Today we listed the house with Elders and a woman who seems keen and capable. One thing she said made me think perhaps she'll be the one that finally moves it. She said the other realtors should have been keeping in touch. They haven't. So we'll see. Three of them are coming out on Wednesday to have a look so the round of cleaning begins anew although frankly, the place is always neat and tidy enough and it's more a sop to my need to feel as though I merit a sale more than a need to make it clean that gets me to hit the mop and sponge and rake and broom.
The other thing of note. Watched the last half of the Oscars. Leonardo DiCaprio gave the best acceptance speech for Best Actor. After graciously thanked all involved in the making of the movie and the making of him as an actor, including his parents, he concluded with this:
And lastly I just want to say this: Making ‘The Revenant’ was about
man's relationship to the natural world. A world that we collectively
felt in 2015 as the hottest year in recorded history. Our production
needed to move to the southern tip of this planet just to be able to
find snow. Climate change is real, it is happening right now. It is the
most urgent threat facing our entire species, and we need to work
collectively together and stop procrastinating. We need to support
leaders around the world who do not speak for the big polluters, but who
speak for all of humanity, for the indigenous people of the world, for
the billions and billions of underprivileged people out there who would
be most affected by this. For our children’s children, and for those
people out there whose voices have been drowned out by the politics of
greed. I thank you all for this amazing award tonight. Let us not take
this planet for granted. I do not take tonight for granted. Thank you so
very much.
The audience gave him a standing ovation. A large Indian in the audience, who obviously was in The Revenant, had the biggest widest whitest grin I've ever seen. I cried.
Millions, perhaps billions, of people watch the Oscars. Surely this message can no longer be ignored. A groundswell of feeling will eventually overwhelm and render inert those who harm our planet on such a grand scale with impunity.
Monday, February 29, 2016
Friday, February 26, 2016
Suffering for the Common Good
Read a couple of passages about Flannery O'Connor's thoughts as a Catholic regarding suffering in Paul Elie's book An American Pilgrimage and they've stuck in my craw for days. I'm not a Catholic, know next to nothing about Catholicism nor am I a philosopher. Haven't read Kant or Kierkegaard or Hegel. Nevertheless I think therefore I have opinions and O'Connor's thoughts on suffering, if they reflect Catholic thought, are so far removed from compassion as to verge on the cold bloodedness of a scientist studying the reactions of a lab rat.
She opines that the Believer is a realist. Elie writes of her that, "the nonbeliever prides himself on his realism, his willingness to recognize suffering and to ponder the problem of evil directly. In human deformity {suffering}, the Believer sees "the raw material of good." The Believer sees the grounds of our common humanity, recognizing that it is through suffering that human beings are stirred to the love of one another and to the love of God, who showed his love for humanity through his willingness to suffer as one of us."
Suffering, if O'Connor is to be believed, is the finger pointing at the moon, not the moon itself. Never mind the deformity or the pain or the starvation, it is a metaphor so that the rest of us can have a think about it and what it means to our relationship with each other and to God.
Which kind of leaves out the poor suffering slob who is thrust into the role of martyr for the betterment and peace of mind of the Believers.
O'Connor suffered herself. She was diagnosed with lupus as a young woman and so led a life circumscribed by her infirmity (she took cortisone for the lupus which over time softened her bones). Nevertheless, I prefer Dorothy O'Day's (also in Elie's book) approach to suffering. She took the direct approach and tried to alleviate it. It was not a philosophical conundrum to be solved over tea. O'Day lived alongside the poor and disenfranchised, suffered alongside them. She took the unbeliever's stance and pondered the problem of evil directly by doing something about it.
So, I've had my rant. Easy to pontificate away from the ease and comfort of my good health and comfortable home. Nevertheless....
She opines that the Believer is a realist. Elie writes of her that, "the nonbeliever prides himself on his realism, his willingness to recognize suffering and to ponder the problem of evil directly. In human deformity {suffering}, the Believer sees "the raw material of good." The Believer sees the grounds of our common humanity, recognizing that it is through suffering that human beings are stirred to the love of one another and to the love of God, who showed his love for humanity through his willingness to suffer as one of us."
Suffering, if O'Connor is to be believed, is the finger pointing at the moon, not the moon itself. Never mind the deformity or the pain or the starvation, it is a metaphor so that the rest of us can have a think about it and what it means to our relationship with each other and to God.
Which kind of leaves out the poor suffering slob who is thrust into the role of martyr for the betterment and peace of mind of the Believers.
O'Connor suffered herself. She was diagnosed with lupus as a young woman and so led a life circumscribed by her infirmity (she took cortisone for the lupus which over time softened her bones). Nevertheless, I prefer Dorothy O'Day's (also in Elie's book) approach to suffering. She took the direct approach and tried to alleviate it. It was not a philosophical conundrum to be solved over tea. O'Day lived alongside the poor and disenfranchised, suffered alongside them. She took the unbeliever's stance and pondered the problem of evil directly by doing something about it.
So, I've had my rant. Easy to pontificate away from the ease and comfort of my good health and comfortable home. Nevertheless....
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Edgar the Crow,
There's something quite different to knowing a crow and knowing a galah. The most obvious thing is the face which gazes back at you. Parrots are granivores. They don't prey on other creatures. Rather they flee from those who would prey on them. Their eyes are on either side of their head. When Marvin, for instance, looks at me, he looks with one eye. When he's checking out a possible predator overhead (and galahs have an uncanny ability to spot a hawk circling so far above that he is the merest speck to my weaker eye), he checks with one eye. He might double check by switching and looking with the other eye. I assume in flight galahs have a greater range of vision behind and above them rather like the placement of a horse's eye.
Edgar, on the other hand, has eyes more towards the front of his head. When he looks at me he is looking with both very blue eyes. He looks with both eyes down the long pointer of his black beak. It is a gaze both direct and discretionary. There's a keen intelligence in those blue eyes. I've noticed Edgar does share the excitement factor with parrots of pinning his pupils.but whether they pin when excited or relaxed will take more observation. Something happens, that's for sure.
Later: Took him out twice today. The first time under the poinciana tree where he has been more than a few times, starting when he was still confined to his babycontainer. He's fairly relaxed there although the open mouth breathing does make an appearance sooner or later. In the afternoon, he hopped on his stick and accompanied me to the horse yards. I squatted down near the tank overflow. The air pressure must have dropped since yesterday for the overflow was dripping much to the delight of mud dauber wasps who quequed up for a sip and a dab of mud. Edgar took some time to have a look around before he felt bold enough to leap off the perch stick.
He couldn't understand why he was getting lightly splashed with the water hitting the concrete overflow. He watched the water flow off the concrete onto the mud but thankfully didn't try and catch the wasps. He did bring me another leaf. And another. He's quite affectionate in his grumbling complaining way.
But crows must be genetically wired not to trust long thin sticks held by humans. I was 20 feet away when I picked up the manure fork. Edgar panicked. Had to take it to the far side of the yard and scrap ineffectually at nothing before he was convinced it meant him no harm. Even in his panic he could not fly.
He never relaxed in the yards but it was his first visit. I put him atop the wooden part of the fence which stands between the horse yard and the enclosed veggie garden. He did relax enough to squat down like crows do when resting while I finished the yards. That was enough of an ask for him. Tomorrow is another day.
Edgar, on the other hand, has eyes more towards the front of his head. When he looks at me he is looking with both very blue eyes. He looks with both eyes down the long pointer of his black beak. It is a gaze both direct and discretionary. There's a keen intelligence in those blue eyes. I've noticed Edgar does share the excitement factor with parrots of pinning his pupils.but whether they pin when excited or relaxed will take more observation. Something happens, that's for sure.
Later: Took him out twice today. The first time under the poinciana tree where he has been more than a few times, starting when he was still confined to his babycontainer. He's fairly relaxed there although the open mouth breathing does make an appearance sooner or later. In the afternoon, he hopped on his stick and accompanied me to the horse yards. I squatted down near the tank overflow. The air pressure must have dropped since yesterday for the overflow was dripping much to the delight of mud dauber wasps who quequed up for a sip and a dab of mud. Edgar took some time to have a look around before he felt bold enough to leap off the perch stick.
He couldn't understand why he was getting lightly splashed with the water hitting the concrete overflow. He watched the water flow off the concrete onto the mud but thankfully didn't try and catch the wasps. He did bring me another leaf. And another. He's quite affectionate in his grumbling complaining way.
But crows must be genetically wired not to trust long thin sticks held by humans. I was 20 feet away when I picked up the manure fork. Edgar panicked. Had to take it to the far side of the yard and scrap ineffectually at nothing before he was convinced it meant him no harm. Even in his panic he could not fly.
He never relaxed in the yards but it was his first visit. I put him atop the wooden part of the fence which stands between the horse yard and the enclosed veggie garden. He did relax enough to squat down like crows do when resting while I finished the yards. That was enough of an ask for him. Tomorrow is another day.
Saturday, February 20, 2016
Edgar and Natalia Sketch
Blanche was released two days ago and haven't seen her since. Opened the aviary door in the morning. She left sometime between the 3 and 5pm feeding. Edgar was a bit upset at first but didn't leave. In fact he's a bit cage bound. He has learned, very quickly, to hop on a free standing perch. I've started to take him, on his perch, out of the aviary. It makes him nervous but I am hopeful that if we increase *trips* incrementally he'll gradually gain confidence.
Had another look at his wing. The keratin still covers the shaft of his secondary feathers. I can't see why he hasn't removed them. The wing is about 6 inches shorter than his other wing because he has no primary flight feathers. If he hasn't got them now, when he's fully and beautifully feathered, it is doubtful whether he'll ever get them. It also tends to confirm why he was booted from the nest. Once he was old enough for his parents to sense or see his deformity, he wasn't worth their time and energy.
Whether he'll ever be able to fly is questionable. I have seen him hop/fly upward from the ground to a low hanging perch. The perch was about 18 to 24" from the ground. Saw him try on a second occasion and miss. He still exercises his wings but not as much. He tends to flap more when he's out of the aviary. Can't have him give up. Crows are way too intelligent to live alone in a boring old aviary. He needs to get out and explore the environment.
Have started a large pencil sketch of Natalia. After the rather sad watercolour attempt of a cat I need to do something that has a chance of turning out well. And I need an ongoing project. The drawing is taken from a photo I took with the phone (not many years ago this sentence would've made no sense at all!). Copied the photo which has turned out rather blurry but is okay to use. So I'm doing a sad (at least for me) copy of a photo drawing. Would much rather be doing something out of my head but at least, if this turns out okay, Richard will be pleased. Haven't seen him so besotted with an animal since Caruso.
Had another look at his wing. The keratin still covers the shaft of his secondary feathers. I can't see why he hasn't removed them. The wing is about 6 inches shorter than his other wing because he has no primary flight feathers. If he hasn't got them now, when he's fully and beautifully feathered, it is doubtful whether he'll ever get them. It also tends to confirm why he was booted from the nest. Once he was old enough for his parents to sense or see his deformity, he wasn't worth their time and energy.
Whether he'll ever be able to fly is questionable. I have seen him hop/fly upward from the ground to a low hanging perch. The perch was about 18 to 24" from the ground. Saw him try on a second occasion and miss. He still exercises his wings but not as much. He tends to flap more when he's out of the aviary. Can't have him give up. Crows are way too intelligent to live alone in a boring old aviary. He needs to get out and explore the environment.
Have started a large pencil sketch of Natalia. After the rather sad watercolour attempt of a cat I need to do something that has a chance of turning out well. And I need an ongoing project. The drawing is taken from a photo I took with the phone (not many years ago this sentence would've made no sense at all!). Copied the photo which has turned out rather blurry but is okay to use. So I'm doing a sad (at least for me) copy of a photo drawing. Would much rather be doing something out of my head but at least, if this turns out okay, Richard will be pleased. Haven't seen him so besotted with an animal since Caruso.
Friday, February 12, 2016
Feel a bit sheepish about all my whining yesterday. Think part of it is due to this damned drought. At a time when we should be drifting through a living emerald we are instead shuffling about in a dust bowl.
But there are compensations. This photo is at the end of the Gatton Clifton Road where it meets the Toowoomba Gatton Road, at a T section. Some wag thought it would be funny to put up a 100kph sign about 50 feet from the yield sign.
But there are compensations. This photo is at the end of the Gatton Clifton Road where it meets the Toowoomba Gatton Road, at a T section. Some wag thought it would be funny to put up a 100kph sign about 50 feet from the yield sign.
Thursday, February 11, 2016
I'll Carry On Until I Can't
I have to give myself permission to have a day off. Richard is away until sometime after lunch so have the morning to do (or not do!) whatever I want. Have stumbled through most of the chores although still have to vacuum, especially as Natalia and Nairobi both demanded to be brushed and wisps of grey or black hair floated down the hall before I could catch them. But I'm not in a hurry to vacuum. I'm not in a hurry at all. My next 'must do' is the noon crow nosh up. Until then I can bludge.
I remember after Mom died my then husband Wayne dreamed of her. He dreamed she was in a beautiful place where she could rest from the rigours of life. A phrase which has been running through my head is, 'I'll carry on until I can't'. I'm afraid if I let any one of these balls juggling in the air above me fall, then a Bad Thing will happen. A Bad Thing would be letting Parkinsons have its way with Richard without opposition. A Bad Thing would be for something to happen to Richard (a fall, a faint) and me not know. A Bad Thing would be loss of mental acuity or physical ability in me. A Bad Thing would be shame because I'd stopped trying to be this and that and whatever, that I'd just stopped trying. A Bad Thing would be to give in to fear, to depression. A Bad Thing would be to Surrender. Tears form in my eyes as I write this. I'm tired and a bit sad. I understand why after someone dies they just get to stop and catch their breath for awhile. Life is lovely, life is adventure, but unless you're comatose, it's exhausting too.
I think a vivid dream I had this morning is leaving an aftertaste. In the dream I met a man. He was articulate, intelligent, compassionate and very interested in me. I didn't have an affair, there was no sex but I did kiss him and when I kissed him I clung to him like a drowning woman clings to a lifeboat. In the dream Richard was away overnight. I was so tempted to sleep with this man and I did, fully clothed, get into bed with him, but nothing happened except that I was ashamed and exhilarated at the same time.
I love Richard. I admire him. I will see us through all this and do whatever it takes to try and keep him well and happy for as long as I can. But there is a personal toll. I'm no longer a lover and a wife. I am a carer. I am watchful all the time. I am on guard all the time. On his good days, I relax a little. On his bad days, I man the ramparts and march. Conversations are of the garden variety. There are areas we do not go. There are many areas we cannot go. I do not talk down to him but I simplify.
It's lonely and I feel sorry for myself which brings guilt when I have so much and most people in the world have so little. Lonely, self-pitying, guilt-ridden and ashamed. It's a slippery slope to climb. I am of a cheerful nature and this state of mind does not sit well yet it is difficult to change by an act of will.
I suppose that's the crux. I have brought my will to bear on so many things and changed them. Energy, effort and belief. If I want to do something badly enough I can do it. (Think that's why I'm so fierce at the gym. Working out Really Hard is something I can control). But I cannot will away the Parkinsons which has robbed me of my husband. I cannot will this house to sell sooner rather than later. I cannot will my sadness away.
So do I surrender? I read uplifting posts from The Tattooed Buddha and Rebelle; warrior posts about fierce priestess types who grab Life by the throat and wring it dry with their Mach II creative power, divinely inspired posts about the Divine in all of us, pragmatic posts about the life we chose and the lessons learned.
It makes me tired. So do I surrender? Maybe I'll just vacuum and feed the crows.
I remember after Mom died my then husband Wayne dreamed of her. He dreamed she was in a beautiful place where she could rest from the rigours of life. A phrase which has been running through my head is, 'I'll carry on until I can't'. I'm afraid if I let any one of these balls juggling in the air above me fall, then a Bad Thing will happen. A Bad Thing would be letting Parkinsons have its way with Richard without opposition. A Bad Thing would be for something to happen to Richard (a fall, a faint) and me not know. A Bad Thing would be loss of mental acuity or physical ability in me. A Bad Thing would be shame because I'd stopped trying to be this and that and whatever, that I'd just stopped trying. A Bad Thing would be to give in to fear, to depression. A Bad Thing would be to Surrender. Tears form in my eyes as I write this. I'm tired and a bit sad. I understand why after someone dies they just get to stop and catch their breath for awhile. Life is lovely, life is adventure, but unless you're comatose, it's exhausting too.
I think a vivid dream I had this morning is leaving an aftertaste. In the dream I met a man. He was articulate, intelligent, compassionate and very interested in me. I didn't have an affair, there was no sex but I did kiss him and when I kissed him I clung to him like a drowning woman clings to a lifeboat. In the dream Richard was away overnight. I was so tempted to sleep with this man and I did, fully clothed, get into bed with him, but nothing happened except that I was ashamed and exhilarated at the same time.
I love Richard. I admire him. I will see us through all this and do whatever it takes to try and keep him well and happy for as long as I can. But there is a personal toll. I'm no longer a lover and a wife. I am a carer. I am watchful all the time. I am on guard all the time. On his good days, I relax a little. On his bad days, I man the ramparts and march. Conversations are of the garden variety. There are areas we do not go. There are many areas we cannot go. I do not talk down to him but I simplify.
It's lonely and I feel sorry for myself which brings guilt when I have so much and most people in the world have so little. Lonely, self-pitying, guilt-ridden and ashamed. It's a slippery slope to climb. I am of a cheerful nature and this state of mind does not sit well yet it is difficult to change by an act of will.
I suppose that's the crux. I have brought my will to bear on so many things and changed them. Energy, effort and belief. If I want to do something badly enough I can do it. (Think that's why I'm so fierce at the gym. Working out Really Hard is something I can control). But I cannot will away the Parkinsons which has robbed me of my husband. I cannot will this house to sell sooner rather than later. I cannot will my sadness away.
So do I surrender? I read uplifting posts from The Tattooed Buddha and Rebelle; warrior posts about fierce priestess types who grab Life by the throat and wring it dry with their Mach II creative power, divinely inspired posts about the Divine in all of us, pragmatic posts about the life we chose and the lessons learned.
It makes me tired. So do I surrender? Maybe I'll just vacuum and feed the crows.
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
Crow update, Edgar, Blanche and Blackie
Yesterday I released the two wild crows. They had been here a week, had had long vocal discussions with the local crows and were flying as well as they could in a limited aviary. Opened the door and Blackie flew out straight away. He flew heavily but competently and didn't stop until he'd made a tree across the creek. Whitie however snagged at the door. I'd pushed the door open as wide as it would go but he still got stuck behind the door. I went to the front of the aviary to herd him out of the dead end he'd got himself into. By the time he was clear he couldn't fly. He got to the garden around the deck and lost momentum. I caught him again and put him back in the aviary where he seems to fly quite well from one end to the other.
Nevertheless I'll hang onto him for another week as Edgar has graduated from the spare room to being Whitie's (should rename him/her Blanche) roommate. Much better for him to be out in the world with lots to interest him while still having the protection of the cubby built into the aviary. I'd put him in a cocky cage the day before as he'd discovered he didn't have to stay in the container. Life was much more interesting from atop the stored boxes. That was fine except for the copious amounts of poop Edgar generates. The cocky cage was a short term solution. Poor guy, he sat in one spot on one perch for 24 hours. Not scared, just not knowing how to get around and onto the other perches. In the aviary he soon worked out how he could climb along the branches to get from one end to the other. I put gum tree limbs from the ground to the perches in case he falls so he can climb up again. He's old enough now to start tackling some of the physical aspects of a crow's life. Flying is another matter entirely but one step or crow hop at a time.
Seeing the two crows together, despite the difference in age, they appear quite different. Edgar's head shape is rounder and fuller than Blanche's head. Whether it's baby fluff I don't know. His eyes seem smaller too. Blanche's eyes are paler while Edgar's are definitely blue. Of course the white feathers of Blanche throw off identification as well. Looked up crows and ravens in the bird book today and don't know whether they are Australian Ravens or Torresian crows. The immature descriptions aren't much help - and they all seem to be distantly related anyway.
Nevertheless I'll hang onto him for another week as Edgar has graduated from the spare room to being Whitie's (should rename him/her Blanche) roommate. Much better for him to be out in the world with lots to interest him while still having the protection of the cubby built into the aviary. I'd put him in a cocky cage the day before as he'd discovered he didn't have to stay in the container. Life was much more interesting from atop the stored boxes. That was fine except for the copious amounts of poop Edgar generates. The cocky cage was a short term solution. Poor guy, he sat in one spot on one perch for 24 hours. Not scared, just not knowing how to get around and onto the other perches. In the aviary he soon worked out how he could climb along the branches to get from one end to the other. I put gum tree limbs from the ground to the perches in case he falls so he can climb up again. He's old enough now to start tackling some of the physical aspects of a crow's life. Flying is another matter entirely but one step or crow hop at a time.
Seeing the two crows together, despite the difference in age, they appear quite different. Edgar's head shape is rounder and fuller than Blanche's head. Whether it's baby fluff I don't know. His eyes seem smaller too. Blanche's eyes are paler while Edgar's are definitely blue. Of course the white feathers of Blanche throw off identification as well. Looked up crows and ravens in the bird book today and don't know whether they are Australian Ravens or Torresian crows. The immature descriptions aren't much help - and they all seem to be distantly related anyway.
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