Post 37 of 92

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I'm glad he's on the mend. 

Anxiety Dreams and Cats in the Morning

A rat was chewing in the walls last night.  Amazing how wood amplifies sound.  What was he doing in the wall space?  Thought there'd be a great hole into the room but there was no sign to show for his industriousness. 

I would get up and bang on the wall, after pressing my ear to the wood, to hear the gnawing all the more clearly, knowing only a finger width of wood was between the delicate flesh of my ear and his yellow teeth.  The rat would stop after I'd pounded the wall and then we'd listen to one another listening to one another.  Eventually the cold and silence would force me back into bed.  We both waited and then when the tension of silence was high, he'd take the first tentative chew. 

Then R got up all torchlight flash and male Can Do stomping.  But the rat out waited him too. 

Between that and a full moon sleep was elusive.  Woke up this morning leaden but determined.  Too many mouths to feed to wallow in bed.  Then of course there was Natalia, the furry alarm clock.  Matisse's strategy to get us moving is to launch his considerable weight from across the room onto the bed.  One can jump up and down or one can jump up and down with force.  Matisse weighs 14 lbs.  Fourteen pounds of pure muscle.  He uses that stone of weight with force.  I swear when he lands the weight of him levitates R and I.

Natalia's tactic is more subtle.  She pushes her face close to mine, opens her mouth and shouts.  I love her, she is a darling little cat, but Ella Fitzgerald she ain't.  It isn't a cracked high decibel Siamese meow like Matisse but it is high pitched, loud and somewhat scratchy.  Of all the cats, Nairobi's meow is most pleasant, the Mel Torme of meows.  Anyway, from very deep and far away I rose to the surface.  Natalia's happy at attention whiskers tickled my face.  Only thing I can do is roll out of bed and into the morning routine dragging the remains of an anxiety dream like a torn scarf behind me.

Anxiety dream #1.  I dreamed Richard had scheduled his own euthanasia.  He didn't want to deteriorate any more physically or mentally or be a burden so while he was still strong he decided to die.  I was trying to stop him.  Actually dreamed this dream two nights ago so the details have gone, only the horror remains.  Horror because I know it's a dream of fear.  What will happen to Richard in the coming years and therefore what will happen to me?  Will I cope?  Will I be strong and patient and loving always?  Will I have to make horrible decisions I can hardly even contemplate?  Will I have to fight feelings of being trapped? 

Already I don't like the idea of leaving him alone.  The other day, for the first time in years, I asked if he would get up and do the morning chores while I had a sleep in.  Constant insomnia caught up with me.  I slept an extra two hours!  When I got up he'd been up for an hour and a half.   In that time he'd fed the cats, walked the dogs and given them their breakfast, let the horses out and made coffee.  I was ready to fall onto my cup of caffeine when I saw the lorikeet dishes.  Then I saw the pellet container.  Haven't you fed the birds yet, I asked.  I tried not to be angry but I was.  What had he done for an hour and a half? It's not his fault and the anger faded quickly but already I feel the walls closing in hence the dream and secret longing.  Of course consciously I don't want him to die but unconsciously I'm already looking for an escape.  It's an awful thing to admit and I am ashamed but there it is.  Dreams don't lie. 

Anxiety dream #2.  I'm a vet nurse On Call.  I get a call from a panicked owner of a guinea pig.  The animal has something wrapped or caught on its molars deep inside its mouth.  If it isn't removed the guinea pig will get pneumonia.  I ring Karen.  It's after midnight.  Takes her 45 minutes to get to the surgery and then I realize I haven't got the number of the owner.  Karen is livid.  Understandably.  She waits around for awhile and then leaves in a huff.  Will she ever forgive me and my stupidity?  Then the owner arrives with the guinea pig and I have no vet.  Luckily Nerida arrives, calm and collected and takes matters in hand.  Saved!  But guilt remains.  How could I be so dumb and why haven't I learned, after all this time, to get the name and number of the client first before anything else?

And why am I dreaming anxiety dreams? 

14 March.  Copied from journal.  

Lionel still missing - forever more I suspect.  He would've returned if he was able - or alive.  Miss him.  Grieve for him.  Or would if I knew.  Went through this before when he went missing.  But he returned after a day.  Nothing I can do.  I loved him, tried to give him the best life, best opportunities, health and strength to best fit him for life in the wild.  Unfortunately because of his attachment to me he kept himself aloof from other galahs, except in 'warning call' emergency when he would launch himself in flight and beat retreat with the others.  He would've done that no matter where he was so what happened?  Why can't he come home?

Matisse - a changed cat.  Haven't had to clean up a spray or puddle of urine for 3 days now.  He's sitting beside the notebook as I write.  The prozac doesn't make him dopey or sluggish, it just takes that edge off his OCD.  When I clean the kitty boxes and there are 3, sometimes 4 wet spots, I am overjoyed - well, maybe not overjoyed - but happy.  Means it's okay.

He looks me in the eye again - not for long but at least he can (he's quietly purring, has shifted position so his head is very near mine).  BTW, he weighs 7kg or 15.4 lbs.  Also, have changed my mind about CRF - too fat and glossy.

Don't know if I'm repeating myself but - since Cornelius flew out the opening during the remains of Cyclone Oswald when the screen blew in, Tony has stopped speaking.  He makes budgie noises but no longer says Pretty Bird, The Regurgitator, Tony, etc.  I miss his little tinny tiny voice.

Have been working on a pastel drawing inspired in part by a photo in Baroque Horse magazine.  Was beavering away at it then got stuck.  Ground to a halt actually.  I think I ran out of puff because I was copying.  Tried to view it strictly as an exercise - maybe I became unstuck because of having trouble duplicating it.  At any rate, looking at it, and looking at it and finally,while on the yoga mat and seeing it from an oblique angle, I saw what I could do so it's on again.  I like it but don't love it - yet.  I live in hope.

Waiting for Lee (the farrier).  Have rugged the horses because the biting flies are so bad.  Spray their legs with insect repellant once daily to give them some relief.  Have never seen them this bad.  Something to do with the rain coming so late in the season?

Speaking of which - the ants feel we'll get much more rain.  Until the earth moving equipment, which came to repair the flood damaged road, flattened them, the ants were building tall spires, towers and fat levees.  There's a cyclone in the far north which they expect to follow the path of Sandy and head east then south well away from us.  The ants suspect otherwise.

March 10.  copied from handwritten journal.  

No Lionel.

Possibility Matisse has CRF (chronic renal failure).  Have finally had to take notice of what I've been trying to ignore - large puddles of urine (either in the box or out).  This morning watched him return to the water bowl 3 times for big drinks.  I can no longer pretend.  Will call tomorrow and book him in for blood and urine tests.  Not sure where yet.  The disadvantage of having been a vet nurse is knowing what goes on behind the closed door.  Can't decide either whether I should go to Laidley or UQ.  Gatton Vet is out of the question after how the staff were treated by the new owner.  Think I'll go to Laidley.

He's not underweight, far from it, nor is he dehydrated.  The polydipsia cannot be ignored however.  At the same time they can check for FLUTI, althought that seems the less likely of the two possible scenarios.

One thing is for certain, tomorrow will not be fun.

What I originally wanted to write about was the unique voice of English writers.  Reading The Wah Wah Diaries, Richard E. Grant's account of the making of his autobiographicly based film Wah Wah.  It'a voice that I, anglophile that I am, find endlessly appealing,.  "She...clucks welcome noises of enthusiasm when I suggest spooling forth the the synopsis between mouthfuls of Caesar salad."  Or  "...trying to hide the fact from all my panic stations that red alert might be a mere pudding away."  Or  "A vast pile emerged {of script notes] that looked ominously like a tax return in the middle of a nervous breakdown" and finally, " 'But you haven't even written it up properly yet,' said my wife, only just managing to suppress a healthy snort."

They have this easy breezy self-deprecating humour entirely unique to them.  Is it inherited by the process of osmosis in that land of cold and fog, from PD. Wodehouse?  Is that warmth a natural antidote and protection from the appalling weather?  Stephen Fry has it too - although I know he cites PDW as one of , if not his, favourite author.

American humour seems so baseball bat blunt in comparison.  To be honest I read very little humour so I am making that judgement on the basis of TV sit-cms.  US versus British.  No comparison.  Well, there are different styles - but I'm done with this now.  My mind is too full of Lionel and Matisse and the grieving - for if Matisse has renal failure it's a long slow demise with that horrific decision to be made at the end.  I know I'm okay.  At this point in time, all is well and it is worse than useless fo scare myself with bogeyman from the future - but I am only beginning to try and rein in my thoughts - and they are bucking like mad.

March 8. The following is copied from my handwritten journal.  Haven't blogged for awhile.  Used to write all the time when keeping a journal.  Now it is an effort  and I always write with the feeling of someone looking over my shoulder.  Sure, anyone with any kind of ego wants their work seen, and I'm no exception, yet that 'writing for an audience' is a sure way to still my voice.  Why?  Because, despite best efforts and intentions, I can't quite be true.  I don't write about extremely personal things, like my marriage, for despite all great writers being unafraid of brutal honesty, there is another person involved. 

Perhaps my reticence is a holdover from blogging.  I never used to be shy about things but age and experience have brought caution and a degree of empathy.

Saw a short on the ABC yesterday which decided me to try journalling again (it's not like I've a ton of 'followers' who will be disappointed by my silence.  I've one following the Balthazar blog who, as far as I can tell, has absolutely no interest in horses).  At any rate, the short was on Bob Ellis, writer, speechwriter, essayist.  He writes with a fountain pen in a notebook half this size on a pillow which is propped upon an old school desk from his old school.  What great work, he asked, has been written on a word processor?  I suppose there must be some but perhaps he has a point.  Perhaps there is a connection between the writing hand, the eye and the brain which allows for 'great work' to be created.  The advantage of the computer is I can type very fast so that, on a run, I can almost get a stream of consciousness cascade.  But is that a good thing?  Just because I can immortalize my thoughts doesn't mean they are worth the trouble.  Writing by hand, OTOH (see?  there are some advantageous holdovers from the use of digital media) gives thought a breathing space where an interesting notion can be followed up or followed on with further investigation.

And it's slower.  I'm beginning to think that's a good thing.

When I attended the Julie Grieg workshop I found I had trouble concentrating n one thing for 3 hours in the morning and another 2 1/2 in the afternoon (we quit half an hur early).  Even writing this I just had a quick computer break to look at some drawings by a pastel artist.  I'm not over-caffeinated nor am I afflicted with Alzheimers yet have noticed a discernible drop in my ability to stick with one thing for any length of time.  Too much information.  We, I, am able to get information on any and all subjects through the net.  And while I'm looking up exactly who played that supporting actor role in some 1954 B movie western I can check my mail, check out a French phrase, look at the radar, see what new work has come up on Pinterest and play Mah Jong!  No wonder I have the attention span of a water flea.  There is always some bright shiny fact kernal just a mouse click away.

The internet is grand.  My computer is a joy to have an use but I think there is something to be said for the slow and deliberate use of pen and paper.  My journal was my best friend and companion when I had none and now..(personal stuff) ..the re-introduction of Friend Journal into my daily life is timely and good.

On a more prosaic note, just to record it, we've started Matisse on Prozac.  Yes, I drug my kitty.  I've written quite a bit about his neurotic, needy and unhappy self on the blog.  The crunch came with cleaning up to 4 sprays a day.  I love him but something had to be done.  Nothing helped.  Endless love and reassurance, while gladly accepted with purrs and nose rubs, made no difference.

Yesterday was his second day.  As expected he was mightily displeased to have the drop of transdermal gel rubbed inside his ear.  He acts as though we've morphed into cat abusers but I noticed (we shut him in the laundry to eat otherwise he'll eat everyone else's food as well as his own) it didn't take long for him to finish dinner. He's sleeping now.  There were 3 piddles in the boxes and no new sprays (that I could find).  He didn't join me on the yoga mat this morning to pace between it and the rest of the house.  I hope it works.  No side effects save for a calmer cat.

Journals and Blogs and Stuff

There is something quite delicious seeing that my other blog, on Balthazar, had two followers...until I check out the 2nd follower and see it is a sales gimmick masquerading as a delectable young Indian woman.  The other follower still has me mystified.  Perhaps Cordillon hopes I will mirror his compliment and follow his blog on, was it the city of Manchester?  But I'm not that desperate.  Yet.

In the meantime I have made a decision.  It may last as long as the takeaway Thai Richard has dashed into town to get, nevertheless here it is.  I have resurrected my journaling habits of the past 30 years and have decided to keep a written journal.  Yes, that's right.  That soon to be lost skill of hand writing journal entries.  The reasons are twofold.  One, I am a bit muzzled by the fact that writing a blog, despite it's obvious advantages, is public.  My ego cannot be erased that easily nor my sense of propriety.  Knowing that there is the possibility, no matter how remote, of having an audience, I hedge my bets while writing.  I don't write as freely nor as intimately as I always did while keeping a handwritten for-my-eyes-only journal.  The other reason is less easily explained.  I think there are distinct advantages to writing by hand.  Noticed the smell of ink as I wrote today.  I missed that.  Also suspect there is something to the hand, eye, brain connection which is lacking when typing at warp speed on the keyboard (am a fast typist which makes for near instanteous translation of thought to monitor - but is that always a good thing?  I'm not James Joyce with a stream of consciousness facility). 

So I will continue this blog but it will be more a record of day to day events rather than a reflection upon those events.

So today:  Lionel is still missing, this is the third day.  I fear the worst yet hope for the best.  Won't dwell on it any more for there is no advantage to it.  I love him and miss him and pray he's okay.

We are going to take Matisse to the vet for blood and urinalysis.  He's drinking heaps, peeing large amounts - sometimes in the box, often on the floor, so suspect the beginning of CRF (chronic renal failure).  He is not dehydrated, is in excellent condition (perhaps too fat) but his coat is glossy and sleek so hopefully it isn't that but I must know.  He's been on the Prozac for 4 days now - with some diminuation of the spraying (from 4 events to 2) but no extinction as yet.

Am working on a pastel painting taken from two pages of the Baroque Horse magazine.  Hate that I'm copying yet view it as a learning exercise.  Then again, it is already morphing into something quite different than the magazine pictures.  Which is a huge relief.  Huge.

Am going to invest in a digital photo frame (12 inches) so that photos I take can be uploaded and viewed at my leisure.  A brilliant idea I think.  It will be portable, clear and accessible - if I can master the techno-stuff.  Please please please.

So today, no yoga, some painting,  reading and finishing Richard E. Grant's The Wah Wah Diaries (now I understand what a 2nd Director does!) and writing it all up in here.

Cat Dancing

Two of our three cats dance.  Nairobi, tailless and with only three legs, does not.  I've tried to explain to her that it doesn't matter that she has only three legs and no tail, she can still dance but she doesn't feel comfortable and begs off. 

Matisse, neurotic, self-absorbed with OCD tendencies, is the best dancer.  He lets me lead, relaxes into my arms and just trusts that I won't step on his paws or make him look bad.  Perhaps he knows that as his hind paws are against my ribs it is impossible for me to step on them.  Perhaps he just likes the closeness or perhaps dancing is a form of cat meditation.  When he's dancing he can just BE in the here and now and doesn't have to keep checking on our whereabouts or that the rooms are as he left  them, or that the other cats aren't enacting plots against him.  Besides his dancing prowess, his size and solidity make for a satisfying dancing partner.  Mataisse has Substance at the same time as he is fluid and graceful in my arms.  His purring is a pleasant counterpoint to the music. 

Our dances aren't planned.  Something comes on the radio and I need to dance.  Often it's just me leaping and shaking and twirling about like a mad thing.  At 57 perhaps I should be past the need to dance.  Certainly if anyone saw me I would be mortified but the cats don't mind and the house on 10 acres is far enough from neighbours to keep the sound of reverberating floor boards local.  A dance that requires partnering is usually a song from the Age of Crooners; a Bing an Astaire a Martin or a Cole communicate directly to me feet.  If a song comes on and I'm alone in the house I find Matisse, swing him into my arms, front paws on either side of my neck, and away we go.  He especially likes twirls.  Twirl one way and his head pushes into my neck, twirl the other and he looks with amazement at the swirling walls. 

It is always polite, after the dance, to thank the cat and smooth his fur which can get a little ruffled and moist from gripping fingers and sweaty palms.  Always polite too not to dance too long.  Sometimes another cat wants a go, sometimes I suspect they can get a little dizzy (although Matisse loves being spun on a lazy susan chair).  Of course there are those times when they just aren't in the mood.  Even Matisse has days where dancing is just not on.  I pick him up and he doesn't relax.  He doesn't fight.  He is never rude or impolite, he just makes himself stiff and awkward.  It is best then to immediately place him back where he was, thank him and move on.  That is if I want a dancing partner another day.  The beauty of the dance cannot be forced. 

Whether Natalia, our newest addition, becomes a dancer remains to be seen.   We have danced but I keep the partnering very short and sweet.  Cat dancing is something which takes time to do well.  It is alien to a cat to be spun about 5 feet above ground.  It takes trust and a willingness to feel clunky and awkward while the steps are learned.  Natalia however purrs with gusto and although she tries to lead and hasn't mastered the movement in stillness or the stillness in movement I suspect she will be a terrific cat dancer. 

Mattise, The Flying Cat and the Fat Buddha

Our little world at sixes and sevens this morning.  The bed has been dismantled and reassembled in the living room which is also crammed with the other bedroom furniture.  The chap was supposed to come sand and polish the wood floor today but is suffering, along with his wife, from vertigo (isn't that interesting?  So it was something 'going around' and not the scary disease I suspected.  How readily am I willing to scare myself nigh to death with very little evidence?).

The cats are distressed.  No one slept wth us last night even though we didn't have the fire going and the house was cold and bleak.  Either we were being punished by their absence or they felt they had to keep watch in case something else changed in the house.  Matisse is kneeling near the keyboard.  He keeps climbing on and off my lap and although I love him it is quite distracting so I have pushed the chair well under the desk so he can't climb on anymore.  Reminds me of Garrison Keilor's song about the cat that wants in, no, he wants out, no, he MUST come back in, no wait!  I HAVE to go out RIGHT NOW!  That's Matisse.  On my lap, off my lap, on, off, on, off and then really off.  I think it hurts his feeling though.  He is the most uncertain cat I've ever met.  Natalia's boldness and self assurance is refreshing.  She looks me straight in the eye and holds my stare.  She is not trying to intimidate nor is she intimidated.  She is comfortable with us and with herself.  Matisse, in comparison, is Woody Allen in fur.   Perhaps that's not quite a fair comparison but his lack of self confidence is staggering.  He is, after nine years with us, still unsure of our committment.  If  I've fed him breakfast but go into the living room to put a log in the woodheater or retrieve a pair of shoes, he follows.  I can't go to the loo on my own.  I used to think it was that Siamese characteristic, which supposedly makes them the dogs of the cat world - as if that was a compliment!, to want to be where you are and do what you're doing.  With my previous two Siamese that was true.  But not Matisse.  I think he suspects that if he doesn't keep us under surveillance we'll disappear.

It is sad because, and I suspect I've written of this before, he rarely looks me in the eye.  What cat doesn't naturally outstare any human unless the cat is feral, sick or frightened?  It's almost as if he's afraid to reveal his true self, his true nature.  What dire secrets fester away behind those clear blue eyes?

When he is paid special attention he blooms, as if he didn't think he was deserving.  When all my focus is upon him, when I am petting him firmly and rhythmically and I croon to him how special, beautiful and loved he is, he still doesn't look me in the eye but his tail is up and 'happy' and he rubs himself against me with considerable force (and he is a big solid cat).   Matisse has a habit of greeting me in passing with his tail.  Often I'm in some one legged standing yoga pose and Matisse will pass by on his way to the window seat.  He'll push his tail against my leg as he walks past and it's all I can do not to fall over. 

Finished that pastel drawing I wrote about.  Of course it's not nearly as good as I'd like it to be, nor is it photographed as well as it could be, very grainy and dull.  My signature shows how bad it is. 

Here's a photo of Fat Buddha with Cat that I did a few months ago.  Guess I'll have to learn how to take better pictures.

Cat Boundaries and an Art Habit

I've been mean and closed the door on Natalia. Natalia the Love Biter. The biter of elbows and chin and arm and nose. A purring chainsaw of pain. Natalia of needle sharp claws into my pillow thighs looking for a comfortable position. Natalia the Scamp. Sometimes I just have to say no to the cats. I am not the Chinese Emperor who cut off his sleeve rather than disturb his sleeping companion. No, I pick them up and move them out of the way. I encourage Nairobi to sit beside rather than on me because she makes my legs look like pages of Braille. When Matisse sleeps between the crook of my knee I have no compunction in rolling him to the outside. He weighs a lot. Having Matisse sit on my legs is like being weighed down by a furry boulder.

It has been raining steadily since last night. Although the cats are totally indoor cats, I suspect they get cabin fever when the rain brings the outside inside as a green gloom. I can almost hear them say, 'I'm bored!' Natalia doesn't usually notice whether I'm on the computer or not. She may come in and check out the bird tv through the window or hunt a wild fly on the pane, but sit on my lap? No, she's too busy. But this morning, my lap was a prize to be won despite gentle discouragement. Frankly, if she quickly found a position and went to sleep, no problem but being a rather large cat, she had to twist and turn and try this position and then that, digging claws in to steady herself. I removed her three times. She was like the boor at a party who just doesn't get it that you don't want to hear the fine details of his trip to the dentist. I put her out and shut the door.

Have finished, signed and framed the latest drawing. It's not pretty. It's not logical. But it has presence. It is pencil. A man's bald but beautifully formed head stares through his cupped binocular hands but the hands are joined at the elbow forming a sort of heart shape. Another pair of hands, striped and joined at the wrist form the bottom of the drawing. Massive shadowy shoulders frame the binocular hands. I should (oh, there's that word!) take a photo and try and get it up here but as I've used the word 'should' of course I won't. If I wanted to market my work I'd do so. It's still the work for it's own sake. These walls don't need any more pictures (although I've always admired the shot of Gertrude Stein's Paris salon which was hung with art from ceiling - and high ceilings at that - to floor) but when there's something on the board I breathe more easily. So I keep working.

Have started another work, coloured pencil. One day I sat in the chaise lounge under the poinciana tree and looked up. The sun coming through the branches, the green leaves and the orange-red blooms was a vision that I can never replicate. Yet I have to try. It's odd that artists know they can never truly recreate nature but are compelled to attempt it again and again and again. How frustrating to see the result of hours of work and know that it bears little resemblance to that golden kernel of joy that inspired its creation in the first place. When I looked up through the branches and saw the sky/tree/blossom/sunlight vision, I knew I would have to try. I'm not a plein air painter. I won't take the pad outside and try and copy what I see. I will try (and how impossible and at the same time laughable this is) to recreate the feeling it gave me when I first saw it. What else can I do?

I have copied many things; drawn people from life, copied images from photos, but the paintings which give the most satisfaction are the ones that come from my head. I read of artists who project a photoshopped image onto the canvas and then paint it in. That wouldn't work for me. In one sense it would seem like cheating, a paint by numbers exercise for adults. Trying to recreate the inner life is what interests me, even if it's only my interpretation of an image I've seen and then scrambled with memory and emotion.

Matisse never looks me in the eye. I've never met a cat who won't enter into a staring contest, much less look directly at you. And if I was to meet such a cat, I would never expect it to be a Siamese.

Hadn't given it much thought before. Matisse is nearly 8 years old. His shyness has never been a problem. I mean, he isn't shy. He's the first cat to come out and greet visitors. Usually we're grouped around the kitchen island bench on stools and Matisse will jump on my lap to be involved. If we're in the living room he'll make hs way from person to person, not in any obvious way but if you watch him you'll see he'll amble from one person, stay there a while, stroked or unstroked, and then unobtrusively walk over to another. If he isn't doing that he's sitting in the center to soak up the energy. So why doesn't he look me in the eye? If I try to make eye contact he'll look 10 or 15 degrees to my left or right. If I also play that game and face him without looking directly at him, I never catch him having a good look at me. In every other way he is the most affectionate of cats. A typical Siamese. He loves to be loved. He loves to be touched and will often sit at my feet with his tail draped across my instep, just to have that contact. He purrs constantly and marks me with his whisker pads, rubbing head and face on any available body surface. Except my face. He never kisses. Unlike Natalia who kisses all the time and even nibbles my chin or nose.

The only time when Matisse looks directly at someone is at Richard. Every night is the same routine. Richard sits on the couch, Matisse jumps up beside him. He places a paw on Richard's arm and then stares up at his face, asking permission to be allowed onto Richard's lap. If he is refused he lies beside him and tucks his paws under Richard's leg. Most of the time he is allowed. Who could refuse those blue eyes? Especially when they stare straight into your soul.

Thoughts are things. I know that. I don't want to think the quarry into existence but judging by the reams of expert reports and the results of the mediation of the experts held this month, there is a great wall of pro-quarry thoughts to overcome. The noise will be overcome by some architecural alterations on the residences closest to the road in the way of double glaze windows and reverse cycle air conditioning. The destruction of this rare and precious environment will be offset by land purchased at Blenheim which has a tiny patch of dry vine scrub that will be enhanced by planting and protection from cattle, fire and weed. The quarry, all agree, will be economically marvelous. There is a huge need, according to the experts, for basalt quarried cheaply (no blasting necessary) and sold cheaply because the markets will be nearby. The consensus is that the quarry is a resource that the court would be mad to refuse.

I look at land and houses for sale constantly, bordering on compulsively. Try and think that if we lose and the quarry is approved then that means it is time for us to have a new life, a new adventure. Richard is worried about aging and his ability to keep up with these 10 acres. There are some ideal places for sale. Most of them are too expensive but I am hopeful that at the time we need the money, the money will be there.

We have to have some room, even if we don't have enough room for the horses and have to agist them. The aviaries and the needs of the dogs require that we have a good sized block. To contemplate a move to suburbia is chilling but we may have no choice. On the other hand, if we do move to suburbia, we will have access to things that we don't have here.

Gatton, specifically here in the wild outskirts, has been glorious, but Gatton itself is sometimes a little conservative. I'm not a city person but cities do offer the variety lacking in farming community Gatton. And a different outlook. So it could be a good thing. One thing I know, I do not want to witness the demise of that mountain. If we lose, we lose. We gave it the good fight so there are no regrets but it would kill something inside to have to watch the death of that wild and secret place.

There is a soft bleating sound outside. It is dark. The bleat is a muffled staccato amongst the mating calls of frogs and cane toads. The amphibians are happy. We've had another flooding day. The creek, which has not stopped, broke its banks again and washed over the paddocks. We haven't even been down the back to check. R panicked a little and moved the cars to a neighbour's house. Of course it didn't come to that. Still, the peach paddock was completely underwater and when we did take the cars to the neighbour she had a river coursing beneath her house. I rode the bike up the road this evening as the rains have passed and everywhere is a sibilant murmur. The roads shimmer beneath a patina of water, the verges gurgle, the ditches guffaw. I have never seen water like this in all the time we've lived here. R is sick of it - and so was I for a day or two but, like a demented pendulum, I have swung back the other way. I found I remembered the drought too well, the promises made that I would never be sick of rain if and when it came. Give me rain any time over drought - even if the road, which the council has just repaired, has washed away again - in the same place. No doubt, there will be another cave in at Jackson's Yards. Can't see for myself for the causeways are impassable until the water subsides. But that will only take a couple of days. At least this time we have the phone. We lost it for over a week and as we have no mobile reception here R was feeling the loss. Not me. I hate phones and would happily never answer another.

The preceding paragraph was written days ago. It was as far as I got. Have been very slack about writing here even though I think of it often. Very slack in many ways.

But not with art. After finishing the previous drawing, and so scared that I would not have another idea and would be straining for days to give birth to some stilted over-wrought and ultimately worthless idea I found instead, to my great surprise and delight, that another idea bubbled up almost immediately. There is no greater pleasure than having something on the go. White spaces, whether it's a canvas, a drawing paper or a virginal manuscript is one the of the most disheartening prospects one can face. The idea came so quickly and went so well that for all intents of purposes I finished it yesterday. I'll live with it for awhile before the final cut but basically it is done. And I really like it. I love the concept. It is a drawing of a woman smelling/kissing a cat's head, much like I do Matisse. He doesn't like it if I try and kiss him from the front. Maybe that big face looming in is just too much of a good thing, but he always sits still when I kiss him between the ears from behind, so that both of us are facing forward. And of course, when he is kissed like that I get to inhale his lovely cat aroma. So that's what I drew but what makes the picture is that the cat is part of the woman. The cat's eyes line up where her mouth would be, the 'M' on his forehead, makes the dip above the lip (there's a word for it which I can never remember). Had to make the pupils horizontal rather than vertical but that works too.

Now, of course, I am bereft of any idea whatsoever for another drawing. Just have to trust that something will bubble to the surface. I notice that I am looking at 'things' differently, seeing them with, dare I say, an artist's eye? Everything is, I know, stored away for future reference. I suppose I am just looking more consciously. Some of the best images are those in which I can't even tell what I'm looking at. Television, surprisingly, is a good medium for creativity. I am often looking, not at the characters, but at the background of whatever is on the screen. There is artwork on television that isn't featured as art - it is in the pictures shown on the wall of houses, in sculptures, in landscapes and costumes. As I said before, sometimes I see something and my mind can't interpret it, can't label it, yet is is beautiful as a collection of colours and shapes and lights and darks.

So I must trust that this 'feeding' of the creative well will foster a new idea when it is again faced with that dreaded blank page.

The usual stuff

You know how sometimes you start the day and it's just kind of blah a going-through-the-motions sort of day. That was yesterday. Read a book all day. Of course had the excuse that it was just plain miserable weather. Very cold and those pre-spring westerlies which seem to slice through your skin and go straight to the bone. It was a day that one wanted to spend indoors with a warm cat and a warmer fire. Today however, whizz bang, lots of energy, lots of innate joy.

Speaking of cats. Natalia is going very well. No more accidents. She doesn't have to spend her nights in the bathroom with an oil heater and an old pillow. I thought she'd join the other cats on the bed but either she prefers the couch or she is intimidated by two very large and territorial adults who staked their claim to the bed, the doona and us many winters ago. Got up in the night to go to the loo and found Natalia curled sound asleep on the couch. She prrrted and purred when I touched her then went straight back to sleep.

Xrays are next week so fingers crossed that all is well. The alternative doesn't bear thinking about.

On a rather more sinister note. Matisse has started sneezing. I kick myself now for not vaccinating them when I had the chance. We had some recently expired F5's at work. We can't sell them to clients so were welcome to use them on strays (like Natalia) or on our own cats. Brought two vials home and then returned them the next day. The reason? My own cats intimidate me. If I took them into the surgery they could be vaccinated but here in their own home...just trying to de-flea Matisse is a major operation. He is so strong and so determined and so frightened (why?) that it is almost impossible to put a drop of stuff on the back of his neck. The thought of trying to hold him still while I gave him a needle was just too demoralizing. So now the prospect of him possibly having cat flu (with Nairobi to follow soon after?) is on the horizon. He's been sneezing since yesterday. Gave him the Natalia's last dose of Vibravet a few minutes ago. Just as I expected. He exploded then ran and hid. But he got the antibiotics.

On the bird front. Good stuff. Jack went for a wander yesterday clear to the back of the horse yards. Found himself a fallen branch and started to preen. He's quit attacking R's boots when he comes out. He's very interesting to watch actually as he tap tap taps his toes, one front one back lightly against the leather of R's work boots while squinting up at us with one dark eye. He's gone from having a go to just testing the water. Finally, yesterday he lost interest and wandered off yet when I asked him to step onto the tea tree branch he did so willingly. I was very proud of him. I think he understands that he is allowed out like the galahs but like the galahs after 20 or 30 minutes he has to return. I do make it worth his while by giving him a reward when he returns.

I'm trying something different with Dimitri. It's a slow process but I think I'm finally doing something sensible. He is so frightened of hands that giving him treats is always a challenge unless the treat is tossed to him or I spend many many minutes encouraging him to take it from my oh so still had. Now I've filled a small coop cup with budgie mix (he loves budgie mix) and I'm using that as the t in c/t. When he targets the stick I put the bowl down. He takes one to 5 nibbles and then I remove it. In that process my hand extends to put the bowl down and again to remove it. He gallops off when I remove the bowl but he isn't galloping as fast or as far as he did yesterday. Over time I believe he'll get used to it and will behave as Tachimedes does; Tach just eats out of the bowl while I hold it. That is something to aim for.

On the dream front. Not much luck. The first night I told myself to 'see my hands' in a dream I dreamed of spilling something, contents from a box? pages from a book? across the floor. I picked them up with my hands, saw my hands in the dream but didn't twig about it until I woke and remembered the dream.

For some reason my dream life is very silent. I'm dreaming I'm just not remembering them. I didn't used to have a problem with remembering dreams if I cued myself to remember as I drifted off to sleep so assume it's some kind of blockage I've arranged for myself for some unknown reason. I did have an imaginary stroll through the universe however. Imagination is such a brilliant tool. I used to have flying dreams but haven't been blessed with one for years so thought I'd make my own; not flying around a few hundred meters above the ground but straight up into the black velvety silence of outer space.

Meditation after yoga was pretty good today, good for me anyway so in tune with monkey mind. Still alot of chattering but glimmers of stillness. I've been pretty regular with yoga. Did an hour today without realizing how quickly the time had gone. There is improvement in my flexibility too, especially my neck. Other joints will take longer but that's okay. I feel so much better after a session, not only physically but mentally. It does calm me. I move with the breath and that centering does something blissful for the whole of me.