Fields of Gold

No one really writes of the pastoral anymore: no ten-page homages to a single blade of grass in a forgotten field. And if the most romantic, the most nostalgic among us, could sit down and write so as to conjure the stillness of the woods as they stand watch around the pasture in those moments between dusk and darkness when the cows have lowed their last till morning-- well all my best in the quest for readership. Thomas Hardy and his compatriots have found a Siberia on the shelves of the library, a Cliffnotes analysis the final insult. It's nothing personal, more a reflection of our own shortcomings than theirs. Life is movement, if not of the body than of the mind: in a post-Darwin existence,  title of the fittest does not come easily. And literary masters though they might be, there is not enough time in the day to remove ourselves so far from the madding crowd.

But Whistlepig, as an exception to most rules, enjoyed a life of leisure, enough so as to appreciate the details that elevate the simple and serene to idyllic. Perhaps it was just in his nature, at heart an animal of the farm, to relate to tales of husbandry. Beyond speculation is the fact of the matter: Whistlepig knew how to slow down, how to place himself, despite the complexities of life, in a simple surrounding. How tempting, in light of the chaos, to be able to do the same. How tempting to take dear Mr. Marlowe up on his so nicely worded invitation: 

          Come live with me and be my Love,

And we will all the pleasures prove

That hills and valleys, dale and field,

And all the craggy mountains yield.

Not to fret Dearests, I've got a whiskey that can help with that. 

a thought on the over-thought

Whistle Pig was not a philosopher. Although he rarely got offended (what’s the point, really, when you know you’re superior anyway?), he might have been offended had someone titled him such.

Philosophy and folderol of the like was a big waste of time. Whistle Pig frowned upon the fools who sat around discussing life’s meaning and a purposeful future while life whizzed by out the window. Who cares what the hell life is all about if you’re going to spend more time analyzing the concept than actually living for God’s sake?

If this seems like philosophy in itself, then shame on you darlings for reading into it.

But while Whistle Pig did not dwell on purpose, that is not to say that he was without one. His purpose was pleasure—go on and frown and have your little tirade on self-absorbedness and question, outraged, “what if we all thought that way?” But stop bullshitting yourself and ask if maybe you’d like the freedom to think that way as well. Oh please, without society’s pressure to uphold morality you’d all be rolling around with Candy from the corner—pleasure, cheap and available.

Calm down, my favorite rye drinkers, and if you must analyze Piggy’s ways, analyze this: selfishness demands a little investment in humanity’s general well being. Take those crazy environmentalists. In their prediction of man’s downfall they all condemn anthropocentricism, that school of thought that elevates the human above all else, places the needs of mankind at the forefront. But if man’s best interest is his own well being—is there really any better motivation to save the goddamn earth?

I’ve gotten off track. Live how you want or how you feel you must. Speculate and ponder if that’s what you’re about. But when you join Whistle Pig for whiskey and good conversation, please don’t make that conversation philosophical. Nothing ruins a good drink like someone trying to figure out the meaning of life.

Wake-up people! The meaning of life is in a glass in your hand.