The Lone Chicken

For any poultry aficionados who happen to drop by to check up on The Chook, well, she's baaaack.

Last reported here as missing (turns out blogs are useful for the keeping track of errant fowl), seven weeks later, on Saturday to be precise, with not a single visit in between, she turned up very early at the kitchen door for a feed. I tossed her a handful and headed off to town, thinking I probably wouldn't see her again for a few days, that she was doing one of her slow re-entries, but there she was, still pottering about when I got home late that afternoon. When I opened the kitchen door, she promptly headed on in and made herself at home. She's been hanging with the cats ever since.

I'm not sure what seven weeks is in chicken time, but she's certainly a quick adapter. And presumptuous. But such behaviour is pretty much par for the course with this particular critter.

Breaking Boxes

I'm busy breaking in new walking shoes so I can once more whizz medicinal laps around the local botanical gardens and leave a scorched trail in my wake through the streets and parks of Melbourne as I head for the train station each evening, which means the cats are busy breaking in a new cardboard box.

 

As Free as the Wind Blows

I thought we'd moved to a whole new level in our relationship what with the egg laying and everything, but no, after a couple of months of over the top friendliness and eleven eggs, just one shy of a magical dozen, the Chook has once more packed her bags and gone walkabout. About 6 days ago she started showing the usual time-to-move-on behaviour, and then on Sunday evening, she wasn't in her usual roost. I haven't seen her since. I'm such a fool. I should be used to it by now, I know, I shouldn't get my hopes up, but I thought she'd changed, I thought things were different this time, I really did... J

Ah well, the Chook is a restless spirit who prizes her freedom above all things. She cannot be bribed with scintillating, feline company, bought with first class food, or encouraged to settle for a mundane life of regular domesticity. She'll be back, or not, depending on her own whims.

In other vital news, it's HOT. Damned hot. Not-good-for-writing hot. Here in Victoria, the forecast is for 5 consecutive days of over 40 degrees heat. We're three days into it. In town early today, I saw that a few establishments were closed until Friday for staff safety reasons. Also, I suspect, they're not getting much trade. There are no tables outside anywhere - who wants to met friends and chat in a furnace? - and not many patrons inside either. It was the same in Melbourne yesterday. I was reluctantly out and about at 14.00, and usually bustling café districts were veritable ghost towns. People, if they absolutely have to go out, rush from one air conditioned enclosure to another.

While the first two days were hot and dry, since yesterday evening, at least up my way, every now and then, thunderstorms come through, bash the trees about a bit, make a cracking racket and throw the most thrilling and varied lightning displays, then dump a deluge of hot, fat raindrops that cool nothing but add buckets to the humidity levels. It's like we're having our very own monsoon season. Who knows? Maybe that's the way it's all heading.

So, two more days to go until we get a cool change. Onwards.

Plum Job

So, I'm back after multiple failures. Firstly, I was clobbered by my Christmas cold. It seemed to be getting better at one point, then returned with a vengeance. Alas, not much writing got done during my holidays, but I did prod a couple of dormant stories back into life. I napped a lot, watched movies, ate ice cream, and sat a lot in the backyard on the swing with Gus (the other cats were too busy doing their own thing) just enjoying the weather and wrestling with a few story ideas. This blahness only started to turn a couple of days ago, so I stayed home from the Arvo Job today just to make sure I didn't push myself into a relapse.  Secondly, I had internet problems. No connection for daaaaaays and daaaaaays. It was awful, but I survived :)  Now, thanks to my older little brother's emergency dash across the countryside, things have been fixed and upgraded and I'm speedier than I've even been before.

In the category of country produce news, I beat the birds to the plums in the front yard this year. I made sure to be quick after last year's catastrophic non-jam making happening. This is just half of my so far plucked haul - the rest is on the floor - and there's just as much fruit still on the tree that isn't quite ripe yet. Hopefully I'll manage to nab the rest too, but even with what I've got, there'll be plenty of plum jam for the year. Now I just need to get a truck load of sugar. And clean jars. And cut up the fruit and...

 In even further country produce news, in case you were wondering, the Chook today presented her eleventh egg. One more, and she'll hit a respectable dozen. So there you have it - I'm practically self-sufficient when it comes to plum jam and eggs.

Eggstraordinary Surprise

I've just come in from a morning of being in the backyard and out and about and enjoying the fabulous weather to do some writing, and I found this gift from the chook on the spare couch-bed in my study, still warm. Not wearing my glasses, I thought it was something less savoury at first. Colour me surprised when I realised what it was  - I didn't think she had in in her. And it's a biggie from such a small chicken.

She's been coming and going for over two years now, and just when I think I've got her figured...

After my last post about her back in August 21, sure enough, she went completely vagabondy on me and I barely saw her for over 2 months. She became, yet again,  FIFO Chook, off having adventures, and returning every now and then to check we were still here, fill up on food, and grumble about the state of the world. I didn't worry about her this time, just muttered harsh words about her ingratitude and opportunistic nature. Then three weeks ago, she turned up and I knew immediately she was back for another round of domesticity. It's a real Jekyll and Hyde thing. That night, she popped back onto her usual roost just outside the kitchen, and has spent her days since sneaking into the house whenever possible, either hanging here in the writing room with me or sunning herself in the lounge room with the cats.

And now an egg. I'll no longer be able to accuse her of freeloading if this continues. I'll have to name her Productive Chook. I just wish she'd use the nesting boxes I've set up for her in different places. But no, that would be too common, too normal. Ah well, we'll see. This might be a one off performance.

I'd better watch where I step/sit for the next while until I've got this new state of affairs figured out.

Now, to my writing keyboard. No, November writing report first.

Why Drink from a Common Bowl?

Past midnight snap, hot off my Pentax.

Of course, this won't end well. Cats and vases and other generally smashable nicknacks seldom occupy the same space without mishaps occurring, but still I try. In this case, I thought the rather largish thorns would be a deterrent. I was wrong.

Stack Attack

Around about Monday midnight, two cats came hurtling into my study, the one chasing the other, and sprang high onto my big worktable, but not high enough.

Bang! Cat number one (the chased) kicked back against a particularly precipitous pile of "really important stuff"and sent it spilling onto the floor. Followup bang!  Cat number two (the chaser) got into a twist trying to avoid the avalanche and sent what little remained also onto the newly-formed island of paper below. Ah, the joys of sharing a house with felines.

There was no way I was going to tackle tidying it up then. It'll have to wait until Wednesday, I thought with a weary groan, and spent the next day and a half skirting the messy mound. I was mightily tempted today to not do it, but being a grown-up, I did, both to clear the room and my head - and I must say my worktable looks a lot less cluttered now. I suppose I almost owe the cats a thank you. Then I wrote for 3 hours. Afterwards, once I'd had a nap, I set aside thirty minutes to attack a few "garden stacks" aka weeds, so the patio also has a more streamlined look, and gave myself a stern lecture about not letting things that tend to pile up get out of control. Weed a bit each week. Tick off an arduous (boring) everyday task or two each day. Clip and file articles, and write notes as I go. Don't procrastinate. Don't stack.

98% of what was in that toppled stack ended up in the recycling bin. Throwing stuff out is always the quickest way to get such jobs done. Amongst all the old magazines and forgotten printouts, however, I found a folder full of critiques from the spec-fic novel writing course I did a few years ago with Paul Collins. I reread the submissions and the kind comments, and wondered why I haven't done more with this novel, why I'd almost forgotten about this great opus that I was once so fired up about. I've written most of it, and it's been sitting on my hard drive for long enough. Of course, I haven't really been up for a longer project over the past couple of years of medical crap, but perhaps it's time to see if I can scrounge enough energy and head space to finish it.

No point putting it off any longer. Life will be much neater with it done.

Whether it makes it out into the world, of course, is an entirely different matter altogether.

Midweek Pause

My energy levels in general are still lower than normal and annoyingly unreliable, and I suspect my immune system is also presently battling the resident Arvo Job bug which has horribly felled far healthier folk than I over the past few weeks and reduced them one by one to disgusting, mucusy messes. I really hate being trapped in an office when there's an epidemic on the loose! You hear the rattling of diseased lungs all around you and know it's just a matter of time... :)  I'm phlegm-and-cough-free as yet, but am feeling incredibly flat, so today was most definitely a catch-up day. Hopefully my midweek recharge will zap any sickness-inducing blighters that have breached my system back to the plague pit from whence they came.

So yeah, lots of napping and reading with the cats, broken by a walk in the bug-killing Spring sunshine, but I did manage to do a line edit and okay the galley for an upcoming story (yay!), hit the Internet for a market search followed by subbing a story (cross fingers), and listlessly shove around words about cyborgs for an hour or so - not my most inspired work, but I think I got one really good paragraph out of it, so the exercise was not a total waste of time.

Some days, one good paragraph is the best you can hope for.

Grumpy Cat Gets Political

For your Friday enjoyment:

Seen on the "Freedom not Fear" protest march against global internet surveillance at 7.9.2013 in Berlin,Germany.

If you've been following in detail the whole sorry, sad and textbook-abuse-of-power NSA saga, you might  appreciate this chance to stop shaking your head for a moment and have a laugh.

Me, I keep wondering why no-one takes history seriously, and why with all the records and studies at our disposal, we're doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over (surely by now we should be learned enough to recognise the ancient trick of inciting paranoia to justify invasion of privacy and the curtailing of basic rights) then spend years cleaning up the mess afterwards. And of course, the culprits in charge of channelling J. Edgar usually melt back into the worm-riddled, bug infested woodwork from whence they came, waiting, waiting for their time to come again. In the meantime, so many lives are ruined...

Oooops, this was meant to make you laugh. Sorry about that.

And They Call It Space Puppy Love

To stave off unfair accusations that this might be a cat-and-chook-and-pony-favouring blog, and to add a little fun and cuteness to your Friday night, pop across to Tor. Com to watch a heart-warming clip from the upcoming, must-see, at least if you're a fan, Riddick 3 movie.

Why? Because there's a big, nasty, ugly as sin, slobbering, potentially puppy-eating alien, and the most adorable, yapping, but (honestly) slightly stupid puppy - make that adorable, yapping, but (honestly) slightly stupid SPACE puppy - that's about to become an alien snack, but Vin Diesel shows his soft side and...

Don't worry, go watch, it's safe - there's not a single cat to be seen. Or chook. Or pony. Promise.

 

  



I'll Have The Quote She's Having

I must, I must (sorry) pass on certain incredibly wise words from Lauren Beukes that I read in the paper this morning, just as I must, I must haul The Shining Girls from my TBR stack ASAP and read it, because the quote not only mentions three of my top twenty most favourite topics, namely writing, keyboards and cats, but it's the essence of all those secret-to-becoming-both-a-blockbuster-writer-and-a-respected-literary-darling theses on offer everywhere (for quite reasonable prices) reduced to a single tweet:

"Formula for a successful writer: 90 per cent avoiding the internet, 1 per cent writing, 9 per cent persuading the cat to sit somewhere other than ON your keyboard."

:)

This sterling career advice hits close to home. At the moment, Jenny, my usual keyboard cat, and Gus, the cat who would be the new keyboard cat, are tussling for lap supremacy. I'd rather Jenny wins this particular battle. She's smaller, stays still and mostly snoozes while I work - good company without any bother. Augusta is a stocky girl who squirms a lot and wants pats all the time. Jenny knowingly walks around the keyboard while Gus stomps on it. Time will tell how this titanic, feline struggle turns out. I know better than to try and tip the outcome in my favour. Never ever get involved in cat sleeping place politics.

Also, I'm trying to reduce my internet time and convert it to writing time, especially on Wednesdays, when I'm prone to giving in to my sooky  'I'm not well, and this is my R&R day, so it's okay to "rest" in front of the computer and recreationally read all this interesting stuff because, hey, maybe I can turn it into a story, besides which, I'm looking for new writing markets too' excuse. No more. Today I wrote for over 5 hours (alas, my cyborg story is not advancing, but I finished my expanded story that might already have a home - it just needs a polish now), resubbed two rejected stories, read, and reluctantly took care of some official boring stuff of the type that makes the world go round. And, of course, napped.

Although I did inadvertently catch a glimpse of the Miley Cyrus scandal...

The Chook Who Won't Be Pinned Down

I was actually thinking of posting about how it might be time to rename the Vagabond Chook and call her something like the Clockwork Chook instead when, sure enough, she's suddenly gone all weird and flighty on me. After seven months of staying on the mat, sticking to the backyard, and being extremely calm and regular and orderly in her habits, things are topsy-turvy again.

She no longer turns up loudly demanding her breakfast in the morning as soon as she hears me moving in the kitchen, but is instead doing mysterious whatevers up on the roof (looking at fields afar?) and loudly cackling about them. She's also off patrolling the neighbourhood during the daytime hours again, and when she deigns to stay home, she's very persistent about getting into the house and investigating stuff. Today I walked into my writing room and found her up on my desk intently studying the noticeboard which keeps track of rejected stories that need to be reworked /go out again. Perhaps she's a reincarnated writer trapped in a chicken's body? If so, given her stroppy character, I wonder which one...

Anyway, when I shooed her away, she crankily refused to leave the room, and when I stopped chasing her, she promptly fluttered up onto the spare bed and settled down there, much to Gus's disgust. It was very wet day outside, so I finally let her be just so I could get some work done. Plus, it was pretty cute (and for those who worry / wonder about such matters, she's wonderfully house trained. Not that I trained her. As a chook of independent mind, she trains herself.)

So, whilst the rain hammered down on the roof overhead and the Querulous Chook contentedly snuggled amongst my annoyed cats, I edited 3 stories, subbed two of them, and worked on a piece that an editor rejected but said that she would, based on my past work, look at again if I slowed down and fleshed the story out, which was a nice of her to say in so many ways and I felt quite chuffed when I read the email. Someone out there in the big wide world knows my work! And my usual standards. Imagine that. I have to admit that in so enthusiastically stripping down this particular piece to what I thought was an easier-to-sell length, or rather shortness, I probably went too far, so I appreciate the chance to plump it up again.

Cat Post By Stealth

I'm going to use my love of archaeology (long ago, I studied Near Oriental Archaeology at the University of Copenhagen. We used to have the coolest tutorials in the back rooms of big, old museums surrounded by floor-to-high-ceiling-high stacked collections of colonial-era plunder. There's nothing like a few sarcophagi and statues of ancient deities staring at you to set the mood) to sneak in one of those often maligned cat posts by linking to this piece about how long before the Internet with its LOL cats and Grumpy Cat made the lives of dog folk and ailurophobes a wretched misery, ancient cultures had cat memes too.

No kidding? Perused any Ancient Egyptian stuff lately? I wonder if the good folk of the Upper and Lower Nile also made a fuss and went around groaning about the latest papyrus full of felines, mocking temple statues, cursing Bastet and all her fine arts incarnations, and shaking their heads in pity at painters who employed the ubiquitous feline motifs, to use the correct term.

Anyway, the author writes .:
Take a dour little kitty artifact that resides in the American Museum of Natural History. He is Grumpy Cat’s distant cousin. Let’s call him Old Grumpy Cat, or OGC. Museum officials call him a ceramic bottle, and say he probably came from Northern Peru. Created about 2,000 years ago, he was likely used for special ceremonies, then part of a burial.

Which is great, because I also get to add a photo of the cutie. On top of that, I now have an excuse to add the only LOL cat picture that made me laugh enough for me to want to save it.

Enjoy:

 

 

Been Busy

Hallo, blog. Sorry about the break. There was a birthday to cater for and celebrate (mine, he-he) and a neglected house to clean so my weekend guests weren't too overwhelmed by dust bunnies, and emails with pictures of overly cute cats and kittens wearing conical party hats to read, and ponderous buses to catch to the Arvo Job instead of speedy trains both last week and this week (this yearly fortnight of track maintenance is another reason why I usually take my Annual July Winter Writing Break around now, but alas, I've already had lots and lots of time off from the Arvo Job, and I'm still not sure if I'll need more this year), and a new, dark, bird-based story that suddenly appeared whole in my head to write for an upcoming deadline, and since I can't write on buses, it had to be beaten into shape here at home (done, and pretty close to dusted after I cannibalised parts of a flashback from an old story that I rather liked but never used), so something had to give.

Anyway, I've got a post about dialogue on the boil, inspired by a couple of tiresome gents who sat behind me on Tuesday's bus ride to the Arvo Job. I was going to finish it today, but Wednesday R&R (some of it spent on finishing up that bird-based story) got in the way. I'll try to finish it ASAP.

Who Cats

This is an ongoing problem for me: I slip a Dr Who disc into the Blu-ray and pop put to the kitchen to pick up a waiting tray of tea and toast (or unhealthy goodies), but when I get back, there are multiple cat-shaped silhouettes lurking in the half-dark blocking my view. This only happens with Dr Who.

Lured by the wildly swirling time tunnel through which the TARDIS hurtles, the hypnotised moggies sit right up close to the screen staring at the psychedelic movements. Occasionally, they raise paws to bat a particularly enticing vortex. I need to shoo them away quick smart and with rough words or they just keep coming back for more. I thought it was amusing when it first happened, but I soon discovered that they can actually sit there for an entire episode blandly staring at The Doctor and his doings, or walking backwards and forwards in front of the screen, waiting, waiting, waiting until the amusing, feline-friendly visuals return at the very end, at which point they get excited again. I've almost broken the habit, but, as these photos from last night prove, Jenny still hasn't quite got the message.

And yes, posting about my cats means I didn't, alas, make it to Continuum today. There was simply not enough oomph left in my already well squeezed-out toothpaste tube of energy to get me down to Melbourne and then through more than a couple of hours of keeping up with lots of bustling, challenging people before I would have had to head home again, which, given the door price for a single day, would have been bad economics. Plus, for added energy-drainingness, the trains are partially out this weekend, the last leg of the journey replaced by buses. So I stayed home instead and rewrote a story that I'll submit tomorrow, which made me feel good and pleased and happy, although it probably wasn't as career-furthering as a spot of strategic networking (unless it sells to the intended market!), or as fun as all the wining and dining happenings at Continuum that folk are blogging about.

Ah well, we do what we can do as best we can.

Flowers For A Mood Lift

I've been feeling a bit blue this week - I think the last month of medical mucking arounds finally caught up with me a couple of days ago - so after concluding some business in Bendigo this morning, I gave myself permission to take few hours off to indulge in a spot of op shopping (I scored a hard copy of Margaret Atwood's The Year of the Flood for $6) and to just walk about and wander and wonder and be. The autumnal greyness of the day suited my initial gloomy disposition, but there's nothing like strolling the streets of a goldfields town full of beautiful buildings that ground you with their palpable history to calm one's mind, and the gorgeous old parks reeking of the past also do their bit to soothe the soul.

Then there was this conservatory full of chrysanthemums that I came upon (a Mother's Day exhibition?) to gladden even the most down in the dumps heart, so all in all, my vagabond turn was time well spent.

When I got home, I squeezed in some writing, and was quite pleased with the results, and then retired for some cosy reading (I finished The Long Earth by Terry Pratchett and Stephen Baxter) with the cats sociably piled about me in my armchair. Now I feel a lot cheerier and ready to face the world again.

Walking and reading and writing - as far as I'm concerned, they're better than drugs. Oh, and purring cats to pat are good too.

Don't Know When I'll Be Back Again

My iPod is loaded with stacks of audio books,
The cats are crated and giving me filthy looks...

*sigh*

I'm off to my sister's place to settle the moggies and overnight, after which I'll head for the hospital where I shall once more be sliced and diced. Shouldn't be too long this time. Crossing fingers and toes.

The Chook Who Keeps Me Guessing





GUS AND THE SUNNING CHOOK

It's well past 18.30 and evening will soon be upon us, but the Occasional Chook shows no signs of leaving. This does not seem to one of her usual Virginia Chook swing bys for a bit of peace and quiet away from the flock. She was already waiting outside the kitchen when I opened up the house at 9 this morning, and has been with us ever since, very coolly acting just like she did in the old days before her ungrateful defection to the chicken coop two houses up.



JENNY AND THE STARING CHOOK

She's spent the day being overly chummy with the cats and wanting to snuggle up to them as they tried to catch some rays in peace and quiet (both these pictures were snapped today. Yes, I know I need to tidy up those leaves), hanging out with me while I was working in the backyard, popping in for a chat while I was ironing, pottering around like she owned the place, taking dirt baths and endlessly sunning herself on the patio. She's very calm, very settled, and very much not moving on.

Oh well, who can say what the Chook is planning now? I just checked - yep, she's still here, right outside the kitchen door nibbling on my potted lemon thyme. When I asked her if it wasn't time she headed back to her homies in the coop, she gave me friendly cluck and snagged another leaf. Hmm...

***UPDATE. Sure enough, she is once more ensconced upon her old perch in the bush by the shed outside my kitchen. What has happened? A serious fallout with her erstwhile homies? Complaints about the food? Ah well, let's see how long it lasts. This footloose and deviously fancy free chicken may just using me as a stopgap while she ruthlessly scopes out another coop.

Virginia Chook

The Occasional Chook turned up rather late today at around 16.30. I was having an indoor nap, but immediately went out to say hallo. We had a joyous reunion, as I haven't seen her since last Wednesday.

These days, since she abandoned us after eighteen months of house sharing to sign up with the chickens two doors up (I'm still not bitter about it, honestly), we normally catch up with each other 3-4 times a week, usually Wednesdays and Sundays and then randomly whenever. I know she swings by most days - there's plenty of evidence of the poopy kind on the patio that I have to sweep up and wash away - but our busy schedules often clash. I have the Arvo Job and other commitments, she has whatever onerous duties she must perform as part of her new flock. Often, I hear demanding clucks outside the kitchen and barely have time to toss a handful of sunflower seeds out the window before I have to run for the train, and sometimes we can miss each other for long stretches of time and I wonder whether she'll keep popping by. So far, despite the uncertainty of treats and opportunities to run around the kitchen, she still turns up.

Initially, after she'd finally decided to move out, whenever she came back she was obviously agitated and most eager to be away again ASAP once she scrounged her favourite treats and had a quick dirt bath. I was almost going to rechristen her the Ungrateful Chook. I suspect she was worried she might lose her spot in her new flock if she went AWOL for too long. Chicken flocks are notoriously tough on newcomers, and demand much submissiveness and compliance from accepted members. A lot like humans, eh? Oh, all right, I'll back off - a lot like some humans. However, as time passed, and she obviously settled into her new digs and felt more confident about her place in the chook hierarchy there, she became visibly more relaxed about sneaking off to spend time here, and started to hang around for longer and longer. Now food is savoured, cats are followed about, the garden is patrolled and checked, and many many dirt baths are taken *sigh*. Last Wednesday, as I napped in the backyard on the Xmas Swing, she even settled down close by for a companionable snooze. It was very cute.

Personally, as a chicken of great individuality, I think she needs our place the way Virginia Woolf regarded a room of one's own as an absolute necessity for the stretching of one's creative spirit in the pursuit of writing. I myself regard my beloved Writing Room as the place where I most feel like my true self. But, quickly, back to the Occasional Chook before I ramble on about me. Here, away from the conformity of the flock, the Occasional Chook can indulge in her fondness for felines, checking out human abodes, running around on tops of houses and being bossy. She can basically strut about, let down her feathers and just be her own wild thing for a while before her need for the companionship of her own kind overwhelms her again and she heads back to once more submit to the totalitarianism of the flock. She needs them to be happy, can't live without them in fact, but she obviously really needs her own space away from the flock too.



Well, that's my rather read-the-obvious-writerly-subtext theory about the Occasional Chook's behaviour :)

Real Is As Real Does

I worked well today - another 6 hours of writing interspersed with lots of pottering around organising work boards, sending off submissions and such stuff. I feel quite cut off from the outside and cocooned in the multiple realities of the stories I'm working on, which is a wonderful wonderful extravagance. Time to nut out those particularly knotty problems! In between writing bouts, I sat on my Xmas swing in its cosy little bower to get some fresh air and dazedly watched the cats chase butterflies or falling leaves or each other as I lined up my next sentences and pondered new ideas, and more than once I thought Yes, I could live like this, I really could!

Yeah, me and a million other dreamers.

Tomorrow, however, I will be ruthlessly forced to re-enter the Real World beyond my keyboard, beyond my writing room, beyond my front door, and be made to mingle with flesh and blood folk who want to talk about subjects other than how my stories are going (the selfish bastards), marched into a darkened cinema, then cruelly coerced into immersing myself in the Tolkienesque universe of The Hobbit for many hours. Afterwards, no doubt, I'll be subjected to lengthy discourses on dragons, Bagginses, Dwarves, Orcs, Wizards and Elves.

Ooooh no, how will I bear so much rough and tumble reality?