Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Office Refugees

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This flightless fucker has brought Graveyard Dirt to a standstill. When Peck-Man (aka TC) was just a wee fledgling it was content to sit on the arm of my chair while I worked on the computer. Several months later that quiet fledgling transformed into a inquisitive juvenile crow (holy shit, where did my blue-eyed baby go?), and its ability to patiently sit on the sidelines became a thing of the effin' past. We enjoyed a few productive months in the office (where it lives), but once it became accustomed to its new environment - and the strange creatures who wander in and out of that environment - it became impossible to concentrate on shit, let alone actually work on shit.

You see, Peck-Man can't fly. I mean, at all. A vet took one look and said that it was "like a pinky injury" and that TC would recover in a few weeks. Five fucking months later the wing still hangs at a dislocated angle, and is, essentially, unusable (Peck-Man has very little to no control over the appendage). We had no choice but to keep it; a bird that can't fly or protect itself won't last a night in the wild, and most rescue centers would have just euthanized it because of its severe disability. (I'll be completely honest and say that I had zero fucking desire to keep it, but I couldn't sign the death warrant of an otherwise healthy living thing.)

Because TC's so defenseless we absolutely couldn't keep it outside - not that we would, since it requires a certain level of companionship - so it remained indoors with us. We never bothered getting a cage because 1.) the bird can't fly, 2.) it seems cruel to stick a bird that can't fly in a cage, 3.) it had never been caged before and 4.) we didn't have enough time, money or space to find and fit one in an already cramped, closet-sized room. So, since May, Peck-Man's lived free-range on the floor of our office, and has grown up in a Muppet Babies-style world filled with computers, books, pot and a pair of occasionally nocturnal we-work-at-motherfucking-home human beings.

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Italics was the first office refugee, but since he's on a laptop he was able to move everything with him. I held on to the bitter end, though, and only recently resigned myself to the fact that the entire fucking office is effectively Peck-Man's home now. TC's gotten too big and bold to ignore; if I don't let it scramble up my leg to play on my shoulders/lap when I'm at the computer it annoyingly pecks at my feet and pinches calf skin until I relent. And when I finally relent? It demands my undivided attention, and will throw a terrible two tantrum if it doesn't get it.

Working in the office became virtually impossible just over a month ago. Up until that point I tried my damnedest to chug along, but between Harvest's grueling schedule and Peck-Man's needy demands something had to give and that tight-fisted sacrifice turned out to be my computer/internet time. I tried really fucking hard to be zen about it - adjusting to new schedules and routines has always been a teeth-grinding effort for me - but I won't lie, Darlings, I was in tears.

(Maintaining Graveyard Dirt is as important as any of my other duties; it's the heart'n'soul of what I do, and without it I don't have a business card (fuck, without it I don't have a business, period). Providing fresh content as frequently as possible is essential because it helps breathe life into my products while giving folks an intimate peek on how I get my magic on.)

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Italics took pity on my sorry fucking ass and surprised me with a laptop, which would've totally solved the problem if the fucking thing actually connected to the internet. (It doesn't. At all. So we bought a new router, but they sent the wrong one. And THEN they sent a broken one with the wrong power supply. <- That's how shit's been rolling recently. It's gotten so Mercury retrograde in this house that I'm on the verge of being suspicious.)

So, as if today, I have two computers, but they're both completely useless. This update's only happening because Italics decided to sleep in today, thereby giving me a very rare chance to use his laptop for more than two minutes. (I've been able to check mail, but I haven't been able to reply to anything in almost a month. I'd steal his computer more often, but he works at home and needs it even more than I do.)

I just want to let you guys know that we're doing everything possible to get this recent bout of hilarity sorted, but it could take several more tries (and/or weeks) to get it fixed. I apologize for the lack of updates, but I've been effectively without internet access for well over a month. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that connectivity coincides with the end of Harvest; I'm hoping that once my feral ass is forced indoors for winter a working computer will be waiting for me.

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PS: I may not be writing here everyday, but I'm trying to stay active on the Ms. Dirty Facebook page. If you're keen on seeing what I've been up to be sure to take a peek; no Facebook account's necessary (although you'll need one to comment, and take part in polls).

All-Consuming Job

Peck-Man (aka TC) is currently holding our office hostage, and until we find a way to pen in this free-range corvid I'm never going to get a chance to sit at my fucking computer to do any sort of effing work*. If you're waiting for an email or some sort of response from me I'm genuinely sorry for not delivering, but things have been really challenging here lately (I mean, like, sobbing-at-5:30-AM-ready-to-call-a-wildlife-rescue-center challenging) and we're trying to cope with this situation as best as we can.

Taking care of TC has become an all-consuming job, and we've reached a point where we need to decide if we can continue providing for a bird that may never regain its ability to fly. Up until this point I've deliberately withheld the negative experiences we've encountered with rehabbing an injured wild animal because they were taken as small knocks leading up to an eventual good: releasing a healthy bird back where it belongs.

I'm beginning to doubt if Peck-Man'll ever be fit to live outdoors. Nearly three months on it barely has control over the injured wing. There's been some improvement, but not enough to convince either of us that this crow has an airborne future. We're slowly realizing - with much reluctance and emotion - that keeping TC might not be possible; we can't dedicate 95% of our day to it anymore.

We don't want to make a serious decision about Dr. Crow's fate without making some sort of effort at coexistence first. Italics ingenuously purchased a large playpen to act as a roomy holding cell for when we're seriously working (temporary fix), and we're sketching plans for an open-air pen that'll act as a "cage" in this office (permanent fix). In order for this shit to work TC, who's enjoyed complete and total office floor freedom since first arriving, will have to learn boundaries and understand that, once in a while, it'll need to pass time in its third of the room away from us until we're done working.

Anyway, I just wanted to quickly apologize to everyone waiting for an email (or, you know, whatever). Ever since we rescued TC back in mid-May it's been difficult to keep up with internet-related obligations. I know I'm not exactly selling my shit just yet, but Graveyard Dirt's my job and the inability to work (i.e., reply to emails, respond to inquires, write journal entries) has really begun taking its toll. If everyone could bear with me just a little bit longer as we try to make this TC thing work I'd be forever grateful.

* The bird's so goddamn intelligent it's devised a route - which involves jumping on the motherfucking radiator and inching all the way across the fucking device until it gets to my computer chair - straight to me, and once it decides it wants to be with me there's nothing you can do to deter the fucking crow from hopping, schooching and jumping over.

Not Exactly; Not Really

Oh, hey! Remember last month when I said I had to take some time off to seriously evaluate shit? Since then I've assessed, considered, deliberated and mentally weighed in on the recurring bullshit that's been bothering me for some time, and after a month (or more?) away from Graveyard Dirt I feel that I've sufficiently revaluated my relationship with myself, my home, my husband, my land and my perpetual love/hate relationship with the mothereffing internet.

In fact, I was so fucking ready to drag my ass back here, settle into my old routine and get back to work that the Universe took note and immediately dispatched a hardcore dose of responsibility:

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Meet TC, the Taurus crow (also known as "That Crow", as in "is THAT CROW asleep yet?" and "don't tell me THAT CROW has fucking egg yolk all over its fucking head again!") who single-wingedly turned our world upside-fucking-down in the matter of days. We found the injured fledgling hopping in the wheat field adjacent to the Pine Hedge Rookery on the 12th, and the time demanding - but adorable - motherfucker has been with us since.

Within minutes of being home TC was eagerly taking food from us (gluten-free white bread and a boiled, free-range egg), and slept comfortably throughout the night until its feathered, corvid ass was carted to the vet for an emergency appointment. We thought it might've dislocated or broken its wing, but, as it turns out, it's suffering from the equivalent of "a pinky injury" and nothing needed to be bound ("time's the only thing it really needs" is what the vet said).

Despite not having any formal education or training on the rehabilitation of wildlife the vet handed the injured crow over to us and said "it could be a week, or it could be three weeks". And that, Internet, was that. After being animal-free for seven months (our last pet rat, Chooch, died just before Halloween last year) we're suddenly sharing our office/computer room with one of my local crows.

(Who, incidentally, is glaring at the back of my computer chair because I'm not drowning it with attention. <- It's past the age of imprinting (so it knows what it is), but goddamn if it doesn't get restless if I don't keep it entertained. Since the picture was taken we've expanded its living quarters; it now has a long perch to sit on, a brass owl wind chime to play with (it likes ringing the bells) and a raised nest made out of a bucket and my Bean Nighe bowl.)

Thankfully, TC's a fledgling and not a nestling which means instead of waking up every 20 minutes in my sleep schedule to feed its ass (we're currently nocturnal, and they need to be fed from dawn to dusk) I only have to wake up every 2-3 hours to ensure that its food bowl is full and its happily hydrated. For novices I think we're doing pretty goddamn good (our first instincts have, so far, always been right), although a huge part of the "pretty goddamn good" factor comes from the fact that we're taking care of a bird that knows it's a fucking bird; it feeds itself (well, mostly), it preens, cleans and fluffs without our help, and while it understands we're the source of food it still maintains a level of suspicion when interacting with us.

Despite all of that, this is seriously some hard fucking work and the effort, energy and time has begun taking its toll. (How the fuck is it that I'm going to bed LATER every goddamn night and I'm still waking up at the same time every fucking day?) Even though I'm known for being recklessly fearless in my adventures, this was one I almost tried to dodge out of. (All my life I've been plagued by dying and dead animals, so what do I do the first time I have a for-fucking-real chance to save something? Try to duck out of the responsibility. I mean, how the fuck is someone who specializes in nurturing the dead supposed to nurture the living?)

But what choice did I have? Leave the bird in the field to die of exposure or get eaten alive? Abandon the bird in a vet's office, or wildlife rescue center and hope that they wouldn't euthanize it because it was too much of a hassle to rehabilitate? For nearly two years the crows at the Pine Hedge Rookery have gifted me their shed feathers and unwanted eggs, trusted me with their dead and dying, and fed generations of offspring with my offerings of food. They've been generous to me, and in that spirit of generosity I want to give back something to them to show my gratitude for accepting me and my practices.

So am I back? Not exactly. Am I still gone? Not really. I've kind've sort've been keeping up with Twitter conversations (@graveyarddirt, if you're interested), but it all depends on how much shit I've got going on that day. Right now it's impossible for me to keep up with anyone on any social networking site (choose your poison from the STALK ME list on your left), and my inbox has become THE GREAT, UNFATHOMABLE ABYSS which'll require several long weeks of untangling to create order out of chaos. (Feel free to email (graveyarddirt@gmail.com), although don't expect a quick response unless you're looking for an expedited route to ego death.)

Anyway, my (r)evaluation period's over, but only TC can decide when my ass returns to the internet. Right now my only priority is mending this injured crow and getting it back home where it belongs - with its parents, siblings and relatives at the Pine Hedge Rookery. I do miss my former life - and, fuck, I was so close to being done with the super serious spring fucking cleaning shit which meant I could finally focus on selling my dried toadstools and working with my roadkill animals - but sometimes responsibility requires a sacrifice, and if giving up/delaying 1-3 weeks of my idealized version of life saves TC then that's the price I'm willing to pay.