Post by HENRY JAMES ACKERMAN on Feb 15, 2011 23:20:56 GMT -5
*
[/b][/color][/font] HENRY JAMES ACKERMAN*
kinda looks like: Andrew Bird[/font]
TONIGHT I'M FINDING A WAY[/color][/font]
to make the things that you say[/font]
+Age: Thirty-Three.
+Student or Riding Instructor: Riding Instructor (Dressage)
+Riding Level: Advanced
+Gender: Male
+Sexuality: Ambiguously gay.
+Student or Riding Instructor: Riding Instructor (Dressage)
+Riding Level: Advanced
+Gender: Male
+Sexuality: Ambiguously gay.
JUST A LITTLE LESS OBVOIUS[/color][/font]
i confess, tonight i'm dressed up in gold[/font]
Henry was born in Kentucky, the son of a retired dressage rider from Germany (from who he inherited the surname) come to America as a decent trainer. His mother was a ballerina from whom time and toil had taken their dues, who hobbled rather than walked and dreamed of dancing. His younger sister, Alice, was born a year after him. Henry and Alice were always very close, her adventurous spirit trumping his quiet reserve, matching him in wit, but with an added dash of spice and fire that he lacked. Henry admired and emulated Alice, which was not necessarily a bad thing. They lived in a large home, not far away from the fancy stables where their father taught, but neither of the children saw much of horses when they were young. In fact, they didn't see much of their parents at all, raised mostly by the gentle hand of a nanny.
None of this was particularly a bad thing, and in fact Henry looks upon his early years and beginning elementary school with fondness. He was brilliant academically, trumping his sister in matters of mathematics and science where she was talented with language and emotion. It was, people remarked, an intelligent family, no reason to expect differently from the children. Alice had friends or at least had a forcible enough personality that people gravitated towards her, Henry grew quiet, reserved, and thoughtful, escaping the scathing looks of those who know they are bested by vanishing rather than by cloaking himself in words and likability. When he was nine and Alice was eight, their parents judged them mature enough and enrolled them in dressage and ballet respectively.
It wasn't clear at the time, as it now is in retrospect, that the Ackerman parents were trying to live vicariously through their children. At least, for Henry, it seemed like an opportunity. He enjoyed riding, enjoyed the company that animals and other horse people afforded that was not based on grades or brains. It was not him, but Alice who objected to this plan, fluttering her bright feathers and hissing out that she did not want to dance, she could not dance... It was too girlish for her, a tomboy by nature, then. Henry always thought that she was good at it, though. Her motions conveyed a sharp violent side of her personality, that darkness in her, and her timing was innate and impeccable... He thought, and he always emulated her. He became good at dressage because he was expected to.
In high school, he began to ride semi-professionally, in higher level tests on different horses. He withdrew further and further from a social world, becoming obsessed with absolute perfection. He rode for hours every day, ruining his back but always inching towards that absolute technical correctness. To him, it was all math. There was no give and take, ebb and flow, just right and not right. The shades of gray were lost in his disillusionment. He had moved on from his father's wing, and soon fell under the scrutiny of a renowned trainer and moved from home to continue his equestrian education for one summer. It was probably the best thing that ever happened to him, because it was this trainer that noticed his stiffness, his obsession and almost broke him trying to fix it. In the end, he did become a little more loose... but only just.
Yet it was this that led to her choosing him to ride a big, black, Hanoverian gelding named Abstractism, and that was what hinged his life. It was mere months after graduation when he received word that his old trainer wanted him back, to come ride this new horse up in the top levels of dressage, where he had never been. And she was right, the two were perfect for one another. Henry made a name for himself on that horse, became well known in the dressage community... and then was commissioned to join the U.S. Olympic Team. It wasn't the most prestigious in the world, of course, but he was thrilled, and knew that this meant that he could be great.
He would never be great.
He blames himself, still, for the death of the horse, although colic can never be anyone's fault. He should have checked, he thinks, should have noticed that Abstractism's odd behavior was not due to nerves and the unfamiliarity of the surroundings. But he did not notice, and the horse died in the night. Henry was distraught, could not and would not ride another horse. He left, went back home, sinking deeper and deeper into unstoppable sorrow. He returned home to a family in shambles, one that he had left alone far too long. Alice, his fiery counterpart, was ill at heart. His father had developed Huntington's, and day by day he was degrading. Things were falling down around their ears.
So, Henry reconnected with his family, although more to hold himself together than anything. His father was dying, slowly losing his precision of movement and speech, becoming a rotten miserable lump before his son's eyes, and Henry was left in charge of the business. But he would not, still, and could not bring himself to ride, to train, to be great again, and in the end he sold off their horses and the farm itself. If his father had been able to speak, he would have disapproved, and as it was, Alice did for him. She had never had much to do with the farm, riding only on occasion, but she was scathingly mad at her brother, in a way that haunts him still. His mother stayed strong by him, though, although he would not have expected it of her.
A year ago, his father died and Alice became bedridden with the same disease. Huntington's is genetic, but in Alice's case it was much more crippling and immediate. She still lives, but that flame in her has flickered out. After his father's funeral, the weight of the sky settled on Henry's shoulders, and he knew that it would crush him eventually and already was. So he took the money that he had earned from selling the riding school and hired someone to take care of his sister and mother while he went away and earned money the only way he really knew how, which was teaching dressage. He fled from his problems and ended up at Gemara, where he is attempting to find some refuge from the dark tilt of his thoughts.
YOU'VE GOT ME MESSED UP AND SO[/color][/font]
you talk like you're famous, you're shameless[/font]
hey there. so my name is Hallie. i also play no one. i happen
to be female and i've blown out seventeen candles. if you want to contact me, no
sweat. just pm me! but check me out in action
The barns at Santa Anita were fairly well taken care of, if one knew who to pay off to make sure that their box had a little picking now and again. There were, after all, a lot of horses, and grooms had limited time. So, a few less picked-over stalls every now and again were commonplace. On the other hand, grooms got paid by the hour, so it was worth their time to make sure everything was handled. In any case, Greg thought as he strode along the half-lit row of stalls, it seemed like a nice enough place. Much larger than Monmouth, which he had considered fairly large. A couple of years back, his step-mom's training business had sent a filly out here, but he hadn't come. She'd come in dead last, pulling up with a sprained tendon, and since then he hadn't much liked the place.
Of course, though, old biases are old, and it was a long way from Monmouth. Anything could have happened on the way, and he'd cast away his aspersions upon seeing the stables. He had been a bit worried for his young colt, Upperclassman, who had moved all the way from Monmouth as a registered yearling (like most young thoroughbreds, he was in fact born before he was registered, which meant that he was quite a bit older in actual fact than the January 1st birth date would have one believe.) The bay had borne up pretty well, though, and was settled in after a few weeks. He hadn't had much work here - he was broke to ride... sort of... and Greg had trotted him in hand a bit, but nothing seriously demanding. It was time to get back in shape for the season.
In actuality, Classy would probably not be racing until later in the year, when he'd had some actual workouts and had been in the gate. Greg hadn't worked out all his peculiarities yet, but he was a handsome colt and he had the potential to do well. When Greg walked into the barn his head was poking out of the door, having had his breakfast, he was bored. Greg was worried he'd pick up the bad habit of weaving or boxwalking so common among Thoroughbred, which would expend his energy... but so fat he hadn't seemed prone to anything like that. It could change, though, he was still young and had a rebellious streak. Sort of electric and nasty, sort of determined.
"Hey there, Classy Boy," Greg murmured, reaching his head and patting his neck. Classy threw his neck up with a snort and pawed at the ground, where Greg saw with some dismay that he had dug a little rift. "I get it, man. We'll find you a bug today, for sure." He shrugged Classy's bridle up his shoulder and plopped the saddle in his arms onto the top of the stall door before opening it. Before tacking Classy up, he took a look at the colt's hooves to make sure they'd been properly cleaned out (he'd paid a groom to do it for this morning, but one could never be sure) and, finding that the colt was all ready to go, took off his light blanket and tacked him up with the most speed and ease he could muster. It was rather more difficult, however, because Classy kept moving about with no one to hold his head... Greg made a mental note to work on that...
It was a cloudy winter morning, with one of those white-gray skies that just reeks of the chill, although the California air still seemed warm. In New Jersey, this would not be a time for riding. But Greg was a long way from New Jersey now, and almost glad for it. For one, it was a heck of a lot warmer in Cali. He led Classy along slowly, watching out of the corner of his eye as the colt jigged a bit. Usually he didn't do these things, but he had an itch in his feet that needed to be trotted out and maybe a little light cantering. Nothing to push him, yet, just to start getting him into form for the racing season to come.
Greg was, of course, far too large and tall to ride the young horse without risking injury to his back. But he knew well enough (he hoped) from his days at Monmouth that there were always bug boys and the occasional bug girl out in the morning, looking to catch an exercise ride for a little cash. Which Greg had, for once. So he led Classy along with an open look on his face, glancing around the path as he led the colt up to the track and along the walkway, keeping an eye out for the bug boys and exercise riders who tended to congregate in places like this. Perhaps he was too early? It seemed unlikely - chances were they were all grouped up somewhere waiting for someone to come along. A couple of horses were already out in early work-outs and the like, getting back in shape, and it was a good time for the exercise rider... Chances were he'd find one sooner or later.
Of course, though, old biases are old, and it was a long way from Monmouth. Anything could have happened on the way, and he'd cast away his aspersions upon seeing the stables. He had been a bit worried for his young colt, Upperclassman, who had moved all the way from Monmouth as a registered yearling (like most young thoroughbreds, he was in fact born before he was registered, which meant that he was quite a bit older in actual fact than the January 1st birth date would have one believe.) The bay had borne up pretty well, though, and was settled in after a few weeks. He hadn't had much work here - he was broke to ride... sort of... and Greg had trotted him in hand a bit, but nothing seriously demanding. It was time to get back in shape for the season.
In actuality, Classy would probably not be racing until later in the year, when he'd had some actual workouts and had been in the gate. Greg hadn't worked out all his peculiarities yet, but he was a handsome colt and he had the potential to do well. When Greg walked into the barn his head was poking out of the door, having had his breakfast, he was bored. Greg was worried he'd pick up the bad habit of weaving or boxwalking so common among Thoroughbred, which would expend his energy... but so fat he hadn't seemed prone to anything like that. It could change, though, he was still young and had a rebellious streak. Sort of electric and nasty, sort of determined.
"Hey there, Classy Boy," Greg murmured, reaching his head and patting his neck. Classy threw his neck up with a snort and pawed at the ground, where Greg saw with some dismay that he had dug a little rift. "I get it, man. We'll find you a bug today, for sure." He shrugged Classy's bridle up his shoulder and plopped the saddle in his arms onto the top of the stall door before opening it. Before tacking Classy up, he took a look at the colt's hooves to make sure they'd been properly cleaned out (he'd paid a groom to do it for this morning, but one could never be sure) and, finding that the colt was all ready to go, took off his light blanket and tacked him up with the most speed and ease he could muster. It was rather more difficult, however, because Classy kept moving about with no one to hold his head... Greg made a mental note to work on that...
It was a cloudy winter morning, with one of those white-gray skies that just reeks of the chill, although the California air still seemed warm. In New Jersey, this would not be a time for riding. But Greg was a long way from New Jersey now, and almost glad for it. For one, it was a heck of a lot warmer in Cali. He led Classy along slowly, watching out of the corner of his eye as the colt jigged a bit. Usually he didn't do these things, but he had an itch in his feet that needed to be trotted out and maybe a little light cantering. Nothing to push him, yet, just to start getting him into form for the racing season to come.
Greg was, of course, far too large and tall to ride the young horse without risking injury to his back. But he knew well enough (he hoped) from his days at Monmouth that there were always bug boys and the occasional bug girl out in the morning, looking to catch an exercise ride for a little cash. Which Greg had, for once. So he led Classy along with an open look on his face, glancing around the path as he led the colt up to the track and along the walkway, keeping an eye out for the bug boys and exercise riders who tended to congregate in places like this. Perhaps he was too early? It seemed unlikely - chances were they were all grouped up somewhere waiting for someone to come along. A couple of horses were already out in early work-outs and the like, getting back in shape, and it was a good time for the exercise rider... Chances were he'd find one sooner or later.
[align=center]this template is molly (aka WEAR MY STILETTOS) of caution 2.0.
no taking without credit please and thank you.[/center]
