Perfection Found . . . and Lost

“The wind of Heaven is that which blows between a horse’s ears.”
- Arabian proverb

I rarely remember my dreams, so when I do they bear recording and repeating. I dreamed that I just happened to show up at the horse show where one of my old friends Carrie and her mother Dorothy rode. By sheer chance I walked past Carrie leading Winfield all decked out in travel gear (polo wraps, bell boots, fuzzy halter) toward the trailer - he had been sold. I protested vociferously, and after phoning my parents to procure the necessary voice of financing they allowed me to purchase him. I was so excited I led him back to his stall and unwrapped him and generally spent a lot of time preening over him. Then I walked into the tack room and two of the other girls who were tacking up their horses for a lesson and one of them sneered, “You just don’t get it, do you?” I gaped at her blankly. “There’s a virus going around. It’s a horrible flu, highly contagious.” I continued to stare at her stupidly, and inquired, “So?” She leaned in and hissed at me, “Your pony’s a carrier.” Then she backed away, “Good luck.”

That evening I went to stay with a young boy and his grandmother. I didn’t really notice that every portion of the apartment complex was partitioned off by glass. Around two in the morning the grandmother flew into a frenzy because she found the boy in a coma sitting upright in his chair, presumably thanks to the flu. She gathered him up in his arms and tore out of the apartment. I stood there and wondered what to do, whether it was too late to call my mother and solicit advice.

Now here’s the analysis. A generally-accepted, longstanding theory is that dreams are nothing but an anagram of images and experiences from a person’s daily existence. According to a prominent scholar who operated under the moniker of Evans, every time we go to sleep our brains disengage from the external world and use the time to sort through and organize all the information that was taken in throughout the day. So here’s what prompted each portion of the night terror, per my own analysis:

(i) the horse show:

I fell asleep reading The Other Boelyn Girl by Philippa Gregory, the portion where Mary is sent away into hiding from the king and spends her day puttering around on her mare and hanging out in the barn.

(ii) Carrie & Dorothy:

As an attempt to put myself to sleep, I have started painting jumps for model horses. When I was sick in the hospital, they made me this beautiful red brick one.

(iii) Winfield:

I think of him constantly.

(iv) the travel gear:

I have replaced the Gilmore Girls with this ABC Family show called Wildfire, which in the last episode featured a horse with a bum leg wearing a wrap on it. It really stuck in my mind because they only put a wrap on the bad leg, when everyone knows what you do to a leg on one side of the horse you must do to the leg on the other side as well.

(v) the virus/flu:

the “law school plague” is spreading around the school, and our Witness course professor mentioned it last week Wednesday in class. I am dreading this evening’s class.

(vi) the mean girls:

last night they had a promotion at the movie theater called “bring your own container.” Loads of young, thin girls were bringing these giant Tupperware containers to be filled with popcorn for fifty cents. I could not believe they were shoveling this stuff in without a care.

(vii) Winfield being a carrier:

I keep fearing a visit to him because I’m terrified it will throw me into a depression. I suppose there’s nowhere to go but up, though.

(viii) the young boy and his grandmother:

I have no idea... maybe because I fell asleep to the Gilmore Girls, and the last scene I remember was Rory visiting her Grandmother and asking to stay in the pool house? But that’s a stretch.

(ix) the boy’s coma:

(I gather this “flu” is something like a quick-onset bubonic plague that lapses you into slumber before you succumb) this has to be prompted by Heath Ledger’s recent overdose on sleeping pills, which slowed his breathing to the point that he lapsed into a coma before dying)

(x) calling Mom:

I head a knock on my door last night, another phantom knock, and seriously considered calling Mom because it flipped me out so badly.

I think the ultimate analysis, which would be proffered by everyone from Jung to Freud, is that I miss Winfield. What I wouldn’t give to go back in time and ride a Medium Pony Hunter Over Fences course one last time... meander out the gate and listen to Jill’s comments on what I did correctly or should do for next time... taking his saddle off and fishing about the ring box for a curry and a soft brush to chisel away at the inevitable girth mark that would be left behind... walk down the aisle to our barn’s area and see his bright, freckled head, inquisitive eyes and positively perfect ears flicking about as he watched me approach before nuzzling about for a treat. Popular science and common knowledge states that, regardless of the depths and extent to which a person searches, no one will ever find a perfect yin to seamlessly complete their yang. I have evidence to the contrary. He was the textbook definition of perfect.