From the window I see four horses exchanging gossip around the water trough. Two tails swish; perhaps they're not happy about the subject. "Is it a rumour that we'll have to stay in this over eaten paddock because She says we're too fat? Surely not. I can still see my knees."
Barely. Freya and Dakota both have crests of fat on their neck. My forefinger sinks into flab before I can find a rib on Drifter and Pagan has no waist. Only Balthazar, being the streamlined thoroughbred that he is, looks about right. They'll just have to tough it out. The only other alternative, and one which will have to be introduced later in the summer, is shutting them up in the yards for most of the day. Everyone, including me, hates that. But it's better than foundering.
On another subject altogether. I was thinking about the nature of truth today. Yeah, the big philosophical subject. Truth and how little of it I manage to write. Was it Hemingway that spoke about the difficulty in writing one true sentence. His writing is so spare yet powerful (must reread him one day). But I'm skirting around the subject. I don't write the truth in here. I haven't learned how. Sure, I write about this and that, the outward happenings but as soon as I start to zero in on what I'm really thinking or feeling, the censor raises it's mighty head and silences me with a 'what if'. What if someone read this. What if I'll be judged. What if I'm not really a nice girl with nice thoughts and nice intentions? I wouldn't know the truth if it reared up and bit me. Sometimes I think of something that I think I'll write about; something of importance (at least to me - because it's the Truth) and just as quickly I'll forget about what it was I was going to write about. I am concerned with vanity and other people's opinions (did I write about, truthfully write about my well-deserved humiliation and shame of a few weeks ago? No, it made me look bad. Because I was bad and it's important to myself that I lie enough to keep the illusion alive).
How difficult can it be? Bloody difficult. Nigh impossible. But I'll never write one good sentence unless I can rip the veneer away. It takes more bravery than I possess to be an honest human being - and I'm not talking about garden variety honesty. I've no difficulty with that kind of honesty. It's the honesty within myself that I don't access.
Woke from a nightmare last night. Driving along at night with the headlights illuminating a verge teeming with big red bears. Bears and wolves? Bears and wolves and moose? There were two other frightening critters on this one lane road but I don't remember what they were. Got to a house, my house although I didn't recognize it, and somehow made it inside. Went into my sister's room. White bedspread on a neatly made bed. Two scarves, one red, one dark hanging from one of the posts of the fourposter. Something, I don't know what, on the foot of the bed. But she wasn't there. Hadn't been there for quite a while. It felt empty and abandoned. Went to my room which had a bathroom/shower attached. Closed and locked the doors, drew the curtains but could hear the bears snuffling and crashing through the shrubbery outside. I was so frightened I woke up. Yet the bears, as I drove through them and while in the house, didn't try and attack. No broad bear paws swiping at the car. No yellow bear teeth tearing at the house. Just me and the dark and the sounds of bears being bears.
Now I think dreams that are powerful enough to wake me have a powerful message. Not that I know what that message is, I don't. Bears, bare? Nakedness. The nakedness of truth-telling? What about my sister and that spartan bed. I remember thinking at the time that it was like a blank sheet of paper, waiting to be written on. Yet it was abandoned. Who abandoned it? Me. I don't live up to my sisters expectations. I love her yet I feel distant from her too (now here's a bit of truth). We found during our last trip together, how we tiptoe around one another. Here I was thinking she was the one with the chip on her shoulder (and I was the good girl with the easy going temperament) and she thought the exact same thing of me. I don't get it. I really don't. Tiptoeing around my sister. Impossible. Unheard of! She's the only person who really knows me. But perhaps not so much any more. We have spent too much time apart, led lives that are vastly different so although our beginnings were shared (and no one understands the family home like a sibling), it is no longer the majority of our lives. And what about those scarves, although they were more like squares of cloth than scarves that were meant to be worn. What is the significance of them?
Many years ago I kept a dream diary. I dutifully wrote down every dream I remembered, and I remembered lots! Kept a notebook by the bed and wrote down key words and passages as soon as I awoke. Transcribed them into the journal and then attempted to interpret them. It was abysmal. I think I successfully interpreted one dream from the hundreds I recorded. How do I know? There was a Eureka feeling. Unmistakable. I just knew it was true. A warm wash of success and release. All I ever got from the other dreams was frustration.
But it made me think. Who dreams these dreams? Why are the dreams so inaccessible? Why is it important that they are impossible to interpret and understand? What danger is there in understanding dreams? What am I hiding from myself that is so dangerous? No suppressed memories here. I wasn't abused by either parent or any other person until I was 17 - and by then even though it knocked me for six for a few years, I eventually recovered. My life is happy and well rounded. I don't suffer from bouts of depression. I'm generally happy and content - so why the mystery?
There was another snippet too, of me thrusting my face into another face and saying, "Boy-yea, not Boy-er." My middle name is Boyer, like Charles Boyer, French not English. So, what was all that about?
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Bats, Birds and the Golden 'Keet
Back from the gym, that delicious lethargy from muscles well used. Outside a white horse stark against the dark green shadowed grasses. But it's hot and going to get hotter. 36 the radio man says. Was thinking on the drive home how I would like to build an enclosed bird verandah on the north side of the house. The birds are on the western side and although shaded by torreliana trees it is still far too hot. The aviary birds have the benefit of the huge shady poinciana tree and are cooler there than we are in our unair-conditioned house.
The bats in the colony on the edge of town were already waving their leathery wings in an effort to cool off. They look like hundreds of black eggplants hanging from the branches. Spoke to one of the bat carers this week. Dozens die from the heat, he said. Mums leave their babies behind when they venture off to feed at dusk. Many don't return and the babies, unprotected, die. The old age home which borders the colony won't let carers in to rescue the babies. I don't see how they can deny them as the creek and creek edge is crown land. Or so I thought. It seems odd that bats which are native to Australia have so much trouble coping with the heat. But imagine being black, hanging in full sun (the trees provide very little shade as although they are tall, their leaves are sparse) with your head wrapped inside your black leather cloak.
Dimitri and I were doing really well. He was staying put when I'd walk onto the verandah and hardly moving when I offered him millet. Then disaster. When I gave him a sunflower seed he lost his balance and fell, sliding off the wide metal hooks which anchor the wood bird ladder to the tree perch. Then later, he fell off the end of the table branch when it tipped under his weight. My fault. I'd done the big clean up and untied the end so I could properly clean the table. I thought it was heavy enough on the large end not to budge under his weight. I was wrong. He slid right off. Thankfully both times he was unhurt. But he was unnerved and frightened and as I was present on both occasions I was linked with 'bad things'. He was very edgy this morning and wanted nothing to do with me. I accept that and realise we've just taken a few steps backward. We'll be fine. I gave him some millet when I got home and he was less anxious than he was earlier. R has replaced the metal hooks with sturdy wood and I've retied the branch. I want no more accidents!
I'm saying 'Millet' in a happy clear voice whenever I feed him now. Just finished reading Alex and Me, Dr. Irene Pepperburg's book on her 30 years with Alex, the famous grey parrot. Although I won't be training Dimitri to speak with the rival/model method used in the book, there's no reason I can't label everything I offer him in the hopes that one day he may make the connection. I've never been keen that any of my birds should talk. Caruso, the S. C. Cockatoo, spoke a few words but it was more a parroting of what was said to him. I'm not sure he knew what the words meant - yet when I ask Marvin, the galah, to kiss me, he does. He obviously makes the connection between the words and the action required.
Released Amos, the juvenile galah, this morning. He still favours that leg a little but he can walk, perch and, boy, can he fly. I couldn't see the advantage in keeping him any longer. If he can walk on the ground to feed (he can), and perch (on the overhead wire no less) and fly (like an expert) than he's got as good a chance as any juvenile galah - which isn't all that great. Only one out of ten make it through their first year. Terrible odds. I've put out seed and water on top of his aviary. Troppo, another released galah, stays here alot, even spending the odd night inside the aviary with the others (I think he regards it as a little holiday; food laid on and protection from predators so he doesn't have to stay hypervigilant all the time) . Maybe he will buddy up with Amos. A galah on his own doesn't have near the protection as a galah in a flock with many eyes scouring the skies for predators.
Saw something extraordinary a couple of days ago. We've had probably 70 rainbow lorikeets hanging around in the mornings interspersed with a couple of dozen scaly breasted. I was walking down the driveway when I glanced up at a commotion in the silky oak above me. There were half a dozen screaming rainbows and in their midst was a yellow one. Bright daffodil yellow from head to tail with a head the colour of the inside of a ripe guava. By the time I'd attracted R's attention it had flown. Saw it again the next day. Saw the back of it was also yellow but with a hint of khaki green. I know those people who can't leave things well enough alone have to breed colour mutations to improve on nature so the bird might be an escaped pet or aviary bird. Or it might just be a natural mutation. Unfortunately with colouring like that it is a marked bird. The dark green backs of rainbows and scaly-breasted make them almost invisible from the air. Not so a bright yellow bird. At least he's a strong flier. He's the Golden 'Keet, related in name to the elusive Golden Fleece.
We have a white throated gerygone nesting in the potted umbrella tree right next to our front door. She and her husband spent two weeks building the nest. Well, she built it and he encouraged her with song. She is all of two inches long with a white throat, yellow breast and grey brown back. We were amazed that with all our comings and going and the whippets living permanently on the deck that she would chose that as a nest site. Perhaps our proximity was part of the plan for no hawk or cuckoo (which lay eggs in their nest) would dare an assault. Yet now that she's laid her eggs and is nesting she's become quite flighty and leaves the nest when we step onto the deck. R has put up a sign, 'Bird Nesting, Go Around' with arrows to deter visitors from coming up the steps. I hope she hatches and raises them successfully.
The bats in the colony on the edge of town were already waving their leathery wings in an effort to cool off. They look like hundreds of black eggplants hanging from the branches. Spoke to one of the bat carers this week. Dozens die from the heat, he said. Mums leave their babies behind when they venture off to feed at dusk. Many don't return and the babies, unprotected, die. The old age home which borders the colony won't let carers in to rescue the babies. I don't see how they can deny them as the creek and creek edge is crown land. Or so I thought. It seems odd that bats which are native to Australia have so much trouble coping with the heat. But imagine being black, hanging in full sun (the trees provide very little shade as although they are tall, their leaves are sparse) with your head wrapped inside your black leather cloak.
Dimitri and I were doing really well. He was staying put when I'd walk onto the verandah and hardly moving when I offered him millet. Then disaster. When I gave him a sunflower seed he lost his balance and fell, sliding off the wide metal hooks which anchor the wood bird ladder to the tree perch. Then later, he fell off the end of the table branch when it tipped under his weight. My fault. I'd done the big clean up and untied the end so I could properly clean the table. I thought it was heavy enough on the large end not to budge under his weight. I was wrong. He slid right off. Thankfully both times he was unhurt. But he was unnerved and frightened and as I was present on both occasions I was linked with 'bad things'. He was very edgy this morning and wanted nothing to do with me. I accept that and realise we've just taken a few steps backward. We'll be fine. I gave him some millet when I got home and he was less anxious than he was earlier. R has replaced the metal hooks with sturdy wood and I've retied the branch. I want no more accidents!
I'm saying 'Millet' in a happy clear voice whenever I feed him now. Just finished reading Alex and Me, Dr. Irene Pepperburg's book on her 30 years with Alex, the famous grey parrot. Although I won't be training Dimitri to speak with the rival/model method used in the book, there's no reason I can't label everything I offer him in the hopes that one day he may make the connection. I've never been keen that any of my birds should talk. Caruso, the S. C. Cockatoo, spoke a few words but it was more a parroting of what was said to him. I'm not sure he knew what the words meant - yet when I ask Marvin, the galah, to kiss me, he does. He obviously makes the connection between the words and the action required.
Released Amos, the juvenile galah, this morning. He still favours that leg a little but he can walk, perch and, boy, can he fly. I couldn't see the advantage in keeping him any longer. If he can walk on the ground to feed (he can), and perch (on the overhead wire no less) and fly (like an expert) than he's got as good a chance as any juvenile galah - which isn't all that great. Only one out of ten make it through their first year. Terrible odds. I've put out seed and water on top of his aviary. Troppo, another released galah, stays here alot, even spending the odd night inside the aviary with the others (I think he regards it as a little holiday; food laid on and protection from predators so he doesn't have to stay hypervigilant all the time) . Maybe he will buddy up with Amos. A galah on his own doesn't have near the protection as a galah in a flock with many eyes scouring the skies for predators.
Saw something extraordinary a couple of days ago. We've had probably 70 rainbow lorikeets hanging around in the mornings interspersed with a couple of dozen scaly breasted. I was walking down the driveway when I glanced up at a commotion in the silky oak above me. There were half a dozen screaming rainbows and in their midst was a yellow one. Bright daffodil yellow from head to tail with a head the colour of the inside of a ripe guava. By the time I'd attracted R's attention it had flown. Saw it again the next day. Saw the back of it was also yellow but with a hint of khaki green. I know those people who can't leave things well enough alone have to breed colour mutations to improve on nature so the bird might be an escaped pet or aviary bird. Or it might just be a natural mutation. Unfortunately with colouring like that it is a marked bird. The dark green backs of rainbows and scaly-breasted make them almost invisible from the air. Not so a bright yellow bird. At least he's a strong flier. He's the Golden 'Keet, related in name to the elusive Golden Fleece.
We have a white throated gerygone nesting in the potted umbrella tree right next to our front door. She and her husband spent two weeks building the nest. Well, she built it and he encouraged her with song. She is all of two inches long with a white throat, yellow breast and grey brown back. We were amazed that with all our comings and going and the whippets living permanently on the deck that she would chose that as a nest site. Perhaps our proximity was part of the plan for no hawk or cuckoo (which lay eggs in their nest) would dare an assault. Yet now that she's laid her eggs and is nesting she's become quite flighty and leaves the nest when we step onto the deck. R has put up a sign, 'Bird Nesting, Go Around' with arrows to deter visitors from coming up the steps. I hope she hatches and raises them successfully.
Friday, November 13, 2009
writing and a strange coincidence...and Dimitri
Where to start. I've been writing, not much but enough to get going again. My secret? I joined a writers online group. Simple really. Reading all these posts from aspiring (and published) writers and it occurs to me sitting on my great acre complaining does not get the book written. Then too, today there were a couple of posts, sample writings from other group-ies, and well, they were bloody awful. Not that I'm good, even okay, but my fiction isn't abysmal. Really. I do believe in it and myself enough to say that. It is bad form to compare oneself with others. I'm hot, you're not. Not good I know but I admit I'm shallow enough to be encouraged by other's sad attempts.
Good writing is something I want to emulate. I read it and enjoy it then re-read it trying to figure out how they did it (and made it look so effortless). Don't re-read bad writing, that would be fruitless torture, like going to the dentist to fill in a spare hour. But bad writing serves a purpose too. Not to say bad writers don't improve. This second book of mine is better than the first. The fifth book should be better than this one.
Here's an eerie coincidence. Several xmases ago I was given a notebook with a hand tooled leather cover as a place to write ideas in. I used it once. When I was looking for something the other day to jot something down in I found it again. The only thing I had written in it was an idea about a woman who jumps from a bridge, a man who grabs her skirt and manages to hang on and a third man who assists the first man in pulling her over the parapet and onto the bridge. I was thinking of something along the lines of The Bridge Over San Luis Rey, a book about people who die when a bridge collapses. I read it so long ago I don't remember the details except it was a sort of question posed to the universe, why were these people chosen to die on this bridge on this day? In my idea I was thinking of the separate stories of the 3 people leading up to the meeting on the bridge and what happens to them afterward. The weird part is this. There is a cop show on television showing real cops being filmed going about their cop business by onboard squad car cameras. This particular segment dealt with a woman attempting to commit suicide by jumping off a bridge, the cop who grabs her skirt and keeps her from falling and another guy who helps pull her back onto the bridge. I didn't even remember writing the idea down but when I read it I certainly remembered the cop show segment.
The other thing I have done is sign up for an online course with Dr. Susan Friedman on parrot behaviour analysis for caregivers. Unfortunately there won't be an opening until 2012. Fortunately there is an online sort of mini-course which helps prepare one for the real thing. I've joined that group too. Have also ordered a couple of books, Don't Shoot the Dog by Karen Pryor (which will help me help clients at work) and Clicker Training for Birds by ... a Menopausal Moment. Can't remember her name. Have also ordered a book by Dr. Irene Pepperburg about her relationship with Alex (not the scientific tome).
As for my relationship with Dimitri. Same-o, same-o. We are no closer to being friends than we were when I wrote last. What is different is my attitude. I've stopped trying so hard. Nor am I taking it personally. We'll go at his speed. I'm sure this course and the mini-course will help immensely. But in reality it's not vitally important that we be friends at this point. As I write he's sitting on the t-stand perch just outside the office. I put it there for him. There are many other places he could choose to sit but he's chosen that one. Interesting...although as it's time for their afternoon seed (Tach is on the monitor glowering) I shouldn't feel too complimented.
Good writing is something I want to emulate. I read it and enjoy it then re-read it trying to figure out how they did it (and made it look so effortless). Don't re-read bad writing, that would be fruitless torture, like going to the dentist to fill in a spare hour. But bad writing serves a purpose too. Not to say bad writers don't improve. This second book of mine is better than the first. The fifth book should be better than this one.
Here's an eerie coincidence. Several xmases ago I was given a notebook with a hand tooled leather cover as a place to write ideas in. I used it once. When I was looking for something the other day to jot something down in I found it again. The only thing I had written in it was an idea about a woman who jumps from a bridge, a man who grabs her skirt and manages to hang on and a third man who assists the first man in pulling her over the parapet and onto the bridge. I was thinking of something along the lines of The Bridge Over San Luis Rey, a book about people who die when a bridge collapses. I read it so long ago I don't remember the details except it was a sort of question posed to the universe, why were these people chosen to die on this bridge on this day? In my idea I was thinking of the separate stories of the 3 people leading up to the meeting on the bridge and what happens to them afterward. The weird part is this. There is a cop show on television showing real cops being filmed going about their cop business by onboard squad car cameras. This particular segment dealt with a woman attempting to commit suicide by jumping off a bridge, the cop who grabs her skirt and keeps her from falling and another guy who helps pull her back onto the bridge. I didn't even remember writing the idea down but when I read it I certainly remembered the cop show segment.
The other thing I have done is sign up for an online course with Dr. Susan Friedman on parrot behaviour analysis for caregivers. Unfortunately there won't be an opening until 2012. Fortunately there is an online sort of mini-course which helps prepare one for the real thing. I've joined that group too. Have also ordered a couple of books, Don't Shoot the Dog by Karen Pryor (which will help me help clients at work) and Clicker Training for Birds by ... a Menopausal Moment. Can't remember her name. Have also ordered a book by Dr. Irene Pepperburg about her relationship with Alex (not the scientific tome).
As for my relationship with Dimitri. Same-o, same-o. We are no closer to being friends than we were when I wrote last. What is different is my attitude. I've stopped trying so hard. Nor am I taking it personally. We'll go at his speed. I'm sure this course and the mini-course will help immensely. But in reality it's not vitally important that we be friends at this point. As I write he's sitting on the t-stand perch just outside the office. I put it there for him. There are many other places he could choose to sit but he's chosen that one. Interesting...although as it's time for their afternoon seed (Tach is on the monitor glowering) I shouldn't feel too complimented.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Rescued Baby Galah
November 7, 2009. This post was lost in the draft folder. So it actually predates the previous post. Don't know how to switch them so....Yesterday R went down to the yards to make up the evening horse feeds. I heard him calling my name, that urgent note permeating his voice that one hears only when something's amiss. Met him on the deck. "Come quickly, it's a galah." And it was, a soaking wet juvenile sitting forlornly on a stone near the horse trough. Everything but it's head was wet. When I picked it up I discovered it had an injured leg. The leg was stuck out straight and the toes, two forward, two back, seemed frozen in a forward position. It did have feeling however as when I gently pinched one of the toes it drew it back. The bird was also extremely thin, a sign of coccidiosis. When I saw its first poo later I didn't need a microscope to confirm the diagnosis. Dark vivid green and very watery.
We don't know whether the leg injury came about from a fight to survive in the water trough or is an existing one. It's obviously had the coccidiosis for awhile because it's so thin.
Don't want to call him an 'it' anymore. I've named him Amos. Of course, Amos may be an Amy but Amos will do for now. Having to crop feed him as he's so juvenile. In the wild Mum and Dad would be feeding him. I loathe crop feeding. Always fear that I will get the needle in the wrong place and kill him. As it was I overfilled his crop today and he aspirated a little formula. I felt like crap afterwards. Too much too soon and I should have known better. It's just that his thinness is a worry. If they are too thin for too long their liver is affected and there is no coming back.
The good news is he is far stronger and his poos are looking marginally better. I'm erring on the side of caution with the crop feeding so that's a good thing ... for awhile. Later on we'll have to up the ante so that he actually gains weight instead of just being maintained. It is so hard on them, however. Who would want some long steel tube thrust down their maw? Not me! Everyone stresses; Amos, me and R, who holds him while I mess around with size 8 crop needle and 20ml syringe.
Had a couple of bad days with Dimitri. Not with him. He hasn't changed. He's still as unpredictable as ever; accepting treats one minute and terrified for his life and limb the next. It was me, depressed and anxious, that was the problem. It is such a learning process about myself and the many many things I need to work on (like grow up for instance!).
We don't know whether the leg injury came about from a fight to survive in the water trough or is an existing one. It's obviously had the coccidiosis for awhile because it's so thin.
Don't want to call him an 'it' anymore. I've named him Amos. Of course, Amos may be an Amy but Amos will do for now. Having to crop feed him as he's so juvenile. In the wild Mum and Dad would be feeding him. I loathe crop feeding. Always fear that I will get the needle in the wrong place and kill him. As it was I overfilled his crop today and he aspirated a little formula. I felt like crap afterwards. Too much too soon and I should have known better. It's just that his thinness is a worry. If they are too thin for too long their liver is affected and there is no coming back.
The good news is he is far stronger and his poos are looking marginally better. I'm erring on the side of caution with the crop feeding so that's a good thing ... for awhile. Later on we'll have to up the ante so that he actually gains weight instead of just being maintained. It is so hard on them, however. Who would want some long steel tube thrust down their maw? Not me! Everyone stresses; Amos, me and R, who holds him while I mess around with size 8 crop needle and 20ml syringe.
Had a couple of bad days with Dimitri. Not with him. He hasn't changed. He's still as unpredictable as ever; accepting treats one minute and terrified for his life and limb the next. It was me, depressed and anxious, that was the problem. It is such a learning process about myself and the many many things I need to work on (like grow up for instance!).
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Joni Mitchell's writing and Progress with Dimitri
Just went to my dashboard page and suddenly really noticed what photo I'd chosen for this blog. It's of me driving. Driving a motorhome a couple of years ago, cross country from the west coast to the east. In this case the country was the USA, not Australia.
I love Joni Mitchell. I've always loved Joni Mitchell. Her lyrics speak to me. Today I was listening (yet again, for the 1029th time, to Hejira, my favourite album). Partly I think I relate to her lyrics because she's always on the road,' travelin' travelin' travelin'. My formative years, beyond the childhood years, were when I began to discover who I really was, not what I thought I was. That interior journey came about as a result of an exterior journey. I left family, friends and familiar shores and shifted about strange Antipodean shores. I didn't settle in any locale for more than two years. I learned to rely on myself. I got into sticky situations and got myself out again. I learned I could be brave, that I was strong and resilient. I learned that I liked my own company. If I hadn't left one continent and moved to another I think I would be a very different person today.
When no one knows you or your history or your antecedents, you scent the trail which may lead you (if you're really lucky and assiduous) to who you really are. You become more iron and less froth. Joni, it seems, is always on the road. She became 'porous with travel fever' yet the 'slightest touch of a stranger could set a tingling in my bones'. These songs always resonate with me. It's not that I spent years and years and years traveling solo but enough to know the freedom - and the cost. Maybe I'm only nostalgic for the road, set as I am now with husband, home and animals. I do not wish it any other way but for every choice one makes, other choices sink into oblivion.
Joni's many layered lyrics blow you away with a minimum of words, pointed and true. When I listen to her lyrics I despair that I can ever convey such imagery with so little. For instance, in her 'Song for Sharon', is 'A woman I knew just drowned herself. The well was deep and muddy. She was just shaking off futility or punishing somebody." Unfortunately, I've met people who have suicided. One was shaking off futility and the other was punishing someone.
But enough of that. Good day today. Making steady progress with Dimitri. Was, of course, pushing him too hard, so have backed right off. Now he's following me into the office and I'm c/t'ing for him to come closer. Eventually he'll take millet from my fingers while he's on the floor and I tower over him in an office chair. His whole demeanor is different; less watchful, more trusting. I am so happy!
We've had to cut his tree perch in half. Day before yesterday I was in here and heard a loud thump. He came down to this end with blood on his beak. Found two more drops on the floor. He'd lost his balance and fallen. Now instead of his perch being head height (I'm 5'4") it is waist height. He could still lose his balance and fall but if he does it shouldn't be as bad. Have also piled towels behind the perch, between the perch and the wall. He must have somehow fallen there to have hit hard enough to bite his tongue. I thought I had the crash sites covered but obviously not. Have also put him on pellets today (will give him seed in a few minutes) and both he and Tachimedes are on coccivet as I don't like the colour of their poos. Too green and loose. Tach is having a hard time as he's been gorging on Dimitri's seed for 2 months and ignoring his pellets. It's back to the regimen today and he's not happy. But he'll come around.
I love Joni Mitchell. I've always loved Joni Mitchell. Her lyrics speak to me. Today I was listening (yet again, for the 1029th time, to Hejira, my favourite album). Partly I think I relate to her lyrics because she's always on the road,' travelin' travelin' travelin'. My formative years, beyond the childhood years, were when I began to discover who I really was, not what I thought I was. That interior journey came about as a result of an exterior journey. I left family, friends and familiar shores and shifted about strange Antipodean shores. I didn't settle in any locale for more than two years. I learned to rely on myself. I got into sticky situations and got myself out again. I learned I could be brave, that I was strong and resilient. I learned that I liked my own company. If I hadn't left one continent and moved to another I think I would be a very different person today.
When no one knows you or your history or your antecedents, you scent the trail which may lead you (if you're really lucky and assiduous) to who you really are. You become more iron and less froth. Joni, it seems, is always on the road. She became 'porous with travel fever' yet the 'slightest touch of a stranger could set a tingling in my bones'. These songs always resonate with me. It's not that I spent years and years and years traveling solo but enough to know the freedom - and the cost. Maybe I'm only nostalgic for the road, set as I am now with husband, home and animals. I do not wish it any other way but for every choice one makes, other choices sink into oblivion.
Joni's many layered lyrics blow you away with a minimum of words, pointed and true. When I listen to her lyrics I despair that I can ever convey such imagery with so little. For instance, in her 'Song for Sharon', is 'A woman I knew just drowned herself. The well was deep and muddy. She was just shaking off futility or punishing somebody." Unfortunately, I've met people who have suicided. One was shaking off futility and the other was punishing someone.
But enough of that. Good day today. Making steady progress with Dimitri. Was, of course, pushing him too hard, so have backed right off. Now he's following me into the office and I'm c/t'ing for him to come closer. Eventually he'll take millet from my fingers while he's on the floor and I tower over him in an office chair. His whole demeanor is different; less watchful, more trusting. I am so happy!
We've had to cut his tree perch in half. Day before yesterday I was in here and heard a loud thump. He came down to this end with blood on his beak. Found two more drops on the floor. He'd lost his balance and fallen. Now instead of his perch being head height (I'm 5'4") it is waist height. He could still lose his balance and fall but if he does it shouldn't be as bad. Have also piled towels behind the perch, between the perch and the wall. He must have somehow fallen there to have hit hard enough to bite his tongue. I thought I had the crash sites covered but obviously not. Have also put him on pellets today (will give him seed in a few minutes) and both he and Tachimedes are on coccivet as I don't like the colour of their poos. Too green and loose. Tach is having a hard time as he's been gorging on Dimitri's seed for 2 months and ignoring his pellets. It's back to the regimen today and he's not happy. But he'll come around.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Dice, Dimitri and The Deluge
I'm using the die, as in the Diceman by Luke Rhinehart, again. It seems I blither the day away and don't accomplish a whole lot. Rolling the dice after making a list of things to do is a sure way to get things done. So I made a list of six things (as I've only one die, the other die, all colours and sizes, have disappeared over time). Here it is. 1. Wash windows (always include at least one thing you definitely don't want to do). 2. Listen to The Visitor, a CD made by the Robert Monroe guys, a guided meditation to meet 'The Visitor' which I assume will be someone or something of importance to my psyche. I haven't been able to listen to it in its entirety yet so haven't met him/her/it. The friend who introduced me to it listened many many times before finally meeting his visitor. So it may be awhile. 3. Write (the book). 4. Yoga. Have already done some, trying out a new yoga CD. It was okay but a little too easy. Thought it wouldn't hurt to do some more. 5. Plants. We had 51mm or rain yesterday. Took all the plants out for a drink and a wash. Because it rained so hard, they have debris splattered up the sides. Have brought some back in already but there are more plus one palm I want to repot. and 6. Blog, hence this. It rolled a 6.
I was exhausted by 8:30 last night. Went to bed at 9:30 then couldn't sleep thinking about Dimitri. We had a good ending as I wrote yesterday for he was curious, and perhaps made nervous about the storm (10,000 lightning strikes and power outages), and hung around to the entrance to this room off the verandah. I thought this morning that I would try and get him to target a prop, in this case a plastic weave ball with a bell in it. Dismal failure. I held it and he did touch it but he was so focused on getting out he kept offering the behaviour of getting on the forward perch. When I held the ball up to him again he ignored it and bit my finger - twice. Not hard but hard enough to let me know he wasn't happy. The first rule of birdkeeping and training is don't get bitten so I didn't hold it out again. Instead I got a coop cup which hangs on the inside of the cage and put the ball in it. I clicked for him looking at it, for getting closer (in his mad rush to get onto that forward perch) but in truth it didn't click with him at all. He got cranky and went to the back of the cage. Hmmm. I left him in and went outside and did something else (and felt tears of frustration pricking my eyes - why is this so hard for me?). Overdoing it, no doubt. Should have quit while I was ahead. He got frustrated and annoyed and so did I.
When I returned we'd both calmed down. I clicked for getting near the cup, made a big fuss and then let him out. He's still running for the opposite end of the perch when I go out, unless I'm holding millet but I am backing right off and not letting it annoy me. If this is where we are, this is where we are.
He got on the floor a couple of times, even following me to the opposite end of the verandah. I knelt and offered corn and millet treats for coming nearer. He did get pretty close so that's something.
Must say everything looks so scrubbed and fresh after the rain. It has been so dry - grass the colour of a peroxide blonde. The horses were so rejuvenated they galloped back and forth in the peach paddock which is in front of the windows behind the monitor. Even Freya, nearly 30, was in the throng, sometimes leading the way. After the sixth go she veered off to refresh herself at the water trough but the others kept going. Radar, the whippet x, joined in. Even from here I could see his laughter. That dog loves to run, even more than Jamaica, the purebred whippet. He runs for sheer joy. The galahs, dusty with months of dry weather, hung upside down from the wires and shrieked. Even the aviary galahs found toeholds on the mesh and screamed and fluttered and shook their feathers. Wish Dimitri could have had a bath too but that will have to wait. One day....
I was exhausted by 8:30 last night. Went to bed at 9:30 then couldn't sleep thinking about Dimitri. We had a good ending as I wrote yesterday for he was curious, and perhaps made nervous about the storm (10,000 lightning strikes and power outages), and hung around to the entrance to this room off the verandah. I thought this morning that I would try and get him to target a prop, in this case a plastic weave ball with a bell in it. Dismal failure. I held it and he did touch it but he was so focused on getting out he kept offering the behaviour of getting on the forward perch. When I held the ball up to him again he ignored it and bit my finger - twice. Not hard but hard enough to let me know he wasn't happy. The first rule of birdkeeping and training is don't get bitten so I didn't hold it out again. Instead I got a coop cup which hangs on the inside of the cage and put the ball in it. I clicked for him looking at it, for getting closer (in his mad rush to get onto that forward perch) but in truth it didn't click with him at all. He got cranky and went to the back of the cage. Hmmm. I left him in and went outside and did something else (and felt tears of frustration pricking my eyes - why is this so hard for me?). Overdoing it, no doubt. Should have quit while I was ahead. He got frustrated and annoyed and so did I.
When I returned we'd both calmed down. I clicked for getting near the cup, made a big fuss and then let him out. He's still running for the opposite end of the perch when I go out, unless I'm holding millet but I am backing right off and not letting it annoy me. If this is where we are, this is where we are.
He got on the floor a couple of times, even following me to the opposite end of the verandah. I knelt and offered corn and millet treats for coming nearer. He did get pretty close so that's something.
Must say everything looks so scrubbed and fresh after the rain. It has been so dry - grass the colour of a peroxide blonde. The horses were so rejuvenated they galloped back and forth in the peach paddock which is in front of the windows behind the monitor. Even Freya, nearly 30, was in the throng, sometimes leading the way. After the sixth go she veered off to refresh herself at the water trough but the others kept going. Radar, the whippet x, joined in. Even from here I could see his laughter. That dog loves to run, even more than Jamaica, the purebred whippet. He runs for sheer joy. The galahs, dusty with months of dry weather, hung upside down from the wires and shrieked. Even the aviary galahs found toeholds on the mesh and screamed and fluttered and shook their feathers. Wish Dimitri could have had a bath too but that will have to wait. One day....
Monday, October 26, 2009
Dimitry, always and forever
Well, Dimitri and I aren't getting on very well. No progress, even regression and I'm having to rethink my entire plan (there was a plan?). Like that wise sage, Dr. Phil asks supplicants at the altar of his self-help show - 'Is that workin' for ya?' Nope, it ain't.
So maybe I can think this out loud. A bit of free flowing stream of consciousness description of what's going on. I've read and read files on taming wild birds, gaining their confidence, I've slow-blinked and breathed deep. I've endlessly beat a hasty retreat at any sign of nervousness. I've rewarded any sign of confidence by beating a hasty retreat. There's a track through the french door floor boards as deep as Death Valley. Yet and yet and yet, he's still terrified. Soon as I come through the door, slowly slowly, not looking at him, making my way by a circuitous route to an area of the verandah nowhere near him, he's off like a rabbit to the end of the perch. From the perch onto another perch which spans, what is laughingly referred to as, the training table. If I am still too close (by this time I'm using binoculars to see him), he will threaten to jump from the edge onto the blankets I've put on the floor for just this eventuality. As for clicker training. He targets like a champion and then flees before he gets the treat. No way was he going to venture onto the training table to follow the target stick. I longed for arms like Rubberman so that I could indicate the training table perch while still remaining in the bad girl corner sans dunce cap. Not that it mattered. As far as Dimitri is concerned taking any step beyond gnawing the end of the perch is only for stupid birds and he isn't one of them.
Okay, so the targeting isn't really getting us anywhere as I can't get him onto the training table to begin playing with props. Using props is a way to get the bird so enthusiastic about working with you for treats that he forgets to be scared. Yeah, right. (I'm sorry, I'm frustrated and so am writing with alot of ... frustration. I don't mean it). So he can target. He knows targeting. He's got targeting. I'll just get him used to the idea that anytime I'm in the vicinity he gets something yummy. If he doesn't want it from my hand, fine, I'll throw it in his direction. He adores millet. Who would've thought a big lumberjack of a bird like Dimitri would like millet. Anyway, when he is on the floor and heads in my direction, throw a millet bunch, or a bunch of millet. Give corn, sunflower seeds, millet, whatever he wants and is in the mood for.
But that didn't work, did it. He seemed even more afraid of me, snatching the treat and beating a hasty retreat to Timbuktu.
Patience is what is required. I know that. Lots of patience, oceans of patience, an infinity of patience. Still I would like to see some progress. I'm on holiday. I can spend time with him (and I do, taking a book and reading quietly in a chair well away from him, doing yoga first thing in the morning, making short treat trips as in the aforementioned description). I erroneously thought we'd get a wee bit closer to, if not friendship, at least acquaintances of a civil sort. Instead it's the KGB meets MOSSAD and the KGB forgot their ammo.
So what then is the new plan. R suggests I don't let him out of the cage in the morning until we've done some serious 'getting to know you, getting to know all about you'. That is one area we have made progress. He will get onto the most forward perch. Even to getting him on the forward perch was a milestone, now he gets on in less time and gets the BIG reward - freedom. R thinks yeah, but he needs to get used to my nearness and start getting hand trained. I naively thought when he was getting onto the forward perch with me on the outside that he wouldn't be able to do that without accepting my presence to some degree, but I guess his desire for freedom overrules, in this instance, his instinctive fear.
How to approach this then? His cage now sits on a table with legs and it's a little lower than the previous table. Instead of standing, perhaps I can use a chair so that a) I'm a bit more comfortable and b) I'm not looming over him like Kilimanjaro with hair. Maybe I need to be a little tougher and not be in such a big hurry not to let him out of his cage in the morning. Another 30 or 40 minutes in the cage won't hurt him. If he's in the cage, he can't injure himself. I don't have to force him to accept my presence. I can still do the advance and retreat thing. We can just be a bit more consistent. In that half hour we can have 2 or 3 or 4 short sessions. He'll still be free at the end of it.
I've just done a stint of advance and retreat from halfway up the verandah, coming through the end door instead of the middle french doors. Dimitri was actually coming to the end of the perch and even though he didn't stay there, I left the room as a reward for him staying calm.
I've vented now and feel much better. Found my patience again. Of course I have to go at his pace and there's nothing worse than being sad and upset and frustrated when I'm around him, which is why this blog is so good. I can get it all out of my system and go to him the calm, serene, loving person I really am...most of the time. NEWS FLASH: He's hanging around this end of the verandah where he can see me (at the computer). I don't have any treats. I'm sitting and not retreating but he's still coming for a look-see. Good, huh?
So maybe I can think this out loud. A bit of free flowing stream of consciousness description of what's going on. I've read and read files on taming wild birds, gaining their confidence, I've slow-blinked and breathed deep. I've endlessly beat a hasty retreat at any sign of nervousness. I've rewarded any sign of confidence by beating a hasty retreat. There's a track through the french door floor boards as deep as Death Valley. Yet and yet and yet, he's still terrified. Soon as I come through the door, slowly slowly, not looking at him, making my way by a circuitous route to an area of the verandah nowhere near him, he's off like a rabbit to the end of the perch. From the perch onto another perch which spans, what is laughingly referred to as, the training table. If I am still too close (by this time I'm using binoculars to see him), he will threaten to jump from the edge onto the blankets I've put on the floor for just this eventuality. As for clicker training. He targets like a champion and then flees before he gets the treat. No way was he going to venture onto the training table to follow the target stick. I longed for arms like Rubberman so that I could indicate the training table perch while still remaining in the bad girl corner sans dunce cap. Not that it mattered. As far as Dimitri is concerned taking any step beyond gnawing the end of the perch is only for stupid birds and he isn't one of them.
Okay, so the targeting isn't really getting us anywhere as I can't get him onto the training table to begin playing with props. Using props is a way to get the bird so enthusiastic about working with you for treats that he forgets to be scared. Yeah, right. (I'm sorry, I'm frustrated and so am writing with alot of ... frustration. I don't mean it). So he can target. He knows targeting. He's got targeting. I'll just get him used to the idea that anytime I'm in the vicinity he gets something yummy. If he doesn't want it from my hand, fine, I'll throw it in his direction. He adores millet. Who would've thought a big lumberjack of a bird like Dimitri would like millet. Anyway, when he is on the floor and heads in my direction, throw a millet bunch, or a bunch of millet. Give corn, sunflower seeds, millet, whatever he wants and is in the mood for.
But that didn't work, did it. He seemed even more afraid of me, snatching the treat and beating a hasty retreat to Timbuktu.
Patience is what is required. I know that. Lots of patience, oceans of patience, an infinity of patience. Still I would like to see some progress. I'm on holiday. I can spend time with him (and I do, taking a book and reading quietly in a chair well away from him, doing yoga first thing in the morning, making short treat trips as in the aforementioned description). I erroneously thought we'd get a wee bit closer to, if not friendship, at least acquaintances of a civil sort. Instead it's the KGB meets MOSSAD and the KGB forgot their ammo.
So what then is the new plan. R suggests I don't let him out of the cage in the morning until we've done some serious 'getting to know you, getting to know all about you'. That is one area we have made progress. He will get onto the most forward perch. Even to getting him on the forward perch was a milestone, now he gets on in less time and gets the BIG reward - freedom. R thinks yeah, but he needs to get used to my nearness and start getting hand trained. I naively thought when he was getting onto the forward perch with me on the outside that he wouldn't be able to do that without accepting my presence to some degree, but I guess his desire for freedom overrules, in this instance, his instinctive fear.
How to approach this then? His cage now sits on a table with legs and it's a little lower than the previous table. Instead of standing, perhaps I can use a chair so that a) I'm a bit more comfortable and b) I'm not looming over him like Kilimanjaro with hair. Maybe I need to be a little tougher and not be in such a big hurry not to let him out of his cage in the morning. Another 30 or 40 minutes in the cage won't hurt him. If he's in the cage, he can't injure himself. I don't have to force him to accept my presence. I can still do the advance and retreat thing. We can just be a bit more consistent. In that half hour we can have 2 or 3 or 4 short sessions. He'll still be free at the end of it.
I've just done a stint of advance and retreat from halfway up the verandah, coming through the end door instead of the middle french doors. Dimitri was actually coming to the end of the perch and even though he didn't stay there, I left the room as a reward for him staying calm.
I've vented now and feel much better. Found my patience again. Of course I have to go at his pace and there's nothing worse than being sad and upset and frustrated when I'm around him, which is why this blog is so good. I can get it all out of my system and go to him the calm, serene, loving person I really am...most of the time. NEWS FLASH: He's hanging around this end of the verandah where he can see me (at the computer). I don't have any treats. I'm sitting and not retreating but he's still coming for a look-see. Good, huh?
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