Son of Punjab, Where Are You?

After starting yesterday with a Sunday morning rejection ( I really like this one but...) I headed off to the Melbourne Festival for a day of music, exhibitions, eating and fun, finishing off with an effervescent show constructed around the Australian-born Bollywood siren known as Fearless Nadia and her movie Diamond Queen.

Born Mary Ann Evans in Perth, she was a huge hit in India during the 1930s and 40s - her most famous film was Hunterwali -  and this show sought to pay tribute to her amazing feats of screen dare-devilry (she did all her own stunts) and sense of fun and adventure. It was a hoot. Not only did you have Nadia swinging her fists and leaping about all over the place, but there was also the in house fighting squad from of Wadia Movietone doing all sorts of crazy and comedic action stunts, and some of her regular, faithful, animal characters like the very smart, he'd-give-Silver-a-run-for-his-money wonder horse Punjab ka Beta (Son of Punjab, scion of Punjab, another of Nadia's faithful sidekick equines) and a baby Austin called Rolls Royce ki Beti (Daughter of Rolls Royce), a vehicle with much personality and a very independent mind. Alas, we didn't get to see much of Moti the wonder dog in this cut of the film.

On top of the movie hi jinks, there were live performances in keeping with what was happening on the screen inserted in between - Indian dancing, vaudeville acts, and feats of high-wire, musical daring. All of this and energetic, Indian-Western music that had people jigging in their seats played by master musicians who all seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely.

It was a fun evening that I've carried with me all through today at my less glittery and swashbuckling Arvo Job, doing a little Indian dancing here and there whilst daydreaming about Son of Punjab galloping into the office to rescue me. I saw myself swinging into the saddle, raising a defiant fist as Son of Punjab reared, and then we'd be off, the two of us, racing towards some distant adventure full of villains and stout-hearted, supportive friends.

And They Call It Space Puppy Love

To stave off unfair accusations that this might be a cat-and-chook-and-pony-favouring blog, and to add a little fun and cuteness to your Friday night, pop across to Tor. Com to watch a heart-warming clip from the upcoming, must-see, at least if you're a fan, Riddick 3 movie.

Why? Because there's a big, nasty, ugly as sin, slobbering, potentially puppy-eating alien, and the most adorable, yapping, but (honestly) slightly stupid puppy - make that adorable, yapping, but (honestly) slightly stupid SPACE puppy - that's about to become an alien snack, but Vin Diesel shows his soft side and...

Don't worry, go watch, it's safe - there's not a single cat to be seen. Or chook. Or pony. Promise.

 

  



Back From The High Country

Yawn.

My sister, her friend W and I spent the weekend horse riding with others through the High Country . That means a lot of uphill work. If you've never stood in stirrups while the horse beneath you tackles a steep, never-ending incline and groaned because your calves are burning with pain, then, of course, you have no idea what that simple phrase means. Still, I feel surprisingly good today, but ever so tiiiiiired.

I very carefully paced myself by taking Friday off to sleep in and pack (it's cold up there in the Victorian Alps this time of year, so much warm and waterproof gear was required even though the predicted snow and rain did not eventuate, and we had quite glorious weather), travel across the state and stay at my sister's so we were ready to head off early to get to the Mansfield area in time for our 9.30 start. Today I stayed home to recharge my drained batteries, but all in all, I'm exceedingly pleased with myself for getting through the two days without any dramas or fuss. This is the ride I was supposed to have gone on over eighteen months ago, but the first of my three operations got in the way, and since then ongoing slicing and dicing and medical crap has kept me off the mountains, so it's been well over two years since I last rode amongst those peaks. There's been many a time, mostly when I've been flat on my back with tubes coming out of me and had machines that go beep by my bedside, when I've worried that I might not ever get to enjoy slogging up muddy slopes and sliding down hillsides on horseback again :) But I did it! And I'm most grateful that it happened.

Anyway, much fun was had, challenges were overcome, the silence of a starry night far from civilization was enjoyed, stunning scenery seen from horseback on the high trails was oohed and aahed over, our horses were compared and much talked about, breakneck gallops up long tracks were done with exhilaration, and details were rehashed with much enthusiasm on the drive home yesterday.

Now I'm eager for another dose of this goodness.

The Mist: The Ride

My sister and I went horse riding in Daylesford today, and I managed to stay in the saddle for both the morning and afternoon rides, which isn't bad given it's been 5 months since my last equine outing, and even before that, my track record was reluctantly sporadic due the past 18 months worth of hospital crap. It wasn't a hard all-dayer. Both times, it was just the two of us so we could set the pace according to what I was up for, which was not a lot compared with my derring-do of yore, but any attempt to move faster than a trot was also seriously thwarted by the weather.

The morning was wet and hazy enough - the rolling hills remained obscured by fog for the whole ride - but my sister and I crossed fingers that it would clear up by the afternoon.

Alas, it was not to be, not by a long shot.

When we headed out again after lunch, the mist was thicker and more saturated, and it grew increasingly more so until we were moving through a drizzly, surreal, Stephen King-created, vapour-shrouded landscape of limited vision, stands of spooky, leafless trees vaguely outlined by the white stuff, sky and air and land and lakes merging with each other into dreamlike scenes, and an intense silence broken only by the sounds of horse hooves clopping, wet things dripping, and the plaintive bleats of newborn lambs coming from the unseen fields beyond. It was the kind of thick mist from which tentacles suddenly reach out to pull poor, helpless riders from their horses and drag them back into the murky miasma.

And it was cold, bone chillingly cold - we were mightily glad for our drizzle-repelling drizzabones, with many layers of clothing and downy vests underneath - and the ground was wet and far too soggy for speedy riding unless one desired to take a chance on spending the next few months with various limbs in plaster casts.

But we had a good time, took it easy, made jokes, and enjoyed the unreal atmosphere and strange visual and aural effects created by the uncanny weather. Afterwards - and this is a very important part of the Winter horse riding experience - my sister and I warmed our boots and bums in front of a roaring log fire, drank cups of hot tea, ate steaming leak and potato soup with toast followed by berry strudel, and all was wonderful and well with the world.
  
*satisfied sigh*

But for sure I'll be sore tomorrow...

Ponies Rule!

Yay! It looks like my SF pony story has found a good, loving , wholesome home. I'm so glad. I like this story a lot, but suspected it might be a hard sell, what with there being ponies in it and its voice being a bit unusual, but it looks like the right editor has come along at the right time, and Bob's your uncle. So it goes in this game.

More details when it's all professionally acceptable to announce the buyer.

Yay!

Space Ponies

Revisiting Kim Stanley Robinson's Green Mars as an audio book in my break at the Arvo Job today, I heard the line There was movement at the spaceport and had to giggle. I replayed it just to me sure. (For confused non-Downunderers, this harks to a classic Oz poem - I'm sure you know the movie.)

I then had to hit pause and take a moment to clear my mind of the impressive image of a herd of brumbies thundering through Valles Marineris, Tom Burlinson coming up at the rear cracking a whip.


That's what happens when you watch too many Mars documentaries with mind-boggling graphics.

Feeling Like A Real Rider Again

At 6AM this morning, I had a hard time convincing myself I really wanted to get up and go horse riding, firstly because, well, it was Sleep-In Sunday, and secondly because our all day ride three weeks ago, my first all dayer in over ten months after languising in the greylands of not being well, was pure torture and had me hobbling around for a week afterwards. However, I also knew it was necessary to get my sorry butt out of bed and to participate in Operation Whip Those Riding Muscles Back Into Shape if I ever wanted to enjoy galloping across fields and through dales again, or heading off for weekends wending through distant mountains, so off I went.

It was good I did, as today went far better than last time. My sister and I went out by ourselves for both the morning and afternoon ride so we could control the tempo and toughness of the rides, knowing it would be easier for a certain stubborn person (not my sister) to ask for a slowdown with just the two of us than if third or fourth parties were involved. We still did some quite fast and challenging runs, and were interrupted three times by kangaroos bounding across the trail and spooking the horses, but also just did a lot of hacking along and getting our bottoms used to spending long days in the saddle again. It was all a lot easier than last time, my ankles gave me only a twinge of bother, my legs remained under my control, and now, at the end of the day,  I don't feel like a zombie rider - hey, there's  story idea. Zombie rider on a zombie horse? I'm sure it's already been done. Anyway, mission achieved!

So, the upshot of today is that riding from dawn til dusk is fun again. Yay! Point me towards some distant mountains.

(Not sure who the people in this picture are - it was taken a while ago. But the view is nice.)

Pale Horses Pushing Envelopes

And lo, because you can never push a theme too far, I did ride not just one, but two pale horses yesterday, and behold, today I do feel like Death warmed over, but verily in a good way.

On the short morning ride with just my sister and myself, I rode my old friend M, who was feeling particularly full of oats and up for anything. All went well. The wildlife in the Wombat Forest was abundant, with butterflies everywhere, rabbits popping out and scampering off underfoot at inopportune moments, and little flocks of colourful parrots constantly erupting from bushes to startle the horses, all of which made for a fun, keep-your-wits-about-you time.

Then came the afternoon ride with my sister, myself on a very zippy buckskin I hadn't ridden before, and an experienced guide we knew well so we could gallop and wend amongst the trees without getting lost. This ride was longer and harder and faster, as always, and the one that I fully knew would push me from the fun zone into the when-will-this-agony-be-over place because I hadn't done an all-dayer since April 2012, before my medical woes began.

And so it did pass. The swift pace had me huffing and puffing, sweat was pouring from under my helmet and running down my face, and muscles everywhere soon began to play up. My calves right from the start hurt like heck, and got worse as the ride progressed, clenching into tight knots of excruciation. For the last hour and a half, my ankles turned to jelly. Every time we finished a fast bit of riding, I quickly slipped my feet from the stirrups to stretch my lower legs and rotate my ankles to ease the pain, luxuriating in the relief. All in all, I did not make for a pretty picture towards the end as more and more muscles gave out, so I rode at the rear to spare the others the sight of my legs swishing all over the place and my less than impressive seat. This unsteadiness was almost the undoing of me when a kangaroo bounded onto the trail and spooked the horses, but I did not fall off! And when I finally slipped from my horse and hit the ground again, my sympathy for beginners knew no bounds as I was reminded of how agonising it feels to be a riderly neophyte.

But I did it! Sookiness was not an option. I clenched my teeth and got through it, mostly because I knew I needed to get myself back into shape for a weekend of mountain riding my sister and I and one other plan to do in about two months. So today, with that goal still firmly in my mind, I must graciously pay the riding piper his dues and suffer soreness, stiffness, and screaming ankles that have me hobbling around the house in a most undignified manner until they warm up. All of this was expected, which was why a long weekend was chosen for the pushing of this particular envelope. And it was good to find out that I had energy enough to get through such a day and make it home again (I was carefully measuring my reserves as we went) though I did collapse into bed quite early last night, and slept in to a positively decadent hour this morning. But I did it!

Usually, on the train on the way home, given that I'm wearing joddies, schlepping gear and, no doubt, have more than a whiff of the barnyard about me, I get into many conversations with fellow horse lovers. Yesterday, as a nice addendum, I met two horse-and-book mad young girls. We talked about rides, ponies and what they were reading, and they showed me their My Horse games on their smartphones and bragged about their points. Lucky kids - I would have absolutely adored something like that at their age.

Behold How I Knew He'd Pick The Pale Horse

It's the Australia Day long weekend, so there's plenty to do out and about the countryside. Today we went nice and early to the 38th Fryerstown Antique Fair and rummaged around amongst goodies of both the genuinely collectible and the horrifically rubbishy sort, though, of course, one person's trash is...

Mostly at these affairs, it's just fun to wander around and look at all the lost stuff that used to have a place in other people's lives, stuff that used to belong somewhere before it was cast out into the cruel world to drift about for years in search of another safe haven. It's all a bit sad, really. One is practically assaulted by stories. And then there's the weird experience of suddenly coming across some overly cute nic-nac from your childhood but completely out of context on a stall table, and it's just a thing, not the amazing, almost living object you remember it being. Without the personal relationship, statues of donkeys pulling carts and dolls in glitzy dresses are just inanimate junk.

After that, we caught an afternoon session of Django Unchained. It's like watching Hamlet in that you know for sure there's going to be an awful bloodbath at the end. Anyway, enough has been written about this movie. The only new thing I can offer - and be warned this is a very mild and very silly spoiler - might not be a genuine observation at all, but the product of a horse-skewed mind desperately self-referencing. It comes from my being something of a palomino aficionado (just ask my sister). I notice all the horses in movies, but I especially sigh with joy when a particularly fine palomino trots across the screen.

 Anyway, after a certain scene put me firmly in a Blazing Saddles frame of mind, when we got to a later scene where there was a choice of horses for Django to take so he could ride back to reap his ultimate revenge, I anticipated for a good couple of minutes that he would take the palomino, because a golden horse is what Cleavon Little's sherriff very dapperly rides in Blazing Saddles. However, as said, this may be an entirely fanciful connection wrought by personal experiences in the palomino-obsessed hinterlands of my mind. But that wasn't my only reason for my betting on the palomino. Parallel processing an otherwise simple act, a pale horse, not a white horse, is also what Death, the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse rides. The fact that Django then rides the palomino without a bridle or saddle also has mythical resonance. Besides, any Western fan knows that the nameless stranger (again, Mr Death in disguise) usually rides into town on a pale horse. If he's called Bart or Bruce, he usually rides a dark horse. So lo, when Django did indeed take the palomino, I felt quite smug. Ah, the things that go through one's head at the movies.

And on that horsey note, I must go get some sleep soon. All the beautiful horse riding scenes in Django Unchained made me glad that I'm off on an all day ride tomorrow. Perhaps I'll even score my favourite pale horse for the morning ride. Crossing fingers.

Giddy Up

My SF pony story is once more being considered for publication - it almost made it into a recent US antho that has since received a lot of publicity, but was unfortunately booted out at the very last minute. Much sadness ensued, of course. What a coup that would have been. I've always known this story would be a hard sell (there are starships! There are clones! There are ponies!) but that just means my triumph will be all the greater when it finally does find a home. And it will!

Cross fingers it makes it across the finish line this time. Not for my own sake - oh no, I'm a much bigger than that - but for the sake of the genre. To me, it's pretty obvious that SF in general is in desperate need of more equine tales :)

Another Horse Riding Hit

I'm feeling good, though tired (naps have been taken), after another swig of that greatest of get well tonics called horse riding.

My sister very kindly came up Saturday and stayed over to make everything easy, convenient and low-energy for me, so all we had to do after brekky this morning was head on up the road to Daylesford, turn a sharp left, and arrive in time for a ten o'clock ride. Words simply cannot describe how gorgeous the weather was today or how lush and colourful the Spring landscape was - everyone was commenting on it, everyone was radiating contentment. With oodles of good cheer, we headed off into the Wombat Forest together, just my sister and I, on lively horses that were both fully and joyfully in tune with the utter wonderfulness of the day. It was just a short 2.5 hour ride like last time, but it went so well that we're planning one more short ride next month, then I'll try to tackle an all dayer in December. Hopefully we can resume our usual riding trips after that.

So, now I just need to get my writing routine up to scratch as well and I'll once again be a fully functioning Gitte. Ah well, steady as she goes...

They Should Bottle Horse Riding and Sell it as a Tonic

It'll be another early night for me, once I finish a spot of quick bio updating for the '100 Lightnings' anthology which I've just been informed is nearing completion. I'm very tired, but happy, after a lovely horsey day courtesy of my sister, who kindly ferried me about the countryside to reduce my expending energy on things other than actually horse riding.

There was none of our usual dusk to dawn derring-do wending through the forest at high speeds, but a more sedate 2.5 hour ride with lots of chatting and admiring of the countryside. However, we did trot and canter much more than I thought we would because, after a cautious start to test the waters, it soon became apparent that my poor, putupon internals were, apart from the occasional lurch, behaving themselves impeccably. At no point did I feel the need to scream, or even softly moan, with pain, so we picked up the speed and covered more ground than we'd originally planned. The horses were eager, the weather was grey but balmy, and the rain held off until after our ride was over. 'Twas a goooooood feeling to be back on a horse again.

Afterwards, we hit the jackpot foodwise, in that the people who own the place where we ride were having a family get together, celebrating a christening, and had whipped up lots of good country cooking for the event. My sister and I were waited upon like royalty, and served a selection of delicious homemade terrines with salad and a bread which, once buttered, we couldn't get enough of. But wait, there's more. As we leaned back in chairs on the veranda enjoying our cups of tea and our satisfied tummies as we perused horses shuffling picturesquely in the corals and the gorgeous landscape beyond, well-mannered kids appeared bearing the scrummiest pavlova I've had in years, and yes, it was for us. **

A great ride followed by great food - aaah, life is good!

The loooooong nap I had as soon as I got home was nice too :)

**Update: I realise now that the sequential logic of this sentence leaves much to be desired, the taste reveal coming before the sweet had been confirmed as destined for us, but hey, it was late and I was pooped when I wrote it :)

Gearing Up

I'll be putting on my jammies soon and hitting bed early tonight because - yay! - I'm heading off for a tiny horse ride tomorrow. Tiny as in it'll just be an ever so very very gentle and short 2 hour ride, that is, not as in it in any way involves miniature equines. It'll just be my sister and me, two good horses, the Daylefordian countryside, and hopefully a nice sunny day for clopping at a relaxed pace through the Wombat Forest. I haven't ridden since back in April, before my first operation, so I'm really looking forward to climbing back in the saddle. My gear is all lined up and I'm raring to go. Cross fingers I'm not overextending myself, and that my poor old sliced and diced body is up for it. I think it'll do me a world of good.

But first, I'm going to hunker down in front of the TV, fire up the blu-ray, load up a tray with herbal tea and fresh fruit goodies, and finally watch Another Earth, which I've been meaning to catch for ages. As I've posted on a few occasions, I do love a good SF, mirror planet, doppelganger movie.

Clueless Cows

Enough with the gorgeous spring weather! How's a person supposed to hole up inside and get some writing done when Mother Nature puts on such a stunning, sunny come-hither display of vernal loveliness? Perhaps I should recharge and update poor neglected Rover, who hasn't done a thing since my last operation, and head out into the backyard for a few hours. I might then also be more likely to grab Rover on the way out the door tomorrow and resume my habit of writing on the train whilst commuting to the Arvo Job. Double win. Alas, I fear that if I choose the backyard writing option, I might be distracted by the Chook's antics, the cuteness of certain felines, and the hypnotic pull of a big, wide, beautiful, blue sky.

Last week, I was not so housebound, but I didn't get to blog about an event that got me thinking about so many things, so I'll play catch-ups now. Out of curiosity, we headed off to a local (only 60-70 kilometres away) horsey competition in Elmore, run by the National Cutting Horse Association of Australia.  We thought it was the actual national championships, but they're not until November. However, after a  fun day that just flew by, we've circled that upcoming date, and next time I'll take much money for products - umbrellas, hats, bags, t-shirts, halters, bespoke saddles, you name it, many depicting horses in all states of realism or animated cuteness. A few unicorns and Pegasi snuck in too, holding their own with the many images of working country horses in impressive poses.

On arriving, expecting to walk into a world of spartan toughness, much to our surprise we were confronted by horses bedecked in pink sparkles with pink ribbons and pink feathers woven into their manes and tails, ladies completely attired in pink and sporting many pink accessories, and weather-worn blokes wearing pink lingerie over their cowboy clothes. It turned out to be the Deb Elliott Memorial Ladies Pink Cutting, a fundraising and awareness rating initiative organised by Cutting for Cancer. It was a wonderful introduction to the world of cutting and the people who populate it. I took pictures, but these ones are far better.

Prior to this event, all I knew about cutting was that it involved a rider and loyal horse separating a cow from the herd and keeping it isolated for a certain amount of time. It turned out to be a lot more complicated than that. After a few hours of studying the information sheets, judging rules and point system, we were trying to second-guess scores, having a great time throwing around terms like 'coming down the time line' and 'hot quit', while discussing the animal psychology behind 'herd holding' and, basically, how the whole sport depended on it. For, first and foremost, if the cows were not so unrelentingly bovine, cutting simply could not exist as a sport. It was this information, proven over and over and over again, that fascinated me. The sheer and utterly frightening predictability of the cows had my thoughts going off on all sorts of tangents.

Firstly, and remember I'm not cutting expert, the herds are regularly refreshed so as to not mess up their instincts. The herd holder, basically a cow whisperer on horseback, calmly weaves back and forth 'programming' the cows to accept one part of the arena as their safe zone. An ever so relaxed rider comes down the time line, quiet and calm, and sashays into the herd, lackadaisically breaking off a group and weaving back and forth to whittle down the numbers until there are just two cows. At this point, the two cows get somewhat uneasy. Instead of working together, however, self-preservation kicks in and they split off in two directions, giving themselves a 50-50 chance of escaping whatever predator is after them, I suppose. The rider then clearly chooses one (you lose points if you vacillate or change your mind).The visible and violent jolt of electricity that passes through a cow the second it realises it is the target is both pitiful and (I'm so cruel) a little bit comic. It's so pronounced that I'm sure there's a behavioural term for it. Anyway, the cow goes from being a couldn't-give-a-turd-about-being-here beast just chillin' with friends to becoming a panicked, mad creature dodging and twisting and doing amazingly gymnastic movements in a frenzied effort to get back to the herd. All of our victim's mates are, by the by, calmly in the safe zone utterly ignoring their colleagues distress. After the rider and pony have held the cow apart for a designated time, they 'quit' the cow and it is allowed to return to its pals. Once again, in the flick of a behavioural switch, it immediately relaxes, and within seconds seems to have forgotten its ordeal. I have to admit, after a couple of hours of this, I was hoping for a cow rebellion of some sort -  for the herd to stick together, for a cool individual to not care about being alone and not succumb to the usual panic, for the herd in the safe zone to come charging to the rescue of their  persecuted member. But no, they all reacted the same every single time.

Another revelation was the fact that the horses have complete autonomy during the phase when the cow is prevented from returning to the herd. I always thought the rider lightly guided the horse, but no, the rider actually signals that he or she is  handing over control by "dropping'  the reins, and the horse then works as an independent participant until the rider picks up the reins again. In fact, any interference from the rider results in lost points. So all the lightening fast starts and turns and cunning blocks that one sees are ALL the horse's doing, which is why, of course, there are superstar horses on the cutting circuit that cost a king's ransom when up for sale. Like all sports, there will always be naturals. Some of the horses radiated fun and delight, more like big dogs eager for their owners to throw a stick as they scampered back and forth than equines, some were highly trained but their hearts weren't in it, while still others obviously hated the cows with a passion, and drew on that antipathy to get the job done. The last seems not to be an unusual state of affairs, for the rules, interestingly, note that points are deducted for horsey displays of aggression and unnecessary roughness - apparently some horses indulge in pawing, biting and kicking the cattle.

Cutting horses are extremely intelligent animals, and far more personable than most horses exactly because they do enjoy periods of absolute autonomy. Well, that's my theory, at least - give animals half a chance to be themselves rather than unnatural products of human rules and they'll surprise you with their uniqueness. These cutting horses know they're important. They're fully aware that they're clever and fast, and they openly revel in it, each according to their particular character, by being cheeky, regal, show ponies, arrogant or aloof. Cutting horses are the exact opposite of the cows they play with (or harass, according to your view of the sport), while the rider, perched above the two, is (I think when I'm in a certain frame of mind) the intermediary who exploits the two animals to look good, and takes all glory thereafter.

Anyway, that day at the cutting championships set me to thinking about herd behaviour, human psychology, human kindness, the mini worlds within our big standard world that humans create with like minded individuals who share their passions, inter-animal relationships, how I'd rather be a cutting horse than a cow, and how someone needs to sneak in under cover of darkness and rally all cattle into facing down those smart-arse cutting horses. At the very least, someone should teach those cows to come up with new bovine moves and twists that would knock the socks off the fancily dancing fetlocks of their superstar opponents.

   

Picking Up the Pace

Strengthened by regular mini-keyboard sessions - noun push ups, weightlifting heavy verbs, flexing my vocabulary, stretching ideas to keep them limber - my concentration stamina is building. I wrote for four whole, flat out hours today, the most yet that I've done in one day for many, many months. I plan to sub a whole lot of work tomorrow - I'm down to just 5 stories out in the wild - and start getting real about finishing off stories for three end-of-this-month deadlines. I've also begun to beat myself up over having had so much time at my disposal for the past seven weeks without much writing to show for it. Selective amnesia has set in. What on earth have I been doing with myself these past two months? Bugger that recovering from an operation crap - my more ambitious self is pretty sure I've just used not feeling well as an excuse to slack off, and she's riled about it. As she keeps reminding me, I could have completed and polished my YA novel by now, or finished countless short stories. That I'm once more nagging myself about being a lazy so and so is a sure sign that things are returning to normal.

This all probably ties in with my body feeling stronger too. When I went for my daily medwalk today, I straightened my spine, lifted my chin, and shifted from a cautious shuffle into a confident, speedy stride. I blitzed the botanical gardens track, completing two laps in near-Olympic times, and had to stop myself from doing a third turn. It felt good.

I've started to measure my energy levels against the prospect of returning to the Arvo Job. It's the thought of getting through a whole day without a single nap that worries me the most. I did have an awfully long snooze today. How do people do it? Why would they want to do it? Naps are excellent things.

I've begun to wonder when I'll be right for horse riding again. Muscle memory dogs me. The sensation of swinging up into a saddle and gathering up the reins for a ride feels real and plays over and over. My brain keeps serving up scenes of wending through bushland, sauntering down a country lane, or galloping along a stretch of lonely beach on a lively steed. Maybe I'll be good to go again in a month? Two months? I'll have to ask my doctors...

Out With The Old

If my Internet computer were a person it would look like this:

It creaks and gurgles and groans, and it's just taken over 50 minutes to download an antivirus update and receive a few emails. Okay, one of those emails was full of horse pictures sent by my sister to show me what a great ride I didn't go on  over the weekend, but still, it's definitely time for an upgrade.

I also got a rejection, but an extremely lovely and flattering one along with an invitation to give the antho another shot. My mind is already churning, trying to come up with something suitable.

Wish I Were There

My sister is up on a cold, dark, possibly rainy mountainside right now, and has probably just pitched her tent amidst the stunning surroundings of the Howqua River and had a nice hot shower to wash away the mud deposited by a day of trail riding. Soon there’ll be good food and a fire and chatter and horses moving in the background, but I’m not there *sigh*. I should be there, and I was so looking forward to that weekend ride, which we planned last year, but circumstances would otherwise.

On the other hand, my ‘to be read’ stack just grew significantly taller. As compensation for missing out on a horse fix (boo-hoo) I got a buzz buying a few books at the annual Clunes Booktown get-together. It was, as always, heaven on earth for bibliophiles, with building after building filled with fictional and non-fictional trash and treasure, plenty of bargains for literary shopaholics and the miserly as well as pricey stuff for serious investors adding to their collections, and everywhere, there were crowds of beaming people with bags and boxes loaded with their finds. The Punch and Judy show had the kids howling with glee again, there were musicians to entertain us as we browsed, and there was plenty of lovely food, though some of the frazzled-looking caterers had seriously underestimated the voracious appetites built up by we mighty book hunters when we’re on the prowl and were running out of provisions already around 14.00. They’ll be kicking themselves for days over those lost profits. Me, I'd have had a truckload of backup supplies on hand. Anyway, there were also lots of arts and crafts to give one’s eyes a reprieve from scanning kilometers of book spines.

Throw in a book shop cat whose lashing tail told me she was seriously displeased about the many folk invading her territory but she was darned if she was going to move for them, and it was a fun day out.

And my day wasn't entirely unequine. I did see many horses and ponies on the drive to and from Clunes, and just as I was dropped off at home, two local lasses rode right past my house on their fine steeds. I mention this because Polly, who was waiting for me in the front yard, could not believe her eyes. She backed off, arched her back, hissed, and crouched ready to attack. The girls laughed at her antics. The horses remained utterly unaware of her existence.

Girls' Own Adventures

Our early ride was fantastic and glitch free, but our big, afternoon ride was a series of stamina testing mishaps. First we had hardware failure, and had to turn back and wait for a replacement saddle. When we resumed the ride, my horse and my sister’s horse, which had been swapping as the lead horse without problem, both developed a serious aversion to being out front and setting the pace once we hit the narrow, windy bits through the forest where we usually gallop full pelt. The third horse was new and definitely not up for taking charge (herd instinct and equine hierarchies can be a bugger to negotiate sometimes). We had to work hard to get them halfway up the trail, but were finally defeated by a bridge. All three horses on the ride refused to be the first to go over the creek, and we since we were already running late, we decided to scrap that route, head back and take another path.

Reader, we got lost (and yes, we did have a guide – I’ll say no more.)

The long ride became a very, very long. Calls were made, trail signs were read, but the Wombat Forest is very big, and it took ages to get back to a place we knew, and we were soooooo tired by then. We watched the sun sinking behind the trees with a wary eyes as we rode along, finally hit open land and admired the sun setting over the beautiful Daylesford hills, sang a few cowboyish songs as it grew darker to keep our spirits up, negotiated who would get off to open certain gates and try to get back in the saddle again (I “won” and more “challenges” ensued). On the home stretch we met up with K in his car, and he drove behind to light our way and make us visible for any oncoming traffic.

So, we were tested and forged today, and rewarded with rhubarb muffins and buckets of tea before we headed for home. I suspect I’ll be a tad shakey-legged at the Arvo Job tomorrow.

Cluck, Cluck

Now there's chook-lit, a sub-genre of chick-lit?  Ah, the urge to categorize is a strong one.

Anyway, time to pull on my joddies and boots - horses await.

Horse power

Over the past few days, there have been many photos of the newly installed Super-Duper Leader Mark Two of a certain Asian country that recently lost a much beloved despot and which remains somewhat challenged when it comes to citizens’ rights. Said Super-Duper Leader Mark Two has been snapped climbing out of tanks, holding machine guns, and inducing hysterics in common folk with a single glance.

The photo that caught my attention, however, was the one of SDLM2 astride a horse which was constantly referred to as ‘a nervous-looking grey’. My first thought was a knee-jerk one along the lines of ‘You think?’ Then I realised that for a seemingly simple phrase, it was actually quite a cunningly constructed piece of biased reporting. As if the horse in the photo has any idea that the lump on its back might have it taken out behind the shed and shot if it doesn’t perform to standard. Its nervousness, if indeed it is nervous, has nothing to do with human politics. Said SDLM2 might be throwing his weight around and tugging the reins and sending conflicting instructions to his mount. The pair of them might be surrounded by crowds of extremely anxious people worried that the SDLM2 might fall off the horse and be injured. Or look like a fool. Or shoot them along with the horse because he was injured / looked like a fool. That amount of human fear would be enough to make any horse agitated.

However, I’m betting that it’s only the Western media that described the horse as nervous-looking. I’d say that in SDLM2’s own country, the head-tossing steed is probably referred to as ‘spirited’ and ‘noble’. The horse is still a powerful symbol of manliness and authority in many countries, which is no doubt why the message people felt the need to trot one out along with the tanks. For added punch, white/grey horses are an important part of many Asian and European mythologies, so I wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover that the grey horse in question already has a mystical “backstory” along the lines of it being a once-wild creature that wandered in off the plains and knelt down in obeisance and love before SDLM2.