it's a Sunday morning, full of abundant sunshine. I've been keeping the blinds open in my bedroom; it means waking to panels of light on the bedspread at 7:30 in the morning. This morning, tea in hand, I sat on the rocking chair on my balcony, wrapped in a blanket, and wrote a letter. Today it will be in the mid-70s; I am in rehearsal for most of the afternoon. As a concubine I ride two different baritones (Rigoletto, Marullo) like horses.
Speaking of horses: yesterday I helped Heather, the barn owner, strip and reinstall the mats in 9 of her stalls, which took us the better part of the morning. Afterwards she took me to lunch at the Redland Cafe, the little hole-in-the-wall down the street where 80% of the customers are fresh from a day working the land and know every waitress. And she handed me Cookie's registration papers, along with listed bloodlines of her sire and dam, and baby pictures. As of yesterday, I own 100% of my horse. Yesterday after lunch I went for a ride; she spooked at some mystery thing out of my sight and as she bolted my saddle listed about fifty degrees to the right. This is what you get for deciding your girth is 'not really tight, but tight enough.' Thankfully she has a long, thick mane, so I just held on. She only bolted ten feet or so; when she stopped she stood there calmly, as if nothing had happened. My saddle had slipped so far I had to dismount to fix it. Later, as I was cleaning one of her hind feet, she pooped, missing my head by roughly two inches. Ah, horses.