The Faint

Ten days ago R and I were having lunch at our local on the river.  R was yawning, as he often does, and I urged him to walk around, myabe get us a glass of water which he did.  Lunch came, we ate, all seemed well.  Then suddenly Richard slumped forward in his chair. 

I propped him up and unlike a 'real' faint, he stayed upright.  Also unlike a real faint, his eyes were open, his head was up, his posture 'normal'.  But he wasn't there.  He didn't react to touch, to his name being called, he barely reacted to his eyes being touched.  The blink was slow and delayed.

The scariest thing was the yawning.  Often when attending the euthanizing of dogs they have agonal breathing where the jaw opens wide and then closes again.  It is unconscious and I don't think they are breathing, it is just the last gasp of a life leaving.  Richard was breathing but he was also doing this frequent  very wide open mouth yawning.  He was also incontinent which he has never been before during his two previous faints.

It took him a long time to come around, far longer than the previous faints.  This episode resembled a seizure more than a faint.  

We went to two hospitals, the local and the Tweed.  Bloods were done twice, he had a CT scan as well as urinalysis and being hooked up to monitors the entire 8 hours we were there.  Again, everything was fine.  No anomalies at all.

Two days later (we were both pretty blah the next day) he was whippersnipping.

Last night I had a dream.  We were walking down a town street.  An auction of a deceased elderly woman's possessions was just about to start.  Her things were displayed along the sidewalk (although the sidewalk more resembled a tunnel).  I saw a beautiful basket with a medallion design on one end, a deep blue brocade coat and a carved wooden sculpture of three lions heads.

I looked over at Richard and he had that look in his eye, the look like he was about to faint.  I told him to get up and walk, to pull himself together.  He did get up and half fell onto the laps of the people sitting opposite who were waiting for the auction to begin.

We managed to stumble down the street, me half supporting him while I exhorted him to hold on, to stay with me.  The last part of the dream I remember is of him propped up on the bank below a bridge.

I realize a part of me is frightened of the unknown.  I suspect the major stroke of a friend's mother recently has fueled this fear.  When we were at the restaurant I thought he'd had a stroke, that either I'd lost him completely or our lives would change forever from the consequences. 

Nevertheless the dream has stayed with me.  Today, for the first time in months, I have a headache I cannot shake.  It's only fear.  Tomorrow will be better.  In the meantime, all todays are precious precisely because we do not know what tomorrow brings.

French Dreams

Dreamed  a dream with French overtones last night.  My high school Cuban born Spanish teacher said she knew she'd mastered English when she dreamt in English.  I'm not there yet but perhaps I can dimly see the the very tip of the Eiffel Tower peaking through the fog.

We'd watched a terrific French film, The Intouchables, last night.  Richard, who rarely stays up past 9:30, stayed up until 11 to watch.  This film is part of the reason French Films have a place in our iconography.  No one says, with the same meaning, German or Italian or Japanese films.  At any rate, it was one of those films which stays with you long after the credits have rolled. 

So much so that it rolled right on into my dreams. 

Richard and I were looking for a place to have a glass of wine and tapas.  We traipsed from one red brick lightless den to another.  The tapas were awful, the ambiance non-existent until finally we came to a smoke-filled people populated taverne with appetizing tapas.  In the dream, in French, I asked for a glass of red wine. 

That's it.  That's my mastering French dream.  I got it right in the dream save that I didn't know the word for mellow (moelleux).  Small hiccup.  Still, I'm very proud.

The most marvellous dream this morning.  Long convulated story involving work and workmates at the surgery, my boss' house, the boss's mentally unstable son getting married and stabilizing, nudists, a toilet that sprayed mud and urine when flushed (won't even attempt - it's too scary - to decipher what that means) and finally winding up volunteering to help organize books at an opportunity shop.  Richard volunteered first (how like him) and I waded in after.  The woman in charge, all high energy and talent (she carved these extraordinary sleeping horses from wood) soon had us sorting books alphabetically.  I was going great guns until I came upon a box, an ordinary wood box but filled with art nouveau treasures in the form of carved perfume bottles.  A frosted glass one with stylized deer, one a cobalt blue, another amethyst.  I couldn't believe what I was seeing.  They were so beautiful and they were at an op shop.  Asked the woman what was the procedure for volunteers buying what they'd found.  She said the bottles would have to be sent to Melbourne to be priced and then volunteers would have to pay twice what they were worth.  Thought sending them to Melbourne was a bit inefficient, especially if they turned out to be worth less than the postage but otherwise fine. 

I awoke with a smile on my face.

Geometric dreams.  Vivid dreams that are staying with me.  I go through dry patches where nothing dreamt survives into daylight.  Now (had to stop then.  The theme from Lawrence of Arabia on the radio.  Great sweeping panoramic exotic sounds.  Music so aligned with the breath.  Had I been holding my breath? for I took a huge deep clearing one at the start, like a breath of release or relief.  Music is such a powerful medium, because it moves through time and is not static like art?  The written word moves through time too and has changed the course of history repeatedly.  But music!  I think if we could saturate war zones with Debussy's Syrinx or Williams soundtrack to Schindler's list, soldiers would put down their weapons and weep with the sheer beauty.  But then I am constantly arrogantly amazed that people don't think like I do.  Like litter.  Walking the dogs I am forever picking up litter.  This 5km dead end road is bordered by giant gum trees, green hills, brigalow scrub, wattles and is quite simply, very beautiful.  So why am I picking up soft drink cans, KFC containers, cigarette packs and other common detritus of modern society?  A few days ago while riding I saw from my higher vantage point someone had flung a bag of garbage into the undergrowth.  Haven't picked it up yet as I need Richard with me to hold the dogs - and to help carry it back.  The point of this is not to have a whinge per se, although whinging does satisfy, but to illustrate that naturally people don't think like I do or they would never litter).

Which is a long seque from dreams.  I don't know why I'm remembering dreams again.  The first dream had our road transplanted to a caldera.  On the opposite side, on the rise leading to the lip was another collection of buildings.  The next night I dreamed of a flood, traced it to a neighbours dam, blue and half filled with water.  The dam was shaped like a roasting pan.  Last night, no dams or calderas but a bathroom with long louvered doors, a former vet nurse, a man tied at the wrists and the rope looped over a coat hook, horses, children underfoot, changing clothes, perfume and guests having a party on the verandah on the other side of the louvered doors.  Complicated and untranslateable. Why do we dream?  The unanswerable question.  The mind entertaining itself while the interfering conscious self sleeps? 

I would like to know the meaning of my dreams but find, as in reading Tarot for myself, that I am unable.  There is no eureka moment, only frustration and confusion.  Despite this I still like to write them down.

The Love of Noise

We love noise and hate silence. That's what Prem Rawat said during one of his talks, along with loving war and hating peace. And it's so obviously true. We have what we love. We love upheaval not serenity, we love living on the edge, dicing with death, frenetic activity, and above all else, the false security of money. We do anything for money. We shit in our nest for money. We wallow in it, we eat it and smell it and clothe ourselves in it, all for money. If we can't have the money we'll support and admire others who do. How else would we allow the obscenities of Big Business to continue other than that they have the MoneyGiven, not GodGiven, right to do so.

Sometimes I get caught up in the blame game, the fear and anger and resentment. I have to turn it off. Which brings me back to the first sentence; loving noise and hating silence. In silence there is peace. The noise is reading Care2Causes and all the wrongs done in the world. The noise is signing petitions and wringing my hands. The noise is the radio, the television as well as the computer. The noise is all distraction and playing the Maya game. I can make my pulse race by thinking of the evils of the world. Isn't this why we choose this game of life? To pretend we are mortal and vulnerable and less than perfect so that we can scare ourselves silly? Why are horror movies and thrillers perennially popular? We love being frightened. Why do we ride rollercoasters and jump from planes? If that's all it is, just an illusion we create to make scaring ourselves real there's no reason to get upset. Is there?

Perhaps not but why trash the most exquisite set, the most perfect, complicated and wondrous life *movie* location to test the theory? Couldn't we find other ways to get an adrenaline rush other than pursuing war, pestilence and environmental destruction?

It's a mystery. I don't know the answer. I have to live as though it's real. Try and leave a small carbon footprint, sign those petitions, do the things I can but also, for the sake of my sanity, I have to turn it all off and sit in silence. My silence isn't very silent. My tiny little mind is brimming with slogans, commercials, snippets of songs, images, internal conversations, memories, remorse, plans, have to lists, details and physical sensations. It isn't very quiet in my mind. But I go there anyway. Sometimes the consciousness streams dwindle to one or two or three strands instead of a dozen. Even that is a relief. Because, finally, all that Noise is a Distraction from what Is. The noise is all about what Is Not.

Dreamed a dream straight from prime time television. Vince, no better name, held fifty people including myself, hostage at gun point. I knew Vince. We were driving in the parking lot of a shopping centre. Previous events contributed to the hotage taking but I don't remember them now. What I do remember is driving a car in which we were picking up people who were trying to get away from him only we didn't know it was Vince at the time. So, he was rescued as well. Richard was in another car behind ours. We ended up in a department store. Vince was distraught. We were frightened. Then I asked him why he hadn't sought help for his problems? Didn't he have anyone to talk to? Wasn't there someone somewhere in a position to help him? He pointed the gun straight at me but I kept talking (so cliched a screenplay I am almost embarrassed to record it. Couldn't my dreaming self come up with something more original?). Eventually he dashed down a long hallway. I tried to slam and lock the door behind him but it kept bouncing open. So we all dashed out the door on the opposite side of the building, ran down the mall screaming, Man! Gun! Hostages! Police! That's all I remember.

A naked woman with no legs riding a chestnut horse with no saddle or bridle. That was my dream. Or rather part of it. She was amazing to watch. They both were. She and the horse were so linked that thought seemed to unite them. How she even stayed on was a miracle. She was like a thalidomide victim as her legs were missing from the pelvis down so she was balancing on her groin. She did lean forward to ride, supporting some of her weight with her hands on the horse's neck but even so it was quite a feat.

I was riding too, in another part of the dream. Getting on Balthazar was a non-event. Obviously I decided to dismiss the 'invitation to ride' scenario. But we managed. The dream or series of dreams was, as always, long and complicated and I don't remember most of it. I do remember a huge black roiling storm that was coming from the wrong way. Lightning and thunder assailed the eyes and eardrums without surcease. It meant big trouble especially as it was heading east, out to sea and then changed it's mind (and it did seem to have a mind) to come back.

Jamaica hurt his toe on Monday. It might be broken. We weighed up the options and decided to do nothing. Jamaica is the wimpiest dog I've ever met and getting a foot splinted and bandaged and then having to wear an elizabethan collar as well would just about do him in. Because he is such a wuss he is very careful with the foot and is keeping it immobilized himself. He is tied up most of the time and only let off to do his business. Richard does walk him to the gate and back in the morning but it's all on three legs. The swelling is starting to go down a little so hopefully we're doing the right thing. As long as he appeared bright in himself and kept eating I was willing to give this a go. This is the same toe that was broken when he was a puppy (Richard stepped on it). Whippets have such fist-like upright clenched-toe sort of paws they are more susceptible to breakage than a more flat-pawed breed.

Almost two weeks since a cigarette and can definitely feel a difference. Have calmed down a little which is good although nervous energy does get chores done. No smokers cough in the morning and only cough when doing certain lung opening postures during yoga and even then very seldom. The right lung, which has had something going on with it for a long time, a *catch* and *itch*, feels more normal. I am still seeking that elusive fully satisfying inhale that I remember but it will come. I give thanks every day for my Breath and I am so happy that I have given this gift to myself. I can beat myself up in other ways if I wish but I don't have to commit slow suicide anymore.

I notice that Richard is not taking afternoon naps anymore either. I think he's had two in two weeks. He went to the doctor about his hip. The doctor suspects arthritis. Richard now admits that it was sore before he fell on it. He fell a month ago and has had problems with it since. Doctor says he can resume walking. Richard has a bit of a palsy now. It is especially noticeable in the morning. It's only slight but it's something that wasn't there before. It breaks my heart. I try not to be scared of old age. I'm not scared of mine, in some odd way I seem to be getting younger, perhaps only an illusion but an illusion that serves me well. But seeing Richard age is hard. Not the brown hair turning grey turning white. But the palsy and the shuffling his feet rather than picking them up and walking (I bite my tongue. I want to shout at him, WALK! DON'T SHUFFLE!), the sitting slouched over with rounded shoulders gazing at the floor looking like a little old man in an aged care home. Stand tall, I think to myself. Look up and Live to paraphrase an energy company safety commercial. When we walk he looks at the bitumen, I look at the world around me. Of course walking is great for mulling things over. I will look at the road when I am thinking but I am always brought back to the present by the presence of Nature. Not so, Richard. He will walk 6km staring at the three feet in front of him. I bite my tongue again. Usually. If I do say something he tells me not to pick on him. And what right do I have to tell him how to live his life? Except that I love him and I KNOW that it is better for him to stand tall rather than slouch, not only physically but mentally/emotionally/spiritually. There is a dulling of the mind that comes with a perspective that is so foreshortened.

So now I've had my complaint and voiced my fears. Richard will never use the yoga lessons I bought him. At least since his doctor's appointment he is starting to lengthen his walking distance. He's meeting me on the other side of the Pedersens now. I trust that gradually he will build back up to the entire distance. The other day a friend came down who is enduring the heartwrenching reality of a breakup. Because of that he brought champagne. So I drank it with him. When he left I was feeling distinctly buzzy. It was 3:30 in the afternoon. Took Radar for his walk and under the alcoholic influence I ran up every hill and along every flat bit of land. Felt great and I was entirely sober and alcohol free by the time I returned home an hour later. That night I could hardly sit. Not muscle or joint soreness but sciatic in the groin. Bummer. Felt great to jog again and if I could get away with it I'd start running again. But I can't so there.

In the meantime I'll work on my asana, Bird of Paradise, or, as I wrote to Jen my yoga teacher, the Fractured Turkey. That's why I feel younger. Rather than giving up things because I'm getting older, I'm learning something new. Not French or calculus or Cordon Bleu cooking but yoga postures. When Jen first introduced us to Bird of Paradise at the workshop I couldn't even attempt it. At home it would take me 5 or 6 steps to get my feet parallel. As for standing upright on one leg, forget it. I could barely get my other foot off the ground. But perseverance pays off. I can stand up now. Slowly, with great effort, but stand I do. And I love it. There are many many postures that I cannot do nor will I ever be able to do. I can graciously admit to the impossibility of some things but there are many that I cannot do now that I could do in the future with practice. I like that. I want to add on to my life, not subtract.

Why I am beginning to remember dreams, I don't know. Didn't remember anything when I woke up but a neighbour stopped by to deliver eggs from his overly productive chickens (we have three dozen plus now and I know we aren't the only egg recipients. Told John if we die of cholesterol related heart failure the blame would be laid directly in front of his coop). He described how he had to hotwire his yard to prevent his dogs from going bush. The bitch, he said, never tried to jump the fence but one of the others did. Then I remembered the dream. In the SW corner of the front paddock was a tall red and white horse truck. It was almost as tall as a double decker. On top of the truck was tied a bay mare. She'd been sold or given to me by another neighbour. I was talking to him when I heard a commotion from the truck and turned around in time to see her leap over the side to the ground. It shattered her feet. The injury couldn't be seen but was there nevertheless. Overheard the neighbour tell someone else it didn't matter as she was already stuffed from racing and he was just getting her off his hands. I was angry and ashamed. Angry that he had such a callous attitude to a living creature and ashamed of myself for not tying her in more securely. I don't remember anything more.

Part of the dream might stem from one of those country tragedies experienced a few times a year. Two days ago noticed another sick galah. They are so easy to pick out now; they fly slowly, heavily, are slightly fluffed and eat the grain with careful consideration. Had a good look at him with binoculars although he would let us fairly close before flying off. His beak was longer and straighter than normal. Beak and feather. The warty pink skin around his black eyes was sunken. The heartbreaking thing is that birds look you right in the eye, even tiny Tony the tiny budgie. This small sick galah looked me right in the eye as I looked at him, knowing he would have to be put down as he was dying and while he was dying he was spreading disease. Richard saw him yesterday morning in the yards, too weak to fly away. He flew to ground instead. Richard came back and got the gun to shoot him. It depresses everyone even though it is the right thing to do. Richard said he was 'skinny as a rake handle'. Birds can fake their health for a long time. When the galah finally showed signs of illness it was too late to help him.

All the birds, wild and domestic, knew something horrible had happened. Even Dimitri squawked repeatedly from the verandah. The gun, rifle? isn't a loud one. Richard uses rat shot. The gun makes a small pop not a loud boom. Nevertheless every animal on the place knew that pop meant death. The wild birds stayed away from an hour or more. Death casts a pall over everything, even on the clearest brightest winter day when the colours are so vivid they almost make me squint.

Finished reading Thomas Hardy's Far From the Madding Crowd last night. How different a book it was than what I expected. It was just a love story. Somehow I had the idea it was some sociopolitical treatise. How wrong I was! When I say just a love story, it was a love story written with a deep understanding and love of the principal characters. But what I loved about his writing was the descriptions of the weather, the countryside, the feel, smell, look and Life of Nature. It was the chief and most memorable character in the book. His description of the coming storm when he is trying to cover the ricks - I am there. I can see it. I can smell it. I feel the hairs rise on my arms at the raw power which comes, which makes the problems of Bathsheba and Gabriel and Boldwood trivial in comparison.

I don't think Hardy and his ilk are popular now. In the local library I find very few classics. I find them in op shops and garage sales. A pity. Just as a university education today is an education in science, technology, or business. What use is it to learn Latin or Greek or read the classics or understand history (because history unknown is history repeated?). I think we lose much by concentrating on the 'hard' subjects, educating ourselves to look for, understand and create more 'hard' facts. What about educating the creative spirit. Who reads poetry anymore? I keep a book of poems in the car. To read in small doses. I didn't know Walt Whitman except as a name. The only poet I was truly familiar with was John Donne. But Whitman! What a muscular take on life! He throbs and throttles and sighs and caresses. I don't understand most of what I read. I only get the sense of it. Yet what an introduction. Poetry is a muscular medium even in the hands of someone like E. Browning. She might be writing of the drone of a housebound fly while someone dies with the lightest most economical touch but she's punching me solidly in the solar plexus at the same time.

Finished and 'framed' the pastel painting yesterday. Keep forgetting to take a photo before sticking a finished work in a frame. But what's the point. I set up a MySpace account to promote my work and have done nothing with it. Promotion, self-promotion, it sounds faintly bilious, feels faintly bilious. I'd rather paint. I didn't start the new painting because I spent yesterday finishing off (finally) the pastel. We are going to Toowoomba on Wednesday to pick up interior paint (zinc blue). While there we are going to look at sofas, have a coffee (or lunch), find out where I go for the yoga workshop so I'm not wasting time looking for it on Saturday and, most fun of all, we're going to Murray's Art Supplies. I've drawn up a list of supplies. This is the kind of shopping I adore, unlike clothes shopping which I abhor! On the list is paper for drawing, sanded for pastel work and pads, pencils lots of *B-types', pastel pencils (new toy, they are great! found some cheap Montmartes to play with but want MORE!) and masking liquid (necessary for this next drawing). Interestingly, the yoga workshop venue and Murrays are probably right across the street from one another. Murrays is open until 1pm on Saturdays so even if I don't go on Wednesday, I can go on Saturday which might be better for browsing as Richard won't be with me. Hmmmm.

Rode the bike to Peterson Road yesterday. There is a hill (Peterson's Hill) that is so steep I cannot ride up it but must get off and walk. It is worth the extra effort and time for it is the fastest and scariest return trip! I am truly frightened flying down that hill. I don't know how fast I am going but it feels like 100mph. Then I must brake hard so that I don't come screaming out onto the highway and into the path of oncoming traffic. It is amazing that I find the bike riding so easy. Before I had to build up endurance to ride the 14km (round trip) from here to the Ma Ma Creek Shop. The only problem now is that my hands get sore and my back aches from the unnatural position one takes to ride these modern bikes. Must look for some kind of compromise set of handlebars so that I can sit up straight and take the weight off my hands.

Pyewackett returned from the Other Side to visit in a dream last night. A strange (aren't all dreams strange), convulated, and so so Busy dream. Seemed to go on and on with no progress. So here goes. I was in the American West somewhere. I was with a couple. They were newly married, on their honeymoon in fact but I had a history with the man, a David Schwimmer type (looks, not personality ie Friends personality). Richard was somewhere else. I missed him and wanted to be with him but was stuck *finishing* things with this man. She was blonde and had little to do with the dream story. We were at a motel in the middle of nowhere. This motel had a parking lot as large as a small country. Finding a parking spot within sight of the motel was a distinct advantage. It always seemed to be nighttime in the parking lot. I had a room to myself (hard to write, Debussy's Afternoon of a Faun on which distracts with it's perennial beauty). To eat one had to talk into one of those drive through intercoms. The food on offer was all junk; meaty, fried and horrid. There was nothing that I could eat. Thought perhaps I'd take my car-cum-motorcycle into the distant town and find something. A man accosted me while I was astride my bike, said it, a GB, was a very bad brand. He was officious, insulting and nosy. What I drove was none of his business. Told him I didn't eat meat or dairy either. Did he have something to say about that? (Know what character that dream person was based upon. Riding my bike a few days ago down the middle of DGR. Didn't hear approaching traffic because of the wind through the webbing of the bike helmet. This male person lay on his horn and stayed there. A polite bip bip would've been appropriate. I was so startled I pulled over to the right. No vehicle. I pulled onto the verge, not a great idea when on racing tyres. Still no vehicle. Finally a man pulled up beside me, said I should be on the left. True, of course but then logical thinking disappears when a loud noise erupts right behind one. Anyway, he pulled off. I stayed on the right just so if he looked in the rear view he'd see me. Petty, I know. Yesterday, while walking the dogs with Richard, he drove past and beeped the horn, long lazy beeps, not friendly taps. So that's why there was a short grey-haired man insulting my choice of vehicle in a dream parking lot).

Then there is Pyewackett in the snow. Sitting there, refusing to move, even though I have flattened a track for her. I think she's been lost and I'm very glad to find her again. Bring her into my room. I have a large shopping bag, with handles. Put towels inside and place Pyewackett on them. Ah, she thinks a toilet and proceeds to urinate. I'm not quick enough and some of it leaks onto the floor covering. So have to wash it before the landlady finds out. There is a small machine in the room. Wash them but find they still smell of urine so decide to do them in the machine on my bike (where the petrol tank would be).

Meanwhile I so want to finish the business with this dark-haired man. I kiss him. He pulls back. Is it the cigarettes, I ask. Yes. I've been smoking again and will quit when I return to Richard. Open my mouth (or his mouth) and see yellow-orange mucous clogging up the back of the throat.

And that's it. The dream remains vivid. Why I don't know. Sometimes I wake up knowing I've had a significant dream and can recall nothing. I'm only recording this dream, dull as it is, because it insisted on being remembered.

Dreamed I saw a UFO. It was such a realistic dream that I think I can let go that dream of seeing a UFO. A dream and a dream. Funny, eh? It was dusk. I was at a ranch taking last orders from the boss about fattening a cow, *his* cow and advertising her sale. The sky was an odd colour, that clear green blue tinged with yellow sometimes seen before a storm. The country was flat. There were street lamps at the inbetween stage of flickering on and flickering off. Higher in the sky there was another light. At first I took it for another street lamp as it too was flickering on and off except it wasn't flickering, it was fading in and out. And it had a halo, as though observed through fog. Just as it was starting to dawn on me that this was no streetlight, two fast moving yellow lights (same colour as it but brighter), popped into existence in front of the larger light. I knew then they were no ordinary lights. Suddenly all three lights streaked at an angle toward the horizon and were gone. Except for working on a ranch and taking orders about a fat cow, the above could be a real description of a UFO sighting. It certainly felt real enough. Perhaps it's a premonition. A few nights ago I dreamed of seeing a black and silver passenger jet crashing to the ground on a neighbour's land. We were driving home and I'd just been pleasantly surprised to find my little car had a cruise control button. We crossed the bridge, looked up and there it was, upside down and falling nose first. It exploded on impact. We drove into the paddock to help and saw the victims, mostly unhurt, walking to the road. No one wanted to be taken to the hospital. That night, on one of SBS foreign news feeds (Polish? Russian?) footage was shown of a jet, probably at an air show plummeting to earth and bursting into flames. The pilot ejected before impact. But enough of dreams. Jack is gone. Peter and Gabi came and got him on Sunday. I've been haunting the computer looking for an email from them to tell me how it's going. They moved the troublesome couple into their own marital quarters. Crock was the one who chewed Jack's toes. He is a very jealous and cranky bird. There are four birds left in the big aviary, none of which have big bruiser personalities so hopefully Jack will find someone to befriend to fill the hours while Gabi is gone. Two of the four birds are a bonded pair. The king parrots here are quite tame and very demanding. Yesterday morning one almost landed on my head so keen was he to let me know that if I didn't put out seed RIGHT NOW he was going to die of hunger. They hang upside down off the gutter to grumble at us. One even followed us half a mile up the road to tell us there was no seed. Richard had topped up the afternoon feed because of their complaints but still they griped. One swore at us from the banana tree. Right, I said. You want seed? Earn it! I put seed on the palm of my hand and held it up. Damn if he didn't, after some consideration and a few false starts, fly to my hand to eat.

Yesterday was not a good day. No dogs still and then to make matters worse, I read the expert reports about the proposed quarry. I am an optimist and I do think thoughts are things but I also think we're stuffed. The judge, who has never been here and who is the same judge, if memory serves, who approved it the first time, will approve it. Hell, after reading the mediation reports, I'd approve it.

What they plan to do is use an "Offset Property" to replace the area destroyed by the quarry. The land they have in mind is a little bit similar. It's in the same shire. It has a little bit of remnant vegetation not, to quote them, with the high richness in flora and fauna, and oh, the rv is far younger with no mature trees but hey, it's going to be the same in perhaps 60 years with ongoing management to protect it from cattle, fire and intrusive weeds. And just to further enhance the similarity, this OP is on flat land.

I could cry.

But I didn't. Instead I moped around all day doing very little. Yoga made me feel better but also brought me near to tears. I worked on the oil pastel a bit and did the housework but otherwise I just moped. Not good. In the afternoon went for a walk with R and did the animal chores and immediately felt better. A truth I forgot, that depression feeds on inactivity. Do something, anything physical, preferably outside and your spirits will rally.

So, today is another day. Woke at 5 and thought don't lie in bed, get up and start the day. Had a bad dream of a giant crocodile barely visible with its jaws agape beneath a bridge. It was waiting for me. The water was murky yet it knew I was there. I rescued some rats but they weren't the morsel it was hunting. Assume that crocodile is the quarry. It goes to court next month (postponed from March, May and August). Got on the computer last night and looked at properties in Montville, an area I hadn't considered before. Have been there once and remembered it as lush and arty and small with cafes clinging to the side of the, for want of the real name, Maleny ridge. Maleny is far too expensive but there are some affordable properties in Montville - and it's only half an hour from the coast.

Someone else is missing from our family. Algernon. We haven't seen him for over a month. We hope it's because he is looking for or has found a companion. The galahs are nest building. Pablo and Yasi, the rainbows, have been billing and cooing. Felicity is in such a flap about her absent Suki, who comes and goes, that she hunts Byron who has had to be removed to a cage and live with us on the deck. So it's that time of the year when bird's thoughts turn to love. Selfishly I'd just like to sight Algernon to know he's okay. At what point, however, do you cut the ties and really let released birds go? Algernon has been living free for several years now and has shown he can survive in the wild. He doesn't owe us anything, least of all 'checking in'.

Going with the flow.  That's the theme for today.  Being fearless.  While talking to C last night I let slip that I blogged.  We'd been talking about keeping a journal after her trip to Africa.  C wanted the blog address and suddenly I was pacing the kitchen, feeling sweat on my palms.  Honoured but fearful too.  That fear (oh bloody naval watching!) of not being good enough, entertaining enough.  Well, Jeez!  It doesn't matter.  No one holds a gun to anyone's head to force them to read a blog or look at an artwork.  It's the doing of it that counts.  I've been consciously trying to go with the flow, trying to be mindful, to stay in the moment ... to be Open to Life rather than closing down.  Yoga's to blame for that too.  It makes me aware of when I'm holding my breath or breathing shallowly, of when I'm tightening my stomach - as though expecting a gut punch.  No way to live.   It's  terribly sad that I, who have no reason to fear, lives in fear. 

I'd forgotten to record a dream subsequent to the loss of control dream.  Had it the very next night in fact.  It was of a shiny stainless steel structure, huge and irregularly shaped, being built from the ground up.  It was only waist high but it was there, it was mine.  So, grabbing courage from the ether, I'll send C  blog directions and send photos to LVRC art gallery of two works I'd like to enter in the November show. 

When chatting with C last night I spoke of the access to creative people made possible by the internet.  I spoke with envy as well as admiration.  These people are doing things, making things, creating something out of nothing that was not there before.  In a way we are all little gods and goddesses (well, I believe we are all God but that's another post) in that we create every second of every day.  Whether it's a word spoken, a meal made or a hug given.  In the purest sense we are creating our existence moment to moment by the thoughts we think, the things we say and the things we do.  In the essence of that creation, although we may be buffeted by outward circumstance, by the appearance of things that are beyond our control, we remain inviolate, that pure small point of Conscious being.  In other words:  The Conscious Being being. 

Dream Vivid

Vivid dream after a night of insomnia.  Got up at at 11:30 and read until quarter to two.  Don't like to admit it for I do believe our thoughts contribute to reality and I don't want to contribute my fear to the fear of the world.  Still, with the aftershocks to the aftershocks in Japan and the deteriorating situation in the Middle East the small traitorous voice of fear in the 2012 End of the World scenario rat scratches  in my skull.  Nostradamous, Red Indian predictions.  Even the astrological slant with the beginning of a new more holistic age breathes anxiety.  What would I do?  Would I be brave, honourable, unselfish?  Because I can't answer that question I will describe this dream:

I am at Wilma's house somewhere in Brisbane.  She shows me the dim mustard walled rooms with kelly green patterned carpet.  See how we've knocked this wall out and moved the bed over there against the opposite wall.  Yes, it's an improvement, I say.  In truth the house is depressing.  It seems cheap and loveless and very dark.  Here is Roy, he is falsely friendly, trying hard although it is not in him and social niceties are a trial.  For me too.  His face is too close to mine and it is lined with age and weight loss.  There are three horsemen, two men and a woman.  One of the men and the woman have had a fight.  She is crying as she wheels away with the men in hot pursuit.  I was supposed to follow them home on my bicycle but they are soon out of sight.  Why Wilma isn't riding isn't explained although we have all met at her house.  I say my good-byes and make my way west.  I hope.  It is a part of Brisbane I am unfamiliar with.  We are near the sea.  It is the middle of the night and I am in the columned walkway of a shopping mall.  The people of the night wander in the fluorescent light.  I don't feel particularly worried.  A young man, crippled with some spinal dysfunction follows me.  He has one arm twisted up and behind his head.  It bends his head forward and to the side.  After he follows me for awhile I confront him.  I smack him with my hand and ask why he follows me?  I am harmless, he says.  But he has nicked my watch.  He's a pickpocket.  I am amazed that he could undo it from my wrist and palm it without me feeling anything.  But I grab it back.  Beneath it is another watch.  Surrounding the dial are pink flowers with green leaves picked out in plastic.  Somehow I end up with that watch.  I am looking for a shop to buy food or cigarettes or information.  I don't know my way home.  I hide my bike in an alley and climb two sets of stairs to a lighted room.  When I return my bike has been stolen.  I'll have to walk now.  (In an addendum to the dream I know that my bike has been found although it almost unrecognisable with new handlebars and paint job.  How they found it is beyond me.  I didn't report it stolen).

I still don't know my way home, what direction I should take.  I can't find a major road leading west.  They all seem to run parallel to the coast.  Or if I see a road I can't get to it because it is on the other side of wide water filled canals.  I wander along and meet a young man with black hair and an elfin manner.  He doesn't speak English but leads me to a tea room manned by Buddhist monks.  He waves me inside and disappears.  An old monk tells me to sit down and shoves me into a seat with his hands on my shoulders.  I realise he means me no harm it is just his way.  Another monk, a waiter monk, brings me tea.  I wait for the young man to join me but he doesn't return.  I leave. 

The dream becomes more disjointed now.  I can't call Richard to pick me up as my phone is in the car.  Part of me doesn't want to call him anyway.  I haven't been on an adventure for a long time and I think I'll walk until I get to the boring highway and then I'll call him to come get me.  In the meantime I am in the city in the middle of the night and it's fun to be alone again with no one knowing where I am or what I'm doing (similar to how I often felt when I was traveling in my twenties).  I am in suburbia but it is a wealthy suburbia.  I make my way through peoples houses.  There is evidence of a party in one, people sleeping just anywhere.  A woman in a bikini slumbers on a chaise lounge.  I walk through the house and come out the other side.  There is a deep lagoon surrounded by docks.   I lower myself into the water and swim to the other side.  I glimpse another road, again travelling parallel to the coast but figure it must eventually lead to another road heading west.  The water is crystal clear and green.  The sky is starting to lighten.  The sun will be up soon and I'm no closer to getting home than before.  No dogs bark.  The world seems unaware of my presence.  I wonder why these people don't secure their houses after dark.  If I can get in anyone can.  I have no wish to harm them or steal their belongings yet I am an intruder.  The nocturnal trek is very vivid.  Houses and wasteland, water and sand dunes, children's toys and damp towels, dim light and silhouettes. 

Dreamed a cockatoo dream. It was dark or near dark. I was reclining on something when a bird landed on my chest. It was big. It was a cockatoo. Because I have a healthy fear of their beaks I quickly wrapped my hands around its body and placed it on the floor. It climbed back. Then the lights came on and I saw it was a one-eyed cockatoo that Karen had worked on. It was a nice, non-biting bird. That's all I remember. In real life Karen has not removed the eye of a cockatoo to my knowledge. It would be nice to know the meaning of this dream. I assume it's related to Jack somehow.
Jack is progressing. He's fascinated with R and is less aggressive with me even allowing me to pet him a little. He wants to come in the house, making his way to the deck at any opportunity. Yesterday I thought I'd bring him inside but he saw Natalia waiting just inside the door and started to panic so I didn't pursue it. Makes me think he was a house bird. Would love to know what his early life was like. He laughs, says hello, hello cocky and scratch. The other day he said 'what are you doing?' but hasn't said it since. Why did a talking bird that doesn't know he can fly end up walking beside the road on the Sunshine Coast?
This morning Jack hesitated as usual when I first went in with the target stick and sunflower seeds. I cut the time I waited to less than five seconds. Fed the greenies (Suki is still doing well as a free bird but until he leaves he is getting supplement food) then tried him again. As usual, he attacked the stick the first time. The other three times he just mouthed it. It helps that I ignore the savageness of that first bite. I want him to bite it, it doesn't matter whether he attacks or mouths it. Put his seed in afterwards - all the normal routine except he didn't go and eat breakfast. Instead he came to the front of the aviary. Let him out and he made his way to the deck. We still have the t-stand so we put him on that while we had our coffee. He seemed content. He showed off a little with his little wave and his wing and head flipping. Afterwards he was returned to the aviary and he went and ate. Noticed his poo was a little sloppy, a little mixed so have put coccivet in the water.
Working on another convex mirror image drawing. Liked my first one, liked the concept and the look. Love Escher's work. One problem I'm having, besides the usual lack of technical expertise, is that I can't SEE. Am working on my reflection and I can't see the details well enough to get a good likeness. Ditto details in the background where the mirror picks up objects in the distance. Have to use artistic license in cutting out and rearranging things a bit of course but I am forced to cut a little more than I'd like because I can't see it well enough to sketch it.
I do love seeing a drawing emerge. It's a long way from being finished. Getting the perspective right was very hard - it's still not quite correct but close enough to live with. Practice will improve my technique but it is frustrating to see something right there and not be able to duplicate it. My hand doesn't shake. For most of the drawing I can see details, yet the ability to get those details down eludes me.
Yesterday P was supposed to visit for a coffee. The flood destroyed fence was being repaired by his employee and a guest and P thought he'd drop in while they were there. I chickened out. At 55 one would think I'd be easier with company but company still makes me nervous so I wrote him and said R would be away until early afternoon, assuming, correctly as it turned out, that he would defer a visit until R was home. It's not that I am worried about being alone with him or what the neighbours would think - I just am a better hostess with the buffer of R to help. Not with N when she was visiting. Seeing her was easy. It was as though she'd never left. We kind of picked up where we left off. She hasn't changed and neither, I guess, have I.

Dream: I see a house. Within that house are small dark furred animals. Dogs? Raccoons? I am supposed to rescue them or something but have to come back later. I am driving down a dark highway. Beside the highway is a long shallow swale covered by a thick overarching hedge. I know there is a runaway who needs help. She has been living rough for weeks. I find her in the dark, lying on a filthy swag with her small dark dog or raccoon which we must leave behind. I need to get her to help. She has short dark hair and is wearing a pair of stained in the bottom cargo pants. She has sunk so low that she has fouled herself. I put a grey jacket surreptitiously on the passenger seat for her to sit on. She doesn't want to go to hospital. She wants to go to the beach. I say I will take her there but I know he has to get help. We are on a stretch of road I recognise from previous dreams. It is labeled 28th Street in the dream but it is not the 28th street of Grand Rapids. I always have trouble negotiating my way around this area; there is a cloverleaf and although I can see where I have to go, getting there is almost impossible for the road I choose leads me away instead of towards it. But I do get there and I recognise this place too. It is upstairs in a kind of mall. The entrance to the shop is off a balcony overlooking the first floor. It is nighttime and all the lights are on. It is an antique or 2nd hand shop run by Asians (Chinese? Thai?) There is always something interesting in this shop, made up of rooms leading off one another in a serpentine design. But I don't find anything I want to buy.

Then I am driving. Jack the cockatoo is in the car with me. He is his usual belligerent self. It is daylight now, a seaside sunshine. Even though I can't see the sea it feels like the beach. In front of the car are four cockatoos although as they stand one behind the other I have difficulty counting them. They have black tips to their feathers and so, I see, does Jack. Suddenly Jack drops all his defenses. It is wonderful, joyous, exhilarating. He allows me to love him. He trusts me. I am ecstatic.

R also had a dream last night. One of his violent dreams. The doctor said he probably suffers from post traumatic stress syndrome stemming from his days as a cop. Anyway, I heard him count, although he didn't enunciate the words, One! Two! Three! Four! and then in a frightened voice, "Who are you?" He was jerking, becoming quite agitated so as to avoid another session as we've had before when he's struck me or worse, once, when I awoke because he had his hand around my neck and was choking me, I woke him up. He didn't remember a thing this morning. I am intrigued by that fear in his voice and the question, "Who are you?" It would be interesting to know who he saw.

I have ordered a new computer this morning. $1400 (including 3 years hardware warranty). A Dell computer. I looked up the age of this one and it is almost 6 years old. It's been a good computer but it is starting to wind down. Programs take forever to load, it makes a grinding sound when it starts up. I don't like the fact that computers don't last for longer than they do. Recycling computers is a non-event around here and so contributes to landfill, poisoning of the ground, etc. Still, it is the age where a computer is a necessity...well, I suppose they aren't necessities but I've come to rely upon having one.

I told Jack about my dream this morning, my nose pressed against the mesh while he glowered from within. I even got teary recalling it, savouring the feeling of being able to love him and be accepted and trusted in return. Alas, my tears made no impression.

Hawk Attack

Had a near catastrophe yesterday afternoon. We opened the aviaries for the regular 'grazing of the galahs'. Marvin was in front of his aviary (he has to live separately as he beats up all the other galahs if he has the chance. His aviary is only 2 feet from the main galah aviary so although he can see he can't 'rough'). Fern and Obama were out and were in the little alley between the aviaries. Jack was also out. Luckily I was still nearby, removing empty veggie kebabs, food and water. Suddenly a hawk attacked a bar-shouldered dove in the alley. The dove crashed to the ground in a cloud of feathers while the hawk shot back into the sky. If I'd jumped I'd have been able to touch him. The birds screamed and climbed the aviary wire. R and I herded the birds back into their aviaries and then caught the dove. It had been ripped open from throat to under the wing exposing what shouldn't be exposed. I had several looks at it, weighing up whether this bird could be saved but each time I peeked it looked just too extensive. R put the dove down. It so easily could have been Fern or Obama. They were inches from the dove.

Now I am nervous about letting the birds out. They tend to separate. Obama and Fern go one way, Grevillea and Casuarina another. Marvin mostly sticks with me. Jack, being a large white cockatoo, would not tempt a little kestrel or goshawk but even he would be at risk from a kite or eagle. I wasn't game to let them out so picked them bindi-eyes instead. I know I'll let them out again. I guess it's just a reminder not to be as lax as I've been. I've been quite content for the birds to wander off into the paddock. I can see them but I'm not right there with them. This has to stop. If they're out they must be guarded. I must be vigilant - not just with my ears as I've always taken note of warning calls but with my eyes as well.

Dream: I am driving into town at night coming around the curve near Primac. I have been smoking dope and am wary of being pulled over by the police. No one is about. I am going to the surgery to pick up sympathy cards. I haven't had time to write them at work so I'll take them home and do them where there are no interruptions. (this part is true, I haven't had time to send out 8 sympathy cards for deceased pets). The surgery is different. It's a house but a house set down from the road. M and A are peering out. There have been rowdy groups of youths on the street. They are keeping quiet, the lights are off. A lets me in. M is in a bare white room. The surgery as I know it doesn't exist, it is just this strange cold little sunken house. I leave (with the cards?) and start to walk back up the road, around the curve to where I've left the car. It is quiet and lit by moonlight. Suddenly Drifter is with me. M said that with the cancer he has he'll only live three more years (Drifter is cancer free). Drifter is more like a hairy friend than a horse. I am grateful for his warmth and proximity. He gives me a slobbery grass-scented kiss on the lips. I wake up.

Retrieving session with Dimitri this morning. He was on alert too much to do very well. It was okay but his mind and attention were elsewhere. That is one problem with doing it on the verandah; every alarm call, every unidentified noise and rustle is heard and noted by the birds.

Jack is almost back to his normal self. A couple of days ago, when Algernon had returned for a 2 day visit after missing for 10 (Nidji has been missing for 2 days now) Jack was very territorial. Whether it was that or some other reason, Jack was in a foul attacking mood. Very aggressive, very touchy. So we just leave him alone. You can't convince him otherwise so it's best not to put yourself or him in a position where you've got to defend yourself. Just causes disharmony.

One morning I let Jack out so that I could get his food in. He trundled around beneath the gazebo, walked completely around the aviaries and then, perhaps because I was busy getting food and was ignoring him, he decided to charge. I could only retreat (which is not good but what other option is there when there is no warning?). Jack is more interesting and, despite his curmudgeonly behaviour, more lovable than ever.

dreams again

Dream: I am an observer for the first part of the dream. A tv journalist is reporting about the meat we eat. There is a huge elongated carcass hanging upside down, skinned and raw. It is divided into various cuts by diagrams so that we can see what we are eating. Behind and to the side is a woman, about 8 feet tall, thin and garbed in a orange and cream patterned skin suit. She is dark skinned and exotic with accentuated cheekbones and a long, kind of alien shaped head. She appears impervious to the fact that she will shortly be slaughtered. This, the reporter says, is tomorrows meat. Suddenly he realises what he is saying, what he is seeing and starts to cry. I think to myself, didn't you know? Where did you think the meat came from. The solution is simple, stop eating meat. The journalist quotes something, ta da ta da ta da tada TA DA! I don't remember it now nor do I remember who said or wrote it. It was apropos of the situation, the meat eating situation.

I am late for a flight. I have been living or staying in a two story house but my things are at another house, a duplication of the house I've been living in. When I go there however I see it is very different even though the houses were built at the same time and are the same age. The house I've been living in has been renovated. It's clean and has new aluminum window frames. I am shocked when I go into the other house. There is a kind grey haired woman living there but she is a bit vague and a terrible housekeeper. The house smells acrid. The carpet is worn and hasn't seen a vacuum in months, dirt and debris impregnate every last centimeter. There is clutter everywhere. The windows are different too. They are larger, longer and wood framed. I can't understand why this house is so filthy yet the woman is so nice. Then I am joining a queue waiting to check in for my flight. The queue meanders outside and down some steps. I'm last in line.

Deciphering the meaning? It's easy to see where some of the influences of the day were used in the dream decor; the carcass, the colouring of the skin suit, the houses but that's just window dressing for the meaning. I've no clue as to the meaning of the meat dream. The two houses dream seems a little easier. I believe the houses represent me, my inner life, my outer life. My outer life, represented by the renovated house, is sort of under control. The inner life, where I keep 'my things' is a mess; airless, filthy and cluttered. But the kind albeit vague grey-haired woman lives there. Me. Or some poor version of me who is stumbling along as best she can under the circumstances of neglect. The windows are a clue. They're old but they're bigger, longer. I don't remember what the view was from either house. Not sure how I can act upon this dream. Do know I need to keep a notebook again but as Natalia is sleeping with me (all 3 cats on the bed now), no pen is safe. She plays with anything that's not tied down.