(no subject)
se on haava
"Chestnut Quarter Horse 2 year filly, run in scared, good weight, pretty, $260, meat buyer
Cremello tobiano yearling filly, ok weight, $90, meat buyer, straight to slaughter
Palomino six year old paint mare, registered, run in yelling for foal, $270, meat buyer
"Previous research in foxes in the 1970s linked particular coat colors with certain extreme behaviours and aggression."
screwneck syndrome
arabian cerebellar abiotrophy
trauma shear
intention tremor
tamper resistance
I suffer wrap rage with milk cartons
"Parin kuukauden kuluttua hän huomasi, että pahan tahdon ilmauksia alkoi sataa häneen ulkoapäin. Ne olivat kummallisen persoonattomia, mutta hän kohtasi niitä missä tahansa ja täysin yllättäen."
Bruiser, horse name
"Both Morafic and Nazeer had reputations for bad dispositions."
"She’s simply huge, solid and very reactive."
"Shortly prior to an attack, their eyes can glaze over and go hard, followed by the dog snapping into alert mode before finally attacking."
"She’s also one of the biggest softies I know - treating all 6 of her arabs as if they were high maintenance china dolls."
"They are all very reactive horses, but that’s the way they roll."
Babe, love, did you see Scapa go? -- the stallion lost it, had a major meltdown and ... the ‘attacks’ were deliberate. The first two episodes were described as striking out and then shouldering the trainer out of the way, with the third time being a deliberate knock-down and savage, including the horse’s knees on the trainer. O love. Or nevermind.
the big paso a darker palomino w blue eyes and light silver mane & tail & pink socks
"After you do all that, you have to wait for the dough to hella rise for three years."
"Scottsdale also has, because of pressure from the halter “trainers”, dropped its halter classes from AHA/USEF approval, in order to bypass the scorecard."
"who is nuts enough to breed to a mankiller, even if it is pushed over the edge by said man"
"The stallion was syndicated and all owners agreed to euthanize him."
"--who fall down on their knees to avoid a whip--"
"in fact, it is almost okay"
Who fall down on their knees to avoid a whip.
In any case, this I can recall, clear as day,
(which days I then cannot discern, a muddled mess of bright and noise and hopeless chaff wading through what is routinely evil - haven't been able to for years it seems.
/This I can recall, clear as others are indicated to be able to routinely recall proximate daytime reality?)
This I can recall, physically and every bit as though I was there like I am not here,
and want to write it down lest it erase, and all of the description is here only for this purpose: I am not telling a story. [Also notice how it is only a version of the frightened man I escorted descending in a shiny black plexiglass escalator into his private execution
and both are I in all]
:
I do not recall whether it might have been a dream - I don't really have dreams - or whether I perhaps decided to position myself [asemoitua] in front of the computer screen in a dark room alone, headphones on, for a night; start Doom 3; get it to where it becomes dark and alarming; have it run idle for hours. Listen to the creakings the hollow drone as an exercise in compassion, in fear: going into it. [I do not expect to even have Doom 3 on my computer.]
Regardless, we were there. Such waste. I had a degree of affection for them all; it was mutual. [I do not have a degree of affection for anyone save K, but K is chaff.] We'd known for long.
Two of us died in the initial explosion; getting back up I saw their bodies in the rubble - the familiar faces covered in light gray dust from the fractured concrete - the fluorescents still on at that point - and calm as I become in emergencies, checked their pulse and breathing and found them absent, or looked into their eyes which I had so seen into before - oh the memory - and found there not to be anything anymore. (I was later so grateful, ecstatically happy for them for their having died then already.)
Three others disappeared in the initial explosion. One we never saw again. I still wonder. The other we saw scuttle unnaturally nimble from shadow to shadow later on after the lights'd gone out and never resurface. The third, the one we'd all loved the best, we met again, searching in the corridors, but he made unfamiliar guttural sounds and too steadily unpausingly approached, so I shot at him until he didn't have a face anymore. (Then, made a dull fearless by grief, to approach the body even though it could still get up; and touch the familiar arms, shoulders; see the bite marks - he had been frightened, he had been in pain, prior to expiring dissolving forgetting about all. Say hi, so sorry, and get up and walk away, back to the only one left.)
The only one left stayed with me, I his only one left. He was alright at first but after a few initial encounters with the horribly turned, and finally my shooting ____, our dear ___, as one, he became increasingly hysterical.
It doesn't matter. I remember the corridors. That either does not here matter. The scared man whom also I had loved jumped at every grumble and clank from the depths in the dark and only followed me because being left behind was even worse. He'd cling close, a hand on my back when we could not see for the dark; grow gradually too scared to follow when we'd approach something he felt was even more frightening than what we'd left behind; stop in his tracks, clinging to the wall; plead for me to wait; then to stop; then to come back; and finally panic and run after me. Then we'd stay still and close for a moment to let him calm down a bit. I remember I was quite sorry for him. He just didn't want anyone to bite into his side. I was also calm and cold: we had to plod on.
With gentle coaxing and, as the encounters became more frequent, a good deal of shouting, I could get him to keep up, but after we had to crawl through one of those red-lit booming ventilation shafts - nothing happened but just the thought of gradually by little sounds realizing there was something following us, I guess, or ahead of us for that matter - he completely refused to go on anymore. I tried to persuade him, then simply wait it out, then bully him into it, but he stayed curled up in a little ball, sniveling pleading odd, unfamiliar. Besides, our shouting at each other only made everyone else hear where we were and slowly head to the spot, so I gave in, eventually found him a little maintenance room up in the ceiling, and got him up there by the collapsible ladder. (He wouldn't open his eyes anymore, crying, and I had to half-pull him up the rungs. Scrambling.) Sat him in the corner there, talking nice, told him to stay very still and quiet so the turned would not notice him even if some passed by below. I left him the other gun so he could shoot any who noticed him, and not have them stay around trying to climb up and attracting more until they were too many and could reach him. He let the gun fall out of his hand.
I climbed down, pushed the ladder up, tried calling to him I'd go now and would pick him up as soon as I could, I'd get us some help, but he didn't answer. I left. A lot of walking quietly in the dark then, easier now, able to listen, not having to take care of him, make sure he's following, or turn back to fetch him clinging on a doorframe somewhere in the dark. Encounters, which I grew more and more apt to handle; slowly learned about the turned; gathered they were mostly just terribly sorry. I wondered about if they had any memory left, if they realized what they're doing now.
Then something something, it doesn't matter. I - sure now of that there'd be organized speakable-to army people to pick us up, they'd comb through the building, shoot the turned, fetch us - made my way back to where I'd left him, and found he'd shot himself in the head, left alone in the dark and the sounds.
Sitting there in the dark little room, then, beside him. That is all.
"Chestnut Quarter Horse 2 year filly, run in scared, good weight, pretty, $260, meat buyer
Cremello tobiano yearling filly, ok weight, $90, meat buyer, straight to slaughter
Palomino six year old paint mare, registered, run in yelling for foal, $270, meat buyer
"Previous research in foxes in the 1970s linked particular coat colors with certain extreme behaviours and aggression."
screwneck syndrome
arabian cerebellar abiotrophy
trauma shear
intention tremor
tamper resistance
I suffer wrap rage with milk cartons
"Parin kuukauden kuluttua hän huomasi, että pahan tahdon ilmauksia alkoi sataa häneen ulkoapäin. Ne olivat kummallisen persoonattomia, mutta hän kohtasi niitä missä tahansa ja täysin yllättäen."
Bruiser, horse name
"Both Morafic and Nazeer had reputations for bad dispositions."
"She’s simply huge, solid and very reactive."
"Shortly prior to an attack, their eyes can glaze over and go hard, followed by the dog snapping into alert mode before finally attacking."
"She’s also one of the biggest softies I know - treating all 6 of her arabs as if they were high maintenance china dolls."
"They are all very reactive horses, but that’s the way they roll."
Babe, love, did you see Scapa go? -- the stallion lost it, had a major meltdown and ... the ‘attacks’ were deliberate. The first two episodes were described as striking out and then shouldering the trainer out of the way, with the third time being a deliberate knock-down and savage, including the horse’s knees on the trainer. O love. Or nevermind.
the big paso a darker palomino w blue eyes and light silver mane & tail & pink socks
"After you do all that, you have to wait for the dough to hella rise for three years."
"Scottsdale also has, because of pressure from the halter “trainers”, dropped its halter classes from AHA/USEF approval, in order to bypass the scorecard."
"who is nuts enough to breed to a mankiller, even if it is pushed over the edge by said man"
"The stallion was syndicated and all owners agreed to euthanize him."
"--who fall down on their knees to avoid a whip--"
"in fact, it is almost okay"
Who fall down on their knees to avoid a whip.
In any case, this I can recall, clear as day,
(which days I then cannot discern, a muddled mess of bright and noise and hopeless chaff wading through what is routinely evil - haven't been able to for years it seems.
/This I can recall, clear as others are indicated to be able to routinely recall proximate daytime reality?)
This I can recall, physically and every bit as though I was there like I am not here,
and want to write it down lest it erase, and all of the description is here only for this purpose: I am not telling a story. [Also notice how it is only a version of the frightened man I escorted descending in a shiny black plexiglass escalator into his private execution
and both are I in all]
:
I do not recall whether it might have been a dream - I don't really have dreams - or whether I perhaps decided to position myself [asemoitua] in front of the computer screen in a dark room alone, headphones on, for a night; start Doom 3; get it to where it becomes dark and alarming; have it run idle for hours. Listen to the creakings the hollow drone as an exercise in compassion, in fear: going into it. [I do not expect to even have Doom 3 on my computer.]
Regardless, we were there. Such waste. I had a degree of affection for them all; it was mutual. [I do not have a degree of affection for anyone save K, but K is chaff.] We'd known for long.
Two of us died in the initial explosion; getting back up I saw their bodies in the rubble - the familiar faces covered in light gray dust from the fractured concrete - the fluorescents still on at that point - and calm as I become in emergencies, checked their pulse and breathing and found them absent, or looked into their eyes which I had so seen into before - oh the memory - and found there not to be anything anymore. (I was later so grateful, ecstatically happy for them for their having died then already.)
Three others disappeared in the initial explosion. One we never saw again. I still wonder. The other we saw scuttle unnaturally nimble from shadow to shadow later on after the lights'd gone out and never resurface. The third, the one we'd all loved the best, we met again, searching in the corridors, but he made unfamiliar guttural sounds and too steadily unpausingly approached, so I shot at him until he didn't have a face anymore. (Then, made a dull fearless by grief, to approach the body even though it could still get up; and touch the familiar arms, shoulders; see the bite marks - he had been frightened, he had been in pain, prior to expiring dissolving forgetting about all. Say hi, so sorry, and get up and walk away, back to the only one left.)
The only one left stayed with me, I his only one left. He was alright at first but after a few initial encounters with the horribly turned, and finally my shooting ____, our dear ___, as one, he became increasingly hysterical.
It doesn't matter. I remember the corridors. That either does not here matter. The scared man whom also I had loved jumped at every grumble and clank from the depths in the dark and only followed me because being left behind was even worse. He'd cling close, a hand on my back when we could not see for the dark; grow gradually too scared to follow when we'd approach something he felt was even more frightening than what we'd left behind; stop in his tracks, clinging to the wall; plead for me to wait; then to stop; then to come back; and finally panic and run after me. Then we'd stay still and close for a moment to let him calm down a bit. I remember I was quite sorry for him. He just didn't want anyone to bite into his side. I was also calm and cold: we had to plod on.
With gentle coaxing and, as the encounters became more frequent, a good deal of shouting, I could get him to keep up, but after we had to crawl through one of those red-lit booming ventilation shafts - nothing happened but just the thought of gradually by little sounds realizing there was something following us, I guess, or ahead of us for that matter - he completely refused to go on anymore. I tried to persuade him, then simply wait it out, then bully him into it, but he stayed curled up in a little ball, sniveling pleading odd, unfamiliar. Besides, our shouting at each other only made everyone else hear where we were and slowly head to the spot, so I gave in, eventually found him a little maintenance room up in the ceiling, and got him up there by the collapsible ladder. (He wouldn't open his eyes anymore, crying, and I had to half-pull him up the rungs. Scrambling.) Sat him in the corner there, talking nice, told him to stay very still and quiet so the turned would not notice him even if some passed by below. I left him the other gun so he could shoot any who noticed him, and not have them stay around trying to climb up and attracting more until they were too many and could reach him. He let the gun fall out of his hand.
I climbed down, pushed the ladder up, tried calling to him I'd go now and would pick him up as soon as I could, I'd get us some help, but he didn't answer. I left. A lot of walking quietly in the dark then, easier now, able to listen, not having to take care of him, make sure he's following, or turn back to fetch him clinging on a doorframe somewhere in the dark. Encounters, which I grew more and more apt to handle; slowly learned about the turned; gathered they were mostly just terribly sorry. I wondered about if they had any memory left, if they realized what they're doing now.
Then something something, it doesn't matter. I - sure now of that there'd be organized speakable-to army people to pick us up, they'd comb through the building, shoot the turned, fetch us - made my way back to where I'd left him, and found he'd shot himself in the head, left alone in the dark and the sounds.
Sitting there in the dark little room, then, beside him. That is all.