Flowering Bunnies

Mostly pictures tonight. Had a nice trip to Cincinnati Friday to the Art Museum. Also went to the Conservatory and was delighted by the spring flowers abloom.



Here I am as the non-hookah smoking caterpillar. I hate it when they clean up things for the kids. When I was a kid, I loved the dirty bits. Didn't you?


Precious has runts among the bigguns. She nibbled the ear off one of the little ones , but I think he will live. Does anyone besides me remember Matt Groening's cartoon strip called Life in Hell? And the mono-earred bunnies? Here is a shot of a biggun and the little one-earred runt. I hope he makes it. I mean, he looks healthy enough, but one never knows, having had an ear nibbled off and all.

Here is a shot of Kelly Bob's kids. One can see the different colored baby. Genetics are always of interest.


Addendum: The one-earred bunny is named Bongo, love child of Binky (and the cat, Hegla) and step child of Sheba. Life in Hell is still being published in numerous independent newpapers!

HOUSTON, WE HAVE BUNNIES...

I found this link on Franklin's blog. (Oooh, what a lot of html I just did! Ain't I the shit?)

She describes depression quite nicely and is such a better writer than me. Well, you know, she desires to be a writer, after all, so I certainly hope she is a better writer than me. I can probably flat pattern better than her. So there. (My self esteem is just fine - today.) Go ahead and spend a half hour reading her blog. And bookmark her. Send her comments to keep her writing.

So here is my admission of selfishness. After little Holly got strangled, I purposely bred six bunnies in order for me to have some babies, dammit! To be born, of course, just when the temperatures decide to plummet. Dammit!

Precious had her litter first. Born yesterday - January 30. Being an amateur, she didn't nest, but had them on the wire, as it were, and I was fortunate to have found them in time. The eight small kits could be clones - they are all dark skinned with a whitish blaze on their foreheads. I brought them inside with mom, (what's nine more bunnies in the house, after all?) made them a nest, and all is okay so far.



The lineage: Fuzzarelly (agouti) begat Spot. Spot (English broken) begat Shemp. Shemp (black) begat Precious. And Precious (German white) begat this litter with Percival's help.



Tonight, Kelly Bob (German white, daughter of Yoshimi) delivered several white babies, with Fuzzy Bob's help. (He is brother to Fuzzarelly, and also agouti.) One was cold on discovery, so I warmed him and then placed him with Precious' litter. Kelly Bob has proved to be an excellent mother, so I am letting her stay in the barn with her kits for the time being.

Babies, babies, babies! I'm delighted!

Knitting wise, I unraveled several rounds of the shawl in order to make the pattern more suitable for me. Here it is just before the great unknitting. I am pleased with the yarn and the pattern, actually. Spent tonight recharting part of the old and my new pattern, which was actually fun! Yes, I am a knitting nerd.

I HEART BUNNIES!

Our water pipes froze last night. One of the crawl space doors had blown off and the cold wind had blown in. Fortunately, I was able to scrounge enough water (and not from the toilet or anything gross like that - well, it was various water bottles sitting around and a little bit of jugged bunny water) to make coffee.

Once I had been caffeinated, I saw to the bunnies. This was the coldest weather of the season and indeed, their little water dishes were more like ice dishes. I'm so glad that I decided to bring that half filled jug of bunny water inside last night. By the time I had used that up, the water was flowing in the house again. Thank you Sweetie!!!

I gave each lapin extra hay, and then some more to the few that aren't in full coat. They are protected from the wind and are doing fine.

Then there is Heizen, the big white and brown Rex that moved out of our house last summer. He lived and was fed under the wood shed until, oh, maybe a couple of months ago, when he inexplicably began to live under the apartments next door. I still fed him and worried over him, like a kid gone to college or something.

This afternoon I saw him in the empty field on the other side of our house. Just sitting there, in the open. WTF? I walked over to him - no, I ran! It was cold! - assuming he would move. But he just sat there and I really got worried. Is he hurt? Is he frozen? Is he even alive? He let me pick him up (which he has never enjoyed) and I inspected him. Looked fine to me - no wounds, no frozen bits - and I brought him inside. He's eaten and drank and hopped around so I'm hoping it was much ado about nothing. Maybe he wanted to come inside, and so inside he shall stay until mommy deems otherwise.

I do love my bunnies. Even the prodigal one.

THE DEPRESSED HERMIT

Two things I heard on NPR this week struck me. First, David Lynch opined that it was hard, if not impossible, to be creative when one is depressed. That makes sense - in my case, anyway. It has been very hard for me to be truly creative for the last few years, not just sort-of-productive. I have been productive but in a menial way. Knitting and drum carding take some thought and effort, but does not entail what I would call creativity.

The other thing I heard was from a self-styled hermit. He said that because he goes for weeks without actually speaking to another person, even though he emails and maintains a website, that it is hard for him to think and communicate sequentially. This must be what is going on when I feel I can't put two sensible sentences together. Most days, the only person I speak to is Sweetie. And sometimes, when Sweetie works way too much, I don't get to talk to him hardly at all. The critters don't count. And I don't think the nattering of the committee in my head really counts, either.

Most of the time, I don't much care to be around people. I don't want to talk to 99% of the local population. I'm sorry, but if I am going to talk with someone, I'd just as soon it be with a person that has an active mind and an encompassing interest and isn't a self-described Bush fanatic. I have been seeking some sort of Laconian Thoreau for the past 12 years in vain. Maybe there is one here, but I am tired of searching.

All the failed efforts at being creative over the past several months make me even more depressed. I look at work I did 3 or 6 years ago and am amazed. I did that??? I try now, but it seems forced - the spark isn't there. And it could be aging, too. I mean, even Einstein did his best work in 1905 - and not much else for the rest of his life. Maybe I should settle, but I don't want to. I want to have the energy to make the work that my brain, at times, still imagines.

I am working on the German Doily shawl and I want you to know that I have actually swatched the continuation of the pattern that I graphed. Maybe my brain power has been decreased or maybe I have learned a lesson, but I admit it is hard for me to imagine what the graph of the lace stitches will look like in the flesh - so to speak. And then I go to a site like See Eunny Knit! and I look at her incredible cable swatches and I think that maybe I am not so smart and swatching isn't so stupid, after all. There may be knitting savants out there that can immediately grasp how a knit 2 together, yarn over is different from a yarn over, slip, slip knit 2 together. And you know, if that is all I did every day, I most likely wouldn't have a problem with it, either.

Meander, meander. My brain is all over the place even as I try to write this.

Also, the Enthusiastimine has lost its effect. Dammit! It was great whilst it lasted.

MOVING ON, OR CHEER UP, BUDDY!

We got pictures! This is Whitey after his haircut. Poor little things always look so nekkid.


If this isn't Whitey, it's one of his siblings.


Here is a better shot of the new window over the sink. I love it so much!


And finally, this is the german doily pattern I am using to knit the latest shawl. I am almost done and it will measure only about three feet across. I plan to chart something interesting in order for it to be big enough to wear. And yes, I'm using Fuzzarelly's Fibers.

WE'RE A HAPPY FAMILY...

Not to beat the proverbial dead horse, but I have a few things to add to the previous Nutcase story.

I was merely one of four children that suffered from child abuse in our house. There. I said it. My parents were child abusers. By admitting it, I dispel the shame. POOF! BEGONE, YE DEMONS!

Our story is fairly mild compared to some I have heard. My girlhood friend was sexually abused by her father from age 12. (That explains a LOT!) Someone else moved out of her house at 17 and lived on the streets to escape an abusive home - and she continued high school to graduation. Another woman was struck by her father and tossed from a moving car one morning when she was about 10. She woke up that afternoon and walked home.

This kind of shit is all around us and nothing is new under the sun. The degree of abuse doesn't matter. All I know, and I can only speak for myself, is that I thought I was a bad child and if only I did better in school, if only I were better behaved, if only I prayed hard enough, then the abuse would stop. God said, "HA!" (I know. I stole that line from Julia Sweeney.) I attempted perfection for so long, not really knowing why at the time - hindsight and all that, don't ya know. When I could, I freakishly controlled my environment. (There was so much time spent not being able control anything.) Like being the shop manager Nazi at the costume shop. (Hi, Judy!) Now, I understand.

These are some of the symptoms of my abuse, which was mostly verbal but always with the implied threat of violence:
Alcohol and drug abuse.
Anger and rage.
Self destructive behavior.
Self mutilation.
Panic attacks.
Emotional detachment aka disassociation.
Social dysfunction.
Promiscuity.
Despair.
Low self-esteem.
Depression.
Hello! I know you all only too well!

Some kids grow up to be fairly sane and able to cope. Others, especially sensitive kids, are haunted by their experiences. By writing about these things in a public forum, I hope I can just get past some of the pain. Being able to say that I was abused as a child is a step toward sanity. Being able to name the amorphous fear that floats around me takes away some of that fear.

Also, I do try to remember that my parents were mere mortals with their own baggage and pain. We just happened to be there when they went out of control. It wasn't us, it was them.

Also, I try not to use this "victimization" as an excuse for purposeful bad behavior. Everyone has problems and baggage. I'm just trying to understand my own.

BORAT BUNNIES

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