God bless Mr. Ford! is the long cry across the land in parallel lines. For putting them all to work. Employing the future of America. For inventing an assembly line post, to post up too. All for the purposes of relieving all horses of all human burdens. Under the greater umbrella of course, of relieving all humans of all burdens, human or otherwise! Displacing with proper displacement. Signed, sealed, delivered to small businesses and luxury private drives circuiting out from Detroit across the land. The future of the country, employed at construction and bridge building to infinity. Keeping the economy alive even today, as the clock ticks away the surviving moments before all our country's infrastructure's born-on-dating expires. And all the cars and trains begin to fall into collisions and catch large tracts of land on fire. Wait, wait, wait... sounds bad but in modern day terms couched by poor abstract thinkers with MBAs on couches eating bland roadshow stuffed mushroom caps: population control via attrition and highway roadkill counts, combined with greater economies of construction wokers and soldiers, equals a fatter bottom line, hopefully in black. Puts the death care industry up a notch. Put that mantra on heavy rotation in all your state-sponsored technical schools, long live our inheritance made possible by Henry Ford and the multitudes of his long forgotten (so long now i'm afraid it would take labor we cannot currently risk redirecting to determine) associations.
Long live Henry Ford! also rings out from the minds and hearts of generations of ecstatic quaker oat-loving wild horses. Whose inheritance was not exactly plain roaming freedom. But hey, they will take what has been given, without complaint. Dressage? Okay. Racing? Yes Yes! Showing? Fine. Even equine therapy would be welcome. Let the humans heal! Or let us heal them with a good swift kick to the lineage. Lasso clinics and cattle roping? BRING IT! Bottome line is this. Had they the education and the five fingers and mastery of the english language, horses would have been churning out missives at a 1:1 ratio, simply kissing Mr. Ford's bony, no longer extant ass to the clouds! Would put the human memorial to the man, to shame. Leaving the original Ford factory amongst the ruins of Detroit? How dare they! What could you expect from humans? Ford's contribution to them looks like satisfying a luxury leisure. Showboating ala high speed chases on unmarked speedscapes like the Germans have. The autobahn. A society, not just a highway anymore.
In equine circles, however, the luxury of leisure makes only for horse manure. Versus the pure uncut platinum of it all. The real authentic value of Henry Ford and the minions. A sort of deliverance. Spiritual, not religious. Having delivered over to an unfeeling machine (they do not have feelings yet, have they?) the great burden a whole species became designated beast to bear (sans choice). The comp? Incomparable. By far greater than any capitalist number scribbling. Or liberal overcompensation. Well, I cannot speak for the horses but they certainly seemed to now be given the gift of pasture, a few of them. With human-worshippers to the end of their days. Delivering obsessive compulsive mane combs and corn rows. Ribbons and bows in the hair. Caviar in the trough. A designated human to scoop the manure out from behind them. Or countenance a hoof for disobedience.They might have the time, now or in the future, horses. It is looking quite good for the horses. The triple crown, with a cherrt on top. Open the dome chakra to the air. No ceiling, mama! The stallions have finally come home to roost. Raise stallions out of distempered future workhorses, after all. The burden now shouldered by the tributary evolution igniting off cranks all around. Giving gratitude and thanks to those who made it possible to crank up the cranks. Horsepower was likely the only nod they would get from the humans, in history. But shit was already devastated by the human hand, wasn't it? Maybe that's an understatement. Come high water and holy hell, when the atmosphere collapses a couple times, all will be restoratively well. We might be lucky benefactors of an asteroid first, here on earth. All of us minions of the universe. No worries, though. Shit was long lost already in translation. Still, let us be like horses, and hardly complain.
Showing posts with label equine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label equine. Show all posts
Tuesday, 18 June 2013
Not-To-Mention, mentioned #iii)
Let us circle the wagons back to the horse and the automobile, and the loving kindness with which the horse gracefully agreed to help us build our cities (Sacramento) rather than fight us. The horse may not be indexed generally with the great predators of the world. Still, no one can deny that many a lineage came to its conclusion, behind a horse.The horses today, grandsons and granddaughters of the workhorses of yesteryear, could they not be more grateful to the vision we have together realized? Would they not sit down at desks with feather plumes and fountain pens, armed with loving kindness, beside troughs of ink, hoof under chin, contemplating before composing epic love letters to Mr. Ford and his former and now widely forgotten associates?
From Stallion, with love. From associated former groups of poor single mares without stallions, on welfare. On behalf of all the mares who were forced to raise their kids single handedly. Single mares living through the nightmares on the farm. The instability of the stable. Untold abuses at the hands of the stablehands. Former oatwinners, shackled to the yoke and the shoe. Chasing mechanical rabbits like the poor greyhounds before them. Stallions reduced to workhorses, side by side with the most meagre of asses! Superlative, indeed.
How tragic, this history. But how the tragedy has turned on a dime and become cause celebre, 21st century! For generations pulling haycarts of America's least wanted. The hayseeds. The rednecks. The layabouts! The long awaited uses of manure toward betterment has arrived... shit for sale! Pulll up a cart! Take a number! They will form in line to worship Mr. Henry Ford et al. They will form a horsepower V, if propriety dictates. You thought the line of humans would be long to give a hug and a handshake to Henry Ford? You were right. Motorheads from as far away as Villarcayo de Merindad de Castilla la Vieja, Spain. Llanfair Pwllgwyngyll of the UK. Rumour has it some expatriates of the ministry of this settlement, which translates loosely as St. Mary's Church in the Hollow of the White Hazel , fled to the States and bestowed all formerly assigned virtues upon dear Henry. After all, it was he who made the migration possible, in original Ford motorcars, out of the hollow and on to an industrial era barge (surreptitiously with a payoff to the captain) to cross our dear lady the Atlantic.
And still the humans are outnumbered! Legend has it, innumerable studs pay homage to the birthplace of Mr. Ford. And to his gravesite. And to those great ruins of Detroit, including where stood his first assembly line factory. Untold fillys and colts of untold single white mares, untold crews of anonymous black stallion studs worldwide, together take on the distance and swim the seas if necessary to paw the sacred ground. To hoof and trample any man, woman or child stands between them and their iconic father. Regional roundups from California on east, have witnessed the escape of denizens of horses gathered for such human affairs, rarely without fanfare or incident, and most certainly never pressed and published (for the shame that would inevitably fall upon the heads of the sacrosanct cowboys involved) by local media quickly lassoed. These uprisings would have most certainly made for great press, indeed! Alas, the captive reporters were instructed by the cattlemen to shuck it off in the alleyways of local obits in that American calm regurgitation: death by natural causes.
Of course calm does lie at the center of it all. Mares and studs, men and women, live strangely yet peacably together under the watchful eye of the Fords. The great state of Michigan would certainly be no more than a footnote of Canada, were it not for the legacy. And it is quite thoroughly understood, the great parts both horses and humans alike played in the fanning out via motorcar of an American zeitgeist or pioneering spirit full of life. The wonderfully yet still violently marked canvas of towns and cities that spread like butter from Detroit once and still buttressed by its man and horsepower from Dearborn and Kalamazoo. In memory of the heaping spoonful of bastard foals and fillys from such strangely named townships as Bad Axe, Climax, Hell, and Jugville. Those poor begotten desperates from the far reaches of the Upper Peninsula.
From Stallion, with love. From associated former groups of poor single mares without stallions, on welfare. On behalf of all the mares who were forced to raise their kids single handedly. Single mares living through the nightmares on the farm. The instability of the stable. Untold abuses at the hands of the stablehands. Former oatwinners, shackled to the yoke and the shoe. Chasing mechanical rabbits like the poor greyhounds before them. Stallions reduced to workhorses, side by side with the most meagre of asses! Superlative, indeed.
How tragic, this history. But how the tragedy has turned on a dime and become cause celebre, 21st century! For generations pulling haycarts of America's least wanted. The hayseeds. The rednecks. The layabouts! The long awaited uses of manure toward betterment has arrived... shit for sale! Pulll up a cart! Take a number! They will form in line to worship Mr. Henry Ford et al. They will form a horsepower V, if propriety dictates. You thought the line of humans would be long to give a hug and a handshake to Henry Ford? You were right. Motorheads from as far away as Villarcayo de Merindad de Castilla la Vieja, Spain. Llanfair Pwllgwyngyll of the UK. Rumour has it some expatriates of the ministry of this settlement, which translates loosely as St. Mary's Church in the Hollow of the White Hazel , fled to the States and bestowed all formerly assigned virtues upon dear Henry. After all, it was he who made the migration possible, in original Ford motorcars, out of the hollow and on to an industrial era barge (surreptitiously with a payoff to the captain) to cross our dear lady the Atlantic.
And still the humans are outnumbered! Legend has it, innumerable studs pay homage to the birthplace of Mr. Ford. And to his gravesite. And to those great ruins of Detroit, including where stood his first assembly line factory. Untold fillys and colts of untold single white mares, untold crews of anonymous black stallion studs worldwide, together take on the distance and swim the seas if necessary to paw the sacred ground. To hoof and trample any man, woman or child stands between them and their iconic father. Regional roundups from California on east, have witnessed the escape of denizens of horses gathered for such human affairs, rarely without fanfare or incident, and most certainly never pressed and published (for the shame that would inevitably fall upon the heads of the sacrosanct cowboys involved) by local media quickly lassoed. These uprisings would have most certainly made for great press, indeed! Alas, the captive reporters were instructed by the cattlemen to shuck it off in the alleyways of local obits in that American calm regurgitation: death by natural causes.
Of course calm does lie at the center of it all. Mares and studs, men and women, live strangely yet peacably together under the watchful eye of the Fords. The great state of Michigan would certainly be no more than a footnote of Canada, were it not for the legacy. And it is quite thoroughly understood, the great parts both horses and humans alike played in the fanning out via motorcar of an American zeitgeist or pioneering spirit full of life. The wonderfully yet still violently marked canvas of towns and cities that spread like butter from Detroit once and still buttressed by its man and horsepower from Dearborn and Kalamazoo. In memory of the heaping spoonful of bastard foals and fillys from such strangely named townships as Bad Axe, Climax, Hell, and Jugville. Those poor begotten desperates from the far reaches of the Upper Peninsula.
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