velvet helmet

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

Consider jumping competitions.

Jumping is when people in specially tailored red or blue coats and elvet riding hats, looking as if they are occupied with something extremely important, whip their horses, already perspiring from pain and terror, to force them to jump across assorted painted poles.

It looks very serious and intense.

The bell rings (usually it is a pilfered ship’s bell), the judges excitedly  sit back on their haunches, the loudspeaker screams, the crowd of spectators roars and the poles are lifted rather high, and there is the hope that one of the participants will break his neck or at least break his back.

The men in tight fitting breeches and velvet helmets-just as wide bottomed as the ladies in the dressage arena- having driven the horse out of his mind with the pain jumping all the painted poles, force their way toward the television cameras, in whose field of view they assume an especially daring air.

They willingly give interviews, where they are certain to lean on their own certain contact with the horse, and even blab the obligatory something about the horse’s love for jumping the painted poles.

And now imagine that by some magic the bridles have been removed from all the horses.

That instrumentwhich cruelly controls the horse by great pain in the mouth, is no longer functioning. The horses are free.

They all scatter instantly. And it becomes clear that there was no real contact at all and there never was, that the horses were restrained and constrained only by pain.

The moronic amusement called equestrian sport ceases to exist as soon as the painful component of control is remoed.

A. Nevzorov.

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.