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!