Tuesday, May 24, 2016
Edgar and the Mice
We have had to start setting mouse traps. Wintertime always sees a population boom. I wouldn't mind as I actually like mice but they do tunnel into the aviaries making nice snake sized holes for nice snakes to come in and feast on nice budgerigars. Yesterday we had 3 mice in two traps. Think our mouse population is healthy. Anyway, thought these freshly dead mice would make a nice meal for Edgar. And oh, he was excited by the prospect of Mouse Tartare!
Oh, he crunched those little mouse skulls. He pulled at their little mouse feet. He carried them here. He carried them there. He turned them over and turned them back again. He picked them up and put them down. He flew them into the trees and flew them back down again. He checked to see if they would fit between two rocks. He checked to see if they fit in the rubber matting (they did). He held them proudly in his beak while turning to look beguilingly over his shoulder at me.
He did everything but eat them.
Finally, bored, he stuffed them back into the rocks and came over to see what other tidbits I had for him to eat.
While waiting for me to unwrap the meat he snapped ferociously at a gnat. It was so small I don't know if he killed it or not.
After he'd eaten I gathered the moist rumpled bodies of the mice and carried them into the paddock. Another game! Edgar came too. I put the mice down and left. He can stuff them into mouse-sized holes away from the house because if I don't find where he puts them (if he puts them near the house) they are going to stink in a few days.
Another morning, another mouse. I called him and gave him the mouse in the paddock.
He's also getting a small dog bone two or 3 times a week. More excitement. He pins it down with his toenails and pulls the meat with his beak. He does it very well. No doubt after having much practice on the clothes pegs. Am now drying the clothes on the verandah. Thank you, Edgar.
Saturday, May 7, 2016
The Passing of Rev. Daniel Berrigan
Reverend Daniel Berrigan has died. His life makes cowards of us all. When he came to prominence, burning draft cards with his brother, Philip in Cantonville Ohio, it barely made a blip on my teenage radar. I was 13. But having just read about him in conjunction with Dorothy Day and Thomas Merton in An American Pilgrimage, I can't say there is renewed interest but there is interest.
He spent his life in writing books, poetry and activism. He said during his trial in Philadelphia for destroying government property after he and six others took hammers to the (unarmed) nosecones of nuclear missiles: "The only message I have to the world is: We are not allowed to kill innocent people. We are not allowed to be complicit in murder. We are not allowed to be silent while preparations for mass murder proceed in our name, with our money, secretly...It’s terrible for me to live in a time where I have nothing to say to human beings except, “Stop killing.” There are other beautiful things that I would love to be saying to people. There are other projects I could be very helpful at. And I can’t do them. I cannot. Because everything is endangered. Everything is up for grabs. Ours is a kind of primitive situation, even though we would call ourselves sophisticated. Our plight is very primitive from a Christian point of view. We are back where we started. Thou shalt not kill; we are not allowed to kill. Everything today comes down to that — everything." Italics mine.
Those who do not know their history are doomed to repeat it - or words to that effect. Maybe humans just haven't been human long enough to evolve past their reptilian hindbrain. But that statement is a sham for we have free will, we can and do learn from our mistakes, we are capable of creating the most sublime beauty, of deliberate selflessness. We can laugh at ourselves, we have a sense of humour, we experience gratitude.. We experience awe. I'm certain other creatures have a sense of humour, can love, can even create despite their lack of opposable thumbs, but is any creature capable of awe? Rather than repeating our doleful violent murderous history, why do we not replicate situations where we are likely to feel awe or, as Jung described, that 'oceanic feeling'?
Finished reading Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky. She was a Russian half-Jew whose family escaped nearly penniless from the socialist revolution in Russia and resettled in France. She was a writer and Suite Francaise is the first 2 of 3 books she had planned to write describing the French experience through the eyes of several families under Nazi occupation. Unfortunately she was gassed at Auschwitz before she could complete them, She was a well known writer. Her husband, her publisher and others tried in vain to rescue her, even just to contact her, to send her some food and blankets not knowing even as they tried she was already dead. She had a brief respite at Auschwitz (while she was part of a slave labour force?) before she died. Her husband was picked up, transported to Auschwitz and gassed straight away.
When her voice came through S. F. so clearly it was difficult to read the appendices at the end. In fact, I couldn't finish them. When I watch the evening news and hear 27 people were killed in a bomb attack in Afghanistan I feel a frisson of regret but then wonder how I'm going to prepare that eggplant we're having for dinner. Rev. Daniel Berrigan never let go that regret over innocent deaths. I, a woman sitting safely at a desk where I sign petitions and write politicians, well fed in my middle class WASP-ish existence, salute him.
He spent his life in writing books, poetry and activism. He said during his trial in Philadelphia for destroying government property after he and six others took hammers to the (unarmed) nosecones of nuclear missiles: "The only message I have to the world is: We are not allowed to kill innocent people. We are not allowed to be complicit in murder. We are not allowed to be silent while preparations for mass murder proceed in our name, with our money, secretly...It’s terrible for me to live in a time where I have nothing to say to human beings except, “Stop killing.” There are other beautiful things that I would love to be saying to people. There are other projects I could be very helpful at. And I can’t do them. I cannot. Because everything is endangered. Everything is up for grabs. Ours is a kind of primitive situation, even though we would call ourselves sophisticated. Our plight is very primitive from a Christian point of view. We are back where we started. Thou shalt not kill; we are not allowed to kill. Everything today comes down to that — everything." Italics mine.
Those who do not know their history are doomed to repeat it - or words to that effect. Maybe humans just haven't been human long enough to evolve past their reptilian hindbrain. But that statement is a sham for we have free will, we can and do learn from our mistakes, we are capable of creating the most sublime beauty, of deliberate selflessness. We can laugh at ourselves, we have a sense of humour, we experience gratitude.. We experience awe. I'm certain other creatures have a sense of humour, can love, can even create despite their lack of opposable thumbs, but is any creature capable of awe? Rather than repeating our doleful violent murderous history, why do we not replicate situations where we are likely to feel awe or, as Jung described, that 'oceanic feeling'?
Finished reading Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky. She was a Russian half-Jew whose family escaped nearly penniless from the socialist revolution in Russia and resettled in France. She was a writer and Suite Francaise is the first 2 of 3 books she had planned to write describing the French experience through the eyes of several families under Nazi occupation. Unfortunately she was gassed at Auschwitz before she could complete them, She was a well known writer. Her husband, her publisher and others tried in vain to rescue her, even just to contact her, to send her some food and blankets not knowing even as they tried she was already dead. She had a brief respite at Auschwitz (while she was part of a slave labour force?) before she died. Her husband was picked up, transported to Auschwitz and gassed straight away.
When her voice came through S. F. so clearly it was difficult to read the appendices at the end. In fact, I couldn't finish them. When I watch the evening news and hear 27 people were killed in a bomb attack in Afghanistan I feel a frisson of regret but then wonder how I'm going to prepare that eggplant we're having for dinner. Rev. Daniel Berrigan never let go that regret over innocent deaths. I, a woman sitting safely at a desk where I sign petitions and write politicians, well fed in my middle class WASP-ish existence, salute him.
Thursday, April 7, 2016
The Stand Up Comedy of Trump and the Panama Papers
The world sure is a funny event. Trump is so outlandish (punish women who have had abortions! Even the Pro-Lifers take offense) that there is nothing for it but to laugh. Genuinely laugh. The absurdity that is Trump is funny, especially as he takes himself so seriously. While he takes himself so seriously he doesn't take the electorate seriously at all, except for its use as a vehicle with which to make his fondest dream come true. President Donald Trump. The Donald with The Hair in the White House. I feel a guffaw coming on.
I believe Trump is disdainful of 'the people', that he thinks they are stupid precisely because they fall for his schtick. And that's funny. Really funny. How it will play out is anyone's guess but I can guarantee it will be hilarious. For all the wrong reasons.
And then, thank God! there are the Panama Papers. Here is a divine opportunity to take corruption seriously, to shine a light on it and to do something about it. All those hard-working investigative journalists who have been dredging through thousands of documents, following leads, deciphering what is supposed to be indecipherable. We owe them the debt of doing something about those who never seem to have enough money so must corruptly go about their business of hiding it and making more of it while leaving a trail of chaos and instability, poverty and impoverishment in their wake.
I believe Trump is disdainful of 'the people', that he thinks they are stupid precisely because they fall for his schtick. And that's funny. Really funny. How it will play out is anyone's guess but I can guarantee it will be hilarious. For all the wrong reasons.
And then, thank God! there are the Panama Papers. Here is a divine opportunity to take corruption seriously, to shine a light on it and to do something about it. All those hard-working investigative journalists who have been dredging through thousands of documents, following leads, deciphering what is supposed to be indecipherable. We owe them the debt of doing something about those who never seem to have enough money so must corruptly go about their business of hiding it and making more of it while leaving a trail of chaos and instability, poverty and impoverishment in their wake.
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
Edgar, The Insufferable
Today it hit me why Edgar (who packs quite a feathered sledgehammer!) came into my world. For years, for some unfathomable reason, I've drawn crows. One would think, because of the parrots in my life, and because of their jewel-like colouring begging to be painted, that they are the ones which would people, rather bird, my sketchbook. But no, although I have drawn the odd galah and scaly-breasted, a crow is my bird of choice.
And so one chose me, in a plausible demonstration of sympathetic magic. Which is a good a way as any to lead into an Edgar update. In short, he's doing very well. He's fed as often as he wails for food and is in glamorous black plumage. He has a bath every few days when I put the birdbath in his aviary to keep his black top hat and tails in tip top condition.
But he's also becoming somewhat overbearing, or should I say overcrowing. When I'm under the gazebo, at the bird table, trying to make up everyone's feed in the morning, or dismantling it in the afternoon, he's walking all over the coop cups, stealing the green scratchie used to scrub the water dishes, nicking the plastic coated wire used to affix Dimitri's water dish to the mesh. Marching with his size 14 dirty crow feet over and through everything I'm trying to do, while keeping up a continuous grumbling complaint. I've taken to picking him up, which he hates, and dropping him onto the ground. Of course he doesn't hit the ground as he can fly but at least he's off the table.
When I put the food out in the morning, despite the fact that he has been fed first (and sat with and cajoled just to make sure he's had enough and he's full), he follows me from aviary to aviary, landing with a solid thump (a delicate ballet dancer he ain't) on top of the cages. Poor Dimitri and the budgies don't cope as well as the galahs to his heavy footed marches across the aviary roof. The galahs watch, raise their crests, sometimes give little cries of alarm but Dimitri flops to the ground (with one wing he has no choice but to flop) and scurries for a cover that isn't there. I have put a large solid tin box (that won't disintegrate in the rain) on the aviary floor which he has used once or twice so maybe he's getting the idea. The budgies fly from one end of the aviary to the other while Edgar races across the top chasing them. (He has a similar reaction to the advent of a blow fly, this fevered excitement and giving chase. Of course, like the budgies protected by wire, a blowfly easily outmaneuvers him).
Edgar frequently puts things in things. He picks up bits of bark or a stick or food, if I let him, and puts it in whatever hole he can find, even if the hole is one he makes at the base of a grass clump. Cracks in the concrete, the holes in a brick, the hole in a screw-on food dish, the gap between my toes - anything where he can push his prize in with his surprisingly strong beak.
The other day he had a conversation with a crow and flew off in its direction. Here we go, I thought, he's made contact. But he was soon back with no crow in tow. I feel bad sometimes as it is obvious he is often trying to tell me something important that has nothing to do with food. But I, being a thick human, have yet to translate what he says with such fervour. Which is all quite sad. I spend a fair amount of time with him if I can. He seems to like having his head massaged and seems to relax while my fingers back stroke his head feathers. Edgar makes it obvious when he doesn't want me to leave by running/flying in front of me as I head to the house. One misstep would be disastrous so I am very careful.
When I am working outside I hope he will hang around then for companionship but as working outside usually means I have something in my hand; a rake, a bucket, a wheelbarrow, a chipping hoe, he doesn't come near me. Guess crows have been prosecuted so long by long narrow exploding things, it is hardwired into them to stay away.
Wonder what would happen if I started drawing elephants?
And so one chose me, in a plausible demonstration of sympathetic magic. Which is a good a way as any to lead into an Edgar update. In short, he's doing very well. He's fed as often as he wails for food and is in glamorous black plumage. He has a bath every few days when I put the birdbath in his aviary to keep his black top hat and tails in tip top condition.
But he's also becoming somewhat overbearing, or should I say overcrowing. When I'm under the gazebo, at the bird table, trying to make up everyone's feed in the morning, or dismantling it in the afternoon, he's walking all over the coop cups, stealing the green scratchie used to scrub the water dishes, nicking the plastic coated wire used to affix Dimitri's water dish to the mesh. Marching with his size 14 dirty crow feet over and through everything I'm trying to do, while keeping up a continuous grumbling complaint. I've taken to picking him up, which he hates, and dropping him onto the ground. Of course he doesn't hit the ground as he can fly but at least he's off the table.
When I put the food out in the morning, despite the fact that he has been fed first (and sat with and cajoled just to make sure he's had enough and he's full), he follows me from aviary to aviary, landing with a solid thump (a delicate ballet dancer he ain't) on top of the cages. Poor Dimitri and the budgies don't cope as well as the galahs to his heavy footed marches across the aviary roof. The galahs watch, raise their crests, sometimes give little cries of alarm but Dimitri flops to the ground (with one wing he has no choice but to flop) and scurries for a cover that isn't there. I have put a large solid tin box (that won't disintegrate in the rain) on the aviary floor which he has used once or twice so maybe he's getting the idea. The budgies fly from one end of the aviary to the other while Edgar races across the top chasing them. (He has a similar reaction to the advent of a blow fly, this fevered excitement and giving chase. Of course, like the budgies protected by wire, a blowfly easily outmaneuvers him).
Edgar frequently puts things in things. He picks up bits of bark or a stick or food, if I let him, and puts it in whatever hole he can find, even if the hole is one he makes at the base of a grass clump. Cracks in the concrete, the holes in a brick, the hole in a screw-on food dish, the gap between my toes - anything where he can push his prize in with his surprisingly strong beak.
The other day he had a conversation with a crow and flew off in its direction. Here we go, I thought, he's made contact. But he was soon back with no crow in tow. I feel bad sometimes as it is obvious he is often trying to tell me something important that has nothing to do with food. But I, being a thick human, have yet to translate what he says with such fervour. Which is all quite sad. I spend a fair amount of time with him if I can. He seems to like having his head massaged and seems to relax while my fingers back stroke his head feathers. Edgar makes it obvious when he doesn't want me to leave by running/flying in front of me as I head to the house. One misstep would be disastrous so I am very careful.
When I am working outside I hope he will hang around then for companionship but as working outside usually means I have something in my hand; a rake, a bucket, a wheelbarrow, a chipping hoe, he doesn't come near me. Guess crows have been prosecuted so long by long narrow exploding things, it is hardwired into them to stay away.
Wonder what would happen if I started drawing elephants?
Sunday, March 20, 2016
Mini-Mysticism and Yard Work
Sometimes the answer(s) to the Universe and the strange mystery of my existence at this time, in this place, with this particular consciousness seems very close. A flash of illumination flickering behind the veil of the everyday. So close I almost get it at the same time as it remains as distant as a star.
It happened again this morning, picking up fallen poinciana seed pods, walking to the box trailer, throwing them in and going back for another load. The every day. Doing without thinking of anything in particular when suddenly, like a wash of sun-lit warmth, it is there. Or here.
It is a strange feeling, the commonplace threaded through with Mystery. I am very small and very ego-constrained and very me labelled at the same time as this immensity of Being courses through and around me. And this immensity does not conform to labels or description or words.
Yet it is as comfortable as an old shoe. A reminder that despite the Trumps, global warming, Parkinsons, aging and the house not selling, it really is all right in the end.
There's nothing I can do, or am capable of doing, to enhance it or take it further. Chasing it is like staring hard at a dim star in a black night. The more you look, the less you see. Because it is fleeting and as swift as a white-tailed deer, the only way I can feel it is peripherally; an acknowledgement, a mist of gratitude and love. Then it's gone and I am picking up seed pods and trudging to the trailer.
It happened again this morning, picking up fallen poinciana seed pods, walking to the box trailer, throwing them in and going back for another load. The every day. Doing without thinking of anything in particular when suddenly, like a wash of sun-lit warmth, it is there. Or here.
It is a strange feeling, the commonplace threaded through with Mystery. I am very small and very ego-constrained and very me labelled at the same time as this immensity of Being courses through and around me. And this immensity does not conform to labels or description or words.
Yet it is as comfortable as an old shoe. A reminder that despite the Trumps, global warming, Parkinsons, aging and the house not selling, it really is all right in the end.
There's nothing I can do, or am capable of doing, to enhance it or take it further. Chasing it is like staring hard at a dim star in a black night. The more you look, the less you see. Because it is fleeting and as swift as a white-tailed deer, the only way I can feel it is peripherally; an acknowledgement, a mist of gratitude and love. Then it's gone and I am picking up seed pods and trudging to the trailer.
Mini-Mysticism and Yard Work
Sometimes the answer(s) to the Universe and the strange mystery of my existence at this time, in this place, with this particular consciousness seems very close. A flash of illumination flickering behind the veil of the everyday. So close I almost get it at the same time as it remains as distant as a star.
It happened again this morning, picking up fallen poinciana seed pods, walking to the box trailer, throwing them in and going back for another load. The every day. Doing without thinking of anything in particular when suddenly, like a wash of sun-lit warmth, it is there. Or here.
It is a strange feeling, the commonplace threaded through with Mystery. I am very small and very ego-constrained and very me labelled at the same time as this immensity of Being courses through and around me. And this immensity does not conform to labels or description or words.
Yet it is as comfortable as an old shoe. A reminder that despite the Trumps, global warming, Parkinsons, aging and the house not selling, it really is all right in the end.
There's nothing I can do, or am capable of doing, to enhance it or take it further. Chasing it is like staring hard at a dim star in a black night. The more you look, the less you see. Because it is fleeting and as swift as a white-tailed deer, the only way I can feel it is peripherally; an acknowledgement, a mist of gratitude and love. Then it's gone and I am picking up seed pods and trudging to the trailer.
It happened again this morning, picking up fallen poinciana seed pods, walking to the box trailer, throwing them in and going back for another load. The every day. Doing without thinking of anything in particular when suddenly, like a wash of sun-lit warmth, it is there. Or here.
It is a strange feeling, the commonplace threaded through with Mystery. I am very small and very ego-constrained and very me labelled at the same time as this immensity of Being courses through and around me. And this immensity does not conform to labels or description or words.
Yet it is as comfortable as an old shoe. A reminder that despite the Trumps, global warming, Parkinsons, aging and the house not selling, it really is all right in the end.
There's nothing I can do, or am capable of doing, to enhance it or take it further. Chasing it is like staring hard at a dim star in a black night. The more you look, the less you see. Because it is fleeting and as swift as a white-tailed deer, the only way I can feel it is peripherally; an acknowledgement, a mist of gratitude and love. Then it's gone and I am picking up seed pods and trudging to the trailer.
Sunday, March 13, 2016
The Grand Old Party Isn't Grand Anymore
My parents were Republican. Politics was often discussed at home although as a child I found the subject boring and didn't listen. They voted for Barry Goldwater and circulars from the John Birch Society used to come in the mail. Politics was something they agreed on and when it was the subject of conversation the atmosphere was congenial. Too often nothing was discussed in the family home and the atmosphere was charged with unspoken antipathies. Therefore, in a strange sort of way, I associated being Republican with being family.
I remained Republican until I started to travel. There was no epiphany, no great revelation when I switched from conservative thinking to a more liberal viewpoint. It just happened over time. Even so, I still have a fondness for the lumbering elephant that is the Republican icon.
Until now. Well, that's not entirely true. Republicans seemed to lose their way with Reagan and his political love affair with the Iron Lady Margaret Thatcher. Republicans lost the ability to empathize. If people were doing it tough, too bad. The American Dream is that anyone, no matter their circumstances or background, can aspire to be President. If you didn't raise yourself from the mire by your bootstraps then you weren't trying hard enough.
I grew up a little and started paying attention to world affairs and the States part in them. I saw that we put on our combat boots when American interests, usually oil interests, were threatened. With a seemingly endless supply of money to convince the subject country to see things our way, we used the military, the CIA, sanctions, diplomatic pressure, assassinations and skullduggery to get what we wanted. Americans, so proud and powerful, arrogant with power, didn't pay enough attention. We were the honourable nation. If we were doing this overseas, than we had to be in the right. The USA could do no wrong. But we did and we are.
We got away with it and it worsened until we had Guantanamo Bay; government sanctioned torture and the flaunting of the Geneva Convention. And we weren't even ashamed enough to try and hide it. Guantanamo Bay and all that it meant to our decaying morals was flaunted. It was the first time I was ashamed to be an American.
And this is just world politics. We also have the legalized corruption of the Super Pacs, Big Business and the thing which will kill us all, climate change, which Rubio, the baby-faced poster boy of 'moderation' said is not man made because temperature change is normal
I used to envision the GOP as being made up of venerable white-haired old men, rather like my childish image of God (mom asked me once to draw what I thought God might look like. I drew a white haired white man inside a big heart). The Grand Old Party isn't grand any more. It's not even Great. It's Grubby and mean.
Now there's a kind of morbid fascination watching it's death throes. The dreadful thing is, it is taking the USA with it. That that suntanned, fairy-flossed, middle-aged Ken doll has made it this far without being chucked out on his ear, illustrates how deep the rot goes.
Poor Fellow, My Country.
I remained Republican until I started to travel. There was no epiphany, no great revelation when I switched from conservative thinking to a more liberal viewpoint. It just happened over time. Even so, I still have a fondness for the lumbering elephant that is the Republican icon.
Until now. Well, that's not entirely true. Republicans seemed to lose their way with Reagan and his political love affair with the Iron Lady Margaret Thatcher. Republicans lost the ability to empathize. If people were doing it tough, too bad. The American Dream is that anyone, no matter their circumstances or background, can aspire to be President. If you didn't raise yourself from the mire by your bootstraps then you weren't trying hard enough.
I grew up a little and started paying attention to world affairs and the States part in them. I saw that we put on our combat boots when American interests, usually oil interests, were threatened. With a seemingly endless supply of money to convince the subject country to see things our way, we used the military, the CIA, sanctions, diplomatic pressure, assassinations and skullduggery to get what we wanted. Americans, so proud and powerful, arrogant with power, didn't pay enough attention. We were the honourable nation. If we were doing this overseas, than we had to be in the right. The USA could do no wrong. But we did and we are.
We got away with it and it worsened until we had Guantanamo Bay; government sanctioned torture and the flaunting of the Geneva Convention. And we weren't even ashamed enough to try and hide it. Guantanamo Bay and all that it meant to our decaying morals was flaunted. It was the first time I was ashamed to be an American.
And this is just world politics. We also have the legalized corruption of the Super Pacs, Big Business and the thing which will kill us all, climate change, which Rubio, the baby-faced poster boy of 'moderation' said is not man made because temperature change is normal
I used to envision the GOP as being made up of venerable white-haired old men, rather like my childish image of God (mom asked me once to draw what I thought God might look like. I drew a white haired white man inside a big heart). The Grand Old Party isn't grand any more. It's not even Great. It's Grubby and mean.
Now there's a kind of morbid fascination watching it's death throes. The dreadful thing is, it is taking the USA with it. That that suntanned, fairy-flossed, middle-aged Ken doll has made it this far without being chucked out on his ear, illustrates how deep the rot goes.
Poor Fellow, My Country.
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