Back on the farm in Summer

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I trailered a towable man lift (bucket lift) from Georgia to New York. The thing that made it eventful is that I had to drive my truck. My 2017 Chevy 3500 HD service truck (with only 31k miles) is not my Tesla. I have grown very accustomed to the Tesla self-driving, navigation and general hi-tech luxury. The truck, although I am very fond of my truck, is stressful and expensive to drive compared to the Tesla. Being on the farm alone has been an eye opener. I had forgotten how quiet and in-nature this place is. Very occasionaly a car or plane comes by and disrupts the void, but only occasionally. It has been very reflective. It is the first time I have been up here from Georgia without a specific date I must be back for... or so it seems. "All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone."-- Blaise Pasacal mid 1600s. I guess I am working on humanity's problems. It can take a lot out of you. I feel good about some of the pics I ha...

I find some weird stuff out there on the web. I would call this style "relentless_unknown_dream_beat".

www.mywebpages.comcast.net/dragineez/OddShorts.HTML

I really get a kick out of people. The good stuff is on the web, served up for your amusement if you have the ability to concentrate on the question, not the answer. How long will it take? Maybe forever.

O Wondrous Llama

Much is made of the llama, that frisky little critter who is frequently glimpsed chewing on large distended sacks of filth over by the side of the highways and byways of this great land. But how much do we really know about this rakish knave, this whimsical creeper in the twilight world of the underbrush? What are his habits, his dreams, his preoccupations, his intimate hygienic problems, his credit card numbers?

At home, the llama is a savage brute, fond of rubbing ferns on his bottom and playing the kazoo. He beats his children daily with hardened balls of inexplicably furry mucus. And yet, there is a softer side. He is an accomplished cinematographer, and occasionally poses for modelling shots that would make any upstanding citizen cringe in fear. On weekends, and during periods of heavy downpours, he will go from door to door collecting newspapers, which he then laboriously molds into tiny blowfish.

We are left, after examining the evidence, feeling that we have never really gotten to the soul of this dashing charlatan of the woods. He remains, as ever, an enigma, aloof, forbidding, and perpetually infected. Perhaps man was never meant to know the dark secrets of this peripatetic "Mime of the Deep". We can only peek at his towering form behind the safety of our custom blast shielding and wait for him to get out of the driveway, all the while silently marveling at the crimes of Mother Nature.

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