The Equine Magistrate

Bronze statuette of a rider wearing an elephant skin | Greek | Hellenistic | The Met. (n.d.).

attributed to Francesco Allegrini | Horses | The Met. (n.d.).

Hello again world (you). I sort of stopped writing, maybe ten years ago because..., well, for two reasons - the writing was so raw and chaotic that I'm certain others I was close to at the time couldn't handle it, could see themselves in the story or didn't think it was good (good as in benevolent) or rose to a level worth exploring. And second, because I though the catharsis was finished. It was just done. Too many pains spoken over and again. Then I came upon this audio of an entry from ten years ago hosted in the Internet Archive ("Electronic voice reading of blog entry "May Pork Skillet" posted Wednesday, May 07, 2008 on pRose, DC.")
I liked it and just started writing again; Instantaneous and just like that. The audience of those posts grew wide for a time and there were readers around N America, and a few in Europe, S. America and occasionally elsewhere in the world. The way it flowed was raw, like fresh ground meat, and on occasion a brave soul would send an adoring note and I was encouraged to continue. I never felt a proper part of any community so turned to invention. Invention could be faked or told straight true with the same punch. Truth left a residue though; some lasting vapor that stuck beneath the folds of the spongy mass and lingered there waiting for the synapse to be cut for good. Like a story of an epileptic whose brain, for therapy, is cut in two, which works to stop the the seizures, but has the other natural effects of dividing senses and wisping the person out of time, place and original purpose. To a new purpose; one never conceived before. So much so that, you may say, it was a whole new, never before realized self. If it wasn't for those damned halves, may it have been so. Amen.

So I write to you today with a new spirit, still connected, as we all must be, to the core of what made this thing in the first place. That same affect that keeps a man in prison - "I wasn't feeling myself that day I killed the priest for insulting my mother. Can I just go home now? I'm sure it won't happen again." Or "Man, that boy I was back then just isn't what I've turned out to be inside, to myself in here. So here I am, judge, sort of that what I was then and not what now I am, from then, in action, truth or deed, not even so in spirit. Yet something remains." So I write to you (with you)(for you)(on you)(from under your heel)(perched from a pebble)(plucked from a hen)(hand on heart)(hand on cock)(heart in hand) as the Equine Magistrate. The Horse Lord. From the edge of a distant sea, from a precious cave, connected from where you are, should you dip a toe.