We've Got Everything Covered

I'm not really a religious type, but every now and then, when I get in my super-depressed mode, I picture a group of angels up there in Heaven, just for kicks. There they are -- a whole, white-clad group of blonds who are laughing at me and whispering, "No worries. We've got everything covered." Actually, they're not fully laughing. They're giggling. In spite of my annoying sadness, heaviness, and dark thinking, the vision always makes me chuckle a little.

I need to live in Arizona.

Anyway, in this vision, they're the stereotypical kind of angels -- wings and flowing robes and all. Some have harps, you know. Here and there, a mysterious Renaissance instrument. Not sure why they're usually blond, but they are. Little Shirley Temple curls, the works. Why not. If one is going to have an angel vision, one must go all out, I say. Fuck Santa. My angels could take him out with one swipe of a lute or dulcimer, just saying.

My point is this:  all things change. Feelings, situations, people, nature, even my angel vision. Things circle back, but they're always new. What is dark will change to light. What is wet will become dry. And vice versa. Check out those trees. Yes, bare again. But soon, back to full. Might as well just hang on for the ride, because the ride changes too. One day, it's my birthday, and I'm watching a rock show, and I'm in love. Another day, it's Christmas, and I can hear the click of the heater, and I know I missed someone's birthday, but I wonder if he knows my name, and I don't really care anymore (about the name thing, not about the birthday 😀. Sometimes it's nice to just send peace and love, just to do it. I do that all the time). Live, love, laugh, be transparent, forget the rest. That's me. It's so quiet here. Peaceful. There was a time when all I heard was violent yelling outside my window, and all I felt was fear. The angels are right. See, they have it covered. If I hang on, the outsides change along with my insides.

All around me, people talk about children, families. I know none of this. I don't know what it's like to have a baby or greet my husband when he comes home from work. They talk about full-time jobs, steady, big careers. I don't really know this either. Recently, I was at a lunch where I was the only person who had never lived with anyone (besides in a dorm). At first, listening to all of these conversations, I was stumped, unsure what to say or how to add to the talk. Then I thought this:  who cares. Those winged ones have a plan for me too.

My New Year's resolution -- to continue to try to fulfill God's plan for me, as best as I know how, which is hilarious and flawed at times, and to honor the differences in the paths of those around me. Maybe angels aren't exactly how I picture them, but I do believe there's something out there, helping me along.

And so I write to you. And I wish you well. I won't be celebrating really, because, well, that's just who I am.

I like this quiet. No worries. We've got everything covered.
C.A. MacConnell

P.S. You might not hear from me much for a while, because while I'm working on getting my young adult book to an agent, I'm going to self publish my second book, The House of Anchor, so that's going to be a huge chore. Coming soon. :) Until then, peace out. I wish you all the love in the Universe!💜💔💝💛💙😁

Photo: Full Circle

Full Circle

"The wheel is come full circle." -- Mr. William Shakespeare

"Everything comes full circle." -- the film, Carol

"And I say the sacred hoop of my people was one of the many hoops that made one circle, wide as daylight and as starlight, and in the center grew one mighty flowering tree to shelter all the children of one mother and one father." -- Black Elk

One of my favorite photos I've taken. I like the shape, the color, the simplicity. I'm a fan of subtlety in art. Feels peaceful, restful to me. Hope your day brings you peace.

Prayers for you and your heart family on this Christmas Eve,

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: See the Light!

See the Light

C.A. MacConnell

Flashback: Star Attraction. Some Things Stick.

Some Things Stick

Lookee what I found. Me + Star Attraction, Kentucky Horse Park. I was 17 & he was 6, I believe. I love this picture. What a smart, good boy he was. So incredibly loving and sweet...and what a looker. I'm not sure what class this was -- Low warm up or Juniors, but I remember that we were newly showing 3'6", and we had a great show, ending up Champion in the Juniors. Winning was always fun. Hells yeah. My grad school friend Cowboy always used to say it that way, with the plural "hell"-- "Hells yeah!" I admit I stole it.

Back to the Horse Park. I also remember how hot it was -- July in Kentucky, and they waived our jackets that day (note the casual white shirt attire). Riding is the only sport where the uniform totally works against you. When you grow up doing it, you just wear it. The new helmets make sense, but back in the day, helmets were made of something like thin felt, and they were really there only for the look. No protection at all. We didn't even wear them half the time. After years of curious study, the AHSA finally started regulating helmets, and the breeches improved as far as the grip, but later, this still comes to mind:  what the hell are they thinking making us wear thick, wool jackets on 100 degree days, when it's hard, physical work to ride? It makes no sense, but the jacket tradition carries on. And on. And on.

I could also tell you about the hilarious Turfway show the next year when I was in the ring, showing Juniors, and in the first class, I just spaced out and completely stopped riding around the turn somewhere, and I could tell my horse was thinking, Uh, where are we going? So right then and there, he slowed to a trot, then stopped, and we walked out of the ring. Baffled, my trainer asked me, "What happened? You just stopped riding." "I know," I said, shrugging. "I have no idea." There are no timeouts in riding, but there need to be. I took my own timeout I guess. Later that day, we turned it around though. Go figure.

My timeout, and the jackets, and the fact that we used to ride without helmets -- all of that is ridiculous. Today's truth:  as in deeply loving someone, some things are ridiculous, and yet they stick, staying with you forever.

C.A. MacConnell

Photos: Abby

A super sweet lady I met on the job once. Have a beautiful day,
C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Sunday Moment Away

Sunday Moment Away

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Skater's Point

Hello! Happy winter. I'm gonna snuggle with my stuffed lion and watch crappy TV. Yes! One of those nights. Normally, I would be doing something extraordinary. Whatever you imagine,
C.A. MacConnell

The Kind

Last night, an Old Man forced me
to smile.
Me, no more
than a furious, sticky
envelope,
a Venus fly trap.
Think of the closing view –
the dark, and the blackout, and the feel
of the tongue over teeth.
To Humans, some scissor-jaws
are ivory.

Me,
You,
the green carnivore,
the buzzing species –
All are hide and hide and…

Somewhere, a thick elephant herd,
an extended Family,
carries on.
When afraid, they dance together, turning up
dust. See the wrinkles
vice-grip those eyes.
Black. Creases. The Kind, huge
Hearts.
A wise Mother lifts her trunk, telling
Baby, Careful where you step. This season,
the Flies come out,
and the Green Ones
need them
to survive.

Seek.

-- C.A. MacConnell

We All Reach

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Main, Hollins University

Main Building, Hollins University

One time, I slept the whole night in one of these rockers. :)

C.A. MacConnell

The Sidekick

All names are changed in this piece. Also, this is the best essay ever written. Ha. Okay, maybe the sidekick to the best.

The Sidekick

It started happening in preschool. Cute Brian was trying to decide who was going to be his girlfriend -- me or Stacy. The criteria was this:  "I'll go out with whoever is taller." So Stacy and I lined up back to back, and I stretched my chin and stood on my tiptoes, but alas, Stacy was still taller. So Brian became her boyfriend. Fortunately, I wasn't that devastated, and I stayed friends with Stacy all the way through (our families are still friends), but I was always her sidekick.

In fourth grade, I was the sidekick to Maria. She was wiry and blond and beautiful, and her tan-toned legs stretched for miles. The boys loved her. The boys still hung out with me by default, because I was always with Maria, which was fun, but I was the one playing football while Maria was the one getting chased on the playground. I tried and tried to get attention, but I ended up waiting on Maria while she slowly peeled an orange and talked to Derrick.

In fifth grade, I got "in" with the two most popular girls -- Melissa and Janie. Melissa was the most popular, and due to a slight hint of chubbiness, Janie was a close second. They liked me enough that we all got called into the Principal's office together a few times, and my parents got some phone calls, but I didn't have 100 black Claire's rubber bracelets like Melissa, and I was slightly chubbier than Janie, so I was the sidekick. Really, I was the sidekick to the sidekick, because Janie was Melissa's sidekick.

In sixth grade, I rose in status due to loss of chub. And my best friend was Carla, and man, did I have a crush on her, like every other damn person on the planet, male or female. She was popular with the popular people, and she was popular with the weirdos. Everyone loved her. She had long, wavy, brown hair, and she liked horses like me, and she was a natural knockout. She reminded me of a thoroughbred -- long and lithe and graceful. Plus, she was smart, fun, wild, and of course, every single boy at school wanted her. On the playground, she was the best at everything -- tether-ball, running, even football. She could play like a boy and look good doing it. Every day, Carla wore this plaid, grampa-ish golf hat, and only she could pull it off. I tried, and I made my mom buy me one, but it looked ridiculous on my big head. Anyway, soon Carla transferred to another school, so there I was, a lost sidekick.

No matter. In seventh and eighth grade, I became the sidekick to Jenn and Cathy. They were the two tallest girls in the class, and they were equally popular that year. Well, they also both had quite the breasts, and I didn't. Still, we ran around together -- those two tall swans, and me, the duck.

In high school, I was the sidekick to Lisa. She was fun as hell, a bit unpredictable, and extremely flirtatious. She always had a line of boys waiting to hang out with her. I got better at my sidekick role at this point -- I even went on dates with her all the time. Constant third wheel. I never had a date. I just went on her dates. It worked out pretty well. Not sure how the dates felt about it, though. This continued throughout the rest of high school.

In college, I was the sidekick to beer. Enough said there.

So right now, I'm sitting here watching perfect-looking women on lingerie commercials, and I know that I'd look ridiculous in the clothes, even though they look awesome! I've never even stepped foot in those stores, but I'm wondering if any of those beautiful, successful women need a sidekick, because I'm great at it. Everyone has something to give! Or maybe I should have been on a talk show -- at least I could get paid to be the sidekick? I suppose I'd like to be the one on the dates, or the one being chased on the playground, rather than the sidekick, but dates are overrated.

My job is to shake them up.

But I'm laughing and mulling this all over. See, I'm guessing that every single one of those people that I looked up to -- I bet they all felt like the sidekick as well. Maybe not to me, but maybe to someone else. Haven't we all felt that envy and longing -- the feeling of wanting to be someone else? Haven't we all felt like the third wheel? Haven't we all wanted a different body, more attention, or more popularity? And perhaps some of these girls, at one point or another, wanted to be me.

We are all the same. We are all human, in our hearts. We are part of something divine. We all matter.

It has taken me 42 years to begin to find myself and stand on my own, and I'm still trudging and learning, for sure.

But make no mistake -- I'm still the best at being third wheel! Ha. I'm looking for my next niche in this area so that I can once again fulfill my role as the comic relief and intimacy distraction for someone else's date that's headed for the gutter.

19,
C.A. MacConnell

Photos: Bicycles

C.A. MacConnell

Limousine Girl

Sweat-drenched, once again,
her body became
the rain to the bed,
her sudden nightly windshield.
Engine starting,
she stretched to rise,
holding her racing head,
shifting into
her fake-tan,
fake-nail,
fake-face role
with vehicles, run sheets, and chauffeurs,
and she was never anything more
than a stuck car door,
and she was never anything more
than a stay-at-home groupie.
Fifteen, going on twenty-seven,
she arranged rides
for businessmen and stars,
making sure the drivers
remembered the ice,
watching her pager
vibrate and flash,
later collecting backstage cash,
shaking hands with managers,
when they had no idea
that Mom was her ride that day,
when she nodded, frowned,
and made a note of it
when the man in shades,
the big-toothed contact,
mentioned that one car
didn't have the right juice.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: I Hear Wings.

I Hear Wings

 For you, wherever you are,

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: FBF, Star Attraction & the News

Just checking in. Sharing an old photo today...sharing part of my life.

When I was newly sixteen, I sold my 3' horse, Rojo (see story below), and I found this guy in Camden, South Carolina, where he was hanging out on a lovely farm, waiting for me. Dark, dappled bay, 15'3 hands, he was young & inexperienced -- only five years old -- but we were soul mates from the start. I changed his name to Star Attraction (note the star on his forehead), but at the barn, I called him another name. Well, I worked so incredibly hard, trained him up, and he became my 3'6" horse. Cool. Seems like there wouldn't be a huge difference between 3' or 3'6", but there is, oh yeah. At 3'6", the rider has to be ultra accurate. That six inches makes all the difference when jumping. A lot more difficult. Ask any hunter/jumper rider.

Strangely, I think this is the only picture I have of him. I don't hold on to things. That's putting it mildly. I get rid of everything, actually, especially when I lose a person or animal. Just my thing. But I hold on to pictures of him in my heart. I've been around many animals, but only two have felt like true soul mates to me -- this horse and my cat who just passed.

Interesting, I've always connected more with bay horses.

Other news:  doing a lot of copywriting for work, which is good -- keeps me out of trouble. Also waiting on some feedback on my young adult book. Keeping things moving! Wish me luck as I continue on the road to getting published! Also in the news...a planned future visit to the eye doctor. Soon. Ugh, getting older. I had glasses at one time, but I am so ultra-stubborn that I wouldn't wear them, and now they're missing. Well, time for a new pair, and this time, there's no denying that I need them.

Here's to becoming new (and old) ha,
C.A. MacConnell

The Difficult Rides: Trump It

When I was fifteen years old, full of unpredictable moods and somewhat reckless, horses kept me relatively grounded. Jimmy, my horse trainer until I was sixteen, constantly tried to rein me in. At this time, I owned a 15' 3 hand, reddish-chestnut quarter horse named Rojo, or "Southern Accent," which was his show name. Rojo was a wonderful, experienced, talented three foot jumper, but he had been lame for a while, and he was on rest until we figured out what was wrong with him. So Jimmy told me to take another horse, Trump It, to our next show in Wilmington at Roberts Arena.

Let me back up...while Rojo was hurt, I rode a bunch of schoolhorses -- a 15'1 chestnut named Robin (skinniest, bumpiest horse I've ever ridden....like a washing machine), Lefty (sweet bay horse who would only canter on the left lead due to an old injury), Rosco (the schoolhorse-in-training who bucked everyone off), and many more. Always random. On a lucky day, I'd get to ride a horse from the "New Barn," which was where the nicer horses lived. Maybe the 17'1 hand, handsome gray, Lochan Bear. Yes, he was huge. Very rare if that happened, but it did. Or the bay, incredibly soft gelding named J.P., who was so comfortable to ride it was like sitting in a couch.

Jimmy always found something for me to ride, and I learned so much from riding so many different horses. Later on, this experience sure helped me when I rode and showed professionally. In a 60-horse barn, some horse always needed exercise and since I was small, I could ride anything -- from the huge monsters to the smallest ponies. I hated ponies, and Jimmy knew that, but he made me ride them anyhow. He always found something for me.

Anyway, Jimmy started letting me ride the big chestnut fellow called Trump It. A thoroughbred, Trump was a big boy, about 16'2, and he was finely boned, long-bodied, and striking -- he had a flashy, big, white blaze and four white socks. In the show ring, those markings always stood out as fancy. I loved riding him, so when Jimmy said I could take him to that Wilmington show, I was thrilled.

Well, Trump It was a beautiful horse, incredibly smooth to ride, and he was a flawless jumper. The judges absolutely loved his look; however, Trump It had one fatal flaw...when it was his turn to show, when he started cantering around alone in the ring, during the middle of the course, he would let out this earth shattering, lonely sound that vibrated the walls...he would yell so loud, his entire body shook, and a few times he almost shook me right out of the saddle.

So every time, even if we had a perfect, beautiful round, when he would let out those bellows (sometimes even over the top of the fence), of course the judges would take points off. So I always ended up with 3rd and 4th place ribbons, even if I should've been 1st, regardless of how I rode. Never #1 with him, because no matter what we did, we couldn't get him to shut up...hence the double meaning present in his "Trump It" name. Freaking TRUMPET.

For a while, I felt continually frustrated, and I became the literal laughing stock of the people from my barn. Whenever I went on course, they'd all crowd around to watch and laugh. Then people from other barns started to watch and laugh. At first, I was embarrassed, but then I started to laugh as well.

See, some days, someone else is supposed to win. Winning is fun, but winnings come and go. So it's best to keep a sense of humor about this mess we call life. Also, these adventures with Trump It and other difficult horses taught me how to deal with the frustrations of the sport and later, I was able to mentor my students and help them grin and bear the more difficult rides. In life and in riding, it taught me to keep on keeping on, let go, and focus on the next show.

Later, my horse Rojo got better, and we went on to win many Champion ribbons. And many, many years later, when I was working at a farm in Loveland, Rojo's new owner brought him out to the barn, and we used him for beginner lessons. He was so old then, but one day I hopped on his back, and we went for a canter around the field, just for old times sake. I could almost hear him say, Still goin' strong, mom.


Rojo, my sister, and me

When it comes down to it, riding horses is a lone journey -- in the show ring, it's just me and the horse. Writing is the same way. Just me and my typing hands. I have to be my own advocate, my own mentor, my own trainer, so to speak. So I may have had some difficult rides, but I've had some great successes as well.

-- C.A. MacConnell

Mansion

We broke in.
It was all
about the weather.
Seven times,
the scattered sky
spoke through
heat lightning,
and new clouds
coughed above us,
mostly hanging
in patchy rows.
Behind us, the stone
mansion. Someday,
I'll put up an offer.
We swam close
in the strange,
perfect pool;
we were the ice
on the dog day.
Let’s get dressed.
Rain’s comin’.
On the deck,
you checked
my muscle.

C.A. MacConnell

Dirty Turkey

Short Story, fiction

Dirty Turkey

Thanksgiving break. Evening in Jaytown, flocks of college kids browsed the stores and each other. Back home, each year, Rose became one smooth deal hunter. Her jeans were the black, skinny kind -- straight-legged and tight. Casually dressed to kill, she was window-shopping until some voice came at her from behind, the way she liked it.

“Hey!” he yelled.

She whipped around. "Hey yourself," she said to the man in the new T-bird. The car wore temporary tags.

She looked him over. Fresh meat, she thought, grinning. He was young, around her age, nineteen, and his build was hardly bigger than hers. He sank low in the leather seats of his crimson car. His hair was her brown shade. His wild brows weren't plucked, like hers. His shirt was red and fading, bleeding like hers.

Waiting for him, she leaned back against a storefront, restless. Maybe she’d buy a thumb ring later. Maybe skateboarders would soar and wreck, nursing breaks and bruises on Jaytown's streets. She never knew what characters would appear or vanish. She looked at her watch. Dad might ground her if she were out too late.

Hand at her chin, she studied him.

He parked crooked as hell. He was half-baked. He wasn’t careful.

She liked this.

When he climbed out of the car and reached for her, his shake was firm, like hers. “I'm Billy,” he said, raising a brow. “You look familiar." Billy touched her wrist, which cracked.

In his hand, her wrist became weak and fragile, like a wishbone. For a moment, she liked this too. "I'm Rose," she said, grinning. He seemed like a good egg. And when he touched her hair, she felt a shock, which was strange. She liked strange birds.

His eyes turned round and large, nearly buckeyes. "Come with me," Billy said, tugging her small wrist.

Meeting Billy was a good excuse to avoid home. Dad was usually out. Or making juice or eating tofu, watching Survivor, just checking out. Mom checked out too. Ten years back, on Thanksgiving, raspberries were on sale again. What a deal. Mom went to pick some up, planning for Dad’s special pies, but she never returned. Around twelve items or less, Mom disappeared. Dad let the turkey burn, burn, char in the oven. Dad still called her "missing;" he still put up signs. Rose couldn't picture Mom anymore. Rose only saw smoke.

Past the ghetto mart, past the people gliding through auto-doors like shopper hawks, Billy led her into Jaytown's famous ice cream shop. They shared a cone, berry sorbet.

Rose called it a date. Each year, back home, around the fourth Thursday in November, she had dates like this. She grinned, reminiscing. She checked the wall clock. She knew she had to either push this one in the oven or let it sit. She checked her watch, scratching her head. She would already be in trouble by then. Might as well stay out.

Backtracking, they paused in an underground parking garage until it became a deserted maze. Sex began with the slight tearing of shirts until both were bare, focused on skin grabbing. Billy let her suck on his finger. He let her suck.

Rose discovered that Billy was the sweaty kind – nearly cooking. And Rose discovered that someone had written Bush Sucks on the wall in black. Overhead on a fire escape, a couple fought until breakables began breaking.

Billy scooped his arms above her, making weird wings. Then he reached down, gripping her wrists, pinning her down on the ground.

It was hot, mad, wet, rough, and then her body became his giant skin pillow.

His chest, his body curves fit hers.

She wondered if she'd see him again. She fell asleep wondering.

--

Stiffly, she woke. It wasn’t that cold out, but Rose shivered. The world was hardly lit. She squinted to see. She was whale-hungry, chewing stale gum. She looked at her weak wrist. It was 9 a.m.

Billy slept spread-eagled on the blacktop. Then he came to, rubbing his buckeyes, moving his mouth like hers. Chewy.

Quickly, they dressed before crowds or cops appeared.

Her car had a fresh ticket. Using a rust crayon she found in the gutter, she scribbled her number on the back of the ticket, handing it to Billy, saying, "That's me." Rose sat in her car, wondering if Dad would ground her for staying out. That turkey.

Blocking traffic, Billy leaned at her window, hovering and shifting like a drug dealer. He said, “I’ll call,” and his buckeyes loomed at the surrounding traffic. All around, drivers’ faces burned red, trapped in various road rage stages. "I will," he said. Then he kissed her. Then he paused. Then he kissed her again. “I’ll call,” Billy said again. Then he shot away, heading for his T-bird, heading for the highway.

She didn't believe him. She never believed those turkeys. No matter how good they tasted, the seasoning was never quite right. Gripping the wheel so tight that her wrist, her wishbone, hurt, she noticed that her red shirt was too loose, too faded. It wasn't hers. It was Billy’s. She should give it back. She smiled. She followed him. She was close. Too close.

His lead foot was serious, like hers. Deep into the back roads, Billy flew easily until he couldn’t take the curves.

She tailed him. She was close. Too close. She watched him weave, trying to lose her, but she grinned at the game. She knew these moves, these streets; they were all a familiar recipe.

The T-bird screeched, wobbled, then flipped like a toy, landing upside down. The car was no more than shredded, splintered metal. A smoldering nest.

Pulling over, Rose's body simmered, shaking out a small earthquake. She listened for Billy’s life signs, blinking repeatedly. No movement, no life, no breath. So much smoke, so much black ash mascara. Her eyes smarted, taking the burn. Her eyes leaked, crying and drying. One thing was clear – another turkey was burning. It was too late for Rose to check out. Dad might ground her. Dad sent Mom out for raspberries. He had to have them. Twelve items or less. I’ll call. I will. That liar. All those liars. Express checkout, motherfucker. She shrugged, running her hands together – slap, slap, slap – then licking them clean. All she had to do was speed and wait and watch the time, and this dirty bird was done. She clapped, just once, feeling suddenly sleepy.

Rose's U-turn was hard. She scanned the road, studying the cars, the colors, the metal skins. She knew how to pick a bird. She followed another car. She could see the back window, then the plates, then the driver’s hair -- tangled with angry wings, beyond help with flyaways. She was close. Too close. Rose was one deal hunter. She smiled, red-faced and whale-hungry again, her teeth tearing through stale gum.

This was a rare one. The head was feathered messy, out of control, like hers. Rose looked at her watch.

-- C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Bradley Hall

Bradley Hall, Hollins University

Ah, Hollins. I love Hollins so much. My alma mater. :) Check out their link (above) if you get a chance. The place is magnificent. I would've stayed there forever, but they made me leave after grad school. Bradley was the original English department, but they had to build a new one due to too many ghosts. There were more ghosts in the music building, but they didn't build a new one, because I guess they liked it haunted.

Been working on other writings, some dry, some juicy (and photos) and sleeping while my young adult book is being looked at; it's in the hands of my very first reader, so I'm waiting on some feedback. Sweet. Does anyone use that word anymore? "Sweet?" What about "rad?" I love those words. I still say "right on" too. My mom loves "boatload," as in, "I need a boatload of groceries." Ha. I still cuss a lot too, I admit.

Bye bye, hope your evening is rad and sweet, and maybe you'll get a boatload done, sheeit. I'm just grateful to feel well today. Dayum, I still need to do my back exercises. They're not that hard, but I put those off every day. You got something you put off every day?

I miss kissing,
C.A. MacConnell

Photos: Cleveland, Lake Erie

 

 Cleveland, Lake Erie

These are on film. I think it really makes them "speak"...and it captures the light. Film can make the simplest things come alive.

Today's truth:  Reach out and capture the light. We all see the same super moon in the sky. <3

C.A. MacConnell

Thanksgiving, a Poem. And Snowman.

 

Horse trainer Jimmy Wood

Thanksgiving

Grandchildren --

Papers Came Sunday

With the Milk.

-- C.A. MacConnell

Jimmy was my first horse trainer. There's a lot of waiting when you're a horse trainer. Ha, Jimmy was so incredibly chill.

Speaking of horse trainers, recently I saw the movie, Harry and Snowman, which was a film about Harry De Leyer, a famous horse rider who went down in the history books when he won Madison Square Gardens' National Horse Show two years in a row aboard Snowman (among many, many other victories, including the showjumping Triple Crown). Check out this article...it's amazing.

What was incredible about Snowman was that Harry bought him for 80 bucks at an auction. Now, for those of you who don't know, "auction" usually means it's the horse's last stop. Unless the horse is sold, they're often sent to the killers. So more than likely, Harry saved this horse's life.

And Snowman seemed to realize this.

So here's what happened. Well, Harry soon sold Snowman to a friend who had a farm six miles away, but then Snowman jumped out of his new owner's field...not one...not two...but three times and made the six mile trek back to Harry's farm. So Harry bought him back, vowed to never sell him again, and Snowman ended up turning into a star show jumper. This horse soon became one of the most amazing jumpers in equine history.

Now, the reason I'm telling this story is because while I was watching the film, I was listening to Harry's voice, and I thought, Man, that sounds familiar. It wasn't his face that struck me. It was his voice. And then when I saw some shots of his farm in Charlottesville, I realized that back in 1993, I took a trip to his farm, and I took a lesson from him. So it makes sense that I recognized his voice, because while I rode that day, Harry called out instructions. My buddy rode at his farm, and she had invited me along.

At the time, not knowing who he was, I thought, Wow, this trainer's kinda wild. He set the jumps really high, and it was so much fun, but also kind of scary. I was glad Harry gave me a good horse -- a chestnut, if I recall.

So while I was sitting there watching the movie, all of this dawned on me, and I thought, My god, I had a lesson with a legend, and I didn't even know it. They used to call him the "galloping grandpa" because he competed so late in life (and successfully, I might add). In his eighties now, he still rides every day.

Never know who you might run into in this life. We all have such incredible histories and stories.

C.A. MacConnell

Hello Out There.

Love to you,
C.A. MacConnell

The Worst Class Ever

Back when I was in college, my Senior year, I signed up for a discussion class on 18th Century British Novels, and for some weird reason, this particular class was held in a huge, spacious room in the Music building, an ambience that should have been airy, light, and creatively-inspiring, but it only proved to be a vacuous mood killer. That's putting it mildly. Also, all of the students who chose to take this class turned out to be an entire group of incredibly shy people. So there it was -- a spacious, sound-sucking, half-empty room + a group of introverts + the after-lunch, sleepy time.

Eighteenth Century British Novels was doomed from the start.

Each class, twice a week, no matter what the professor did, he couldn't get anyone to talk. And he was one of the most well-known, most well-liked profs on campus. But I swear, I bet that even if he went overboard and decided to show up naked, in this dull, dead class, no one would've said one...single...word.

Except one girl. Every class, without fail, she spoke for like fifteen minutes. Some days, she spoke twice, but still, there was no way she could fill up an hour and a half of torturous time.

Other than that, there was nothing but the dull sound of the wall clock ticking for minutes on end, and then the Professor would mutter a joke or something. I could tell that he felt this:  I can't wait for this semester to be over. I think that he even said that out loud once. Imagine being stuck as the leader during an hour and a half of stone cold faces and silence. That would be worse than intense arguing, I think. Like a failed stand-up comic trying his heart out at his first show in New York City. Constantly, he was face to face with no reaction, blank faces, nothing. No one even seemed to be taking notes. No movement, no facial expressions, nada. I suppose, even a negative reaction would've been welcoming, I dunno.

Now, I admit that I was a part of it. I was definitely guilty of contributing to the silence. I too was sitting there like a duck at dusk, hungry and quiet, simply waiting for time to pass. Normally, I was known to comment during class, but the whole room's mood affected me, and the novels were confusing, difficult, and nonlinear; I wasn't into any of the books, and there were a few I barely even read, because when the professor made the assignments, the reading amount was so large -- around 200 pages a night -- so I just got overwhelmed and said, Fuck it, I'll skim. Everyone was overwhelmed.

Every other class that I took from the same professor was lively and inspiring. But it was the mood of the whole, the quiet rumble of rebellion, that made 18th Century British Novels go down in the history books as his worst class ever, and he admitted it. One day, the professor even commented as such. "It's like pullin' teeth," he said out loud in front of everyone. Some people quietly chuckled, but of course, no one commented.

Why didn't one person speak up and say, You give us too much to read. It's impossible to read and digest that much in one night. Why? Because no one wanted to admit that it was too much, or they didn't want to admit that they hadn't read at all.

And so the stalemate continued all semester long. On one side -- the baffled professor "pullin' teeth." On the other side -- quiet students who hadn't read because the assignment was too large, too much, and rather ridiculous. And in between -- a deep, dark, quiet hole in the middle of the circle in which we sat.

And then the semester finally ended, and the class was over, and we all went on to other classes, and so did he, and the whole dynamic changed, and the "worst class" never happened again. Why? I have no idea, because he continued to make over-the-top assignments on extremely difficult texts, ones that probably only he, a genius, could understand and complete. But there was one key change...

His jokes got better.

C.A. MacConnell

Photos: November Walk

 Falling

 Girl with Scooter

 

Four

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Drummers

 Drummers

 

C.A. MacConnell

Hollywood Morning

Today's truth:  we are all in this together. No matter the stage, we are all searching for love.

Here's a poem for you. Hope you like it. -- C.A.

Hollywood Morning

1
Around eleven a.m., she rises,
leaving the covers. Right on
schedule, she creeps away
to the kitchen. First time
making pancakes. Wrapped
up tight, he is still half-

2
awake, bedroom resting.
He hears the batter hit
the frying pan. He hears
her swear at the spill.
He hears the hot surface
spit and settle. He smells
the slight, accidental burn.

3
Soon, he stretches, facing
her buttered meal, her test,
her syrup, her small spoons
and dull forks, and under
the blinding table lights,
they echo-chew. Sometimes,

4
fights happen. Voices carry
over hardwood floors,
but after the silence, later,
someone or the world
gives in. Pulling his robe
close, he thinks hard-fast,
trying to focus, bringing back

5
details. Last night, she whitened
her teeth and slept like a baby.
Garbage night. Like always,
when she rested her head
on the pillow, he kissed her
first. He is the quiet type.

C.A. MacConnell

The Claw and the Owl

Noon. Grocery. Me, alone, with a full cart. One of those half-carts, not the biggun. On the way out.

So I'm standing in front of the STUFFED ANIMAL CLAW MACHINE, where I am the undisputed, ultimate champion, as you will see from my last CLAW entry if you click here, but I shake my head because that bastard Johnny "Two Fingers" Claw (guy who fills the machine) stuffed those animals in good and deep this time.

I try to win anyway, even though I know it won't happen, but there is this "nearly-winning-angle-lonely" monkey, and one poodle that's definitely "iffy;" so I think I might get lucky, but alas, today is not the day.

I know I should always follow my gut.

Today you win, Johnny, you dick.

No worries. I'll be back for more, and I'll wait 'til the timing is perfect. Defeated, I start to roll on outta there, but then I hear a quiet, high-pitched voice say, "I never see anyone win at that thing," which is a comment that always makes me smile.

I turn to check out the curious onlooker.

The voice is attached to one of those "sample" ladies, I call them...she's standing behind a table, selling phones or groceries or some garb, trying to get everyone's info, but she suddenly seems much more interested in THE CLAW and me than she is in her sales job.

I know the feeling, sample lady.

"I win all the time," I state, grinning. "I knew I wouldn't win today, but I did it anyway." I shrug. "There's a trick to it."

"Really?" she says, raising her brows. She walks over to the machine, standing next to me.

"Yeah, you see that monkey? If he was angled back a little, I could get him," I state.

She nods, listening intently.

"And you see that poodle? If she were tilted forward some, I could get her for sure."

"I see," she says.

"And those tigers and monsters. No one will ever get those. They're too flat and smooth. Might as well not even try," I comment.

"Ah, yes, so it has to have a clear-cut head," she says.

"Exactly." I point at the back of the machine. "See, no one's ever gonna get that owl. It's so cool, though; it has a mustache, so everyone's gonna try and get it, but they won't. He's too big and too smooth and too flat. Who's ever seen an owl with a mustache?"

"It is cool," she says, nodding.

"But no one will ever get it. It's too big and heavy for the claw," I explain.

She curls her bottom lip under. "Yeah," she agrees.

"Unless..." Both my eyebrows raise excitedly.

"Unless what?" The lady says, smiling brightly.

"Well, you could hook the claw on that owl's tag...just so...and it might work," I state. "But you'd have to hit it just right, hm. Might work."

"It might," she says, cheering me on.

Our CLAW study is so intense, it's as if we're discussing plays for the Super Bowl.

While we're planning strategies, at least ten people walk by her table, and she misses a bunch of possible sales.

My frozen meals are thawing, and I totally ignore the work that's waiting for me at home. At this point, I'm intrigued and obsessed with the unbelievable, elusive owl.

"How many have you won?" she asks me, looking at me as if I'm a celebrity she has waited twenty years to meet.

"Oh, tons. I give them to kids," I say. "Well, I kept two."

"Which ones?" she asks excitedly.

"A monkey and a lion."

"Good choice," she says, looking around. "If I don't get back to my sales, I'm totally gonna get fired."

I nod and say, "Oh yeah, me too. Got a ton of writing to do, but there's that owl to deal with. Can't let go of that owl just yet."

She nods, and then she finally returns to her sales table.

I look at the machine, studying the owl's position. I know I need to get home and get back to work, but I can't resist those big eyes -- the uncertainty, and the untapped potential, the dream of the owl, and I throw out my day's schedule for the thrill of the machine. I glance at the sample lady, then back at the CLAW. Pulling out two quarters, I slide them in and think, Now that someone else is in on it, I don't feel so alone. If I hit it right on the money, I think that owl just might be possible.

Bet you want to know if I got it. But the fun isn't in winning. It's in the mystery.
C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Little Miami

Little Miami River

C.A. MacConnell

My Writings in Texas

So I was mulling over past writings (a ridiculous hobby of mine), and I remembered my favorite stories/journals from the neanderthal era, when I was in grad school. I did a little digging. There's this awesome literary journal (slick and pro I might add), a collection of literature called, Analecta 25:  University of Texas at Austin, which was published way back in 1999, in the days when phone booths and mammoths still existed, which was a while ago, I know, but it's still rad for anyone...and it's especially rad for those like me who are stuck in the nineties.

Anyway, I still crack that 1999 issue open and read sections of the work all the time. And guess what? You can find that very issue right here. Or you can come over, and I'll read some of it to you. I have a well-worn copy. No creepos please. Guess what else? I have two stories in there -- Jesus, Jimmy and This Place Needs Cleanin'. I'm proud of those stories -- I think they're the kind that still stand, even after all of this time, which is always a bonus. Hey, I read the Cleanin' one at a Hollins University English Department reading once, and it scared the crap out of everyone. Perfect for Halloween.

Well, if it's easier, I re-posted those stories on this blog, under the "Fiction" label, so you can find them right here, just a simple click of your finger, but then you have to scroll through other stories. Aha, even easier, you can search for them at the top of the page. I would give a direct link right here, but I'm all linked-out.

Besides, who wants things to come easy? It's more fun to see them in the Analecta book, I think.

UT puts out this book every year. Seems they're on Analecta 43 now. If you're looking for some great reading, this literary and arts journal doesn't disappoint...it's thick, well-designed, packed with new energy, and there's none of the dry, robot, "I am a writer I am so deep" stuff. It's all unique and refreshing. Here's the Analecta official site where you can order the current issue as well.

Also in the news:  Kylin the cat took a trip to the vet, and I asked her how long she thinks he has, and she said, "About a year." But here's the kicker...the last time I was at the vet, like over a year ago, I asked the same thing, and they said, "About a year." My boy is unstoppable.

Also in the news:  I did the dumbest thing. I saw this couple with their baby, and I said, "Cute baby, hi there, are you going to dress him up for Halloween?" The dad said, "No, we don't get into that dark stuff." I said, "Aw, but you could dress him up cute!" And then I went on and on and on and on with ideas, and I was really pushing the issue. Turns out, I later discovered that they're hardcore religious, and the more I talked, the more I was offending them. Ha, oh well.



Yesterday, I saw a dude on a motorcycle who looked just like this (see above). I jumped.

Don't forget to check out my story, This Place Needs Cleanin'. See! I gave you the direct link, finally, at last, you can all relax. Talk about dark and spooky, just sayin'.

Happy Halloween,
C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Cheerleader

 Cheerleader

Today's Truth:  sometimes, we all need a cheerleader. If something or someone is too much on the mind, I don't need to let them have power over me today. I can let go. <3

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Special Kind

Special Kind

I dig this. This shot felt like a special kind of love. XO,
C.A. MacConnell

Photo: When Light Breaks Through

It's the little things, like that moment when light breaks through.
C.A. MacConnell

Photos: Kylin + Me

Thunder's here.
C.A. MacConnell

Full Length Mirror

She's on her personal, makeshift cat
walk -- it's her body
against
the hang-it-on-the-door bedroom mirror,
and if she tilts it,
she...is...
better,
and the carpet is the wonder of ugly...fat...
beige,
flat in places,
bulging in others,
and she isn't wiry or unique,
and the belly...just...plain
sucks,
but still worse are the thighs --
wait --
yes;
she could tear her fucking face off
and live
forever

C.A. MacConnell

I'm Here. I've Got Your Back.

I'm Here. I've Got Your Back.

Yesterday, I was in the woods, about three and a half miles into a walk, when suddenly, I felt a great rush of air, and something soft brushed against my cheek. Startled, I stopped and looked left. Right there, on a log in front of me, a red-tailed hawk landed and turned to the side, looking back at me, seemingly grinning, as much as a hawk can grin. And I realized that what I had felt against my cheek were the hawk's wing feathers.

I studied him. He appeared to be an adult male, although I'm still a beginner when it comes to hawk sightings. Stunned, I looked at him and whispered, "Baby!" He wasn't a baby, but that's just what came out of my mouth, as if I were using it as an endearing term by a lover.

Still not moving, he looked back. Shadowed by the trees, he appeared absolutely beautiful and wise.

I moved a little closer. My heart fluttered, and then it felt warm, as if it filled up with something -- some kind of liquid gold, if you will, or, as I later thought -- absolute love. Literally, it felt as if the Spirit of the Universe were directly speaking to me, saying, "I'm here, I've got your back."

Frozen in place, seemingly unafraid, from the side, the hawk looked back at me through one big, clear, open eye.

Thank you, I thought, bringing my hands together, pressing my fingers close in prayer.

And for a brief second, he continued to look at me through that unblinking eye, making sure I was all right. And then he flew away.

For a few moments, I stood on the path, completely mesmerized. My next thought was, No one is going to believe me. Then, smiling, I thought, Who cares, I saw what I saw, I felt what I felt, and I believe it, and it is magnificent. I have never heard of a hawk coming that close to a person, and there was really no reason for him to swoop down like that -- he wasn't after any prey or anything. No mission at all, other than to say hello to me. Simply, he flew across the path for fun. Unbelievably, his feathers brushed against my cheek, and then he sat on the log. It was for me, and only me. Truly, I was blown away.

About a year ago, there was another time when I was walking and a hawk flew right over my head; that one was nearly close enough to touch me, and I could feel the breeze of the flight, but I've never, ever had one actually touch me before, and I've never heard of it happening to anyone else.

Writing to you this morning, I'm still amazed by the experience. Chills. Some people see burning bushes, I guess. I had a hawk touch my cheek. Amazing.

Someone, something, a greatness, is there. Every now and then, if I open my eyes, I can see the universe reveal this divinity, literally touching my skin.

I used to feel an affinity with wolves. In the past few years, it's changed to hawks. Somehow, I've become more aware of these creatures, and now I feel that a Great Spirit is reaching out to me, letting me know this:  You are all right, just how you are, right here, right now, and I accept you and love you. Just checking in. I'm here. I've got your back. This is my version of God today; it changes with me, becoming new to me, and in turn, new to you.

C.A. MacConnell

Zoe's Kingdom: We All Have a Place

Dear reader:  good morning. I'm a little lightheaded, like I am when I don't sleep well, arggh. Ah, well, there are worse things. Still job hunting, and it's frustrating, but I'm a trooper. Hey, I wrote this l'il number a while back. I just love this picture, and it really inspired the essay below. I didn't take the shot, but pro photographer Bill Adams did. I'd be thrilled to meet Zoe, the zebra.

The essay here still stands well; I thought I'd repost it on this steel grey day. Whoever's reading, I'm sending out love and light and hope to you...may you find peace, love, happiness, and a yummy, dense cookie. They have these monster vegan cookies at a cafe I know, and they're in my thoughts all the time, ha. Here's the essay. Hope you dig it. Definitely goes along with the one I wrote the other day, called, "Follow the Inner Voice." Kind of a hand-in-hand message. Peace out, C.A.

Zoe's Kingdom:  We All Have a Place

Her name is Zoe. A while back, I came across an enhanced version of this photo on social media -- the photo-shopped one was circulating around, and it showed her stripes as nearly neon. (So we even photo shop zebras). Well, mesmerized by her unique beauty, I did a little digging to find out the truth, and it seems that the photo (shown left) is the original print, and this is her true color -- muted from the enhanced one but amazing, nonetheless. Indeed, she is real, and she has golden stripes and blue eyes.

Zoe lives at the Three Ring Ranch animal sanctuary in Hawaii, and she has a condition called Amelanism, a pigmentation abnormality characterized by the lack of pigments called melanins, commonly associated with a genetic loss of tyrosinase function; it can affect fish, amphibians, reptiles, birds, and mammals, including humans. So scientifically speaking, this is the cause of her striking appearance. So Zoe is not an albino zebra either. For sure, she stands out. In her world, she stands alone. Sure, there have been others like this, but it is rare.

Imagine how this would affect a zebra's life. In the wild, her ability to camouflage within the herd would be impossible. Her safety would be threatened 24/7. Indeed, she would be a walking target, and this would undoubtedly change the herd. Interesting to think about...of course she is safe in this sanctuary, but here, she still interacts with a herd, and it seems that her mere presence would definitely change things up.

For nearly 25 years, I worked with horses, and I'd sometimes spend hours watching the herds graze. Of course, on these farms, there were no stallions -- only geldings-- and we separated the mares from the geldings, so it wasn't like observing a completely natural scene; however, their personalities varied as much as people's do. Some were bullies. Some were laid back. Some acted like kids who needed naps. Some mares were strong, wild, and maternal. Some mares were demure, yet sneakily affectionate. All over the map. And they formed unique and lasting friendships -- often, they paired off, or they hung out in threes. Some steered clear of each other and when they got close, they'd bicker, fight, or ignore each other. Just like people. Now, I haven't spent time observing zebras, and I hear they're difficult to tame, and I know they're vastly different than horses in actions and reactions, but it seems that there is a similar bonding system within the herds...

With the horses I knew, each and every one, despite their defects, played a crucial part in the herd's survival, and even though they lived on a farm, their clear-cut instincts and roles were always apparent; that is, there was an ever-present concern for others. For instance, the maternal mare protected the wilder, younger one, letting her know that a storm was coming, and that they should take cover. Then she'd bite at the heels of all the mares, riling them up, nearly forcing them to run to the gate so that we would see them and bring them in to shelter. The feisty, thick, ruddy-haired gelding gathered up the rest, even the ones he disliked, when he heard the storm siren, and when the attractive show horse balked, the tough one let him know who was boss. And then there were the mares who let the pregnant pony hit the trough first, so that she could have the freshest water. Despite individual personalities, the overall care and concern was constant.

Despite feelings, genes, histories, likes and dislikes, animals accept their place as tiny, humble parts of the universe, mere minuscule specks of the whole, and they inherently know that they play an important part in the world's survival; that is, through instinct, they are always aware of the larger whole, the planet, the universe. As people, our complicated minds, hearts, and feelings allow us to succeed at so many things. And of course we have the power to create and destroy. Consistently, do we not lose sight of our place in this vast wholeness? Do we not forget that we are in this together?

I am not excluding myself, oh no. I admit that I forget as well, and honestly, I get caught up all the time, for sure. I try my best to continue to do the next right thing but of course, I know that I have a long, long way to go. But on the days when I'm aware and in tune (with the herd, if you will), life just seems...well...right. All good, all right. Just think what the world would be like if we all maintained this awareness at all times, if we were all out for the good of everyone, rather than just focusing on ourselves. And of course, many are participating in this idea in a large way. Many people have for centuries. Each time we meditate and send out light and prayer, we are participating. Each time we stop to help someone or something and don't expect a return, we are participating. That is what animals, trees, and plants do, and the inter-workings of nature are the closest thing to divine perfection that I know. Daily, it humbles me.

Simply, at it's core, nature works, and it is brilliant. Just think what would happen if we could all let go of ourselves and all at once, all together, focus on the big picture -- love, survival, instinct, and ultimate giving. What if we thought of others not during prayer time, but all the time? Buddha, Jesus, Gandhi, man in West Virginia who gave up his health ticket at the free clinic so someone else could have eye surgery, and Zoe -- we're all the same. It may sound fantastical, but I do believe it is possible to find this wholeness if we work on ourselves from the inside out and focus on our place within the design, and in turn, focus our energy on how we can best give. And I could take this further and say this: if we all did what our deepest soul's purpose was calling for us to do, if we paid attention to our hearts completely, if we gave without expectation of a return, there would be no war, there would be no need for money, and no one would even have to work.

Zoe reminds me of the circular nature of things. Zoe reminds me that although I may stand out at times, there is a reason for my presence in the universe, and I can make a mark. Someone like Zoe has a place in this too. Maybe she represents the future. And thinking deeply, maybe she was sent from some divine spirit to shake things up. Maybe, among the most traditional and powerful zebras, there may be some resistance. Some will find her strange. Others, like me, will find her to be strikingly gorgeous. This morning, she is my little miracle.

C.A. MacConnell