Our Year at The Fahm
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Lisa K. Peters audition for Our Year at the Farm. Or Blessed are the Cracked, for they shall let in the light preface about the farm. How did we get here, anyway? An introduction of sorts, a clouded and gloomy New England Day in late autumn, cold by my admittedly California standards commandeer the horizon. My longtime boyfriend Rajan dear visiting and Hartford for a few days, left me on my pioneer own, some on the back 40. The land was an unrelenting canvas of gray and prickly brown. Even the evergreens lack color subsidizing and aluminum leaden towers. While would smoke tangled the air, I dragged Deadwood to the middle of the field, making a disheveled sort of haystack toe burnt. Later, mulling over the pros and cons of serving Seymour's versus roasted weenies at the bonfire, I was entirely unprepared for the voice in my head, shouting, What the **** are you doing here? The voice bolted out of nowhere and landed splats in the middle of my shiny, spotless mind. Just like that, the existentially had me by the throat and flung me to the cold, hard ground. On the way down, I remembered something a friend asked me recently, Onley half in jest. So is this your new vocation? E. Thought from my prone position. Is this my new vocation manual labor outside in freezing temperatures, clearing brush, hauling Qinling and making disheveled little haystacks for burning. Accompanied by manual labor inside, consisting of eradicating mouse poo and other road in Shia. Removal of mosquito bodies and ladybug corpus is along with spider eggs and cobwebs, shuffling heavy antique furnishings from room to room like a Rubik's Cube, scrubbing wide planked wooden floors and generally eliminating the rest of the dirt and detritus that one can imagine might end up in a 270 year old farmhouse out in the middle of rural New England. Nowhere is this a wise choice. Given then, I have lived pretty much my entire life in large urban areas. Warm California in urban areas, I might add, where I've spent the last decade working in software hardware, an Internet application development. I did not strike it rich during my years in Silicon Valley and therefore retire early to my pristine and perfect place in the country. I did not go to Texas A and M University for a degree and say animal husbandry or agricultural methods either. So it really isn't easy to see how I ended up here and now I find myself wrestled to the ground by the XT essential joining myself in a resounding chorus of Yeah, what are you doing here? I have learned through hard experience that when I start asking this type of question Ah, question, typically accompanied by a greasy feeling in my belly, off free floating anxiety mixed with a soupcon of failure, all tangled up with the leaden and inexorable pressure of time whizzing by, I can start to feel a little peevish even as the existential attacks, however, one must be productive. And so I picked myself up, dusted myself off and returned toe, hurting branches in two pyres. Here at the femme. My productivity consists of cleaning, see above, cooking, provisioning, laundering, clothes and bedding. Not money. Regrettably grounds. Keeping refurbishing furniture and the femme managing household and small business finances, along with other familial and ministro via finding a new family dentist, registering to vote, arranging for flu shots, etcetera, scouring the Internets for information of general interest. And finally blogging for the entertainment of friends and family on a 45 acre farm in rural Massachusetts. I receive on a daily basis practical and theoretical lessons in physics, meteorology, mechanics, thermodynamics, calo cheol, language, zoology, agriculture, home economics, land use and resource management. Living here of the farm is so relentlessly physical that your brain and your body are utterly occupied. If it doesn't work, you're missing apart. The physical relationship to this reality is very grounding and experience that is once so humbling and yet one that has nothing to do with who you are. Instead, it has everything to do with irrevocable truths. Fire burns when you touch it, and you'll freeze to death very quickly without it. Your nearest neighbor is also your dearest friend. In hard times 20 mile an hour wind a 10 F is really, really cold. Bears really do **** in the woods, and survival without electricity in the 21st century is possible, even for 11 days without power in the dead of winter. In the grips of my vocational crisis, when I think too much about how my life now is so much like the lives of the farm woman, fulfilling traditional female roles who dwelt here before me. Well, it does so with so many things existential or as we say around here, extra stencil. My brain slams on the brakes, hits the escape key and begin circling around chasing its tail. I've always been the out spoken feminist and the crowd arguing that women can do anything men dio, and that doesn't require an actual *****. And for the last umpteen years, I've walked the talk, operating in a male dominated professional environment with some success. And now here I am, working the work of another type altogether, which is not exactly how I imagined my career, such as it is, would evolve.