I Am A Words Person

I am a “Words Person.” I am deeply affected by my friend’s and loved one’s words to me. I love their words and I believe what they tell me. Give me a compliment, or anything positive really, and I will glow for days. Tell me you love me and I will love you back. Be open and genuine with me and you can be sad, angry, irritable, fussy, or whatever you are feeling, and I will still be there for you. I will trust until proven otherwise. Words are golden to me. And in texts and messages, so are those emojies. Send me a hug or a heart and I believe in its meaning. It may be a bit naïve, but it is how my mind works.

This is part of the reason that I like and ‘heart’ so many posts on FB. I know and appreciate others reacting positively to my posts. So when a friend posts something, I like it, or often I love it. It just takes a second. If for some reason I do not agree with it, I will just scroll on by. And I do know better than to be affected by the number of reactions that my posts might get. I have written a lot about the algorithms and how they dictate what we see on FB. This is the way it is. Their playing field, their rules, but I love my communication with y’all when I do get through. I truly do.

In Australia, I am a sucker for ladies who refer to me as “Love” or “Darl.” Just like in the southern US, I love it when a waitress calls me, “Honey” or “Darlin’.” Those words are like verbal hugs. And I do believe in hugs! If you have never met me in person, I am a hugger. I try not to hug those who are not huggers. I was not a hugger until my late 30’s and I am so glad that I am now, but I will not hug those who prefer not to be hugged.

And there are those who are not words people at all. We have all heard it said, “Don’t tell me. Show me! Words mean nothing.” Or the even more dismissive, “Words are cheap.” But for me, words are everything. I’m very okay with being told something and I will take it to heart. Easy to manipulate much? Well yeah, I reckon I am. But that is who I am, and I am not going to change that. I would not want to. I am a words person. I like that about me. Words mean something, everything. I also do not lie. You can believe my words.

The other side of the ‘words coin’ is that hurtful words linger with me far longer than I would like. I feel things deeply in general and I can get my feelings hurt. I try with all my heart never to hurt anyone else’s feelings. I react badly to having my feelings hurt. It isn’t pretty. I am like the Hulk, except it’s, “Don’t hurt my feelings. You wouldn’t like me when my feelings are hurt.” This is true, but I have gotten much better about that and I keep it mostly under control. There are a few people in my world (only a very few), who I find insincere and false (two of my least favourite human characteristics). So regardless of who they are, my wellbeing has to come first. If it doesn’t, I cannot be genuine for myself and everyone else. So I choose not to interact with them. Although sometimes it hurts a little.

Here are some photos because words are the world, but a blog entry needs some photos. The first two are a White-winged Chough from Serendip Sanctuary the other day.

This is a photo of a Masked Lapwing from 2015 as we started the year that became the book. The old name was Spur-winged Plover and you can see why.

Here is a Black Swan and some of its cygnets from 2015. Black Swans are a bird we take for granted around here, but they are pretty cool. 

   

And this is a book I recently acquired and I may need. No, I am not leaving 'Australia,' but I am going to do a bit of travelling. And believe me, I will write a lot of words about all of it.

And one more, an Australasian Grebe running across the water at the WTP, May of this year.

I write therefore I am. I share therefore it’s real. I love.

Little Curlew at the WTP

I got my Lifer Little Curlew in Broome, Western Australia (page 201 of my book, The Year). But it was very exciting to have one across the street at the Western Treatment Plant in the Western Lagoons section. Michael Fuhrer had spotted it on Saturday and posted on the Victorian Birders page. I decided to drive straight over, especially since it is only ten minutes from our house. I ran into Michael as well as Dez and Maarten. We all looked for the bird for the next couple of hours without much success (we may have seen it briefly).

The next morning, Sunday, I drove over about 11am. Quite a few people had been looking, but they were giving up. As I parked, Dez was putting his scope into his vehicle, but decided to look for the bird again since I had just arrived. After only about five minutes, looking right out where everyone had been looking all morning, Dez said quietly, “I’ve got the little _____! (Insert British and Australian expletive that for some reason many Americans find offensive).” And there it was, standing proud and tall right in front of us. Not close, but certainly not far either.

       

We watched it for the next several hours. In that time it did not move more than maybe five metres. It never flew. It would occasionally hunker down and become very difficult to see. For a wader about the size of a Black-winged Stilt, they can disappear surprisingly easily in that vegetation and uneven ground. We posted to social media and alerted other birders. A lot of people rocked up and had a look at this visiting bird. The last Little Curlew seen at the WTP was in 2010. I had the privilege to witness Dez Hughes, who I like to refer to as, the “Wader Whisperer,” add a new bird to his farm list! How cool is that? 

The next day, I went over to have a look again. I was a beautiful day, but sadly, it seems the bird had departed. 

    

The next day, I went over to have a look again. Sadly, it seems the bird had departed. But it was fun seeing it with others while it was around. I reckon this is more the point of what I want to say. I want to write a bit about sharing a bird, about helping others to see it. That brings me a great deal of joy. “Lifer High” is infectious and it feels good. Other birders have been very generous and patient helping me to get onto a specific bird. I truly enjoy doing likewise. While the Tufted Duck was at the WTP, I went over most days. Scores of birders got their “lifer look” at that mega rarity through my scope (a first for Australia, or as the Twitters call it, an FFA). That was a lot of joy. Seeing that expression in their eyes when they looked up from the scope after having really seen it. The genuine joy would be beaming from their faces. I loved that. Yes sharing, it is everything. It is not something that everyone understands, nor does everyone have to.

I would probably become a birding guide except for my hearing, my vision and lack of knowledge (that is funny, but it is also not funny). I have severe hearing loss in my right ear and moderate in my left. My tinnitus is ever present and sometimes so loud that I expect the neighbours to complain. So I am all but worthless identifying birds by sound. And the cobwebby floaters in my eyes have become ridiculously numerous, distracting, and they can blur my vision. I deal with, and ignore, these things as best I can when I am birding, but I could not be a guide.

And knowledge wise, yes I do know stuff, but not enough. I occasionally make rookie-level identification mistakes. Sometimes I can blame my vision. Sometimes I just get it wrong. I am mostly good company to bird with, but I don’t reckon I could charge people for that. But damn, I do love helping someone to see a bird. That is such a huge part of birding for me as in all parts of my life… sharing stuff.

I write therefore I am. I share therefore it’s real. I love y’all.

Mental Health Awareness Week - Me

This is Mental Health Awareness Week. I have always been open about my mental and emotional issues. I am ADHD and OCD. I am sixty-six years old and have dealt with anxiety and depression all of my life. In 1971 at seventeen, I had a massive panic attack while driving to school. That began years and years of sometimes crippling anxiety that changed the course of my life. My ADHD and OCD was not diagnosed until I was almost fifty. They had also hugely affected the way I lived.

     

Because of the anxiety, I dropped out of college, never completing my art degree. I became more and more agoraphobic. I was not treated for any of these things. I never saw a psychologist or therapist back then. I was told by my family that everyone gets “nervous.” I learned that alcohol helped the anxiety and I self-medicated. Boy did I self-medicate. My life became very small. I learned that if I kept drinking, I was okay. So I drank, and drank, and drank until it eventually it became impossible to drink enough. 

   

On 16 April 1990, with my then wife to be, Lynn’s help, encouragement and support, I checked into rehab. I was not visibly intoxicated and yet my blood alcohol content was documented at .412 (above what would be lethal for a healthy person. My tolerance was astonishingly high). At that time I was drinking a slab of beer (24) per day, along with a half gallon (2 litres) of vodka every three days, just to be okay. In the psychiatric unit, it took me five days to be let out of the detox section (usually 48 to 72 hours).  I was later told that they expected me to have delirium tremens (commonly called the DTs), and possibly injure myself, but gratefully I did not. After completing the 28-day program, I was released and have remained sober since.

I worked for many years with a brilliant therapist in the USA. I currently work with a psychologist here in Australia. I have medication for my anxiety should I need it. Ninety-five percent of the time I do not, just knowing that I have it available is usually enough.

Now, bearing in mind I live with these mental health problems, allow me to mention briefly...

I won awards for my artwork at shows in the early 70’s. I moved (agoraphobia and all) halfway across the country to Austin Texas in 1974 and played music for a living. In 1984 I set a new world record for a fish called a tautog. I recorded four albums of original songs that are still being played on satellite radio and on the internet and other places. In my fifties, I became a long distance runner and in 2005 I ran a full marathon. I toured internationally on thousands of stages. I travelled back and forth from the USA to AUS over a dozen times. I travelled the entire continent of Australia in a camper birding in 2015-2016 and I wrote a book about that. Next year that book will be released worldwide through John Beaufoy Publishing. I continue to travel often in my Troopi all across Australia, sometimes alone.
I can handle it.

Just a few weeks ago enjoying "Lifer Pie" in Western Australia. That is ME!

That was an extremely abbreviated version of "my story." I will write more about it in detail in perhaps the next book, or even the one after that. But I wanted to post this during this Mental Health Awareness Week because I am living proof. Yes, it can be possible to live a large life while coping with mental illness. I know I am fortunate and I am very grateful. I still deal with my anxiety, depression, ADHD and OCD. But dealing with them I am, and I continue to live a life that is genuine and a life that is me.

I write therefore I am. I share therefore it’s real. I love y’all.

As Time Goes By

So, I have done a bit of writing. I have been working so-to-speak. My book, The Year, will be released worldwide beginning later next year (August-ish I think). I will truly rejoice when I finally see it in a bookstore or on Amazon. That will be a dream come to fruition. 

Yesterday, I was required to write two sentences for the publisher’s advance information sheet. I wrote…

“Originally from the USA, R. Bruce Richardson is a semi-retired singer/songwriter and entertainer living in Lara, Victoria. He became an avid birder rather late in life and continues birding across Australia and writing about his experiences.”

Not particularly dazzling wording I know. I would have preferred to be a bit more clever and wordy, but they are happy with that. I have learned brevity is key for these sorts of things.

As life hurtles along, there have been a few dramas, but nothing to go into here and now. I am becoming more disillusioned regarding a lot of my expectations and yet I feel I am progressing in my own way. I reckon the key part of that statement is in “my own way.” I have never done the “me” thing well. As I have said ad nauseam, I am the furthest thing from a loner, but I can learn. I have to. Please feel free to join in anytime though!  I love sharing. I am just learning as I go. Yes, at sixty-six I am still feeling my way along through this life. I am determined not to let it suck. I will keep y’all posted.

Now for something completely different, my darling granddaughter painted my pinky fingernail black. I cannot say I dislike it. 

There are deeper meanings here

I may keep it black. As my dear friend, Glen Pacey said in his genuine and understated way, “The painted nail suits you.” I reckon it does. Just as I will remain a longhaired, tattooed hippie, I will never, ever, become your typical old-guy. Full stop. Never. I will freely admit that “older” age has arrived and I am learning to live with it. But you will never see me going to play cards (I despise card games), or playing lawn bowls, or other stereotypical senior activities. I would rather have my desiccated body found in the Gibson Desert with my bins still hanging around my neck bones. I will never be your granddaddy’s granddaddy. Fuck no. And thus endeth my oldie rant.

I will add in non-rant mode, that there are many seniors who I quite like and enjoy. I am not an ageist. Old is as old does. However I do more identify with, and enjoy the company of, people in their 40’s and 50’s (and some younger). I always have had friends of all ages. It ain’t the number, it’s the attitude.

A couple of days ago, I got out and had a look at a beautiful Australasian Bittern. It was the best look I have ever had of that bird. They are truly stunning birds and endangered as well. The photos could have been wondrous (I was very happy with these though) but a Melbourne Water ute drove by and the bird flushed. I caught a partial shot of it as it flew up (the opening shot of the blog entry). I kind of like the shot, but it really could have been great if the camera had been aimed just a tad higher. Regardless, I had beautiful views of a wonderful bird. 

      

Way over there now. It is surprising how long their necks are when they extend them.

I write therefore I am. I share therefore it’s real. I love y’all.

My Blog

Follow this blog.

Y'all know, I love the good parts of Facebook. I am in touch with old friends (just minutes ago I video messaged with a dear friend I had not seen in years). I have made new genuine friends, a few of whom I’ve not even met in person. I can keep those who care to know, updated on my life. These are very good things indeed.           

Cayman Islands Bonefishing in the mid 1990's just because I came across the photos.
They were back before social media. 

I have talked about how much these connections, these relationships, mean to me. The huge problem is that Facebook is a massive corporation that functions only for growth and profit. When you “think” you are sharing your life with your loved ones, FB is only showing who and what its algorithms dictate.

Here are a few simple things that in my opinion (important to remember that these are just my opinions) can make your Facebook experience better.

1. For Friends that you actually want to follow, go to the “Friends” tab on your FB page and click “get notifications.” Then when they post something, you should receive a notification. Easy-peasy.

2. Do not over-post. Some people post (or share) a dozen or more things in a day and their posts get lost and not seen. You might not want to do the “get notifications” thing with people who over-post even if you love them. I only post once a day and usually not even that often. I put a lot of thought into what I post and write.

3. Occasionally (at least once a week?) GO to your close friend’s FB page to look through their timelines. Even having clicked on “get notifications” I find stuff posted that I never received notifications regarding.

4. Remember, scrolling down your newsfeed can be fun, but it is only showing you what the algorithms choose to show you. It is based on nothing that you or I will ever understand. Want to see a post explode with attention? Make a comment on some old photo of yours and watch it flood the newsfeeds of your friends. Suddenly scores of people will be ‘reacting to’ or commenting on something from years ago. And conversely, if you want to see a post “die” in the newsfeeds, post a link to a video! Basically, if it leads away from FB, it is buried by FB.

5. Unfriend, Unfollow and Block. I block rightwing nutjobs (in today’s world, I do not want them in my world). I block: science deniers, racists, bigots, misogynists, homophobes, transphobes, any of Tiny’s supporters, and any other intentional idiots.

6. Which brings me to: Your Facebook, your rules. You decide who to block, or unfriend, or unfollow. You do not have to see the offensive comments of ignorant people. Block them. Then even if they do comment in someone else’s post, you won’t have to feel that disgust in the pit of your stomach.

So those are 6 of my thoughts on how I use Facebook. I will be there. BUT I am also beginning to cross-post all my posts to my blog site. I will not necessarily post links to them on FB (unless it is specifically a birding post). I just need to spread out. Those who want to read what I write please follow this blog. I reckon it will be interesting

I am also on Instagram and on Twitter although I am not good at using either of them yet. Here is another photo of me in the islands. A Cuban cigar is heaven. I will smoke again.

     

I write therefore I am. I share therefore it’s real. I love y’all, follow along. I am writing!
Sending love as I do.

A Keen Pair of Sandals

When I was a long distance runner (from 2002 until about 2014) I always bought my running shoes from the local running store. I bought new runners approximately every 500 miles. That meant that during the majority of my running years, I was buying new shoes every 3 months or less. I got to know the manager and the sales people at that store and I sent them a lot of business. They began to give me the employee discount (which was massive) and I very much appreciated it. It was an excellent store.  

One day in 2006 (or 2007), they began selling these new Keen sandals and suggested I try them. I chose a pair of black “Newports” and I loved them. I wore them all over the world for years. Until sadly in April of 2016 in Broome, WA they finally died. By that point, they certainly owed me nothing. That day I was walking across sand in 40+ temperatures and the outer soles came loose and then came off. They had protected my feet through higher temps than that before, but the repeated abuse had finally taken its toll. The innersole got my feet back safely to Troopi, but my dear old Keens were done for. I left them at the Broome Bird Observatory where they became a part of the landfill. I would have kept them just because I do that sort of thing, but that’s not how it worked out.

     

R.I.P.

Well… now I just purchased a new pair of Newports! I am hoping they are even half as good as my old ones. That’s a lie. I hope they are just as good, but I have no delusions about that. Even if they are half as good, they will serve me very well.

   

I adore Keens, but in soft sand, the toe-box tends to get filled with sand. So I also need to find a pair of Merrells, or Tivas and then I will have all the sandals I will ever need (of course I also have Birkenstocks because I am indeed a hippie).

And just let me be clear, I am not done yet. There are some wondrous travels peeking just over my horizon like the first golden rays of a sunrise. I will overcome the anxieties. I will manage the few physical issues that I deal with. I am entering this chapter of my life with determination, tenacity and hope. I am continuing to get into better shape. I have now dropped 11.5 kilos. So I will say again, I am not done yet. And y’all know I will keep you posted.

Here are a few photos of those wonderful sandals in various places over the years... from Spain, to Ohio, to Virginia, and then spots around Australia. And if you are in the sun a lot like me, Keens can give you the coolest tan lines (that is not dirt, those are for real tan lines).

       

                               

             

       

     

Angel Face in Granddaddy's sandals.

I write therefore I am. I share, therefore it's real. I love because it's all there is.

Unk and Pelicans

I found myself anxious and overly emotional the other morning (it was most likely migraine related). Anxiety is something I have dealt with throughout my life. I have learned to live with it. And I am quite comfortable with being a man of emotions. I believe with all my heart that it is okay, even good at times, for a man to cry. I just prefer no one ever actually see me do it. So, perhaps I am not as evolved as I would like. I feel things deeply and I do tear-up easily. That’s me.

This post is dedicated with all my heart to the man I called Unk (my mother’s brother, George). I have mentioned him before and certainly will again. He was my father figure and more than anyone else, shaped my love of the natural world. I miss him deeply.

He loved Pelicans. From about age 5 to 16, I travelled to Florida on vacation with him and my grandmother for two weeks in June. Those are without a doubt the happiest memories of my youth. Nothing else even comes close. In those days, the range of the Brown Pelican did not come north of about Georgia, so they were a magical bird that I only saw on those holidays. They were the avian symbol of that wondrous tropical heaven called Florida. Bear in mind this was in the late 50’s and 60’s, a time before the Orlando nightmare of Disney etc. We visited places like Weeki Wachee Springs and Silver Springs and Parrot Jungle! We spent a week every year on Sanibel Island, which back then, was absolutely heaven. I visited the J. N. "Ding" Darling National Wildlife Refuge when it was only a wooden sign and a sand track through the mangroves. The Sanibel and Captiva Islands of the early 1960’s were honestly as close to heaven as I can imagine any place could be.
         

Unk, this is how we used to line up the shells as well you know.

Unk would often, (and I mean very often, like almost every time we’d see one), quote a limerick by Dixon Merritt (I had to Google to find that name). Unk would usually just do the first two lines, which are…

“A wonderful bird is the Pelican.
His beak can hold more than his belly can.”

However sometimes he would finish the quote…
“He can take in his beak
Enough food for a week
But I'm damned if I see how the helican!”

Here are some photos from July 2016 of an Australian Pelican at Venus Bay, South Australia. We had gone there to see the vagrant Laughing Gull that was hanging around the caravan park. Unk never saw an Australian Pelican, but he would have loved them. I reckon he knows how much I miss him and what a huge influence he has had on the best parts of the man I am today.

I also included these two photos of Lynn and me at Venus Bay with Chuckles, the Laughing Gull (it stayed around there for over a year and acquired that nickname). He is the darker gull amongst the Silver Gulls.

I write therefore I am. I share, therefore it's real. I love because it is life.