Surprising sun and warmth. Equine stillness and sweetness of indescribable degree. Work, work, work, work. Small, delightful, visiting dog. More work. Cheese sandwich. Shall there ever be enough words? Delightful exchange with a writer I know in America. ‘Write that book NOW,’ I type, as he tells me of a new idea. Back to my own book, which I also must write NOW. Put on 1001 words. Not enough but better than nothing. Almost at the crucial point.
Head begins to feel as if someone has it in a vice. Visceral sense of neurones misfiring and brain cells dying lonely deaths. Squint at HorseBack stuff, which must be done. Pause for a moment, to remember the insane courage of the people I see there, the people I take photographs of and write about for the HorseBack Facebook page. Imagination is my job; I cannot imagine what they have done and seen and felt.
Siren voice: oh, oh, there is racing from Worcester. Proper voice: bugger off, there is no time. Unacceptable voice: but just one tiny little double??
Small afternoon pause to watch video clip of cavalrymen from 1920 do lunatic but lovely things with horses. This is how I rest my brain. I am allowed fifteen minutes of Facebook diversion. If it were not for Facebook, I would never know of the cavalrymen of 1920. Feel grateful. Wonder if Red the Mare would leap into a ravine if I asked her to. (OF COURSE SHE WOULD.)
Must do admin. No time for admin. Proper voice: are you remembering to breathe? Lunatic voice: don’t be ridiculous, there is no call for breathing in and out when the hours are flying past your ears like bats.
Think, suddenly, for no reason at all, of my dad. He was so naughty and not like anyone else and he would have ridden down a ravine without blinking and how absurd he would find all this, that I am doing now. He would blink and pat my hand and laugh and laugh and laugh.
Pause. WRITE THE BLOG, shouts the sergeant-major voice. The Dear Readers are dear, and you must give them something. (Try not to make it too much about how perfect your bloody horse is, says the tired, resigned, seen-it-all-before voice.)
One last coherent thought: should I really confess to having quite this many voices in my head?
Pictures. No time for captions:
One final, final thought: should I really admit to all the things I admit? Bugger it. People shall think what they shall think. The only seed that grows from secrecy is the dirty shoot of shame. Which is a very muddled metaphor indeed.