the farm part 1

my hands are cov­ered in a per­pet­ual dirt, the grime of the fin­ger­nails ends up on my pil­low. the farm is called spring creek farm and it is about one acre. with 2 hoop houses and a green­house. tiny greens are sprout­ing inside, spinach and rare let­tuces, some chard and spinach too! after liv­ing in brook­lyn for 8 months where all i ever wanted was to have the oppor­tu­nity to get dirty, here i am with mud encrusted carharts and quickly cal­lus­ing hands. much due to the farm equip­ment. this week i have been using the cul­ti­va­tor, a tricky machine. much like a roto-tiller, we use this old girl to aer­ate the soil and dig up the clods(matted roots and weeds). she sounds like a lawn mower and looks like a tri­cyle. after cul­ti­va­tion, the soil is ready to be amended. blood meal, wood ash, clam shells. the scent of blood and the sea absorbs into my skin. the rep­e­ti­tion is bril­liant. things want to grow. i planted 480 onions yes­ter­day, 4 inches by 4 inches. then chas­ing around the drip irri­ga­tion sys­tem to see where we have gey­sers. sneaky spurts of water like the blow-hole of a whale. oh i heard this story about bel­uga whales: in the far north of alaska the bays freeze in the win­ter, and only a few areas remain unfrozen where bel­u­gas can come and breathe. polar bears know about this and wait by the holes for the whales to come up for air. the bears attack and are often dragged deep under the sea until they need to come up to breathe. all of the whales in the area are severely scratched up on the sides of their heads.…some die..they know what awaits them, but must breathe.….