Skip to main content

The ballad of Mr. Tom and Liza Jane

Last time we went to Jefferson there was a poor old nag parked outside of our hotel every day. Her skin sagged over her bones. She literally looked like she was going to die.

I was upset by the sight of this poor old horse and eventually connected her with the sight of an old-fashioned moustached man sitting in our hotel lobby.

2010 2010-04-17 051

Apparently, these were Liza Jane and Mr. Tom, respectively. When we were in the coffee shop I mentioned last post there was this little stone commemorating them.

The reason it was important was because I was incensed by the sight of that pathetic horse. I thought she might be mistreated, but Nathan managed to persuade me that the 110 F temperatures were causing the Clydesdale some misery. I had already begun planning my campaign, http://www.savelizajane.com, but I agreed reluctantly.

  2010 2010-04-17 071 

Well, while we were waiting for our ghost tour to begin, Nathan alerted me to the presence of a certain carriage in our vicinity, and I took this photograph of Liza Jane. She was looking much, much better than last summer. Filled out and not looking like she's about to crash to the ground. And I got a couple of orbs in it. Look at the one above the buggy seat. That's right where a head would be.

2010 2010-04-17 072

Anyway, better and better. Mr. Tom came around. He was putting Liza Jane up for the night.

Okay, the only other thing about this is, every time I saw Mr. Tom driving Liza Jane around town (or not), I felt sad, because there were all these young, sprightly horses and brash-voiced tour guides in fringy carriages carrying around tourists, and Mr. Tom's buggy is quite a different thing, and Liza Jane is so old. It made me feel like they were kind of fragile.

Labels:

Popular posts from this blog

Snow White and the Prince

I dreamed in darkness, cold and alone. Phantasms shifted around me, frightening me, but I was powerless to escape them or even move, as I was sealed in a casket. I thought of the Queen, my Stepmother, and tears dripped from my eyes as I considered the quasi-poignant moments we had once shared, when we might have been considered to be close, when the Queen had nearly been a mother to me, and the face of love had shone radiantly upon me, before eclipsed again by the storms of Venus. I thought of the huntsman, stung to consider that my only friend had been poised to betray me, to kill me, and again in my mind I felt the horror of his shadow, of waiting while he came behind me, knowing there was no escape for me from a death he would inflict. My heart lifted as images of the Prince entered my mind, his grace atop a white-maned horse, always out of my reach, just beyond the words I longed to speak. If only there had been more time for us to fall in love. He might have saved me from those...
more &

Where does it lie

I look out onto the yellow and brown vegetation beneath my window, at the castle-like buildings far away and wonder where do I lie in all of this? There was a time when I was unfettered. This was a time before I entered the working world, before I was independent. My heart was free as a bird when I was in college. I did not know what happiness I experienced in my creativity because I had never known different. In other aspects of my life I knew pain but my stories, sprung up lately from a gothic mist into an immersing Pre-Raphaelite painting, were a richness and the most beautiful thing I had ever known. That the most beautiful thing I knew to exist happened inside of me made me very happy, even though I didn't know it. Now I know the sun is setting, even though I can't see it, because the bank of brown, twisted trees and shrubs is lit gold, like a reflection from a golden chalice. Slowly, slowly it will fade until everything is a homogenous, uncertain gray. This is the nightma...
more &