may be beneficial.
2. High caloric supplementation....
3. Medical review re this decline.... this may identify a treatable cause i.e. pain, infection, low sodium, low iron.... etc etc etc.
4. I understand that the facility staff are looking to encourage increased physical activity." 
   

The above is from Cameron, a critical care paramedic.  Who is perhaps assuaging his guilt for his lack of interest earlier by being too interested now  I don't know. 

So my silence will piss him off but I refuse to do that shit.  There is NOTHING reversible about LBD.  The medicial review is ongoing as he's in the care of his longtime doctor, who is regarded as the BEST in this area, and the RN's.  And he hasn't enough marbles left to be depressed.   Oh it just shits me no end.

End of Rant.

 One of the nurses from Heritage rang yesterday.  Richard is down to 73kg (160lb).  Richard is 6'1".  Coincidentally the night before I lay awake worrying about his weight loss and difficulty in eating.  I buy him chocolate treats.  I ask if he wants one, but he won't open his mouth.  He doesn't understand. On a good day he'll pick up the treat himself but forgets to take it to his mouth.  On a bad day - nothing.  If I can get him to take it, pressing it gently against his closed lips while repeatedly asking him to open his mouth, getting him to take a second one is easier.  The nurse will talk to Richard's doctor and the dietitician but what's happening is...

He's dying.  He has LBD.  It's a natural progression.  Loss of the ability to do anything, loss of interest in food, weight loss.  Dying is natural.  But oh hell, this is tough and will get tougher.  Have already vetoed the use of a nasograstro tube to feed him.  Watching him starve as he dies - who wants to watch a loved one do that? 

 Visiting him mostly consists of me applying moo goo to his psoriasis, wiping gunk from his eyes if there is any, putting the drops in, then sitting quietly holding his hand while he sleeps.  Can't wheel him around the gardens anymore as the bath chair is too big and unwieldy.  Get him outside to the garden but that's all I can manage.  So we sit.  If he's awake I point things out to him, a butterfly, a bird, a flower but his eyes don't focus.  With the rain I've shown him the radar on the phone - which normally he'd be impressed with as the rain is so pervasive - but again, he doesn't look, just gazes in the middle distance.  Often I'm sure he doesn't know who I am.  Now it's getting to the point where I wonder sometimes if he's even aware I'm there. 

I dreamed of a house last night, a new 'used' house.  Under the floor boards were lovely glass teapots with porcelain handles, old blankets.  I had a bed in the house.  I was cleaning out the house, making it ready for me to move into.  Other people were there too.  There was a man.  He cradled my face in his hand.  I felt safe.  I felt cared for.  Then there was Richard in his bath chair.  I thought he was dead but I tickled his foot and it jerked.  Then I felt guilty.

And it's still raining.  Didn't go see him yesterday and won't go again today.  The Byangum Bridge is under water.  Have had over 7 inches in 2 days.  Seven inches on ground already saturated.  The water has no where to go.  Enormous floods down south.  Evacuations, property damage.  And then there are the animals. 

 I'm stuck.  And I'm Sad.  And it's rained every day this month.  But the washed green leaves are pretty.

Being stuck.  The book has been limping along.  I don't have writer's block.  I want to write.  I just don't know how to write the ending.  I see a couple of scenes but have no idea how to get the characters from point A to B and C and finally Finis.  Some ideas came while walking yesterday and a couple of them can be incorporated to round out some of the latter scenes - but no definitive ending in sight.  

Yesterdays 500 words were the hardest I've written.  Like walking in the dark; hands out, eyes straining into the blackness, feet shuffling forward and you still miss the door handle by a couple of feet and have no idea where in the room you are.  

Yes, that's why I'm blogging; because I've no idea what to write today.

On being Sad.  Every day seeing Richard.  He is so far away from me.  He is more connected with the staff than he is with me.  Even getting him to take a chocolate.  He didn't know to open his mouth or take it in his hands.  I  don't know what to do and after putting the drops in his eyes and the Moo Goo on his skin i just sit and hold his hand while he sleeps.  Then I come home and make coffee and feel the tears prick my eyes.  Every day.  It's like a Clayton's Grief.  A grief that is and it isn't.  No end in sight so I compartmentalize because I have to but it never goes away.  But I cry often about everything and anything. I know this long term background sadness affects me.  Inertia, tiredness, insomnia.  But no use whinging.  Just have to keep going.  There is no alternative.

And then there's the rain.  It's so unceasingly wet mold is growing on top of mold.  The ground cannot hold any more water.  Started digging a hole to plant a fig tree and it has been full of water  for two weeks.  Byangum Bridge will probably go under tonight.  Told Richard I may not see him tomorrow.  I don't think he understood but I tell him anyway.  The birds sit in the rain unmoving.  Everybody waits.  I wait.  Mikaela and I walk regardless.  Sometimes I'm just damp as I don't use the umbrella and it's a misty rain.  Other times it's pelting and we slosh through water coursing down the bitumen.  Mikaela doesn't seem to mind.  She gets a towel down then dinner when we get home.  I get dry clothes.  And the coziness of red wine while the rain continues to fall.  

Kind of matches my mood anyway. 

 Well, not much has changed.  He hasn't known me for a couple of days although if he has a 'good' day, I'm sure he'll remember.   Told him yesterday his son is coming to see him on Wednesday.  Usually that news would perk him up but his face remained impassive.  Do you know who Cameron is, I asked.  A little shake of the head.  So I told him of his sons and his grandkids and me.  And didn't cry.  Did that later.  

After my email to Cam about the change in Richard I got a reply detailing all these things that could be done or investigated,  even to antidepressant drugs.  Made me tired reading it.  After all this time, he still doesn't get it - and he's a critical care paramedic.  His dad is on the way out.  No amount of tweaking with drugs or supplements or extra iron or sodium will stave off the inevitable.  

And truly, why does he want to prolong his life?  From the moment he wakes up to the time he goes to bed, he has no freedom.  He can't stand or walk, brush his teeth, shave or wash his face, he can't bathe or roll over in bed, he can't blow his nose or wipe his bum.  Is that the life Cameron wants prolonged?  Richard is clean, dry and pain free.  He is safe.  I say let him go.  The sooner the better.  If you described to Richard at 60 the life he could look forward to at 73, I am certain he'd say, let Nature takes its course.

Still writing but finding it hard.  Not sleeping again.  Even had a short nap yesterday, first time in years.  Know this too shall pass and brighter days will come but despite internal pep talks about how fortunate I am to be who I am where I am and how I am,  things look pretty grim. 

 He's fading, slipping into a world of dreams.  Maybe he's whole there.  His hands move, his feet shake, he jerks, his mouth makes shapes.  

He didn't know me today.  Normally I don't ask.  I asked.  He gave a tiny shake of his head.  He understands but can't be understood.  Speech, understandable speech is beyond him.  I try and get him to take a drink as his voice is deeper, clearer when he moistens his mouth but after today I don't think I'll try.  It went down the wrong way.  It's done that before - too often - but this morning he gurgled.  It would be a small step from a little choke to pneumonia.  

I asked him if he wanted to leave.  Told him it's okay if he wants to go.  He's not near death.  It's not that but he has no life.  Everything is done for him.  He can't turn over by himself.  Can't get in and out of bed.  Can't walk, can't shave or brush his teeth or wipe his bum.  His eyes are mostly closed now.  He opens them when I wheel him in the bath chair - it's called a bath chair this big cushioned bed on wheels - but soon drifts off again. 

 Nabina, one of the RNs, asked how I was doing.  I began to cry.  Told her I'm fine until someone asks me how I am.  

I cry easily now.  Not sleepiing well.  Dark circles.  Tired.  Best time of day is the writing for I escape into another world.  

Like having this dual life.  In the writing life I inch the book forward.  Also see major adjustments to be made to make it a better book, mostly with Tanguy - she has to change herself, not just have external changes imposed upon her.  Finally saw how that could happen - not a deep subterranean psychological change - it is a young adult book after all - but a worthwhile change in learning self-acceptance for at least one facet of herself.

 This isn't a 'worthy' book.  'Worthy' books, and I read a few while in the bookclub, can be boring.   I'd rather it was a good read - or at least as good as I can make it.  

Isn't it typical how life can be so exquisitely satisfying on one level and desperately awful on the other? 

 

 When I arrived at Heritage today, Mikaela in tow, I couldn't see Richard.  He's a head taller than anyone there so even though one of the staff motioned to the group gathered in the living room, I assumed they'd got it wrong.  Trotted down to Richard's room.  He wasn't there either nor was he in the tea nook so back I went to the living room.  One of the staff pointed him out to me.  He was in one of those thickly padded saloon chair bed things on wheels, the contraption where those who are really bad wind up.  

Tracey had tried to head me off at the pass, saying Rachel wanted to see me.  She found Rachel but Rachel was busy with another client.  It was all in Tracey's eyes but I didn't heed the difference.  I just assumed there'd been another 'incident' where Richard grabbed one of the staff by the arm which he does if he feels threatened.  But no, they were trying to warn me of the change before I saw him.

The change has been made because his psoriasis has flared up again and the skin on his bum is fragile.  I understand.  But they have also changed where he'll be fed.  He's moved from the regular dining room to the room where they hand feed them.  I've had trouble feeding him too, having to demonstrate what to do with food by eating myself.  

And then there's the sleeping.  He sleeps a lot.  Yesterday I only stayed with him for a short while as he couldn't be roused.  He'd had another day like that - where he basically sleeps through bathing and shaving and breakfast.  

The major causes of death with LBD patients is Failure to Thrive and pneumonia.  He's failing to thrive now and with the bed thing, even though it can be put in a sitting position, it seems pneumonia has suddenly become a possibility.

I've written to the boys, his sister and Helen about these latest developments.  And I've had a good cry.  Well, several good cries.  Tears in front of Richard too but he was too sleepy to notice.  The only time he perked up was when I said drug squad.  The police helicopter hovered very low over the property today. Apparently this is the season when marijuana crops are visible so they  employ helicopters to look for them.  This property would be ideal - but all they saw was a puzzled woman and half a dozen freaked out galahs.

Don't do drugs anymore but if there was a time where I wouldn't mind losing myself for a bit this would be that time.

 Teary.  Don't feel like writing.  As always went to see Richard.  He was asleep, deeply asleep.  Didn't respond to touch, the bedside light or his name.  The nurse said he barely stayed awake while they bathed and shaved him, that he only had a few spoonfuls of breakfast.  Sleeping more during the day is part of LBD.  That and the hallucinations and loss of memory etc etc etc.  

Richard sleeps much more than he used to.  Dozes off while I am with him and am silent for more than a minute or two.  Often I arrive and he's asleep in his chair.  Yesterday he made a lonely figure parked in front of the oversize tv in the communal living room.  Rows of empty chairs around him.  The others were playing a word game in a different section.  Richard's dementia keeps him from socializing.  He can't be understood nor does he understand.  

I try not to think what we've lost.  But sometimes...I miss him so much. 

 "It is a sad commentary on our times that one political party in America is given a free pass to denigrate the rule of law, defame law enforcement, cheer mobs, excuse rioters, and transform justice into a tool of political vengeance, and persecute, blacklist, cancel and suppress all people and viewpoints with whom or which they disagree. I always have, and always will, be a champion for the unwavering rule of law, the heroes of law enforcement, and the right of Americans to peacefully and honorably debate the issues of the day without malice and without hate." 

Gobsmackingly this is trump's statement after his second impeachment acquittal by the brave men and women of the US Senate.   What he perfectly describes is himself and his government.  Wow.  The size of the lie is breathtaking.  He has certainly studied the playbook of the Hitler and Stalin and Kruschev.  The bigger the lie and the more often it is repeated the more it will be perceived as truth.  

The senators who voted to acquit have surely sold their souls.  I recall reading how other soldiers during WWII viewed Americans.  In general naturally, I'm not speaking of individuals, but in general they were seen as somewhat lacklustre.  Entitled wasn't a word which was bandied about at the time but that's what the feeling was.  Heard a podcast in which I discovered each Japanese soldier received about 4lbs of support from their government, while each American soldier received about a ton.  Or was it 4?  So what is it in the American psyche which predisposes cowardice in the face of perceived danger?  Have all the senators who voted not to impeach received personal death threats from their constituents?  I'm sure some of them have.  The US seems to be succumbing to a collective insanity.  Even so, to be a senator, wouldn't you want to stay true to your oath to defend the constitution, even in the face of adversity?  Apparently not.

Hawley sat around with his feet on the furniture.  His upbringing did not instill basic good manners, that you don't put your feet up on other people's furniture.  Other senators doodled (Rand) or refused to watch the 13 minute video of the chaos incited by trump.  Believe that's called the ostrich approach.  If you don't see it then it doesn't exist.  What a sad sad day. 

I think I just heard the door slam on US democracy.

 As has happened so many times before, I am ashamed of my whiny outburst of before.  I seem to have no middle ground.  I am either profoundly grateful and trusting in Things as They Are or metaphorically shaking my fist at the universe while screaming 'Unfair!'

Have had time, actually in the midst of my panic, to ponder the earlier posts dissing Buddhism and Christianity for 'life is suffering' and 'original sin'.  And there in the midst of tears and snot - because yes I am ashamed to say I did have a howl - a part of me still said, 'Yes'.  Yes to life, yes to drama, yes to fear, Yes to It All.  

Maybe I wouldn't be so sanguine if my life was in actual danger.  Frankly I don't want to find out.

 Wisdom is not mine by default of years.  It's a process I am very much in the process of.

The book comes along.  Thursday was the AITS xmas party.  We drove across the border and had lunch at the Currumbin Life Saving Club.  A favourite place.  Looking north, up the long stretch of wide golden sands and azure sea, are the towering spires of the Gold Coast.  It is far enough away to be beautiful, like the Emerald City.  Maybe the Platinum City as it looks silver in the sunlight and isn't there already a Silver City?  Rocks below the two story restaurant attract cormorants which slide around beneath the waves like black mercury.  They are so sleek and fast and so unutterably graceful.  

So no writing Thursday.  Yesterday was Writers Group.  Meg pointed something out in my book I hadn't noticed which, with a wee bit of tweaking, adds another layer to the story and a character.  Thanks Meg!  Took myself off to lunch at the Crystal Creek Cafe (of fresh water turtle fame) and rewrote some portions to make the layering fit in the book.  

Yes, I'm  still going to 'do' lunch after Writers Group.  I don't live 'high' but I intend to continue to live well and if that means bottle instead of cask wine and lunch out once a week, so be it.  

And it's really true.  The book has written itself almost to the climax.  How exciting!  Haven't a clue how to write the end or what the denouement will be but an end and denouement will certainly come.

And!  Yesterday The Emotion Thesaurus: A Writer's Guide to Character Expression, arrived.  What a handy book it will be.  Wrote to Tam in my excitement.  Of course she already has it - as well as all the companion books in the series that go with it.

That's another thing.  Tam's book.  I don't think she has any idea how good a writer she is.  I listened to her read her chapter yesterday and thought, damn, I wish I could write like that.  But it's not only that, she has ceased apologizing for her writing.  She's just doing the work.  Something good can come from bad things.  She had a health scare...well she had a heart attack and didn't know it - something which is not uncommon for women - and I think she has decided there's no point in waiting or poopoohing her talent.  Life doesn't wait.  If you have it it in you to do and you want to do it, best give it a go!  And if you haven't already started, do so Now.

 Managed to write today.  Perhaps it was an escape.  Am over it now but had a bit of a blow.  Received the latest invoice for Richard's care and it was almost twice what it has been for the past 7 months.  Rang about it, thinking they'd somehow included the Queensland property in our assets like they did before.  Had to take proof in to Centrelink to prove we'd actually sold it.  

Unfortunately it wasn't that.  They've assessed Richard's income and with his income from the RBF and Centrelink he has to pay extra.  In short now I have $250 a week to live on.  From that I have to find money for house/car insurance, rates, phone, food and fuel.  Not to mention hay etc. and any other incidentals which might come up like, oh let me see $4000 in  the unexpected vet bills when the cats became ill. (Matisse is hovering now, he's not sick but he's not 100% either and at nearly 17, what can I expect).  Then the water pump, the leak in the shed, the lights in the car,  all those 'things' which happen and cost money.  The car is due for a rego check next month.

I rang the mob in charge of this but they were adamant.  It didn't matter I didn't have an income and won't have one until June next year.  I could apply for a 'financial assitance for residential aged care'.  I looked it up.  Don't qualify because we own the house and can take out a mortgage on it.  Uh huh.  Owing money is worse than not having any.

So I had a big cry.  But now, oh well, it is what it is.  Got to enjoy my apres Writer's Group lunches with laptop for a few weeks.  Foolishly thought they would continue - what a nice interlude they were.

So will try and live frugally but stuff it, will live off the savings as I haven't any choice.  I  patently cannot live on $250 a week.  Luckily we have savings.  With care I can make them last until June 2022 and still have some padding left over for emergencies.  Don't know what my pension will be but KNOW I can live within my means when it's added to Richard's earnings..  

And the other thing, the big thing which I forget when I'm scared, is I have NEVER gone hungry.  I've been almost broke a few times, $3 and change was all the money I had in the world once, but the Universe provides.  And it will provide for these extra mouths I feed too.  So it's okay.  I gave in to fear and despair.  I'm human but I do remember and I do KNOW.

 The book is getting to me.  Or my undisciplined mind is getting to me.  So far, have been fairly good at just writing as it comes, trying not to be overwhelmed by the immensity of what has to be pulled together to finish.  Had a major hiccup a couple of days ago.  Wrote and wrote and deleted and deleted and wrote some more and it just wouldn't 'fly'.  Finally, it felt 'ok', not great, but not so flagrantly wrong that I couldn't go on.  I'm not the type of person who can skip a difficult bit and go on to something easier....because one thing has to lead to another to lead to another.  It all has to follow on or lead back to with smooth logical transitions.

So got over that hurdle but the monster in the room lodged in my bed overnight.  Couldn't get away from the 'problems' of the book.  So defeating.  

Said a little prayer to the Writer Gods to get back on track today - and it worked.  After a shaky start had a few paragraphs of, if not brilliance, at least a satin sheen.

Now going to yoga to get the kinks out of mind and body.  And watch the storm come - complete with thunder and lightning.  Looked on the radar.  Just a tiny cranky pants storm cell over us and no where else!

 The luxury of time  - squandered.  When I experience a day like today - rushing here and there to be 'on time' - what exactly is 'on time' anyway? and then I 'waste' more time because of being so engrossed in listening to a speaker in parliament I miss the turn off and have to drive down the M1 to the Cabarita exit to get home == very late. 

Tomorrow however Art in the Shed is at Di's.  I have to go as I'm bringing the wine and nibblies stored here but not until 4.  Richard has a visitor so I'm taking Mikaela and myself off to a low tide stroll on the beach first thing in the morning.  Again, it's been weeks since we've been.  Granted it's been school holidays so absolute throngs of vacationers making good use of the beach.  Now however all the kiddies are back at school and their parents are back at work so the locals can get a look in.  Then home to write which I didn't do today.   

Maybe having a day off from writing is a good thing - have kept the momentum, have been immersed in the story yet allowing things to settle and percolate a little won't go amiss either.  It's been a little scary writing that 500 words a day.  Some days, when I'm 'in' a scene, it's okay as I know what needs doing.  Other days, haven't a clue.  

Think it's getting to me a bit as the pace increases and I've got to write (think - imagine - hope - pray) like mad to keep up.

What a rollercoaster.  Wouldn't miss it.  Hope it all turns out okay in the end.

 Each time I sit down to write I jump off a cliff.  Have to trust there is some sort of net.  Part of me envies those who write and know where they're going.  It's the fear which leads procrastination (CNN, Facebook, emails etc) and then I see the time and oh crap it's late and I'd better get started.  

Some days the writing is more like a tidying up.  There's a scene in existence and it's just writing into and out of that scene.  Other days, like yesterday and today, haven't got a clue so write to find out where I'm headed.  

Beyond this, the characters are filling out, becoming more interesting which means major rewrites when I get to that point.  Motivations are clearer, quirks, strengths and weaknesses - and the history which made them that way.  Have already written of this, I realize.  Guess it's just weighing on me.

The snake, my unwanted tenant, continues to live and poop in the shed.  Had no idea snake poo smells so bad and is such a tenacious stink.  Even after cleaning with disinfectants it still reeks.  Pretty positive he's a carpet python.  Probably a large one as I've seen the shedded skin.  But until I can plug the hole while he's out I'm stuffed.  If I prevent him from getting out he'll die and I don't want that - not only because I don't want to kill him but the stench of dead inaccessible snake is on a par with their poo.  

I could get a snake catcher or a carpenter - or both - to rip down all the plasterboard until we find him but what an expensive mess.  I'd catch him if I could get to him - and had a backup person to peel him off me and put him in a bag.

Spoke to Matt yesterday.  He said three separate studies found only 3% of snakes taken more than 100metres from their home survived.  They starve, they search for their home and don't eat or  they get depressed or become prey of other predators.  Which means over the years I'm guilty of the deaths of dozens of snakes I've caught and released away from the aviaries.  I never knew.

But some good news too.  Caught the little mouse making free with the shed kitchen.  Second attempt was successful.  S/he has been rehomed at Sweetman's park.  And mice are so adaptable he'll find a home quick smart.  Lots of food there and places to hide.

 Yesterday was the first day of the 2 meal a day diet.  Weight was starting to creep up on me (if I was a horse I'd be a 'good doer' shetland!).  Despite being pretty good with eating - no pigouts, etc. ounces were accumulating into pounds.  Uh huh.  So skipped breakfast and had lunch (my usual breakfast of fruit) around 12 and dinner around 8pm which means I fast about 16 hours.  Today is the second day.  Yesterday I weighed 56.3kg.  This morning 55.8.  Got the shakes around 3pm but not too bad.  Takes about a week for the body to adjust to the new regimen.  Last night wasn't difficult although I was undeniably hungry by 8pm.  

A couple of years ago I tried the semi-fasting (under 500 calories) for 2 days a week diet but those two days always felt a bit icky.  This is much easier and it's a lifestyle I can keep permanently.  Hell for about 30 years breakfast was coffee and a cigarette!  This is a piece of cake....wait, NO CAKE!

 Have belatedly stumbled upon the best music to write to.  Have used YouTube music for yoga for quite awhile but finally got jack of the ads.  Either I'd search and find some unpopular electronically manufactured 'yoga' music which was so bad no one wanted to advertise on it or I'd suffer through some voice haranguing me to buy something just so I could continue to breathe through and with the music while doing asanas.  

Then I cracked.  And paid for an ad remover.  It opened a whole new world of music, gorgeous ethereal, magical music.  Oh bliss!  

Listening to loops of music from Lord of the Rings or Hogwarts or Narnia or Celtic music -- so much easier to write.  Half the work is done!  Had been listening to New York Jazz which is good turned low but doesn't cut it now I've found the above.

The Uki Writers Group got a mention in the local rag as one of our members has a book deal (meganalbany.com) and was shortlisted for the prestigious Banjo Prize.  

Went to the opening of Diana's exhibition at the Uki Post Office ( http://artpostuki.com/ ) on Thursday, had a glass of wine and wound up buying one of her paintings.  I'm not fond of abstract usually but this one, I can see 'into' it.  It defies definition.  I think it will always be different depending on the day and the state of the viewer.  

Was the best opening I've been to (always show the flag for a friend) as we were covid restricted to a dozen people.  Didn't get claustrophobic and have to fight my way outdoors to recover.  It's a good mob here.  Also bought the Uki Post Art book as it's a cheap way to have a copy of the some outstanding work which has been shown there.

I have truly found my tribe in this part of the world.  Grateful.

 Am almost afraid to tempt the gods by saying the writing is going well.  But it is!  Two more characters appeared complete with names.  Not major characters yet there they were with their little faces, their personalities and their motivations -- all to add their bits as the story, hopefully, swells to a compelling crescendo.  Before the satisfying denouement?  Still a long long way to go.  Can't just decide to wrap things up in a neat package and deliver it with another couple thousand words.  

As I write I do go back and insert things to make sense of things as I discover them.  The first major edit will require major rewriting and additions to flesh out the major characters, especially Yorgla and Ashur.  I'm getting to know them as I write them.  They didn't arrive fully formed.  Now I'm getting a handle on who they are.  It's probably an awkward way to do things.  My next book (!) might be easier in that regard.  Or not.

What is incredible is the changes we have all made in the Writers Group.  Practice does improve things (except in my guitar playing).  All of us have undoubtedly learned a lot in the past two years - just because we kept at it.  Now we have been together so long (I missed 8 or 9 months) there is trust so we can honestly say what does or does not work in the piece we hear that day.  No ones feelings get hurt.  It is all constructive and comes from a well meaning heart.  

Another thing which has changed for me is fear.  This year has illustrated what is important and what is not.  Being nervous while reading my work is low on the importance list.  Wasting good energy in knocking knees and sweaty pores just isn't worth it.  So I read my stuff, I'm not nervous.  I've slowed down so people can actually understand me.  Before I read like a Japanese Bullet Train.  Now - I'm even speaking the speaking parts with a little bit of differentiation.   Who knew.  

An old(ish) lady and still learning.  Goodo!

 Had the best day yesterday.  David went to see Richard so I didn't.  The horses are up to their chests in grass so didn't need to see them either (had packed Pagan's hoof the day before).  Instead I went to the library, successfully checked in with my now working covid app, and checked out again after picking five books.  Oh joy!  Then I went to the Tumbulgum Tavern on the Tweed River, ordered a coffee, set up the laptop and wrote looking out at the river and the storm clouds rolling in from the NW.  

I could do that every day, in the tradition if not the skill of a JK Rowling; take the book to a coffee shop and write.  It just seemed easier.  The only thing I missed was an online thesaurus - although I do have a well thumbed book I could stow in the bag.  

The serenity of the river when I lifted my eyes from the screen was such a lovely change from here.  I do have large windows overlooking the aviaries with the rainforest beyond - but a change is as good as a holiday.

Perhaps the nicest thing was not having to be anywhere at a certain time.  My hours were mine to fill as I pleased.  Had planned to take Mikaela to the beach in the afternoon but the storm, which dumped three inches over the next few hours, precluded that.

Oh, and had a surprise visitor day before yesterday.  Didn't know dingoes frequented rainforest but it seems they do.

 There are times when I am just unaccountably happy.  Nothing is different in the day.  Haven't seen or done anything outstanding, the routine, the chores, the hours flow unimpeded from one to another.  The day draws down, the light slants gold, and I am full to bursting with joy.  

Reading a small book by Thich Nhat Hanh lent by a friend.  A beautiful book.  A Buddhist book - and I think, I haven't learned a thing.  I remember writing about Buddhism nearly 40 years ago.  I feel the same.  I appreciate what he says, the interconnectedness of things.  I believe that.  What I have a - personal - problem with is the premise, the same with all the great religions I guess, is that perfection is somewhere or somehow different than here.  Non attachment.  To people, things, emotions, concepts, ideas, everything.  When I am attached to something or someone, whether it is an idea or a person, I have taken a stance, grasped hold of something, have removed myself from the reality of interbeing and have therefore set myself up to be hurt if, someone opposes me with another idea (Trumpism vs sanity for instance) or the person I love stops loving me (which may already be happening as dementia colonizes Richard).  To be free I need to let it all go, to see it as just different facets of the same non-dual reality.  And be non-dual myself.  Recognize with every fibre of my being I am one with all creation.  That is the goal, that is the goal post, that is the purpose of  life.

I get it.

Except.  

Why ALL THIS then?  Why life at all?  Is it really an endless round of births until reaching nirvana and we gratefully drop off the wheel of endless incarnations?  Perhaps I'm just in an obstinate mood but it seem as though always guarding my thoughts and actions, always standing outside myself to ensure I stick to the nirvanic  path of least resistance kind of negates the joy of just being here, warts and all. 

If something hurts us, most of us eventually learn to stop doing the thing which brings about pain.  We don't need to constantly monitor our being.  Our being here now is enough.  

I guess it's the striving.  Here folks, is the perfection, recognize that you as a wave on an endless ocean are all the ocean.  Hold that thought.  When the wave breaks, you as water, are still the wave AND the ocean.  Ain't it grand?

But what about the wave?  Maybe I liked feeling the power and the speed as I gathered force coming to shore.  Maybe I liked the cresting and the way the sun shone through my foam at the top.  Maybe a dolphin surfed me in.  Maybe it was raining and I could feel the drops speckling as I roared over the sandy bottom.  Maybe I didn't want to be the ocean right then.  Maybe it was enough to be the wave. Maybe I wanted to feel myself break apart in a surge of clouded sand power as I hit the beach.  Maybe being a wave was enough.

Just sayin'.

Haven't written in two days because of the mess in the US.  Have opened Quoll, tidied the end of one chapter and opened another - but am having trouble getting started.  So best to drivel away in here for a bit and see if things start flowing.  I think writing is a bit like drawing.  In art, it's not training the hand, learning to control the hand and fingers to make marks, it's learning to see and then translate what's seen onto the page with marks.  Making up stuff to draw is the same, still drawing what the mind's eye sees and placing it on the page with marks.

Writing?  I can see the end of the last chapter.  I see the characters dispersed around the room.  I remember the last thing said - and there everything stops.  I can't see what happens next.  Doesn't help I've had very little sleep (again).  Stupidly oh so stupidly had a strong coffee at 4pm.  What did I expect?  

Maybe it was the coffee which contributed to a sexual dream that had no sex.  Dreamed an odd dream in that it was entirely linear; one moment leading logically to the next.  No tangents or weird time or place jumps.  It was like a little vignette.  And there was a man.  He was so clearly drawn I would recognize him anywhere although I've never seen him before.  That was the weird part.  How vivid he was, not handsome, burly, in his 50s or a well perserved 60ish.  And he wanted me and I him but I told him my first responsibility was to Richard.  "And then me," he said.  

And I awoke feeling very much alone and longing for male company.  For lovemaking yes, but more for that male energy.  Men I see in day to day life are friends or husbands of friends, or people in stores etc.  There's no touching, holding, hugging.  I hug Richard every day but it's a one sided hug usually or if it the hug is returned, it's usually, although not always, wishy washy.  

The importance of touch.  I know that. I act on that for Richard.

But who touches me? 

 Something died today.  I hope it is apathy. 

How many millions billions of words are being written about what happened in the US state capitol today.  How many pixels to show goons in various poses of triumph as they desecrated the symbol of what a free country could should might look like.  One man put a red MAGA hat on a  life size statue  of Gerald Ford and had him holding a trump flag (and not capitalizing trump is not a mistake).  Another amoeba-brain had his feet on Nancy Pelosi's desk.  Would he do that at his mother's house?  Did he have a hard on while he did it?  Coz it's that kind of thinking, isn't it?  It's the reptilian brain staking out territory,  marking it with urine and puffing up the chest to make it appear bigger.

It has nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with saving democracy.  They, like trump, like the Strong Men, probably due to their unadmitted latent homosexual tendencies.  Not that there's anything wrong with being gay.  Coming out as gay shows courage.  These men, who have to be in a gang to support their shaky sense of masculinity, have none.  

But we saw this coming.  trump's been preparing the ground for years.  We've known he's mad, totally selfish and a bully.  We can't be surprised.  Having one mad man in a position of power is one thing, being aided and abetted by self-serving republicans is quite another.  Every one of those republicans who signed on in support of investigating the 'fraudulent' election should be prevented from every sitting their useless arses on government chairs ever again.

At the time I write this Cabinet is debating whether trump should be removed under the 25th amendment.  There should be no debate.  trump has never hidden who he is from us.  Now is the time to face this uncomfortable truth and our own conscience and remove him.  

 What will it take for the law to be upheld, for some law enforcement officers to enter the White House and say, "Please come with us, Sir." and escort that  man from the building?  Each time our capacity to accept the unacceptable grows, more unacceptable things happen.  Clinton was impeached because he lied.  He lied.   Trump, probably because he's a sick puppy, wouldn't know the truth if it got up and smacked him in the gob.  

But then Trump is a symptom of what's wrong with western democracy.  He's not the only would be if he could be strong man.  Look at our Scotty from Marketing.  Bolsonaro in Brazil.  Boris in Britain.  Maduro dreaming big time in Venezuela.  Granted, with the exception of Bolsonaro and Maduro, they aren't quite as dolally as Trump yet the people put them there.  At least at first.  It's like watching a bunch of lemmings head for the cliff.  The danger is pointed out but they refuse to see.

Listened to the BBC W.S. which tries very hard to be impartial.  So they routinely interview Democrats and Republicans.  ProTrump and MyGodTrump?  supporters.  One man, a military veteran (Navy?), articulate...for awhile.  Then there was radio silence.  Just as I began to wonder if something was amiss the interviewer said:  You're tearing up.  And the veteran sputtered, "He (Trump) saved us!"

He saved you?  From what?

And who will save us from Trump?

So he's leaning like a heavy on Raffensburger; cajoling, threatening, insulting, pushing, for the votes to be cast out in his favour.  The blatant EVIL of it.  And no one has marched in quoting Federal statute whatever it was about trying to subvert the election and marched out again with a hand under Trump's elbow.  Not yet anyway.

I live in hope.

 Just goes to show when I think I just haven't got it in me to write, I can.  Lousy night (when was the last time the mirror didn't reflect the truly colourful shadows beneath my eyes?), then rush rush rush.  Four new horses at the Farm.  One owner preparing to ride her quite stunning Andalusian down the breezeway to explore the open paddock.  She is locking the mare in the laneway to meet the other horses over the fence for a few days before joining the herd.  Hence I had to go out in the paddock, put a halter on Pagan, lead him and Balthazar through the gate and up the hill to prevent the 'riff raff' from coming in.  And do everything in reverse.  What usually takes 30 to 40 minutes took an hour.  It's not particularly hot today but there's 100% humidity.   I had sweat deltas down my neck, sweat dripping in monotonous drops off my nose, dripping into my eyes, blurring my vision.  And I still had to look (and smell!) presentable to get groceries, go to the vet for some feline laxative and then see Richard.   I looked as though I'd washed my hair it was so wet.  

So did errands, ran out of time, saw Richard then went and did more errands before getting home at 1 o'clock.  SO GOOD to sit down and have lunch, then I came in here and vegetated (read news, FB's, Insta'd) before thinking, so what's preventing your brain from working.  Open the damn software and try and write.

So I did.  Writing was slightly easier as I had an idea of where to go today.  Usually I sit down and haven't a clue.  Yesterday while walking, I 'saw' an avenue --- do you know when a parasitic wasp injects venom into a caterpillar it also injects a virus?  A virus to keep the caterpillar's immune system from neutralizing the venom.

The strange thing is, it kind of backfires as it serves as a marker for other parastic wasps to target the young of the original parastic wasp.  And as markers through caterpillar spit to change plant 'volatiles' so the wasps can locate parasitized caterpillars. 

'We found that the virus and venom injected by the parasitoid during oviposition, but not the parasitoid progeny itself, affected hyperparasitoid attraction toward plant volatiles induced by feeding of parasitized caterpillars. We identified activity of virus-related genes in the caterpillar salivary gland. Moreover, the virus affected the activity of elicitors of salivary origin that induce plant responses to caterpillar feeding. The changes in caterpillar saliva were critical in inducing plant volatiles that are used by hyperparasitoids to locate parasitized caterpillars.'

Symbiotic polydnavirus and venom reveal parasitoid to its hyperparasitoids

Feng Zhu, Antonino Cusumano, Janneke Bloem, Berhane T. Weldegergis, Alexandre Villela, View ORCID ProfileNina E. Fatouros, Joop J. A. van Loon, View ORCID ProfileMarcel Dicke, Jeffrey A. Harvey, Heiko Vogel, and Erik H. Poelman

 

So the above was fun research I did to give me a broad overview over chapter 44.  Am nearly at 80,000 words.  With no end in sight.  

 

A quick update on Richard and Matisse.  Richard wasn't so good today.  The problem, besides the obvious, is it is becoming increasingly difficult to understand him.  If he says a rote sentence, like, 'don't worry about', I hear him.  Yet when he tried to say something specific, I might 'get' the first couple of words before he trails off into mumbling.  No eye contact today either.  Did see him smile, the old flirt, at the new RN, a lovely caramel skinned Filipino?  Black hair and warm dark eyes.  So he can make the effort.  

 

Matisse had another bout of vomiting and anorexia but has eaten the past 2 days.  Finally (DUH!) dawned on me I could get him Catlax for his hard poos.  And perhaps if he doesn't have to strain so much to get him out, he'll be less likely to leak urine.  Morning clean jobs are major undertakings now. He helps me write.  And in a minute he'll help me do yoga too.  Every day with him is precious.

 Lots more than 25 things to be grateful for.  Thought of heaps more after listing them yesterday.  Zoom, feet and legs to walk with, opposing thumbs, eyeglasses, Heritage and staff, cheap flip flops, pull tabs, many more but last but by no means least, My Bed!  I love my bed.  How many people in the world do not have a bed of their own.  A place which is clean and safe, has enough blankets, is comfortable and bug free, and has a roof over it?  I am not one to stay in bed once I'm awake but I do take a moment or two to listen to the birds (who start well before sunrise), and the crickets and look at the grey squares of the windows and the deep shadow of the black bean tree - and I am profoundly blessed to have a bed from which to survey my little predawn kingdom.  

Have written my 500 words - after not writing for two days.  Have also - hooray! - finally installed a working email on the lap top.  Now in the process of emailing all 43 chapters of the book.   A perfect backup and with a different email so if I get a virus on this computer which eats the book, it may be safe on the laptop.  

The last 3 visits to Richard have been characterized by him falling asleep.  He didn't know who I was today.  I had just called him by his full name to try and bring him back from the place he glazes out to so when I said do you know who I am, he answered Richard Alban Lutz.  At least he's not frightened of me.  He is placid while I comb his hair or put moo goo on his psoriasis or used a moistened paper towel to wipe the 'sleepy' stuff from his lashes.  

Last week I arrived and he was in his wheelchair facing the lobby doors.  In his lap were 3 booklets; In Times of Grief, An Inspirational Treasury of Spiritual Texts,  Nearing the End of Life, A guide for Relatives and Friends of the Dying, and finally, Respecting Patient Choices, Advance Care Planning, Taking Control of YOUR Health Journey.  

Seemed a bit callous to have them sitting on his lap but of course he doesn't read anymore.  On seeing them I wondered if the staff, who would be far more familiar with those who are dying than I, have seen something in him I don't.  To be honest, and as I shared with Tam the other day, I don't know why he needs to be here.  What 'life lessons' is he learning now?   His enjoyment of life is minimal - I assume.  He complained of being tired the other day.  Tired from sitting in a wheelchair or lying in a bed.  Would make me tired too.  I used to tease him when he complained of being tired and wanting to go back to bed, 'be careful of what you wish for' - and it's come true.  Now if he had the wits to know what has happened to him he would wish with all his soul, to be up and doing...anything.  

Yesterday brought out the photo album again.  Found a spare set of glasses so he could see but he wasn't interested.  The photo albums are a record of a foreign land which he has no memory of.  Even Loki Chien.   Not a ripple of interest.  But he holds mechanical Puss Puss when I put her in his arms.  He fell asleep with her purring - and it's a great purr.  

Read the booklets.  Sigh.