Richard returns today after 2 days on the coast. He's catching up with Helen and his old mentor, Heather. Have asked him to 'inhale' the coast, to hold the image of the sea as a goal so that we stride ever closer to The Move. Have a picture of our house from the ad in the newspaper stuck to the fridge. Have printed across it in bold black letters SOLD as a kind of sympathetic magic or a metaphysical attempt to rearrange the vibrations to match the dream.
The burning has already begun. Neighbours on either side have burnt some of their hills. But there's so much more to burn and the season is young. I don't want to be here while they do for I can't pretend or distance myself from the destruction and death. And it gets harder each year.
Every morning around 6:30 a commercial jet flies overhead. It's trajectory is Coolangatta. Every morning I stop what I'm doing and watch it pass, the sun gilding the fuselage and wings. The sun from over the ocean. The sun which glows on Byron and Cabarita. The sun that the Tweed Valley birds sing into being. Our sun. When I see it I'm there, in that ancient green caldera, in our house with a view of Mt. Warning, with the smell of the sea on the breeze and the gurgle of water from all those rivers and streams sliding along my bones.
I do try and be patient, really I do. The right time and all that. I know it will be the right time but I devoutly wish that right time comes soon. Every time I ride or walk the dogs or even go outside I see the beauty and the magic of this place. It isn't the place that repels me but what is done to it. Our neighbours have sold their 100+ acres to the son of our neighbour. Much of it is bush. I suspect the son will follow the father and slash and burn the bush to make it suitable for cattle. I ride that country all the time. I'm not sure if I could stand to see it destroyed.
But you attract what you fear, whatever you hold in your head. The more I fear the destruction and the burning the more I make it real.
Ah, the guilt. It seems guilt is my second skin. Haven't been able to do yoga for 2 days because I've done something to my back. And it's hard work not to feel guilty about it. Really.
But one good thing. Am working on a coloured pencil drawing, of the back of Camus' head (again, he's already immortalized in a pencil drawing) as he gazes into a weird blue forest with a flying black cat high above. Sounds weird and I did despair that it would work but it's starting to come together. I really like it. Shouldn't say that about one's own work I suppose but as I make things that I like it would be foolish not to like them.
Am thinking about taking a drawing/colouring class starting this month. Need to talk it over with Richard. It's every Tuesday for 8 weeks. Will see.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
How very difficult it must be to be young! The world's violence and depravity constantly invades our space through modern media. I like to keep up with current affairs but even I find it hard to stomach and must turn to a funny cat video to erase the taste of decomposition.
We have two of the grandkids here; age 6 and 7. Bright innocent blue and brown eyes. I'm not a kid person but I look at these little girls and shudder at the world they've inherited from us and our forebears. And the muck they must wade through. People doing unspeakable things to one another, to animals, to children. All there for the world to see.
Even art. I get really disgusted with 'art'. So much of it NSFW. Or so mired in sex and violence and blackness I feel dirty afterwards. I've learned not to look.
Even my dreams are affected. I awoke the other night from the very real flash of a nuclear explosion x-raying through my closed eyelids. I thought it was real. Last night was a saga of survival, herding Richard and someone else to safety and trying to gather essentials like warm clothes, bedding, food and an optimism I didn't feel. It was a dreadful dream, also very real. Agonizing about the animals that I couldn't save, could no longer feed. What to do with them? How to protect my little company from the predation of others. I awoke exhausted and depressed.
I know, KNOW, this is a matter of attention. Turn my attention to other things. ISIS' beheadings don't really affect me except that I allow them to. Today I squatted on the ground looking at a leaf. It was dappled with sun and shade, bright green, dull green, one piece turning yellow where an insect had had a meal. The column of air above it leading to the ionosphere remained unaffected by humankind's 'stuff'. It existed perfect and pure and complete onto itself. It captivated my attention, reminding me of what is real and what isn't.
I don't have any answers. Evil can't be ignored, I know that but I also know it's a product of our intent. For some reason it acts as a counterweight to all the good things happening in the world (McDonalds and Subway have decided not to use cage eggs anymore). Is that it?
A Buddhist sage (I think - don't quote me!) was asked about the amount of evil in the world. He answered that the amount was about right. There's lightness and there's an absence of light. How to know the reality of light without the reality of darkness? Is that it?
Guess these dreams are a reminder and a prod to get a grip. The mind needs attention and discipline and love as much as the body. I've been lazy and have absorbed mental junk food. So back to a rigorous, or at least better, mental diet.
We have two of the grandkids here; age 6 and 7. Bright innocent blue and brown eyes. I'm not a kid person but I look at these little girls and shudder at the world they've inherited from us and our forebears. And the muck they must wade through. People doing unspeakable things to one another, to animals, to children. All there for the world to see.
Even art. I get really disgusted with 'art'. So much of it NSFW. Or so mired in sex and violence and blackness I feel dirty afterwards. I've learned not to look.
Even my dreams are affected. I awoke the other night from the very real flash of a nuclear explosion x-raying through my closed eyelids. I thought it was real. Last night was a saga of survival, herding Richard and someone else to safety and trying to gather essentials like warm clothes, bedding, food and an optimism I didn't feel. It was a dreadful dream, also very real. Agonizing about the animals that I couldn't save, could no longer feed. What to do with them? How to protect my little company from the predation of others. I awoke exhausted and depressed.
I know, KNOW, this is a matter of attention. Turn my attention to other things. ISIS' beheadings don't really affect me except that I allow them to. Today I squatted on the ground looking at a leaf. It was dappled with sun and shade, bright green, dull green, one piece turning yellow where an insect had had a meal. The column of air above it leading to the ionosphere remained unaffected by humankind's 'stuff'. It existed perfect and pure and complete onto itself. It captivated my attention, reminding me of what is real and what isn't.
I don't have any answers. Evil can't be ignored, I know that but I also know it's a product of our intent. For some reason it acts as a counterweight to all the good things happening in the world (McDonalds and Subway have decided not to use cage eggs anymore). Is that it?
A Buddhist sage (I think - don't quote me!) was asked about the amount of evil in the world. He answered that the amount was about right. There's lightness and there's an absence of light. How to know the reality of light without the reality of darkness? Is that it?
Guess these dreams are a reminder and a prod to get a grip. The mind needs attention and discipline and love as much as the body. I've been lazy and have absorbed mental junk food. So back to a rigorous, or at least better, mental diet.
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Richard spent last night in hospital. We'd had a neighbour over for dinner, a neighbour who'd suddenly become a widow when her husband died in bed in the wee hours just over a month ago. She is coping but needs friends and family support hence the invite to come for dinner and an episode of Midsomer Murder. At 7:25, after dinner had finished, she was heading outside for a smoke while I entered the living room heading for the tv. As we were both turned away from Richard neither of us saw him fall. He'd stood up from the kitchen stool to start on the dishes when he felt dizzy and fainted. Richard's a big man, not fat but tall and solidly built. When he fell he made a sound like a muted explosion. The floor shook.
I turned and he was on his back, unconscious, eyes open but unfocussed, lips white and arms faintly twitching by his side. After the first moment of disbelief, I grabbed the phone, pulling the books and papers from the stand, and rang the ambulance.
Our poor neighbour was in shock. She'd just been through a similar episode, calling the ambulance while she tried to rouse her unresponsive husband. Tragically, he never responded. He had already died from a massive cardiac event. She stood in shock and had to be asked several times before she went and got a pillow to put under Richard's head.
That's how quickly it can happen. One minute you're enjoying a glass of wine and dinner, the next you're on the floor unconscious and trembling.
The ambos came, two capable and confidence inspiring young people. (One bright spot, the woman, a horse enthusiast was also enthusiastic about my paintings. It's rare that someone comes into the house and raves about them, she did. I was quite chuffed). But they knew their job and their attitude was great; friendly, professional, even humorous. Because of Richard's age and the fact that he'd fainted he was off to hospital. I followed, waiting perhaps half an hour before leaving as I'd had 2 glasses of wine and didn't want to be *done* for DWI.
All the tests were fine. Normal everything. Better than normal but they said he had to stay overnight just in case.
While we are extremely lucky to have a local hospital and good doctors (the doctor on duty looked like a nerdy high school student complete with thick framed glasses, an untidy mop of brown hair and thin pale arms) spending hours waiting to be admitted and then more hours waiting to be discharged is not fun. The friendly but overbright demeanour of the nurses, accustomed as they are to talking to the hearing impaired elderly, the ticking and buzzing of machines, the muted slap of shoes up and down the corridor, the look of patients who won't be going home again, all speak the language of illness. It is a world apart from the bright daylight world of the healthy. Last night, one curtain over, a young man gasped in pain. Have no idea what was wrong with him but every few minutes he breathed agony. He didn't groan or cry or moan, the pain was all in his breath. He was removed to another hospital.
In Richard's ward were 3 elderly gentleman. Richard had gone for xrays. The man in the bed opposite was asleep, one had zither framed himself outside to visit with friends, and the third, an extremely deaf 84 year old with the largest eyes, sat quietly by himself on a chair. I was doing a crossword to fill the time. Suddenly the biggest sheet-ripping fart split the silence. I wanted to shout Well Done! a la Noel Coward but no one there would've heard.
Richard is home now, sleeping. He had a crap night, as did I. The consensus is that Richard's episode had to do with his Parkinson's medication. It can cause a drop in blood pressure when the patient goes from a sitting to standing position (although, despite numerous tests, they couldn't get his blood pressure to deviate from normal). It can also cause dizziness. So we'll see. He goes to see the doc tomorrow.
I turned and he was on his back, unconscious, eyes open but unfocussed, lips white and arms faintly twitching by his side. After the first moment of disbelief, I grabbed the phone, pulling the books and papers from the stand, and rang the ambulance.
Our poor neighbour was in shock. She'd just been through a similar episode, calling the ambulance while she tried to rouse her unresponsive husband. Tragically, he never responded. He had already died from a massive cardiac event. She stood in shock and had to be asked several times before she went and got a pillow to put under Richard's head.
That's how quickly it can happen. One minute you're enjoying a glass of wine and dinner, the next you're on the floor unconscious and trembling.
The ambos came, two capable and confidence inspiring young people. (One bright spot, the woman, a horse enthusiast was also enthusiastic about my paintings. It's rare that someone comes into the house and raves about them, she did. I was quite chuffed). But they knew their job and their attitude was great; friendly, professional, even humorous. Because of Richard's age and the fact that he'd fainted he was off to hospital. I followed, waiting perhaps half an hour before leaving as I'd had 2 glasses of wine and didn't want to be *done* for DWI.
All the tests were fine. Normal everything. Better than normal but they said he had to stay overnight just in case.
While we are extremely lucky to have a local hospital and good doctors (the doctor on duty looked like a nerdy high school student complete with thick framed glasses, an untidy mop of brown hair and thin pale arms) spending hours waiting to be admitted and then more hours waiting to be discharged is not fun. The friendly but overbright demeanour of the nurses, accustomed as they are to talking to the hearing impaired elderly, the ticking and buzzing of machines, the muted slap of shoes up and down the corridor, the look of patients who won't be going home again, all speak the language of illness. It is a world apart from the bright daylight world of the healthy. Last night, one curtain over, a young man gasped in pain. Have no idea what was wrong with him but every few minutes he breathed agony. He didn't groan or cry or moan, the pain was all in his breath. He was removed to another hospital.
In Richard's ward were 3 elderly gentleman. Richard had gone for xrays. The man in the bed opposite was asleep, one had zither framed himself outside to visit with friends, and the third, an extremely deaf 84 year old with the largest eyes, sat quietly by himself on a chair. I was doing a crossword to fill the time. Suddenly the biggest sheet-ripping fart split the silence. I wanted to shout Well Done! a la Noel Coward but no one there would've heard.
Richard is home now, sleeping. He had a crap night, as did I. The consensus is that Richard's episode had to do with his Parkinson's medication. It can cause a drop in blood pressure when the patient goes from a sitting to standing position (although, despite numerous tests, they couldn't get his blood pressure to deviate from normal). It can also cause dizziness. So we'll see. He goes to see the doc tomorrow.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Went to Mt. Cootha yesterday, strolled the gardens for hours with friends. Pocketed many fallen seeds which I'm saving to plant at our new property, as most of them are rainforest type seeds and will fare better in a wetter climate. It is, again, as usual, very dry and dusty here. I long long for the day we move to our new home in the Tweed. I know learning patience is good for me, that it will happen when the time is right, but, that inconvenient but ... why not now? The house is ready, we are ready.
Every morning while feeding the birds, sometime around 6:30 a jet flies overhead. It's fuselage catches the morning sunlight and burns white and gold and I know it glows from the sea sun. Not our sun which rises over rocky outcrops and burnt grass, but the wet yellow sun rising from a blue green sea. An absolutely nonsensical way to look at things. Nevertheless I can feel, almost smell that sea sun reflecting from the Coolangatta bound jet. And I sigh. And take a deep breath. Another lesson in patience. Not learned.
Every morning while feeding the birds, sometime around 6:30 a jet flies overhead. It's fuselage catches the morning sunlight and burns white and gold and I know it glows from the sea sun. Not our sun which rises over rocky outcrops and burnt grass, but the wet yellow sun rising from a blue green sea. An absolutely nonsensical way to look at things. Nevertheless I can feel, almost smell that sea sun reflecting from the Coolangatta bound jet. And I sigh. And take a deep breath. Another lesson in patience. Not learned.
Monday, August 4, 2014
In the words of Madeleine Albright, 'The world's a mess,' yet just now, walking from one room to another I am overcome with an overwhelming sense of wellbeing. How can that be so when there is so much trouble, strife, war, cruelty, stupidity and downright ignorance in the world? I don't know. Because I am alive? Because in my tiny corner of the world, right now, right this minute, I can still walk, I breathe, I have all my marbles, I am without thirst or hunger, I have enough clothes to warm me, in fact my house is warm while it is cold outside? I could go on but that is the drift. Some of us are so intent on what's wrong that we try and kill one another (or the planet) to make it right.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
I took the bull by the horns and have volunteered to tutor immigrants in conversational English. Normally I would have said no without having to think about it. I met Regina at the bickies and coffee mini-wake after Roger's funeral. Regina coordinates the Lockyer Multicultural Centre (I think). She asked me.
While I was mulling it over I realized that Life puts things in your way for a reason and maybe saying Yes to Life makes more sense than saying no. I didn't know I needed to tutor immigrants or it isn't something I would have sought as necessary yet it is, of course, perfect. I'm insular, like solitude and my own business. And the older I get the more these tendencies are calcifying into rigidity. Not good. So I thought I would say yes. I can always quit. It's voluntary. It's not life or death but it might be good for me as well as helping others. And, in the end, it's not about me, it's about them. So I went.
About 22 immigrants turned up; Korean, Japanese, Bangladesh(ians?), Taiwanese, Malaysians, Sudanese and a woman from Oman. These are the nationalities I managed to catch. But I didn't listen to the stories of all 22 people so there may have been others. We separated into groups. I attached myself to Nola, a primary school teacher (the volunteers were all teachers or university lecturers - so these unselfish people work full time jobs then devote one evening a week to helping others). We had 8 people, a great mixture of nationalities. All of them young. One young man on a bridging visa so he isn't allowed to work or go to school - but he can learn English with us because we cost nothing. The Asians were backpackers with working visas doing it tough cutting lettuces on farms or packing vegetables in unheated sheds. But they were educated people; a physics teacher, a biology teacher, a computer programmer among them. Educated and with a strong desire to improve their English.
So it was good. I found it hard, not because they were difficult. They were lovely, laughter came easily to all of them. And they were shy too and afraid they wouldn't do well. Remember talking to Ellie and Louann, both Korean. Conversatonal English is just that so we had a 3 way conversation. Normally in a social situation like that when I feel a bit overwhelmed I just make some excuse and go away for a breather (why do I find interaction so hard?) but I couldn't because that's what it was all about.
We're meeting on Tuesday (the tutors) as a curriculum must be created and a plan put into place. Despite my protestations as to my ignorance (the only thing I've ever taught is beginning Tai Chi and with that I mostly just had to move, not speak), they seem to want me. But then as there are 40 Bangladeshians due next week along with the originals we'll be seriously short-staffed. Will just have to take it as it comes and not worry so damn much.
And I do find their youth and enthusiasm engaging. And their toughness. The backpackers are entirely different to the asylum seekers. The tutors were discussing how they would teach the Moslems. Because we aren't equipped to separate the men and women, or to string a curtain down the middle of the classroom, they will have to be taught together. They decided the best way would be to put the women in front and the men behind. And there I will be; bareheaded, in trousers with my arms and neck showing (and in summer, legs) with these men thinking God knows what horrible things about the shamelessness of Western women. Should be interesting.
On a squealy fist pumping note, I won first place with my graphite drawing Birth of a Dryad at the Gatton Show. Also best exhibit for 2 classes. Even got a whimsical little trophy and $20. Really made my day.
While I was mulling it over I realized that Life puts things in your way for a reason and maybe saying Yes to Life makes more sense than saying no. I didn't know I needed to tutor immigrants or it isn't something I would have sought as necessary yet it is, of course, perfect. I'm insular, like solitude and my own business. And the older I get the more these tendencies are calcifying into rigidity. Not good. So I thought I would say yes. I can always quit. It's voluntary. It's not life or death but it might be good for me as well as helping others. And, in the end, it's not about me, it's about them. So I went.
About 22 immigrants turned up; Korean, Japanese, Bangladesh(ians?), Taiwanese, Malaysians, Sudanese and a woman from Oman. These are the nationalities I managed to catch. But I didn't listen to the stories of all 22 people so there may have been others. We separated into groups. I attached myself to Nola, a primary school teacher (the volunteers were all teachers or university lecturers - so these unselfish people work full time jobs then devote one evening a week to helping others). We had 8 people, a great mixture of nationalities. All of them young. One young man on a bridging visa so he isn't allowed to work or go to school - but he can learn English with us because we cost nothing. The Asians were backpackers with working visas doing it tough cutting lettuces on farms or packing vegetables in unheated sheds. But they were educated people; a physics teacher, a biology teacher, a computer programmer among them. Educated and with a strong desire to improve their English.
So it was good. I found it hard, not because they were difficult. They were lovely, laughter came easily to all of them. And they were shy too and afraid they wouldn't do well. Remember talking to Ellie and Louann, both Korean. Conversatonal English is just that so we had a 3 way conversation. Normally in a social situation like that when I feel a bit overwhelmed I just make some excuse and go away for a breather (why do I find interaction so hard?) but I couldn't because that's what it was all about.
We're meeting on Tuesday (the tutors) as a curriculum must be created and a plan put into place. Despite my protestations as to my ignorance (the only thing I've ever taught is beginning Tai Chi and with that I mostly just had to move, not speak), they seem to want me. But then as there are 40 Bangladeshians due next week along with the originals we'll be seriously short-staffed. Will just have to take it as it comes and not worry so damn much.
And I do find their youth and enthusiasm engaging. And their toughness. The backpackers are entirely different to the asylum seekers. The tutors were discussing how they would teach the Moslems. Because we aren't equipped to separate the men and women, or to string a curtain down the middle of the classroom, they will have to be taught together. They decided the best way would be to put the women in front and the men behind. And there I will be; bareheaded, in trousers with my arms and neck showing (and in summer, legs) with these men thinking God knows what horrible things about the shamelessness of Western women. Should be interesting.
On a squealy fist pumping note, I won first place with my graphite drawing Birth of a Dryad at the Gatton Show. Also best exhibit for 2 classes. Even got a whimsical little trophy and $20. Really made my day.
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Feel like I've been sitting for a month without moving a muscle as far as writing goes. Writing has been confined to emails and emails do nothing to stretch the creative muscle. Alas, the creative muscle has been wrapped and strapped and immobilized. I thought it had to do with guilt as I procrastinated about calling the RSPCA about some starving horses up the road in hopes the owner, who's quite a friendly soul, would take the hint and do something. Unfortunately every nicey nicey hint I dropped his way came to nothing. And then I didn't see him on the road for weeks. He'd bought a new rig and was working a different schedule. The dogs and I were wading through grass to try and get a couple of armfuls for this poor gelding. But whatever I picked was never going to be enough. Hence the guilt. Hence the phone call. Guilt gone! Surely I'd get some kernel of an idea for a painting/drawing? Zip.
So I rang about one horse. Yesterday I saw three more. His property is so large that I don't see the different groups for weeks or months. The property is large but is also completely overgrown with lantana. The 'good doers' still look good. Some are so fat it's as though they have been grain fed. Others are okay, a tiny bit light but still holding their own. Then there are the vulnerable ones who need that extra help. One little pinto mare has already died. I'm sure of it. I've not seen her for months. Then there was another bay. Haven't seen it either. Yesterday I saw an appaloosa, a brown and a bay in addition to the one I've been picking grass for. They are all number two on the Horse Body Condition Score (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henneke_horse_body_condition_scoring_system). And that's very bad. (Just let Dakota out to eat. He's probably a 6 or 7 and as such is shut in the yards 17 hours out of 24).
Spent a long time explaining to the RSPCA operator what the property was like, what to look for, how it would be impossible not to see the horse if he wasn't right next to the road. (Yesterday he nickered when he saw me, as he does, but I couldn't see him. He was completely hidden by lantana but was only about 20 feet away). If the horse are not near the road the RSPCA inspector will have no idea how bad things are. I fed the gelding yesterday but didn't try and feed the others. The healthy stronger horses push the weaker ones out of the way. And I can't pick enough grass anyway. The rhodes grass is too tough to pick by hand and the green panic, due to my harvesting, is getting scarcer.
But I have to let it go. I've done all I can. If I see the owner on the road I'll ask him when he intends to feed them. Other than that, unless I start buying round bales, there's little I can do. He has about 17 horses in that paddock and another 7 or 8 (miniatures along with 2 sheep, 2 cows and a horse) in another. IF he was destitute I'd offer help but money is not the problem. Apathy and laziness is.
Anyway, enough. There's so much cruelty in the world that it is easy to despair. And forget all the good, the generosity and the beauty.
So I rang about one horse. Yesterday I saw three more. His property is so large that I don't see the different groups for weeks or months. The property is large but is also completely overgrown with lantana. The 'good doers' still look good. Some are so fat it's as though they have been grain fed. Others are okay, a tiny bit light but still holding their own. Then there are the vulnerable ones who need that extra help. One little pinto mare has already died. I'm sure of it. I've not seen her for months. Then there was another bay. Haven't seen it either. Yesterday I saw an appaloosa, a brown and a bay in addition to the one I've been picking grass for. They are all number two on the Horse Body Condition Score (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henneke_horse_body_condition_scoring_system). And that's very bad. (Just let Dakota out to eat. He's probably a 6 or 7 and as such is shut in the yards 17 hours out of 24).
Spent a long time explaining to the RSPCA operator what the property was like, what to look for, how it would be impossible not to see the horse if he wasn't right next to the road. (Yesterday he nickered when he saw me, as he does, but I couldn't see him. He was completely hidden by lantana but was only about 20 feet away). If the horse are not near the road the RSPCA inspector will have no idea how bad things are. I fed the gelding yesterday but didn't try and feed the others. The healthy stronger horses push the weaker ones out of the way. And I can't pick enough grass anyway. The rhodes grass is too tough to pick by hand and the green panic, due to my harvesting, is getting scarcer.
But I have to let it go. I've done all I can. If I see the owner on the road I'll ask him when he intends to feed them. Other than that, unless I start buying round bales, there's little I can do. He has about 17 horses in that paddock and another 7 or 8 (miniatures along with 2 sheep, 2 cows and a horse) in another. IF he was destitute I'd offer help but money is not the problem. Apathy and laziness is.
Anyway, enough. There's so much cruelty in the world that it is easy to despair. And forget all the good, the generosity and the beauty.
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