working my fingers to the bone

...and loving it. Yesterday I worked from cain't see to cain't see and have got some terrific stuff to show for it - of course this is Mac world here and I have no clue how to make this machine cozy up to my camera so I can post some pictures so that will have to wait until I get back. Today I devoted some time to overdyeing some old rejects and bringing them back into play. The accomodations are fine, the food is great. I used to crab about there not being enough hours in the day - now I have to acknowledge that I can't be up and functional 20 hours a day - at least not two days in a row. Ciao for now.

Spring Signs

I'm less than half packed and I'm sitting here wondering how I'm going to spend a week away from my favorite live shows. The Barn Owls of Italy, TX (Mum standing around glumly wondering when her Prince will show up) and The Great Horned Owls of CA (Single, urban Mom struggling to raise three young huns.)

inspiration needed

I have been in a tiz making lists and losing them. Lists of the stuff I want do drag down to Focus On Fiber next week. Much of the frenzy is about avoiding the blank spot between my ears where ideas about art usually hatch. Seems the muse is in rehab with Crow leaving me casting about for eyecandy. Speaking of same, both of these painting are by Joe Tully. The amazing spontaneity and energy of his work is thrilling. If you have a few hours to spend, start wandering through the Saatchi online gallery where I first tripped over this artist and then followed his bread crumbs to another amazing artist's resource site: Artist File Online .

My Crow is in Rehab...

Nothing like a change of subject to help move on. Que Sera, Sera is all I want to say about the previous post. The crow? Something I didn't have enough energy to blog about once I returned from NY. Also, I didn't want to think about it much but since he's going to survive...

 The day before I left to come home it was bitterly cold, something like 10 degrees. I was doing the dishes and heard a commotion at the large bird feeder that dominates the front window. Moments before, a gang of crows were celebrating over a batch of burnt popcorn. As I looked out to see what the disturbance was about, they dispersed skittishly save one. ALL the birds took off except one crow who sat in an odd stance on the snow. "That's not right" I told my dad as I stepped outside for a better look.

The snow was really two inches of ice so I stepped gingerly across it with an old New Englander's bad knees fears roaring in my ears. The crow did not move or mutter. His head was up, eyes open - he seemed in a trance. As I grew closer I saw the blood, dark crimson on his impossibly black feathers and dotting the snow. I bent slowly and encircled his body as best I could with my bare hands.

Crows are huge. Bigger than soup chickens. Nothing, not a peep nor shift of muscle in protest and as I raised him up I saw the gashes around his eye and the one under his beak pulsing, dripping with his steady heartbeat that I could feel like a bomb ticking. He was bleeding to death in my hands. I brought him into to house with my fingers pressed tight over the bleeder that seemed to be counting his life out in a trail of bright splotches through the snow.

My Dad protested feebly but knowing my history with birds in plight he just watched, anxiously concerned over some clutch of germs that crows supposedly carry. "Soap and water, Dad, not to worry." Easy for me to say, I was leaving for GA the next day. After keeping direct pressure on the worst wound for a few minutes and determining that he still had both eyes, I rolled him burrito style in an old dishtowel so he couldn't flutter or walk once, or if, he came to his senses.

 He wasn't unconscious but seemed to be "away" - all of his instincts in abeyance as I handled and tended him. I have no illusions about being a "bird charmer" the most injured birds will still struggle for escape and survival and injure themselves even worse when humans try to intervene. This bird was dying.


 I found an empty diaper box, tucked him in it and set it in the dark and warm laundry room. My hands were covered in gore and I was amazed that I hadn't gotten blood all over my clothes. Checking the web I found that the generous residents Westchester, NY one of the richest counties in the USA, has spent some of it's wealth for a Wildlife rehabilitation organization probably out of desperation as all the critters now routed from their habitat and conflict with the people on a daily basis. I left a quick message and within minutes a woman called me back asking if I could take him to the Somers Animal Hospital just ten minutes away. I quickly agreed but told her "Ma'am, I can't afford open heart surgery on a crow..." she assured me that all the care was provided by vets and staff volunteers. No charge to save a wild life.

Within a few minutes I was lifting the box out of the trunk of the car and Crow was staring angrily out a crack at me seemingly amazed to be where he was as I handed him over to a crew vet techs. This was the same animal hospital where, over thirty years ago, I sat in the waiting room with my then future husband, holding hands in grief while I waited to hear whether my dog, Danny Baily, would live or die. He had been hit by a car and was injured internally. He lived and thrived thanks to the care he received at this place,including a blood transfusion from their resident donor dog named Mountain. Amazing the memories a place will hold.

 Anyway, Crow spent a week in treatment and now is in rehabilitation where he will be assessed for release to the wild. I hope they hold him until the weather warms up a bit. We'll never know for sure why he was attacked but, reading up on it, I found out that crows will attack one of their own if it is weak or injured or acting oddly. Maybe he had the gall to bitch about the popcorn being burnt.

LOST!

(cue Little Richard - SOMEBODY HELP ME!) Remember these earrings I got for Christmas two years ago? They are lost somewhere in my house and I am heartsick, not to mention wallet-appalled. I jokingly called these my bail fund but more important, they were a gift from my GoodMan and in thirty years of marriage I have never lost a gift he has given me. If someone out there has any psychic clues, please be generous. Looking for them has become obsessive. Today I am going to tear apart a California King-sized platform bed on the off chance that they somehow got under it in a place I cannot see or reach. I have run out of logical places to look and it's making me crazier than usual. OK-it's NOT under the bed. My stomach hurts from trying to move the mattress alone but I'm satisfied that nothing I really want was under there. Joyce suggests prayers to St.Anthony. I'm easy, I'll go with whatever voodoo BS gets the job done. Spaghetti sauce & meatballs today in St.Anthony's honor. Tony, help me find my diamonds, Dammit!