Quercus & Wordsworth

Ode: Intimations of Immortality

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;--
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

The Rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the Rose,
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare,
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

-- William Wordsworth

Red Kites in the Chilterns

Dominic, one of my oldest and dearest friends in England, a sartorially splendid, twinkly-eyed excellent man, told me he had never seen red kites (milvus milvus)before our lunch in Bledlow Ridge, in the Chilterns. We walked outside after a truly delicious meal and stared up at the sky where two awe-inspiringly large birds called out to each other.

The next day he called to tell me that the book he is reading, Untold Stories by Alan Bennett mentions red kites. Alan Bennett must've stopped for his lunchtime sandwich in exactly the same place as we were.
I love these coincidences. Jung calls it synchronicity. Arthur Koestler might call it something else.

Michaelmas daisies

Effective and rather lovely use of Michaelmas daisies and yellow rowan berries
in the loo of the Sir Charles Napier, Bledlow Ridge -- 16-x-09

La Estudiante Loco

I've sworn not to embarrass my children on this blog. However, in this case, I make an exception.

Minky, who is 14, and had a disastrous experience with learning French in the 7th grade, is now in the fast-track Spanish program (to catch her up) at her wonderfully crunchy new high school. The teacher utilizes songs, poems & acting to learn the language (with emphasis on kinesthetic, spatial and interpersonal learning).

(**please note supporting role by Bean, the lesser spotted, stage right.)

What you think you become

“The mind is everything. What you think you become.”

-- Hindu Prince Gautama Siddharta, the founder of Buddhism, 563-483 B.C.

Martine Franck

Image of George Balanchine's nephew and his family by photographer Martine Franck from a series, Nation building in Georgia, from the Telegraph.

Cathy Colman: Beauty's Tattoo

Cathy Colman, my writing guru & the fearless leader of our workshop, has a new book of poems: Beauty's Tattoo (available through Amazon -- click-thru on right hand column). She is featured in the Palisades newspaper here and will be reading and signing at Village Books in the Palisades on October 29 at 7:30pm.

The Call of the Stags

My brother's latest blog post, from the Angus Glens in Scotland, is here.

Ninja Turtles & Smoky Eyes

Daughter, 14, just walked into my office in a pair of opaque black tights, a pair of tiny "booty" shorts and an old Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt with the arms hacked off and the neckline altered to make it a "scoop." Her eye make-up is smudgy-black. Cute. Smoky eyes, she calls it. She's going to a dance.

"Hey," she says. "How do I look?"

The lost bee

This is a story with a long pre-amble. Please bear with me. The pay-off begins below the bee picture.

One of the greatest benefits of growing up in two countries as I have done, having spent exactly one half of my life in England and the other half in California, is that one's perspective is uniquely shifted depending on which country you're viewing t'other from. Each has its high and low points. Los Angeles is my home, but unless I visit England every year or so I get very, very homesick, and very skewed in my expectations. It is classic ex-pat behaviour, dully enough. One builds up an image of one's homeland that is more like the green and pleasant one of Jerusalem fame, than the current version, all smarting from too much chicken tikka masala-style obesity, the BNP & the failure of child care authorities in the London borough of Haringey.

As I drove my 14 year old daughter to the first parent/teacher conference of high school this very morning, half-numbed by lack of sleep layered on top of jetlag, she posed this question:

"Do you love Los Angeles?"

"I feel ambivalent about LA" I replied as truthfully as I could. "There are some things I love about it and some things I could do without."


Driving through Century City hours after re-entry, the relentless sun high in the sky, cars honking at each other, the streets devoid of pedestrians, the dry air catching in my throat as I go to swear at other drivers (oh, they're all idiots but me, of course), all I can think about is the glorious, cool days of English autumn and the way my brother always sees the best in everyone. He is a kind man. A really kind man. He cares deeply about people and chooses to see the good. This is how I used to be. I know I was this way once. But years of punching and being battered in Hollywood has knocked it out of me. I dislike this quality most in myself. It's called, quite plainly, cynicism and when I was in England, it went away for just long enough for me to notice.

Seeing the good also involves believing in goodness and trusting that things will turn out the right way.

This is a silly story, really, but one that has stayed with me and sometimes when things stay with us perhaps we should pay attention to them.

a little golden bee rather like this one

On Saturday afternoon, in Scotland, my brother and his wife, J went to a wedding so the children and I amused ourselves playing football on the lawn, rolling around on the grass with the dogs and finally having a dog grooming contest. The Labradors rolled their eyes at us but were good-natured as only Labs can be and sat quietly and patiently as we pulled combs through their thick coats and flicked great handfuls of the furry stuff into the breeze.

Later, when D&J had come home, full of wedding joy, I happened to touch my ear and realize that my earring had fallen out. It was a tiny gold bee, earrings the Maharishi had given me when we first got married. Of course, with a name like Bumble, people are very generous with their bee gifts -- cushions, plates, cups, paper, pictures -- but these earrings are my very favorite. They have the tiniest ruby eyes. Somehow, oddly, the butterfly back was still stuck to my ear, but the bee itself was nowhere to be found. We looked in the sofa, behind the sofa, under the sofa cushions, under the sofa, on the carpet, but nothing.

"Don't worry" said J, my sister-in-law "We'll find it. Let's retrace your steps."
"I was playing outside with the children. We'll never find it out there" I said, "Oh, please don't worry."
"Nonsense" said J, "of course we'll find it. You must have faith!"

I rolled my eyes like the Labrador at her and followed her outside where it was still just light, the sky glowing pink and blue. Between the front door and the steps to the lawn is a wide piece of gravelly driveway. I walked across the little pebbles and looked down halfheartedly and then followed J down the steps where we brushed the dogs. The lawn is huge and stretches out to the field where the horses were grazing. J marched ahead, absolutely confident in her belief that we will find the earring. I'm laughing, of course, and I tease her.
"It's like trying to find a needle in a haystack, J. It's never going to happen."
She tuts at me "Oh ye of little faith." (She actually says this.)
So to humour her, and only to humour her, I put one foot on the grass, which, I might add, hasn't been mown for a month or more, and gaze at the little green blades, strewn with dog hair. And then my other foot. I shuffle about a bit wondering how long I have to keep up this charade. The dogs are being good sports too. They're sniffing about, being waggy, enjoying the game.

And then I see it. It's as big as my thumb nail and lying on its back, its legs in the air. It's my gold bee.

My sister-in-law -- who really should have been a missionary, she's so inspiring -- is not in the slightest bit shocked. She looks at me, smiles, and says "I told you so."

my lovely bro, D & his gorgeous wife, J (in Queen of the Nile headgear)

Upwards through poplars, 6:11pm

My Mamma's fearless rally to Bicester Village

As no trip home is complete without a mother/daughter shopping expedition, my mother and I have been to Bicester Village, the Woodbury Commons or the Desert Premium Outlets of rural Oxfordshire -- a shopper's paradise filled with yummy mummys in skinny jeans and long boots.

amanita muscaria (fly agaric), a favorite of the Vikings

My mother, a native Norwegian who becomes more fearless with age, true to her Viking roots (and without the aid of fly agaric), drove directly to the handicapped parking, right in front of Pret-A-Manger (more on the crayfish & rocket sandwiches later), threw her sticker onto the dashboard, rolled down the windows a crack for the dog and declared, rubbing her hands together in glee "Right then, where shall we start?" Where better to start than the ever-giving LK Bennett, where I tried on several pairs of shoes that would make Cheryl Cole envious. "We really should go to Rafe Lauren" said my Ma, "they have excellent bargains on shirts." "It's Ralph, Mamma" I say, "He's American." Somehow we dodged Rafe in favour of Cath Kidston, Aquascutum and the absolutely divine Luella (her designs are completely charming & exquisitely made). We swerved into Marni where I fell in love with a navy blue dropped-waist dress, were completely turned off by the crap inside Gucci ("It's only footballers wives and stockbrokers who can really afford that stuff" said my Ma, "so they have to cater to their audience") and dropped into TSE where my mother picked up a sweater and declared "I could knit this myself in about an hour." Jimmy Choo was much the same although I don't think my mother thought she could actually last her own shoes. But I wouldn't put it past her.

Lashings of ginger beer

Exhausted, we sat down for soup & sandwiches at Pret. Tell me please why something as wonderful doesn't exist in LA? Could anything be more delicious than an egg and cress sandwich, some homemade tomato soup & lashings of ginger beer?

Waddesdon Manor, Buckinghamshire

To wash away the detritus of our capitalist shopping frenzy we drove back to Waddesdon and did a quick Benny Hill-type drive (minus naked ladies) around Waddesdon Manor -- supremely gorgeous, bathed in Autumn light. My mother is a very good driver ("Advanced Driving Test, you know" she told me as we whooshed around the tiny roads near Quainton, hydro-planing on the corners and accelerating past the articulated lorries with only an inch between us and the hedgerows) and, as I may have mentioned, she is quite courageous. With walking stick, handicapped sticker & Norske bravura we zoomed around the gardens on illegal roads (the English are so polite that no-one stopped us, and who on earth would stop an attractive-looking elderly woman in a blue convertible Saab with a silver Jack Russell on the front?) As we drove, I managed to snap a few pictures, right before I snapped my neck from whiplash.

I said it was like Benny Hill -- no naked women but this Adonis

Village walk

The dog and I wandered through the allotment gardens in Aldbury yesterday, following the now pristinely laid out footpaths, listening to the birds in the hedgerows, watching the children on the swings. There are still runner beans and raspberries on their canes, but cabbages and pumpkins too. The village is so much smaller than I remember it as a child but even more charming.

Here's a picture of the village's red phone box that I have taken for posterity. The Government, in its infinite wisdom is phasing them out so I don't know how long this one will last.




And here is a picture of the churchyard, taken from underneath an ancient yew tree. It's interesting walking through a graveyard with a dog because one tries very hard to be sombre, thoughtful and respectful, while all the while wondering whether the dog might pee on someone's grave. I tried to imagine it as a comedy scene from the Vicar of Dibley, and hoped that if it did happen that God, in all his Anglican might, would find it amusing too. It's a great incentive for not loitering. I knew my father would think it funny, so that was enough.

Glen Clova, after rain

This may have been the most beautiful walk I've ever taken. Here's my brother looking at the rainbow.

My brother, the blogger

My wily little brother has been secretly blogging for Horse & Country TV in the UK. His latest post is here.

Scotland, morning

Pucka at Rottal, 6.20pm

Photo album: London

These are the beautiful roses and lilies that sat next to my bed (on a chest of drawers full of heavenly books) at Vivien's house in London.




Meanwhile, Dale Chihuly is now gracing the entrance of the Victoria & Albert Museum:




A blurry picture of Vivien walking in (we were bound for the Maharaja exhibit):




And Giles, in purple Converse, by South Ken tube, looking exactly the same as he did twenty five years ago:

An albeit brief visit to Ottolenghi

Giddily, we launched ourselves upon Ottolenghi** in Holland Street, just off of Kensington High Street. It's a small shop, utterly charming and stuffed full of all kinds of deliciousness. Feeling like I was on a pilgrimage I said with a smile to the chap, "May I take a photograph of all this loveliness for my friends in Los Angeles?" He replied, dead pan, "From outside the window you may." And so, from outside the window, here it is:



We ordered (Vivien and I) cappucinos, a brioche for me, a pain au chocolat for her, and we parked ourselves on the steps outside (there is no seating) feeling for all the world like rebellious teenagers and receiving appropriately disapproving looks from passers by.


** For new readers: I think I may have been the first person on the West Coast to extol the virtues of Ottolenghi, thanks to my friend Sian. I ordered the book, posted recipes and links to the Guardian site, and hooked all my friends. You will understand, dear reader, if I seem just a little disappointed by the reception given at the shrine, not that I was expected balloons and bunting.

The heart of a sunny wood

Lower Hangings

With very little effort on my part this blog has turned into a Nature Rambler's notebook during this trip to England. Whatever anxiety or worry there may be dissipates the moment I set foot outside, sturdy terrier friend by my side, on these glorious autumn days. I'm really not overusing the world glorious, even though it is a word you'd imagine Mrs Slocombe using. The days are crisp, sunny, yellow and orange and green, the sky is a shiny optimistic blue.

More signs

This morning we wandered through the Lower Hangings in the wood I grew up exploring, walking in, building jumps in. The original paths are there and apart from the aggressive signage mission that the National Trust has embarked on ("Footpath" "The Hertfordshire Way" "Ridgeway" "Ashridge Walk" etc), very little has changed. It's incredibly peaceful, as trite as that may appear. There is the sound of birdsong and the sound of one's feet on the fallen leaves, and that's about it. Standing in King's field, admiring his black-faced sheep, I realized that there is constant movement and loud noises in the city, mostly man-made. This hasn't just dawned on me but I understand more now, having lived in a city for so many years, what my father meant about city dwellers being constantly agitated, "like rats in a cage," he'd say, which is a little unfair. It is almost impossible not to breathe deeper and feel more contented, deep down in what I'd like to call my soul (and the Maharishi would call "a cellular level" or something much cleverer) when in the heart of a sunny wood.

Looking towards Aldbury

Mr King's black-faced sheep

We had the enormous good fortune of hitting the large fields to the west of the village, just as the racehorses were doing their morning gallop. My mother's terrier isn't the most obedient of animals and so hurriedly put him on a lead as soon as I realize we'd be in the thick of it. A concerned owner in a smart blue land rover whizzed towards us over the stubble and said very politely, "Oh hullo, I'm not sure if you realize that some racehorses are coming through here in a few moments." He smiled so kindly, so apologetically really. "Oh yes, I'm quite prepared. Look, I've reined in my beast" I said. Tiny looked appropriately nonchalant. (Why isn't that dogs can't make the right face at the right time?) "Good job" said the nice man. "I am awfully sorry" I said. "I didn't mean to worry you." Sure enough, three minutes later, the horses came pounding by -- three followed by two. So lovely on a chilly morning. One of the jockeys waved and shouted "Morning." "Morning" I shouted back, feeling quite jolly.

A sheep skull hanging in a hawthorn tree

Old Victorian wall along footpath at Brightwood

Dew-soaked field

Dodie Smith & dogs

Dodie Smith, Alec Beesley & their dalmatians
(Smith & Beesley's happy 45 year marriage is attributed to, according to Smith,
their maintaining of separate bedrooms.)


Screen shot from film version of "I Capture the Castle" with dog, Heloise, in foreground.

Sunday lunch in England

There aren't many people quite as clever as my big sister, when it comes to food. So, you can imagine that an invitation to Sunday lunch after arriving jet-lagged and groggy from arid old Los Angeles, was something one couldn't possibly turn down, and of course, it was far better than I'd dreamed.

My sister lives in a lovely farmhouse near Royston and you have to drive through what used to be the largest field in Hertfordshire to get there. We were greeted by the black and brown Jack Russell, and the black lab, who are both immaculately well-trained and remember to sit in the kitchen and not come through to the dining room while we're having lunch, without the benefit of a door. My girls could learn a thing or two from my sister's dogs. Mine lie wantonly under the table awaiting the scraps they know are coming to them.

After a glass of champagne, and a delicious smear of smoked salmon pate on a cracker, lunch was roast pork with crackling and the most delicious sage and onion stuffing, with sage from her garden. With it we had red cabbage cooked with just a hint of caraway, brussells sprouts, broad beans, sugarsnap peas, carrots, roast potatoes, apple jelly and apple sauce and delicious gravy. And a very good St Emilion red wine. For pudding, there were meringues, fresh fruit salad, chocolate refrigerator square and heavenly bread and butter pudding. Andrew, my brother-in-law brought out sloe gin from 2003 and 1998, one a little sweeter than the other. The one with less sugar made all our mouths look like dogs' bottoms. A spirited discussion about the proper way to make sloe gin ensued. Gerry, my sister's friend, doesn't like to freeze them first. My mother pointed out that the way my great grandmother made morello cherry liquer was to macerate the fruit in sugar before adding any alcohol. "I suppose you don't have sloe gin and crabapple jelly in California, do you" asked Gerry's husband. "Well no, we don't" I said, racking my brain "but we have guava jelly and olives."

And there was cheese. Two kinds of local Norfolk cheese, both utterly delicious. And coffee of course. The American habit is to serve coffee before pudding or with pudding which I think is wrong. It's far better right at the end of lunch to wake one up.

As I think long and often about roast pork, you can imagine my utter joy at this lunch. The sun was beginning to set as we left and I realized to my horror that we'd stayed until five o'clock.

From Aldbury to Ivinghoe Beacon

On this bright, clear October morning, the dog and I walked from Aldbury to the Ivinghoe Beacon, via the Bridgwater Monument. It was warm and crisp and sunny and not a bit like October. In fact, I'd wager that it was colder in Los Angeles over the last couple of days.

The Monument was a hotbed of activity -- ramblers with maps, grey-haired ladies in cagoules, with dogs, children in pushchairs. There's a tea room there now. And they serve lunch.

I'd like to say we rambled not walked but I was warned by my brother-in-law that
"We don't like ramblers."
"Don't say that to her" hissed my sister across the table with a half-smile in my direction.
"No, no" I say, "do tell."
"Well" Andrew starts, "they're very Left Wing..."
"Oh goody, I'm Left Wing," I said, "We should get on terribly well."
"And" his friend, the farmer, continues, "they walk through everyone's land assuming it's their God-given right."
"And" says Andrew, "they wear ordnance survey maps around their necks coated in plastic."
"And carry thermoses of sweet tea" said someone else.

I suppose it's my fault for asking the difference between walkers and ramblers. ( The underlying inference is, one supposes, that walkers are country and ramblers are not. But I don't really think this is true. The deeper inference being I am rambler ergo I am hunt-saboteur. Either way, my right wing brother-in-law -- who is fond of President Obama but perhaps less fond of the Norwegian Nobel Prize committee -- and I saw eye to eye most admirably over a lovely piece of roast pork. )

This is the Bridgewater Monument

As a child, it seemed to take hours to ride to the Beacon from home, but walking fast (3-4 mph) it only took me an hour and a half, through glorious oak and beech woods, still green and not a bit like I expected October to be.

The view from the Ridgeway

I don't know if these cheerful little clouds exist anywhere else in the world, but don't they suit so well the chalky downland?

Quintessential English view, across the Vale of Aylesbury

Apart from the barbed-wire, this is my favorite view, framed by oak tree.

Tiny, hanging with his homeys

And we land on top of the beacon, surrounded by dogs, and small-plane enthusiasts, and ramblers with thermoses. All on a Monday morning. "It must be the nice weather," said my mother, sensibly.

Clouds over The Pimple

Clever new signs from the National Trust

Lovely wooden signs mark the way. As I mentioned in yesterday's post I can't believe how Ashridge has transformed -- it's literally awash in signage.

Black bird.

This bird flew right down next to the dog and started an interesting communion with him. Dog was too taken aback to remember to pounce on the bird. And by the time he remembered, bird had flown off.

You miss this stuff when you're away. Only a week ago I was writing about Ivinghoe Beacon from memory. Today I'm here. Rather wished I'd brought my thermos of sweet tea. Or "a piece" as the Scots say for the sandwich they put in their pocket for later on.

Heaven really.

Home. With Sloes & Violet Sky.

My traveling companion with beech tree

It's a sunny 18 degrees celsius in London when I land. So much for boots and coats and thick jerseys.

I love the drive home from Heathrow. On a Saturday, on the M25, it's easy peasy & we're home in forty minutes.

young beech, winter sun

The dog and I walked on the common. The paths are almost the same as when I was a child, but the signage is better. The Ashridge National Trust has taken a parental interest in keeping people on the footpaths and horses on the bridle paths, so there are helpful arrows at each junction. Doesn't sound very wild countryside, does it?

The sky is violet. I thought I was imagining it.

I encountered two ramblers and a girl on a horse. We listened to pigeons and pheasants (the terrier put up at least three) and the train. And then, although, I said I wouldn't, walked across the footpath from Norcott Hall to Toms Hill, where my father planted the wood all those years ago. There's a lot of pheasant cover now and birds everywhere. Also sloes, crabapples & hawthorn. The crabapples smell divine. They're by the kissing gate and at the peak of ripeness.

Self portrait with haw

I try not to look at our old house but I can't help it and every time I look, from year to year, it becomes less painful. It looks quite pleasant now, actually, not the same, of course, but different and pretty in its own, new way. It didn't really matter either: the smells and sights and sounds of early October in Ashridge are enough to revive even the most parched of souls.

Bird-Understander

Of many reasons I love you here is one

the way you write me from the gate at the airport
so I can tell you everything will be alright

so you can tell me there is a bird
trapped in the terminal all the people
ignoring it because they do not know
what do with it except to leave it alone
until it scares itself to death

it makes you terribly terribly sad

You wish you could take the bird outside
and set it free or (failing that)
call a bird-understander
to come help the bird

All you can do is notice the bird
and feel for the bird and write
to tell me how language feels
impossibly useless

but you are wrong

You are a bird-understander
better than I could ever be
who make so many noises
and call them song

These are your own words
your way of noticing
and saying plainly
of not turning away
from hurt

you have offered them
to me I am only
giving them back

if only I could show you
how very useless
they are not

-- Craig Arnold (via & with thanks to The Poetry Foundation -- read Christian Wiman's appreciation of Craig Arnold here. h/t Jeff Gordinier)

The Horse & the Chiropractor

The horse, a very handsome black thoroughbred/warmblood cross, with shades of pinto (a map of Italy on his belly, a white foreleg) came to me through what can only be described as serendipity. Fred was lame and I had nothing to ride. Horse arrived snorting through pink nostrils and looking at me with fiery eyes. He'd been from trainer to trainer, competing in the jumpers because his lineage boasts grand prix horses, but no-one, it seems could fall in love with him because he was, well, just too hot for an amateur. Being a glutton for punishment, or idiotically fearless when it comes to horses, I thought the horse would be a lovely challenge. The first time I rode him, I could hardly break out of a trot. The second time, trotting a cross-rail (cavaletti) was a problem. Peso saw bogeymen in the bushes, ghosts in the jump standards, was incredibly sensitive to any touch (he would leap forward if I lent forward to touch his neck) and although this isn't a Taming the Wild Stallion through the power of faith story, it began to feel like one.




We spent a lot of time bending, doing circles, working on lateral movement. We tried bridle after bridle, bit after bit -- a gag, a hackamore, a simple snaffle and finally a slow twist snaffle with a flash noseband (I think this is what the English call a 'grackle'). We vetted him, he was sound. We vetted him again, this time with a bit of ritzy vet who suggested that he may be more comfortable in a belly girth. We changed the girth. We tried two different farriers. He now has half pads in his shoes as he was sensitive on his soles. And he was still up. "Up" up. And so progesterone was suggested, which they use for many show horses, to chill them out or "take the edge off" as my trainer says. Certainly he needed the edge taken off. I think of it like Welbutrin for humans. The diet was looked at too. The hay changed. The grain changed. And slowly, very slowly, he changed. I first noticed that his eye looked softer. He let me ride him bareback without too much fuss, in a halter. I'd "pony" him -- this is an English country technique used by me and other people who'd had ponies as little girls on which they'd gallop through the woods, dress up, carry cats onboard, take on picnics with sandwiches strapped to the saddle, flopping about on the way, and tie them up to trees and do all kinds of things they'd frown upon in the very smart American equestrian world. But I thought ponying was the key. I'd scratch his neck while on top of him, pull his ears, lean back on his rump, ask him to shake hands with me. I'd lay my jacket over his neck while we walked from the ring back to the barn, got him used to my taking on and off my jacket in the ring, made him stand by the jump standard while I picked up and put down my water bottle. I'd sit in his stable and look at him and talk to him. I'd bring the dog in to talk to him. Usually he'd snort, stare at me with an alarmed look and then he'd settle and chill and start to munch on his hay.




Heather, the lovely assistant trainer who's now moved to San Francisco, rode him on the days I didn't, usually once a week. He likes consistency, soft hands, a steady leg on his side. "Riding a hot horse is counter-intuitive" says Susie, my trainer. "You don't want to take your leg off if they skoot forward; you want to keep it on. Your leg comforts him." He doesn't like "handsy" flatwork. Usually, if I'm going to jump, I'll flat him on a longish rein, making sure he bends a little but not really paying attention to his face at all. That way, when it comes to jumping, which fires him up anyway ("You want me to jump that? Weeeeeeeee!") he feels calm and relaxed.

So, yesterday, when I idly asked the chiropractor to look at him "because he's a little stiff bending left" I didn't expect the phone call I got this morning. "Yeah, you horse is kind of allover body sore," she said. "He's quite uncomfortable. I've suggested less padding underneath the saddle to help him out and perhaps some Gastrogard in case of an ulcer." Yikes. It's not that this is surprising news; I suppose there has to be a reason for a horse to be "hot" even though he vets okay, but I'm somewhat angry at myself for not figuring this out before. The chiropractor goes on to say that maybe when I'm away they can put him out on the grass, let him stretch out his neck, graze, relax. It's what I've thought for a long time. Horses need to be in fields at least for a few hours a day. It's what's natural for them and it lets them chill. In England, our horses spent entire summer getting fat and happy in big, grassy fields (I can picture them standing under the chestnut tree, idly swatting flies with their tails). The grass field is different from the turn out pen, which is dusty and full of dried mud, just fine for a roll. These are the times when I long for England, for the ability to turn out the horses in a little paddock next to the house, to let them be horses. They live a luxurious life here, to be sure, with big, airy stalls, plenty of good-quality hay, a European walker in the mornings, turn-out pens, even an equine treadmill for rainy days, but it's just not the same as chilling out in nature.



Just as this article suggests that those who have a strong connection to the natural world are nicer people, I think animals who are taken too far away from their natural habitats develop coping habits or ways of dealing with anxiety. Peso is treated no differently than any of the other horses at our barn, but he is just a particularly sensitive soul. And, by the way, this sensitivity is what makes him so talented in the jumping ring. I just wish I could find a way to help him more.

Housekeeping

Scant reason for not posting in four days other than sheer terror. This blog has never seen as many hits as those who came to read Allison Anders' brilliant piece on Polanski. If you haven't seen it, you can find it here. Thank you so much, Allison.

Leaves are turning a yellowy-brown and the temperature has dropped about fifty degrees from last week. I'm feeling grateful for my thick Scottish sweater -- a present from my sister-in-law -- and the bath tub. I soaked for hours last night and read I Capture The Castle by Dodie Smith. I'm smitten.



I've found it very hard to get Minky to read much of anything but the Twilight series and Teen Vogue, but we lay outside, covered in a huge blanket, on Sunday and I read the book to her. The protagonist is a 17 year old girl, so it is not hard for her to relate to. We lay at opposite ends of the sofa, our knees meeting in the middle and providing a protective barrier so that we couldn't see each other. I read and she listened, so attentively in fact that I couldn't hear a sound, till I peeked over the wall of knees to see her fast asleep. But I've decided that reading to your children isn't just when they're small. If my 14 year old won't read on her own, we shall read together. Of course, it's tremendously hard to stop reading a book you're very excited about just because one of your audience members is snoozing softly.

On Friday I leave for England. I can't wait to be in England in October. I don't remember the last time I was in the countryside in the autumn. More often than not, I'd find myself in London for the film festival, and I'd go for a half-hearted walk around the park, looking for crispy piles of leaves in which to jump.

All is well and all manner of things will be well.

And this is what I miss most:



The English Oak. There will be plenty of them where I'm going. And beech trees.

A passion for words

"I never knew anyone who had a passion for words who had as much difficulty in saying things as I do."

-- Marianne Moore
(via @ParisReview)

I carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go, my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)

-- ee cummings (used without permission but with enormous gratitude via the writers almanac)

Filmmaker Allison Anders on Polanski: Art Is Not Enough

My friend Allison Anders, Filmmaker, Music Nerd, Child Rape Survivor, has graciously agreed to share her post on the Polanski case. Anders' films include "Gas Food Lodging," "Mi Vida Loca," "Grace of My Heart" and "Things Behind the Sun." In 1995 Anders was awarded MacArthur Fellowship (or Genius Award). She is the Founder of the Don't Knock the Rock Film & Music Festival in Los Angeles.


Art Is Not Enough

By Allison Anders

This has been a helluva week for me. Two of my very favorite artists of all time were at the forefront of the news, not because of the incredible films or beautiful music they made, but because of sex crimes they committed: rape and incest. Both happened long ago, during a hedonistic drug-fueled era and permissive celebrity culture. Roman Polanski is one of my favorite filmmakers, and John Phillips one of my favorite songwriters. I had the honor to meet each of these men, and was almost giddy to be blessed with the chance to tell each artist what his work meant has to me. In Phillips case I even wrote his obit for the LA Weekly.

But, you will probably be surprised that unlike most every other fan and fellow artist, I absolutely support the arrest and extradition of Roman Polanski, every bit as much as I believe that Mackenzie Phillips is probably telling the truth, and has every right to do so as publicly as she feels the need.

Let's first of all get the word 'consent' out of the discussion: 13 year olds in the United States do not have the right to consent to sex with adults. That was the law in 1977 and is still the law. And while Mackenzie Phillips has said she had 'consensual incest' with her father, many have argued that incest is never consensual regardless of the age of the child (she was 18) because the parent always holds the power in the relationship. I understand what she's trying to say -- which is that she was not forced or threatened or bullied into the incest. However, her father had already crossed the line and blurred boundaries by giving her drugs as a kid, shooting her with cocaine by his own admission, and she was in a blackout during the first rape by her father. (Coincidentally also in 1977).

While most everyone was rallying the cry of outrage over Polanski's arrest, some people have recently written in their blogs the details of the case against Polanski, a crime to which he plead guilty. I strongly urge people to get familiar with the details of the crime, with the many times this child said no to every crime committed against her will, and her absolute powerlessness in a violating situation orchestrated by one of the world's greatest filmmakers before you go jumping on the FREE ROMAN bandwagon.

It doesn't matter to me if the victim's mother was a pushy stage mom, she did not send her daughter out with Polanski to Jack Nicholson's house to be drugged and sodomized. It doesn't matter to me that the victim has forgiven him and wants it all dropped -- once charged, it becomes a crime against all of us as a society and it's no longer just about the victim, but about all of us. It doesn't matter to me if there was misconduct with the original judge in the case, because Polanski, as a result of Marina's incredible documentary, was given a recent opportunity to return to the US so a new judge could review the case with an open mind, and would give him the sentence he never stuck around to receive in 1978. But he had to return to LA. Polanski refused. (And the former DA who suggested the misconduct has now claimed he was lying, so who knows what the story was, we just know Polanski flew the coop.)

And as sensitive as I may be to the loss and pain and tragedy which has colored most of Polanski's life, it doesn't ultimately matter to me either. Both of these men had terrible traumatic childhoods. Polanski's life has been so harrowing that it long ago entered the realm of mythology. Phillips came from a terribly abusive alcoholic home ruled by a remote sadistic military father. But there is not one perpetrator out there who couldn't cry me a fucking river. Trauma creates one of four types of people: victims, rescuers, or perps. And if you're really lucky and really strong and very willing and brave -- survivors.

Art should never be held above our decency to each other. And when an artist commits a crime, especially a sex crime and especially against a child, we do art no favor by giving artists a break we would never give to anyone else. .

Lucky for me, I can still listen to the beauty of John Phillips songs, he truly wrote some of the world's most achingly gorgeous ballads. My favorites "Look Through My Window" and "Like An Old Time Movie" live inside of me without one tainted wince. And I wish they will always remain this close to my heart.

Likewise, Roman Polanski's "Tess" (made after he and his 17 year old star had already "broken up" -- he started sleeping with her when she was 15), "The Tenant", "Repulsion", "Rosemary's Baby" and my god "Chinatown" are films my life is better for having known, with some of the greatest female characters ever created for the screen. My work is better, maybe all filmmakers are better, for Polanski's imprint on cinema. He created language for all of us to use, there is no question about that.

But to deny these men the karma they deserve through truth and justice, is to negate the very art they created. Let the hubris crack and let's see what's underneath. I know exactly what's there...and it's bleak. And the only cure for that is redemption. And the only path to redemption is responsibility for your actions.