The flies, man, the flies

Tuesday, 28 August 2018

Rainy and cloudy yet muggy. Sorted through hundreds of pears today, among other weird tasks. What a bizarre sentence that is. I doubt I’ve ever put those particular words together in such an order before.

Here’s a sentence I once heard. I’ve never caught it again: I don’t like bacon.
From a friend/co-worker a few years back.

So the pears. Two categories to start: Green or yellow. Each then yields two other categories: Blemished or not. Four piles in the end.
Pretty dull, I know. But the flies, man, the flies. Like nothing I’ve ever experienced. So many. And the buzzing. Relentless. Kept thinking that one of the Four Horsemen was moments away. Pestilence, I guess.

A picture of some people who once lived where I now live some time ago. The place looks about the same today. I sat on the porch there on the right– with the flies.

The photo doesn’t have anything to do with this post. I noticed it and decided to put it in.

It’s a happy picture. Or at least, I think. I suppose people don’t typically photograph sadness. Well, not their own.

Maybe there’s a parallel universe where everything is the same except people are brutally honest about themselves and their lives on facebook. No showing off or image-crafting. I wonder how that would change things– the ripples, I mean. Would it be a better world? A world with less sickness?

I don’t know. But I know, here in this universe, I’m utterly tired of what has happened to social media. When I was much younger, I somehow came across the Hacker’s Manifesto. Looking back, sure, it’s a bit juvenile but those words have come to define my ideal form of the Internet.


Old photos

Thursday, 31 May 2018

Didn’t work too long today, which felt good. Mainly scythe and sickle work. Getting pretty good at it. Found a piece of a mason jar. A shard. It had been waiting in that field for maybe forty years or so. All that time and there it was. Then I came along and brought it inside.

Came across a photo of the old Irish family that once lived on this farm. In this very house. I’m not sure about the date but I’m guessing the 1940s. They seemed to be mostly happy. In the photographs I’ve seen at least. Especially the kids. Their distinct personalities can be seen. A moment captured and preserved. Strikes me as bizarre that those smiling kids are perhaps dead by now. And I don’t even mean that in a melancholic way. Just that… I don’t know. Maybe just that I don’t understand life.


But they lived it, didn’t they? The good and the bad. I stood in that room only a moment ago. For me, it was solitary and reflective. For them, togetherness. Family. Love. The same space, separated only by the years.

Notice the young man in the background. From what I’ve seen, I think he was a bit of a jokester. A kind person too. The feeling I get anyway. There’s one where he’s got this ear-to-ear smile and he’s holding a bottle of whiskey. Might’ve been a Christmas morning photo. I did mention they were Irish, right?

Had dinner with a retired priest tonight. Probably in his eighties. He’s bright and quick. I loved being near him and listening to anything he had to say. We each had a Malbec and I was sad when we finished eating. Could’ve listened for hours. Days. Years. He’s been all over but he loves Iowa most of all. Has his Ph.D. in psychology.

At times, he said, looking back, he wonders why he wasted time at this or that. Could’ve been studying or helping others. But that’s not how life is lived. You can’t work and be perfect all of the time, he said. Sometimes the right thing to do is go off and be dumb. Make mistakes. It’s ok.

Can’t disagree with him there.

I’m going to see him again and I think he’s supposed to help me.