memories 'n smells

Had me a moment ta' other day. I was standin' around at work, tryin' to act as if I had somethin' to do when suddenly I was overcome by a memory.
I was ten years old, maybe eight or nine. In the basement of our house, the one my father designed, my mother grew things. Among the miniature forest of African violets, she grew an orange tree, a miniature orange tree.
Taste it.
We contain all that we have ever done, seen, felt, heard, touched, tasted. We are our own memories.
What if? What if we could all feel, see, touch 'n taste all that we've ever known in our lives?
Those oranges still make my mouth pucker, wanna' spit 'n taste some more, those fruits were never meant to be eaten'!
On a midwinter's day in Nebraska the sight, aroma, presence, of an orange grown in the basement was not to be overcome.
I taste again, pucker, spit, n' think of summer.
In the depths of winter, snow all about, I open a bale of hay and taste summer. I remember my mother seated upon a paint mare, somewhere in Colorado.
A photogaph. A picture. A memory.
Now I smell defeat. I push that smell away. Now I smell tomorrow 'n my promise not to be defeated.

(Before ya' go please visit "From The Horses Mouth" here on the blog, and thanks for droppin' in!)








A wealth of life awaits us in our cells.

This afternoon I was drivin' around a little bit, just enjoyin' the day, the sunshine 'n a break from the wind we been havin'.
I looked in my rearview mirror, a car was signallin' ta' pass me on a curvey two lane pot-holed bumpy road. They were passin' me 'cause they could tell by lookin' that I weren't in no hurry. As they passed my, with a full politeness so seldom seen these days, I looked in my own mirror and realized that they where passin' me cause I am who I am, 'n they could see it.
I drive an old pickup, an S10 Chevy from the late '80's, a beater. Mounted on the truck's, splotchy spray painted cab are two lights kinda' lookin' like Mickey Mouse ears, there's a rake welded to the hood. The truck-bed carries decayin' trash bags atop a layer of hay. My truck.
As I drove it dawned in me that I am who I am 'n who I wanna' be.
I wear my boots, my wide brimmed hat, my jeans. I got a dog as my passenger. I'm goin' home to feed my horses.
I reflect on jail cells.

There's a man in the parkin' lot where I now sit in the same truck a pirate, a wi-fi pirate. The man's in the parkin' lot 'cause he smokes. The man smokes 'n admires a car, a Porsche, his. He smokes, admires, goes back inside, content, I assume.
Frank Zappa's widow's on the radio now, so's Frank, I pause to listen.
Thanks much.

More about horses and people

Well the weather up here en del Norte shor' nuff can be right ficklesome! One day blowin' hot, next day cold, but all the time blowin'! Keeps me nervous n' on edge. Kinda' like a build up to a break up, kind of a come here, go away type a' thing, Ya' know? One day hot next day cold, damn.
What with all this wind my RV (red neck haven?) rocks me to sleep at night then rocks me awake in the mornin'! My house rocks me dizzy all day, what with it's swayin' and bouncin'. That's my excuse, my reason for bein' here in this bar of a Sunday evening.
Sorta' "church-like" in this hotel bar, I mean it's kinda' quiet, bowed heads, folded hands, etc, etal. This scene has all the makins of people prayin' for forgiveness. Prain' to be forgiven, soon, if not now.
Tomorrow, Monday, will bloom, blossom, blow-up, like Judgement Day, for some. The doomsayers, the forgivers, the forgivees, decide for themselves. Whichever way the song is played somebody's gonna' pay.

The horses are a little crazy, what with all this wind and all.

Now here's a story I firmly wish I'd, never, never hafta' write, ta' tell...
This here fella's been runnin' an advert 'round these parts lately that he's got some horses for sale.
In that I am in the market for another animal to share the load of a journey or two, I called him up and went ta' take a look. (What with of packin' my lard ass and all around, Louie needs an equine companion. Louie, on the road with just a poor pitiful human n' a canine for companionship, well, he would revert to, indulge in, that part of himself which we, some of us, might refer to as his "inner bitch". What with him bein' a gelding and all I cain't rightly blame him.)
So this fellas' tryin' to sell some underfed, sad, ill kept animals.
It went like this; I went to check out a 7 year old mare t'other day that fella's tryin' to sell. when I arrived the skinny little mare was in a corral, saddled. She wore a lariet, tight, 'round her neck, ten, twelve feet a' rope trailin' on the ground.
This lovely bright eyed mare wouldn't take to a bit nor did she welcome my attempts to mount that sad broke down saddle she was forced to wear atop a paper-thin misplaced ancient "saddle pad".
As I unsaddled her after my slow-witted realization that she was being sorely mishandeled, I asked her ostensible "owner" if she'd taken to bein' saddles easy. He said " Yeah, she took the saddle real well, this morning" He said this at nearly 5:00 PM! She'd been wearin' that worn decrepit saddle, the wooden tree pressin' into her poor thin shoulders, the cinch, tight, 'round her poor underfed belly for nigh' onto, at least, 5 hours, maybe 6. She stood alone disconnected from her friends, her herd, her ways.
That man didn't understand why she was so "upset" and didn't want to be ridden.
I want to steal her.
I want to shoot him.
And there's lots more like him, and worse, out there.