"...we will ride, way up high, where the cold winds blow..."
-The Horses, Rickie Lee Jones
right people, you would think that after being away for so long, the words and stories would be swirling out like dervishes. but oh no. The Dreaded Block has happened. again. plain, white and square. if i could just crack the surface. . . . it's all under there....where to start, really.
so once more, i scratch my head. oh heaps of ideas raise their arms with clicking fingers saying mememememememememeeeeeeee. i consider them. one by one. one being the spotty horse move up the hill. another, the second to last night of the year with all its magnificence and sickness. . . . . the horse move wins. and then i think. well, it would be this:
nah. yawn yawn for the rest of the non horse loving Universe. my father being one, (Belgians don't count), and maybe you, she thinks alarmingly. my dear father who, time and time again like a stuck record, whenever he hears a decibel vaguely similar to "horse" or "pony" or "let's go riding!" or "equestrian", pipes up gleefully, "Bloody horses. I tell you, man. Dangerous at the back. Dangerous at the front and uncomfortable in the middle..." and then with his nut brown eyes dancing, he balances his empty whisky glass on his head, which is the universal sign to fill it up. you feel like you've won something if you notice first.
i remember, when i was a teenager, absolutely horse mad, him loading my horse before the crack of dawn, the last morning star hanging in there to take me to another show. there was always drama. my mother would stand there shouting, " for christsake ron. calm down. just go away and let us do it!" as my fiery mare would lash out from the front and kick like a zebra from behind. my father would stalk angrily away muttering "Bloody horses!" yet as i tore around another round of looming jumps, completely out of control and beyond terrified, jumping over the moon, he was the one cheering like mad. as i stumbled back onto the grand stand, somehow clutching a rosette (probably for breaking a world record for fastest round ever) he would say,
"heh heh koeks! don't slow down. give it stick! hell. bloody horses eh? dangerous at the blah blah blah blah" and he would be the proudest person on the entire grandstand. beaming. beaming.
which makes me think, maybe this is the reason which drives me to do silly silly things. like the time i swung off the highest mast of a 1910 schooner off the zanzibari coast. to impress the crew? the crew who looked about 12 and their upturned faces the size of peas, from my height. as i perched queerly in the heavens (in my effing bikini), they shouted up to me, " you can do it princess..." "queenie to you darlings," i smirked back at them, as i grabbed the rope and stepped off, grimly forgetting the wise words of the nubile swedish mermaid caterers, "Never do it in your bikini," they crooned...
too late. i plummeted boulder like and tore into the sea, which was hard as a table by the time i reached it, bikini top warply wrapped around my neck, the bikini bottoms covering only half and my hair the wrong way around. i looked up to see my colleague taking photographs. bastard.
but i bet if my dad had been standing up there, he would have been beaming. beaming.
indeed, i am entirely exhilarated by the new horses. entirely. i feel like the luckiest vaquera on the planet....i am the luckiest vaquera on the planet.
and tonight, when i close my eyes, in my soft warm bed, staring at windows jammed full of my lucky stars, listening to the owls and the spotty horses rustling in the yard, i will think of a girl, a woman, perhaps just like me, on the Gaza strip.
Kitchen Board: Tuesday Evening 30 December 2008Contributors: well, me, gabby, niamh. oh wait. yes. and veronica
Comments: actually, the board should look a whole heap emptier. i have been a busy little fish, you see.
toodely old pip, you. bisous, nostalgic old year ones, last ones xxx j