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.