In keeping with the Halloween spirit... enjoy!
The Whisper
I closed my eyes, then opened them quickly but was unable to discern a noticeable difference in the window. The tiny bit of light coming through the edges traced the outline of the blinds, but not much more. Personally at this very moment I wished I had chosen drapes made of chiffon. For that matter no blinds at all would been preferable to this inky blackness.
I heard the whisper again. "Susaaan" it said so softly I guessed at my own sanity. My ears strained and my eyes darted to and fro trying to decide if I was imagining this or not. For the past five nights it had been the same and tonight did not appear to be any different. I pushed the supposed relevance of the number 6 to the background of my mind and tried to ignore it. "Susaaan" the voice whispered again, tickling my ears as I buried my face deep in the pillows and pulled the covers over my head. My childhood collection of porcelain dolls were safe on their collective self and though their eyes had no trouble filtering through this darkness they sat silently, staring on. If they saw, they were not telling.
[i]"This is silly." [/i] I thought to myself, but nonetheless waited for a few moments before creeping out from under the heavy comforter, hoping beyond hope that I was just imagining this and nothing more. Deep in my heart however, I feared this was something far more sinister. Parapsychology seemed like such a good idea for college but the last thing I wanted to think about right now was ghosts. Mocking me, images seemed to float around my room on the barest traces of light, just out of my line of vision so that if I moved my eyes to intercept them they disappeared, like so much smoke.
I could hear the trees outside the house, scraping branches against the outside of the window with the wind like skeletal bones on the bars of a cage, pushing to get out. Or perhaps, pushing to get in. The old fashioned alarm clock sat next to the bed kept up it's silent march, it's face glowing dully in the darkness, weak against the onslaught of black. It's light reflected in the glass of the dolls eyes as they kept their thoughts to themselves, maintaining their quiet vigil.
"Susaaan" the voice whispered again and with this I leapt from my bed. "That's it! I've had enough!" I shouted. "Who are you and what do you want with me?" I asked, my voice going lower with each syllable and I began to tremble as I realized how complete the darkness of the room was. Cracking my shin on the nightstand, I yelped as I knocked the clock and it's watery light on the floor, and then kicked it under the bed as I hopped around holding my damaged pride. Stepping to what I believed was the direction of the window, I tore the blinds from their rod and stood looking out into the dark at the skeletal face peering back at me. The branches of the old tree intertwined until they formed a the shape of a jaw that mocked me with it's simplicity. Now as I stood at the window I heard the music, though faint from the neighbors back yard, a popular rock song with an emphasis apparently on a girl whose name I shared.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped back from the window and shook my head at my own foolishness. For five entire nights now I'd lain awake, scared and worried at something as silly as a neighbors obsession with a singular song played over, and over again. Reaching for the clock to rescue it from it's fall, I set it on the bedside table. Then turning to the dolls I decided tomorrow might be a good time to get rid of them once and for all. They were really beginning to creep me out.
Crawling back into bed, I dove under the covers and pulled them up under my chin. I fluffed my pillow and looked once more at the dolls with a silent promise of their upcoming demise. With my mind at peace finally, drifted off to catch up with the sleep I'd missed the last several nights.
Had I stayed awake a bit longer I would have heard a change in the whisper, which were not the lyrics I believed to be my tormentor. "Susaaaan.... we are coming for you." Perhaps I would have noticed the wind blowing the curtains on a window that was not open a few seconds prior. Maybe I would have seen the reflection of something else cutting through the darkness, reflected as the dolls watched the glowing eyes creeping closer to the bed. It is even possible I would have felt the fetid breath as it caressed my cheek. It is not without reason that had I not been so exhausted, I could have escaped before I woke screaming as the ragged nails dug in my side, dragging me from the bed towards a portal of hell.
Through all of this, the dolls watched on.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
Recipes and fashion sense!
Ok, let me preface this by saying I've never considered myself a writer of horror stories. I can think up some pretty twisted stuff, but short stories themselves usually elude me so this was a sure test of will to get this together. It really made me stretch and think, and it's not been reviewed by anyone but me so if there are some editing errors it's because I'm half blind and without coffee at this point.
In any case, I hope you enjoy. I also hope you watch carefully next time someone is cooking something special for you. ;)
A Supper Dish
By Donna Sabatine
Copyright © 2010
.
Samantha brushed a brunette lock away from her face as she stirred the pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove. The mixture bubbled happily, and she hoped she’d added enough spice this time. The TV was playing an old black and white romance in the background and the muted sounds of storyline, mixed perfectly with the roaring fireplace and the smell of supper cooking. She tasted the sauce careful not to burn her lips and added another pinch of oregano just to be sure. The sauce was her grandmother’s own recipe and she wanted it to be perfect for her husband.
Tom worked hard at the local mill but had a problem with drinking after work. She knew he was handsome and had the ladies attention and though she loved her husband, she resented the lonely nights at home when he was with his friends and far away from her. Lately those nights seemed to be more often than not and her protests that he needed to be home more fell on deaf ears. He would laugh and make some rude joke about her being an old maid stuck all alone with the wind at night. Samantha bristled at the memory of how Tammy Sue Jones had ogled him in the local department store while standing at the perfume counter. That was the last time he had grudgingly taken Samantha to town and she tried to ignore the fact that Tom had given Tammy the once over as well when he thought she wasn’t looking. Samantha made a mental note to ask him about her; perhaps after supper. He should be on his way home by now, as the time had come and passed for his usual drinking spree with his buddies before staggering home. She smiled as she straightened the table cloth and set her grandmother’s china on the worn kitchen table. She had planned a special night together and she hoped he wasn’t too tired from the previous day’s activities.
Samantha had been raised in this house and called it home since her parents were killed in a car accident when she was seven. Her grandfather had died some time earlier, in this very kitchen coincidentally, and Grandmother Elsa spoke of him little except to say that he was very handsome and a favorite with the ladies. She would tell the story of his death with a strange smile tugging at her mouth, and as odd as this would seem to many, Samantha would listen enraptured as the details came forth.
Grandmother Elsa’s signature look was a long black dress with the high neck and long sleeves, out of date for the times, and she always wore a cameo brooch at the throat given to her by her own grandmother. She was a familiar fixture wherever a man had gone astray whether it was domestic abuse or plain old cheating on his wife, or for that matter a wife that had started running around on her husband, leaving her children at home alone. Grandmother Elsa was always there to lend a hand to the family and show support. She would arrive with her grey hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her neck as Samantha helped her carry a covered dish supper to the offending family member, always a big platter of her famous spaghetti. Strangely enough whatever trouble was brewing always disappeared once Grandmother Elsa had paid a visit. It was from this that Samantha learned that good cooking can solve most problems in life. She studied diligently and spent many hours with her grandmother in the kitchen. “One day Samantha, perhaps you will need to cook for your husband. Make sure you listen and watch the ingredients I use.” She remembered her grandmother preaching more than once, she only hoped now she would be up to Grandmother Elsa’s standards. She felt pretty confident about this particular supper and lifted the lid once more to check on the sauce.
Samantha turned her head slightly as she heard Tom’s car pull in the driveway and turning the fire down on the stove, she allowed the sauce to simmer slowly until it was time to serve. “Hi Honey! I’m home!” Tom said loudly from the front foyer as the door swung shut behind him. He walked into the kitchen where she was slowly stirring the sauce, stopping to lean against the doorframe for a moment as his bleary eyes took in his wife at the stove. Then, wrapping his arms around her he pressed his lips to her neck. She could smell the alcohol on his breath and clothes as he squeezed her tight, and even though she was repulsed, her only reaction was to continue to slowly stir the pot. “What? No love for your good looking man?” Tom said and laughed as he belched loudly in her ear.
“Of course dear” Samantha said as she turned and allowed him to lean onto her. “Anything for my husband.” Along with the alcohol was another, more familiar scent. A woman’s perfume perhaps and possibly sold at a local department store. She stored this information away as most women do, making a mental note to purchase some for herself at some point. “Sit down now and have some supper before it gets cold.” Samantha was careful not to give away her grandmothers final, last secret ingredient for the special sauce she was making, as she dropped a healthy measure of it into the mixture.
Tom staggered over to the chair and flopped down, taking in the nicely set table and roaring fire in the fireplace. “So what’s the special occasion?” He asked as he took in his wife’s dress while she handed him a plate of spaghetti and laid a napkin in his lap. He shoved a huge bite of into his mouth and said with a sneer “And what’s up with that dress?” as spaghetti sauce ran down his stubbled chin and onto his shirt.
Samantha tugged down the black skirt and admired her long sleeves as she sunk the 8” butcher knife between his shoulder blades, burying it to the hilt and leaving it protruding from his back as she turned back to the stove to begin cleanup on the supper she had worked so hard to prepare. “You mean this old thing? It’s just something my Grandmother Elsa left me.” She reached up to lovingly straighten the cameo brooch on the dress’s high neck. She heard him sputter and choke, gasping his final breath as his body slid from the chair into the floor and laid there, wracked with spasms. The last words Tom would hear before the world went black, cold and still was his wife saying in a soft voice, “She had as good a taste in clothes as she did recipes you know.” A log popped in the fire as the credits for the movie rolled across the television screen.
Taking her first taste of the sauce, she let the spices roll around her mouth as she closed her eyes and enjoyed the full flavor, then she filled a large bowl and set aside in the refrigerator. She contemplated what to bring with it tomorrow when she went to visit Tammy and ask her what kind of perfume she could recommend.
In any case, I hope you enjoy. I also hope you watch carefully next time someone is cooking something special for you. ;)
A Supper Dish
By Donna Sabatine
Copyright © 2010
.
Samantha brushed a brunette lock away from her face as she stirred the pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove. The mixture bubbled happily, and she hoped she’d added enough spice this time. The TV was playing an old black and white romance in the background and the muted sounds of storyline, mixed perfectly with the roaring fireplace and the smell of supper cooking. She tasted the sauce careful not to burn her lips and added another pinch of oregano just to be sure. The sauce was her grandmother’s own recipe and she wanted it to be perfect for her husband.
Tom worked hard at the local mill but had a problem with drinking after work. She knew he was handsome and had the ladies attention and though she loved her husband, she resented the lonely nights at home when he was with his friends and far away from her. Lately those nights seemed to be more often than not and her protests that he needed to be home more fell on deaf ears. He would laugh and make some rude joke about her being an old maid stuck all alone with the wind at night. Samantha bristled at the memory of how Tammy Sue Jones had ogled him in the local department store while standing at the perfume counter. That was the last time he had grudgingly taken Samantha to town and she tried to ignore the fact that Tom had given Tammy the once over as well when he thought she wasn’t looking. Samantha made a mental note to ask him about her; perhaps after supper. He should be on his way home by now, as the time had come and passed for his usual drinking spree with his buddies before staggering home. She smiled as she straightened the table cloth and set her grandmother’s china on the worn kitchen table. She had planned a special night together and she hoped he wasn’t too tired from the previous day’s activities.
Samantha had been raised in this house and called it home since her parents were killed in a car accident when she was seven. Her grandfather had died some time earlier, in this very kitchen coincidentally, and Grandmother Elsa spoke of him little except to say that he was very handsome and a favorite with the ladies. She would tell the story of his death with a strange smile tugging at her mouth, and as odd as this would seem to many, Samantha would listen enraptured as the details came forth.
Grandmother Elsa’s signature look was a long black dress with the high neck and long sleeves, out of date for the times, and she always wore a cameo brooch at the throat given to her by her own grandmother. She was a familiar fixture wherever a man had gone astray whether it was domestic abuse or plain old cheating on his wife, or for that matter a wife that had started running around on her husband, leaving her children at home alone. Grandmother Elsa was always there to lend a hand to the family and show support. She would arrive with her grey hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her neck as Samantha helped her carry a covered dish supper to the offending family member, always a big platter of her famous spaghetti. Strangely enough whatever trouble was brewing always disappeared once Grandmother Elsa had paid a visit. It was from this that Samantha learned that good cooking can solve most problems in life. She studied diligently and spent many hours with her grandmother in the kitchen. “One day Samantha, perhaps you will need to cook for your husband. Make sure you listen and watch the ingredients I use.” She remembered her grandmother preaching more than once, she only hoped now she would be up to Grandmother Elsa’s standards. She felt pretty confident about this particular supper and lifted the lid once more to check on the sauce.
Samantha turned her head slightly as she heard Tom’s car pull in the driveway and turning the fire down on the stove, she allowed the sauce to simmer slowly until it was time to serve. “Hi Honey! I’m home!” Tom said loudly from the front foyer as the door swung shut behind him. He walked into the kitchen where she was slowly stirring the sauce, stopping to lean against the doorframe for a moment as his bleary eyes took in his wife at the stove. Then, wrapping his arms around her he pressed his lips to her neck. She could smell the alcohol on his breath and clothes as he squeezed her tight, and even though she was repulsed, her only reaction was to continue to slowly stir the pot. “What? No love for your good looking man?” Tom said and laughed as he belched loudly in her ear.
“Of course dear” Samantha said as she turned and allowed him to lean onto her. “Anything for my husband.” Along with the alcohol was another, more familiar scent. A woman’s perfume perhaps and possibly sold at a local department store. She stored this information away as most women do, making a mental note to purchase some for herself at some point. “Sit down now and have some supper before it gets cold.” Samantha was careful not to give away her grandmothers final, last secret ingredient for the special sauce she was making, as she dropped a healthy measure of it into the mixture.
Tom staggered over to the chair and flopped down, taking in the nicely set table and roaring fire in the fireplace. “So what’s the special occasion?” He asked as he took in his wife’s dress while she handed him a plate of spaghetti and laid a napkin in his lap. He shoved a huge bite of into his mouth and said with a sneer “And what’s up with that dress?” as spaghetti sauce ran down his stubbled chin and onto his shirt.
Samantha tugged down the black skirt and admired her long sleeves as she sunk the 8” butcher knife between his shoulder blades, burying it to the hilt and leaving it protruding from his back as she turned back to the stove to begin cleanup on the supper she had worked so hard to prepare. “You mean this old thing? It’s just something my Grandmother Elsa left me.” She reached up to lovingly straighten the cameo brooch on the dress’s high neck. She heard him sputter and choke, gasping his final breath as his body slid from the chair into the floor and laid there, wracked with spasms. The last words Tom would hear before the world went black, cold and still was his wife saying in a soft voice, “She had as good a taste in clothes as she did recipes you know.” A log popped in the fire as the credits for the movie rolled across the television screen.
Taking her first taste of the sauce, she let the spices roll around her mouth as she closed her eyes and enjoyed the full flavor, then she filled a large bowl and set aside in the refrigerator. She contemplated what to bring with it tomorrow when she went to visit Tammy and ask her what kind of perfume she could recommend.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Goblins and Ghosts and Spooks and Monsters.. oh my!!
In the spirit of the upcoming Halloween night and now fully immersed in the Halloween season, my wish is to leave you each day with some kind of short, spooky story. Hopefully these will leave you quaking in your shoes, chilling to the bones, cowering in the couch and refusing to go to the bathroom down the hall without turning on every light in the house. For the first one I'm going to leave you with one written some time ago as an exercise from a period before vampires were sparkly and attended high school. It turned out quite well I believe and may develop into something more some day, right now it's comfortable being flash fiction, a short story unto itself without a beginning or real ending. In any case, I hope you enjoy and if your light bill doubles in the next week, don't blame me!
Dark Gift
By Donna Sabatine
Copyright © 2010
Through night’s velvet cover I rise from my centuries sleep; taunted by the thought of the bloodlust I know will come with the darkness. The lust I know will pull me inexorably along like the tide with the moon. The city’s heartbeat throbs as I search. The dark alleys and small alcoves hold the lost souls; the forgotten ones, the ones that will not be missed. There is no challenge in this hunt. They offer no resistance as my face reflects in their eyes and they realize I alone am timeless. Tonight I am challenged to find the one. Tonight I seek a mate that will abide with me, sustain me into the next millennium until it is time to search again.
The night hides my shadows as I find the one I seek. Standing alone from the rest he also watches the city, his dark eyes taking in the ebb and flow of humanity as it goes about its nightly duties. Sensing my presence he turns and with my eyes and unspoken promises, I whisper my invitation. He is mortal, but that is a temporary inconvenience.
The desire burns in his eyes as he takes in the form of the woman before him; the form of a woman who was transformed during the time of the Pharaohs and a shape that hints of earthly pleasures. A smile crests and breaks like the sunrise, blinding me with its radiance and I am stunned…but only for a moment. Clasping his hand in mine I move close and the bloodlust engulfs me.
For this very brief second in time I am as close to human as I have been in 5,000 years. Not since I lay to rest a millennium ago, abhorred at my thirst and disgusted at the carnage that laid in its wake. I am haunted no longer as I accept who I am, what I am. I take his face in my hands kiss him softly as the dark gift urges. The kiss is a taste of immortality and his body responds with shock at the visions it brings to his consciousness; images of elegance and ultimately, images of death.
Holding his eyes with mine I slowly unzip the leather jacket that he wears, baring the soft skin at the base of his throat. Mentally he is already mine, this fair haired child of the sun, and he bends lower to feel my teeth on his neck. I can feel his breath quicken I drink that first deep draught and the life blood flows across my lips but not too much, only enough to open the portals of hell for his entrance; the portals of my own personal hell which I have survived alone these many thousands of years alone, but no longer.
Steadying him with my arm I lick the blood from my lips and in return for his soul, offer my flesh to him. He drinks deeply as his eyes are filled with the soulless look of the dark gift. It is done and I am no longer alone.
As the sun begins to crest the horizon, waking the humans from rest and setting them about their daily lives we sleep entombed in the city that is a hunting ground for any like us. We are the predators, we are the lords, we are the timeless ones and as I fold my arms around him, we sleep the sleep of the dark gift.
Dark Gift
By Donna Sabatine
Copyright © 2010
Through night’s velvet cover I rise from my centuries sleep; taunted by the thought of the bloodlust I know will come with the darkness. The lust I know will pull me inexorably along like the tide with the moon. The city’s heartbeat throbs as I search. The dark alleys and small alcoves hold the lost souls; the forgotten ones, the ones that will not be missed. There is no challenge in this hunt. They offer no resistance as my face reflects in their eyes and they realize I alone am timeless. Tonight I am challenged to find the one. Tonight I seek a mate that will abide with me, sustain me into the next millennium until it is time to search again.
The night hides my shadows as I find the one I seek. Standing alone from the rest he also watches the city, his dark eyes taking in the ebb and flow of humanity as it goes about its nightly duties. Sensing my presence he turns and with my eyes and unspoken promises, I whisper my invitation. He is mortal, but that is a temporary inconvenience.
The desire burns in his eyes as he takes in the form of the woman before him; the form of a woman who was transformed during the time of the Pharaohs and a shape that hints of earthly pleasures. A smile crests and breaks like the sunrise, blinding me with its radiance and I am stunned…but only for a moment. Clasping his hand in mine I move close and the bloodlust engulfs me.
For this very brief second in time I am as close to human as I have been in 5,000 years. Not since I lay to rest a millennium ago, abhorred at my thirst and disgusted at the carnage that laid in its wake. I am haunted no longer as I accept who I am, what I am. I take his face in my hands kiss him softly as the dark gift urges. The kiss is a taste of immortality and his body responds with shock at the visions it brings to his consciousness; images of elegance and ultimately, images of death.
Holding his eyes with mine I slowly unzip the leather jacket that he wears, baring the soft skin at the base of his throat. Mentally he is already mine, this fair haired child of the sun, and he bends lower to feel my teeth on his neck. I can feel his breath quicken I drink that first deep draught and the life blood flows across my lips but not too much, only enough to open the portals of hell for his entrance; the portals of my own personal hell which I have survived alone these many thousands of years alone, but no longer.
Steadying him with my arm I lick the blood from my lips and in return for his soul, offer my flesh to him. He drinks deeply as his eyes are filled with the soulless look of the dark gift. It is done and I am no longer alone.
As the sun begins to crest the horizon, waking the humans from rest and setting them about their daily lives we sleep entombed in the city that is a hunting ground for any like us. We are the predators, we are the lords, we are the timeless ones and as I fold my arms around him, we sleep the sleep of the dark gift.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Pseudologia Fantastica
Big words for a simple problem, that being habitual or complusive lying.. ie pathological lying about a situation or condition. Also termed "mythomania" which I also considered for the title, but decided the longer one that sounded like a bad science fiction acid trip worked better. I think I'm going to save it for my repetoire of words and throw it out there along with "infinitestical" as often as I can.
Infinitestical? Oh yes, but that's for another post.
So lets have a look at this, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pathological_liar . Wikipedia defines the characteristics of this type of behavior:
The defining characteristics of pseudologia fantastica are that, first, the stories told are not entirely improbable and often have some element of truth. They are not manifestations of delusion or some wider form of psychosis. Upon confrontation, the teller can admit them to be untree, even if unwillingly.
In other words, they build a story around a small kernel of fact. The problem with this is that eventually they lie to so many people they are unable to keep the story straight and then the truth begins to pour out.
What makes people do this? I'm sure many of you reading this has known someone that can't tell the truth if their life depended on it, and sometimes it does. Hopefully you purged people like this from your life when this nasty little habit was thrown out into the open, but for those of you that have someone in your life that is a pathological liar and no way to just make them go away, just let me say I feel for you.
I can honestly say that in all my life I've know... four? Way back in school there was a kid that lived in a rather impoverished area of our very, very small town. He was well known for telling "stories". They weren't the kind of lies that would hurt anyone, they just served to make him look silly as he was found out everytime. The second one was a dear friend of mine, who did this and I knew it, but I learned to just glean through the commentary to pick out the truth. Hers was done to make herself look (and probably feel) important as she had some real problems going on in her life. The third one is about the same, a life being so downtrodden and sad as to warrant pity and compassion, but no strength or motivation to rise above it. He is also quite easy to read and it's pretty obvious when he's telling the truth or lying.
The fourth person I've known that has this, well I can't really call it anything but a disease as pathology itself is a study of diseases, does it willingly and knowingly and only to improve their life and station in life. They will create stories which have some basis in fact, but are mostly all fiction and drama. In a different regard from the 3 people mentioned above, this one has no compunctions as to doing this, knows full well they are doing it and just flat doesn't care. The wake they leave behind them as this carries on can be quite devastating emotionally for the friends who stand behind them, only to find out they were horribly in the wrong all along. For this type of person I can only hope that eventually they will develop some compassion and empathy for others. At some point they are going to meet up with someone who quite simply, will set them in their place and if they are lucky, they won't be hurt physically in the process. The biggest problem with this type of person is that you just never know when to believe them, and when they are lying to your face. They honestly believe the fabrication they have thrown out there, but if pinned to the wall they will admit the untruth. It's pinning them to the wall that gets tricky because they jump from one person to the next, repeatedly looking for someone new to coerce or convince something other than what is really going on. By the time the trait is learned, the damage is done and they have moved on to the next innocent victim.
I'm not a scientist, but even the scientific world can't agree on exactly what causes this phenomenon. Personally I have to ask myself, is it self image? Is it and overpowering need to be something that they are not and the inability, or unwillingness to go through the proper steps to attain the pinnacle they would like to have everyone believe they reside? Is it some kind of chemical imbalance? Is it hormonal? Genetic? I've never been one to argue nature or nurture as I feel both impact our world, but like the lifetime criminals that argue they are the way they are due to their parents, it simply doesn't fly once they are out on their own and still committing the acts as they are then completely under their own control and guidance. There does come a point in your life when the situations you find yourself in are all yours and nobody elses.
If you take nothing else from this reading, know for a certainty that you, and you alone create your environment. We all set the attitude of our daily lives and if you manage to maintain a calm, then you have reached a level I've not yet attained definitely, but one I strive for. Sometimes this means cutting the nasties from my life and concentrating on the positives. (I'm getting very good at biting my fingers though!) However, if you are in a constant environment of stress and turmoil then perhaps you should look inward to find the common source, ask yourself honestly what you can do to change your position in life, and for once in your life, be honest with yourself as hard as the realization may be.
Infinitestical? Oh yes, but that's for another post.
So lets have a look at this, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pathological_liar . Wikipedia defines the characteristics of this type of behavior:
The defining characteristics of pseudologia fantastica are that, first, the stories told are not entirely improbable and often have some element of truth. They are not manifestations of delusion or some wider form of psychosis. Upon confrontation, the teller can admit them to be untree, even if unwillingly.
In other words, they build a story around a small kernel of fact. The problem with this is that eventually they lie to so many people they are unable to keep the story straight and then the truth begins to pour out.
What makes people do this? I'm sure many of you reading this has known someone that can't tell the truth if their life depended on it, and sometimes it does. Hopefully you purged people like this from your life when this nasty little habit was thrown out into the open, but for those of you that have someone in your life that is a pathological liar and no way to just make them go away, just let me say I feel for you.
I can honestly say that in all my life I've know... four? Way back in school there was a kid that lived in a rather impoverished area of our very, very small town. He was well known for telling "stories". They weren't the kind of lies that would hurt anyone, they just served to make him look silly as he was found out everytime. The second one was a dear friend of mine, who did this and I knew it, but I learned to just glean through the commentary to pick out the truth. Hers was done to make herself look (and probably feel) important as she had some real problems going on in her life. The third one is about the same, a life being so downtrodden and sad as to warrant pity and compassion, but no strength or motivation to rise above it. He is also quite easy to read and it's pretty obvious when he's telling the truth or lying.
The fourth person I've known that has this, well I can't really call it anything but a disease as pathology itself is a study of diseases, does it willingly and knowingly and only to improve their life and station in life. They will create stories which have some basis in fact, but are mostly all fiction and drama. In a different regard from the 3 people mentioned above, this one has no compunctions as to doing this, knows full well they are doing it and just flat doesn't care. The wake they leave behind them as this carries on can be quite devastating emotionally for the friends who stand behind them, only to find out they were horribly in the wrong all along. For this type of person I can only hope that eventually they will develop some compassion and empathy for others. At some point they are going to meet up with someone who quite simply, will set them in their place and if they are lucky, they won't be hurt physically in the process. The biggest problem with this type of person is that you just never know when to believe them, and when they are lying to your face. They honestly believe the fabrication they have thrown out there, but if pinned to the wall they will admit the untruth. It's pinning them to the wall that gets tricky because they jump from one person to the next, repeatedly looking for someone new to coerce or convince something other than what is really going on. By the time the trait is learned, the damage is done and they have moved on to the next innocent victim.
I'm not a scientist, but even the scientific world can't agree on exactly what causes this phenomenon. Personally I have to ask myself, is it self image? Is it and overpowering need to be something that they are not and the inability, or unwillingness to go through the proper steps to attain the pinnacle they would like to have everyone believe they reside? Is it some kind of chemical imbalance? Is it hormonal? Genetic? I've never been one to argue nature or nurture as I feel both impact our world, but like the lifetime criminals that argue they are the way they are due to their parents, it simply doesn't fly once they are out on their own and still committing the acts as they are then completely under their own control and guidance. There does come a point in your life when the situations you find yourself in are all yours and nobody elses.
If you take nothing else from this reading, know for a certainty that you, and you alone create your environment. We all set the attitude of our daily lives and if you manage to maintain a calm, then you have reached a level I've not yet attained definitely, but one I strive for. Sometimes this means cutting the nasties from my life and concentrating on the positives. (I'm getting very good at biting my fingers though!) However, if you are in a constant environment of stress and turmoil then perhaps you should look inward to find the common source, ask yourself honestly what you can do to change your position in life, and for once in your life, be honest with yourself as hard as the realization may be.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Wow.. it's official...
I have my very first case of bonafide, died in the wool, pain in the butt... writer's block! This sucks. I mean this really sucks! I have all this motivation and it's, well it's a little frustrating!
Ok, before I have to chastise my self for overuse of the ! mark, I will have to see if I can break it without having a nervous breakdown. My first project of sorts currently in the works is an article on the Arabian horse. The Learning Hub on the website said to search for competitive articles of the same subject matter, unless I was certain that I could write better. After a brief perusal I believe I can!
(oops.. sorry)
So here we go, an article on Arabian horses. Herein lies the next dilemma. How do you stuff a millenia of fact, legend, myth and historical data in 1000 max word article? What are the important parts I want to address ? Let's lay this out:
1. Origins of the breed - shrouded in mystery but with much speculation.
2. Spread of the breed across the world - wars, rumors of wars, warmongers, solders and .. well warriors for the most part though there were some horses given as gifts to dignitaries who presumably were there to avoid.. war? Wow, glad we got that sorted through.. sheesh!
3. Impact of the breed on other light horse breeds, and some not so light horse breeds - Thoroughbreds of course, and anything descending from a Thoroughbred cross. How about warmbloods and even some breeds of pony (though there are those that would swear ponies are direct spawns of hell!) ?
4. The Arabian in the horse industry today - Their ranking in popularity, which while some would argue is quite low, it's actually quite high compared to many other breeds.
5. The future of the industry - Ok that's just depressing. I might just save that for later.
6. Reference material for credibility and to encourage the reader to go find far more information than I can shove into that type of story - Wiki and ArabianHorses.org, both credible and search engine optimized. (See what I did there? ;)
Now I'm sure when this all comes down I'm sure I will be pushed right to the max on the 1000 word limit. Lovely, just about the time I get things rolling I have to come to a screeching halt!
Have a happy Tuesday folks. I'm off in a bit to load hay, unload hay, feed hay and groom the hay burners. Oh, and write my article. ;)
Ok, before I have to chastise my self for overuse of the ! mark, I will have to see if I can break it without having a nervous breakdown. My first project of sorts currently in the works is an article on the Arabian horse. The Learning Hub on the website said to search for competitive articles of the same subject matter, unless I was certain that I could write better. After a brief perusal I believe I can!
(oops.. sorry)
So here we go, an article on Arabian horses. Herein lies the next dilemma. How do you stuff a millenia of fact, legend, myth and historical data in 1000 max word article? What are the important parts I want to address ? Let's lay this out:
1. Origins of the breed - shrouded in mystery but with much speculation.
2. Spread of the breed across the world - wars, rumors of wars, warmongers, solders and .. well warriors for the most part though there were some horses given as gifts to dignitaries who presumably were there to avoid.. war? Wow, glad we got that sorted through.. sheesh!
3. Impact of the breed on other light horse breeds, and some not so light horse breeds - Thoroughbreds of course, and anything descending from a Thoroughbred cross. How about warmbloods and even some breeds of pony (though there are those that would swear ponies are direct spawns of hell!) ?
4. The Arabian in the horse industry today - Their ranking in popularity, which while some would argue is quite low, it's actually quite high compared to many other breeds.
5. The future of the industry - Ok that's just depressing. I might just save that for later.
6. Reference material for credibility and to encourage the reader to go find far more information than I can shove into that type of story - Wiki and ArabianHorses.org, both credible and search engine optimized. (See what I did there? ;)
Now I'm sure when this all comes down I'm sure I will be pushed right to the max on the 1000 word limit. Lovely, just about the time I get things rolling I have to come to a screeching halt!
Have a happy Tuesday folks. I'm off in a bit to load hay, unload hay, feed hay and groom the hay burners. Oh, and write my article. ;)
Finally an Author... Somewhat!
Today, after an online submission of a sample writing, I was accepted as a freelance writer for a popular online article site. Now, I don't expect the bucks to start rolling in, but it's a start and I'm tickled! So in the coming days and weeks, I am going to do more writing on the blog and kind of highlight some of the stuff I've written over the years. Primarily what I do is fiction, I dont know if you could even call them short stories but they are pieces of a story that give a glimpse into a bigger picture. One at least called Dark Gift I may actually turn into a story at some point. Right now it's just a fun (kind of scarey) read.
In looking through my computer this evening I found a few that I forgot I even had. Here's one of my favorites and pretty much summed up a period in my life where I was trying desperately to find out who "Donna" was. Anyway, hope you enjoy!
Hello World
I woke up this morning, rolling over in my bed to realize once again that bed is just too big and empty for one person. I suppose I'm back to the couch tonight but before I roll over to get up for the day, I lay there for a few minutes staring at the wallpaper decorated with small ivy leaves, not really focusing on anything in particular, just letting my mind wander back over yesterday and the conversation he and I had. It haunts me alot, wanting to trust but being so afraid of being hurt again. Wanting him just to be here so we'd know one way or another what was going to transpire with things. Heaving a small sigh, I fling the covers off of me, and sit on the edge of the bed for a minute, watching the horses out around the barn through the window. They will be hungry so I get up, pull on a pair of old black boxers.. a leftover from an old boyfriend, and slip on a loose t-shirt and pad my way through the house to turn on the coffee pot. The carpet is warm against my feet and I feel the change as I step into the kitchen and it's hard parquet floor.
As I make the preparations for the coffee, I realize how quiet the house is.. how lonely. Sham is mewling round my feet, wanting his breakfast too and as I push the start button on the coffee maker, I bend down to pick him up and cuddle him close. Funny how a cat never has that nasty smell like a dog does.. he just smells clean tho he's never been bathed in his life. He purrs and rubs his face against my neck, my friend, my ally when everything else in my life is shit. I put him to the floor as I reach in to fill his bowl with food for the day and he forgets me as he goes to his tuna/salmon/chicken surprise.
I slip on my old barn shoes and make my way to the feed room, opening the door as the old black and white barn cat jumps into the feed barrel to see if there is a mouse for breakfast this morning. There is none, so she looks at me expectantly like I'm supposed to produce one for her. I laugh, "Silly girl" as I scratch her ears and she meows at me quietly and begins to purr. The silver gelding walks round the side of the barn by now, knowing that it's breakfast time he's come to hurry me along. I pour his feed out into his bucket and scratch his neck as he eats. So big, so much mass and muscle, but so soft and so gentle to be around. The other horses by now are alerted to the sound of feed and start to make their noises to hurry me along. I throw them each hay and give them their grain, squishing through the mud that yesterday's rain left. it's still misting.. better put the geldings hay under the tree where he'll have some shelter to eat.
Finishing my chores, I make my way back inside.. carefully pulling my muddy boots off at the door and padding to the kitchen barefoot. I'm always barefoot... a by-product of growing up in the country I suppose.. don't wear shoes unless it's cold outside or I'm in the barn doing something and then it's iffy.. usually I'm barefoot too then but a bit more careful around steel shod hooves.
The coffee is finished now and as I pour a large cup I feel Sham again wrapped around my ankles. In the darkened kitchen all I see in his black face is his big green eyes and a pink mouth with white fangs when he talks to me, thanking me for breakfast and finding his way into the bedroom to lounge on my pillow for the rest of the day. I add creamer and sugar into my favorite coffee mug and stand there, leaned against the counter listening to the rain outside get heavier as I take a first deep drink of the hot, strong, creamy coffee. Going to be another long day it looks like. I make my way then into my office, picking up the CD's that Sham has once again knocked to the floor, and sit down in my big comfy chair hitting the power button on my computer at the same time. The old machine boots up, slowly.. noisely... protesting my waking it's slumber. It logs in easily to the internet and I turn on my messengers waiting to see who might be around to talk to.
Hello world.
In looking through my computer this evening I found a few that I forgot I even had. Here's one of my favorites and pretty much summed up a period in my life where I was trying desperately to find out who "Donna" was. Anyway, hope you enjoy!
Hello World
I woke up this morning, rolling over in my bed to realize once again that bed is just too big and empty for one person. I suppose I'm back to the couch tonight but before I roll over to get up for the day, I lay there for a few minutes staring at the wallpaper decorated with small ivy leaves, not really focusing on anything in particular, just letting my mind wander back over yesterday and the conversation he and I had. It haunts me alot, wanting to trust but being so afraid of being hurt again. Wanting him just to be here so we'd know one way or another what was going to transpire with things. Heaving a small sigh, I fling the covers off of me, and sit on the edge of the bed for a minute, watching the horses out around the barn through the window. They will be hungry so I get up, pull on a pair of old black boxers.. a leftover from an old boyfriend, and slip on a loose t-shirt and pad my way through the house to turn on the coffee pot. The carpet is warm against my feet and I feel the change as I step into the kitchen and it's hard parquet floor.
As I make the preparations for the coffee, I realize how quiet the house is.. how lonely. Sham is mewling round my feet, wanting his breakfast too and as I push the start button on the coffee maker, I bend down to pick him up and cuddle him close. Funny how a cat never has that nasty smell like a dog does.. he just smells clean tho he's never been bathed in his life. He purrs and rubs his face against my neck, my friend, my ally when everything else in my life is shit. I put him to the floor as I reach in to fill his bowl with food for the day and he forgets me as he goes to his tuna/salmon/chicken surprise.
I slip on my old barn shoes and make my way to the feed room, opening the door as the old black and white barn cat jumps into the feed barrel to see if there is a mouse for breakfast this morning. There is none, so she looks at me expectantly like I'm supposed to produce one for her. I laugh, "Silly girl" as I scratch her ears and she meows at me quietly and begins to purr. The silver gelding walks round the side of the barn by now, knowing that it's breakfast time he's come to hurry me along. I pour his feed out into his bucket and scratch his neck as he eats. So big, so much mass and muscle, but so soft and so gentle to be around. The other horses by now are alerted to the sound of feed and start to make their noises to hurry me along. I throw them each hay and give them their grain, squishing through the mud that yesterday's rain left. it's still misting.. better put the geldings hay under the tree where he'll have some shelter to eat.
Finishing my chores, I make my way back inside.. carefully pulling my muddy boots off at the door and padding to the kitchen barefoot. I'm always barefoot... a by-product of growing up in the country I suppose.. don't wear shoes unless it's cold outside or I'm in the barn doing something and then it's iffy.. usually I'm barefoot too then but a bit more careful around steel shod hooves.
The coffee is finished now and as I pour a large cup I feel Sham again wrapped around my ankles. In the darkened kitchen all I see in his black face is his big green eyes and a pink mouth with white fangs when he talks to me, thanking me for breakfast and finding his way into the bedroom to lounge on my pillow for the rest of the day. I add creamer and sugar into my favorite coffee mug and stand there, leaned against the counter listening to the rain outside get heavier as I take a first deep drink of the hot, strong, creamy coffee. Going to be another long day it looks like. I make my way then into my office, picking up the CD's that Sham has once again knocked to the floor, and sit down in my big comfy chair hitting the power button on my computer at the same time. The old machine boots up, slowly.. noisely... protesting my waking it's slumber. It logs in easily to the internet and I turn on my messengers waiting to see who might be around to talk to.
Hello world.
Friday, September 3, 2010
An Epiphany
Today, I had an epiphany. Today, I realized that I finally - at nearly 43 years old - like who I am. I like DONNA.
For most of my life I've battled with myself. I was too fat, too broke, too shy, too loud, too big.. always TOO something. Today as I bounced out of the worlds best smoothie and sandwich shop in downtown Montgomery, I realized that I was happy, that life was full of activities and friends and family and that I finally liked ME for who I am. I have an awesome husband, a great family, beautiful horses, some wonderful friends, talents in many areas that many people would love to have and life is GOOD!
Now, I could be thinner true, I could be better at managing money also true. I lose my temper too quick and I tend to procrastinate (evidenced by the spotty posts on this blog!), and I am horrid at housework. I definitely can be a damn potty mouth and have things that I do, decisions that I make sometimes that I would do differently next time around but all of those are just things. Things we can work on for improvement, but if you don't like who you are on the inside then the outside things become insurmountable.
Take some time today to find a quiet spot, a shady corner.. or hell a cute sandwich shop, check out the sunshine and make friends with yourself. You'll be glad you did :)
Happy weekend everyone!
~Donna~
For most of my life I've battled with myself. I was too fat, too broke, too shy, too loud, too big.. always TOO something. Today as I bounced out of the worlds best smoothie and sandwich shop in downtown Montgomery, I realized that I was happy, that life was full of activities and friends and family and that I finally liked ME for who I am. I have an awesome husband, a great family, beautiful horses, some wonderful friends, talents in many areas that many people would love to have and life is GOOD!
Now, I could be thinner true, I could be better at managing money also true. I lose my temper too quick and I tend to procrastinate (evidenced by the spotty posts on this blog!), and I am horrid at housework. I definitely can be a damn potty mouth and have things that I do, decisions that I make sometimes that I would do differently next time around but all of those are just things. Things we can work on for improvement, but if you don't like who you are on the inside then the outside things become insurmountable.
Take some time today to find a quiet spot, a shady corner.. or hell a cute sandwich shop, check out the sunshine and make friends with yourself. You'll be glad you did :)
Happy weekend everyone!
~Donna~
Friday, August 13, 2010
Learning from the past but looking towards the future
I know, I know.. I said I wasn't going to go back to the forums.... but there is just this draw. I can't explain it except to liken it to a train wreck, or a movie scene in a movie where you know you should look away but you can't, you just stare at the screen in sick fascination, the whole time cringing inside because you know without a doubt what is coming next.
The topics that seem to make me sit and just shake my head the most are the ones, invariably from old timers, that lament over and over how things were in the "good old days" and sit around in sackcloth and ashes bemoaning today's standards and today's ways of doing things. Now, don't get me wrong, I have the utmost respect for the elderly and experienced horsemen, these complainers come from all ages and backgrounds so by "old timers" I don't mean old in age, I mean old in thought process and unwilling to open their mind or thoughts to anything except what they feel is correct and "right" the whole while casting aspersions on anything they don't understand or want to recognize as an actual workable solution.
Insofar as some people want to lament the old days and even go so far as to make comments along the lines of "all the great horsemen are gone" and "the so-called trainers / riders of today don't have a clue", that to me is thinking in a rut. How blinded you must be by constantly staring at the past to not see the plethora of skilled horsemen and women right in front of you. Yes, the old masters were great. If, however, their skills died with them then THEY are to blame for not passing this information along to future generations. I challenge this concept that there are no good horsemen or trainers available today. They are everywhere!! Just as in days past there are some that stand head and shoulders above the rest, by and large the horse industry as a whole is far superior to what it was, primarily because of this vast exchange of information and ideas. The tools we have and the access to knowledge that we have now as pertaining to training horse far exceeds what was available even 20 years ago.
Open your eyes! Yes there are some new techniques that are not optimal, but there were plenty of OLD techniques that were not optimal either. There are fresh ideas in the works on how to get the best from your horse and the level of health and well being care for horses had increased 10 fold from what it was. By and large, the horse industry has benefitted from an influx of new thought processes and ways of doing things....not from living in the past.
The horses in the show ring today are every bit as good if not better than what was available 50 years ago. If you want to argue they aren't, then chew on this for awhile - IF the horses today are not vastly improved over prior generations, then why on earth were prior generations bred on? Is not the goal of any breeder to produce consistently better with each generation of foals? If the horses are denigrating into something far less than what they were, then why continue on that line of breeding and planning? The horses today are more specialized this is true, and while both sides could be argued that this is a bad or a good thing it cannot be denied that there are many that perform well in more than one discipline and still trail ride on the weekends with their owners. This specialization doesn't make them less of a good horse than their great grandaddy that showed in 4 disciplines in a day, it makes them a highly trained, specialized athlete capable of performing their very best for what they are best suited for whether it is western, working cow, english pleasure or sporthorse. Call it a focus if you must, but I'd rather have a focused western horse that is at the top of his game than a western/english/hunter/halter that does subpar in all 4 disciplines.
There are many people out there that think their breeding program is the end all - be all of breeding yet invariably when they put a picture up it's of a horse standing, running or (and this is my favorite) grazing. (Seriously.. wtf? Ok so they can graze.. big deal?) These same people do not show typically, because they don't have the skills or techniques to produce a winning, balanced, cadenced, strong and athletic show horse for today's show ring. Yet they are the first to carry on about how things were in the good old days and how unfair it is that they can't show their horses (their untrained and unconditioned horses) in today's ring and be competitive.
There is a saying that goes something along the lines of "a rut eventually becomes a hole which in turn, will become a grave". I challenge any of you "old timers" reading this that want to think that things were so much better in the "old days" to open your eyes and appreciate what the newer generations are doing with the horses now. Don't be so quick to assume that because it's the here and now that the techniques used are inherent evil. Take the good that you can use and leave the rest, but don't get stuck in that rut so long that it becomes a grave. Otherwise you really will become "old" before your time, along with bitter and full of anger and hate that will wash over everything in your life.
The topics that seem to make me sit and just shake my head the most are the ones, invariably from old timers, that lament over and over how things were in the "good old days" and sit around in sackcloth and ashes bemoaning today's standards and today's ways of doing things. Now, don't get me wrong, I have the utmost respect for the elderly and experienced horsemen, these complainers come from all ages and backgrounds so by "old timers" I don't mean old in age, I mean old in thought process and unwilling to open their mind or thoughts to anything except what they feel is correct and "right" the whole while casting aspersions on anything they don't understand or want to recognize as an actual workable solution.
Insofar as some people want to lament the old days and even go so far as to make comments along the lines of "all the great horsemen are gone" and "the so-called trainers / riders of today don't have a clue", that to me is thinking in a rut. How blinded you must be by constantly staring at the past to not see the plethora of skilled horsemen and women right in front of you. Yes, the old masters were great. If, however, their skills died with them then THEY are to blame for not passing this information along to future generations. I challenge this concept that there are no good horsemen or trainers available today. They are everywhere!! Just as in days past there are some that stand head and shoulders above the rest, by and large the horse industry as a whole is far superior to what it was, primarily because of this vast exchange of information and ideas. The tools we have and the access to knowledge that we have now as pertaining to training horse far exceeds what was available even 20 years ago.
Open your eyes! Yes there are some new techniques that are not optimal, but there were plenty of OLD techniques that were not optimal either. There are fresh ideas in the works on how to get the best from your horse and the level of health and well being care for horses had increased 10 fold from what it was. By and large, the horse industry has benefitted from an influx of new thought processes and ways of doing things....not from living in the past.
The horses in the show ring today are every bit as good if not better than what was available 50 years ago. If you want to argue they aren't, then chew on this for awhile - IF the horses today are not vastly improved over prior generations, then why on earth were prior generations bred on? Is not the goal of any breeder to produce consistently better with each generation of foals? If the horses are denigrating into something far less than what they were, then why continue on that line of breeding and planning? The horses today are more specialized this is true, and while both sides could be argued that this is a bad or a good thing it cannot be denied that there are many that perform well in more than one discipline and still trail ride on the weekends with their owners. This specialization doesn't make them less of a good horse than their great grandaddy that showed in 4 disciplines in a day, it makes them a highly trained, specialized athlete capable of performing their very best for what they are best suited for whether it is western, working cow, english pleasure or sporthorse. Call it a focus if you must, but I'd rather have a focused western horse that is at the top of his game than a western/english/hunter/halter that does subpar in all 4 disciplines.
There are many people out there that think their breeding program is the end all - be all of breeding yet invariably when they put a picture up it's of a horse standing, running or (and this is my favorite) grazing. (Seriously.. wtf? Ok so they can graze.. big deal?) These same people do not show typically, because they don't have the skills or techniques to produce a winning, balanced, cadenced, strong and athletic show horse for today's show ring. Yet they are the first to carry on about how things were in the good old days and how unfair it is that they can't show their horses (their untrained and unconditioned horses) in today's ring and be competitive.
There is a saying that goes something along the lines of "a rut eventually becomes a hole which in turn, will become a grave". I challenge any of you "old timers" reading this that want to think that things were so much better in the "old days" to open your eyes and appreciate what the newer generations are doing with the horses now. Don't be so quick to assume that because it's the here and now that the techniques used are inherent evil. Take the good that you can use and leave the rest, but don't get stuck in that rut so long that it becomes a grave. Otherwise you really will become "old" before your time, along with bitter and full of anger and hate that will wash over everything in your life.
Great Great Grandaddy Ibn Ibn Mr Perfect
yeeaaahhh....
A simple post on facebook elicited many responses that felt the same as I do on this topic.
What a boost the Arabian breed would get if more people quit talking ad naseum about what the great grandsire of their horses did and get out and start actually DOING something with the horse standing in front of them.
Right now standing in my field (if you can call a dirt lot a field) I have a daughter of Imperial Imdal and a daughter of Imtaarif. I won't go into the long list of accomplishments of all of these ancestors because quite simply, there is enough of that online. Google is your friend, l2useGoogle :) Are they genetic powerhouses? Who knows, the Imdal daughter is quite old and her breeding future is iffy at best, the Imtaarif daughter while built like a brick poophouse is unproven under saddle and while some would take her and breed her just to be breeding her, personally I want to see what her disposition is like as a riding horse first. To many in the Arabian breed and especially in the Straight Egyptian world, I have committed a mortal sin by not breeding this mare as soon as her age dictated she should be. That age being about 4 by most standards, 3 years old by many and by some crazy goofball standards, she should have been spitting out foals by 2 years old. That is a WHOLE other topic I will touch on at some point, some people need beating. Anyway, there she stands, a 6 year old virgin who may or may not be bred next year at age 7 depending on her training status at that time. Even my stallion who is conformationally correct and 43% *Ansata Ibn Halima by pedigree (had to get the required pedigree plug in there of course!!), is 7 years old with no foals. The question I get asked the most? Any foals yet? Not - How is he doing with training? Does he round well and use himself? Is he athletic? but basically all they want to know is do his testicals work. *sigh*
Now, my thoughts are this. The Arabian has been touted for centuries as being the consummate riding horse. That is R.I.D.I.N.G. horse, not standing around and looking pretty horse - though they do that with great aplomb too. This breed of horse was developed over centuries through some of the harshest terrain on this planet to be war horses. They lived with their masters, they were protectors, traveling companions, and were a daily source of use in some capacity for their owners, all in all they were of use to the tribes. The horses were revered and honored and cherished yes, but they were also useful ... they had a purpose which was not "stand around an be prettiful". Their beauty, the balance and harmony of their build, comes from their need to be functional and usable!
Along comes modern times and while we don't need to use the horse for travel or sustenance much anymore, man in all his infinite wisdom has morphed a living breathing war machine into a living breathing piece of art. At face value this is not a problem, but how many have ever seen a picture and knowing it was a painting, accepted the thought that artistic value being what it is the picture will never imitate exactly something in real life. That is why it is considered "art" and not "reality". Can you picture for a moment what a sight it would be if some artistic photos of human beings came to life exactly as they look in the art world? For that matter, it frightens me to think of coming face to face with some photographic subjects as well.. but I digress.
What is happening more and more with the Arabian breed especially, but you see it with all breeds of horses is that the human element is turning this living breathing creature into exactly what they see in old photographs and artwork. They place so much emphasis on bloodlines and pedigree and breeding the perfect individual horse (right down to measurements!!) that they have neglected the most fundamental element of what makes that horse an Arabian... the usefulness and soundness of the animal, not only physically but mentally as well.
I've heard it said that if the Bedouins could not handle a stallion they would not geld it because of religious reasons, but had no problem cutting it's throat. Yet we see time and time again stallions standing at stud that do nothing but create foals.... and for 2 generations their ancestors have done nothing but create foals! Then when one does wind up being tested or tried for performance the owners are shocked that their sweet lovable stallion suddenly isn't so lovable when you're asking him to actually WORK doing something! Yup, you guessed it, that bucking snorting bitching pain in the butt horse would have been a grease spot on the desert and the tribe would have moved on.. because life and survival depended on the horses being hardy but also being sane enough to be used as they were intended. You think they looked very kindly on the war mare that had to be lunged prior to every ride? Or refused to go across the ditch? Or bolted off at every shadow?
"There goes Akmed again, I knew he shouldn't have halter trained that mare prior to war training her *tsk tsk* damn those BNT!!"
I know I wouldn't be amused, especially when I was sitting butt in the dirt, watching my horse take off without me and the opposing tribe standing over me grinning like Chessy cats. *gulp*
In any case, I fail to be impressed anymore by horses that have pretty heads but no substance, that have a show win list at halter a mile long but nothing for performance. Yes, I realize many are just trail horses but in my area "just a trail horse" dictates directly into "crazy as a loon at a show and can't round up or collect for crap!" So no, it doesn't impress me. I've had a couple of foals at the house that were destined to be "just trail horses" because they did not have the conformation or mind to be an athlete - and that mare and sire were never bred again because of this. End of the day I want a horse that moves naturally round, that is balanced and has fantastic legs. A pretty face is nice, but is so subjective as to differing tastes. Personally I like a nice triangular shaped face and if it's dished that's great, if not it's not a big thing as long as it's supported by awesome legs, a well laid back shoulder, a deep hip with a HUGE motor and a brain between the ears that doesn't leave me in the dirt waiting for the neighboring tribe to come ruin my day and steal my cattle and womens because I had the misfortune of drawing the straw to ride the trail horse that day ;)
People.. they are riding horses. Get out and ride your horses before you breed them. Let them earn the right to to produce more, otherwise you are doing the breed and yourselves a great disservice. I won't even touch on the dog food brand "Pedigree" because it's well, just far too easy!! The auction houses are full of great pedigrees with nothing else going for them.... except that their great uncle 3 times back was a National Champion Whatever. Pfft... My great grandaddy could have been Einstein and it wouldn't have gotten me through advanced algebra. Stop resting your butt on the laurels of the names that have gone before and start resting your butt in a saddle on the back of the horses you are trying to convince John Q Public are so wonderful. Your farm, horses and reputation will all benefit from it.
As for myself? We have our first show this weekend, a warmup for a rated show in September where my stallion - the one with no foals on the ground - will be shown Halter, Sporthorse in Hand and Sporthorse Under Saddle, one class with a junior rider. There's just something about the smell of leather and sweat that makes me think "now this is a horse I could enjoy having in the tent" and he's on his way to earning his right to be a sire. Just don't expect me to be impressed when I ask and you have to tell me that your horses are just halter horses or just trail horses. What a sad day in the history of a war horse, to be nothing more than a bauble on the end of a lead line or plodding down the trail because they couldn't race across the sand if their life depended on it, and it very well might one day!
A simple post on facebook elicited many responses that felt the same as I do on this topic.
What a boost the Arabian breed would get if more people quit talking ad naseum about what the great grandsire of their horses did and get out and start actually DOING something with the horse standing in front of them.
Right now standing in my field (if you can call a dirt lot a field) I have a daughter of Imperial Imdal and a daughter of Imtaarif. I won't go into the long list of accomplishments of all of these ancestors because quite simply, there is enough of that online. Google is your friend, l2useGoogle :) Are they genetic powerhouses? Who knows, the Imdal daughter is quite old and her breeding future is iffy at best, the Imtaarif daughter while built like a brick poophouse is unproven under saddle and while some would take her and breed her just to be breeding her, personally I want to see what her disposition is like as a riding horse first. To many in the Arabian breed and especially in the Straight Egyptian world, I have committed a mortal sin by not breeding this mare as soon as her age dictated she should be. That age being about 4 by most standards, 3 years old by many and by some crazy goofball standards, she should have been spitting out foals by 2 years old. That is a WHOLE other topic I will touch on at some point, some people need beating. Anyway, there she stands, a 6 year old virgin who may or may not be bred next year at age 7 depending on her training status at that time. Even my stallion who is conformationally correct and 43% *Ansata Ibn Halima by pedigree (had to get the required pedigree plug in there of course!!), is 7 years old with no foals. The question I get asked the most? Any foals yet? Not - How is he doing with training? Does he round well and use himself? Is he athletic? but basically all they want to know is do his testicals work. *sigh*
Now, my thoughts are this. The Arabian has been touted for centuries as being the consummate riding horse. That is R.I.D.I.N.G. horse, not standing around and looking pretty horse - though they do that with great aplomb too. This breed of horse was developed over centuries through some of the harshest terrain on this planet to be war horses. They lived with their masters, they were protectors, traveling companions, and were a daily source of use in some capacity for their owners, all in all they were of use to the tribes. The horses were revered and honored and cherished yes, but they were also useful ... they had a purpose which was not "stand around an be prettiful". Their beauty, the balance and harmony of their build, comes from their need to be functional and usable!
Along comes modern times and while we don't need to use the horse for travel or sustenance much anymore, man in all his infinite wisdom has morphed a living breathing war machine into a living breathing piece of art. At face value this is not a problem, but how many have ever seen a picture and knowing it was a painting, accepted the thought that artistic value being what it is the picture will never imitate exactly something in real life. That is why it is considered "art" and not "reality". Can you picture for a moment what a sight it would be if some artistic photos of human beings came to life exactly as they look in the art world? For that matter, it frightens me to think of coming face to face with some photographic subjects as well.. but I digress.
What is happening more and more with the Arabian breed especially, but you see it with all breeds of horses is that the human element is turning this living breathing creature into exactly what they see in old photographs and artwork. They place so much emphasis on bloodlines and pedigree and breeding the perfect individual horse (right down to measurements!!) that they have neglected the most fundamental element of what makes that horse an Arabian... the usefulness and soundness of the animal, not only physically but mentally as well.
I've heard it said that if the Bedouins could not handle a stallion they would not geld it because of religious reasons, but had no problem cutting it's throat. Yet we see time and time again stallions standing at stud that do nothing but create foals.... and for 2 generations their ancestors have done nothing but create foals! Then when one does wind up being tested or tried for performance the owners are shocked that their sweet lovable stallion suddenly isn't so lovable when you're asking him to actually WORK doing something! Yup, you guessed it, that bucking snorting bitching pain in the butt horse would have been a grease spot on the desert and the tribe would have moved on.. because life and survival depended on the horses being hardy but also being sane enough to be used as they were intended. You think they looked very kindly on the war mare that had to be lunged prior to every ride? Or refused to go across the ditch? Or bolted off at every shadow?
"There goes Akmed again, I knew he shouldn't have halter trained that mare prior to war training her *tsk tsk* damn those BNT!!"
I know I wouldn't be amused, especially when I was sitting butt in the dirt, watching my horse take off without me and the opposing tribe standing over me grinning like Chessy cats. *gulp*
In any case, I fail to be impressed anymore by horses that have pretty heads but no substance, that have a show win list at halter a mile long but nothing for performance. Yes, I realize many are just trail horses but in my area "just a trail horse" dictates directly into "crazy as a loon at a show and can't round up or collect for crap!" So no, it doesn't impress me. I've had a couple of foals at the house that were destined to be "just trail horses" because they did not have the conformation or mind to be an athlete - and that mare and sire were never bred again because of this. End of the day I want a horse that moves naturally round, that is balanced and has fantastic legs. A pretty face is nice, but is so subjective as to differing tastes. Personally I like a nice triangular shaped face and if it's dished that's great, if not it's not a big thing as long as it's supported by awesome legs, a well laid back shoulder, a deep hip with a HUGE motor and a brain between the ears that doesn't leave me in the dirt waiting for the neighboring tribe to come ruin my day and steal my cattle and womens because I had the misfortune of drawing the straw to ride the trail horse that day ;)
People.. they are riding horses. Get out and ride your horses before you breed them. Let them earn the right to to produce more, otherwise you are doing the breed and yourselves a great disservice. I won't even touch on the dog food brand "Pedigree" because it's well, just far too easy!! The auction houses are full of great pedigrees with nothing else going for them.... except that their great uncle 3 times back was a National Champion Whatever. Pfft... My great grandaddy could have been Einstein and it wouldn't have gotten me through advanced algebra. Stop resting your butt on the laurels of the names that have gone before and start resting your butt in a saddle on the back of the horses you are trying to convince John Q Public are so wonderful. Your farm, horses and reputation will all benefit from it.
As for myself? We have our first show this weekend, a warmup for a rated show in September where my stallion - the one with no foals on the ground - will be shown Halter, Sporthorse in Hand and Sporthorse Under Saddle, one class with a junior rider. There's just something about the smell of leather and sweat that makes me think "now this is a horse I could enjoy having in the tent" and he's on his way to earning his right to be a sire. Just don't expect me to be impressed when I ask and you have to tell me that your horses are just halter horses or just trail horses. What a sad day in the history of a war horse, to be nothing more than a bauble on the end of a lead line or plodding down the trail because they couldn't race across the sand if their life depended on it, and it very well might one day!
Thursday, June 24, 2010
For the love of a horse
Sometimes life throws us curves and we have to just figure out how to deal with them and move on. Through my lifetime I've had several curves and so far, except for a few scars here and there, I've managed to plug through them and move on with a minimum of trauma or disgrace in some instances. My latest hurdle, though I suppose this could be a lifelong hurdle, has been my weight. This hurdle I have taken on all on my own and I accept full responsibility for it. None of them blaming my parents, my teachers or the doughnut maker at the local shop - though their doughnuts are sublime let me tell you! No, this one I take on all on my own and am reminded of it constantly, especially when I'm doing something like oh I don't know... tie my shoes! Ugh!
In any case, this year earlier I decided that at 42 and .. well, more than a little heavy... I either needed to do something or die. That's it period. My other motivating factor other than really not wanting to be dead by the time I'm 50 of a heart attack, was one beautiful little white horse, my purebred, Straight Egyptian Stallion Jasoor of whom I feel I share a heartchord with. At 14.1 hands and about 900 pounds, let's just say that at my current weight I would look a little silly on him. Not to mention being strong enough to hang onto him if he gets squirrely, which as a 7 year old stallion he is prone to do at the most inopportune times, primarily when we have an audience and there are not cute paramedics nearby!
About 2 weeks ago I joined a local gym to get some exercise and work on this hurdle... mmm doughnuts... and with this in mind, not only have I been walking every morning mostly before work, but started on Tuesday night attending an aerobics class, trying to eat better and just in general getting more active than I have been in a couple of years. This weight is not something that came up overnight, it is something that has creeped up on me over the years and frankly.. I hate it. I hate being fat, I hate feeling frumpy. I hate that I don't shop for clothes by what catches my eye, but by what sizes they have available.
So this basically I hope will be a blog of my journey. A journey of health, of weight loss, of the love of a horse that motivates me every time I see him to do something better for myself and be able to better work on our partnership as horse and rider.
How do I feel today? I am SORE! Aerobics teachers have their own special brand of sadism but honestly I can't blame my current uncomfortable status fully on Robin as it falls in part on the big QH mare I was riding last night working on a canter, on straight lines and on balance. Who ever said that riding was not a sport was on drugs, or should have been. Actually.. drugs sound quite tastey! Off to find some Tylenol and a heating pad and plan for my next aerobics class and riding session both :)
In any case, this year earlier I decided that at 42 and .. well, more than a little heavy... I either needed to do something or die. That's it period. My other motivating factor other than really not wanting to be dead by the time I'm 50 of a heart attack, was one beautiful little white horse, my purebred, Straight Egyptian Stallion Jasoor of whom I feel I share a heartchord with. At 14.1 hands and about 900 pounds, let's just say that at my current weight I would look a little silly on him. Not to mention being strong enough to hang onto him if he gets squirrely, which as a 7 year old stallion he is prone to do at the most inopportune times, primarily when we have an audience and there are not cute paramedics nearby!
About 2 weeks ago I joined a local gym to get some exercise and work on this hurdle... mmm doughnuts... and with this in mind, not only have I been walking every morning mostly before work, but started on Tuesday night attending an aerobics class, trying to eat better and just in general getting more active than I have been in a couple of years. This weight is not something that came up overnight, it is something that has creeped up on me over the years and frankly.. I hate it. I hate being fat, I hate feeling frumpy. I hate that I don't shop for clothes by what catches my eye, but by what sizes they have available.
So this basically I hope will be a blog of my journey. A journey of health, of weight loss, of the love of a horse that motivates me every time I see him to do something better for myself and be able to better work on our partnership as horse and rider.
How do I feel today? I am SORE! Aerobics teachers have their own special brand of sadism but honestly I can't blame my current uncomfortable status fully on Robin as it falls in part on the big QH mare I was riding last night working on a canter, on straight lines and on balance. Who ever said that riding was not a sport was on drugs, or should have been. Actually.. drugs sound quite tastey! Off to find some Tylenol and a heating pad and plan for my next aerobics class and riding session both :)
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