Quite the outpouring of reactions and opinions in the comments section of my Gulfstream post of a few days ago…thank goodness for a little back-up from EquiSpace and the Quinella Queen, two voices of support in a torrent of naysayers. It’s true that my current
obsession with interest in racing and its history came too late for me to have gone to the original Gulfstream, which I keenly regret. I don’t know whether old Gulfstream compares to Saratoga, but you can well imagine my apoplexy were the Spa’s glory to be changed one iota, particularly in any way that would shift the emphasis to something other than racing, so I sympathize with those who root their dislike of the current track in their affection for the one that preceded it.
One of those naysaying commenters suggested that my little Gulfstream crush is the result of delusion; another hoists me by my own literary petard by quoting a French writer. The cleverness and passion of the comments make them post-worthy in and of themselves, inspiring a literary
petard riposte of my own, courtesy of Edna St. Vincent Millay, who has written what I consider the best poem ever on “addled” passions:
I, being born a woman and distressed,
By all the needs and notions of my kind
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body’s weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, the treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
That I shall remember you with love, or season
My scorn with pity. Let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again.
So, Gulfstream, I had a great time—but you’ll get it, right, if we don’t talk once I get back up north? Aqueduct—I really miss you…and I swear that nothing happened…really…