July 2, 2014
Dear Sean,
P. S. (PreScript) I stumbled across one of those websites that have an arrangement of odd or obsolete words. I’ve scattered a few throughout this letter, but only when they are truly apt. You’ll doubt know them when you see them.)
Here begins the letter proper.
If there’s one thing being montivagant is good for (I almost want to say montivagrant) it’s that it provides ample time for introspection. Depending on the person, I’m not sure this is such a good thing. I daydream too much, I think, when my mind isn’t given a task to mull and ponder, I come up with the most ridiculous scenarios in my head that can entertain me for hours. I’m sure shepherds are either the most philosophical of people, or they are the most fanciful.
It’s a good thing I want to make my living in fiction, otherwise all this imagining would be a waste of time. It probably still is, but at least I can put it down as practicing or preparing stories.
My self-reflective moments are probably of even less use than my fantasizing. In books, people are characterized by certain traits. I suppose that’s why they call them characters. And while I was wandering with the herd I wondered how I would categorize myself. What is a primary characteristic of mine?
Perhaps I’m the wrong person to judge, or perhaps I’m the only person to judge. Do correct me, if you think I’m wrong, or if you perceive me differently, but I feel like I’m categorized by impermanence.
To me, this is not at all a bad thing.
Yes, in the grand scheme of things we are all impermanent, but in my life, and my presence in the lives of others, I think of myself as being transitory. A series of stopgaps. I take comfort in this, though from what I’ve read, many people fear it (or at least many writers describe people so). From famous Achilles (from the Illiad, not the Odyssey) to Keats, who famously put on his tombstone a regretful (and consequently, entirely incorrect) epitaph: “here lies the one whose name was writ on water” people have wanted to make their mark, to last, to endure, to make a lasting impression or despair ever doing so. They wanted permanence, they wanted a name that would last.
Whereas a significant percentage of my life has been that of xenization. Living as a stranger in a place makes it easier to leave. I don’t mind being forgotten. I hate reading that people miss me, when I have no intention of returning. It’s a sort of rule, never to go back.
(My desire to write is not borne of a desire to extend my life, and I take comfort in noms de plume.)
I am comforted that my presence is only temporary. That I’m not a landmark but a waypoint, itinerant. Always yonderly.
When I do get my yacht someday, I think I might call it Yonderly.
But stepping away from the abstract… these last few days I’ve taken on the job of swine herd. Naturally, I still have to care for the horses morning and evening, but in the ripest hours of the afternoon, it is my responsibility to pasture magaliza pigs: 5 adults each upwards of 200 kilos, and uncountable babies. (Actually, one can count them, I’ve just never managed. They are far more charming than their parents, and much easier to lose track of.)
I’ve come to the conclusion that swine are like people, just completely devoid of vanity.
Pigs are intelligent; an implied threat is just as effective as a hitting them, moreso, in that the great beasts remain calm instead of squealing and running off. Ah well. M says this new girl could be a good herd, and I’m not clamoring to take her place. I like them, but they are too clever to deal with, and something about them makes me uncomfortable. It’s not like they need or want privacy but seeing them go about their business seems intrusive in a way that watching other animals doesn’t seem to be. Maybe it’s because other animals have grace and beauty, and even though I know they are not, it seems like when they move they are putting on a performance. Pigs just carry on in such an unashamed way that makes you (meaning me) almost embarrassed for them. I think comes from my comparing them with people, which I don’t do with other animals, apart from perhaps dogs, whom we speak to and let live with us in our homes as one of the family, who embarrass us when they lick their private parts or flatulate in from of company.
I fear what people might be like without their vanity. I could make it more noble and say pride, but I really do mean vanity. Would we bathe? Would we keep our houses clean? If we didn’t care what others thought of us, what would we give up?
This little mental exercise would no doubt reveal some obvious benefits if we lacked vanity (no one would suffer from self-esteem issues) and we might lose our desire to obtain things that show off our status, capitalism would tumble and businesses wouldn’t rule the world, but on interpersonal levels, how would we treat others if we didn’t care how others would judge our behavior? No doubt some of us would be the same as we always are, but others of us might act as a pig. They are not, in their hearts, generous beasts. I’ve never seen a pig, when presented with food, graciously let other pigs have a share. They want all of it for themselves, if they can manage it.
What would happen if people exchanged vanity for gluttony?
All the expressions about pigs: greedy as a pig, eating like a pig, selfish pig, you swine… I never gave them much thought before but after spending so many hours with them, I have given them new consideration.
Thing is, I’m sure that other animals are just as selfish about their food, or careless about their hygiene, but they don’t get the reputation pigs did because we aren‘t holding them by our standards. So it seems I can’t be the only one who personifies them, who sees them as people.
Try as I might, I honestly can’t recall a single mention of this in Animal Farm, but I know Orwell must have made some sort of observation or comparison. Perhaps I need to reread it, knowing pigs (and history) as I do now.
In any case, the pigs unsettle me in a way. While their motives are always plain, one can never really know what they might do. Herding buffalo and horses is relaxing. Herding swine keeps me vigilant. It’s fascinating, but not how I want to spend the rest of my days.
If herding horses or buffalos (or sheep or goats, I suppose) make one thoughtful and introspective, herding pigs concentrates ones thoughts, almost darkens them. Or at least, it does for me. Perhaps it’s because they still smell like the slaughter house. Up till recently, they were cannibalistic fed on the castoffs of the butchers’ and the abattoirs’ and their sty is still littered with bones, teeth and bits of bone that they didn’t eat (or perhaps they did and that’s how they came out again.)
No more about swine.
July 4th
Currently I’m in Kolmir. It’s a small city for a conference that I’m not attending. L is, though, and she booked accommodation that has two beds, so she invited me along as a treat. 6 hours away by bus and I’m still in the same region but the journey was worth it just for 3 days of running water: hot showers and flushing toilets. She knew I wanted to get work done and said this was an opportunity to write without the distraction of the ranch, but I’m afraid my first 6 hours to myself was spent in sleeping for an additional 2 hours in the morning, then watching the BBC adaptation of Death Comes to Pemberly (one of the few examples of the film version being better than the book.) It’s 5pm now and I sit down to write but do this instead. Oh well. At least it’s something.
Let me tell you about my ride the other day, and I know what you might be thinking (perhaps you are not, no doubt our mother would be though): riding with a fractured foot?
Short answer, yes. I keep them wrapped and I’ve got the trick of walking on it in a way that doesn’t sting so badly. Besides, spending the whole day in the saddle is better than a day walking, and I was only thrown once this time.
I was on Zitra, a lovely mare with the sweetest filly of the whole herd. She’d never been ridden before and didn’t understand the commands, but after 10 hours of riding she had learned. We rode through many neighbouring villages, making a tour of the old wooden churches of the area.
The most exhilarating part of the trip was when everyone (L, Ivan and Angelika) had got down from their mounts to take a break. I stayed on because jumping down hurt the foot, so I did it as little as possible. Grovny, L’s horse, just decided to run away, when usually she’s the most obedient and has been ridden the most. L ran after her and the others fought to control their own mounts.
I was still atop Zitra and when L didn’t come back soon, I went after them. If L couldn’t catch up to Grovny by running, surely I could catch up at a gallop.
And gallop we did. Zitra may have many faults as a riding horse, but she is fast.
Grovny had disappeared into the Oak Forest. I’m not being dramatic or sentimental, that’s its name, and Sean, it is beautiful. The oaks stand far enough apart that grass can grow on the forest floor, and apart from some poised blue flowers that I could’t name even if I’d had time to look closely, the entire floor was covered with green grass so heave and tall that it flopped over in all directions, like waves. I wish I could have taken a photo, but I know it wouldn’t have done the place justice, but you would have really liked this place.
It was obviously a wild place, but there as something elegant about the waves of grass, and how artistically the light filtered through the oak leaves to highlight the green floor in patches, truly like a little green sea.
Anyway, I’d never tried to gallop with Zitra but she did famously. It was probably the most exhilarating thing I’ve experienced, racing through that forest alone on Zitra, an untrained horse, but she was made to run and I, at that moment, felt made to ride her.
I stopped to listen and call for L, but I heard no response. When Zitra realized her baby hadn’t (couldn’t possibly have) followed, she was upset. Back from where we’d come in the far distance I could barely hear a young whinny, and Zitra whinnied back.
The second gallop wasn’t exactly my idea, though I had considered returning to the others to wait for L, but Zitra made the final decision and she raced us back.
This time, even faster.
Now I’ve been thrown before by mothers frantic to get back to their babies (my being just an unnecessary burden), and this is what I dreaded when she took off, and the trees whizzed by so close I could have reached out and slapped them (or they could slap me, rather) as we passed.
I remember thinking “If she throws me off at this speed, that’s the end.”
And I was okay with that. Yes, one the one hand, I was certainly aware and unhappy about the possibility, but on the other hand, I was urging her to go even faster. Part of me had to know, needed to push as far as we could go. There was something romantically fatalistic about it. (I’m sure I could make some parallel to Icarus, but I shan’t. He didn’t expect his fate, and mine didn’t materialize.)
In short, I felt like I was actually breathing.
But she kept me the whole time, maybe she forgot I was even there, I felt so light. Or perhaps she had accepted me as a part of her. In any case, we exited the Oak Forest as one, a whole and healthy organism, and met her baby again.
We eventually got back together with L, and after that, going home, we tried galloping a few more times, but it was never as nice as those first two time. I was still aware of the saddle and stirrups, it wasn’t as fast, her gait as graceful. It would be a pity if I never got to experience that level of perfect galloping again, but I’m very glad I was able to experience it in the first place.
The only regrets I have of that day is that you could not see the forest (and getting thrown earlier in the day, but I landed on my side and not on my foot, and no (more) broken bones, so I can’t even say I regret it all that much.)
And now, a little rant about useless persons.
Tanya, is a bicyclist, part of a touring group, but she and a 17 year old boy didn’t want to go through the mountains and asked f they could stay at the ranch for a few days. Strange, it seems longer than that, but you know what they say about fish and unwanted guests. I’m only glad that she’s gone and that I have this lovely mini-vacation to restore me. I will give but a few examples of how she bothered me. That’s the worst part, is that I know that I could be the bigger person and just let it go, and the fact that I’m annoyed is mostly my fault, but this knowledge did nothing to change the fact that I felt this way, and giving vent to my frustrations will relieve me, I hope.
First day it was just bossiness in the kitchen. Fair enough, I’m not hugely attached to the way I boil rice and if she has a better way, that’s okay with me. The next morning however, she strolls in at 830 for a late breakfast (we all breakfasted late) and afterward, when I’d just sat down with my book and tea, she says that perhaps I should take her to the shops in the village, to show her around, because it’s not good for me to sit around all day, indicating my book, cup and air of imminent relaxation.
I wanted to rant at her that I’d been up since six am, capturing a strange and panicking mare, getting that mare back to her own farm, capturing Igor’s bull, getting the bull into a truck (think Hatari) and of course, taken Leyla out and applied her medicine. (Think giving medicine to a reluctant child is difficult, try applying medicine to a reluctant horse.)
Oh, I ought to mention that abattoirs here, even though the owners are very rich, have not invested in humane technology for killing beasts. They still go for the ‘guy with a hammer’ practice. The bull did not go down quickly. Poor Igor. That bull could have grown 200 more kilos, but he was so afraid of the villagers’ hatred that he had him slaughtered early. (This is actually the same bull that came after me that one day, when Sikan saved me.)
Igor gave use some of the meat.
Oh, and I’d also fed the rabbits and seen to Ina and her baby (who were sold a few days ago, alas. She’s to be some poor cart horse, when she is clearly meant to be ridden.)
In any case, I’d already broken a sweat twice in the hours she’d still been asleep and then she all but accuses me of laziness for wanting to enjoy a chapter of my book and a cup of tea.
Grr!
July 11, 2014
So, it’s been quite a while since the last entry to this letter. Holiday ended and we returned to the ranch. We’ve had several new workers come, Ina and her baby have been sold, Leyla was taken away, so I felt like most of my duties have vanished, which isn’t such a bad thing given my current condition. Day before yesterday it was raining, and we’d let the pigs into the buffalo paddock, as they needed to be watered. But the shepherd brought the buffalo back 3 hours early (probably because he wanted out of the rain) and, as the vulgar phrase goes, all hell broke loose.
I’m not sure if you were aware, but water buffalo and giant pigs seem to be mortal enemies. The buffaloes hate the pigs, and any time the two species meet, there tends to be a bit of a premature slaughter. While the pigs are 200 kilos, the buffaloes can still send them flying, rip them open with their horns. The pigs, while they have wicked sharp teeth, don’t seem to be much of a match for them. They are still remarkably stubborn and don’t know when to fight and when to flee. In any case, the shepherd put the buffalo in with the pigs. (I originally wrote fubbalo, there, rather than just correct it and move on I leave this parenthetical note about it, and challenge you to imagine what a fubbalo might be.)
It was all hands on deck. We, meaning Elisa (Ukrainian), Julian (German), Luke (English), L and I, all ran to the paddock to try to get the buffaloes away from the pigs, and chase the swine out of the paddock.
(Sidenote: I’ve renamed Elvis, the large male. He’s now Wurstie, little sausage. And speaking of names, the rabbits Somerset and Maughn remain, and the three babies are Willow, Clover, and Thyme. Their mother is Beatrix. Charmain is the largest and most consistently frightened rabbit, and Eglantine, the large rabbit that has savaged 3 people now, has been renamed Cottage Pie. The others laugh at my naming of all the animals, as they are going to be eaten, but I won’t be here when that time comes. So they get names.
Anyway, back on topic, as I was chasing pigs, I slipped in the muck (I like to tell myself it was mud, but I hold no real illusions as to what it actually was) and my ankle exploded. At least, that’s how it felt. I think it was more of a mutiny. I shouldn’t have been running anyway, with the stress fractures in that foot, but desperate times…
After spending ages hobbling on a stick the quarter mile to the house, I spent the rest of the day with my foot up. Didn’t sleep because it stabbed and throbbed all night. About four in the morning I tried to go to the outhouse, failed astonishingly. As I sat in the rain on an old stump, I admitted that I might need a doctor. When the rest of the house awoke, I asked M if this were possible. He said sure, take Elisa to the clinic in the village. I pointed out that I couldn’t even make it to the toilet, how was I supposed to get to the village.
Enter Igor. Wondeful, lovely, Igor.
He drove me to the city, Khust, called the doctor ahead of time, helped me hop right in, saw to it that I was seen immediately. (Igor is well connected in the region.)
He really made the whole thing smooth and metaphorically painless.
I haven’t paid anything. Igor took care of it, though I doubted he paid much either, as the doctors are personal friends of his (and get free cheese and milk from the farm.)
My first cast. No one has signed it.
M has drawn a buffalo on it, though, which is nice.
The doctor who made the cast was actually the kindest of all the ones I visited. (The radiologist was the cruelest. She knew she was x-raying for a broken ankle but didn’t appear to be conscious that slamming around and twisting said ankle might be painful for the patient.)
And I actually cried. Not vocally, but while the doctor was trying to get my foot into position (stubborn thing didn’t want to) tears were rolling down my face. To my enormous embarrassment, the doctor saw and said, “I know I’m hurting you, but there has to be pain before it gets better.”
I knew that, obviously, but it didn’t stop the stupid tears.
Still, he was the nicest and gentlest doctor I’ve ever had, and told him so.
When they’d asked if I wanted something for the pain I said yes, more readily than I ever have in my life. I’ve always felt that pain serves a purpose, keeps you from doing things your body shouldn’t do. But this time I agreed (the cast would prevent me from doing things I shouldn’t just as effectively as pain, I reasoned). When they brought out a needle and the nurse slapped my behind, gesturing that I should roll over, I declined and apologized. I’d take the pain after all.
Later in the afternoon Igor came to the house again, this time with crutches for me. They are old, but fine. They creak but work just as any other pair. The only real difference is that instead of the foamy padding that tucks under the arm is instead just the wood covered in sheepskin. I feel bad though, because apparently Julian had spent the afternoon making a pair for me. (He’s been wood carving since he was a boy.)
Anyway, no more running after horses or pigs or buffalo or anything remotely fun.
I spent the entire next boiling summer day in front of the wood-burning stove in the kitchen boiling plums for jam, removing pits from the melted plums, and stirring for hours and hours, adding sugar. Next day was much the same. Eventually, the process was finished and we filled dozens of jars with plum jam. I sweated more inside stirring than I did running after animals.
In these last few days, I’ve had plum jam at every meal, even as a syrup on ice cream.
In any case, it’s now time to write letters and hopefully my portfolio too. (I received an email yesterday from my tutor, filling me with guilt.)
The cast helps enormously. I’ve got medicine to take at breakfast and supper and even though I know it’s a bother to be casted up and crutched, it’s such an improvement from before that I can’t help be grateful. Also, my x-ray (which they developed in a traditional darkroom, kind of neat, though the hospital itself was a gloomily soviet building) makes for a nice wall decoration for the kitchen/sitting room. Though I hope it doesn’t disturb future workers.
Thing is, with me unable to do any hard work, I feel useless. I had intended to stay until August but I might just go back to Budapest and be an invalid. I had hoped to go to Georgia and Armenia (after Kiev and Odessa) but I don’t want to be hobbling through the Caucuses. Hobbled. That is the world. I’ve been hobbled. Montivagant no longer…
July 14th, 2014
I have finished only 4 books in the last month, and that includes A Slight Trick of the Mind, that I read yesterday and today. Pitiful. Pitiful.
I think it would be foolish to attempt going to Georgia and Armenia when I can’t confidently get around. Last night I retired early and spent a few hours thinking about what would do. I’ll go back to Budapest as soon as I can hobble. (I’d go sooner only I feel I have to give the crutches back to Igor.) I’ll find a good stick and work my way to Budapest, where I will concentrate on my Portfolio (it gets a capital, owing to it’s importance in my life). Because who knows, maybe I would be too distracted in Georgia as well and/or start something new. While it is a bummer, I know that going back to Budapest is a wise, if ultimately duller option. Still, finishing dissertation stuff is priority.
I no longer feel grateful. With a broken foot, it’s a struggle just to make tea or go wash my hands, I feel rather stuck, which is probably the most depressing situation I could find myself. I had planned to be here through August, and now that I can’t leave, the desire-need is overwhelming. It’s only cast and crutches but out here in the middle of nowhere, it might as well be a ball and chain.
Powerless in the face of this driving compulsion (that I’ve been a slave to all my adult life) I grow despondent, and morose, and all the more tired by pretending to the rest of the house that I’m not despondent and morose. I’d like to seclude myself in a hostel or hotel someplace where I can be true to myself and just grump.
I do my best writing when I’m down, maybe this will be the making of my final portfolio, if I could only get out of here. I have no doubt that my inability to maneuver will continue to sufficiently taint my mood in Budapest and that my mood, combined with the location, will leave me scripturient.
Your limpier, grumpier sister.
~K
P. S.
Apologies for the long delay between letters. I suppose it’s due partially to laziness and partly to distraction. I’ll write again if/once I’ve relocated.
