04-15-09 The hole ripped open and rendered tragic when electrical & motorcar usage swooped into the fore of our lives and took our horses away, can never be filled by the attempted substitution of motorcar madness that roars & growls so awfully. We could survive horse farts. Probably thought auto exhausts weren't much different at first, because we were still such innocent clods; & by then, it was already too late, only we didn't figure this out until ½ a century & more later. And by then, it was already already too too way way late; & that was about a ½-century ago, now. After urging large animals around & to do, to help you & yours, all we had left was family to feel those urges around--that had become instilled in our essences from 10,000 years of working large animals--to push on & make do, or go get, 'whoa!' on, jerk the braces or rein(s); yell at, & kick—not to damage but just to urge because your usually good-natured horsey friend (or you, [me] sometimes) didn't feel like go ing or stop ing or getting the hell outta the way, like that: horse 'talk'/ 'sense'--although I personally know how to 'direct' horses by quietude & soft slow sly gestures. & I'm contending here that most all of this male-female turmoil of the recent past is because us men don't have our horses to get these type of workouts with anymore; so (hopefully) at the end of the day's labors,we can come home, too worn out to be anything but a gentle husband & father for the gang. This wasn't true in every case; many instances of abject cruelties abound about men who never got the difference between women & their horse(s). Gang had an entirely opposite meaning in that era than it does today. Gangs were often necessary when some everything hardware store wasn't just an easy drive a few miles down the road. Of harsh necessity, the hard stuff had to be done, or else, for the sake of the simplest of pure survival of the person & or his or her family members; & this involved excess hard talking, shouting, yelling, pushing, shoving, & yes: spanking. A lot of horse-wranglers beat on their beasts, & ox drivers had to be crueler than the ox's boiling blood to be masters over them. & before trucking, all the heavy stuff could only be hauled here & there, over mountain, through forest & meadow, by the big bad bold ugly mean oxen. Mules were easier to manage, but a mule team takes a different type of equine master. Horses is all I know, & they can be communicated with on a very subtle scale & encouraged to do stuff and carry you places with the most exquisite gentleness and quietude. They respond to a gentle kind touch in much the same ways as dogs & cats, but, I think, with an ever greater 'intelligence' than them.
Being such a wimp, I probably wouldn't have had much luck being a horseman, either, & I don't ever want to be responsible for a cow, let alone family groups. I'm okay with goats...But if I had grown up with them, who knows... I sure had no luck being a husband or a father, it seems, judging from what family members've said about who they remember me as I once was: An age ago, now, but no longer am, and which doesn't seem to count, yet, for enough of any much in you guys' eyes, so far. Luck figures in, sometimes, but most of what came my way was through good old hard physical working. I never lived as hard as I worked, although I've been accused of this; & can 'see' the seer's point-of perspective, an all; & grant freedom-of-speech. But it seems to me that when one writes something-for-publication—this includes the mailing of correspondence—one ought to think about how what one is publishing may affect one's image in the eyes of one's target audience. ¶ These are just random thoughts that I haven't pen-scribbled anywhere first. My thinker is perfect mish-mash storm tizzy, just now, after forcing myself to re-read everything that I've written down in the past 15 daze of in & out of (desire for) consciousness. Whirling swirling winds of tumultuous turmoil boil away, roiling “in there,” preventing me from feeling coherent enough today, yesterday, & the day before, when I mailed my last letter. Today: I am gone. At least that's how my brain is telling my fingers to type gone here, as where the I of my brain tells me I better tell my correspondent I feel like. Incoherent, babbling, kaleidoscope of separate little tiny bits of thought doing an endless shuffle as in a rolling lottery-drawing barrel-shaped drum. I read the whole 50 pages of pen-scribblings, plus the 4 typewritten 8½ by 11 pagesides I had done before the printer ran out of ink, + the 3 orig. letters, & my (so far) 3 printed-2-sided response letters & my brain is exhausted & feels fried. Are you happy now? I'm happy if you're happy. Feel unhappy for your unhappy, but seem denied the means of effecting or affecting any true, reliable, secure, lifelong life-saving change in this worrisomeness going on in the minds of you & bro.
You (I & we) can only change our selves ourselves. And: “It is only through a change in ourselves that we can make the world a better place.”
says Michael Toms of the New Dimensions radio program.
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