ahhh the Junkie was in no such mood, he's not too fond of James Taylor either. In fact it was such a pisser of a mood, he nearly lost me on the beach. Decided to bolt as I was sitting down in the saddle. This wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't been holding the lead of another horse who's rider had just been thrown. She was still tender and just freshly convinced to get back in the saddle again. I let go of the lead knowing Cashmere would probably prefer to stay still, rather than freak out with the Junkie balls-or-nada down the beach. It didn't really scare me, as I wrestled the reigns, and wrapped my legs around him, I was more worried for the poor woman we'd left alone. I glanced back once hoping my intuition was correct about Cashmere. She looked totally pathetic, Cashmere hadn't moved, goooood horse. Denny's is not much for these quiet rides, but I acted like nothing happened as I returned to Cashmere. Can I walk? Um, it's about two miles back to the stables. coax coax, she began to settle. Denny was still insane, the Hackmore had rubbed him raw, under the chin, we were both annoyed at the same situation, but for different reasons. At the time The Pinto, she was riding, was being ponied by Ricardo, who speaks no english, he showed me his hand where the lead had opened old wounds when he tried to hold the Pinto. In one hand was the Pinto in the other Ricardo was riding Cowboy, who's head was already in the barn, and lathered to go. All the horses get Barn crazy on the beach, and keeping a herd under control with a bunch of people who think they can ride is really exciting. He had to let go of the Pinto, the Pinto came racing towards me, I turned Denny, hoping I'd make a better door, the Pinto, who is usually a lazy ass, brilliantly went around me, and began to loosen the saddle. The rider, already screaming her head off, began to turn on the twisting saddle. One is not supposed to panic in these situations, so when the pony passed me I got Denny going, but the lack of saddle meant she wasn't going much farther. oh shit. Yeah, so the saddle went one way and she went the other, the moment she touched the ground the Pinto stopped. It wasn't horrible, she landed on a sandy beach, just one of those days I suppose. One of her friends bravely offered up Cashmere, and took the Pinto.
I'm drinking Bourbon now.

I seriously barely have time for this. And lately I am comparing myself to the vessel, no, the oar, and that could be of a ship or a mine.
Today, while I'm riding to the beach with the Junkie, I'll be humming James Taylor (the cd of the morning), a) because it's cloudy and it was either James or Frank. b) because Denny likes it c) because I'm a cowboy and I win for wearing the most button up shirts at once, cotton, wool and jacket.

For the blackened mood I was in yesterday, I am a total kitten this morning.
prrr.

"I should know! I'm the priest!"
Just before my parents arrived, last weekend, Jess calls to invite me to her wedding. Well not exactly. My oldest best, shyly, asked me to perform the ceremony, this is possible because they've already been married, by the state appointed judge or county clerk, at the big court house in NYC last April. There, the parents met the parents, and the two were wed in about 3 minutes. In October half of Dublin, and Jess' clan will collide. A picturesque upstate NY town has been selected, which will be admired for it's fall color, a perfect place for the in-laws to meet, and much Guinness to be poured. This wedding I am not the Photographer, or the florist, I'll just stand in front of everyone and say something about the two in front of me then proceed to get very drunk while flirting with the accents. The "say something" bit is what has my attention. Okay. Say someting, about Jess and Jason and love. Are you sure you wouldn't prefer someone who's known love a little longer, better, grasp, wisdom, my stomach is turning, I wanted to say all this then graciously back out of her proposal, but none of it was true, so I just hung up the phone and took some deep breaths. I do know love, I am not very brave in showing it, and evil Jess wants me to gush for her and Jason in front of the lads.
Okay, because I adore you.

Happy Birthday Jennie

El Rio
the mission hipsters are crowding the bar for Dollar Popov and cran, Bud Lite and Gin and Tonics in a bottle simply labeled GIN. I watch someone buy 13 drinks and only tip $2! I'm sure he's just a little strapped this week because he just made his scooter payment.
The bar smells like a used clothing store. All the men are wearing their father's clothing from the 80's. This is the look. Pick a hair style crew cut, shag, fro, apply Members Only Jacket add possibly biggest square glasses, one can find preferably bent, you forgot the really tight jeans, no, that would be impressive, baggy slacks and an almost adorable, but you look like my father, memorial day 1982, personality you can find. Personally I just want to get him drunk and make out with him on his shinny new Vespa Did I mention the bar smells like ARC? I always appreciate a good mullet, it seems the bravest of hairstyles, if attempting this fashion genre. No one dared in this crowd. The atmosphere lacked the sense of humor about these things. It seems imperative, but I can envision the stone sober look of want at the Valencia Vintage store as one turns the price tag to the 1984 pine green and black Powder Jacket. That's so cool! uh-huh. Choire had a mullet last summer. He called it a dare and his friends were begging him to cut it off. I thought it was super sexy. He looked like a senior in high school, ready for shop class. I thought about sculpting my own, but realized I'd look like the gym teacher.
My third drink, and I am still not getting past the memories of The Bureau of Reclamation, picnics atLair O' The Bear. Every summer the Doctors of Biology would don their brown slacks and frizzy long hair, occasionally passing on the deodorant, except my dad. The clothing was a uniform, not a fashion statement. So it's funny seeing it as such. The women at this bar are still in the70's and 60's. One mini-Jackie dress coat, with bob and dippty-doo hair cut. She carried a black Patton purse and wore blocky healed shoes. I suppose the dare of 80's would inflict shoulder pads, pastel colors, and big belts. Next dollar Mondays I'm wearing my Mumu. Where's my Swatch protector?

okay, my parents are here, but in keeping in the spirit of creepy things that turn into

Thursday, March 21, 2002

...so lots has just happened.
most currently ma an pa occum are overpacking, waking up too early, and leaving in plenty of time to be at the gate. They've never visited before so naturally I haven't done a thing.
*run*

...the massive influx of impressions is so great; surprising, barbaric, and violent things press so overpoweringly- "balled up into hideous clumps"-in the youthful soul; that it can save itself only by taking recourse in premeditated stupitidy.
-Nietzsche

there is real real: you fall down the stairs
Observed real: you drive by a car wreck
real unreal: Robo-pets
Convertly unreal realistic: Hair in shampoo ads. More or less undetectable digital effects
Unreal real: Strawberries that won't freeze because they have fish genes in them

Rather 'numbing'.
(am I allowed to drive, in traffic and read Harper's?)

the fuckits

Woke up looking at my wardrobe. I must wake up looking at it everyday, because it's right there, but on this lucky morning I looked at it and tried to remember what the last thing I bought was. There are shirts eight years old hanging there. ick. *rolled over* It's occurred to me, again, that I have to keep changing or else I become bored to tears or restless. Today I wanted to throw away all my clothes, sell, burn, bury, give, everything else and flee to some unknown. I get so angry at myself. I've locked myself into debt, and accepting things I can't afford, I feel like I can't deny this any more, and why can't I "just be happy"? Permission slip, signed receipt. I have no control. I once was always reaching for something, now I want to give it all away. Am I going crazy? or am I crazy because of all these things. Distractions rule me, who the fuck thinks like this? I'm so in left field and please believe me, this is a recent development, but I had it coming.
fuck. You can't get blood from a turnip, fuck money, I can choose to be stressed and bound or I can imagine doing something about it. you can buy my eggs, they come in a little jar, next to the Beluga Caviar. No I haven't been myself lately, I'm not myself right now. Except for my skin, my skin moisturized trapping in the dust from today. Time for a shower.
Where's my robe.
This is just random shit, because I've been so strange for the last 8 months. You didn't sign up for occum's monthly news letter, it found you. I remember writing last year and discovering my words were even more powerful than the thoughts behind them. That's why I stopped writing like that, and I wish I hadn't. I haven't felt the endorphins run, writing was a buzz. Now I have to say a lot of shitty stuff before it comes back again. Gee that sounded something Tinkerbell would say.

Sunday conversations
if there is a quintessential love, there is a Lover. (G_d)
-Mom

mar vista?
hi, it's kate is Woodie there?
no
um is Rick there?
This is Rick
oh hi, are we open today?
Rick #? is standing in the barn looking out at the rain.
Naa, it's to wet, stay home.
Mean while I am laughing trying too figure out which Rick I am talking to.
okay

Rain.
A Sunday off, which is too bad really, because I hate forcing myself to do what I have been avoiding all week, it takes way too much motivation. Drinking more coffee, takes 15.4 minutes and oh yeah write in this blog thingy, which I have been avoiding all week long. I think I'll have another coffee.
Procrastinator.
Yesterday the Junkie, was in a super mood. I wonder if I'll ever stop being surprised that animals have good and bad days too. He nickered when he saw me open the paddock. I think this is a good sign, It's kind of like a purr from a cat on catnip, a bit feisty. The good mood lasted all day, his head tossing, sweating and twitching has decreased dramatically. cool.
He's listening to you. A rider mentioned, though she was the one who couldn't stop talking, I think he was really just ease dropping. One ear to me, as I hum songs, like a god-cowboy.
This is good.
I'm seeing myself like the front page of a magazine.
Headlines.
ME
Swimming in it: Surprised at the re-realization that other beings have emotions (besides her narcissistic self) author witnesses little bubbly captions posted in clouds above the heads of everyone she meets.
Submerged-sturgeon introverted -mollusk, or just a skipped stone: What sort of marine animal are you?
The Pet Psychic: Uh-huh, when she said get out more, she meant, you better meet me half way.

#phone rings in a midtown office building wednesday morning, a young voice picks up
Dynamic Management? (She makes it sound like a question, but it's not)
so are you going to this 10 year reunion?
*laughs* (the kind of laugh given when she's caught sounding like a grown up and then realizing the hilarity of the question.)
fuck noooo. (she says, still in that familiar pain of getting up to go to THAT school kin of way) Wait, 10 years, it's finally here? are you going?
My oldest best and I bruised our way through High School together. Yearly, since the sixth grade, we'd count down the years till we graduated. "Only six more years, we're half way there!"
Am I going? hmmm
This question ranks up there with should I go to The Prom? Which puts my mind frame in like the 7th period, Ms. Sampson's class. Do we really want to go there at all? Then there's the whole Columbine issue. It's been strange enough going back to my childhood home for the holidays, and driving by my old school, but there is something creepy rubbernecky about going to the reunion.

Of course at one time I envisioned the ten year reunion as some sort of vindication, we were all living in a Howard Deutch movie. The Stoners, the Preppies, The Wavers, Geeks, Jocks, and the Country Club. The uninspired teachers, the few that made the difference, year book signing, trips to the mall, three ring binders and lunch money. The worst thing to happen at the time was someone lit a car on fire in the court yard. No wait, Columbine once had wood paneling, that was the worst thing that happened to that school.

But just incase, jess, fuck no really wasn't your answer. ha ha. I got two words for you.
Derek Clardy (hahahaha)

So this is all I am doing
really. the weather has been too unpredictable for work, so I go riding between the storms.
you're gonna kill that horse. Rick #1 trying to be funny. This is the first time the man with un-decidedly fake? teeth has actually talked to me.
Uuh?
That horse hasn't ever had that much attention without a boot to the ribs.
I'm spraying mane and tail and brushing out Denny's long, sandy brown tail, just so he can get super dirty again in the paddock later. smiles
My sister has decided that she likes Denny. She's never seen him before, but I think she appreciates a good Headcase.
Brush Brush brush. I start singing a Denny song about the dirt and fur flying. "Stanley Cleaners. Tough on dirt! Gentle on carpet" Usually I sing Al Green.
The Five Chairs, which seats one or two on weekdays, but in general is just the folks milling around, have all agreed or commented, that Denny is noticeably calmer than he used to be. I fail to mention the Special K I've added to his grain, because I don't think anyone would think it funny. Pat pat. Denny's getting shinny and seemed to appreciate my archeological dig with the hoof pick. clean clean clean, and saddled, and Hackmored. Pam, was dully impressed that I'd chosen to stay with the Hackmore. I guess I am training this horse. Okay. Pam's encouraging words, every time a horse has something bad happen to him it takes 1000 times to convince him it won't happen again and Fortuando happened to him for 2 years. Fortunado.
I haven't gotten mad about the past and cruelty this horse had to endure while everyone watched. Everyone here has this live and let live mentality. When they see evil, they turn their heads, yet when they see good there is a shower of encouragement and when something seems to go wrong Woodie quietly takes a couple head to auction. This is how it works, for now, yet I wonder if The Five Chairs will change their heart as they watch me care for this no name horse. Most of the trail horses come with no name, a 12 year old horse gets a new name, how depressing. I rally for Denny like a lobbyist. As long as people talk about him, he'll stay popular, for now he's thought of as "Fortunado's horse, look at him now."
Go for a ride
Denny likes the wind as much as I do, so we charged through the valley wind swept and chatty. Blah blah blah, and more Al Green. He's much calmer today, hardly a quiver, didn't sweat nearly as much, though he did try to brain me several times, tossing his head back. The hangliders are out in fleets today flying just below the heavy gray clouds. Alex and her crazy Mare are reigned tight, but it's an English reign so that's okay. I'm glad Denny's just a junkie. Crazy seems a bit harder to negotiate.

I didn't think about it all day. Probably because I haven't been watching tv. I am very tired of the media opening wounds. one month, three months, six months, a commemorative pin. The flags in the shop front windows are all fading. Who would dare be the first to take them down? I'm not being insensitive, I promise, I am very sad that people cannot mourn without a camera aimed in their face. I didn't think about it all day, and now my mind is flipping channels of images. While I was busy not thinking I spent a picture perfect afternoon on the beach with Simon, and Denny. I didn't think about it all day because I was so busy holding low reigns and asking Simon, politely, not to run behind the horse. We went all the way to Pacifica and Denny the junkie did very well, except that he was quivering beneath me, tossing his head and lunging to a trot. There is little trust when we ride. When we returned to the stables he was drenched in sweat after just a walk back from the beach. There is an unbelievable capacity for stress. His story of abuse is as bold as brush strokes on a canvas, I'm beginning to see that now. I talked to him calmly between the spins (I walk him in a full circle to draw his attention back to me.)
Show me everything, show me what happened.
Later I point to his scars, he replies by twitching if it hurts. touch touch touch.
He watches me walk around the stables now and I rarely resist when I catch him looking to blow in his nose or rub his head. Despite his abuse he is a gentle giant.
Denny is the least vengeful being in my planet, not once did he ask me what day it was.

So riding on the beach with my dog there was the coolest thing.
I'm so gay.

out to Galaxy Girls last night with Michael and Bill Rula Planet made me laugh so hard I fell out of my chair. Her closing act with Miss Gay Marin 2001, Ivy Drips, was brilliant, and I had no idea the poor darling was sick! Satine do take care of yourself.

that's not what I wrote. blogger is pissing me off, edit is NOT working!!! I am possitive this will end up posted three times by the end ot the day. *grumble grumble* pay for Pro *grumble*

blogger is acting up. grrr
out to Galaxy Girls last night with Michael and Bill. Rula Planet made me laugh so hard I fell out of my chair. Her closing act with Miss Gay Marin 2001, Ivy Drips, was brilliant. I had no idea poor Rula darling was sick!
Satine do take care of yourself. The show must go on!

Bubba was sold today.
Are you kidding, I'm elated!
Bubba, rosy cowlicks, gentle trot, mostly sound horse gets his own stall soon! Pam recommended Denny, and so did the girls, Alex and Sabrina. But they were suspiciously elbowing each other in that sister conspiracy way, which I am privy too. I ask, so what's up with Denny? I was tying him in a quick release hitch in front of the barn. Oh, nothing "the baby sitter" is an awesome horse. Baby sitter? Yeah, he's Fortunado's old horse. Fortunado was mysteriously gone this morning; thus the calm settling dusted atmosphere of the herd. Yeah, where is he? Oh, I think Woodie let him go. I love the passivity of the staff here, because I can just imagine the duffel bag tossed out the trailer, and the bus ticket in his hand. Fortunado had crippled three horses during his employment here. It wasn't that he beat horses, no one would stand for that, he just amped them up into a frenzy then kept slamming on the breaks. The Babysitter? This horse doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, but Fortunado picked at every one of them. Denny is a funny looking horse. As many cowlicks as Bubba has, Denny has the biggest head which is attached a toothpick of a neck. He is very slight compared to the cow wrestler of a Bubba. He also had a permanent sore on the left side of his mouth from the tight snaffle Fortunado used. The sore still oozed a bit so I reached for the Hackmore (Hackmore is a bit-less bridle, which applies pressure to the nose and chin for control instead of the mouth.) There was work, which could be done, but I left it to the others, I was going to brush this horse till I heard the sigh I needed to hear, and watched him "fake chew". Have I mentioned the size of Denny’s head? I told him we had something in common as he held steady while I tightened the cinch and eased into the saddle. His trot was nothing like Bubba’s so all day he, bless his heart, he patiently negotiated our trot. We never got it, but he amazed me all day. He never forgot it was I on his back and not Fortunado.
I’ve got the tip part down pat. The people mount and ride around in the arena for a moment, I shine on as "the girl-wrangler." I’ve got the whole bit down.
I’m from Colorado.
Yeea, grew up on horses, and skiing of course. (nods. They love that shit, where’s my Stetson.)
Blah blah chat chat, every tip and dollar I make at this job I save to buy my own horse. This eats the folks up, oh how cute. But when I say it I tend to look at the withers of my horse, because it’s really him isn’t it. A five-dollar tip, for a bit of his hide.
But let me make one thing clear for sure, since this is probably what I’ll be writing about on the weekends, since it is a Saturday night and I’m too tired to actually go out. These horses are treated really well. I shudder to think what the Half Moon bay Stable conditions are like, because I hear it’s bad. This herd is fat, social, shod, and managed, but a lot of them have been doing this for 7 to 10 years everyday, and that is fucking boring. I was thinking about it today while scaling down a very narrow path, just before the beach. The eroded steep valley of ice grass on either side. These animals are prey in the animal kingdom. Pet owners aren’t used to prey pets; we’re used to predator pets. Dogs, cats, even most fish. Predator animals relate to territory, they are quite happy in their space. Witness #1, your cat. OUTSIDE your apartment. Territory equals predator. Now look at prey animals. They forage for food due to climate conditions. Graze graze graze. They do not remain on a single path for long periods of time. Except to, find the way. Most of these horses see glass walls at the two rocks on the beach. Systematically they about face and trot home. In fact it upsets them to be removed from this routine. Their habitual tendencies are somewhat of a mystery to me. Honestly I am not sure what Denny is trying to tell me sometimes. His head bobbing, is a manic lunge to trot, it is the sway of a bound elephant at the circus, or the pace of a leopard behind bars. If I can ease him to stop, it is as random as cooling a junkie, but it takes more energy than force. Suddenly I am trying to save the world by calming this gelding.
My Junkie Denny deposits me at the end of the day at the top of the hill, quite safely, and I return the thanks in a token walk to the pasture, and brush out the saddle marks.
My Junkie Denny. I say that, but did I mention? I could hear him speak today and he was teaching me to ride between his own fits of Fortunado.

Later. Woodie took me out to dinner with another Wrangler. I haven’t talked about her yet, she just started, and so typically, I forgot her name. She’s been around horses all her life, breaks them, know composition, breed yadda yadda, and she kicked my little pickle while he was nervously being shod. We don’t like her right now, because…
Why.
anything can happen in Fargo,
anything can happen in Fargo.
Anything can happen in Fargo,
but it proba-bly won’t.
Now the First kind of person.
Is the worst kind of person.
The first kind of person,
kicks.
His.
Dog.
(Replace with horse and we have a revised edition of the Fargo song, sung by many a drunk ECHTer, at Red Rocks, Colorado, a story, of which, if you are interested, may purchase at occums library for the low low price of $9.99.)
While at dinner Woodie tells me about Uncle Sancho. Do you know him? This is a brilliant tid-bit of Mexicana. In Mexico, a lot of men go away to America to make money then send it to their wives and family back in Mexico. The men are gone for a very long period of time, and what each spouse does with his/her time apart is, well, their own business. The man, Sancho, is the one who stays behind my darlings. He keeps the wives company. The husbands know of Sancho, in fact Manuel mentioned to Woodie the other day that Sancho needed a new pair of boots, which meant he was wiring his wife some money. I love this, and I am eating Wonton soup almost as fast as Woodie’s stories

sass away comment free for all, while I am busy working for a better tomorrow

hi I have an imac, how can you tell.
Checked out my site, the vain creature that I am, on a really big monitor yesterday. You can hardly see the pearl snaps!

hi I have an imac, how can you tell.
Checked out my site, the vain creature that I am, on a really big monitor yesterday. You can hardly see the pearl snaps!

thursday is day off day!

Then there was the pinpointed moment when, after my day loping around with Bubba on the beach, I looked at him, hitched to the post with the others. He didn't look like the alert head tossing drool machine I'd been on all day. He was falling asleep, encrusted in sweat and dirt. Half an apple later his salty saddle and bridle was removed I began to brush out the saddle marks. Fur was flying, he was sighing. Everyone, around the five chairs was watching me care, and that felt a bit strange, but I continued. Then we went to the back pasture so he could nibble on grass and I could practice brushing smooth his many cowlicks. The rubber nubby brush (it's not much of a brush, but I don't know the name of it) worked out hair and more sighs making his lower lip get all trembly, Bubba started looking like a horse.

I'd really like to hurt the person who named Bubba, Bubba.

So more about yesterday, because today I was unconscious, though I did manage to make this fancy March 02' blog, afterwards crashing into the couch.
Mar Vista Stables.
Bubba the horse. snaffle bit. five mismatched chairs in front of the barn with an array of horse folk at random times sitting in them. Alex. Alex is 17 and a half, she is the niece of Woodie, she owns a red 3 year old mare. Sabrina her sister owns a gray thoroughbred, who is just as crazy and they like to ride in 'the valley', the ice plant void between the great highway and the ocean. Rick, a man in his late 60's, who's, I am not yet convinced, perfectly white teeth are his own, owns a horse or two. Rick #2, mid 70's, lacks the teeth but is so incredibly animate I can't quite figure out who he reminds me of. He owns a gray Arabian who the girls ride. Of course Woodie is there, and Pam, who gives lessons, she's in her late 40's and has curly blonde hair and a smokers laugh, every time I get to work she says, "ah kate, yah made it again." So we sit by the barn and make small talk with the boarders and gossip about the newcomers. There is a stallion in the barn now, an Andalusian, [pause for the most disturbing thing I've seen in a while.] The horse's every movement is breed into the creature and we all stood gaping, quite dumbly, at the lunging lunatic warmblood. Rick #2 "That animal's gettin' his balls chopped the moment he acts up."
Fortunado and Manuel are the other Wranglers, or Rancheros. Neither of them speak much english, so Fortunado and I make ugly faces at each other. I tease him by saying words really fast or incomprehensible, this embarrasses him to no end and more ugly faces. Fortunado is a bit of a jerk, and keeps hitting on the High School girls. Rick #3, he always worries the SPCA is going to close the stable down, starts in with how all we need is the papers to let out something about a ranch hand fooling around with a teenager and the stable is history. Rick #3 tends to worry a lot, and I worry about his sunburn nose. The SPCA is a constant worry for Rick #3 too. I wasn't about to assure him, best to keep the guy worrying, because he's always cleaning water troughs and picking up horse shit and it's kind of a running joke for the rest of the boarders who hang around to listen to him.

(okay I need to go to bed, but I wanted to say "Hi Michael we're totally going to the spooky lesbian bar in the mission. I can't wait.

What do you mean you don't serve Fernet, it's only like the machoest drink you could serve in a place like Mecca.
I thought the nine dollar Sambuca came with the class too! *cling*, now we have two! Aaron I hope you decide to experience the Pines this summer it's like this bar only light out.

In my occum absence I've been thinking a lot about identity and movement, and how I'll be waking up at 5:30 for the next few weeks, including weekends.
I bought a new bed, did I tell you? This is part of my positive action to boldly get stuck, get interested, motivate, to insure, instill, and nest. The bed is huge, and I am adapting to its Queenish extra 6 inches, oh yes darlings, size does matter.
If you don't mind, I won't tell you how I got here, only that it took four cities, a dozen jobs, encouragement, loss, new friendships, plane tickets, and a credit card. These equations aren't the only testimony of me, but let's just get one thing straight. I am not a writer. I'd never say this to upset your infinite patience or pull the last thread you know of me. It's just that I am a carpenter, no really, I have a permanent dirty foot smudge in my shower. I just wanted to warn you, before you spend the night, or decide to go looking for me in discreet hiding places. I need to clear things up, I haven't been very vocal about everything. Trappings.
I live in San Francisco. People say I want to live else where, but just recently I decided here is good, and I'll stay, at least for now. You're staring at me with a welder's glance, I can feel it. A welder's glance is one out of the corner of your eye. It's with all intensity, but careful, as to not burn the center of your retina. I have been a stinker, but now I'll stop.