nostalgia

As I've gotten older, my tastes in decor have changed, which I suppose is natural; however, on the corner of my dresser, I stubbornly clutch onto a small piece of my childhood. A jet black stallion stands frozen in mid-gallop-- he is indisputably everything a good horse should be: loyal, and bright-eyed and powerful with an intelligent forehead and an eager, inquiring look. He isn't perfect though-- both his ears are chipped and white scratches mar the sheen of his body (reminiscent of the fights that occurred between him and my neighbor's Breyer model of Pilgrim, from The Horse Whisperer. You should have seen how gallant and courageous he was during such fights-- it was typical for him to leap four times his height straight into the air before battering the the other horse into the ground. After that, he generally ran off with all of Pilgrim's mares. It was, in short, amazing.)

Ever since enrollment in school, I sustained my ideal of the Black Stallion with Walter Farley's books of the same name. During recess, I pretended I was Alec, and I constantly trained Shetan for his next race (which he would miraculously win, no matter what handicap was placed on him. Actually, it was miraculous that Shetan was even allowed to race, seeing as the Jockey Club would have never allowed it because he wasn't even a Thoroughbred. But the mind of a blissfully oblivious 3rd grader knows no limits, I guess...)

Later in 3rd grade, I actually started riding real horses (which in no way interfered with the riding of imaginary ones during recess) and to my delight and against all odds, the humble little barn where I rode was in possession of one Jet Black Arabian Stallion by the name of Kasheik. Kasheik was perfect-- a glistening black coat, a flagging tail, a forelock so long that he constantly had to toss it out of his eyes, which made him look defiant, and one white mark in the center of his forehead which was curiously shaped like a tornado. Of course, it goes without saying that I instantly loved him.

After my lessons, I would hang adoringly on the fence of his paddock while he paced, silent and furious, with eyes burning-- much too absorbed in being moody and stallion-like to notice the scrawny blond girl who watched his every move. On occasion , he would deign to come over to sniff me and I would feed him the peppermint that I saved and as a rule, would feed only to him. Oh yes, and did I mention that Kasheik was the grandson of Cass Ole -- the horse who starred in the movie The Black Stallion? As far as I was concerned, Kasheik was the Black Stallion. It really couldn't have gotten much better...

Of course, as a horse with such bloodlines, Kasheik was owned by a Very Wealthy Man-- one Chris Grant. Mr. Grant never came to see his horse and of course, I fumed at this man for owning this wonderful, glorious stallion and never coming to see him. It was basically sacrilegious. It was at some point around this time that I decided that I was going to marry Kasheik. Marry him, and live out the rest of my life within the confines of his stall and pasture. I have since been persuaded that marriage within my own species is infinitely preferable and somewhat more generally acceptable. I was such an interesting kid, though...

Eventually, the barn closed down and all the horses were sold. I lost track of Kasheik . Five years later, a friend was showing me snapshots of the barn where she boarded her mare, and a photo of a small black horse peering inquiringly out of a stall caught my eye. He wasn't sleek any longer, his forelock was short, he looked small, but in the center of his forehead was one white mark that was curiously shaped like a tornado. I asked my friend the horse's name-- "We call him Sheiky because no one can pronounce his real name." (typical Southern barn...) No doubt in my mind that it was him-- with most of the sons and grandsons of Cass Ole standing at stud, how did this one horse slip through the cracks to live an obscure life in a barrel-racing barn? Somehow after that, my ideal was gone-- closure, maybe? Anyhow, the ungrateful, unloyal, bay Thoroughbred who more often than not throws me off without a bit of guilt, and who can be counted on to blow snot all over me at least twice a day is just as perfect to me now as Kasheik was then.

Yet, the jet black stallion stands on my dresser.

hamstern (german: 'to hoard')

I hoard things. It is a newfound discovery of mine. Apparently, it isn't material things I hoard-- it is an idea, a song, a word, maybe a memory. All locked up. All secrets. Not secrets like little girls share at sleepovers after their mothers have told them a hundred times stop-talking-and-sleep-because-you-have-things-to-do-tomorrow. Not who likes who, or who is doing something illicit and heinous-- things like that are sometimes better to share. But these things, if I told you one, it would very likely seem commonplace and incredibly mundane-- you would think I was being ridiculous, and it is entirely possible that I am being just that. But if I told you one of these thoughts, it wouldn't be special anymore-- the odd, mysterious appeal that the thing held for me would vanish because you might not attach the same importance to tit that I do. Risk. Know what I mean? Maybe. Maybe not.

The best way to describe it would probably be a collection. Occasionally, I take my little pile of thoughts and go to the front room in the house where hardly anyone goes and I sit cross legged on the enormous couch, clutching a pillow and I turn over the thoughts with my mind like someone turning over a collection of small, precious things with their hand. They enjoy the shape, and the curvature of the things, maybe the color-- it is nice and pleasing because they know the things and they are familiar. Everything in my collection is as familiar to me as any tangible thing and it makes me happy to sort through it. So I smile.

Kind of reminds me of this:
"So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby who was lying in the manger. When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart."
-Luke 2:16-19
Mary storing up proof that her child was actually the Son of God. I don't know-- I just enjoy reading that. Not like I have a secret like Mary though. Being able to say, "Hey, I'm pregnant with the Son of God." pretty much trumps anything I have.

Anyhow, I have no idea why I do this-- maybe I just keep secrets for the sake of having them? I guess I will continue to add to my collection.