“Technology is a way of organizing the universe so that man doesn’t have to experience it.”
– Max Frisch
Rust gathers. Blending. Churning slow yesteryear’s tools into earthen dust. A return to nature’s base elements. The act of farming embodies connectivity with land. Grass, dirt, dust, hands, feet, drought interact in a silent symphony. Eyes squint in sunlight. A brow grows moist as morning dew. Sunshine filters and flows like plasma through branches quaking in summer breeze.
We continue to distance ourselves from these sensations, vivid experiences necessary to connect ourselves with the natural world. Factory and industry have inserted themselves into agricultural vernacular.
Which direction do we migrate? Too far either way conjures disaster. Do we blend? Hybridize? Clutch at blades and microchips? Weave a perfect union in an imperfect world plagued by uncertainties?
The further we venture from home, the more we lose ourselves. But if we never try that exodus, never deviate from the worn-out path, we deny ourselves a significant aspect of what it means to be human. Our story is epic. But our lust might doom our fate tragic. Our history destined to whither, break down, blend like dust into plowed earth, leaving only forged fragments dotting a wild landscape.