We didn't see what we thought we saw, not at all.

Green is the Color of a Girl

2009-03-20T01:34:00.000-07:00

I was walking down an empty street. The trees had defeated the concrete squares of sidewalk, rendering them more stumbling blocks than path. Looking at the roots longingly, lovingly, I feel a downward pull, something more than gravity; something closer to death—an urge to intertwine myself with the inanimate. If I were to lie down here, if only I could lie down here, in these fantastic wooden arms, in the soil’s all over cold embrace. In an intimate death, a sexual sacrifice, final and everlasting consummation.

“The symbolic equation Girl = Tree; the symbolic equation Girl = Phallus. The virginity is virility; the viridity is virility. We harden like trees.”

-Brown, Norman O, “Apocalypse/Or Metamorphosis,” 13.

From the family tree, my father’s sister Sandra with her wooden leg—a walking tree. She traded limb for limb, limb for lumber. She now resides in the shade of a yew tree. It is rumored this is the same type of tree that Pontius Pilate was born under and played as a child in the shade. Christ, for his turn, was said to have possibly died on a cross made of cedar, the red tree that matched his blood and scarlet robe. As for me, born under the hawthorn tree, I am cursed with death and bad luck, and others fear my thorny dwelling.

William Blake said, “A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees.” To which Ronald Reagan, forever playing the fool, indirectly replied, “If you’ve seen one redwood tree, you’ve seen them all.”

When we climb a tree, we are truly back in the arms of a lover, or, perhaps our Great Mother. How cruel that the handle of an axe is made of wood, and the tree is made to partake in her own demise or that of her sister.

“Ailim be the lady's tree; burn it not or cursed ye'll be.”

-Rudyard Kipling

The Druids had sacred groves, wherein it was a crime to so much as peel the bark from a tree. The punishment was that one’s entrails were nailed to the tree, the individual forced to walk around the tree in a circle until the wound was covered with a new skin. The trees were gods, and the grove a temple.

“No wonder the hills and groves were God's first temples, and the more they are cut down and hewn into cathedrals and churches, the farther off and dimmer seems the Lord himself.”

~John Muir

And likewise, in some cultures, to venerate the god within the tree, sometimes a sacrifice must be made:

“Among the Kangra mountains of the Punjaub a girl used to be annually sacrificed to an old cedar-tree, the families of the village taking it in turn to supply the victim.”

-Frazer, The Golden Bough

Christ sacrificed on a tree, a girl sacrificed to a tree, animal sacrifice burnt upon a tree. I see a common root system, spread over and throughout time and culture. Human religion, myth, culture and commerce all so bound up with trees that it makes me wonder: In a world without trees, would humans be—well—human?

“If what I say resonates with you, it is merely because we are both branches of the same tree.”

--W.B. Yeats

The way in which a society treats its trees can be a mirror for the ways it treats its own people or other peoples. Certainly genocide of indigenous peoples has gone hand in hand with deforestation and destruction of the natural world. And now we're left with...

“Suburbia is where the developer bulldozes out the trees, then names the streets after them.”

--Bill Vaughn

Idiots and Angels: Ain't We Both.

2009-02-24T01:43:00.000-08:00

When I was a young girl, about five or six, I was under a childhood illusion that I could see angels. I informed my mother of this fact, and to her credit, she really did try to look for them where my desperate, happy fingers were pointing. Up near the ceiling of my bedroom floating in circles of yellowish light was where I saw them making their rounds. To me, it was a sensible place for angels to be. My mother squinted and saw ceiling. But, Bill Plympton can make my mother able to see angels. Much of the pleasure in Plympton’s films is found because he makes animation for grown ups that makes us feel like children—though, perhaps very naughty children.
The angels in Plympton’s latest film, Idiots and Angels, are not the angels I saw then. These are flesh and blood human creatures—or beasts, more accurately—very unlike the light-based forms of angels I envisioned. They inhabit a dark world. The color palette used throughout is pale, muted, pastels and grays. It is smoky and polluted, drab and spare, with an excess of concrete and nicotine-haze. The landscape is repetitive and homogenous, and its human inhabitants have an explicit distaste for nature. The view of mankind Plympton conveys is cynical: hostile, violent, and inherently selfish and cruel.
The anti-hero begrudgingly wakes up every day to a hellish commute to get to a dumb job and ends his days in a nearly empty dive bar of the most depressing proportions. He’s hateful, mean, and criminal, selfish, disgusting, lewd. To say he is a drooling ape may be a bit too kind. Against my own sensibilities sometimes, I found myself laughing out loud at the film’s dark expression of man’s sexuality—he just cannot help dry-humping the bartender’s shapely blonde wife against her will as she scrubs the floor on her hands and knees.
Strangely, Idiots and Angels is a morality tale, exploring the scenario of an angel for whom wings are an affliction and source of embarrassment and ridicule, and the source of jealousy and dubious motivations in others. The main character wakes one morning to unexpectedly find the tiny, feathered sprouts of wings protruding from his back, which he gruesomely severs in the shower with his razor blade as they wiggle helplessly in defense. However, even after multiple prunings, the wings keep growing back bigger and wider, and eventually he discovers he can fly. He learns, though, that these wings come with a will of their own, and he finds himself in a bind where he can no longer commit the evil deeds which he desires—the wings interfere and insist he behave in a truly altruistic fashion. But not before he moons an airplane full of horrified passengers. He tries in vain to tame the wings, but in the end it’s the wings that leave him tame. It’s a clever comment on our nature, while at the same time an interesting conflict-- and Plympton uses it well to create some pretty exciting and acrobatic visual sequences.
The thick shadows and dark tones of the film among other aspects mark it as distinctly noir, which makes it refreshing in the animation medium, as this is a genre that has not been explored or experimented with thus far to any great degree by animators. Hand drawing a complete animated feature length film is a great undertaking, and it’s even greater to see it undertaken with the care, foresight, intent, and skill which Plympton has obviously cultivated.
One aspect of the film that makes it unique is its complete lack of dialogue throughout. This does not, however, translate to any lack in understanding of the film’s action or emotion. Instead, it works in the film’s favor, highlighting Plympton’s greatest skill—his drawing. The film is all completely hand drawn by Plympton, and colored by his staff of four. This lends an emotional depth to a two-dimensional world that computer-made graphics by their nature cannot convey. Plympton scribbles out, in true neurotic fashion, so many of our collective human anxieties, and the way light is constantly flickering shadows within the frames also enhances this feeling—a strobe-like effect that can nearly stop your heart. His skill in rendering the nuances of expression and gradual movement is undeniable. Visual double entendre abound. Add to this Plympton’s repeatedly demonstrated and refined aptitude for the surreal and the grotesque, and you have an animated film that truly in my eyes has it all—and without any of the boring and dreaded swirling snowflake or raindrop or flower petal montages which many independent animated films use as their crutch. One sequence that stands out in my mind still is that of a gradually growing cocoon in the main character’s hair which eventually hatches and audibly flaps its butterfly wings like a tripartite exoskeleton-ed metronome. In place of dialogue, Plympton placed an excellent soundtrack that is pleasantly and appropriately heavy on the Tom Waits.
This film is really gruesome at times. The angel, in desperation, takes a chainsaw to his vast powerful wings, and as you could imagine…the struggle between the fleshy wings and the metal teeth of the chainsaw was a violent and bloody one. To my embarrassment, as I was wincing and audibly gasping and groaning to this scene in the theater, the preteen boy next to me with his grandmother sailed through, remaining calm, wide-eyed and still. Kids these days!
Some refer to Plympton as the Quentin Tarantino of animation, but with Idiots and Angels, I see a different association: Bill Plympton as the Charles Bukowski of animation. Instead of gunfight and kung fu action sequences, Plympton gives us a portrait of a different struggle: man’s constant war with himself and the bars he wages it in. Though he uses no words to tell his story, his visual vocabulary is more than adequate and verges on poetry. In Idiots and Angels we don’t see man at his finest or man as he should be—we see him as he is—as beast with divine capabilities

Yonic Word of the Day

2009-02-20T00:19:00.000-08:00

This ideally daily feature (as it explains in the title) has taken a little break, but, I assure you it's back...at least for today.
After multiple - dozens - of viewings of a string of movies shamelessly promoting procreation like Knocked Up, Waitress, Juno, and Baby Mama, I had grown tired of the theme. Really, what was up with all those movies being released all around the same time? I wandered around transfixed with the idea of a baby-making brainwashing conspiracy, spouting my theory to any who would show the slightest interest-cab drivers were a great captive audience as usual.
Then, a balancing occurred. The movie Teeth came out and washed that bad taste right out of my mouth, replacing it with its own bad taste. This bad taste was the dark and funny kind, though, which I always find to be more palatable.
The modern horror film Teeth is a variation on an old theme, which is today's Yonic Word of the Day!!!
VAGINA DENTATA!!!

I think maybe I'll start making plush toys like these as my answer to the VULVA PUPPET!!!(See prior Yonic Word of the Day entry)
VAGINA DENTATA!!! is a longstanding fear/myth first coined by psychoanalyst Otto Rank in 1924. Dentata comes from Latin, meaning toothed. Thus, a 'toothed vagina.' Though the term was coined last century, the concept has been present in the myths of many ancient cultures for centuries. It is said to symbolize man's fear of castration and womb anxiety during sexual union. As I recall, I first became familiar with this term after going through a bout of Freud(if this sounds like I'm referring to some sort of disease...well, it can be), and I became a bit obsessed with the concept, going so far as to create a Mardi Gras costume on the theme, which I crafted using fake blood and fake werewolf teeth sewed onto a flesh colored slip.

It was interesting to me how many penises it attracted. Men whose costumes included fake prosthetic penises made of foam or some other textile gravitated towards my menacing and protruding fake toothed orifice like men who wear costumes with prominent fake penises will. It turned into a weird social experiment for me at some point. I still have the costume...it has accrued some weird sentimental value for me somehow and I've somehow held on to it through 4 states and almost three times as many moves. Will I still have this relic when I'm 80, I wonder?
Dream on that.

Uh huh, yes.

2009-02-15T00:35:00.000-08:00

'Nuff said.

You're going to love this.

2009-02-05T12:27:00.000-08:00

A yoni in the hand is worth two in the bush.
Get it?

Yonic Word of the Day!

2009-02-04T20:57:00.000-08:00

To merely see pictures of what is today's Yonic Word of the Day, makes everything - from my perineum to my cervix, maybe even all the way up to my fallopian tubes, clench tightly in a vaginismus-like defense to it's cold, steel beak.
Today's Yonic Word of the Day is...
SPECULUM!!!
In a strange demonstration of technology mimicking nature, the illustration below of a speculum being inserted into a vagina looks rather like a bird sticking it's beak into a hole in the ground, or perhaps a tree, trying to catch a worm. Don't you think?

For those of you perhaps unfamiliar, the speculum is a medical tool used to dilate the vagina for medical examination of the vagina and cervix. Pap smear, anyone?
I just looked through my zine collection because I thought I had one with an article on self-examination that would be an interesting addition for this post...but could not find it. Self-examination or having a friend examine was a popular practice in second-wave feminism, and it does still exist in practice today, though in a few states a vaginal speculum is illegal for personal use (why? I'm really not sure. But the existence of such a law really pisses me off to be honest. No one should be able to tell me what I can or cannot put in my own vagina. Get your laws off my body!) I've never attempted this practice on my own, but it would probably be preferable to going in to the doctor's office, which I avoid doing at all costs. You can fairly easily examine yourself by dilating your vagina with the aid of your handy speculum (relaxation is key) and a flashlight and a mirror. I honestly think it would be beneficial for every woman to have a good look inside her vagina - last time I went to Planned Parenthood the physician held a mirror up for me so I could take a look, and, it's really pretty interesting. All too often, as women, myself included, we tend to live in ignorance of our own special anatomy. It's getting better, I mean, most women now know the keys to their own sexual gratification. But as far as a strong knowledge of our own bodies and our sexual and reproductive health, I find my own knowledge and care to be lacking much of the time. Is it too late to make that New Year's resolution?
I have fun with this Yonic Word of the Day feature, and I think a sense of humor is vastly important, especially when talking about sensitive issues. While sometimes this feature will be funny, the main point of that is to get us comfortable with this sort of dialogue, and talk about these issues in a sex-positive, woman-positive way. And, while I enjoy having a sense of humor about all things yoni, I also want to strive to educate myself and other readers of subjects of importance to them or the women in their lives. So, while some of these posts make light of certain things, especially some of the wacky products that are out there, I will strike a more serious tone at times.
That being said, here are some links for further reading or resources that may be helpful:
http://www.fwhc.org/health/selfcare.htm
http://www.womenshealthspecialists.org/default.asp?cf=self%20help/cervical%20self%20exam
http://www.womenshealthspecialists.org/default.asp?cf=self%20help/self%20help%20home%20remedies
Come back next time!

Yonic Word of the Day

2009-02-03T13:21:00.000-08:00

It seems I've come across a group of women who might have me trumped in pursuit of the yonic. I came across Vulva University at http://www.houseochicks.com/index.html and it was there I stumbled upon today's Yonic Word of the Day, which is...
VULVA PUPPET!!! (Hey, Cistulli...how do you like my exclamation marks? I guess the rule is, when stating the Yonic Word of the Day, always use all caps and 3 exclamation marks.)
In a valorous attempt based on the precept that "Every girl should know her body, her source, her self," creator and self-proclaimed "Vulvalutionary" (which could be another YW of the Day in itself), Dorrie Lane has created the Vulva Puppet. All of these puppets are made either by Dorrie herself or in a fair trade coop in Peru. There are several different sizes and varieties, such as:
The Mini

Indigenous (which are made in the Peruvian fair trade coop with genuine Peruvian wool)

And also special limited edition Vulva Puppets, all named after different Goddesses with their own particular and unique qualities and powers in mind. The one shown below is "Semele," Greek Goddess of the Land and mother to Dionysus. You can also infuse these with the essential oil of your choice and choose semi-precious stones to adorn her with.

These are a bit pricey, especially the custom made ones, but it does seem like they take a lot of time and effort to make. I think at least one of the minis is going on my birthday wish list this year.
Thumbs up to these yoni-centric ladies at Vulva University, and all their efforts!

Yonic Word of the Day #5!

2009-02-02T22:33:00.000-08:00

I am seriously wondering sometimes how long I am going to be able to keep this feature up. I mean, really, how much can one talk about vaginas? Apparently, if you're me, quite a bit. But really, with only a few minutes of research, every day seems to provide a new, intriguing word! It's only been five days, but still! I feel accomplished and yonic-ally in tune. Are you yonic-ized?
Today's Yonic Word of the Day is Sheela-na-gig. I love how this word rolls off the tongue, concluding with the throaty last syllable. What a pleasing and interesting word! Sheela-na-gigs are exhibitionist female statues or carvings, found all throughout Europe, either on churches or castles or bridges, etc. A common feature is that they all have exaggerated and exposed genitalia. They also exist in other cultures under a variety of different names. Ireland has the largest concentration of Sheela-na-gigs, where there are at least 101 cited examples. It's commonly said that these figures ward off evil spirits. According to some, it's because the demons are frightened of the sight of a woman's genitalia. Many Sheela-na-gigs are said to be from medieval times, and this suggests that the crudeness with which they're designed is meant to show female lust as monstrous and hideous. There are several theories about the origins and meanings of Sheela-na-gigs, and none are completely proven.
Here is an example of a Sheela-na-gig from France:

And another from England:

The etymology of Sheela-na-gig is largely in question, though one scholar has said it comes from an Irish phrase that means "old hag of the breasts." "Gig" was also a Northern English slang for vagina.
I also love this song by PJ Harvey named Sheela-na-gig:

YW of the Day

2009-02-01T20:34:00.000-08:00

Welcome, welcome, please gather round. We've got a word for you today, oh yes. For me, it summons the memory of when I was 13 and had arrived home from school, went to the bathroom, and...oh! my! what the hell is that!!! I sit there on the toilet with my panties around my knees staring at the brownish-red stain in my underwear and trying to peer into the abyss of my womanhood for 15 minutes. We all know it's coming but when it finally arrives, the feeling is so foreign, you really have no idea what the hell it is that's going on. Finally, I rise from the toilet, ready to face the future...and tell my mother. She's on the phone, and I interrupt her, telling her, still somewhat unsure if I actually got my period cause it looks brownish and I thought it was supposed to be beyond-a-doubt red - kind of like a shade of lipstick or something. My mom told whoever she was on the phone with and chuckled...and I was SO MAD. I just remember being furious. HOW COULD YOU TELL SOMEONE? I whined. Now, I have no qualms about talking about my period to whoever will listen. Hey! Are you on your period? SO AM I! Wow, we must be on the same cycle. Also, having cramps is a great way to finagle a massage out of your usually reluctant boyfriend.
This all just brings us to our Yonic Word of the Day which today is...
MENARCHE PARTY!
Judging by how embarrassed I felt when my mom told one person that I had gotten my period, I doubt that having a large group around with all attention focused on my bleeding vagina would have made me feel much better. And all the cake in the world probably wouldn't have made me feel any better, either. Regardless, I am going to promote Menarche Parties R'Us http://www.menarchepartiesrus.com/
In addition to all the typical party favors like plates and napkins, invitations, cups, and loot bags, they provide such winning menarche party favorites as: the puberty marshmallow game, menstrual trivia game, and my personal favorite, pin the ovaries. The Menarche Party pack is on sale at $69.99. That's right, get 'em ready to spend the thousands of dollars that they are likely to spend on menstrual products throughout their lifetime. Really, though, I'm sure the intentions are good, you know, celebrating the passage into womanhood and all that.
I think if I could plan a Menarche Party game it would be a target practice type game, kind of like darts. You could set up a target and have everyone throw their bloody tampons at it( I guess I'll go ahead and volunteer to bring some of my extra ones for whoever isn't on the rag) and whoever gets closest to the bullseye wins.

Yonic Word of the Day!

2009-01-31T17:35:00.000-08:00

Mixing it up a little bit here...we are going multimedia! Today's Yonic Word of the Day is a band called Vaginals! From San Diego, members are La Cochina, Bill Wesley, and Alia J. I've had the pleasure of playing with them a few times, and their Beefheart-ian prog is always just what I need. I would follow this crew anywhere, basically. And, they have really awesome merchandise. I own the t-shirt below, which my mom recently reminded me that I wore to her work one time so she had to introduce her daughter to all her coworkers wearing a shirt with a very large and very pink vagina on it:

And these boxers are hilarious:

And now, you can experience some of the magic for yourself!

Yonic Word of the Day

2009-01-30T01:04:00.001-08:00

Gee, ya know, I just couldn't wait to give y'all today's word. Really, today may even end up being a double word day, we'll see.
So...ladies...do you have the symptoms of a droopy uterus (not making fun, this is an actual condition!)? Is menstrual pain cramping your style? Would you like to look as happy as this woman?

Look no further...today's Yonic Word of the Day is...
SUPER KEGEL EXCERCISER!!!

Why does this thing scare me?
But then we also have...
THE KEGELMASTER!!!

I love how it's just a kind of more mechanical looking glorified dildo lying next to...what type of flower is that? Hm, a purple rose...to match the purple dildo. Cute! I wonder if you're supposed to do something with the rose, too? It seems like they dethorned it...but is that SANITARY?
And..."Desperate Housewives" television star, Teri Hatcher RAVED about the Kegelmaster™ in a totally unsolicited endorsement on NBC'S Jay Leno Tonight Show. She said "Every Woman Should Have A Kegelmaster !" So...that totally means go out and get one, right? And didn't she have sex with superman or something? Which means she HAS to have a really strong vagina...if anyone is an authority on vaginas, it's definitely Teri Hatcher.
Seriously, though, there are real benefits of regularly doing Kegel Excercises, such as improving conditions such as these:
-uterine prolapse (dropping uterus)-
-cystocele (dropping bladder)-
-rectocele-
-female incontinence-
-stress incontinence-
-overactive bladder-
-urge incontinence-
-pelvic pain including severe menstrual cramps-
-lack of vaginal tightness-
-unsatisfactory orgasm-, etc.
For the "etc." I will insert my own, which is...HANDS FREE ORGASM. Think and you will come.
Alright, folks, stay tuned right here in Tasmania for the Yonic Word of the Day right here. Same vag time, same vag channel.

Today's Yonic Word of the Day!

2009-01-29T18:13:00.000-08:00

Okay, so, this is a new little blurb I'm gonna try to do every day that is going to contain either 1)An interesting fact about vaginas, 2)A different nickname for vagina, 3)A strange or arcane vaginal product, or 4)Some other information about vaginas.
Today's entry falls under #2: A nickname for vagina.
And, the word/s of the day is.....
Map of Tasmania! (See above...)

So, tell me that doesn't look like a real, live bush there. If that's a frontal view, then that would put the clitoris somewhere between the south west and south east capes. See that teeny tiny little island down there below the mainland? That's clitoris island.
I've never heard this one before. I don't know how it would work out in the bedroom, and, it brings up unwelcome images of the tasmanian devil looney toons character for me, but...someone out there has used it before.
Th-th-th-that's all folks!
Come back for tomorrow's Yonic Word of the DAY!

Of Your O

2009-01-27T02:37:00.000-08:00

Of your O I speak here.
Your never silenced speaking part.
Your eternally smacking lips that defy and defy and outcry.
Toothed or not, your gums themselves smacking elicit fear and apprehension.
You are powerful, to say the least, and rightly so.
For eternally you are sentenced to be
the origin and the way back home.

Reflections in poetry form of Jennifer Waelti-Walters' On Fairy Tales and the Female Imagination

2009-01-27T02:27:00.000-08:00

The mirror found me
on the floor
with no idea -
where was the door.

A hall, a chamber
of only echoes
and the ringing kept me
within the throws
of timelessness and vines
that were still,
yet moved.
A horse kept in a hell
of amputated hooves.

A green undergrowth, neverending
a constant weaving
that moves too slowly
for impatient perception,
though does not die
for lack of a gaze.

Skinny legs and a bloody nose

2009-01-16T01:34:00.000-08:00

Waiting for the bus downtown tonight, I saw a man walking in my direction attempt to cross the street, sway out of the crosswalk against traffic and fall on the ground and no one helped him up. I watched as people passed him by and he struggled to get to his feet, which he failed at a couple times before I couldn't bear it and went to lend him a hand. He was obviously a homeless drunk, but I really couldn't believe that people would just let him lie there and squirm in the road. Helping him across the road, he said he was sorry about ten times and that he was a Christian almost as many. I asked him if he knew his face was bleeding. I watched him stumble away on the ricketiest pair of legs I've ever seen until he disappeared.

She moves in mysterious ways: The subtle and stirring animation of Ryan Larkin

2009-01-14T23:58:00.000-08:00

The following three short animated films are included in a documentary film called Ryan by Chris Landreth. The whole film is intriguing, but these shorts by Mr. Ryan Larkin himself are the highlights. If these interest you, though, I highly recommend getting the film, which I got from the library and kept well past the due date to watch over and over again. I still love watching them. What he does with form and color is rousing to the imagination and stays put in my memory. I really like the music in the films as well. The bass line in 'Walking' really gets my goat and the Claude Debussy in 'Syrinx' is eerie and divine. Larkin died of cancer in February of 2007 after a pretty tragic life with years of drug abuse and homelessness, more information about which you can find out in the film. In chronological order, here are the three short films Larkin is known for.

Horses and the female imagination

2009-01-13T22:09:00.000-08:00

I was initially going to write about the book Mother Death, by Jeanne Hyvrard. Then, I realized this would be no easy feat as I don't have a copy of the book. Then, I started thinking about horses, for many reasons, only one of which is that I spent quite a bit of time drawing them in art class today. I typed the title of this post--"horses and the female imagination"--into the search engine and what came up? A passage from another book by Hyvrard, The Prunes of Cythera, which is very similar to Mother Death. So, it seems as though I'm fated tonight to write a little about both. First, the passage that I came across. It's from the book I stated above, The Prunes of Cythera, but I found the passage within another book called Fairy Tales and the Female Imagination by Jennifer Waelti-Walters, which I haven't read before:

"Before death, the first time. Place Montparnasse. Why did I look surprised the first time the black horses carried me to the other side of the mirror. The red acids tore through the facades. The people became dummies in the wheels of the clock that turns the hours of my imprisonment. Afterwards, it was all very easy. One only had to let oneself slide. Into death" (pp 127-8).

Black horses, specifically, here...take on the role of some sort of undertaker, it seems, moving her towards at least a figurative death. Visitors from another world, and in this way also messengers. They are equine guiding spirits ushering and shouldering her dead weight. Such a powerful, stoical, potentially dangerous animal is certainly suited for this role. However, the horses in our imagination, that we become fascinated with, don't always carry this symbolic weight.
The favorite toys of my youth, at least for a while, were My Little Ponies. These, though they resemble horses, don't carry the same power of a real horse or even a picture of a real horse. Standing about 4 inches in height, lacking the severely defined musculature, and decked out in sparkles and glitter, they aren't quite representations of the real thing. One of them even had a fireman's hat, as I recall. I am at a lack to even compare Hyvrard's horses to these, my childhood playmates.
A great-aunt of mine, my grandmother's sister, Mabel (Sissy) Chambers, loved horses. I think all of the children did, as they were raised on a farm, and at least a few of them including Sissy rode a horse to school every day. Sissy had a special love for them, though, that I can see in the photographs of her with them and riding them. Later in life, she drew and painted extensively, and the subject of many if not most of her artworks were horses, beautifully, majestically and realistically rendered. My grandmother's house is quite adorned with them, and they've always had a certain draw for me. I think it was both the subject and the love for the subject from the artist that I absorbed.

Searching on, I've come across another book which has an entire chapter called The Horse and the Night Fiend, devoted to the meaning of horses in incarnations of the human imagination. Some excerpts from On the Nightmare by Ernest Jones:

"In Hindu mythology it is taught that the first horse was created as a by-product when the gods and demons were jointly churning the Ocean of Milk to extract nectar from it" (248).

"...the female connotations are more often associated with the terrifying and the erotic, while the noble and divine connotations have more often male associations" (248).

"In the Middle Ages in France it was believed that the souls of priests' concubines were after their death changed into black mares (les juments au diable) and had carnal intercourse with the devil" (249).

Interesting the correlation between Jones' black mares and Hyvrard's black horses. I would have to assume that in Jones' mind, at least, that Hyvrard's horses were mares. This is one question I wondered about as well: What does the sex of the horse signify? Or, do male and female horses symbolize different things? What is the dominant sex of horses in the female imagination? Can that be assessed? Later on, Jones also draws a parallel between the witches' ride and a night fiend on a horse.

Prostitutes, witches, and horses, the rider and the ridden, interchangeable.