It’s one of my favorite days, riding day. Right now I only get to ride a few times a week but if I had my way, my bed would be in the stables. I love to ride. I love my guy even if he is kind of an ass and got himself punished for bad behavior. But I don’t care because he loves me so much it’s like a love song.
I didn’t realize how many people don’t like animals, but a lot of them. That’s kind of crazy to me because many times I’d rather hang out with my animals or animals in general than people. Some of that stems from my introversion, some of it from the general disappointment that exists in human relations and the rest from the fact that animals are great. They aren’t confusing to understand and when you extend a trusting hand even the wildest of them will agree to a begrudging detente.
Pretty soon I’m going to move to my hobby farm in the mountains. I’ll live off grid, raise my own food and get my exercise doing farm work. That is until I need my theatre/opera fix with a good latte and ride on the Hudson River Line (or St Charles, if you will). I’m a multifaceted person as are most that I meet. My life needs diversity to work and certainly my writing does.
Because I am so diverse swinging from one end to the other I feel like it opens up avenues of ideas that others who refuse to budge on matters miss out. I don’t drink just red or white or bubbly. I don’t drink only tea and not coffee. I listen to all music from classical to alt to electronica to Neil Diamond. I read everything no genre is off limits. I love going to the occasional ballet class and I’m not going to lie, unleashing a well executed tornado kick in Muay Thai is top of the list of good feelings.
What’s more I can appreciate the diversity of all these ideas and tastes and actions. I don’t just do or indulge them with a cheeky smugness of the over informed and over-illuminated. That open mindedness I think lends me to ideas in my writing craft that I feel are finally taking it to a real and worthy stride. Writing needs loving acceptance. Hemingway for all of his bad got it. It’s why he was fighting in Spain for a war he really could have given a crap about, regardless of what he wrote. Or why he was hanging down the the Wilde West of Key West. He knew his stories needed this energy to be real, to really strike their point.
He’s saddled, that familiar scent of horse and leather, one of my favorite guys if you’re wondering what your next cologne should be. Time to do a few laps until the day I can open up the arena gates and charge through at a full gallop down to my green valley with the whispering brook running along the edge of my property on a hazy blue day.