Blog
December 2006
Those Secret Names
We decorated the house this week. Well, “decorated.” We moved the boxes from the shelves in the garage to a stack by the door. They aren’t in the house yet, but they will be soon. By Easter, for sure.
My mother’s informed me that this year she’s cleaning out all the old ornaments. The ones us kids made in kindergarten and such. I guess, after twenty-some years, it’s probably time to get some grown-up decorations. Ya think?
I honestly thought she’d consigned those ornaments to The Boxes years ago. You know The Boxes–they’re the place where parents keep all those old drawings and report cards and such. Somewhere in my box is a “newspaper” I wrote when I was, oh, nine or ten. I don’t remember what it was about, except that I did every section, down to the classifieds, and in the classifieds I had horse ads. So I could name horses, you see.
I remember that, because I’ve never grown out of the habit of naming horses I don’t own. I have whole mental lists of names:
Kvetch This, for a jumper. Sejanus, for a big, solid hunter. Bartleby, because it would make me laugh every time (don’t ask. There’s no reason). Gaius Valerius, whose barn name would be Tully (short for Catullus, because G.V.C. is a Roman poet I really like). Caligula’s Senator, just because I find that even more hilarious than Bartleby. Yes, I know: my sense of humor is very sad. And for mares? I’d name one Mnemosyne if I thought announcers could say it without butchering it. I want a mare named Sappho so I can breed her and have a filly named Sappho’s Lyric and another named Sapphic Meter and a colt named Sappho’s Legacy and… well, you get the point. And you thought breeding for color was irresponsible? Hee.
Plus, my other secret names: the ones I might actually use and guard more secretly than that one company guards their baked beans recipe.
I don’t know why I do this. Or why I never grew out of it. Especially since we know that what will actually happen is I’ll buy a horse whose been in the area and on the show circuit for so long that I couldn’t possibly change his/her show name. And it’s bad luck, of course, to change a barn name.
Making this whole naming habit especially pointless.
And yet… wouldn’t it be fun to do a dressage test on a mare named Terpsichore, after the Greek muse of choral dancing?
Against all expectations
This week I had another of those hit-by-a-bus days. Hard to tell what brings them on–full moons, weird weather fronts, my imagination. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t being hit by an actual bus, because I’d remember that.
I decided to go riding anyway, on the assumption that moving around would be good for me. My trainer, who is awesome, turned the lesson into a physical therapy-like session. My job–my only job–was to relax and let the horse move my hips.
Easier said than done. But one of the things I realized is that in normal lessons when I try to “feel” the horse moving, what I’m really trying to do is control that movement–almost like I’m trying to lift his hip with mine and then push his hip back down. The reverse of what should be happening, in other words.
This week’s lesson made it clear that I work way too hard while riding. I’m not using my seat as an aid; I’m using it as a sledgehammer. It’s interesting that it was easier for me to figure all this out and feel what it’s like to be correct when I was feeling so lousy, but as my trainer pointed out–I didn’t have much choice except to give in and relax.
The horse loved it, I think. He marched down the long sides in a lovely walk and as we came out of the corners we’d straighten out and he’d immediately lighten his front end. It was all very cool, and I ended the lesson more relaxed and, in a way, energetic than when I started.
Something to think about next week, for sure. Meanwhile, I’m kicking the cat out of my room tonight. She likes to sleep in the middle of the bed, and while I don’t understand how a twelve-pound cat can shove me over to the side while I’m sleeping, she manages it. It’s just a hunch, but I don’t think sleeping in the Twsited Pretzel position is helping me out here.
Bonding
When I first bought the Super Saint, I was fifteen and thrilled to have my own horse. I’d stand outside his stall with a goofy grin on my face and wonder when this bonding thing was going to happen. He, meanwhile, was thrilled to have fresh hay and water and stood inside the stall, probably wondering when I was going to go away and let him eat in peace.
Sometimes you get that instantaneous bond–the one complete with two souls running towards each other in a field of flowers, an extravagent sound track, and a pyrotechnics display to shame all of Broadway. The Project Pony and I were like that.
But Super Saint and I? Not a penny whistle tweeting on a street corner. Not a single sparkler.
It took us months to “get” each other; I couldn’t even tell you when we did bond. But somewhere, in all the miles of handwalking and riding and general hang-out time, we started to figure each other out. We defined a partnership, and he was one of those horses who insisted his rider work as hard as he did. I learned, in turn, that if he was not working as hard as me, there was nothing unfair about asking him to pull his own weight.
Our next show season was much better–not that relationships are measured by ribbons, but that our increased partnership was obvious in our rounds. We also went from doing pretty well in dressage to doing very well.
Our relationship didn’t really hit home for me, however, until the day he dumped me in the dirt.
It was the last show of the year, and several year-end championships were on the line. The judge–who knew this horse well from previous years/owners–thought Super Saint was the bee’s knees. I, already nervous about the championships, was in a near-panic that the judge would think I wasn’t good enough for this horse. The entire weekend was a disastor–I blew every class.
On the last day, we were warming up for a small medal class and I misjudged the distance. Super Saint trusted me anyway, and we both crashed down after the fence. Once we were both checked out and it was clear we were both unhurt, we were cleaned up, jumped one fence, and headed into the ring.
I don’t, to be honest, remember the round. Or the flat portion of the class. When it came time to do the test, we were in second-to-last place. I was still shaken up about our fall, and as I rode towards the first fence of the test, I froze.
Super Saint was indeed a saint, but not that much of one–if I was going to check out and not ride, he wasn’t going to jump. Especially after the fall, I think. He stopped. I didn’t.
I wasn’t hurt, and when I stood up on the other side of the fence, it was to see him standing there looking at me. His bridle was half pulled off, his saddle was askew, and he huffed at me as if to say, “Well? What did you expect?”
I wanted to disappear. The judge was probably banging his head against the desk in frustration that this horse should be owned by me. My trainer was going to kill me for not riding to that fence. And my horse…
And my horse just stood there waiting for me, ears pricked forward.
As we looked at each other, I realized that if I got on him and asked him to jump again, he’d do it: IF I started doing my share of the work load. He’d made his point, and he was waiting to see if I’d gotten it.
I fixed his saddle and bridle, checked to make sure his legs weren’t cut, and remounted to return to line. I’d rather have been swallowed by a hole, of course, but there wasn’t a convenient one to fall into. The judge commended me for being so concerned about the Saint (instead of myself, I suppose), and the rest of the class finished. To my utter surprise, my trainer didn’t yell at me–instead, she said how proud she was of me–not for falling off, but for being so quick and quiet about returning to the lineup so the class could continue. We both knew I’d have much rather run crying from the ring.
I learned a lot of lessons that day, obviously, but right now the one I remember most is what I learned in those few seconds while my horse and I stared at each other across the fence.
He was waiting for me. He hadn’t gone high-tailing around the ring, and he didn’t even wander off to the in gate, where my trainer and his old owner were watching the class.
I can joke about him being the Anti- One Person Horse, but the fact is I had just let him down, badly, twice, and he was standing there waiting for me. Waiting for me to get a clue, but still–waiting. For me.
Who needs fireworks after a look like that?
It’s just as well
I couldn’t find the pattern to make a stuffed horse. Well, I did find some online, but I couldn’t be bothered to wait for it to get mailed to me. And the stores in town didn’t have one. Or, WallyWorld didn’t have one. I usually try to avoid WallyWorld, because the people inside it are always obnoxiously rude, but I thought a stuffed animal pattern would be right up its alley. Turns out: no. And I was too irritated by the people in WallyWorld to set foot in another store. So much for finding a horse pattern.
But I did discover Dammit Dolls online. Never heard of a Dammit Doll? I hadn’t either, but a UK website says they are a big deal in the US. Really? Has anyone told the US that? I don’t think we know.
Basically, they’re a stress toy. They come with a corny poem that tells you to hit them against something anytime you get mad. And to yell “Dammit Dammit Dammit.” You can google the poem if you want to; I can’t bear to repeat it. Besides, doesn’t “Dammit Dammit Dammit” strike you as a particularly unimaginative curse? The only thing is has going for it is iambic rhythm, but I’m not sure I’ve ever cursed in a rhythm. Do you think it improves the power of your curse if you do?
Having nothing better to do (or having lots better to do and no desire to do it), I made a Dammit Doll. Sans poem. So I guess I just made a doll I could smack around. Heh. Then I made two more. See:
The one in the middle was the first. It looks ok. I should have stopped there. But then I made the blue one, which had to get half its foot chopped off because one leg was longer than the other. And it’s hunchbacked. And it had more stuffing leaking out of it than my car does oil. I couldn’t figure out why it was such a disastor, so I made a third. The red one. Notice how the head is trying to imitate a hammerhead shark? I don’t know what happened.
I can vouch for the stress-relief quality, though. Both the blue and red ones got smacked against the sewing machine once I got a look at the finished product. I felt a lot better, actually.
I’m still not convinced that swearing in iambs is better than freestyle swearing, though.
It’s just as well I didn’t find a horse pattern. Can you imagine the disastor? I bet it would have had more curves than these things, and I obviously cannot sew curves. The horse would have looked like a broken-legged octopus.
November 2006
Is there a horsey blogging community?
Don’t you find blogs absolutely fascinating? I mean in a theoretical or philosophical or some other sort of -ical way?
Blogger A has a blog. They post something interesting. Blogger B reads it and comments on it, leaving the link to their blog as well. Blogger A reads Blogger B’s blog, and leaves a comment there–maybe because they found Blogger B’s blog to be interesting, and maybe to be polite. It’s hard to tell, and so Blogger A and Blogger B enter into a weird courtship ritual, making careful advances onto each others’ blogs to see if they are welcome and, more importantly, if they can be Best Friends Forever. Or at least add each other to their blogrolls, which amounts to the same thing.
Meanwhile, Blogger C, who reads Blogger A’s blog quite often, saw the comment by Blogger B and thought Blogger B sounded interesting. Or maybe Blogger C was just bored and looking for new sites to read. Whatever–Blogger C visits Blogger B. Now, Blogger A and Blogger C already have each other on their blogrolls, but Blogger C and Blogger B have to go through the courting ritual to see if they will fit on each others’ blogrolls.
Eventually, you wind up with blogrolls that are reminiscent of webrings–many of the same sites linking to each other. This is not a bad thing–it means a group of bloggers are interested in the same topics (or different topics but similar writing styles, or some other common theme). It’s an informal sort of community. Unlike a webring, however, it isn’t a closed system or mutually inclusive–no one is requiring Blogger C to link to Blogger B, and Blogger C might decide not to. For whatever reason. Meanwhile, Blogger B can link to Blogger C all s/he wants. And Blogger B can link to Blogger D, too, even though no one else in this hypothetical community would dream of linking to Blogger D because Blogger D talks about building houses out of lint, and the rest of the community is interested in writing magnetic poetry. But Blogger D is Blogger’s B real friend, so…
What it all means is that IF there is a blogging community, it’s a fluid one. And I’d say–although I’m certainly not a sociology expert. Heck, I’m not even a sociology enthusiast. I’m surprised I can spell sociology–I’d say blogrolls do a fairly decent job of mimicking real-life friendship/aquaintanceship circles. In fact, I know there’s some sort of system in place to classify the various links on blogrolls (to designate whether a link is someone you know/have met, someone you’re related to, someone you work with, someone this, something that, etc). It’s much the same as acknowledging that you and CoWorker A both know CoWorker B because CoWorker B is, naturally, a CoWorker. But while you and CoWorker A might also know BowlingFiend D from the bowling league you both happened to join, neither of you have any interest in meeting CoWorker B’s great-aunt Edna. But CoWorker B loves Edna dearly, and you can’t fault him/her for that.
All of which leads me to my original question: Is there such a thing as A (i.e. one) horsey blogging community? Or are there simply pockets of horsey bloggers here and there on the web? And if there are only pockets here and there, should there be a larger horsey community, i.e. a place where we could find other horsey bloggers more easily? Or do we all have enough reading/writing to do as it is, without trying to keep up with everyone else as well?
Or to put the question another (and more personal) way–assuming anyone made it this far through the post: how important to YOU is the communal aspect of blogging? Do you even think about the relationships between blogs? If you write a blog, does it matter to you if anyone reads it? If you read blogs, do you comment or just watch from a distance? Why? (”Why” to any of those questions, really, although I imagine if you watch from a distance you’ll keep watching and won’t answer. Heh.)
And whether you read or write, do you find you’re reading and writing mostly horsey-themed stuff, or are you more ecclectic? Or do you find you might write mostly one thing (i.e. a horsey blog) but read more widely? Or vice versa? And, again, why?