#farmandbarn

[farmandbarn]

Just some kid books today

Tuesday, 12 June 2018

Spent time organizing some old books. Felt nice to work indoors, even if just for a bit. Some were recognized from childhood. Most in a happy way but one or two I remember having disliked. Where the Red Fern Grows especially. Don’t remember what it was about-- just that I hated it. Think it was in the sixth grade but I’m not positive. That was also the year that our teacher read to us aloud Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. The whole thing. Took a few weeks. She was going through a divorce at the time. Now it makes sense.

I found these two up there:

Haven’t read Tuck Everlasting but I’ve heard good things about it. Something about a disappointing ending though. But that might work for me. Endings often irritate me. Take the movie Dodgeball. Happy ending, right? Not really a surprise. But the director (if I remember correctly) was going to have an abrupt ending where the good guys simply lose. Everything. They lose everything and the credits roll. That’s it and I love it.

I read Bridge to Terabithia for the first time only a few years back. Powerful stuff. And I don’t mean that sarcastically. This copy I found today had some beautifully stark black-and-white illustrations:

When I opened it up, I found myself on the page below. [Spoiler!] I don’t mind saying I cried again, reading these words. I may have to reread this one. And then the name of the chapter. I mean, goddamn. Simple. Perfect. Gut-wrenching.

Reminds me of my all-time favorite line from Shakespeare:

never, never, never, never, never!

On a lighter note, found this bizarre title:

What can I say? No. Just, no. 

But, to be fair, it was mostly stuff like, Look both ways before crossing the street and Don’t get into strange vans driven by strangers.

Oh, and I found Fog Magic. It has one of those silver medals so I guess it must be famous and well loved. Never heard of it. The title’s great and I love the images it brings to mind.

Imagine creating an impenetrable fog by sheer will. Then the old ones and the nameless ones cross over. They partially obey this little girl who is slowly realizing that she has no feelings. Why couldn’t Lovecraft have written this?

Again, don’t know what it’s really about. But I can dream.

...

Didn’t spend much time thinking about myself today. About my life, I mean. And so, well, I felt pretty ok.

Kind of a sad commentary there but... true.

[ryeblr]

My thing is over here:

farmandbarn.tumblr.com

Below is my first post but I’ve since added more. Trying to do one a day. So far, so good (mostly):

I’ve been living in an 1874 farmhouse. On a farm. In Iowa.

Fairly recently.

I’m helping to restore and repair the farmhouse itself as well as the old barn. I’m doing a lot in the dirt and the fields too. Using a grim reaper scythe is now something I know how to do.

Here will be my thoughts and feelings as I live day to day. I’ll also explain how I got here and why. Perhaps I will catch a glimpse of where I’m heading, too, as I currently have no idea. A quote from a favorite movie (Life Aquatic): “I’m right on the edge on this one. I don’t know what’s supposed to happen next.”

[farmandbarn]

Where is Rat?

Friday, 8 June 2018

Worked on the erosion problem and then hours around the barn. I’ve noticed the gnats become frenzied around sunset. A few will sometimes get under the mask, too, at times. Frustrating. But not really-- it’s being lost that dashes my hope.

I waffle daily, hourly, on my relationship, which is in tatters, by the way. She would be better off without me, I say, often. Other times I want to make it work, somehow, some way. Tonight: Do I even want to be with her again? Far too frequently, I realize, she is mean and cruel to me. I always figured it was my fault. I just don’t know. I don’t know about anything.

Had a thought earlier: I wish I could be around nice people. Is that too much to ask? Perhaps. No, it is too much. This is life and that’s not how it works. But, nonetheless, some must be out there. I’ve known a few. Right now, for instance. Out here on the farm, I mean, I only routinely see two people-- one more than the other-- but they’re both nice. Both happen to be friends. And this has been really good, if not for all my bad thoughts. They’ve become crippling. At times. Not always. And, truthfully, it’s been getting better now that I’ve been here.

Who I truly miss are these two:

Been reading The Wind in the Willows for the first time. Published in 1908 by Kenneth Grahame. An extraordinary collection of tales following the adventures of Mole, Rat, Mr. Badger, and Mr. Toad. All unique personalities. I find myself most drawn to Rat, who is generous and kind. He would do anything to help a friend. Mole is curious yet timid. Mr. Badger has great wisdom but little patience. He is the most solitary too. As for Mr. Toad, well, he has room for improvement but likable.

I was struck by the author’s daring to include the great god Pan. Not as a metaphor and nor was he merely vaguely insinuated. He was there! Rat and Mole encounter him and he is a friendly, valiant, and kind god. He appears, in my opinion and limited to the tale, to be of a higher caliber than the god of the desert.

Rat once said the following to Mole and, though I am unsure exactly why, it is one of the most wonderful things I have ever read:

Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing-- absolutely nothing-- half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats. Simply messing--about--in--boats.

[farmandbarn]

Howard & John, John & Howard

Sunday, 9 September 2018

About halfway through the above. Surprising that I didn't read it in my junior high days when I had read much of John Bellairs' work. It's pleasant to have old things that are new to you.

I really love The Beatles and this will be a short digression. Merely a paragraph, surely. There are certain Beatles albums-- The Magical Mystery Tour, for instance-- that I've never listened to. For me, there are brand new Beatles recordings out there. Someday I'll listen to them as if they were just made and released that very week. My fear is dying unexpectedly. Then I'll never get to hear that stuff. But then, I'll be dead so... Either there's nothing so I won't even be aware or there is an afterlife. And if that afterlife doesn't have The Beatles? Then I want my money back.

I reread a few of Bellairs' stories this past Spring. They didn't scare me in the way they did when I was twelve or thirteen but I still thoroughly enjoyed them. Though there were a few moments when I found myself glancing behind me to make sure I was safe.

What surprised me was how many little references there were to HP Lovecraft. Bellairs was clearly a fan and, I would say, one of Lovecraft's successors. A pleasing discovery as it creates a certain (small) wholeness within my life: That I can draw a line from what I loved in junior high to when I found Lovecraft my freshman year of college to the present day. Points of interest in my life can be connected, which, for whatever reason, is pleasing. In a way, it strikes me as meaningful.

Lewis and Rose Rita, the main characters, encounter a soup-like fog surrounding their small hometown of New Zebedee, Michigan. They try riding their bikes through it to get to the next town but find themselves, against all reason and common sense and physics, to be right back where they started. They went in a straight line but somehow the line became a circle.

That’s common enough but, nonetheless, it creates a feeling for which I have no name. It’s predicated upon fear but fosters a connectivity between the characters. It almost feels cozy and warm. There’s camaraderie too– a kind of sharing. But also fear. It can be found in Jaws when the terror truly begins to settle over the small town. Or in the original Resident Evil as you explore the old mansion on a dark and stormy night, occasionally running into an ally, savoring the brief safety. I can still hear the music from one of the few safe rooms where one might save or exchange items from the trunk. Another: It. The kids have only each other to count on for safety. As if they were on a small raft in the middle of a dangerous sea.

I find myself always searching for that feeling. Even in real life. I’ve experienced it on a dreadful winter night in a coffeehouse. The outside is inhospitable, even dangerous, but we few have braved the elements and icy roads to make it to the building's warm safety. The snow continues to fall, it can be seen through any of the windows, but we are together, drinking our coffee and slowly warming.

[farmandbarn]

The Voyage Home

Saturday, 30 June 2018

Dangerously hot today. Excessive heat warning until 10 pm. Just hellish. That kind of heat puts me in a terrible mood. Thankfully, a magnificent thunderstorm is currently in full swing.

Went to TrekFest in Riverside, Iowa.

The Voyage Home Museum was my favorite part. Full of various memorabilia. Of course, right? It's small, I mean, it's not like some giant national museum. Though I enjoyed it more than any other museum I've been to. But maybe it's the people that make it special. Not the most gregarious bunch, sure, but, in a way, we all knew each other. There wasn't any fear or anxiety there. The owners of the museum couldn't've been friendlier. They listened politely as a man went on and on about his own hometown of Chester, Illinois-- the birthplace of Popeye. A larger woman struck up a conversation with me on the sidewalk. I doubt she would've done that normally. But there, it was ok. And the conversation we had? It was wonderful. I wonder how much I've missed out on simply because people are hesitant to approach one another. Because I’m hesitant.

A wide range, too, at least physically: From a very disabled young man and his mom to, well, some very attractive young women sporting Vulcan ears. But we knew why we were there and so those superficial differences didn't matter. We were the same.

Attended a lecture of sorts given by two college professors (husband & wife) on the behind-the-scenes of Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. Originally titled, I discovered, The Vengeance of Khan. Changed as a courtesy to the Star Wars franchise, which was already planning on using the title Revenge of the Jedi. There is much love between the two worlds as many have, at least early on, worked on both. I ate raspberry pie with vanilla ice cream during the beginning of their talk.

After, I walked around town for a bit. It's not exactly a wealthy place. You can see it when you get up close. But then, it's a very small town in Iowa-- it's to be expected. They're not known for high-finance and the stock market. There are a few local businesses: A bar/restaurant, a print shop (called Federation Printing or something like that), a coffee shop (coming soon and to be called Trek 22), a do-it-yourself single car wash...It's a farming area, much like where I am now. Well, that, and the future birthplace of Captain James T. Kirk.

Above, downtown Riverside.

The whole area took on a festival feel. Later, I ate a corndog, drank a beer, and listened to a band play that had nothing to do with Star Trek.

[farmandbarn]

Cheers

Tuesday, 19 June 2018

Conium maculatum is the name of the plant pictured below. It is alien to Iowa but grows all over the place-- or at least all over this particular area. Quite beautiful in a quiet way. It can also be used for tea, as it was in Athens in 399BC when Socrates had some. You may know the drink as hemlock.

To be surrounded by this poisonous plant creates unusual feelings in me. Ingesting only a small amount is enough to cause death. Apparently, it is not a peaceful end-- but it seems few ways are.

In the fields, clearing the area around our friend up there, and later on the porch, scrubbing lichen. Also began taking out the floor in the upstairs bathroom. Glad to be doing some renovation work. In the late 1970s or early 80s, someone thought it would be a good idea to cover the original hardwood with plywood in order to install shag carpeting. Let me say that again: Shag carpeting in a bathroom.

The shag is already gone but most of the plywood remains, for now. Not much longer. Sadly, the original hardwood was damaged-- probably when the plywood was put down. Deep scratches and gouges. The harm isn't too bad, and can be sanded down, but it won't be perfect.

Back to Athens, they had a word called kairos: A propitious moment for decision or action. From Wikipedia: In rhetoric, kairos is "a passing instant when an opening appears which must be driven through with force if success is to be achieved." Think I can best understand it by way of chess. In choosing the poison over running away, Socrates was engaging in an opportune moment. I wonder how the opposite action would've altered philosophy. If we were immortal, could we access kairos? Are the gods blind to it?

I don't think the human mind is a passive thing, receiving input, and giving output. For us, one moment is more important than another. We're not like computers. For Heidegger, the mind exists outside of itself and in the shared world. So nothing is really outside. So often, without consideration, the opposite is taken for granted: We are alone in an alien world.

Grant Morrison once wrote that nothing is so big that it can't fit inside your head. Not even the whole universe.

[farmandbarn]

Erosion

Wednesday, 6 June 2018

We’re moving fast on preparing the land. Faster than I thought. Could be that I will be the one to finish it. Markers are being left, so to speak, should some future archaeologist excavate the land. They’ll be able to figure out how it looks in our time and what we did. Will they know the why? I’m sure they could make a decent guess. They might even be right.

Spoke about the current goings-on in Hungary as we toiled. Apparently, a single political party has swept the country. They quickly went about rewriting laws so as to ensure their continued reign indefinitely. Control of the media was next. (I knew nothing about this.) Thus, the erosion of democracy from those democratically elected. 

I mentioned how one could take all the equipment a Marine uses-- weapons, armor, clothes, etc.--and give it to a foreign group. But it wouldn’t matter. They’d be nothing compared to a real American Marine. Because of the culture and institutions America has cultivated over many long years. Without that invisible backing, there is nothing.

Likewise, if a country doesn’t have strong democratic traditions and a culture of democratic ideals... democracy itself becomes a plant without roots. The slightest breeze will carry it away.

A storm came tonight. It was over quickly but it had strength. Saw a bright flash out the window followed by a terrifying and deep boom! The whole house shook. And me too. Scared the hell out of me. But only for a moment. After it passed, it was sunset and the western sky looked like it was on fire.

...

There was a very small chapel in my high school, which received very little traffic. So it was a good place to sneak off to with a friend to talk about life and dreams and all the things teenagers talk about. A good place to smoke a cigarette too. A friend from that time messaged me today. I read the words slowly, trying to make it last as long as I could. Though her impact on my life has been large, there has been only silence for a long time. She seems to be going through similar trials. I miss our chapel talks. God, I miss her. I miss everything.

[farmandbarn]

Dig Dug

Saturday, 28 July 2018

Cooler weather and cloudy skies have prevailed for the past week or so. Grateful for that. As I dig deeper around the barn's foundation, there are fewer things to find. Today, an old nail or two. Mainly pieces of mortar broken away decades ago. I save that too.

Slowly, so very slowly, exposing the foundation.

I am not the kind of person I want to be. From Frank Herbert's Dune series. Been rattling about in my mind for a bit now. The words are true but I don't know where to begin or end.

What is the good life? Don’t look at me.

Been considering what changes in my life would lead me to become a better person. Then, what is a better person? Don't know. Maybe I should try to do some volunteer work? And I don't mean by way of the massive structures that organize that sort of thing but rather, just on my own. I know of a nursing home-- maybe I could hang out there and listen to whatever the old people have to say.

(I'll add, albeit parenthetically, about my curious phrasing "of the massive structures..." Not too long ago I went to a volunteer website to see if I could be of any use, I mean, I figured I could just turn up and serve soup or something. But it was this whole process. It was like applying for a job that was way beyond my experience and skill level. About halfway through this massive application, I gave up.)

So maybe I'll see about doing that, the on my own bit.

While digging, I recalled some guy talking about justice and then old Socrates showing up. Whoa, slow down, cowboy. What's justice? Then the guy didn't even know what justice was. Nobody did and nobody does.

What I was thinking was that justice seems to be more of a feeling than, say, a strict definition or something quantifiable. Now when I say feeling here I don't mean emotion.

I think it has everything to do with culture and customs. We read and listen to stories. We learn about history. Again, we listen. We take it all in. From that matrix-- that womb-- we get a feeling about who we are as a whole and what we value. Which is why we can get a feeling that something is unjust even if we lack a formal definition.

When everything is in its right place, there comes a certain satisfaction. And maybe that is justice but still, we are the ones to judge what right place means.

It comes to mind that this is why the core curriculum in universities is of the utmost importance. Even though it often annoys the undergrads, I sure hope it’s doing well.

[farmandbarn]

Wayfaring

Monday, 11 June 2018

Isn’t that adorable?

And wonderful too.

Yeah, the selection isn’t exactly mindblowing but still. It’s pretty cool. If you look closely, there’s a Roald Dahl book, The BFG.

This little cabinet is located out in the open, alongside the sidewalk, in a small park next to a river. The park was empty save for a grandfather, a mother, and maybe a five-year-old kid. The playground equipment seemed to be in good condition and, most importantly, fun. The designer had no fear of heights. I loved climbing on things way back when and feeling that slight rush of excitement upon reaching the top. Occasionally I’d fall, of course, but that’s what’s cool about being a kid: You bounce back real quick.

Spent a bit of time wandering about the little town (village?) that lives up the road from the farm. Maybe a ten-minute drive. There is only a single stoplight. A few businesses line the street. A bar, a restaurant, a gas station, a bank... Early 20th century buildings. Most are in good health. As I approached from the south, when driving in, I mean, I could see two large steeples. A German Catholic church and, maybe two blocks away, an Irish Catholic church. They’ve since consolidated into the Irish one. The German church is now an antique shop. Haven’t browsed their wares yet but I’m sure I will.

While walking, I began to feel deeply unsatisfied at one point. Felt alone. Or maybe like an outsider? And I don’t know what would satisfy me. So much feels wholly beyond my grasp.

A memory worked itself to the surface. I was living in a foreign city then. It was dusk and rain was coming down at an angle as I walked. Didn’t react to it. Just kept going. An endless line of cars whizzed by. Their headlights formed a blur in my vision. There were shops, restaurants, and apartments all around me. The street was crowded. People were buzzing. The ones in the cars had somewhere to be. But not me. I felt silent. What was most bizarre was, well, I felt like a wolf.

I was living with six or seven people. The stairs up to our home were always dark and dirty. The kind of place someone would go to shoot heroin. It smelled of something weird and foreign. After a short time, I couldn’t smell it anymore.

I really am trying to make a change. But that’s too general, isn’t it?

I think I’ll know what I’ve been looking for once I find it.

[farmandbarn]

Stay up late

Wednesday, 11 July 2018

Digging today. Worked on the erosion problem on the slope. Near the end, I felt weary and full of daydreams. Couldn't focus. Ate shepherds pie later. I don't know if food tastes better on a farm or if I'm just ravenous at the end of all this physical work. Strawberry shortcake after. God. Devoured it.

What are good physical and mental surroundings for a person to be creative? For a whole society? Further, does it depend on the person?

I considered this while taking a short break. Two rabbits approached me. They came within a few feet and seemed almost fearless.

For me, to be creative, it needs to be nighttime with a touch of sadness. I've heard that thing about getting up an hour early, working then, first thing. It bothers me how it's prescribed like medicine. It's not for me. Not a morning person. At that time, I need quiet and seclusion. The morning is not a creative time for me.

I think the current American society very much values creativity (though perhaps it's foolish to speak in such monolithic terms). But often commercial value is seen as the pinnacle rather than the enrichment of one's soul. If a person wishes to pursue, say, the fine arts, someone, somewhere, will be quick to make a joke about paying the bills. Underneath that comment, that quip, is a terrible cynicism. Does it spring from envy?

[farmandbarn]

The Hellbound Heart

Thursday, 7 June 2018

Felt like a long day but maybe it was just the sun. More work undoing decades of erosion. Some progress but it was slowed by exposed pine roots. We have to work around them, as they’re fragile. Packed their undersides with soil. It’s to slowly get them used to being under the ground. How slow, I’m not sure. Maybe years, but the rest can go on. The roots are only a small part but must be handled with care. The trees themselves are towering. Hard to imagine anything hurting them-- but, of course, many things can.

When I wake, an immense amount of time seems to stretch before me. I don’t think about it and instead, move. Feels like I’m drinking gallons of water every day. I eat like I’m starving. My hands feel harder. The work and the heat don’t bother me as much. Still feel that good kind of ache at the end of the day. 

Wouldn’t want to do this type of work for the rest of my life but I know it’s good for me now. Each day I look forward to hanging my head under the showerhead while feeling the cold water fill my hair and then spread down my body, washing everything away. Even my thoughts. Especially those but they always return.

It hurts. They hurt. So much has gone wrong.

Well, I’ve received a book I’ve been wanting for a very long time. Just never got around to it. The title of this entry. The original Hellraiser is based on it.

I remember writing about the movie on MySpace, back when that was king. It’s funny, you know, maybe it was just the time in my life, but I had so much fun with that site. Facebook, no. That place is just awful. But maybe it is me. Don’t know.

But anyhow. Angels to some, demons to others. We are explorers in the further reaches of experience. Or something like that. Something close at least. That’s what I love about the Cenobites: Who could resist peeking behind their door? What secrets, what forbidden knowledge, have they found in their eternity of ecstatic pain?

Thus, their violence always served a purpose and was never wasteful. They didn’t serve pettiness, revenge, psychosis, or rage. But rather, something higher. They showed us the scariest thing of all: The self naked before its own judgment.

I wonder if hyper-advanced civilizations might have an urgency for such Argonauts. In a place where suffering, war, disease, famine, want, and even death are banished, what would stop the inhabitants from becoming weak and soft, uninterested and uninteresting? What would stop uniformity? I can see a need.

There’s a saying about the rising and falling of civilizations: The stairs are ascended whilst wearing wooden shoes; descended with silk slippers.

[farmandbarn]

For William and Ellen

Friday, 1 June 2018

Dirt and fields. Exhausted. Shirt was wet and clinging to me. Came in, sat in my chair, and just breathed and stared out. A breeze came through the window. I felt ok. A good kind of ache. Eventually made my way to a shower and fresh clothes. Tired but good. There’ll be rain tomorrow. Cool things down. A little at least.

It amazes me that the barn still stands. So many years spent all alone. No purpose, no reason-- and so no upkeep either. Much of the ancient wood must be carefully and slowly brought to the basement for safekeeping. For now. It’s so it can, in time, be reconstructed to a semblance of what it was. But it will never have a function like it once had. People will never depend on it. Rather, it will depend on people. An antiquarian aim, yes, but I think it still worthy.

The foundations of the original log cabin can still, for now, be seen nearby. A family lived there. Tragedy came quick and unexpected, as it often did in those days. The father died young in 1863. Unusual for the time, the widow Jane decided to keep farming, to not give up or remarry for safety. There were fledgling children too. The oldest, John, left when he was able. The two daughters, Ann and Eliza, were married off. The youngest, merely three at his father’s death, William Jr, stayed and made a life for himself here-- on these very boards. He married his love, Ellen Hayes, on the 5th of February 1902. This is all that remains.

...

At times I feel alone here; I miss those I’ve known. Old friends long gone. Lost love. Yet... I don’t know. This environment is awakening other things in me. New, old, it’s all the same. Can’t always tell the difference. Does it matter? The words hide but... The quiet and solitude. Again, the earth, the sky, the hands caked in dirt.

I came here... because...

[farmandbarn]

UFOs

Wednesday, Independence Day 2018

A slight rainbow after a slight rain. Lasted about three minutes. Here and forgotten. But it did drop the temperature a bit. Always thankful for that.

I often wonder about how much the natural world must have scared the hell out of our early ancestors. Be it a rainbow, lightning, or a sun dog.

1561, in the skies above Nuremberg, people throughout the town and surrounding lands saw bizarre and unexplainable things above them. A witness drew a picture of what he saw:

Further information can be found here, which is also where I got the above picture (by Hans Wolff Glaser).

But what the hell?

It's commonly written off as a refraction of sunlight.

It irritates me when it is assumed that others are stupid and ignorant. You know, a person telling another, "No, that's not what you saw. This is what you saw (even though I wasn't there to see it myself)."

But, then again, I'm a big fan of The X-Files, so...

And that's what's awesome about living in a place that holds to the ideals of the Magna Carta and the Constitution: I can think whatever the hell I want.

Really though. Nearly all of our ancestors have lived under some flavor of serfdom. The prideful rein while thought, creativity, and criticism are trampled upon. Many born into the freedom I enjoy falsely believe their beautiful garden to be a natural state.

[farmandbarn]

Know-it-all

Tuesday, 3 July 2018

In the dirt and fields today. Not that unusual. It's good work though-- but hard. Started digging next to the front entryway of the house. Only five centimeters down today. I collect the dirt in a bucket and then empty that into a sieve, looking for anything to keep. Pieces of brick, mortar, glass, and a few nails. Then those are placed in a marked bag. The owner, honestly, he's a bit neurotic about it but I figure, "You know, it's his place and he's paying me so..."

I photograph the site as well. It's slow going and hot but, you never know, maybe I'll find something unusual. Hey, it could happen.

I take many photos throughout. That’s an old tree stump in the middle, by the way. Eventually I’ll remove it.

Riveting stuff, I know.

Damn writing. When I try it, it feels as if I were in the middle of a thick and humid jungle where I must plan each and every step. Looking ahead, I see a wall of vegetation. Never have I understood how this or that famous writer finished a whole novel in a few weeks or months. While I'm hacking through the wilderness, they're flying down a ten-lane highway. The whole things strikes me as so... implausible.

I was flipping through some of Eric Hoffer's notes from the late 1950s earlier. Though I've read them before, I enjoy glancing at them here and there. He, too, struggled to write.

There was one passage I particularly liked: Now and then I am inclined to think that the passion to teach, which is far more powerful and primitive than the passion to learn, is a factor in the rise of mass movements.

We are a bunch of know-it-alls, aren't we?

[farmandbarn]

Fragile

Saturday, 23 June 2018

Decent temperatures have held throughout the week, making being in the dirt and fields just fine. Around five, some rain came, not much, but enough to interrupt my work. It was fine. Didn't mind quitting for the day at that point. It's Saturday anyhow. I really appreciate Sundays.

One of my best friends is pictured below. I miss her like water. Dream about her. Delicate, fragile, and so beautiful.

I am repulsed by people who don't like or care about animals. My father is like that. At times, I've wondered if he holds a hatred for them. I'm not exaggerating. It's bizarre. He has this screwed up religious belief that humans are masters of the Earth (as opposed to stewards). Animals are mindless robots responding to stimuli with absolutely no interiority. No level of consciousness. I place that belief as being at home in maybe the 1600s. Someone from the 1700s would surely be shocked by its backwardness.

I don't understand him. His choices and many of his values. However, it's the choices I'm most interested in. Maybe priorities would be a better word. Why teaching, showing me things, was always so low. It occurs to me that perhaps he viewed himself as a provider, which was all that was necessary. It's not.

To be a parent, of course, is to learn about yourself through your child. Were there things in me, and thus in him, that my father could not bear to look upon? To be a good parent, then, is to be courageous and strong.

When we fail ourselves we, in turn, fail those who are closest to us. I wonder: How many have I let down?

I know the answer too: Many.

With this lens, I can see the importance, the necessity, of religion.

In particular, what Frank Herbert had to say in the spectacular Dune series:

Religion must remain an outlet for people who say to themselves, “I am not the kind of person I want to be.” It must never sink into an assemblage of the self-satisfied.

To love another, one must risk being vulnerable. Must risk everything. Thus, the courageous and the strong. Without risk, what is the value of anything?

Again, Frank Herbert:

Is your religion real when it costs you nothing and carries no risk?

These conclusions I am drawing sadden me. What do they say of my father? And therefore, by extension, of me?

[farmandbarn]

Into the basement

Tuesday, 5 June 2018

Worked late for the past two days. Clearing an area with scythe and sickle-- it's slow going. The land drops off abruptly due to erosion caused by cattle grazing many, many years ago. Remarkable really. Found a few wooden posts that once made up the barbed-wire fence so long ago. I keep them where I find them for now so that it can be reconstructed to be as it was at that particular time. There'll be a fence again though this time without the barbs. The low land, so to speak, will eventually be filled in as well. I'll start the work but I doubt I'll be the one to finish it. It'll be someone from the future.

Or rather, someone on a future date. If there's an opportunity to sound even vaguely sci-fi, you better believe I'm gonna take it. I think about time-travel entirely too much, I think. Love that Christopher Reeve movie, Somewhere in Time. I would never think to create a time-travel movie without sci-fi elements. Seems impossible. Inconceivable. Well, helps that it's really a romance. But still. Damned impressive.

I think about that kind of travel so much, perhaps, well, because who wouldn't want to go back and get everything right? Seems like most would. I hate that I find myself whining so much on here. My past entries (30 May and 3 June) have been bothering the hell out of me. Makes me sound like I'm a victim and not responsible for my own choices and life. It's not true. I suppose, or at least I've been thinking, that maybe I just need to say certain things, get them off my chest. It's not like they haven't been on my mind.

It's fine though. I'm the only one who's gonna read this stuff anyhow. So why even put it on online? I've wondered that. I think to push myself to write an entry every day. Otherwise, and I know this from the past, I wouldn't keep writing like this. And I want to keep this chronicle of my day to day life in Iowa. Plus, I don't know, I like having the hope that maybe somebody will read this and they'll like it or it'll somehow affect them in a positive way. Who knows?

Into the basement I go. Things have gotta change in my life. I hope that this time on the farm is a step in that direction. At least I can say that I've taken further lessons on hard work.

I've worked in an office before, working with software. Some code. That's hard work, I'll tell you what. Exhausting but mentally. This is a different beast.