Death and Sleep

Thinking about the fact of death.  Not in a morbid, scary or I'm-going-to-do-it way, only because someone we know is probably beginning the process.  Suppose once we took our first breath as newborns we began the process so let's say this person is racing to the finish after 88 years. 

In the flush of robust health and the relatively young age of 57 it is easy to say I'm not afraid of death.  Pain, yes but that's another subject and one in which I hope never to have an intimate acquaintance.  Death, however, seems much like sleeping. (Such an original thought!)  When I've lived through a big busy day the sweetest place in the world is my pillow.  I sink onto it with such relief, even with the sense of a lover found after a long absence.  I close my eyes with no fear of the oblivion to follow but with relief, even eagerness.  There is nothing to fear in sleep.

When my mother way dying I believe she reached for it as I reach for my pillow.  She'd been ill for years.  Tired for years.  Everything was an effort and although she loved and was loved, those ties were not enough to claim her.  My paternal grandfather died during one of her hospital stays.  Mom cried.  He's gone before me!  Death was the longed for embrace.

Today we seem to fear death. I fear not my own but the death of others.  It's the grieving that kills.  Death in a way is life.  I hope when my time comes and I pass through that door I will feel as I do now and find that I was right.

 The alternative doesn't bear thinking about.

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

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

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

Auction of a Life

Yesterday drove to Esk to attend an auction of household effects.  Jacqui's effects.  Jacqui is in a home now and the contents of her two story queenslander with dormer window were spread across the lawn for all of us strangers-in-hunt-of-a-bargain/find to paw through. 

There was a rack of clothing; old ladies clothing, that was also going to be auctioned off.  It was a sad sight, dark pastels and navy blue sweaters with white piping, a pinkish purple mottled jacket.  I could almost see the old lady wearing them.  Now, instead gazing out at her garden with the twin pony tail palms (lot 239) she is gazing at what, 4 walls?  other lost and lonely faces across the dining room table, quick smiling nurses with permanent creases between their brows? 

An entire lifetime gone in an afternoon.  We bought the imitation Tiffany lamp.  Thank you, Jacqui.  I loved it when I saw it and one day, I hope, someone else will adopt and love it too.  Instead of a rack of old lady clothes, dresses and skirts and sweaters, mine will be a drawer of jeans and tee shirts.  Jacqui's auction was a timely reminder.  Time is fleeting.  A baby, a child, a young woman, a mother, a crone.  All gone with the auctioneer's hammer.

Procrastination and the Messy Perfectionist's Life

Waiting to start something while waiting for Richard to go to town just means I wait.  No reason why I can't start while he's still here but isn't that often the case?  Everything must be just right before doing something I want to do - which is just another form of procrastination.  Waiting for the right weather, atmosphere, time, environment, mood, tools, whatever the reason for procrastination just means more procrastination. 

So what is scary about diving right in?  I think it's fear of not doing something perfectly.  I've never done anything perfectly my entire life - except live.  Every day I wake up, I'm alive and breathing, even standing and moving, and that's perfection.  If I wasn't living my life perfectly I'd be dead.  But that's a rather extreme view.  My more usual viewpoint is unless I can draw the perfect picture, write the perfect blog, train the perfect horse, it's not worth doing.  Well, it is or I wouldn't keep trying but there's this underlying current of guilt because I'm never quite good enough. 

Not unusual, eh?  Where did we get this obsession for perfection?  Wish I could blame my parents, it would be so easy but while they encouraged they did not browbeat. 

At the same time as being paralyzed by perfectionism I am quite content to do things half arsed, to have the mind set that an attempt is as good as realization. 

What both these mindsets lead to is guilt which also paralyzes.  Better to do nothing at all than attempt anything that might be a little difficult. Not only is there the guilt but this mental white noise; perfectionism warring with why bother, guilt with ego (and I've plenty of that!), energy with sloth.  What a mess.  No wonder I, along with so many others, finally get ill (my current back challenge) with it.  We've got the brakes on while flooring the accelerator. 

Added to that are the many good things I feel I ought to be doing to be kind to myself; yoga, meditation, walking, painting, loving others, loving myself, being out in nature, eating well which means taking the time to cook from scratch, educating (French), reading non-fiction, the list goes on.  All this stuff under the direction of my inner tutor/mother/friend.  And where am I in all this?  Usually playing Mah Jong.

What's that thing animals (and people) do when they are torn between two different desires?  Displacement behaviour.  Grooming, licking, Mah Jong playing. 

So have I got the answer?  Of course not.  I'm a messy, lazy, conflicted, guilt-ridden, arrogant, courageous, cowardly, high energy, loving, loathing, collection of days.  Out of it comes a life.  Maybe that's all it is.  If life was a perfect sail from A to B on a calm sea with no storms I'd fall asleep (die) fairly soon.  I don't have the answers.  I don't know what tomorrow will bring or how I'll handle it so I keep getting out of bed to find out.

In Cold Blood, then and now

Read Truman Capote's In Cold Blood.  Could hardly put it down.  I've got a sketch going that I'm enjoying working on but even that wasn't attractive enough to draw me away from the book.  Even though, having seen the movie (which was excellent) I knew what happened, it drew me in.

I Googled photos (mug shots) of Perry Smith and Dick Hickock.  Unremarkable looking men - but aren't the worst criminals always unremarkable looking?  While looking I stumbled across a page where photos taken by serial killers of their victims were posted.  I shouldn't have looked.  Worse, I shouldn't have read.  When telling Richard about it I didn't tell him the details.  I wish I hadn't let those facts into my brain as I've had more trouble shedding them then the 5kgs gained since I quit smoking.  Why infect someone else with something so awful?

But that's what Truman Capote managed to do, make the most inhuman behaviour by the most inhumane of men somehow humane.  They are not lost to humanity.  Or perhaps, despite what they did, because I can still feel compassion for them, I see their humanity even if they couldn't.  They lived half lives.  They lived utterly on the surface.  They reminded me of my Grandmother, buoyant as a cork, who kicked and thrashed to try and dive below the surface of the sea yet never managed to do so.  These men skimmed the shiny surface of things.  They knew there was more to life, more to them but it was, for some reason, inaccessible.  And so, with no empathy and no intimacy or real feeling for themselves, they were congenitally incapable of extending feelings of empathy or intimacy and especially mercy, to anyone else.

But like Capote, I find the real enigma was Perry.  He killed all four Clutters yet put a mattress box down to protect Mr. Clutter from the cold basement floor and prevented Dick from raping Nancy, was even willing to fight him to protect her.  Dick seemed more a sociopath, even a bit of a savant with his almost total recall of places and events.  Intelligent like a computer is intelligent but with no more feeling than a laptop.  Unless it had to do with his own comfort. 

Wonder if Perry had had a normal loving family life how he would've turned out.  Know it is unfair to those people who had a similar upbringing yet managed to keep their sense of right and wrong and make a place for themselves in the world, yet Perry, intelligent, sensitive, dreamy, was so scarred by the abuse he received as a helpless child, he could only see through a glass darkly the bright sunshiny world forever closed to him by his emotional blindness.  Like a fox caught in a trap he chewed off his own leg in order that he feel something.  

So, recalling the truly horrendous paragraph I read about one of the photo taking serial killers (which I won't repeat here) and wondering why?  why?  WHY?  and how could anyone torture someone like that? and thinking they were inhuman and worse than animals (and why, BTW, do we always give animals a bad rap?  They kill to eat and although a praying mantis may eat its prey alive starting at the head and a lion toy with a gazelle fawn before killing it, they have nothing on the creativity and calculated cruelty of homo sapiens), yet even this half a person, this deformed and twisted human being is still a part of creation and has that spark of something, despite it being almost impossible to see, which gives him humanity.  If he is killed by the State, what does that prove?  It is only, as Dick rightly understood, a revenge killing.  Perhaps a fear killing too for a community would feel safer knowing that murderers such as Smith or Hickock were dead. 

Is there any redemption, any cure, for someone like that?  I'll call him the Draino Killer (and that gives an indication of what this man inflicted on another).  I doubt it.  Society must be protected from someone like him but society as a whole is not improved by the taking of life.

While Hickock swung from the gallows the doctor who had to wait nearly twenty minutes to pronounce him dead because his heart kept beating, repeatedly stepped outside to cry.

I've written myself into a corner.  I don't know what the answer is.  We've just had  a young British soldier hacked to death in broad daylight by two Islamic extremists who encouraged passersby to take photos while they waited the twenty minutes it took for armed police to come and shoot them.  They wanted to start a religious war and the young hot heads are only too happy to make it come true.

Are we raising a generation of Draino Killers and Hickocks and Smiths?  Sadly I suspect we are as, for more Darkness there must be more Light, we are raising a generation of animal activists and peacemakers, and volunteers, and holy men and women.  It's an enigma.

Life coasts along and all is well and then something happens to shake things up.  It's always the way.  Loretta passed away so the inheritance saga is almost complete after completing forms and sending things off.  Natalia got sick and wound up on a drip at Laidley Vets and yesterday while bending down with secateurs to cut some seed heavy weeds for the galahs my back went - not spine, muscle.  So now, while waiting for it to heal, I wonder why.

There is, at least in my opinion, always a reason for things.  I have been  brought to a figurative standstill.  Why?  And while I pondered that question I played 3 games of Mah Jong.  THAT is not the answer.  What did I read this morning? 

Death twitches my ear;
'Live,' he says... 
'I'm coming.'  -- Virgil 

Live.  Seems so simple but it's incredibly complicated.  Or at least I make it so.  I DO know when it is least complicated is when I am simply in the moment.  My latest mantra?  Everything is okay, right here and right now.  I use it when I'm trotting on the hamster wheel of worry. 

At least Natalia is better.  She's sitting on the wood stool in the sun with her large chartreuse eyes slitted against the glare.  Despite a diet completely composed of Hills C/D she was found to have crystals, blood and leucocytes in her urine.  She's lost weight and is not quite back to her old self but is improving.  Especially glad to see her appetite begin to return.  That was the first clue something was wrong.  That and the cessation of her morning run.  Throughout it all - and it was quite an ordeal; xrays, having blood drawn, being put on a drip and kept in a small cage in a windowless room with two clinic cats checking you out and a chocolate labrador (that I saw, there were probably other dogs as well).  Throughout it all she kept her purr.  

One of the nice things which happened is the resolving of the accounts between Tam and I.  All these years Tam hired and paid for the attorney which accompanied her to emotionally fraught meetings with Loretta, her sons and their lawyers.  (Tam said she used to dream about Loretta, her greed and machinations wore Tam down).  Now that it was finished I asked what my share of the fees were so that I could reimburse her.  Rather than have me send her money she asked if I would donate it to a cat rescue.  I immediately thought of the Cat Protection Society of NSW where I adopted two cats so many years ago. 

Sending them a bank cheque for $6000 was one of the nicest things I've done.  Felt wonderful.  Of course it was Tam's doing.  I wouldn't have sent them that much money without her prompting.  Nevertheless the sense of satisfaction was genuine.  Sent Tam copies of their letters to me.  Pays for lots and lots of desexing.

I spend alot of time vacillating between calm acceptance bordering on a simmering joy and a low grade anxiety bordering on fear.  On the one hand I know that I will never be given something I can't handle.  Even death.  Death has only one outcome and you can't fail.  On the other hand, I am afraid, just afraid.  I suspect Richard not only has Parkinsons but the beginnings of Alzheimers.  There, I've said it.  I've made manifest my deepest fear.  By saying it do I make it true?  Of give it more of a reality than it has now?  Conversely, to pretend I don't notice how he has changed isn't very smart either. 

The changes are little.  Forgetting to close the feedroom gate so that the horses have a real feast.  I furtively check that he's closed it now.  Not rinsing his toothbrush so food debris is stuck not only in the bristles but on the handle.  Asking questions he has always known the answer to, that he hasn't even had to question before.  Asking the same question several times.  Needing reassurance, lots of reassurance, about little things.  Also, a kind of turning inwards.  When we walked yesterday (he's coming part of the way now, just past the Pedersens's) I pointed out a sun dog.  Did you see it, I asked.  No.  Did you look?  No.  Do you know what one is?  No.  So I explained (again) what a sun dog was and pointed it out to him.  Richard wasn't really interested. 

On the plus side, he is building an aviary.  That require math and measuring and accuracy and he's doing a brilliant job.  No major mistakes, it's coming together beautifully.  Since he's started it he's napping less.  He complains about chores and jobs and projects but I suspect he needs them.  He needs to be needed.  So, I'm going to keep giving him projects.  There are lots of them.  They aren't as major as the aviary but anything to keep him involved with life. 

He's very chuffed because on Sunday it's Grandfather's Day at Marnie's school.  He's going.  What do I have to do, he asked.  Just be there and love them.  He does get anxious about things that didn't used to bother him. 

It's odd because sometimes he's so engaged and energized, he is as he always was.  Other times I want to shake him and shout, "Wake up!"

We will make a final decision about the house on July 31.  Shanahan is putting the quarry up for sale.  That would be good news but if someone with lots of $$ buys it meeting the imposed conditions won't be an impediment.  The inheritance is coming through (the timing of that seems to indicate it's time to move on) so we will have a few more options of where and what kind of house we live in.  Moving may be the best thing to do for Richard too.  Out of a rut with new sights and sounds and people.  Might make a huge difference.

I know I'm up to it.  When I'm tired I don't feel as optimistic.  Usually, however I trust that the Universe provides me with everything I need, including strength. 

Learned of my step mother's death today.  Haven't seen her for many years.  Mixed emotions.  She made Dad happy and my sister unhappy.  There was shenaigans with Dad's will and obfuscation and roadbloaks that were probably unnecessary.  Loretta wasn't my kind of person.  In a way she was the antithesis of Mom yet she was vibrant, funny (often crudely), enthusiastic and loving.  I know she was in love with Dad and Dad wasn't an easy man to live with.  I think he was sometimes unkind to her because he could be.  She was a smart business woman and a great help with the airport.  I suspect that although the final say always remained with Dad she was the boss in day to day matters.  That was definitely true as Dad became ill and weak.  Sadly her last 10 years were in a fog of Alzeimhers disease.  A sad end to a sharp and savvy lady.

Her death means Dad's will comes into play.  What was once a possible inheritance of $750,000 each has dwindled to about $300,000.  Less now that the Australian dollar exceeds parity with the US.  But the timing is perfect.  We are nearing the end of preparing the house for sale.  Have the verandah to paint as well as one section of the living room (final coat today and tomorrow!) then it's ready.  Richard is building an aviary so that the flighted verandah birds may be moved allowing for the repainting.  Then we wash the outside of the house and de-cobweb and it's done.

I am torn between loving this house, this 10 acres and these surrounds and being ready for a change.  Was a bit depressed about the idea of moving.  Just all too much trouble and bother when we have everything just as we like it here - but then, this may be the best thing that could happen.  It will force Richard to re-engage (even building the bird aviary has made him more lively, less likely to sleep away the day).  With the inheritance we will have a bit more play with what we can afford to buy.  If we can get somewhere near the sea, all the better.  Richard can take up kayaking if he pleases (and I hope he pleases!) and I can get involved in whatever's too hand - yoga, art, horse stuff.  Anyway, that may or may not be in the future.  I definitely don't want to be too old and frail to move and suddenly find the quarry is in full swing with the 160 trucks a day past the front door along with the visual agony of watching the slow devouring of the mountain by heavy equipment.