Halley and Comet

Comet sat on his swing and stared somewhat bemusedly at the newcomer, who spent the best part of his first hour at home sitting on the floor of the cage. that's him in the photo above, wondering who this other bloke is, I think. Comet had been on his own since the death of his previous cage-mate, for about 11 months. He was okay if his cage was outside, and he could talk to the wild birds who were nearby. But when his cage is inside, as it so often is on these winter days, he is waaay too quiet! And anyway, he can't groom the top of his own head, and beak. (When you see budgies nibbling each other's beaks, that's what they're doing. It looks quite cute, really.)

 

So, I went and picked Halley up from a local breeder. Here he is, having a bit of a feed. He's quite a young bird, about three months old, so now's the time to teach him to accept being handled. Comet will sit on my finger, when I stroke his tummy - but he never does so without a little nip on the finger to let me know that the cage is his territory, and I'm jolly well intruding!
I expected a certain amount of bullying from Comet, as the established bird, but there was none. He just sat and stared at Halley, who plucked up enough courage to flit up from the floor of the cage, and sit on a perch. Halley stared back, and for quite a few hours, there was silence in the cage. Later in the afternoon, however, I heard some tentative chatter. And Halley helped himself to some seed, which I think is always a good sign.
Here's the boys, sitting more or less together, on Halley's first day:

Halley's first attempt at being handled, which was when I took him from the box to the cage, was marginally successful - well, I got him into the cage! - but left me with bite-marks on the thumb, as I couldn't quite get the approved hold on him: on his back, in the palm of my hand, with his head between my index and middle finger, so that he couldn't bite. Not that he actually hurt, he just jabbed little thrusts rapidly at my fingers to let me know exactly what he thought of this treatment: Not much!

Therefore, when I attempted to handle him the next time, he fluttered around the cage; as far as he was concerned, this was not on! So, I handled Comet instead, brushing my finger against his tummy, and encouraging him to climb onto my finger. Halley was watching, I think, because the following day, I tried the same thing with him - and he imitated Comet! He climbed onto my finger quite calmly. (I wish I could insert a photo of that, however, it would take some juggling of camera and budgie! I might try to take a shot another time.) What I don't want him to imitate from Comet is this habit of nipping my finger at the same time. I shall discourage that as strongly as possible!

Oh, the Wonders (?) of Modern Technology!

Apparently, one can blog from one's mobile. I have followed the instructions and am now awaiting confirmation from Blogger to my mobile phone. Suddenly! ... nothing happened. (Thanks, Spike.) Actually, it didn't even happen suddenly. I registered a different way, probably totally confusing Blogger's system. Well, fair enough, it confused me! The "nothing happening" status quo continued. At least it's consistent. Well, it is 08.35 am on Sunday, Australian Eastern Standard time, which means time for a shower, and then I'll come back and see if anything's happened. (I'm assuming that if mobile blogging can't be done outside the U.S., they'd have told me so in the instructions. Surely. Sodding technology...)

Where the Rubber Hits the Road

All that can be heard is the sound of tyres on tarmac: the rubber hitting the road. The car’s engine, quiet and unobtrusive as always, has receded to the subconscious as a constant sound often does.

No rain falls, no wind blows, and the fog literally hangs from the trees, curtaining them. The fog curtain hangs across the road as well, and the higher we climb, the thicker it becomes. So we’re cruising; sometimes fifty kilometres an hour seems too fast.

The trees loom, emerging sullenly from the darkness as the car’s headlights strike them, then ebb slowly into the gloom once more. Landscape glides by dimly and there’s nothing for this passenger to do but stare into the darkness. And think. This is the kind of atmosphere that inspires me to think of all the supernatural mythology that has permeated society for, oh … centuries. Given that we are travelling through Australian bush, all of the aboriginal spirits and “debbil-debbils” are the first to leap to the mind: in my mind, I can see the humanoid figures with big round eyes depicted in indigenous artwork. If I really concentrate, I can see them slipping away among the trees, translucent in the fog. Ridiculous.

More trees slip by dimly in the fog. They are lit up, making them appear ghostly, enhancing the whole supernatural mythology thing. The light is not coming from our vehicle’s headlights, and as we round the corner slowly – the fog is now very thick (porridge, rather than pea soup, would be an apt description, I feel) – I almost expect to encounter Neuschwanstein, nestled among the trees. Or some gloomy Transylvanian edifice lit up from within by candles. About now, I’m waiting for the car’s engine to falter. It doesn’t.

Nevertheless, the whole cinematic fantasy begins to develop, as I look at those trees: the castle, with its huge timber doors; the dim hallways, adorned with gloomy, heavily-framed portraits, painted in oils; the huge rooms furnished with massive timber tables, chairs, and sideboards; the walls equipped with candle-holders (brass, of course!) and candles to light the way to the chamber containing the coffin, its lid slowly rising to reveal the occupant. A dapper gentleman, whose sartorial elegance is faultless – where in Hades would he get the brilliantine for that jet-black hair with its sharply defined widow’s peak? (He could have done with a trip to the dentist: those eye-teeth are just a little bit too long …) The few candles in the chamber deepen the shadows, but as our natty gent rises from his resting place, it’s unnerving to note that he doesn’t actually have a shadow. Skin pure white, and smooth as a sheet, lips unnaturally red, he’s hungry; the eyes gleam, and the teeth gleam, as he approaches, ready to charm his victim, and then sink the fangs in … Rosary beads, anyone?

The shadow of the crucifix on those beads appears on the wall, held up by a frightened would-be victim, looming far larger than the original object (there’s your cinematic dramatic licence, folks, courtesy of the special effects department, playing with whatever they had back in 1920-something), and our gent recoils in horror before it. No self-respecting supernatural apparition will meddle with The Cross.

The source of the light on the trees reveals itself as the headlights of an oncoming car, moving carefully through the fog, and soon it is gone, leaving darkness and breaking my train of thought.

For a moment or two, I dwell on someone else’s imagination: someone who had once camped up that Transylvanian castle, thirty-odd years ago, with images of ghouls in drag all doing “The Time Warp”. A cult classic, now, right up there with The Blues Brothers. Talk about trivialising mythology!

No, none of this stuff is real, now. If it ever was, which I very much doubt. It was simply a way of entertaining folk, and self, (by frightening the wits out of them! Whatever floats your boat…) during those long, pre-technology European winter evenings, when books were beyond the average income, and cinema, television, videos, DVDs, and computer games were yet unheard of. None of those supernatural apparitions actually exist at all!

I’m ordering extra garlic on my pizza tonight, just in case.

Serenity

Written in March 2009, as I contemplated the emotional and physical place Jesus might have been in, as he fasted in the desert.

Dawn. The sun had not yet risen, and in the half-light, the landscape looked pristine. The morning was cool, the air still. It was the most practical time to be travelling in the desert, really. Especially if one was on foot.

Through the pearly light, a man came, walking slowly, limping even. He was quite young, perhaps thirty years of age, but at the moment he felt old. His feet hurt. He had not eaten for many days, and his form – slender at the best of times - was cadaverous. Not that much of him could be seen: his tunic covered him from neck to shin, and his cloak was drawn snugly against the cool air. These garments hung shapelessly on his now-bony frame as clothes would on a scarecrow. His leather sandals, bound as closely to his feet as he could manage, nevertheless slopped loosely as the thongs took an insufficient hold on his meagre flesh. This was Yehoshua - or Yeshua - Ben Yosef (or so it was thought), who had for weeks earnestly sought God alone there in the desert.

As he walked, he became aware of someone watching him. A short distance away, standing perfectly still, a man waited for him to approach. For a moment, Yeshua paused, then he continued walking, surveying the stranger as he did so. The dark-skinned newcomer was taller than Yeshua, stockier in build, and dressed in the finery of a governor. His black hair shone in the early sunlight, and his eyes gleamed, as he ran a well-manicured hand over his neatly trimmed beard.

    “Yehoshua,” greeted the swarthy one silkily, and the last syllable was uttered as a laugh. This elicited a nod from the other. “I can’t say that you are looking well.”

    “You may, if you like,” returned Yeshua, simply. His opposite raised his eyebrows.

    “Yehoshua Ben Elohim, you can’t be serious! You are starving, are you not? It has been many days since you have eaten, has it not?” Yeshua regarded him steadily without speaking. The evidence of his privations was clear in his face: unmistakeable in the sunken cheeks and eyes; in the jutting jaw, cheekbones, and brows. His skin was unusually pale for an Israeli, and dry.

The dark man repeated the name in a musing tone. “Yehoshua Ben Elohim. Huh. Nothing less like a ‘Ben Elohim’, have I seen. You surely know,” he continued – appearing to change tack – “that you will encounter much opposition, when you come to reveal that … ‘fact’.” It was Yeshua’s turn to raise his eyebrows, and he seemed to communicate an attitude of “so what?”

    “There is one way, continued his adversary, “of settling the whole business absolutely without doubt; if you are Ben Elohim - ” Here, the speaker’s voice sharpened, “- tell this stone to become bread. ”

Bread! Yeshua remembered the smell of the bread his mother baked; the memory of its taste and texture was so sharp that he could almost taste it! He swallowed hard, recovered, took a deep breath, and replied crisply:

    “It is written: 'Man does not live on bread alone. ” His adversary smiled faintly.

    “Very well then; first round to you, Yeshua.” He blinked slowly, and the desert seemed to dissolve.

Yeshua blinked also, and focussed on the new scenery. It lay below them, a vast panorama of greens and blues and browns, on which the sun glinted warmly. It truly was a superb view, and Yeshua gave thanks in his heart to the Almighty Creator. His companion was visibly moved.

    “See all this? He hissed, excitedly. “See? Isn’t it magnificent?”

    “It is,” agreed Yeshua, truthfully. The other man drew his breath through his nostrils, and released it in a long sharp and clearly satisfied sigh.

    “It is mine. It has been given to me, and I can give it to anyone I want to. ” Gleefully, he added, “I can give it to you, if you want it! For next to nothing. It’s all yours, if you’ll worship me. ” Yeshua gave him a look that clearly said, ‘whom are you kidding?’, and replied quietly and firmly,

    “It is written: 'Worship the Lord your God and serve him only.' ” His antagonist stared at him for a moment, the corners of his mouth turning steadily down.

    “You are not going to budge on that, are you?” He retorted, knowing the answer, even as he asked the question. “No? Oh, very well then …”

Again the landscape seemed to dissolve, and Yeshua saw fit to close his eyes; he felt slightly dizzy. Not for the first time he marvelled at how truly limiting the human body was. When he opened his eyes a second or two later, he found himself staring down at a courtyard. Taking a moment to gain his bearings, he gazed down into the courtyard, and watched the people going to and fro about the business of worship. A deep love for each one of them rose up within him, and again he gave thanks in his heart to the Father of all. His enemy regarded him silently for a moment. Then he said, slowly,

    “Do you suppose that all – if any – of these would believe that you are the very Son of God?” Yeshua didn’t answer him; he didn’t consider the farce worthy of a response. However, the other continued speaking. Warmly. Persuasively. “Again, you could prove it. You could prove it, right now! Here! And there could be no doubt, then, as to who you were. No doubt at all!” The swarthy one made a playful grab at Yeshua’s elbow, and continued, seemingly facetiously, “throw yourself off down from here! Everyone will see. God will save you. For it is written,” he went on, sardonically following Yeshua’s example, “’He will command his angels concerning you to guard you carefully; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.’ ” Yeshua looked at him, and slowly shook his head.

    “It says,” he replied, clearly and emphatically, “’Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’ ” The other rolled his eyes, and sighed in exasperation.

    “Well, if you’re going to continue along that line …” He shook his head. He wasn’t about to admit that his efforts wouldn’t begin to stack up against the God of Heaven and earth, or indeed that the very idea of making such an effort filled him with a dread amounting to panic.

Deciding that he would be best to try Yeshua on a future occasion, the adversary simply dissolved. And the scenery dissolved with him: temple, temple court, people, everything. Well, that’s how it appeared to the physically stressed Yeshua, who blinked a couple of times.

When Yeshua opened his eyes again, he was back in the desert. Once again, he was not alone; all around, he could see the forms of those who served the Eternal One in the heavenly courts; now they were serving him: strengthening him, and encouraging him. In their ministration, he could strongly sense the loving approval of his Father. Mind you, Yeshua could always sense this, but he really appreciated it, this morning. Now, he was eager to move on.

Yeshua walked on. Once again, he was alone, the desert spread out around him. He gave thanks, as he walked – this time, aloud, marvelling in the creation that he and his Father had wrought together, marvelling in the love of his Father for all creation (that was, after all, why he was here), marvelling in the serenity that could be found in the will of his Father – even in the desert place. Now, Yeshua walked as one refreshed: no longer limping, the cold ache of exhaustion removed from his bones.

He was ready.

Importing, the continuing saga!

Went searching, the other day, for info on how to import files from Word into Blogspot. Found some! I understood the first sentence. The rest looked like a spider having a fit on a keyboard, ie, pretty well unintelligible to me. Still, I might have a crack at it, because someone's made it work!

Silent Night

I wrote this a year ago - it's befitting the coming season!

I wonder what time it is? I can't be bothered getting up and going to look at the stars; I'm too sore. Nothing my mother told me ever prepared me for this! Then again, I suppose she thought she would be with me. I thought she would be with me, along with my sisters, when I had my first child. I never envisaged being all alone. Well, I wasn't all alone, my husband was with me. But for all his years and experience, he was just as bemused and panic-stricken as I was, poor man. Child-birth is women's work. Still, we managed. The baby survived; I survived. But oh, I ache! The baby's sleeping; my husband's sleeping; even the animals are sleeping. The air is redolent with the smell of hay; of cattle, of a sheep or two - there's even a goat in the corner.

What an odd place to be! My husband sleeps on a bed that he made for us by pulling hay-bales apart. My new-born baby sleeps on hay, in a manger. In a manger! And we very nearly didn't even have that! Honestly, I thought I would be giving birth under a bush, tonight. Or - worse - on the side of the road! Why and how did we not think that everybody and his donkey would be in Bethlehem, tonight? Oh, that is not fair: no doubt Yosef thought of it. He was anxious, I know, as we approached the town, but he would not tell me what caused him anxiety. No, I alone did not think that the town would be packed to the rafters. I've been a little pre-occupied, lately. No doubt we would have started a day or two earlier, but I felt so sick! We had to wait until I was well enough to travel. Mother insisted.

... What's that noise? It sounds like a cat. Catching a meal for himself from some of the rats in this stable, probably. Oh! No. It's Yeshua. How funny new-borns sound when they cry? He wants a drink, I expect.

I sit up, as his crying becomes more insistent, then get to my feet. Huh! Fifteen summers old, and I'm moving like my grandmother! I fetch Yeshi, and settle back on the hay with him, leaning against a bale. Now ... how does this go, again? I did manage to give Yeshi a little drink, after he was born. Mother said that was vitally important.

"You'll know when he's taking the milk properly - you'll just know," my mother had said. Uh-huh ... She thought she would be with me for this, too, no doubt. Uh - no, she's right. She is right: the little man is getting stuck into his milk most satisfactorily. My body is aching less, the Lord be praised, and I doze, while the baby drinks. He is tucked right inside my robe, so that I am not exposing too much. Yes, maintaining decency, even in a stable. And he will be warmer there, too: the night is a very cold one.

I change sides: Yeshi has indicated that he hasn't had his fill, and he resumes as eagerly as when I first began feeding him. Again I doze, until a sudden slackening tells me that Yeshi has finished. I bring him out from my robe, rearrange the cloths that cover him (they were all I had, to cover his little body!) and rise to my feet, to put him back in the manger. A thought occurs to me then.

"Always make sure that he's brought up all his wind before you put him down to sleep." Funny how I hear the thought spoken in my mother's voice. I lift Yeshi to my shoulder, and begin patting his back gently. Standing beside the manger, I shift my weight slowly from one foot to the other, swinging my hips slightly. I'm almost dancing. Lifting one heel, then the other. How many times have I nursed nephews and nieces like this? And now, my own little son. Oddly though, my soreness dissipates a little more with the movement.

Yeshi burps suddenly. It is a sharp sound, unusually loud in the silent night, and carries on for a second or two. It makes me laugh, but softly, so as not to wake Yosef.

"Baby boy, such a sound to come from a tiny body!" I murmur to Yeshi. "Well done." I lay him back in the manger, and he's asleep before that little head rests on that hay. For a moment, I simply gaze at him. Ah, but now I'm so tired. And maybe I'll sleep for a while. He'll be wanting his next feed, soon enough!

I turn sharply toward the door, upon hearing an unfamiliar sound. Men are entering, four of them, and I feel very uneasy. I glance at Yosef, but he hasn't stirred. I look back at the men, and recognise that they are shepherds. I've seen plenty, in and around Nazareth. Not surprisingly, I wonder what they want, here. Perhaps they need shelter from the cold? Well, who am I to refuse them, when we needed shelter ourselves, not so long ago? However, I don't want to deal with this myself. I call to my sleeping husband.

"Yosef? Yosef, wake up!"

"Unpublished"

It's just occurred to me to wonder about publishing: If a short story competition stipulates that a piece of work must be previously unpublished, does that include blogging? Or not? I mean, if I publish something, I'm putting the words out there for folk to read, and blogging does that. I must check that out with various publications that actually run writing competitions.