curse you, mechanical tormentors

I tried. And I failed.

I find it very difficult to like machines. Loud, noisy things that, we are assured, serve only to make the job easier.

Of course, any time you save doing the job itself is quickly eaten up by the time you spend fixing the blasted things.

As I said before, Thoreau had it right with the whole "Men have become the tools of their tools" thing.

But I tried. I spent the days prying on wrenches, loosening nuts, replacing bearings. I greased and oiled, I adjusted and tweaked, I hammered and swore. It left me feeling tired, sore, and beaten.

In general I am not opposed to feeling tired a sore. I like the ache in my shoulders after a day stretching wire and building fence. I like how quickly sleep comes after a day chasing cattle or branding calves.

But I don't like feeling beaten. I don't like repairing something only to know that I'll be repairing it again in a day's time. I don't like the feeling of being subservient to a machine.

I don't mean to speak ill of the things. I recognise how much harder life would be without machines. I understand that, in many ways, machines have had a tremendously positive impact on my life.

But that doesn't stop me from loathing the things.

"Okay Stu," you say, "you dislike machines. So what are you going to do about it?"

Ah, dear reader, listen and I will tell you.

I don't intend to do a bloody thing about it. At least, not for the moment.

Because I don't see a way out of it quite yet.

Sometimes part of me thinks it would be pleasant to return to a horse and plow, but I do have enough sense to know that walking behind a Clydesdale would eventually grow tiresome and with time I would probably wish the machines back.

I would love to turn back the clock, even a little, to a time when things were a bit simpler. The problem is, I'm not so sure if things were simpler back-in-the-day at all.

So for now I'll bite my tongue and stick it out; mutter a few swear words and swing a sledge-hammer or two.

In the meantime I take comfort in the fact that someday, somehow, I'll have my revenge.

And that, my friends, will be a glorious day indeed.