yesterday, he was extremely appreciative. His eye has been bothering him. I did some TTouches off the lead rope and he leaned into the line. And on the final leg of the loop (coming back to the house) he quickened his pace.
The deal is now if I am to interact in a serious or not so serious way with the horses I need to get outside when it’s light. Then later, when I get back inside, it’s dark. And it is really hard to get back into writing mode. I think, well, there are just a few hours left in the day, so I can get done what I need to get done, tomorrow. But tomorrow never comes.
The writing never, ever does itself. A truism that sometimes makes me wonder why I do it at all. The answer is that my life would have no meaning if I didn’t write. I suppose that I could create in other ways, after all we are talking here about the creativity gene. But I have no idea which path that I’d pursue. Music would be out. Drawing and painting exist as a possibility, as does sculpture. Photography might be an option, but I just don’t seem to be able to grasp the technical details. I would consider pottery, but I think that I’d get bored with it.
Conceptual art – I like the idea of being a conceptual artist – the problem is that I would be lacking in ideas. Far better to applaud the ideas of others; like the woman who followed sanitation engineers around and took Polaroid Photos and had these 760 pictures hanging in a museum gallery.
I think I’m about due for a vacation – in a warm, brightly lit place.
Next: 347. 12/1617: Bringing out the Best in My Horses