When I was very little, I started riding hunter/jumpers at a barn called Red Fox Stables, and I mainly jumped and showed in the rings, but I happened to make friends with some people who liked to fox hunt, so I agreed to go along with them one Saturday. I thought it was no big deal. Just bored and going along for the ride. I could take a little ride through the woods, I thought. I had absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into.
No worries -- we didn't kill any foxes. Actually, fox hunts mainly involved a lot of drinking, howling hounds, dangerous, fast-paced, drunken stunts on horseback, fancy clothing, and running through crazy trails while following the lead of the even crazier hunt master. We never even saw a fox that day. Picture a massive herd of random riders equipped with flasks, a group of twenty-five or so hounds, no safety measures, and a bunch of huge obstacles in the way. At the horse shows, jumps were made of poles and other materials that would give and fall if a horse/rider team hit them, which was safer. At a fox hunt, the jumps were solid as hell, which meant that if a horse didn't make it over, both horse and rider were pretty much toast.
Despite the danger, everyone looked spiffy and polished -- makeup, top hats, well-pressed coats, shiny boots and all -- but it was a strange scene. Reminded me of old paintings, and I felt as if I were suddenly stuck inside of one, but in those paintings, the huntsmen always looked so calm and distinguished. In a real fox hunt, the sound of the people and hounds was earsplitting and the whole group moved so fast, I barely had a chance to breathe. Trees, mainly low-hanging branches, became the enemy. I knew that a sturdy branch could clothesline me. Dodge, duck, hang on. That was the way it went.
Most of the hunt riders didn't come from hunter/jumper farms, and they didn't show much, and they really didn't take a lot of lessons, if at all. Rather, they just saddled up every now and then for these events to dress up, be social, and have a random dangerous ride with friends. So to reiterate, there was the following scene: inexperienced riders with flasks of liquor, wild hounds, breakneck speed, huge obstacles, groups madly running through rough trails, and no real map or directions. Also, there were no cell phones at that time, so if anyone got hurt, too bad. The hunt must go on.
Four hours, this fox hunt lasted. I was riding a monster-sized draft horse named Shuttlebus, and although he was a kind teddy bear, and he really took care of me, old Shuttlebus was as wide as he was tall, and I was only about four feet tall, so you can imagine the back, leg, and hip pain I experienced after four hours of riding that massive creature. Picture a baby straddling a Cadillac. His tan face was so enormous, he looked like a large, stuffed dinosaur. I didn't take my horse, because he was unaccustomed to the noise, and I didn't want him to get hurt. Shuttlebus the machine was as mellow as they came, and he had been hunting before; he had no problem with the madness. My giant pillow for the day.
I came out of it alive, and I had fun because I had a great horse, but I never did it again. But it makes me think back to those days and how much has changed in the horse world. Now I watch people use splint boots, wraps, bell boots, blankets, and all sorts of things to "protect" their horses. Sure, I do it too, just for the look. But back then, we let them grow their coats, we never used blankets, and we never used any protective gear for them or ourselves. Hell, half the time, we never even wore helmets. We turned them out in huge groups every single night, whether rain, snow, sleet, or hail. We only kept them in if there were severe lightning storms. And over the span of thirty years, I've seen many, many horses get hurt at the track, in the barns, in stalls, in the show ring, or in training, but I've only seen two become seriously hurt in a field. One was a mare still fresh off the track, and she recovered. The other one was my horse. After we sold him to a girl on a Kentucky farm, he got hurt in a field, and he died.
But even though it was my horse, and even though I lost a wonderful friend (such a divine creature), even though I mourned a great loss, I have always felt the same way about their care. I still say let them be horses. In life, there is always risk, so let them be naked. Let them run free. And the way I see it is this: he died too young, but he died a free horse. I suppose things happen as they should.
C.A. MacConnell
9/29/2015
9/28/2015
9/26/2015
9/25/2015
Photo: You'll Feel
You'll Feel
They were singing The Rolling Stones' "Wild Horses." :)
C.A. MacConnell
9/19/2015
9/16/2015
9/09/2015
9/08/2015
Loaded: Tackling Hitchcock and Fellini
Hollins University. Original Bradley Hall, Creative Writing Grad Center, the place of much genius work, and the location of many strange occurrences, including unwanted "photography exhibits," shots taken at parties the night before, and the temporary home of a lost professor -- a live chicken.
Loaded: Tackling Hitchcock and Fellini
During the first semester in grad school, I was partying so much that I pretty much lost touch with reality and at some point, I had to write this long term paper on Hitchcock, one that counted for half of the grade for the entire semester. Sure, it was a big deal, so I repeatedly got loaded and watched Hitchcock’s Marnie, and I was all ready to sit down and concentrate on the writing but instead, I got totally loaded again. Overall, it was the worst paper I’ve ever written.
I wrote something crazy, head-splitting, and pseudo-deep about tracing the color yellow throughout the film. The entire paper was about yellow. That’s right -- every single word had a reference to yellow. There’s only so much one can say about yellow, and it was over ten pages long -- including footnotes and references -- and this genius work would have been hilarious to anyone who wasn't inside my fucked up head. At the time, I thought I was the deepest, yellowest person on the planet. I was the sun, an egg yolk, the yellow slide at the pool. I was a yellow Frisbee, a yellow sun visor, yellow hair. I was a banana, a lemon, a rubber ducky. And on and on.
But interestingly enough, the paper was so bad and so funny that I got an A-. I lucked out because my professor thought it was hilarious. That must’ve been what saved me, because it was horrible, and I made twisted symbolic connections that made no sense really. Like an acid trip within a paper. Really, the paper should’ve been called, “Get Comfy Because For Ten Pages, I Will Be Talking Out of My Asshole.”
Ten pages of nothing but yellow. I was so obsessed…it just got deeper and deeper and deeper. First, I wrote about yellow objects, then shades of yellow, then about dialogue that was a reference to yellow. I made numerous, super deep connections to the sun and butter and everything yellow, and none of it had anything at all to do with the movie, but the title of it was, “Tracing the Color Yellow Through Hitchcock’s Marnie.” I would’ve given me an A+, just because it was so terrifying and funny, but I guess I was lucky to get the A-.
My professor must’ve roared when he read the thing. The best part was that he wrote a two-page long, deep, yellow commentary on the back of the paper, and his critique was even better than the paper. Even funnier, considering this man is a highly esteemed, well known, award-winning, published author, and he’s considered a genius by many, and yet he took the time to write a two-page ridiculous commentary on my ridiculous paper.
Once, for the same professor, I wrote a research (extensively researched) paper on Fellini’s La Strada, and I started it off like this: “Are you a woman or an artichoke?” It was a reference to a quote in the film, but the way it read, it seemed like I was asking the professor that question. Of course, I went on and on about artichokes. Pages about nothing other than artichokes. I thought I might fail Fellini, but I got an “A,” amazingly enough.
I’m lucky I made it through grad school. Hell, I’m lucky to be alive. Back then, I was running on booze and coffee, not much else. Maybe a yellow cookie here and there. Here’s to all things yellow and strange plants pulling me through.
Ah, look at the progress. Are you a woman or an artichoke?
C.A. MacConnell
