Morning with flowers

III

When I went to Russia I was excited to see these whitish weed-like plants planted everywhere.  I recognized them as the plant I’d used to make a floral decoration for my sister-in law’s bridal shower the spring before.  I needed something white to mix in with the bright colors, and their lacy texture was perfect.  To see them in Russia seemed miraculous, that we could have the same flowers in such different parts of the planet.

Those plants ended up in a row in front of my house, but without their brightly colored companions.  My father put them there after my mother told him to dismantle the flower arrangement.  They kept the colorful ones.  As much as I liked the whitish lacy plants, they were never as pretty without the colors to set them off.  I figured they would die and I could replace them.  They didn’t, for years and years, they grew bigger and bigger and showed no sign of dying off to make room for anything else.

The thank you note

II

I got a very late thank you note from my brother and his wife, thanking me for going to their wedding.  It said they hoped I’d enjoyed the wedding.  I got unreasonably upset about that note.  How could I possibly have enjoyed the wedding?  I hate weddings and also it was in New York.  And it was when I learned about CW being dead.

After a while I thought that maybe I never did mention that part to them.  Or maybe the wedding was so long ago that they simply forgot.  No, I know I told them.  I told them that was why I had to go to Russia.  Maybe that doesn’t make any sense to them, or anyone else.  But usually when you mention someone died and you leave the country, people remember it.  I guess not, not if they just got married.  Or something.

Whitney’s dead

I

Some days life seems so fucking cruel.  Hearing of Whitney Houston’s death, I thought immediately of CW.  I hear Houston’s name and I think of The Bodyguard and I think of CW bursting into “Ayyyyyeeeaaaayyyy will aaaaaalwaaaays looove yoooooooUooo….” in the square in Semily.  In the snow, surrounded by the stone and plaster buildings, as we walk somewhere.  The bar or the massage parlor or the train station or wherever,  I remember walks with him in so many towns and cities.  My God, in Pompeii and Naples and Athens and Istanbul…

Going to see “Regarding Henry” of all things in Istanbul.  Drinking apple tea and plum brandy and who knows what else.  The man who found us by the mosque and said he had carpets for sale, the way CW said “I don’t have a house, why do I want a carpet?” and the man said “I will sell you a house then.”

On a scale of 1 to 10, how much does it hurt?

I remember thinking that this was a strange question for doctors to ask.  I guess they need some way to measure a patient’s discomfort, but the answer will always be highly subjective.  When I was about 11, I remember being asked this about a broken ankle and wanting to explain “but I have a very high pain tolerance.”  The thing is, how do I really know if I do?  I can’t compare it to anyone else’s.  Some doctor told me I did, and I believed him.

The first time a child feels severe pain, it is the most horrible thing she has ever felt, right?  So a kid with a broken ankle might say the pain is an 11, but the same kid, 20 years later, will break an ankle, wrap it in an ace bandage, walk it off and never see a doctor about it at all.

Last night one of our geldings colicked for the first time.  The vet said that, when a horse his age (15?  18?) colicks for the first time, she worries because horses that age tend to be more stoic than a horse who colicks young and frequently.

Anonymous Me

Yet another post to help me sort something out on the keyboard.

I’m having to consider abandoning my pen name.  When I first thought about it, I wasn’t worried.  Not like I was yesterday about angry people and all that.  I got that out of my system.  Now I’m not sure.  I don’t know if I can think and write the same way without my mask.

Towering Babel

The doldrums of the hockey offseason should find me tapping away at some horse story or another.  But I’m not.  I was word weary, and also I never do what I should be doing.  So I did some reading, and came across this in a blogger’s final post:

…In my view, bloggers in the last couple of years have slowly but surely separated themselves from their readership with a conceited attitude like they’re “above” normal fans… Not all, but many.  Why?  Well, I think Twitter has certainly exacerbated the attitude.  Read your Twitter feeds, regardless of what pro season it is.  It’s full of statements from bloggers, not beat writers, such as “As I expected Player X is on the fourth line” or “Player X WILL NOT be traded”.  Huh?  You’re a frickin’ blogger, bro, nothing more. -Tony, The Confluence

First of all, I say: don’t blame Twitter.  People who want to be arrogant jerks will find a way.

Secondly, I can think of a lot of reasons for a blogger to retire a blog.  But I’m not comfortable with a departure declaring that the quality of blogs has anything to do with it.  I’m mystified by the conflation of the medium with the messengers.  Plenty of professional writers also have blogs.  It’s just a format, a word processing system, nothing more.

Morning Hike

This morning I climbed the little mountain to see what I could see. (I hadn’t seen the mares in over 14 hours so really I did need to see what I could see.)

Seems like just a few weeks ago that the hill looked like this.

The hills aren’t so green anymore, because the hot summer is here. 

Fourth of July

Every Fourth of July I worry about the horses being startled by fireworks.  We live over the hill from town so we can’t see the city fireworks but we can hear them.  The sound always startles me, seems to start too early, while there is still light in the sky.  Tonight was no different.

I went out to do the usual evening rounds, and made a point of checking each horse in the pasture.  On my way out to check the mares, I glanced at the “mash unit,” a half-acre paddock where I’m keeping Dolly and the oldest rescued mare.  They need mash twice a day this time of year.  I didn’t look closely at those two because I would be coming back to feed them anyway. 

That Old Gang of Mine

Angel, Season Three

This curious little episode of Angel is a wonderful metaphor… no, perhaps an allegory… no, it’s just a story about how we make our way in a community, how we move between and within social circles.  As we find kindred spirits, we get swept up in our common interests, similar viewpoints, we may be overwhelmed and delighted by these likenesses.  To find others who share beliefs or tastes with us is affirming, validating, it creates a sense of euphoria and comfort. We like it.

At Angel Investigations, Gunn discovers a set of clever demon hunters with all kinds of tools and knowledge new to him.  They want him to be one of them, they need him.  He is rapidly engrossed by his new family, a welcome relief from the frustrations and tragedy of his life before.

Life Beyond the Pale, Caring v Sharing

Some say the internet is evil.  I usually dismiss such asinine assertions but today I wonder: why is it evil?

When it rains here, the internet goes out.  I always find this irritating, not only because sometimes I am trying to do work that requires online interaction with the world at large.  I also find it irritating because there are some things that I simply can’t get locally, like people to talk about hockey with.  That is sort of evil, but I’m pretty sure that isn’t what the internet-phobes are talking about.