Still selling grass and I ain't gonna quit

Sabbath eve, June 18, 2010.

After a number of fits and starts, we finally got some good square bales of hay made. For whatever reason, Old lake rat suffered a temporary fit of insanity and decided to join us in the fields this morning. But not to worry: he came to his senses after the first load and bid us farewell. I’m not good company when doing this kind of work. Between the heat, dehydration and the pain of extended physical exertion, my IQ falls into lower double digits. Even the simplest thoughts get lost in the ether. The only thing I can concentrate on is the next bale of hay and the sea of bales from which it came, all needing to be in the barn.

Somehow, despite the exhaustion, I feel like we got something accomplished, and the sense of despair I’ve been packing around has abated a bit. A barn full of hay is like money in the bank for those that raise livestock. Better than money in the bank.
I’m sore all over, not just from hauling hay, but also from a spill me and Cheap Speed took yesterday morning. Recent rains knocked out a water gap and some of our cattle got onto a neighbor’s place. Neither me nor my horse have gone riding for a while. Shortly after I got on Speed, he threw a fit. He ended up falling and landed on my right leg. I got back on and we made it through the rest of the ride. I didn’t feel much pain at first, but by the time I got off I had a sore ankle and by last night I discovered more tender places on my aged body. I knew there was a chance something would happen when I put a saddle on Speed, but I decided that if that it’s my fate to pass that way, then perhaps that’s not such a bad way to go. Speed also needed to work it out. Both of us aren’t much more than candidates for the glue factory if we don’t do what we’re born and bred to do.

Am I crazy? Hell, I embrace crazy.

Speaking of crazy: Mike Ruppert’s movie, Collapse is now available on DVD. Knowing what Mike knows is enough to make anyone crazy. I’m of the opinion it’s better to know, than not to know. For the record, Roger Ebert gave the film four out of four possible stars.

Dustin Welch’s Whiskey Priest has been stuck in my head today.



Lyrics, here:

Get me outta town before they run me off
Once we’re far enough I’ll get out and walk
Well now, you know the way they can lead you on
I don’t have a choice I got to take them all
Cause the system is fixed with eyes upon eyes
Dirty little secret white lie alibis
Even if you got nothing to hide
They don’t need to ask they just read your mind

I’m a whisky priest and it’s a blood soaked religion
I’m a whisky priest and it’s a blood soaked religion
I’m a whisky priest and it’s a blood soaked religion
I’m a whisky priest and it’s blood soaked, it’s blood soaked

I am a man of faith, I am a child of the crow
All my better angels, well they touch and they go
I get no self satisfaction from salvation when it’s sold
With a ten digit digital magnetic barcode
So, I kneel down on my knees to pray
And I whisper speculation holy rumor hearsay
God bless the poor and the feeble when they try to retain
A sense of faults repletion and a marker for their claim

I’m a whisky priest…

Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, drive that steel machine
Rich and poor man, beggar, thief, you better keep your pistol clean
Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, drive that steel machine
Rich and poor man, beggar, thief, you better keep your pistol clean
Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, drive that steel machine
Rich and poor man, beggar, thief, you better keep your pistol clean
C’mon can’t you hear those distant sirens ring
Junkie, drunk, you ruckus punk, believe me when I sing

I’m a whisky priest…

I love the smell of rain upon the answer to a prayer
The smell of fresh black powder when it’s hanging in the air
It must stand to reason as beyond compare
When every breath I take is another I am spared
Well I come a willing servant and I go an able culprit
If I had a chance in Hell I probably already took it
That bastard Satan’s bony ass, well I’ll do my best to whoop it
With a bible in my holster, and a shot glass in my pulpit

I’m a whisky priest…(wade in the water, children)