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Archive for the month “July, 2012”

Get to your horse, or get gone, or get your freak on.


Get your freak on please. Just wear that stupid hat and do the dance in the aisle of IGA at 10pm on a Tuesday night to ‘Lady Marmalade’ whilst buying chocolate and embarrassing everyone except yourself. Please become a crazy cat lady. Make a house of hay bales that haven’t been rendered properly. Please build a moat without a castle. Yes a moat that leads to a house made of scraps of metal you have soldered together and made into a house whose walls are made of broken mirrors and animal furs. You have learnt out of sheer desperation and curiousity to hunt and eat your kill. You have learnt to cure furs and they decorate your body. You look magnificent by the way. You still have clean feet and no lice in your hair and are proud of your more than adequate book collection. If you are going to have children, teach them the ways of making castles, of cobbling horses, of inspiring animals into conversation.

What convinced so many of the suburban dream of boring looking house and tired and overworked friends, fresh from the dungeons of office blocks? Ok…I don’t have any friends who work in office blocks per se, but I know they are out there because I see them. I see dead people.

I should probably get off this high horse. But what is wrong with a high horse? I mean what do you want to ride?  A low horse?  A horse with stumpy legs– an overworked mule? A camel might be nice though. They have bad tempers and spit. We would probably get on. I could buy my camel nice carpets and I’ve even got some camel tassels I bought last time I was in Pakistan. Ten years ago. I may have even bought them, hanging as they are from every house I live in on a door somewhere,  knowing somehow I would have a camel to hang them from.  I would like a horse though. A lovely horse. But I would be afraid to change its shoes, which I know you have to do. So I would need a cobbler*, but I would still want to be a horse whisperer. Whispering sweet nothings into my horse.

Ok so not too high as a horse, because I don’t want to have to get a step-ladder to reach your ears so I can whisper sweet nothings. You could be eating carrots, nom nom nom, and I would be whispering to you. Maybe I will call you Epona, or Pegasus.  But I won’t get too crazy into horse mythology, because there is a lot. I just read about how Mohammed, as in the prophet from Islam, tested the love of his horses, whereby he starved them of water, and then just on day 3 when he lets them drink, he sounds a battle cry and only five of the hundred horses follow him into battle and these five are his legendary pure bloods. Nice. Eek!

And then there are the Kelpie figures that pose near waterways only to take you on their backs and drown you. This can all be found in an article by Beverly Kane,

Anyway where was I?

Oh the whispering. Well that would soon have to stop, because it would get leg cramps from standing on that stool whispering to you in the early evenings. But I could build a moat and a draw-bridge and I could ride on you ( I said ‘on you’ ), probably more like Cervantes’ ‘Don Quixote’. But most certainly as Lady Godiva. I think that would feel pretty liberating, riding naked on a horse, if somewhat chaffing, but nevertheless I would be strong and graceful and I would ride across the bridge that overlooks the moat. No-one would really be looking, except maybe peeping Tom, but he’s an ok sort of chap, if a little sheltered–he still lives with his mother. Nice lady, but I don’t think she weened him off her tit til he was five.


Oh the rainy weather and I’m at home with the sound of storm birds and lawnmowers and I’m cold but I don’t want to get warm because it’s not really that cold. And I have to get practical and be all adult and think about my future and have some savings in the bank. Around me, my generation just got really practical, or they hid it from me to save me from shock. And I”ve over-dosed on those sort of indie mags which appeal to artsy 30 somethings who are doing music or own an old farmhouse in Victoria and live with their industrial design boyfriend and their pet chickens, so this might explain why I’m dreaming of moats and Amazonian women riding horses away from towns full of people who talk shit. Yep, they would get their rocks off, and then jump on that horse and be out of there. Hair flowing, laughing into the wind, riding back home.

* I am aware a cobbler is the profession ascribed to a shoemaker/repairer. I know the real term is ‘horse-shoe fitter’. lol


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