Final Project - Here I Am

Loke's Tears

My name is Loke. That’s all, just Loke. It’s an odd name, no? Well, maybe I can help you understand… then again, probably not.

The sunset was beautiful this evening. The cloud-studded sky glowed a brilliant orange as tongues of flame licked the edge of the world. There was such a glorious beauty in that pure source of fire. It was wild and chaotic. No rules bound it, for none could hope to control the power of the flames. No one, no matter how special, had a chance.

I stared broodingly out over the vast ocean. The last rays of sun were disappearing now as the day drew to a close. Odd, less than a second ago it had appeared as though the world had been on fire. If I were a superstitious person, I might have believed that was an omen of my home’s problems. Unfortunately, I'm not - superstitious that is. Mentally, I shook myself and perched on a nearby rock. I might have been part of the problem though. But, I just couldn’t remember.

I sure seemed to forget a lot these days. Whole hours at a time would be missing, as though I hadn’t lived them at all. I had no idea what I had done or where I had been. It was the scariest feeling of my entire life, especially since each time I blanked, something had gone horribly wrong.

The old warehouse burning could have been an accident. The tannery collapsing the next week could have been coincidence. I could even accept Milton’s farmhouse sinking into a bog. I snorted. Yeah, right. I couldn’t accept that as mere happenstance. Who had ever heard of a house sinking into a bog that had not existed less than an hour before? The unexplainable, the mysterious, and the just plain weird all seemed to occur when I blanked out.

Tears burned in my eyes. These incidents couldn’t be my fault, could they? One hot tear spilled onto my face. A mere lack of memory did not make one guilty. The tear fell gracefully toward the water. The fire today couldn’t have been my fault either. With a soft plunk, the tear hit the ocean’s surface. I had been over at Kate’s and only a few minutes were missing from my memory. Ripples spread across the ocean, stilling its surface. No one could have run across town, set a house on fire and gotten back without someone noticing. The ocean was perfectly smooth now.

“It was not my fault!” I practically screamed the words.

“Loke,” whispered a chorus of unearthly voices.

“Here I am,” I whispered tentatively back, then fear overcame me and I demanded “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

“Loke, we would ask the same question of you…” The voices rang in unison, but echoed like a thousand different beings. “What do you want with us?”

I faltered. What on earth were they talking about?

An orange glow had started to form just beneath the surface of the still water. “You summoned us.” This time the voices came as softly as a zephyr to my ears. The orange glow was now moving upward to engulf me as well. It wriggled and then solidified into golden fish which swam through the air all around me.

“What are you?” I asked them.

The unified voices chorused, “We are the essence. We are the power. We are the elemental spirits of fire…And you have summoned us.” I stared off thoughtfully into the distance as they continued. “You thought that water’s reaction was mere coincidence?” That had been an extreme oddity, but by now I was used to it.

Now they spun around me, faster and faster.

“You belong to the fire, Loke. Awake!” The last command roared into my ears, deafening me.

I held my umbrella closer. Even though no one was on the rocky beach, I couldn’t shake the habit. Certainly not when there were clouds in the sky. If even one person saw me in the rain without protection, they would know. It would be impossible for anyone to miss the raindrops vaporizing as they touched my skin; just as my new, golden entourage was a dead giveaway. Not that it would matter much longer…, a voice inside me whispered.

My name is Loke. It means dragon: the destroyer of nations. And now, I am here.
~
Image: Umbrella Sky. Marta Dahlig. http://blackeri.deviantart.com/art/Umbrella-Sky-67965371

Sofonisba Anguissola - A Hidden Truth

Précis & Questions

The Italian Renaissance was a time when males were dominant within society. Therefore, it was very difficult for a female to gain recognition in any acknowledged profession. Sofonisba Anguissola strove to rise above her “station” by gaining what was elusive for a female; recognition in the masculine profession of art. She was known by many as the “marvel of nature,” because it was believed that only men could create beauty in art. To gain acceptance, she needed to portray herself as almost masculine, yet remain feminine enough to avoid being seen as stepping above her “station” entirely. Her hidden talent lay in her ability to reveal the truths she perceived in the character of people and society through cleverly veiled messages within her paintings.

Sofonisba’s life was affected by many factors, but she likely would never have accomplished what she did without her father’s progressive attitude. Not only did her father invest in teaching his daughters “womanly” skills, he made sure that they had an education worthy of the sons of aristocracy which included art, language and reading.

Yet, art was considered beneath any high born child. This was a hurdle that was frequently overcome by males seeking to enter such a profession, but females had a distinctly more difficult time. In fact, it was unheard of for a female to gain entrance. So, it was a great boon when Bernardino Campi agreed to take Sofonisba as an apprentice for three years until 1549. Luckily, a new apprenticeship was found for Sofonisba with Bernardino Gatti in that same year. After three years had passed studying under Gatti, Sofonisba traveled to Rome where she fell under the tutelage of Michelangelo for the next two years starting in 1554. All three of these artists had a great influence on Anguissola’s painting style, but the variety provided by each caused her to develop a very distinctive mature style of her own. Yet even with the special touches to her painting, she was still not fully recognized for her own skill as a female.

Anguissola’s life changed forever during 1559. She was summoned by King Philip II to the Spanish court to act as a lady in waiting to his newly arrived bride, Queen Isabel. The two women become fast friends as some of the only foreigners to the Spanish court. Perhaps due to this friendship she branched out into the job of court painter, though she still was under-recognized. In fact, she was frequently referred to as a young girl or a non-professional painter. However, she persevered though all of these slights and continued to paint her subjects with subtle undertones to reveal her perception of their nature heeding her position both as a lady and as a court painter. She became a master of portraying a person’s nature through facial expressions because it was the only way in which she could speak freely.

Sofonisba Anguissola succeeded in establishing herself as a renowned painter; thus, earning her place in the male dominated art profession. Her life may not have been easy, but Anguissola followed her dreams into the art profession where she made a name for herself. The experiences that had brought her to the top shaped both her character and her portraits. Yet, she did more than paint, she told the story of her subjects’ character as she perceived them through the subtle means of hiding them on her canvas with a paint brush.

Questions:

· Were the hidden messages within Anguissola’s paintings understood during her time?
· How was Anguissola treated as a “marvel of nature?”
· What impact, if any, did Anguissola’s single marital status throughout most of her life have on her career?
· Anguissola portrayed the character she perceived in her subjects, but did her own character impact this perception? If so, how?

~

Image: Sofonisba Anguissola. Bernardino Campi Painting Sofonisba Anguissola, c. 1558-59. Oil on canvas. Pinacoteca Nazionale, Siena.

The Source of Strength

One of the greatest struggles in life is to love someone who doesn’t return a similar regard. Such a trial can fundamentally alter a person as occurred in Susan Vreeland’s portrayal of Suzanne Manet. When she arrived in the Manet’s home as a piano instructor, Suzanne was a kind, quiet soul whose qualities were appreciated by the household. How can I know this? Simple, her thoughts allude to how she respects people and tries to see the good in them. It’s as though she bends over backward to please those around her while never asking for anything herself.

These are admirable qualities under caring circumstances, but the life she led was quite nearly wretched. Not only was she forced to endure the pain of a flagrantly unfaithful husband, salt was rubbed into her wounds by her very home which was filled with her husband’s art. There was no escape for her. Paintings depicting his other lovers hung on their walls for all to see and admire. All except Suzanne, for whom it must have been sheer torture to share her home with paintings like Olympia, which depicted a known French courtesan who was one of her husband’s lovers. “The French had a way about them, an assurance she envied. Her differential Dutchness kept the peace, but that was all, while Olympia had mocked her with that barefaced impudence every day of her married life.” Everything that she’d dreamed of was held by Olympia, a woman named Victorine Meurent, along with many others and there was nothing she could do about it.

The transformation which Suzanne’s character underwent is completely understandable when considered from this perspective. She truly loved Eduardo Manet even with the torture he put her though. The tightly woven web of emotions that had built up inside of her because of this lifestyle altered her soft spoken nature. Suzanne had been merely a spectator in her own life. Yet, in Edouard’s illness and eventual death, she found the strength to make herself anew so as to never be trod upon again. It was this new woman who sat beside her beloved husband’s bed as he lay dying from syphilis. It was also this new woman who confronted Victorine when she asked for money directly after Edouard’s death. “’A collaborator’ - she [Suzanne] uttered the word as if its taste on her tongue was vile - ‘is merely a fleeting accomplice in a painting, which is, after all, a fantasy. A wife, the deepest kind of friend, is a life partner. Through everything.’” Suzanne spoke the truth to Victorine. She had been through everything with her husband; both the good and the bad. In the end, she chose to alter her life by becoming strong and independent enough to face the world by herself.

I appreciate Vreeland’s portrayal of the change that Suzanne Manet undergoes and the strength which she exhibits toward the end of the story. Yet, I’m still inclined to feel that her writing style is a bit too choppy for her stories to effectively draw a reader in. She assumes that readers know too much of Manet’s history. In fact, if I hadn’t had some background on the story, I’d have been completely lost by the time that I was halfway through. Vreeland continuously references people, places, things, and sometimes even techniques that leave readers without background in the middle of a storm of nearly nonsensical verbiage. But, she also has power in her writing. For all of this story’s choppiness, I’d enjoy learning more of how Vreeland portrayed Suzanne and maybe gain some insights into the real Suzanne Manet’s personality.
~
Image: Edouard Manet - Lecture (Suzanne Manet)
http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Manet,_Edouard_-_Lecture.jpg

Who Is That Person? - Revealed

The Marvel Of Nature: Sofonisba Anguissola

Duffy-Zeballos, Lisa. "Sofonisba Anguissola’s Self-portrait." Archives of Facial Plastic Surgery. 2007. American Medical Association. 1 Feb. 2009 .
It was interesting to find information on Sofonisba Anguissola on a site from the American Medical Association, but after I viewed the content I started to understand. Sofonisba Anguissola did primarily portraiture and self-portraits because of her status as a lady. She was restricted from selling her paintings; instead giving them away and receiving “gifts” in return. However, the American Medical Association a takes interest in her lack of anatomical knowledge. As a lady, she was never allowed to study the human body (i.e. nudes or cadavers) and painted solely on what she saw rather than an intimate knowledge of body. It may have been this deficiency that prevented her from being allowed to paint multi-person religious murals. This underlines her natural artistic abilities because she was at a disadvantage in many ways to her male peers.

Fulmer, Betsy. "Sofonisba Anguissola: Marvel of Nature." Henderson State University Academic Forum. 2006. 1 Feb. 2009 .
This essay contains a wonderful discussion of Sofonisba Anguissola’s life, status, and possible interpretations of some of her more famous paintings. Anguissola was the eldest daughter of a liberally-minded noble family during the Italian Renaissance. Her father, Amilcare, paid for the education of all six of his daughters as though they were sons; including the skills of reading, writing and art in a time when women were seen as possessions. All six daughters became artists, but Sofonisba was the most famous and the “first internationally recognized female artist.” Her mature style brought life to the then common “still” settings by incorporating everyday situations into most of her paintings. At the zenith of her career, Sofonisba was a lady in waiting for Queen Isabel and court painter for King Philip II of Spain. Yet, she was still seen by many as a “marvel of nature” due to her gender.

"Sofonisba Anguissola." Art History. 2009. State University of New York, College at Oneonta. 1 Feb. 2009 .
The writing in the little red book held in Anguissola’s hand in Self Portrait reads “Sophonisba Angusola virgo seipsam fecit 1554…[Sopfonisba Anguissola, a virgin, made this herself in 1554]." These words tie back to the image of women during her lifetime. They were dictated by custom to be not only virtuous, but meek, modest and follow without question. Anguissola’s paintings portray society’s position on women and the reign of inequality.

"Sofonisba Anguissola the 'Miracolo di Natura.'" Mansfield University Art Department. 18 Jan. 2008. Mansfield University. 1 Feb. 2009 .
Analyzing some of Sofonisba Anguissola’s self portraits, this essay holds that Anguissola occupied a very tenuous position. Her artistic abilities set her apart from other females of the time. This source then continues on to analyze the possible significance behind some of Anguissola’s paintings including Bernardino Campi Painting Sofonisba Anguissola. In this painting, Anguissola’s teacher, Campi, is portrayed as the student. The setting and style of this work can be interpreted to convey Anguissola’s feelings relating to her station in life. It’s almost as though she was trying to say that she was deemed inferior to men, almost a creation of her teacher, and had to hide her true self in obscurity. This same thought pattern can also be witnessed in a multitude of other self-portraits. She is very careful to maintain an image lacking femininity to (presumably) gain greater acceptance. This analysis provides an interesting insight into the different views of society and artists between the Renaissance and present day.

~

Image: http://www.bris.ac.uk/Depts/History/Sixties/Feminism/art_files/image007.jpg

Children of the Screen - Reality's Price

I trudged slowly down the street. My flamboyantly cut scarlet top fluttered in the breeze. All around me people whisked past, going about their daily errands. Not a single one stopped for even a second. As I slowed and glanced about, an extravagantly dressed man shouldered his way through the crowd; not so much as glancing at the fallen child he had just collided with. This was a rough city with its dirty streets, oppressive buildings, blazing magazine headlines, roaring TV announcers and rushing masses. If there had been any other place to go, I would have been there in an instant. But no, it was not to be.

It hadn’t always been thus. My mind recoiled from the mere effort of thinking that short thought, racing instead upon another track. Now, the entire human civilization was free. There had been no wars since I was a child. We had finally achieved world peace. Not only that, but every single human’s head was jammed so full of information that our ancestors would have scarce been able to comprehend it. We knew of every occurrence, even on the opposite side of the globe, within a minute. Technology had proved a great boon to intercultural communication; there were no longer any lines dividing us. Now we were all merely humans. Equality reigned just as I had always dreamed it would. Our society wanted for nothing and functioned as one perfectly oiled machine. Life was good.

I glanced about again. A shy, little thought nudged against the back of my conscious. Failing to fully gain my attention, it fell back, rallied and whispered faintly in my mental ear: “But are you happy?”

Stunned, I froze. Happy? I could feel my head cocking sideways. Of course I was happy. Wasn’t I?

My mind scanned my recent past looking for memories, laughter, happiness…anything. Only a void met my probing. Or rather, the same monotonous pattern drowned everything else out. Frantically, I dug deeper. I had a past. I had memories. I had joy, and I had pain. I had laughter and tears. Where were they?

There! It was a brief flash of laughter, joy and something oddly unsettling. I tried to brush the dust from my memory. Ah ha! It was surely from my college days because I was typing on a bright orange bed. The unsettled feeling reared its head again. I had been debating the possibilities of time travel. My mind laboriously pieced the puzzle together. And that must have meant that I was…thinking. My brain screamed its protest and dodged away from that realization.

It chose, instead, to progress through the years. Now that I had found a thread of memory, I had no problem doing so. The days flashed by, and before me very eyes, I witnessed a transformation. I had gone from a technologically impaired middle school student to an almost tech savvy college student. My world had changed as I was thrust out into society, and I had altered myself to fit in my new existence. The world continued to change as I grew older. I had continued to adapt until the day that I broke. The pressure of being the perfect person had become too much. When I was finally done fulfilling my requirements each day, I had fled to the world of virtual reality and taken refuge in the media. Yet, even that escape wasn’t enough. The sheer weight of society had crushed me.

People rushed by with fixed expressions, jerky movements, and glazed eyes. I wondered if they were happy or if they too had forgotten. The wind played with my fashionable raiment again. The face we presented to the world was beautiful, but it was only skin deep. We were, all of us, dead. Our cause of death had been the pressure of a society that required more than we could give and yet asked for no individuality. To escape we had committed ourselves to a virtual world. We hadn’t escaped. Instead, we were chained by our necks to the screen, our mouths sealed with duct tape, and our minds barred against thought. We had brought this upon ourselves.

I bowed my head and trudged on. By the time I reached the towering doors of my office, I had forgotten…

Image: Hannah Baylon

The Picture Of Dorian Gray

The Picture of Dorian Gray spins the tragic tale of a man who, through pride and ignorance, gives up his soul to remain eternally in the bloom of his youth. Unfortunately, Dorian’s impulsive action haunts him for the rest of his existence. Those he holds dear seem to be cursed, as one by one they are destroyed. The loss of his first love, Sybil Vane, breaks Dorian’s kind nature, transforming him into a twisted, self-serving monster. Yet Dorian remains physically unchanged. No longer are Dorian’s eyes the windows to his soul for he is no longer in possession of one. The perversion of his nature eventually leads Dorian to murder his long time friend Basil Hallward, creator of the portrait in which his soul now resides. The portrait has been locked away for nearly twenty years because it reveals a most repulsive truth: Dorian’s soul is steeped in blood and madness, his visage now more twisted than that of the most fiendish ghoul.

Yet, a faint light shines even in the midst of all the monstrosity and terror. Dorian’s love for Gladys, Basil’s niece, catalyzes an attempt for redemption. He returns to the locked room and stabs his twisted likeness straight through the heart. The features melt toward goodness and purity. Dorian’s attempt restores the portrait to its former glory leaving Dorian dead on the floor with his true soul laid bare for the world to see. He attempted to redeem himself and thereby saved those he cared for. The story of Dorian Gray shows us that we must do our best to right the wrongs we have caused while not losing hope. The darkness is never so absolute that a light at the end of the tunnel cannot be seen. There is goodness in everything.

However, I have often heard an adage that warns against impulsive actions based on perceived goodness. “Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.” It’s innocuous enough when taken by itself, but in the light of Dorian Gray’s story this adage takes on a new significance. At the beginning of the movie The Picture of Dorian Gray, Lord Henry, Basil and Dorian are conversing in Basil’s parlor as the final touches are placed on the painting of Dorian. When this scene first started playing, I was a little bit bored. After all, Lord Henry was talking very quickly on what seemed an unimportant topic. Of course, the garbled sound from my laptop wasn’t helping either. However, as the scene progressed I found myself revising my opinion. An undercurrent of mystery and wonder flowed through the music as Lord Henry turned the picture toward Dorian and I saw it for the first time. The image jumped off the screen in a bright array of color so different from the rest of the black and white movie. I could almost hear the painting whispering: “Here is eternal youth. Take me if you dare.”

I was caught in the moment as the music took on a dark note and Dorian’s soft voice murmured: “If only the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now. For that, I would give everything. Yes, there’s nothing in the whole world I would not give. I would give my soul for that…” I again was shown the picture in its colorful glory as the music peaked to a menacing crescendo. The camera zoomed in on that colorful face, accentuating the youth and purity of the portrait. I didn’t need to see more of the movie to know that something terrible had just occurred. This scene was the beginning of all the trials that Dorian would face; his first step on the road to monstrosity. As the theme of this movie depicts, sometimes even that which seems innocent can become a wrong which must be answered for. Dorian had gotten what he wished for, but it wasn’t what he wanted.
~
Image: http://www.dvdbeaver.com/film2/DVDReviews29/a%20pictute%20of%20dorian%20gray/a%20LE_PORTRAIT_DE_DORIAN_GRAY-9.jpg

Who Is That Person?

I’ve always wondered what people see in a portrait. After all, I figure that it must say something about the viewer’s essential personality. Past experiences weigh so heavily on a person’s perception of the world. Human perception is utterly fascinating. So, would you mind participating in a test? Take a look at the above portrait. What do you see? Now, if you would be so good, tarry a while with me and listen to what I see. For then we might both have the chance to learn about the other. Of course, I have an unfair advantage: I lived that life…

Who am I?

The way I see it, answering that question, even for one’s self, is the most complex and difficult of all. Yet, there must be a beginning to have an end. I lived toward the end of the 16th into the early 17th century as the third daughter of a minor noble. That’s easy for me to say, right? Well, here are a few visual prompts for reaching that conclusion.

Clothing tells the story of one’s life. The raiment pictured implies that I came from a minor noble family. It is in good condition and appears to be well-crafted, but lacks the flamboyancy demonstrated by the higher classes. The only concession to true wealth lies in what appears to be lace at the ruff and cuffs of the outfit.

My left hand clutches, almost possessively, a small hand-written book. Upon closer examination of the writing, the “f” like letters which can be found in more archaic British become apparent. These letters were employed as part of the alphabet around the time of Shakespeare during the 16th and 17th century.

If the previous two paragraphs are not enough to convince you of my noble birth, take a look at the book again. First off, most of the low-born populace couldn’t read during my time. Yet not only does my possession of the book imply that I could read (which I can, thank you very much); the book is hand- written. Learning to write was a boon granted only to those wealthy enough to pay for a tutor. In addition, the manner with which I hold the book exhibits a confidence and possession of knowledge; I am a very studious person and take great pride in that.

Within a noble family, I would have to be a younger daughter. Generally speaking, only the later children would be cloistered enough to be able to gain such a comfort with knowledge. It was common practice for the younger daughters to be held away from the court until their older sister had been married. This would all contrive to allow me time to become educated.

Now you see the face I have showed to the world. Did you come to a similar conclusion about me, perchance? Either way, I still want to tell you about who I am.

I am an introverted and conservative young lady who values intellect over such superficial qualities as beauty. The signs are visible all about my person. All of my clothing is cut in a conservative fashion tending toward the drab colors. The colors don’t draw people’s attention, so I am left alone with my books more often. The styling of my hair also conveys my more serious, business-like attitude. Parting down the middle and being tied close to my skull, the style practically screams that I’m not looking to attract people. Nor am I interested in any adornments. People will have to accept me for my intellect rather than flamboyance.

Yet, I am also lonely. The colors that surround me in the painting are an indicator of my mood and life. There is loneliness, unhappiness and even depression for I have not but my books to comfort me. Though I am capable of smiling of course, it is apparent that I rarely do. The curl at the corners of my lips and the twinkle in my eyes are missing. Look closer at my eyes. They are wide and expressive, yes, but there is a certain jaded quality to them. I have been in this world for maybe 18 years, yet I have already seen too much. It is so hard to see the beauty in people. So I find it in my books; books that tell of far-a-way lands and epic adventures.

Take care, my friend. Don’t allow yourself to become jaded. Remember to look for the beauty in people. It’s always there…

Breaking Free

Well, I was looking for something that I could use as a tester; this was the first thing that I came across. Hope that you will enjoy it if you choose to expend the time in reading... :)
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Saddle leather creaked between my thighs as my horse, Easter, shifted beneath me. I really did need to oil my saddle again, or I would start to go crazy from the racket that each motion produced. Of course, I thought ruefully, that probably wouldn't do any good here anyway. That salty sea breeze is just so "conditioning" to dead skin. If by "conditioning," one meant "detrimental!" A rush of mirth struck me, and I shook my head at the turn my thoughts had taken. I was bored and trying to entertain myself as I waited with my 4-H club mates for the last few stragglers to arrive. And, speaking of the salty sea breeze, it had started to pick up. I could smell the brine of the ocean less than a quarter mile away. I even fancied that I could hear the crashing of waves like I had that morning - very early that morning. I glared sternly at the back of Easter's ears. Brat! I tried to silently reprimand him. He twitched an ear. I was taken aback; there's no way he could have known what I was thinking...oh, there's a fly buzzing around. Again, that flash of mirth appeared.

Of course, that morning I hadn't found it funny. We were on our annual 4-H camping trip to Nehalem Bay, OR. It was gorgeous out there. Our campsite was surrounded by huge dunes covered in tall "saw tooth" grass. Beyond the dunes the wind whipped and the waves crashed onto a perfect sandy beach. The only damper on the windswept beauty of the place was the weather. It was a truly wet damper at that! There had been a constant drizzle that soaked everything within range. It wasn't enough to dissuade people from coming, but it sure wasn't comfortable when your only protection is a tiny tent. In fact, I hadn't been able to dry out before crawling into my sleeping bag the night before - not that any of that mattered. I was having a good time…until that morning had dawned.

Hoof beats had entered my dream. It was distinctly odd. I hadn't been dreaming of horses. My dream had been more of a fog, a mist, with only a few sounds. The hoof beats drowned out everything. They were loud, oh, so painfully loud in my head. The rhythm sent me spinning and smothered my half-formed incoherent thoughts. Sleepily, I opened my eyes. Dew hung on the tent walls. It was still dim outside as the sun was just barely peeking over the horizon. I could tell from the angle of the light falling onto the tent. Beside me Mom and Bro slumbered on, but Dad wasn't there. That's not so unusual, I thought, he's always an early bird.

Gravel crunched just outside the tent. Strange, that sounded a great deal like metal on the rocks. Kinda’ like a horseshoe, I thought drowsily. Even the crunching pattern was the same as a canter with three distinct foot falls at the correct intervals. Hoof beats...running away from our tent. Was the echoing shifting of gravel a human? It sure sounded like a biped's run. Dad must be running around outside. My thoughts trailed along like molasses, or so it seemed. The hoof beats...Crap, Easter got out of his corral!

I dove from my sleeping bag only to come crashing down on top of it. Easter was running away outside with Dad chasing him, and I couldn't feel my right leg. Grimly, I hauled my body over to the door, grabbed a pair of flip-flops, shoved them on, and started to struggle with the zipper on the tent. The crunching of gravel slowly faded into the distance. Those thoughts that seemed like molasses must have come in a flash, or I wouldn't be able to hear the fading sounds over the faint crashing of waves. I finally gained the exit and closed it up to prevent Mom and Bro from freezing. My right leg still refused to support me properly, but at least I could feel some pins and needles travelling down it. Soon circulation would return, but until then I hobbled as quickly as I could down the road after Dad and Easter whom I could still see in the distance.

By the time I reached the bend in the road, I was terrified. Easter could run so far that we'd never find him again in this place. What if Dad hadn't been able to keep up? The sight that met my eyes as I rounded the turn caused me to dissolve into relieved laughter. Easter stood eating the long grass just off the road. Dad was attempting to slowly approach him from the side, but it wasn't working. I couldn't stop the huge grin that stole over my face. Each time Dad got within 10 feet of him, Easter would jerk his head out of the grass, look quickly around as though afraid, and then run off to another patch of grass at least 20 feet away. That brat! I could tell he was enjoying himself! Dad turned away in exasperation and saw me coming up behind him. "I'll get him, Dad. Don't worry about it." A hint of relief touched my father's face.

By now my leg was actually supporting me properly so I slowly strode toward Easter while muttering under my breath. As I neared, his head once again flew out of the grass, and he wildly looked around. His muscles tensed as he prepared to bound off out of reach yet again. Then his gaze fell on me striding toward him. He froze, quivering in place. Right then and there my minor annoyance drained out of me. He must have seen the change in my demeanor. As I reached out and took a light hold of his face, he reached out with his (wet) nose and started searching my shirt for a carrot. Incorrigible horse! Still holding his nose, I turned and lead him back toward our tent picking up Dad on the way. I was shivering, and my hair was still wet. But, oddly I wasn't cold anymore.

My mind came back to the present as our last member mounted up. I suppressed a snicker at the memory. Dad had been trying to feed Easter breakfast, but had neglected to consider Easter's state of mind. Easter had escaped out the gate just as Dad turned to close it behind himself. Ungrateful horse! I started to chuckle quietly as we moved out down the trail. The day had just begun, and it was beautiful.

That cheerful mood lasted for the entire trail ride. I was still amused as we made our way back toward camp along the sandy beach. Easter danced away from every single wave not wanting to get his hooves wet. That just added to my lingering hilarity. I glanced over as Casea Peterson rode up next to me on Teddy.

"Hey! Are you bored yet?" She asked.

"Maybe, what were you thinking of doing?"

She grinned wickedly. "I bet that we could beat you guys in a race!"

"Really? Want to test that theory?" I grinned back.

"Sure. Whenever you're ready..."

Sand flew as Easter and Teddy dug in their feet and rocketed off. I had never been able to run him full out because of the confines of our arena. Casea and Teddy are gamers. They do nothing but run, and it showed. Teddy was a length ahead as we took off. Of course, he's also bigger with longer legs than Easter.

Easter couldn't believe that I was asking him to...run! After the second cue, he switched from a lope to running in earnest. I could feel his muscles bunch under me almost gleefully as he stretched out. It was the fastest we had ever gone.

Teddy was two lengths ahead of us now and still increasing his pace. Even without seeing, I knew when Easter's gaze fell on Teddy and locked there. The already bunched muscles between my legs tightened even further. His stride lengthened. The roaring of the sea next us, the dunes whipping past, the breeze that had turned to a gale in our faces - all of it faded into the background. Easter stretched even further with his strides, eating up the sand, as I asked for more. The rolling disappeared from his gait. I could still feel the strain of his muscles as he dragged us forward, but atop him everything was still. Our hoof beats echoed behind us. Casea and Teddy were beside us...and Easter and I raced. We raced for the pure joy and freedom of it. For that time, we were one...and we flew.

~

Image: http://www.kyhorsepark.com/images/AliashahmRAfromArabiansLTD,Inc..jpg