Wednesday, February 21, 2018


I love art and artists for beauty but sometimes for fun.

It’s minus five f’ing degrees and it may snow today. When I went outside for some wood the birds started screaming; they were practically landing on me as I filled their feeders.
I got the feeders before I moved here knowing what I wanted to do. It’s one of the best things about living here, watching these wonderful birds. I keep the feeders full all the time and spend considerable time every day just watching them, delighted by all I see.
I never thought of Robins as big; they were certainly larger than sparrows but they were not even close to “large.” The Thrushes in Vancouver were the same size. Well here, the Thrushes look like they come from Chernobyl; they are massive. So are the Towhees. I mean, they’re not Raven size, but they are much bigger than their urban cousins.
And Woody, the massive Pileated Woodpecker I see here all the time (or more than one) is as big as a raccoon.
I’m further down the slope. First it was hot tubbing. Then came sweat pants. Well … yesterday when I went to get undressed in preparation for an afternoon hot tub, I looked in the mirror and realized I’d talked with Darrell and Karen at the vet’s unshaven, with my t-shirt on inside out and in my sweat pants. How quickly and far we fall.
But I’m talking like an Olympic announcer this morning. Perhaps the seizure yesterday has gotten all stress out of me.
This morning, while it was dark, I mustered knowledge gained in junior high school electricity classes and replaced quite a few light on/off switches with dimmers. Now I have a range of interior light at night — from very dim to bright. (C-PTSD makes you sensitive to light. When I was first diagnosed I wore two pairs of sunglasses.)
Still mustering, I decided to tackle the hum that irritates me in my speakers. I remember learning that plugging your speakers into a dedicated circuit reduces interference. However, after finding an extension cord, moving furniture, breathing dust and cussing Sheba who thought all the wires were toys, I failed to solve the problem.  
Juliet asked what makes me so busy. I answered with a familiar answer: Being confined to my room until my mother was put away. But I realize there’s another answer: OCD. It’s not interfering with my life; in fact it’s a huge asset.
As I move around Pinecone Park, I am constantly taking notes: I should do this or this needs to be done. I note and remember things that must be done — it’s kind of like OCD is my bitch Goddess that must be obeyed. Then there are the things that could be done; when I first note them, they are optional but when all the “musts” are done they, too, must be done.
I’m very close to having all musts and maybes done at Pinecone Park. Doing the dimmers and fixing the speaker buzz took two things off my Must list; then I cleaned out the fridge. All that’s left is to decorate my porch when Darrell is finished.
Then it’s on to creative work: My ladies, the fence decoration and I want to put the large pinecones around my title life ring and on the ceiling of the porch.
“It,” some interior drive, never stops and I feel blessed for that, Juliet. When drive happens in a creative person, there are endless possibilities. When I was four and we moved to a new home, I saw our garage for the first time but I saw, not a garage, but a theatre with a wooden door. In the same way, I see my new fence with 30 or 40 panels and a sketchbook — same with my new porch roof.

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