The est Obsession.

The TV is on the background and I have just heard them mention the worlds youngest guitar player - or was that ukulele? It got me wondering why people view it as being important to be the 'est' (ie, youngest, oldest, biggest, smallest, longest, highest etc). I consider this phenomena especially strange when attached to totally unrelated pursuits; and that would include the 'est' guitar player (of course this excludes Best as 'est' is not a suffix in this case).

Since a musical instrument is an aural experience, what difference does it make to the listening, whether it is played by the youngest, tallest, widest, person in the world? Contrarily, I would have thought it detracted from the experience as more emphasis would be placed on who was playing rather than how they played.

The est phenomena becomes increasingly ridiculous as the media (or individuals) try harder to create it. For example there was the first solo yacht sail around the world and then there was the first female solo yacht sail, then the youngest solo yacht sail, the youngest female solo yacht sail, then the youngest Australian solo yacht sail...infinitum.

What I want to know is when will the first pink-laced corseted Ethiopian male with 3 fingers missing solo yacht sail will take place. I will be there to wave him on as his sail can be seen on the horizon off Fijian territory - if I can afford to go to Fiji at that particular time.

So Long Taddy.

I was just sitting thinking about writing a blog about how Bug (one of the Little's) suffered a seizure. Thinking it might be a snake bite I rushed him off to the vet. Thankfully, it wasn't. However, as I was about to start writing we had a phone call to tell us that Taddy, a little Foxie that I'd spent hours, days and yes, years playing with, had bailed a snake up and had it cornered. As a precaution, the owners took her into the vet but she died an hour ago. Apparently the snake got the better of her.

Although not her, this pic shows a Foxie almost identical to her. She was a sweet and playful dog; a perennial puppy.

So Long Taddy.

Simply

Every once in a while I come across a photograph that I really wish I took because it has a wonderful simplicity. This is one of those pics that has it.

Pulling the Plug

A few days ago I decided that I didn't really need the torture that this years NaNoWriMo was providing for me so I pulled the plug. The relief was enormous and tainted only by the thought that I wasn't finishing it.

NaNo has always been about doing it for the fun, but I was not having fun this year. There have been nights when I have woken up thinking I have to write 5k words tomorrow because I hadn't written anything for the past 3 days because I was too tired. I wasn't satisfied with simply writing 50k, it had to be coherent - which goes against the very spirit of NaNo.

My failure here isn't the fact that I won't complete the 50k, but that I couldn't do what I was supposed to do and simply write; neither thinking nor caring about how good it would be. One idea of NaNo is not to go back over what you've written and get caught up editing. There was no doubt that this year I was doing it wrong and basically couldn't stop myself from imposing a rational string of cause and effect.

So today I am declaring officially that the plug has been pulled.

On the Brink

Here we are on NaNo eve and all my plans for NaNo have changed completely - yet again. I have decided to go with the following:

The Gathering
Never had the visionary Luhane, seen so much magic in one place. Agendas clashed, power struggles ensued, and all to take back the much coveted prize home to their people; but what was the prize and how could it be won?

Savaged

Once again Hervor's life and mine have paralleled. While Hervor was off in the Goldfields attending the wedding of a friend, I was doing the same in Bunbury. Well a renewal of vows anyway (is that still classed as a wedding?).

However, the only other similarity was that I was home by midnight as well. But not only did I spend the intervening time with friends, but I also had the company of evil with wings; mosquitoes. They bit my arms. They bit my back. They bit through my hair to leave 1 doz calling cards. They bit my waist. And for chrissakes they even bit my navel!



I have woken scratching and bleeding. I have put several different 'relievers' on the bites and have now scratched not just the top but some of the surrounding skin off some of the bites.

If ever I go to war the only weapon I want on my side is mosquitoes...so long as they find the enemies blood as tantalising as they seem to find mine.

Why must I be irresistible to the wrong bloody things?

Now I just gotta hope I haven't managed to inherit a case of Ross River Virus.

A Rare & Rewarding Day

I don't recall ever having such a rewarding day. I got what I wanted several times, or at least close enough to make it feel as if I had gotten it.

Today my boss and the CEO of the company I work for turned up to discover the most consumers we've ever had in one day utilising our services (we are a new branch of a mental health support centre and the amount of consumers we have is justification for our presence). Not only that, but they were clearly enjoying themselves. It couldn't have looked better. But that was just icing on the cake.

What my boss and the CEO came over for was 1)to give me money (to spend on the punters YAY!) and 2)to offer me permanency. Since I love my job, and the people I work for are wonderful, this is a relief and a joy. The Punter's themselves are a great bunch of people and I'm glad not just to have met them, but to continue to know them.

Talking to my boss and the CEO, I was overjoyed when they agreed to get me everything I wanted for the place. No haggling, no hassle. Just like that. YAY again!

On the way home I was thinking how nice a barbecue would be and woe and behold, Curtainman had the same idea and already had the meat out when I arrived home. YUM!

Then Curtainman says "you got an email from Mr. M yesterday. Didn't you see it?"
"No," says I. Then it turns out that I had received several emails all regarding my last place of employment where the injustices were added to daily and I continue to fight against even now, months later.

There have been no resolutions, but at least something appears to be happening. However, it is a government dept so think of how long something would usually take, multiply the time by 5 and then add ten years and you have the approximate amount of time it takes to get even a reply. Just of late, I've had several replies which indicates someone is finally on the case. Fuckin YAY!

Oh My Feet!

Today I allowed a trainee reflexologist to practice on me. Despite the occasional desire to pull my foot away because it "tickled" my feet soon began to sing and were soon feeling the delicious hum from the trainees hands. Oh YUM!

However, I can't say that I was overly impressed with her diagnosis. Not necessarily because I thought it was 'wrong' but mainly because I considered it to be undesirable.

Despite the diagnosis, I will be offering my services to the trainees any time I can. My feet will be happy.

Always do your Stretches.

Yep, this is how I warm up in the morning so I don't pull a muscle when I need to use the remote control or get my morning coffee.





Seriously, I can't even dream with that much energy and agility.

Nature's Brush

When art is done by Christopher Marley it's difficult not to be amazed, fascinated, delighted, and curious. His art is has spurred him to study entomology, travel to remote locations and present the beauty he's found in a way that is truly dazzling.



The above is a sample of what can be found at - Pheromone. Besides plenty of beetle work, he also applies his skill to botanicals and minerals.

Contestant #2

Contestant #2 in the Dressed for the Occasion competition is Guy; and what a hilarious guy he is.

Yes folks, Cirque du Soleil founder Guy Laliberte is the first official 'clown' in space. There's been a few before him, but they weren't really 'official'.

The classically funny red nose that makes earthlings and aliens alike burst into spontaneous laughter, gives the entire game away. It screams space-travel the same way jodhpurs screams horse-riding.

NaNoWriMo

I had forgotton all about NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month which occurs in November every year) until Hervor asked if I had any ideas for it this year. I never gave it another thought until about 2am this morning when I woke up and thought that my experiences with brain fog over the past few days could make a good basis for a horror novel. A few minutes thought and hey presto, a fully formed plot.

Added to that was that I dreamt I was at some kind of shop/kiosk thing and the person behind the counter asked me to read their cards for them. I told them that I wasn't any good at it, but they insisted. The woman handed me the cards and left to come around my side of the counter. So much happened in that space of time before she reached me (eg, my dogs got lost at a cancer hospital out in the desert, I was at a trial in which I couldn't stop interfering [asking questions, directing etc] fights with the dead etc).

I finally found myself at this kiosk thing and some guy was setting out different types of knives in front of me. He set them out randomly but he did so with considered precision and a great deal of pretension. He then looked at me expectantly and wanted me to interpret them. Obviously I didn't know what to say, but I tried to bluff my way through with general statements like, "This knife suggests that you see yourself in a way others can't conceive."

By the time I got to the second knife which was sitting across the blade of another, I looked at the shadows and images began to form and gradually took colour. Even though the scenes made no sense, I told onlookers what I was seeing, as though I was narrating a movie that only I could see:

"...and in the waves there are warriors brandishing spears and what looks like a type of wooden pitchfork. The wave is cresting, carrying the warriors higher. There is a Shaman with a straw and feather headdress coming out of the wave as it breaks..."

I woke up thinking the dream carried much significance....If only I could decipher the dream as clearly as I had seen the pictures in the 'knives'.

I'm sure I can utilise this dream in my November Novel.

Idiotic Denials

Yesterday I followed a trail of blog links and found myself at a blog (which shall remain nameless) that spoke of Domestic Discipline. Interested, I read on thinking I might be able to get some tips to make housework just that bit less dull. Sheesh, was I in for a rude shock!

For those of you that are blissfully ignorant to the nature of Domestic Discipline, let me enlighten you...

The initiated claim that Domestic Discipline is a 'tool' employed in relationships to improve behaviour (usually of the female [I read no cases of a male being disciplined in this manner, but then I didn't read extensively on the subject as what I did read was enough to 'enlighten' me]). Domestic Discipline is a contract between both parties which states that when a certain 'behaviour' is acted out, the transgressor must be spanked.

The people that use this form of 'Domestic Discipline' go out of their way to emphasise that this spanking is not a form of BDSM or in any way erotica, and that it is strictly a form of discipline. The discipline is meted out in a caring and loving (but not sexual) manner and is only allowed to be performed under the conditions set out by the contract (ie in the agreed upon place, when agreed upon bad behaviours are acted out). There are rules and regulations set out so that the woman must submit and even aid the husband to give the spanking and sex is not to take place directly after the punishment...and so it goes on.

To say the least, I was confused.

I don't know whether the participants are in a state of denial; refusing to admit they enjoy being spanked, or whether the denial is all part of the game. But from what I read, it is clear that despite the protestations that it is in no way sexual, it is. It is a form of BDSM and this belief is borne out through the 'spanking-fantasies' that pepper the blogger's sites, the links and the 'complaints' that their partners are not delivering enough discipline.

In my opinion, if these people aren't adult enough to:

1. Discipline themselves via mental means; and
   
2. Admit they get enjoyment from it,

then they are not adult enough to be performing such acts without parental supervision.

The reality is, that personally I don't give a toss what consenting adults do behind closed doors, but I draw the line when they open the doors and invite people in, claiming the interior is something it's not.

I vote that there should be less kids that pretend to be adults and more adults that pretend to be kids.

Straight Jacket T-shirts

This is one of those ideas that I like so much I wish it had been mine.

Straight Jacket T-Shirts

The slogans could do with a little (or a lot) of work, but the basic idea and some of the phrases are brilliant.

Without Trigger

I've been a long-time fan of Roy Rogers. I don't mean Roy Rogers the cowboy actor dude of "Happy trails" fame who rode around on a palomino called Trigger, I mean Roy Rogers the blues slide player. There is something about his style that reminds me of riverboat gamblers and steamboats etc.

The Bird of Prey

I was lying in bed listening to the dogs bark when I realised what I really needed was remote control technology that would distract the hounds from their noise making and redirect it to...well to anything really that was quieter; like running from a remote control airplane that bombed them everytime they started up the barking again.

Maybe I could kill two birds with one stone - or perhaps that should be rescue two birds with one plane. You see, Louis (the beagle that loves crafts and was today caught emptying a bag of unwoven wool onto the grass before rolling in it) anyway, Louis loves to chase birds and has on occasion snatched the careless bird from the air. So, my thoughts were that if I had a remote control bird (hence-forward known as the bird of prey) that dumped a load of water on them if they should refuse to stop barking when called, then it might also encourage her not to chase birds.

As I lay considering the possibilities, my plan hit a snag even before take-off, as I envisaged my remote control bird trying to navigate the trees that inhabit the fence-line.

It was only when I was a little more alert that I was able to reach a solution. Curtainman! I would have to incorporate Curtainman into my plan. He has spent many, many, MANY hours on PC flight simulators and given his flight record, I'm almost (yes there was a little, tiny bit of hesitancy in my typing there) ...as I was saying, I'm almost sure that he would be capable of navigating the fence-line forest with the bird of prey.

Given summer is on it's way, there could be a problem with water restrictions. With the Little's propensity to bark at the smallest of creatures that cares to pass our property, I imagine the bird of prey would continually be a thirsty and need to drink quite a bit to keep up with the Little's who would also need quite a bit of water to lubricate their barking-gear.

Perhaps my plan needs a little more thought before attempting to get a prototype together. This also gives me plenty of opportunity to procrastinate which seems to be one of my favourite hobbies.

Through the eye of a needle.

In the world according to me, Nikolai Aldunin should be known more for his patience and steadiness of hand than his artistic visions. True as it may be that few people would think to put a replica tank on a pedestal consisting of an apple seed split in half, I still consider Nikolai any surgeons contemporary in the 'steady-hand' stakes.

Yes, I do need glasses and it may be for that reason that just viewing his art requires some serious squinting and necessitates the correct positioning of my tongue before I can quite make out whether the camels are carrying packs or whether they're just freelancing their way through the 'eye' desert.

If I ever have to traverse such forbidding territory, let it be some as envisioned by Mr Aldunin.



If you want to be amazed by more of Nikolai's art, take a trip through the Microminature Art gallery. Don't worry about grabbing your magnifying glass as a microscope was supplied for the taking of the pictures.

Spring Step

Yesterday Hervor, the Little's and I went bushwalking. It was a beautiful day and the feeling that spring had finally sprung was evident in the native flowers that at times tried to act invisible. The Australian bush has the knack of looking quite drab but on closer inspection throws up some extremely colourful little flowers. Unlike rainforests where flowers can be large and garish, our flowers are understated, but no less beautiful.


Caladenia Flava (Cowslip Orchid)


Chorizema Retrorsum


...and some (as yet) unidentified little creature.

Although the walk was beautiful, it informed me of just how unfit I have become. Lucky the warm weather is coming because if there was too much more of winter I'm certain that walking to the mailbox and back would result in muscle failure, lung failure and a cardiac arrest.

Praise the sunshine!

Pedigree People?

It's a common thing to find myself asking, "What is the matter with people?" Recently, after seeing the documentary by Jemima Harrison, Pedigree Dogs Exposed the rate at which I ask the question has increased significantly.


Sidenote: For anyone interested but unable to watch the pain and suffering of these animals, they can view the written précis here. I would also like to make it clear that "show-dog breeder" is a generalisation and that there are individual breeders that care very much for the health of their animals and the direction the breed is heading.


It seems that "show-dog" breeders (note the qualification as there is a great difference between those who breed for purported aesthetic purpose and those that breed working dogs) have grown blind to the disfigurement they breed into their dogs, deaf to their cries of pain, and whether they originally had any compassion or empathy with/for the animals is always up for debate.

Some of the breed differences that can be seen from the mid 1800's to their contemporary counterparts. The first is a comparison of a Bull Terrier.




Seeing all the health problems, pain, physical disfigurement, neurological deficits, and who knows what psychological issues (just as well dogs don't possess the ability to express themselves with the spoken word) caused by the depletion of the gene pool due to inbreeding, the only conclusion I can reach is that the human gene pool has reached the critical levels of the 'pedigree' dog. As a result, they have lost the ability to process simple problems, foresee consequences of actions, and employ reasoning and logic, and have strengthened the ability to disregard the pain of another being (one they claim to care deeply for).

I admire people and organisations like Jemima Harrision (and the BBC who have stood by her by refusing to air the Crufts Show), Margaret Carter, Caroline Fowler, Pedigree Petfoods (who withdrew their sponsorship from Crufts) and others like them who have spoken out- on occasion to their detriment- in order to improve the quality of life for these animals.

The Kennel Club, Crufts and all their supporters should be condemned; including and perhaps most of all the president of the British Veterinary Association Nick Blayney who agreed with the Kennel Club about the state of the 'pedigree' - one would think that Mr. Blayney has the training to know better.

Dressed for the Occasion

I went to a psychic night which included a door prize for the most creative hat. My hat was bright, colourful, an interesting shape and above all, gauche. It won, but mainly because the only two other people who'd actually bothered to make a hat were too scared to wear them because they feared looking silly.

I think it pertinent to add here that this event was held in the darkened back street of a country town on a wet and windy night. I'm kinda interested exactly who they thought was going to see them and what it was they feared people might think of them; that they were crazy (remember- psychic night), silly (psychic night), out of touch with reality (psychic night), or any myriad of whacked out things?

So in celebration, I have just this minute decided to start a category/competition for those Dressed for the Occasion. I will enter this guy as the very first- now he knows how to dress appropriately (he was clearly on his way to a sauna night).

Obviously, this guy has set the starting bar extremely high so pretenders need not apply.

I will say though, that Henri Regnault (1843-1871) is a magnificent painter and how he managed to capture all this before the horse had completed it's rear...well what can I say other than, I take my winning psychic hat off to him.

To be Taken Aurally.

What happens when you cross Robert Plant with Chris Cornell? Moments of aural beauty.

I admit for the first 1:10 when I first heard Chris singing Robert's song Thank You I was indifferent to say the least. The moment Chris said rain I realised he had it in the bag and knew exactly where he was going with it.

Chris & Robert, for blessing me this day, I wanna Thank You, Thank You.

Feet Reality

This morning I was up, out of bed, and walking to the kitchen before I was awake enough to realise I wasn't wearing my customary extra-thick-soled socks; in fact the cruel truth was that I had inadvertently exposed my sensitive tootsies to winter-chilled tiles.

Just as I was reaching for the kettle, I thought that it was probably time my feet learnt to deal with reality. I agreed with myself vigorously all the way back to the bedroom where I immediately donned my beloved socks.

There's nothing like knowing your own mind - except perhaps having your mind know your body; even if they aren't going to involve you in their decision making.

Congratulations Christian.

Dying is inevitable, who'd have thought anyone could make you fight for it?
Christian Rossiter


~

A Spiritual Cuppa

How does one go about refreshing the spirit/soul/drive or whatever else you want to call that thing that makes us sing...or in my current state, hum dimly in the body somewheres. How do you supply it with that invigorating swim, the refreshing sleep, or even just a lie-down in the sun that will carry it through to the next big rest? Just as mystifying is how or why does it become so worn out and weary?

It seems that while I was sleeping, my spirit waded the Tasman Sea marathon without taking so much as a truckies-kip.

What I need is a Spiritual Cuppa; one that will give my spirit a shot of caffeine - since it's unlikely the Spiritual-grounds will contain traces of speed. That is of course depending on the likelihood of Spiritual-coffee-makers sharing processing facilities with Columbian drug lords or something of similar ilk.

Tunnel of Light

I don't know whether my brain works in ways as mysterious as our reported god works, or whether I just take different side roads to most people, but it's rare that I relate so completely to someone.

It was on a walk in the bush that revealed the similarities between the path of Hervor's life and my own (and at that point it could be construed both literally and figuratively). We spoke of our new jobs etc, as we have both recently undergone a period of unemployment, the rigours of job hunting, and the adaptation necessary to blend into the new work place. However, it was when Hervor mentioned a conversation she'd recently had with someone that I was struck by the similarities: How often do you get the chance to speak to someone that has died? Or more importantly, speak to someone ABOUT that death experience. It just so happens that both of us recently had the opportunity to do that very thing.

As we compared notes, it was revealed that both people that had experienced death had died of a heart attack. Neither had a prior history or family history of any heart problems.

It was at this point that the shared path Hervor and I were on, diverged. Hervor's respondent came away from the experience believing that there was absolutely nothing after death, where as mine emerged from the experience convinced that there was definitely something although she couldn't determine exactly what. However, neither of them experienced the famed Tunnel of Light phenomena.

If on the off chance life lessons were to be taken from our conversations of flatlining, it would seem that the synchronicity is over and Hervor and I are headed in opposite directions - either that or what we're going to find when we get there is very different.

Transmogrification and other idiosyncrasies

As writers try to put a new twist on things, some have turned to pitting one transmogrifier against another, or making them allies - most commonly the vampire and the werewolf. Although there are other transmogrifiers such as shapeshifters, they aren't as popular as the vampire and the werewolf. This might be because once they've 'transformed', they don't necessarily retain any human features and are indistinguishable from the 'real' thing. Or perhaps the creature into which they transmogrify is just unromantic.


An example of this is P'an Hu, the dog-man from Chinese folklore. In western culture, dogs don't evoke the same connotations as wolves. When dogs are spoken of, there just isn't that air of mystery and wildness that is associated with wolves. Perhaps it's because the term dog includes all domesticated canines and it's hardly surprising that the image of a chihuahua with head held high baying at the moon doesn't stir the same emotion as a similar image of the wolf.



What about the ursine counterparts - the werebear - of Native American culture? The bear is a mighty creature, bested only by a man with a gun (or equivalent weapon) or nature herself. Not as agile as the wolf, the bear doesn't really need to be; when was the last time a wolf was witnessed knocking down a large sapling? But then, for some odd reason, once transformed into a 'werewolf' the beast assumes strengths attributable to neither of its originating species.

Perhaps the reason the werebear doesn't make it big in western culture is because the name is a bit too close to Care-Bears. However, one must ask the obvious question there; what could be scarier than a CareWereBear - a creature with a supernaturally powerful caring nature. Certainly the thought of a bone-crushing hug would be enough to frighten off the most determined of enemies (or maybe that was CareWearBear - trousers that take care not to chafe the parts that make us growl).

If not a werebear, then I suppose there is less likelihood of a werepig being successful. Although reality would ensure it was an extremely frightening experience, the idea of being chased through woods by a seemingly unathletic, squealing, and grunting beast doesn't sound all that terrifying. Not only that, but unlike its ursine and canine counterparts, the werepig doesn't sound as if it would be all that natural at predatory techniques such as tree climbing - even with the aid of human genes.

It looks like were going to have to forego exotic imaginary creatures such as the werechidna, werebadger, or the weregiraffe and go with an animal that has a little more romantic value. So, be on the lookout for the wereleopard, wereagle, weretiger, or when looking for an ally instead of an enemy, look towards the werehorse.

Essence of Beagle

I saw this picture on Loldogs and thought it the very essence of a good natured beagle. Just look at that tail go.

And to think, it isn't likely to lose any of that enthusiasm as it gets older.



see more dog and puppy pictures

Michael the Miraculous

I don't care for Michael Jackson one way or another. Correction - I didn't used to care for Michael Jackson one way or the other. However, last night was like the final nail in the coffin so to speak.

Unable to sleep, I switched TV on and EVERY open channel was showing the Michael Jackson Memorial. The main difference between them, was that one would show snippets of bygone concerts, while another would show 'special' performances that were tributes to Michael Jackson while he was still alive.

One channel had a 'commentator' who made the event sound somewhat like a tennis match at Wimbledon. While I was in the kitchen and hence could only hear the TV, I actually thought I was on the Wimbledon channel. You can imagine my surprise when the Rev Al Sharpton began his fire and brimstone speech. I thought Wimbledon had taken a turn...for the worse (which I previously didn't consider possible).

I quickly grew very tired of all the miracles attributed to Mr Jackson during his life. One shining example (I can't remember which deluded soul came up with this one) was that 'Michael Jackson taught us how to love'. It kinda makes me wonder how homo-sapiens made it thus far without Michael's input. Even Martin Luther King Jr. only had a decade or so to learn how to love - and that was if Michael began teaching shortly after he was born.

The Memorial continued through into the early morning show Curtainman watches while he drinks his morning coffee. He rolled his sleepy eyes several times while watching the program and when yet another performer graced the stage, Curtainman said "Who's that?"
"Michael Jackson," I laughed, being awake enough to recognise the station had slipped in a clip of Michael performing. "Apparently he's performing at his own Memorial. He's kinda egotistical that way," I concluded.
"The Memorial isn't even over and I've forgotten him already," mumbled Curtainman.


Well, let's just hope someone remembers to put Michael back in the coffin before he's buried.

Scent Discrimination

For some reason the business of 'scenting' came to my attention. Why do we often use fruit as the scent for shampoos, conditioners, air fresheners, etc? I'm not saying for one moment that these scents resemble the real odours of the fruits, but I find it a little odd that we choose to use 'foods' to make our hair, air, washing etc a bit more attractive (ie apple, berry, etc).



My question is, where and why has an invisible line been drawn? Why don't we have herring scented shampoo, beef scented clothes detergent (besides inviting predatory animals to savage our clothes - obviously not a good choice if going to the zoo for the day - so perhaps there is good reason not to use venison scented shampoo). However, the gap between the intended scent and the actual scent has probably saved us daily attacks from parrots, bats, foxes, and a myriad of other fruit-eaters.

I can already see the marketing - New ocean-fresh sardine soap, a fragrance that will attract the cool cats. Okay, so maybe that would have worked back in the 50's-60's when the hip were known as 'cool cats' (no one said I was an advertising genius)...but you get my point.




Most of us seem to love the smell of fried onions, so where is the fried onion air freshener? Is the line drawn around the fruit category? Does that mean that the almond scented shampoo is the rogue in the bathroom? Okay, so maybe we can extend that to fruit and nuts.

So where do vegetables fit in? Where is the carrot scented candles, the celery soap, and the sweetcorn dishwashing liquid? Do they not smell as sweet, attractive or as complex? Are we to forego the pumpkin fabric softener for the lemon, the broccoli scented shampoo for the olive, and the pea diffusing oil for some unspecified berry?


If vegetables or sheep could talk I reckon they'd have a case for discrimination. Personally, I'd be sending them to the Equal Opportunities Commission.

Tail Proud

Recently I've been thinking a lot about a dream I once had. The beginning of the dream was a mish-mash of partying, fights, drugs, gate-crashers, bikies, knifings, and all those things that go along with that sort of thing. The setting was a farm house we used to live in (the nearest neighbours were a few kilometres away).

We were in the lounge room and I was trying to cool down a heated argument between a couple of drunks when someone yelled the police were coming. I had to get out before they arrived (although I'm not quite sure why) so I ran out the door and through a crowd that had gathered on the front lawn. Just as I made it out to the track that served as our driveway, I could see the headlights of the police car about a kilometre away.

I ran out into the paddock where it was dark and I was going to hide behind a fallen tree that I knew was there. I neared the log and as I began to leap onto it, I changed into a panther. I was hyper-aware of my newfound agility and as I walked the length of the fallen tree I looked out into the night. The paddocks and treeline were highly visible but tinged with red-light, as though I had infra-red vision. I could see clearly, everything that stretched out before me.

I began to overbalance but quickly used my tail to regain my equilibrium. It was then I became aware of the heaviness in the end of my tail, like the last fifteen centimetres was weighted in order to act as a counterbalance. I swished my tail around and revelled in the sensation.

Despite its dreadful beginnings, the second part of the dream was beautiful and created a lasting memory. It seemed that the main focus of the dream was the 'infra-red' vision. But man, I really loved that tail!

Death as an Advisor

As I have a tendency to do, today I got into another one of those strange conversations. Today’s conversation culminated in someone with a rather eclectic spiritualism, suggesting I use death as advisor in an attempt to discover what ‘possessed’ me - if the idea interested me enough. It did.

So despite Carlos Castaneda’s writings having always frustrated me, I decided a re-visitation was in order. So with the help of Curtainman, who pinpointed the specific chapter, I re-read and attempted to digest.

“Death is our eternal companion,” don Juan said with a most serious air. “It is always to our left, at an arm’s length. It was watching you…it whispered in your ear and you felt it’s chill…It has always been watching you.

Whenever you feel, as you always do, that everything is going wrong and you’re about to be annihilated, turn to your death and ask if that is so. Your death will tell you that you’re wrong; that nothing really matters outside its touch.Your death will tell you, ‘I haven’t touched you yet’.” ~ Carlos Castaneda Journey to Ixtlan

Initially, disappointment was the result as it had been many years since I'd considered death a foe, or something to be feared. On the contrary, for a while we had quite the relationship going and I not only considered it friend, but possible saviour.

However, after I'd pondered the problem for a while, it eventuated that I considered one other thing more important than death. Intensely private and personal, I now wonder if that is ‘the’ thing that possesses me. I think it highly likely, but even if it is, I now face the question - what do I do with this information?

Turn that Dish Around

There's nothing like a good curry and in reality there's not much like a bad curry either. However, when a curry tastes nice but is uncomfortably hot; that is too hot to enjoy it, it doesn't fit either category. In fact, there's not much of my cooking that does fit into a category- any category.

My cooking skills seem to have a genetic component and that combined with little practice, less experience and beginners luck often results in the unexpected. The dishes I make have ranged from superb to inedible and often with no discernible reason.

But, I'm not a person to let the failure of a dish put me off (well not on this occasion apparently).

The other day I cooked a rather large meal of....you guessed it, curry. And yes, it was so hot that we couldn't eat it. However, I was not about to waste the ingredients so I rinsed it. Once most of the sauce had vanished off down the drain (probably cleaning the inside of the pipes like an acid-wash), I made up some gravy and voila! A new dish that I have named Washed Curry Sausages. I found it to be extremely tasty and went very well with mashed potatoes.

Doggie Crafts

Louis (pictured) just loves arts and crafts; well crafts a lot more than art. At least she loves my crafts. It seems every time I exercise my craftiness, she has to have a go too - although we never seem to have a common goal.

For example, when I was using some embroidery cotton to do some tablet-weaving, she thought it would look much better unravelled across the floor with just the occasional knot. The last time I did some drawing she took my eraser and to her credit she didn't chew it to pieces, but put so many splits through it that when I tried to use it for its intended purpose, a single swipe across the page caused it to crumble into half a dozen pieces.

Yesterday I managed to spin a skein of wool (albeit inexpertly) and this morning, said skein was found not on the table where it was left, but out lying in the grass.

For a change I would have to say that it was Louis who had likely found the most appropriate use for the craft as it would probably better serve as a home for insects than it would as a yarn to be used in knitting (or similar purpose).

Token Addict

About a week ago I looked for an online game I used to play on occasions. I couldn't remember what it was called, but I could clearly picture the game itself and knew it had something to do with runes. I didn't think it would be too hard to find. Wrong!

There are a LOT of online games out there to do with runes and not one of them was the game I used to play. However, I did find one that was annoying, not all that likeable, but highly addictive.

When you do something for a long time, it's not unusual that you begin to see it when you close your eyes. However, what I wasn't expecting was the onset of this phenomena to occur some six hours after I had last played the game. When I closed my eyes briefly, I saw electric red and green runestones. The speed with which they appeared quickened until even during a blink I managed to catch a glimpse of a silver-grey runestone in the inner sanctum of my minds-eye. Strangely it began to make me feel slightly ill and off kilter.

Maybe what I was experiencing wasn't an after-effect from playing the game too long, but rather a withdrawal symptom: I did say the game was addictive.

Frustration, the mighty woollen beast.

Spinning relates to a lot of things, but today Hervor and I decided to check out the age old art of spinning yarn. Both of us are probably a lot more used to spinning a yarn, but this was of the woollen variety.

We were taught to card the wool and some of the instruments used looked as though they were straight from a torture chamber. No ordinary combs, I had worked with one for less than five minutes and managed to draw blood. I'm kinda talented that way.

Hervor and I both found it to be a frustrating experience: Hervor had trouble co-ordinating hand and foot and I did some okay spinning initially, but from the moment I overspun, it was like some dreadful revelation that couldn't be forgotten. I was told beginners always suffered overspinning, like it was some terrible disease that required a lengthy hospital stay. By the end of the day that was pretty much how the sight of heavily twisted yarn made me feel. However, I think I might prefer medication to a hospital stay; maybe a sedative that would soothe the mighty woollen beast of frustration.

Doodling

Wouldn't it be fascinating if you could see into your psyche through what you doodle? What would my doodles say/mean?

Probably that I'm too lazy to fill in any more space.

Investigating Ken & Barbie?

What sort of investigation is it to be if the inquiry is ambivalent towards corroborating evidence? Perhaps it carries the import of an investigation into the reasons behind Ken & Barbie's breakup.

When I asked the investigator about the ambivalence towards supporting evidence, I was told that it was done this way as a matter of fairness. Fairness to whom exactly? Wouldn't it be fairer to all concerned if what was said was backed up by evidence and wasn't just hearsay?

Being a government investigation, I understand there are a myriad of procedures to follow, but one would think the necessity for evidence would be paramount regardless.

Is this a bad omen? Is it indicative that justice isn't going to be served? I hope not.

Productiveness of Waiting

I was supposed to meet with the investigator today. The arrangement was he'd call one hour before the interview. While I waited for that call, I cooked a banana cake, curry, a massive pot of meat and vegetables for the dogs. I got photocopies of stuff I'm to hand over to the guy, washed several sets of dishes, made lists and even played a few computer games.

Why can't I get this much done on a day when I don't have other things to do?

MeMa and the 3-Wheeled Wheelbarrow.

I've just arrived back from an onerous trip to the big smoke. Actually, it was to the side of the big smoke but it was close enough that I felt a wheeze coming on. It was there that I saw me Ma. I haven't seen her for a while and we caught up on some well deserved laughter. Her gift of storytelling and a good dose of imagination had us shedding a tear or two of merriment.

MeMa recently spoke to her partially estranged sister (yes, partial estrangement is difficult) who, while younger than MeMa, has still managed to reach the age where everyday tasks can take all day.

Her disability was showing when it came to using her wheelbarrow and her son-in-law suggested he raise the height of the wheelbarrow and put a couple of extra wheels on it so that she didn't actually have to bear any weight. He fitted the wheels and raised the barrow until it was the perfect height. He asked if she wanted a brake fitted. She laughed and assured him no brake was necessary.

The first time she used the wheelbarrow, she had to accept her folly (and her belief that son-in-law had been joking when he suggested a brake) as the barrow escaped her clutches and ran off down the hill with a load of freshly cut fire wood.

She has since learnt to wheel across steep slopes and park the barrow sideways.

The problem induced MeMa and I to brainstorm how the 3-wheeled wheelbarrow could be tamed. I think our final idea was probably one of the finest -- a stone anchor with a flick-switch mechanism on the handle...far superior to the traditional and somewhat mundane brake set-up.

Luckily MeMa's Sister wasn't present, as she probably wouldn't have appreciated the brilliance of our ideas.

The Moral of Numbers

I'm not a huge fan of numbers, I much prefer letters; so it doesn't really bother me terribly if there aren't many numbers lying around (the kind you count, not the kind you smoke). However, there are certain times when numbers are essential, and when money is involved, the absence of numbers should set the alarm bells ringing.

For example, the omission of numbers when trying to ascertain the price of something suggests the price has been inflated far past the items worth. However, if there aren't any numbers lying around when a job is advertised, then you know the opposite is true; that the advertiser is asking far too much for what the position is actually worth. So don't be surprised if you get the job and then discover you're being undervalued.

Deconstruction: Project 28

This morning I had an acupuncture session which I had to sit for about 30 minutes. Although the heaters were going, it was cold and my body felt as though it had iced into position. When I was finally able to move again I thought I'd been saved in the nick of time as my bare feet had turned a purple colour.

I arrived home to discover one of the Littles (my collective term for the dogs) had deconstructed a 28 (aka Port Lincoln Parrot, or Western Ring Necked Parrot - pictured) on the living room rug. There wasn't whole lot left; just a few feathers and a meaty bit which I didn't care to examine too closely.

There was also a trail of feathers which led from the rug through to the lounge room and onto one of the Little's armchairs.

I have no doubt the culprit was the female (Louis) as she has been known to snatch birds from the air, do brain surgery on stuffed toys, and hunt most things that move. The dog (Bug) on the other hand...well, he's still learning to use his sense of smell and once he learns that at least then he might have some sense.

Washing the Apartheid Way

Many times at my previous place of employment I listened to people talking about the evils of washing whites with colours. I've never been fussed whether my 'whites' come out pinkish, greyish, bluish or any other of those 'ish' colours.

This topic often brought out my usually lazy 'environmentalist' streak.

When I consider the amount of water wasted and chemicals used in an attempt to keep whites white, I feel heat building in my face and a weight forming on my heart. If you want your clothes to glow in broad daylight why not invest in some High-Vis gear (pic) and save the water and chemicals for more important uses.

Flying High

Being 1500 feet in the air in the first MemphisMicrolight to arrive in Australia was a thrill I won't be forgetting in a hurry. I saw my locale from an eagles-eye persepective; I kept an eye out along the coast in case I saw any sharks or dolphins, checked out the local prison's farm to see if their vegetables were visible yet and yes, even had a peek at the river, creeks and tributaries.

However it wasn't all fun and prettiness from great heights - I also got to view the sewerage plant from a distance far closer than I really cared to, and the new suburbs that resembeled rabbits warrens. Oh, and how could anyone miss the ravages of mining and the slaughterhouse?

You gotta take the good with the bad, but flying in a Cheetah (pictured) has given me a new perspective; being in a 747 is just being in the air, being in a Cheetah is flying!

When Hervor Howls

Hervor howls some great stuff and today she conveyed the recipe for turkish delight and bounty truffles. Not only did she impart the secret, but a demonstration saw me in the kitchen swaying in chocolate ecstasy.

Today was supposed to be a day of creativity, and while Hervor came through with the idea of creating truffles, I managed little more than getting the paints out. The ideas were there, but they were thwarted by too little energy and a motivation sapped by the knowledge of techniques I lack.

I decided that the best thing I could do would be to fuel my painting with truffle rushes. Unfortunately, truffle rushes don't last very long - but they are intense.

Voodoo Doll

I have recently been wondering if I could turn my acupuncturist into a houngan (voodoo priest).

I am lazy and don't want to be bothered travelling the 120km round trip to see my acupuncturist so I had a brainwave: If I made a voodoo doll of myself and gave it to him, maybe I could just ring him up and tell him how I'm feeling and he could insert the needles in the relevant points.

Does voodoo work over distance?

*sigh*... just an idle thought.

Suicide Season

Why are there so many people that are suicidal? Is it individual change, societal change, environmental change? Or is there no change at all, but people are more willing to speak of their misery?

I spent the day with several acquaintances and was surprised to discover that both of them had recently considered suicide. Both were serious enough about it to have obtained the means and travelled to the destination of their intended demise. One was stopped by the strangest of coincidences and the other spent the night merely looking at the lethal 'weapon'.

Many psychologists and psychiatrists have a tendency to attribute the state of people's minds to their dark pasts, or their cognitive schemas. In the first instance, I don't believe that previous traumas have a greater influence some 20 years after the event than they do either at the time or the few years following. Secondly, many trauma sufferers have developed their behavioural & belief structures as a matter survival, why would they want to change them? Why would they want to do away with the protection that has enabled them to continue living? Perhaps they aren't the most effective strategies, or maybe they are a hinderance in other aspects of life, but hey, that's what enabled them to be alive at this point in time.

The only reason I can imagine someone should even try to change is if they have reached the point of knowing they can't continue to live the way they are. We can and do change our behaviours, but changing beliefs so we can be 'happy' only amounts to convincing ourselves of some unrealistic falsehoods. Life isn't kind and fair and facing it with optimism is setting yourself up for greater disappointment.

Stupidity Vs. Desperation

I've been stupid and I've been desperate but I don't think I've ever stooped as low as the makers of one TV show which shall remain nameless (simply because I can't remember what it's called). The storyline is about a serial killer that suffers OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) and whether our hero's can catch him before he kills again.

Well of course they bloody can because it's going to take the poor bastard forever leaving the crime scene! He's going to have to check 1000 times to make sure his victim is really dead, and 1000 times to make sure his hands are clean after all that blood (unless he killed them with gas or something - in which case he's going to have to check 1000 times that he's turned the gas off). Even after he's left the building he'll probably have to go back and check that he really did get rid of that knife and didn't leave it lying on the table, or that in the struggle his victim didn't get any DNA evidence under their fingernails etc. And of course, the amount of times he has to return to the crime scene to ensure things are how they should be, is going to increase the likelihood that someone sees him; repeatedly. The frequency with which he's spied at the crime scene will undoubtedly enable any witness to give a good description to the FBI (or whoever it was that was on his trail).

I did briefly consider that he might be a "pure O" and not suffer compulsions, but then if he's a serial killer is there a need to state that he suffers obsessions? Wouldn't it be pretty obvious that obsession is a central feature of serial killing otherwise the perpetrator would simply pass over the thought/impulse to kill and not consider it again; like the rest of us do.

If in the event that he was a pure O, then obsessions with other things would probably preclude his penchant for killing as it's not usually in the top 10 list of must have obsessions.

Go figure.

Two Things at Once

Some people can do two things at once, but not me. For those of you out there who think you can, consider this - try being (in person) at a job interview as a houser for the homeless, and several thousand feet in the air simultaneously. For me it is impossible, so today I miss out on flying. Why must life thwart my fun?

And you thought I was going to say something like; try eating and singing at the same time. Bah! Easy....

Predator

I have two dogs. The first is a Beagle bitch and the latecomer is a Beagle x Cavalier King Charles Spaniel dog (aka Beaglier). In the Beaglier, each breed shows itself in the expected ways; like a beagle he loves the great outdoors, but he'll come in to lounge in his armchair long before the beagle will even consider calling the hunt to a halt (whether it be of mice, butterflies, birds, caterpillars etc).

Initially both were city dogs, but the bitch was largely brought up on a farm while the Beaglier...well let's just say you can take the boy out of the city but never the city out of the boy. Picture this: He has just undergone an endurance pat and as I signal the pat has finished (leaning back in my chair) he spots a bug on the floor a few metres away. Ears forward he goes to investigate. He lowers his nose and starts sniffing - its a cockroach and it runs towards him. He spins around, does a huge leap onto his armchair and watches wide-eyed as the cockroach runs beneath it.

For the next 3-4 minutes, he looks around the edges of his chair; he sniffs around the cushions (just in case it happened to jump up beneath one of them I guess), and does a general search of his chair. Once satisfied the cockroach hasn't managed to stow away, he perches his front feet over the edge, bum in the air, and begins to sniff near the bottom of the armchair.

The entire performance reminded me of the stereotypical housewife that saw a mouse. It was the finest 5-7 minutes entertainment I had since I saw the comedian Ross Noble.

Life on Standby

Who was the clown that said "Life is what happens while you are waiting?" (or something to that effect anyways).

Currently I wait for that telephone call that says "we want to interview you for that job".

I already have a job, but it's not a job I really want and it would seem they don't really want me either. However no one else wants to do it and those that are already doing it are being signed off on stress leave; two in the last week alone. Ah, what it is to work with the disaffected youth of today. Not that the youths are intolerable (sometimes they are), but the boss and the merry clique that surrounds him are the veritable brick wall that everyone keeps banging their heads against. And as if that isn't enough, several of us have had a good go at banging our heads against the Union wall as well. Such fun has never been had.

I also wait for inspiration to strike. I've been waiting a long time for that ignoble but enjoyable beast to raise its earless head. The ideas are there, but I just couldn't cope with all the mistakes that would have to be rectified should I undertake any of them. I already have so many mistake-filled projects awaiting my attention that I feel overwhelmed.

Even the toaster seems to be making me wait longer than usual these days. Perhaps I'm just impatient and I should make like Sleeping Beauty and go to sleep while I wait. Is it wrong to sleep the wait away?

Medicate with Jesus

I like my Doctor. He's a nice man with a good heart, a keen sense of humour, and tries to be helpful. But even those of us who never seem to be more successful than mere trier's of helpfulness, fail so miserably as my Dr. managed to the other day.

Backstory: I've battled with depression for many years, have had psychiatrists, psychologists, med changes etc. I've heard some pretty inane crap coming from our learned friends. For example during a particularly nasty episode of agitated depression my at-the-time psychiatrist told me to go and "have some fun". At the time the most fun I could muster was to spill coffee all over myself because my extremeties were shaking so badly that I couldn't keep the cup steady enough to sup from.

Return to topic: I sat trying not to snivel when my Dr asked how things had been. "Not very good", I replied. "My mind doesn't seem to wander further than a decision whether to slit my throat or re-sculpt my car around the roo-bar of an on-coming truck". The throat slitting had been the focus of an entire day but the re-sculpting was just a joke (I wouldn't wish such an incident upon a truck-driver). My Dr nodded with an appropriately sad smile and then said: You're no stranger to these kind of thoughts and as a friend I can only suggest letting Jesus into your life.

I can, and have accepted all kinds of suggestions when it comes to battling the black dog, and it wasn't the first time Jesus had been suggested as an anti-depressant, but my mood was not conducive to discussions about medication changes as I had only just begun a different medication a month earlier.

I tried to be diplomatic and said that I had, over the years, looked into several different religions but none appealed to me and they all seemed to preach that which they could not practise. He agreed and said that the Bible shouldn't be dismissed because of its connection to 'religion'. When he quoted the Gospels to me something strange happened; blood seemed to fill the inside of my eyeballs and I assumed this was the phenomena of 'seeing red'. The anger I experienced wasn't the wild uncontrollable kind that I expected to occur during the presence of such stereotypical phenomena; and to a large extent I managed to control my vitriol enough not to make a lifelong enemy out of the dear Dr.

Jesus might be a medication that is helpful for many people, but in my perverse mind, the possible side-effects are just as unwanted as those listed on most anti-depressant profiles.