The Farmer Diary
From Plastic Tub
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Forged account of farmer Mack Calvin. An ever-increasingly autoerotic exposition on Mack's love for the dirt of west Texas, it's burning effects on his back, etc, excerpted below.
One Helluva Day, Day 1.
Found scored into the back of a tin plate.
Jed and his step-son Marcus have worked around livestock all thier long years.Jed has worked for the family for quite some time. Jed a'int his real name. His real name is Julio. Jed drives my old El Camino,Bright blue when clean.
It pains me so when Sunday Mornings Homebound from Church, I see that dirty El camino, covered in mud, outside of Adult World.
Monday
Enscribed onto rabbit skin.
Saturday is the 4th of July. Our Cookout is a sight to see.Many families and thier extended families gather to celebrate. Everyone delights in homemade ice cream and hot dogs. When everyone was playing the annual softball game,Only a few children saw Julio delight in inserting an aluminum bat in his soccer shorts.
Wednesday
My son told me I should say sorry about Tuesday. How about this. I don't fucking care. About Tuesday. Or Wednesay. Or get off-my-ass-day. The septic tank is leaking. My backyard looks like niggers had babies on it.
My daughter Emily is home from College for the summer. She says she feels restless here on the farm. She has seen the big city and has grown bored with small town life. Reluctantly I agree to let her attend a party with some high school friends.
Later I would shutter when I saw Marcus coming up the driveway in his (mine) step-fathers dust covered El Camino.
Wednesday, later
Coffee ship napkin-blog entry.
Miguel is my main man. He's the head honcho -- you should see this motherfucker. He's about five-ten, 255 thick, an iron chicken coop. He's good though. As reliable as the sunrise he keeps the help in line. I pay him to be tough, but you know he'd do it for free. I noticed that he's a family kind of man, I can tell. His wife brings him lunch every day. Those beautiful mayan titties. She usually brings sandwiches -- but with no bread. Mexicans use tortillas. It's like bread you have to wrestle with.
Five of his nine children work for the farm.
(editor)
- Jamex, a scrawny boy I wouldn't trust near the liquor.
- Manuel, head of hay bayling
- Thomas, self described expert on snoozing.
- Marisolde, cute as a button, she works for The Missus.
- Columbo, named not for the spaniard but for the Expert Detective.
- Pepe, almost completly black, I can't teach him a damn thing.
Miguel's son Manuel won some kind of spelling bee and thier allup in arms that he'll be the first to go to college. He's recieved an some kinda acting scholarship to a small college out east.
I always thought he was light in the loafers though The Missus thinks he has a lovely singing voice.
Saturday Morning 4:37 A.M.
Wrestling livestock is hard physical work. It takes muscle. It takes resolve. Not college. I wonder if America can do it anymore. I wonder. America can't wake up early.
I start before the sunrise and work till dusk. In the morning darkness we quickly milk the cows. The children slop the hogs Feed the Chickens and handle menial tasks. The men follow me to the fields where we will toil in the hot sun.
The machine I operate shreds the dry earth and prepares it for the planting. It does not take long until the sweat pours down my neck and I delight in the machine's violent hum between my soaking wet legs.
The farm is an impressive size and has no shortage of work to be done. Most of my full time workers have worked for me or my father for over 35 years. When my father passed away and It was up to me to take over the farm. We have seen some very hard times, and it can be trying on ones soul. As soon as I could I replaced all the negroes with machines or mexicans.
At night In deep sleep, I rip deer apart with my bare hands.
