Read a couple of days ago, or rather reread, about the importance of gratitude. I am grateful and express it every day but suspect REAL gratitude arises on each and every breath during every waking moment. For when you think about it, that's just it, isn't it? As I read somewhere else recently, "Thank you Universe for another ordinary day." But if one actually Sees each moment, there is nothing ordinary about it. Each moment is a miracle; grass growing, coffee steaming, breathing, cats sleeping, air against skin, thoughts, senses, breathing breathing breathing.
So with this sense of the world being softly supported in its orbit and all things on it as they should be (despite appearances), Richard and Helen found a candidate for our new home yesterday at Burringbar. Even Richard was pleased and that's saying something. If Helen likes it I'm sure I will too. Have always liked the photos although it wasn't one of my favourite saves. Beyond that I have a lame horse (Pagan, offside hind, no obvious sign of injury) and I've done my back again - this time by the strenous activity of sweeping up broken bits of soapstone from Kwan Yin's halo.
I spent fifteen minutes on the couch wondering how I was going to get up. What started as a little tweak morphed into a major spasm so painful I couldn't take a deep breath. Thought about calling Richard to come home but of course, if I could make it to the phone then I could make it. Worst episode yet. Don't know why I get these things. It's not spine it's muscle. Today it's much better although I'm moving very carefully and with forethought. No sudden moves. Will try yoga but a modified version.
Looking at art work on line, especially the quite creepy Laurie Lipton. Quite creepy but quite brilliant. Started doodling a bit yesterday but don't really have any idea of what I'll do. Just want to DO something. An itch that needs to be scratched. Practice drawing, while valuable, doesn't satisfy nearly as much - rather like drinking decaffeinated when looking for that caffeine hit. I want to be absorbed into the work.
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Saturday, March 28, 2015
Life and Death Decisions
Trying to learn to do 8 angle pose, probably the hardest pose I've tried. First have to wrap one leg behind my head and 'rock it into place like adjusting a backpack strap' as one instruction site said. Easier said than done. Anyway, not there yet by a long shot but know it's doable. Unlike some of the asanas I attempt. Don't like age preventing me from doing things but there are some poses that are just beyond me, usually having to do with extreme crunching of the spine. I can do The Wheel and The Mermaid but I can't do Dancers pose when one foot is captured by both hands. Maybe next lifetime.
I've become a killer over the past few days. It's not something I like doing but it's necessary to prevent suffering. Each day while walking the dogs I find large gravid praying mantis, equally large grasshoppers and dragonflies which have been the victims of cars. They are still alive but dying, sand and gravel adhering to their burst abdomens. Dying slowly is one thing but being devoured alive by black ants is quite another. So I step on them, grinding them into the road so that they are unrecognizable. This may seem a bit of ... overkill but after stepping firmly on the first praying mantis it was still waving it's legs around when I removed my shoe. Now I don't take any chances. Slam and slide.
One of the most delightful creatures commonly seen on these summer afternoon walks are mountain katydids. Their humped dusky black bodies, long spiky legs and mushy rabbit like profiles are unusual enough but the real prize is when they are gently stroked and they pop up their wing covers like mickey mouse ears to reveal an electric blue bordered by black bordered by deep red striped abdomen. The females are flightless and so at risk of being skittled by traffic. I always pick them up by one of their *ears* and remove them to the verge.
Some of them I can save. Many things I can't. There is a ditch which collects rainwater after a good storm. Season after season frogs lay eggs in this ephemeral pond. If it continues to rain it might hold water for weeks but in the end it always dries up before the tadpoles have a chance to turn into frogs. Past seasons we've gone down with buckets and scoops and rescued the tadpoles. Tadpole Rescue, almost as successful as our homegrown Gecko Rescue. Not sure whether we've rescued frogs or cane toads, we take them to our dam (also ephemeral but usually lasting through a season) and release them. This year we haven't done tadpole rescue. Our dam isn't full and putting the tadpoles in the creek is risky. The first lot would've drowned in the creek run we had after Cyclone Marcia dribbled her way past. The second lot, this lot, won't survive the drying dying of the creek. Nevertheless, on the way home yesterday I reached down and scooped as many as I could get from the mud and carried them to the creek. I think there were five. They were mottled like cane toads once the mud had washed off them. So they have a chance. The others will be dead by now.
As I walked home feeling guilty rather than exhilarated, my actions reminded me a little of the book, The Bridge Over San Luis Rey. In it a bridge collapses and the people on the bridge died. The whole premise of the book is why did those people die? What about the ones about to cross the bridge and the ones who had just crossed? Why not them? So from the tadpoles point of view, a gigantic hand comes down and scoops up a handful of clay mud. Tadpoles one through five survive, the others are doomed. Tadpole philosophy. Has no more answers than human philosophy.
I've become a killer over the past few days. It's not something I like doing but it's necessary to prevent suffering. Each day while walking the dogs I find large gravid praying mantis, equally large grasshoppers and dragonflies which have been the victims of cars. They are still alive but dying, sand and gravel adhering to their burst abdomens. Dying slowly is one thing but being devoured alive by black ants is quite another. So I step on them, grinding them into the road so that they are unrecognizable. This may seem a bit of ... overkill but after stepping firmly on the first praying mantis it was still waving it's legs around when I removed my shoe. Now I don't take any chances. Slam and slide.
One of the most delightful creatures commonly seen on these summer afternoon walks are mountain katydids. Their humped dusky black bodies, long spiky legs and mushy rabbit like profiles are unusual enough but the real prize is when they are gently stroked and they pop up their wing covers like mickey mouse ears to reveal an electric blue bordered by black bordered by deep red striped abdomen. The females are flightless and so at risk of being skittled by traffic. I always pick them up by one of their *ears* and remove them to the verge.
Some of them I can save. Many things I can't. There is a ditch which collects rainwater after a good storm. Season after season frogs lay eggs in this ephemeral pond. If it continues to rain it might hold water for weeks but in the end it always dries up before the tadpoles have a chance to turn into frogs. Past seasons we've gone down with buckets and scoops and rescued the tadpoles. Tadpole Rescue, almost as successful as our homegrown Gecko Rescue. Not sure whether we've rescued frogs or cane toads, we take them to our dam (also ephemeral but usually lasting through a season) and release them. This year we haven't done tadpole rescue. Our dam isn't full and putting the tadpoles in the creek is risky. The first lot would've drowned in the creek run we had after Cyclone Marcia dribbled her way past. The second lot, this lot, won't survive the drying dying of the creek. Nevertheless, on the way home yesterday I reached down and scooped as many as I could get from the mud and carried them to the creek. I think there were five. They were mottled like cane toads once the mud had washed off them. So they have a chance. The others will be dead by now.
As I walked home feeling guilty rather than exhilarated, my actions reminded me a little of the book, The Bridge Over San Luis Rey. In it a bridge collapses and the people on the bridge died. The whole premise of the book is why did those people die? What about the ones about to cross the bridge and the ones who had just crossed? Why not them? So from the tadpoles point of view, a gigantic hand comes down and scoops up a handful of clay mud. Tadpoles one through five survive, the others are doomed. Tadpole philosophy. Has no more answers than human philosophy.
Post Parting Regression
It would take at least a week of solitude to fall into myself again. But I only have until Monday. Today is Saturday.
When did I lose the ability to think, to follow a thought thread to a conclusion or at least an opinion? I think in thought bytes. Nothing more substantial than a quick acknowledgement of 'Oh, that might be important!' before moving on to the next ephemera. I'm one of those multi-taskers that multi-task themselves right out of the ability to stop and think. I equate busyness with meaning when busyness is keeping idle hands and idle minds occupied so I don't have to confront the emptiness and fear and shame which knocks at my idle mind.
And I'm so damned hard on myself. I'm going on 60 and I'm still flogging myself daily for not having a perfect body. Isn't that nuts? When will I let all that crap go? I exercise 2 hours a day (1 hour yoga, 1 hour walking) and enjoy the benefits of health and flexibility yet what I really want is physical perfection.
It is breathtakingly sad.
Yesterday I dug out my huge art book in which I've stored all my loose drawings, paintings and sketches that aren't framed and hanging on the walls (the grandkids counted 51 pictures on the wall, most of which is my stuff). Anyway, I was surprised and pleased by the amount and variety and yes, talent displayed in these works. Not all were good, some were, many more weren't, but they were mine, they were individual and creative. And numerous! I have a serious body of work developing. Won't matter one whit after I'm gone. I'm no Grandma Moses, discovered and made famous in her dotage. (But I'm vain enough to want to be). The importance is in the doing. I've always said that. But do I believe it?
Or is my real worth to be measured in my ability to be unselfish and care for Richard? I blame him for part of my inability to settle. I listen now. Since he fainted all those months ago and was carted off to hospital in an ambulance, I listen. Part of me has become a sentinel, watching for the Enemy. Of course it's not his fault and he doesn't know that part of me is always at attention.
So while he is away for a few days I try and discover myself again. Try and quit flicking between windows (just read about Clementine Hunter, a poor cotton picking black woman from Louisiana who taught herself to paint), try and be a bit more forgiving of myself for my imperfections.
And try and start another painting before he gets home. Drawing is more calming than meditation. I find like repetitive detail, something to lose myself in. Something to fall into while I'm alone.
When did I lose the ability to think, to follow a thought thread to a conclusion or at least an opinion? I think in thought bytes. Nothing more substantial than a quick acknowledgement of 'Oh, that might be important!' before moving on to the next ephemera. I'm one of those multi-taskers that multi-task themselves right out of the ability to stop and think. I equate busyness with meaning when busyness is keeping idle hands and idle minds occupied so I don't have to confront the emptiness and fear and shame which knocks at my idle mind.
And I'm so damned hard on myself. I'm going on 60 and I'm still flogging myself daily for not having a perfect body. Isn't that nuts? When will I let all that crap go? I exercise 2 hours a day (1 hour yoga, 1 hour walking) and enjoy the benefits of health and flexibility yet what I really want is physical perfection.
It is breathtakingly sad.
Yesterday I dug out my huge art book in which I've stored all my loose drawings, paintings and sketches that aren't framed and hanging on the walls (the grandkids counted 51 pictures on the wall, most of which is my stuff). Anyway, I was surprised and pleased by the amount and variety and yes, talent displayed in these works. Not all were good, some were, many more weren't, but they were mine, they were individual and creative. And numerous! I have a serious body of work developing. Won't matter one whit after I'm gone. I'm no Grandma Moses, discovered and made famous in her dotage. (But I'm vain enough to want to be). The importance is in the doing. I've always said that. But do I believe it?
Or is my real worth to be measured in my ability to be unselfish and care for Richard? I blame him for part of my inability to settle. I listen now. Since he fainted all those months ago and was carted off to hospital in an ambulance, I listen. Part of me has become a sentinel, watching for the Enemy. Of course it's not his fault and he doesn't know that part of me is always at attention.
So while he is away for a few days I try and discover myself again. Try and quit flicking between windows (just read about Clementine Hunter, a poor cotton picking black woman from Louisiana who taught herself to paint), try and be a bit more forgiving of myself for my imperfections.
And try and start another painting before he gets home. Drawing is more calming than meditation. I find like repetitive detail, something to lose myself in. Something to fall into while I'm alone.
Friday, March 6, 2015
Cyclone Marcia passed us by today. As a categoary 5 she whipped Yepoon and Rockhampton until buildings shattered and trees threw themselves to the ground. By the time she reached us she was barely a tropical low. And now she is trailing her grey gossamer skirts out to sea.
Does there come a point where Cyclone Marcia is reduced to one white cloud of vapor rapidly evaporating over the hot blue of the Coral Sea? Is the reverse true? Did she start with a collection of water droplets which became a cloud, which became a rain cloud, which became a thunderstorm?
Does there come a point where Cyclone Marcia is reduced to one white cloud of vapor rapidly evaporating over the hot blue of the Coral Sea? Is the reverse true? Did she start with a collection of water droplets which became a cloud, which became a rain cloud, which became a thunderstorm?
Saturday, February 21, 2015
Read the most amazing piece. The AI Revolution: The Road to Superintelligence by Tim Urban
( http://www.huffingtonpost.com/wait-but-why/the-ai-revolution-the-road-to-superintelligence_b_6648480.html?utm_hp_ref=science&ir=Science ) . It is quite an essay which I won't go into here but basically the scary bit can be summed up here: "An AI system at a certain level -- say, village idiot -- is programmed with the goal of improving its own intelligence. Once it does, it's smarter -- maybe at this point it's at Einstein's level -- so now, with an Einstein-level intellect, when it works to improve its intelligence, it has an easier time and it can make bigger leaps. These leaps make it much smarter than any human, allowing it to make even bigger leaps. As the leaps grow larger and happen more rapidly, the AGI soars upwards in intelligence and soon reaches the superintelligent level of an ASI system. This is called an intelligence explosion, and it's the ultimate example of the law of accelerating returns." and "If our meager brains were able to invent wi-fi, then something 100 or 1,000 or 1 billion times smarter than we are should have no problem controlling the positioning of each and every atom in the world in any way it likes, at any time. Everything we consider magic, every power we imagine a supreme God to have, will be as mundane an activity for the ASI as flipping on a light switch is for us. Creating the technology to reverse human aging, curing disease and hunger and even mortality, reprogramming the weather to protect the future of life on Earth -- all suddenly possible. Also possible is the immediate end of all life on Earth. As far as we're concerned, if an ASI comes into being, there is now an omnipotent god on Earth -- and the all-important question for us is:
Will it be a nice god?"
If this is true, and his timing is accurate I could still be alive if and when it happens. Rather than being disturbed by this, I am exhilarated. Not that I have a death wish, for if it comes to pass, human life will be to ASI as ant life is to us now, nevertheless to be a witness to the final act of humankind is a gift I will be happy to receive.
For we might be an experiment. We seem to be hard-wired to create, to invent, to indulge our curiosity. Can we do this? Let's find out! And so we invent the wheel, embark on agrarian life, develop the printing press, gunpowder, trips to the moon and wi-fi. We can no more close the door on the quest to create ASI as we could any other concept we could conceive. If we can think it, why can't we make it?
And so, if the Singularity and all that follows is ordained, as a species we succeeded even as we became extinct.
As to creating a god? Whose to say this reality isn't the result of the god created from a former experiment? God continually recreating himself. From scratch. A Mobius strip of potentialities.
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Sketchbook Dreaming
I love the look of some of the sketchbooks I've stumbled across. Artistic doodles or doodle art. Making art often freezes me. The older I get the more easily I get stuck because I want perfection and making a mark risks imperfection. Looking at the looseness and spontaneity of the work is contagious. It doesn't matter if it's not perfect. Life is imperfect; messy, nonlinear, confusing, misinterpreted, too loud, too quiet. Looked at another way, however, and life's very refusal to be contained is perfection. Is creation.
Journals, canvases, sketchbooks all have borders. The idea, the creation is necessarily constrained within the confines of the border, the edge. That is an unavoidable stricture. Adding more by being too rigid in that impossible chase after pefection just compounds the problem.
Easy to state the problem, less easy to stop it. Came across a blog, which I'll try and find again, which listed every day things to draw every day . What a way to improve one's skill and at the same time instill looseness.
Am working on a drawing. It started out as a sketch, hardened into a drawing, lay dormant for weeks because of having no idea which way to go, and now has metamorphosed into a pencil sketch overlaid with coloured pencil. Which surprisingly I quite like the look of. It's a teenage boy's sketch; surreal monsters, hands with finger trees, doors into other dimensions - all the result of just trying not to be too anal about things but to draw for the sake of drawing.
Which is a compelling argument for drawing every day things every day in a sketchbook.
Journals, canvases, sketchbooks all have borders. The idea, the creation is necessarily constrained within the confines of the border, the edge. That is an unavoidable stricture. Adding more by being too rigid in that impossible chase after pefection just compounds the problem.
Easy to state the problem, less easy to stop it. Came across a blog, which I'll try and find again, which listed every day things to draw every day . What a way to improve one's skill and at the same time instill looseness.
Am working on a drawing. It started out as a sketch, hardened into a drawing, lay dormant for weeks because of having no idea which way to go, and now has metamorphosed into a pencil sketch overlaid with coloured pencil. Which surprisingly I quite like the look of. It's a teenage boy's sketch; surreal monsters, hands with finger trees, doors into other dimensions - all the result of just trying not to be too anal about things but to draw for the sake of drawing.
Which is a compelling argument for drawing every day things every day in a sketchbook.
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
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?
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?
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