I'm tired today. Didn't even go out walking yesterday, although at day's end, I regretted it. Just felt I needed a bit of a break, and I have to be gentle with myself. Sciatica is acting up. On one hand, I crave the exercise; on the other, I know that pounding the pavement is probably not good for me in the long run. More stretching, Susan!
And now for something completely useless... :-)
When we went to the 30A Songwriter Festival a few months ago (MLK weekend, 2020), we had the pleasure of seeing Eliot Bronson, whose duo as well as solo work I've always enjoyed). He sang us this song, and told us the story behind.
P.S. I slowed my speed and shortened my stride. Let's see if that helps.
P.P.S. I haven't smoked pot in over 30 years (although my children, and their friends, are not convinced), but Happy 4/20 for those who do!
SONG: 30-50 Feral Hogs by Eliot Bronson
BOOK: Hog Wild!: A Frenzy of Dance Music by Sandra Boynton, Michael Ford
POEM: Indian Stream Republic by Stephen Burt
No one should be this alone--
none of the pines
in their prepotent verticals,
none of the unseen
hunters or blundering moose
who might stop by the empty lodge or the lake
as blue as if there had never been people
although there are people: a few
at the general store, and evidence of more
in clean vinyl siding, and down the extended street
a ruddy steel pole the height of a child, its plaque
remembering a place called Liberty
at Indian Stream, 1832-35,
between the disputed boundaries
of Canada and New Hampshire, meant
as temporary, almost
content to remain its own.
Each household, their constitution said, could possess
one cow, one hog, one gun,
books, bedding and hay, seven sheep and their wool, secure
from attachment for debt no matter the cause.
The state militia came to set them right.
The legerdemain of the noon sun through needles and leaves,
revealing almost nothing, falls across
thin shadows, thin trace of American wheels and hands
for such high soil and such short reward:
the people... do hereby mutually agree
to form themselves into a body politic
by the name of Indian Stream, and in that capacity
to exercise all the powers of a sovereign
till such time as we can ascertain to what
government we properly belong.
QUOTE: "People lucky enough to live in the vicinity of an industrial hog farm are, with each breath, made keenly aware of the cause of their declining property values." ~ Al Franken
Monday, April 20, 2020
30-50 Feral Hogs (Eliot Bronson)
Posted by Susan at 9:57 AM
Labels: Al Franken, Eliot Bronson, feral hogs, Michael Ford, National Poetry Month, Sandra Boynton, Stephen Burt
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