I have always felt for a pig in heat. During those few days every month, their whole world turns upside down. Their gluttony shifts from food to sex, from filling their gut to filling holes further south, and nothing else interests them. They don’t eat. They don’t run from strange things. They stand and stare and hope that each passing creature — be it a tractor or a man or a dog — will have what it takes to scratch that itch. Their impulse for self preservation — maximize caloric intake, fear potential predators — is short circuited in favor of making babies. 

I can commiserate.

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Flame Weeding, Fire Weed

Certain things don’t mix. Eating weed, flame weeding -- don’t mix. Despite the fun syntax and potential for puns, it turns out to be quite a dangerous activity, one that could send your crops, your farm, your dreams, up in smoke.

Flame weeding is a particularly effective means of weed suppression used by organic growers because it uses elemental fire instead of petrochemical herbicides. Basically you take a propane grill tank, strap a flamethrower on there and fit it to a backpack. Then you take that mobile flame thrower and literally scorch the earth.

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Prison, Purgatory, Paradise?

Imagine you were born on an island. As you grow up, you find all of your needs provided for, all of your biological necessities met by some benevolent presence. You don’t have to work. You don’t have to find shelter or food. You’re surrounded by family and peers who, like you, have no concerns other than how to spend these waking moments. Should I lay in the sun? Or maybe have another meal? Socialize with friends? Sleep? Hump? Presumably time would become hard to track. With no real structure to your days and no struggles to strive against, time would stretch into one long sleepy now. 

Now, at some point in this now-ness, on this island of no concerns, a strange figure arrives one day. Unbeknownst to you, his presence signals the end of yours.

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