9:27am. There is a steady rhythmic thumping in the background. Our neighbours married yesterday. They are young with many young friends. The 'music' (I use the term with reservations) went on loudly until midnight and began again at 6:30am. I applaud their endurance.
When I took Mikaela, prompt as ever waking me at 6:22am, to the A frame, I could hear the men talking and laughing, fresh as though they'd just arrived.
The newly married couple had the foresight, wisdom and politeness to warn us and the other neighbours of what was about to transpire with a letter drop. Otherwise the neighbourhood would be cranky with those 'young people and their crappy music'. As it is, we just wait. Eventually - tonight? - they'll wind down and go home to prepare for work Monday morning.
I hope.
Guess every generation is destined to misunderstand and dislike the music of the generation that follows. This music, as far as I can make out, is entirely electronic. There is no singing. The only voice I've heard is what appears to be a question and answer segment in some of the 'songs'. The accent is on the beat, like a quickened heartbeat, which is hypnotic as the other sounds (not melody) weave in and around it. At least it's not heavy metal and screaming guitars which, although disastrous for the ear drums, at least has emotion. This music seems to be a product of our digital age; precise, clean and entirely soulless. 9:39pm
Sunday, March 25, 2018
Thursday, March 22, 2018
Post 32 of 92
3:56pm. I have been asked by a friend to contribute a pithy one or two sentence saying to go with an art book she is putting together featuring her paintings. These words of wisdom have to have something to do with concepts she has assigned. I wrote back, one word. She has replied with a couple of suggestions as the word I suggested has already been assigned to another friend and another art work.
There is no problem with this but as I was pondering what to say I noticed that feeling within me, so nebulous as to almost slip by, of anger/frustration/resentment. Now why is that? Got it big time when trying to put together that art application, get it frequently when things go wrong with the computer that I somehow have to fix (an imploded modem is easy by comparison, just buy a new one). Experienced it the first time, that I remember, when i tried to balance a chequebook under Mom's tutelage. I just didn't 'get' how to do it.
And here it is again, a wasp's wing of rage, touching so lightly, so fleetingly it was almost gone before I noticed. Am I so spoiled that if things don't go smoothly the first time I have an inner tantrum? Have had my fair share of dramas in life and don't get that particular toxic feeling while dealing with them.
It's a mystery. Not a nice one either. Something smelly and sticky under a rock somewhere. In the meantime, guess I'll keep working on that pithy saying. 4:07pm
There is no problem with this but as I was pondering what to say I noticed that feeling within me, so nebulous as to almost slip by, of anger/frustration/resentment. Now why is that? Got it big time when trying to put together that art application, get it frequently when things go wrong with the computer that I somehow have to fix (an imploded modem is easy by comparison, just buy a new one). Experienced it the first time, that I remember, when i tried to balance a chequebook under Mom's tutelage. I just didn't 'get' how to do it.
And here it is again, a wasp's wing of rage, touching so lightly, so fleetingly it was almost gone before I noticed. Am I so spoiled that if things don't go smoothly the first time I have an inner tantrum? Have had my fair share of dramas in life and don't get that particular toxic feeling while dealing with them.
It's a mystery. Not a nice one either. Something smelly and sticky under a rock somewhere. In the meantime, guess I'll keep working on that pithy saying. 4:07pm
Sunday, March 18, 2018
Post 31 of 92
4:50pm. Every day I think about writing, compose stuff in my head, and every day I don't. So be it.
All in all however, not too bad here. I've been drawing a lot. A lot. Have had a few things on the go. Nothing nicer than to wake up in the morning and look forward to working on something. Just about the nicest feeling there is. Spent weeks on a drawing, overworked it, ruined it, cut it in thirds as thought I could kind of make do with part of it. Natalia, one of the cats, played with it, walked on it and creased it. Just as well. When something is stuffed it's stuffed and just because there might be thirty hours work in it, is no justification for keeping it. If it's shite, it's shite.
Drawing is a solid ground of joy. There is something undeniably seductive about making something which wasn't there before. It's a bloody miracle. Every moment of every day, I realise, is the same creative process; a word spoken, a thought thought, a meal made, steps taken, always a movement from the past to the future that is never anything but right here, yet creating something tangible from the mind, a kind of testament to the past and future coalescing in a visual record of the infinite now....
Gad, I know what I want to say but I can't say it. The more I try to pin it down the more elusive it gets. Suffice to say, it's a gift that I am so grateful to make use of.
And now it's time to take a walk. 5:05pm
All in all however, not too bad here. I've been drawing a lot. A lot. Have had a few things on the go. Nothing nicer than to wake up in the morning and look forward to working on something. Just about the nicest feeling there is. Spent weeks on a drawing, overworked it, ruined it, cut it in thirds as thought I could kind of make do with part of it. Natalia, one of the cats, played with it, walked on it and creased it. Just as well. When something is stuffed it's stuffed and just because there might be thirty hours work in it, is no justification for keeping it. If it's shite, it's shite.
Drawing is a solid ground of joy. There is something undeniably seductive about making something which wasn't there before. It's a bloody miracle. Every moment of every day, I realise, is the same creative process; a word spoken, a thought thought, a meal made, steps taken, always a movement from the past to the future that is never anything but right here, yet creating something tangible from the mind, a kind of testament to the past and future coalescing in a visual record of the infinite now....
Gad, I know what I want to say but I can't say it. The more I try to pin it down the more elusive it gets. Suffice to say, it's a gift that I am so grateful to make use of.
And now it's time to take a walk. 5:05pm
Sunday, February 11, 2018
Post 30 of 92
8:37am. Have spent too long reading Maria Popova's blog, Brain Pickings (https://www.brainpickings.org/) and now the sun has topped the eucalypts and is arrowing, with brilliant intensity, straight into my eyes.
Ah, but what a refreshing dip of the toes I've had into the admirable minds of writers, artists and philosophers. Gives me a kick up the backside too for it is too easy to let yet another day pass without making an entry here.
Had a chat with my stepson a few days ago about a practical matter but was relieved and heartened by his acknowledgement of Richard's decline. Neither son has really spoken of it and although I've said a few things, it is the elephant in the room that everyone pretends isn't there. Except it is and the elephant has morphed into a mastodon. Hearing him say that he loved me and that he knew how difficult it has been and how difficult it will be made me feel I wasn't entirely alone.
I realize how it must hurt them too to see their father change and this only a couple of years after their mother died. It's a raw deal all around. Strangely, the one person who seems least affected is Richard himself. In some twisted sort of humanity, the worse he gets, the less he seems aware of it. What has bothered him most is not driving. That he is slowly losing his ability to communicate effectively, that he can't remember names (even of Mikaela who he adores), that even his body is losing it's sense of itself and becomes 'frozen' until prodded into the next moment; none of that seems to depress him. Rather he is becoming more childlike, happy with the purrs of his favourite cat, with tasty meals, with warm clothing on a cool morning, and a warm bed at night.
On the distaff side, he digs his heels in about things that aren't important. We are looking to buy a VW Caddy to carry hay. I spent 20 minutes yesterday explaining that they do indeed have turn signal lights near the headlights. Finally found a photo online which showed it.
I want to include him in decision making but it is getting more difficult as he doesn't understand. What is worse is not understanding him. Sometimes he says things to me and it's not that I don't understand the words, but because he can't remember the word for the thing he wants to say, he substitutes another word and I have to decipher what he means. Frustrating for both of us.
But we're good today. And that's enough.
Ah, but what a refreshing dip of the toes I've had into the admirable minds of writers, artists and philosophers. Gives me a kick up the backside too for it is too easy to let yet another day pass without making an entry here.
Had a chat with my stepson a few days ago about a practical matter but was relieved and heartened by his acknowledgement of Richard's decline. Neither son has really spoken of it and although I've said a few things, it is the elephant in the room that everyone pretends isn't there. Except it is and the elephant has morphed into a mastodon. Hearing him say that he loved me and that he knew how difficult it has been and how difficult it will be made me feel I wasn't entirely alone.
I realize how it must hurt them too to see their father change and this only a couple of years after their mother died. It's a raw deal all around. Strangely, the one person who seems least affected is Richard himself. In some twisted sort of humanity, the worse he gets, the less he seems aware of it. What has bothered him most is not driving. That he is slowly losing his ability to communicate effectively, that he can't remember names (even of Mikaela who he adores), that even his body is losing it's sense of itself and becomes 'frozen' until prodded into the next moment; none of that seems to depress him. Rather he is becoming more childlike, happy with the purrs of his favourite cat, with tasty meals, with warm clothing on a cool morning, and a warm bed at night.
On the distaff side, he digs his heels in about things that aren't important. We are looking to buy a VW Caddy to carry hay. I spent 20 minutes yesterday explaining that they do indeed have turn signal lights near the headlights. Finally found a photo online which showed it.
I want to include him in decision making but it is getting more difficult as he doesn't understand. What is worse is not understanding him. Sometimes he says things to me and it's not that I don't understand the words, but because he can't remember the word for the thing he wants to say, he substitutes another word and I have to decipher what he means. Frustrating for both of us.
But we're good today. And that's enough.
Saturday, February 3, 2018
Palindrome Post
4:10pm. If anyone was going to see a UFO I think it would be me. I spend so much time looking at the sky; admiring clouds, admiring stars, ogling the moon, it seems a bit of bad management on the part of UFOs that a committed skywatcher like myself should fail to see one. And now, in the age of cheap and available drones, almost any anomaly in the sky will be suspect. I seem to have missed my chance. I suppose if some truly remarkable vision akin to something CGI and Hollywood could make presented itself I could accept that I'd seen one.
Sadly I don't think that's going to happen.
What prompted this was not something I thought I saw but the extraordinary number of people I see who walk while looking at the ground. Perhaps these people, with their necks tilted at 45 degrees, are thinking deep and profound thoughts. Perhaps they are thinking of the conversation they had with the salesperson at the supermarket. What they aren't thinking about is the stagecraft of the world around them. Whether it's nature or a city street, the world is a fascinating place. And it's big, truly big. There's enough going on to keep the most jaded observer endlessly entertained.
Perhaps that's the problem. It's too big and looking up invites a form of agoraphobia so looking down keeps the sensory input to a manageable level.
Whatever the reason, I'll bet my bottom dollar that if a UFO is sighted in this area, the groundlooking person will look up just in time to see it while I will have just missed it.
Sadly I don't think that's going to happen.
What prompted this was not something I thought I saw but the extraordinary number of people I see who walk while looking at the ground. Perhaps these people, with their necks tilted at 45 degrees, are thinking deep and profound thoughts. Perhaps they are thinking of the conversation they had with the salesperson at the supermarket. What they aren't thinking about is the stagecraft of the world around them. Whether it's nature or a city street, the world is a fascinating place. And it's big, truly big. There's enough going on to keep the most jaded observer endlessly entertained.
Perhaps that's the problem. It's too big and looking up invites a form of agoraphobia so looking down keeps the sensory input to a manageable level.
Whatever the reason, I'll bet my bottom dollar that if a UFO is sighted in this area, the groundlooking person will look up just in time to see it while I will have just missed it.
Sunday, January 28, 2018
Post 28 of 92
4:26pm. Creativity in art; writing, drawing, daydreaming ... I am so so at. Creativity in avoidance I am a Master. I can put off, postpone, ignore, reduce, forget, forget again, all in order not to face up to writing something that might mean something. Or writing something that means nothing.
When I remember how my journal and I were joined at the wrist when I traveled I marvel. It was my best friend, confidante, release and strength. Even if I didn't write well, I wrote easily, bravely, constantly. I wrote when I was happy and strong, I wrote when I was weak and distressed. I wrote sober, I wrote drunk. I wrote all the time in all circumstances. I wrote and wrote and wrote.
Now I am seized up, constipated, cramped and chin full of cowardice. Why? I want to know why? My life is not the exciting life of travel and new experiences. I no longer ride the crests and troughs of love, but my life still has meaning. I still have a life of the mind. Don't I?
What I don't have is uninterrupted solitude. Perhaps that's the difference. My journal was my companion because when all was said and done; exploring, working, loving, at the end I was alone. Now solitude is something rare. Within minutes of coming in here Richard comes in too. I'll leave you alone, he says when he sees I am blogging but the damage, so to speak is done.
That 'pull' is back. The pull to be with him, company for him because he is not company for himself. Sad but true. And the thread is lost and the desire is lost and it's 4:41pm.
When I remember how my journal and I were joined at the wrist when I traveled I marvel. It was my best friend, confidante, release and strength. Even if I didn't write well, I wrote easily, bravely, constantly. I wrote when I was happy and strong, I wrote when I was weak and distressed. I wrote sober, I wrote drunk. I wrote all the time in all circumstances. I wrote and wrote and wrote.
Now I am seized up, constipated, cramped and chin full of cowardice. Why? I want to know why? My life is not the exciting life of travel and new experiences. I no longer ride the crests and troughs of love, but my life still has meaning. I still have a life of the mind. Don't I?
What I don't have is uninterrupted solitude. Perhaps that's the difference. My journal was my companion because when all was said and done; exploring, working, loving, at the end I was alone. Now solitude is something rare. Within minutes of coming in here Richard comes in too. I'll leave you alone, he says when he sees I am blogging but the damage, so to speak is done.
That 'pull' is back. The pull to be with him, company for him because he is not company for himself. Sad but true. And the thread is lost and the desire is lost and it's 4:41pm.
Thursday, January 25, 2018
Post 27 of 92
4:59pm. Cloudy but no rain. Tired but buzzing from an unaccustomed second cup of coffee after lunch. Unwise for I get the shakes. Not sleeping again after a good run of good sleep. What a difference sleep or lack thereof makes. Everything affected. Never mind. Good sleep will come again. In the meantime, I just keep putting one foot in front of the other.
My good friend, perhaps my best friend, Matisse, has made a habit of joining me on the yoga mat every afternoon. He yells until I come get him (have to carry him from the living/kitchen pod to the yoga/studio pod). Matisse has followed me in here now and is sitting on the second chair. He is a loyal friend. Old now. Bony face, very dark coat, reluctant to jump up on the laundry bench where I used to put his food but still strong enough to open the magnet reinforced pocket door with his paw. Richard can't. I can but with difficulty. We installed the magnets to try and keep him in so he wouldn't gorge on the other cats' food. It didn't work. Nevertheless he has aged, as have we all!
Matisse can be aggressive, badly aggressive to Nairobi, although he seems to have mellowed somewhat these last few years, but he has never raised a paw in anger to either Richard or me. Even loving Natalia can get overexcited and lash out in play aggression and we won't even speak of Nairobi who can be quite the nasty piece when annoyed, although she has mellowed too over time or maybe I just read her body language better.
Matisse however is content to be near me, quietly purring. He loves my lap when it's cool and often sits or lies so that his tail is draped over some part of my anatomy. Introducing Mikaela into the mix has complicated his life but he has rallied and hisses mightily when he thinks she is crowding him.
I love him. I hate that he is an old cat now but am so glad I've shared all these years, 14 years? with him.
My good friend, perhaps my best friend, Matisse, has made a habit of joining me on the yoga mat every afternoon. He yells until I come get him (have to carry him from the living/kitchen pod to the yoga/studio pod). Matisse has followed me in here now and is sitting on the second chair. He is a loyal friend. Old now. Bony face, very dark coat, reluctant to jump up on the laundry bench where I used to put his food but still strong enough to open the magnet reinforced pocket door with his paw. Richard can't. I can but with difficulty. We installed the magnets to try and keep him in so he wouldn't gorge on the other cats' food. It didn't work. Nevertheless he has aged, as have we all!
Matisse can be aggressive, badly aggressive to Nairobi, although he seems to have mellowed somewhat these last few years, but he has never raised a paw in anger to either Richard or me. Even loving Natalia can get overexcited and lash out in play aggression and we won't even speak of Nairobi who can be quite the nasty piece when annoyed, although she has mellowed too over time or maybe I just read her body language better.
Matisse however is content to be near me, quietly purring. He loves my lap when it's cool and often sits or lies so that his tail is draped over some part of my anatomy. Introducing Mikaela into the mix has complicated his life but he has rallied and hisses mightily when he thinks she is crowding him.
I love him. I hate that he is an old cat now but am so glad I've shared all these years, 14 years? with him.
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