velvet helmet

Chilta hazar masha (coat of a thousand nails), kulah khud (helmet), bazu band (arm guards). Indian armored clothing made from layers of fabric faced with velvet and studded with numerous small brass nails, which were often gilded. Fabric armor was very popular in India because metal became very hot under the Indian sun. This example has additional armor plates on the chest area, arms, and thighs. Hermitage Museum.                

Some puny miserable horse trainer, sweating nervously and wearing one of those stupid velvet helmets: ma'am please the horses are property of the country club. they are for the members to ride and feed karats to and you can’t just come in here and unhinge your jaw like a snake to swallow the horses whole. also you can’t be here without a country club membership actually

me, tucking into a bit of clydesdale and snorting with derision: Ha! What is this? Horse discourse?!? Are we really fucking discoursing about horses now???? Are you some godless horse discourser?!!!!? wait till my blog hears of THIS one

I am here. 

I am here in a house in Georgia that is ours. Ours for now. Ours for at least one year. 

There are books in the shelves and yesterday we bought an antique telegraph desk for the room I am stubbornly calling the Library. Today we hung pictures on the walls and only swore a little bit. We went to another antique shop and took pictures of things we liked. I tried on a velvet riding helmet that fit perfectly and modeled it in a big brass mirror. I wanted all kinds of things – paintings and glass bottles, a bolt of prom pink tulle.

Now I am home – home! – and the ceiling fan whirs quietly overhead. I’ve decorated the bedroom in whites and blues and greens. Hints of turquoise. It’s peaceful like the ocean. Outside it’s sunny and warm. Bright pink azaleas bloom on bushes up and down the street. I bought a citronella candle for the deck. I am in the market for a porch swing. 

I feel like I’m living in a dreamland. I worry it’s all going to disappear. I have nightmares about breakups and burglaries, terrified that what I have will be taken from me. I think it’s because it feels too good to be true. I can’t be allowed to be this happy and content and in love, can I? I can’t have a room full of books and more kitchen cabinets than I can fill and a man who pulls me to him in the night and kisses the top of my head when I tell him I’ve had a bad dream. 

I can’t, but I do. 

I keep thinking of this line by Ada Limón – “people have done this before/ but not us.”

Yes, other people have done this. Other people have put their lives into boxes and unpacked them in a different place. Other people have had orange tea on their back deck and admired their little lawns in the early morning light. Other people, but not us.

For us it’s still so new.