The Neighsayers

Today I deceived a horse.
It was not my intent- to deceive a horse. Mostly my intentions toward horses consists of having one, pressing my finger into the frog of their hoof to see if it is in any way spongy, and riding one bareback while napping on its back through or -better- past the toll booths on the Downtown Expressway. But today, I was naughty.
Today was whip class.
Whip class happens because:
1. Sometimes whips are used onstage.
2. Humans must be instructed in whippery before it is safe to let them use a whip.
3. Some humans have been trained to train other humans to use whips in pursuit of said safety.
4. Some other humans spend a lot of time on YouTube and have a lot of spare time during play practice for "South Pacific" at Virginia Rep in the summer of 2015.
5. Still other humans decide that whips are fascinating and thereby decide to hold a round of Secret Santa in the middle of July on the off chance that they will receive a whip of their very own.
Everyone: I did receive a whip. It is all the colors of birthday cake, much longer than I am tall, and, for its crowning glory, features the severed head of a brunette/blue-eyed baby doll with a top knot.
Now you're all caught up.
So this morning, I donned my snazzy red sunglasses and tossed my corn rows and headed out the door to Maymont Park for whip rehearsal.
I was on time to whip rehearsal today, but became sidetracked because the second I walked through the gates of the park I was stopped dead in my tracks- HORSES. I love horses. I have Breyer horses, I used to pretend my bike was a horse, I read all the books about horses, etc. This morning there were two horses. One was covered in straps and reins and pulling a carriage full of people. Due to this strappage, there was no available surface area for me to pat this horse, so I turned my attention to the horse coming up behind him. This horse was stark naked. Good. I skip across the lawn and cut behind an enormous evergreen tree to get closer. The lady walking the second horse has allowed it to stop for a snack of grass. The horse is very into his snack. Maymont can go ahead and cancel with their lawn-mowing company. She tells me I may pat the horse. He is the color of rust and very beautiful. I pat his side and shoulder. Wiry and hot. Horses always feel hot. His fur grows in a different grain along the dent of his hip. His head is the size of my car. The lady tells me that this horse used to be a racehorse and is new to Maymont, but is training to be a carriage horse. So she is walking him around the park today to get him used to the people and the noises of the park. I don't tell her that she is wasting her time as the horse is clearly not paying a bit of attention and is only interested in stripping all vegetation from the terrain. I like the horse and wish him the best. We are friends. I feel glad to know his story.
By now I'm ten minutes late to whip class. I find my fellow whippers under "the big tree," which is the only location detail I have been given and would've ordinarily and perhaps in the dark been a fascinating and appreciated game to play- finding exactly which big tree in a park full of them- but as I was already late, I focused my efforts and found them quickly.
Alexis Black is in charge of whip rehearsal.
Alexis has on a great whipping outfit. A sleeveless tunic and black leggings. Bare feet. Long hair fluttering in the breeze. Alexander's got on a flannel button down and is standing very straight. I've got on my orange T-shirt with a turtle on it which Georgia Rogers Farmer was going to throw out if I didn't want. And my corn rows.
[Sidenote: always in life get corn rows at least once. The level of bad-assery you've already acheived the second you wake up when you have corn rows is really fulfilling.]
Alexis teaches us some new whip tricks. I immediately nearly dislocate my wrist trying my new trick so I move right along to the ones I already know. Once I'm back in the swing of things, I try again, and am gratified to find that after only a bit of rehearsal I have a new fancy flailing swirling three-part wraparound overhead crack to my credit.
[Sidenote: it still needs work. But it's super cool, and I feel like I should be wearing a cowboy hat and very very high boots when I do it.]
[Sidenote to the sidenote: Maggie Roop wore just such boots in TheatreLAB/Yes And! Entertainment's recent production of "Venus In Fur." I really wanted to try them on until I realized that on shorter legs like mine, those particular boots wouldn't so much be boots as they would be waist-high crotchless leather pants. Less the look I'm going for.]
Hundreds of children are roaming free in the park today. With a few parents as chaperones. The children are curious about the cracks our whips make, but the parents of the children are visibly fascinated. They crane their necks to watch us as they process in their assembly line full of kindergartners up the path to the goat display which- let's face it- isn't going to be as interesting as three people and six whips getting frisky on the hillside.
Occasionally there will be a strain of children rolling down the hill. Children seem to enjoy that. Suddenly there are five year olds bumping prone down the hill all around me. Like hail. Or locusts. Definitely one of the plagues in Egypt.
One child gives me the evil eye as I nimbly bound across a small creek en route to the nature center to use the restroom. Her teacher has clearly forbidden her to cross this creek. I hope I am admired.
So, I've gotten a blister by this point, but whip class is still going strong when suddenly an official white park pick-up truck rolls up and idles in silence. We pause in our crackage. No one approaches from the truck. We wonder - are they going to taser us? We are pretty sure whipping in the park is legal. Minutes pass. Finally a young parkperson trots up the path to the truck and holds a brief and (I like to imagine) intense conversation with the driver- who is sitting up in the cab of that truck like the main bad guy in any movie who never really shows his face but just sits in the dark and whispers to his henchmen.
Young parkperson then approaches. He tells us that our whips are scaring the horse and that we must return them to our cars at once. This makes total sense. I imagine when your job is to have a creature of a totally differently species sit on a padded leather belt which is strapped around your stomach and to run as fast as you possibly can to nowhere around a oval of dirt while pieces of leather poke into your hips to encourage you to keep up the good work, you might get a little jumpy when you hear even longer pieces of that leather cracking upwards of 30 times a minute while you're just trying to have your damn snack.
I hope we didn't give him a complex. Alexis suggests next whip class take place just outside of Maymont in Byrd Park. I'm down for that. There's plenty of space, and the only animals around are joggers and those horrible geese which everyone knows will kill you as soon as look at you. And what do they do over there on that Goose Island anyway? It's like "Lord of the Flies" with long soft necks and hard orange noses.
Whips. Horses. Blisters.
What did I learn from today? Many things. But mostly: never - EVER - put toothpaste in an open blister.