attack of the buttheads

i started writing this post a couple of weeks ago.  unbeknownst to me, dusty started reading it over my shoulder & got all pissed off.  you know, instead of initiating a conversation about it, just got pissed off & hateful towards me.  so i stopped writing it & haven’t felt like trying to write ever since.  last friday, i made dusty leave again.  go back to wisconsin.  again.  & i realized i would rather be alone than to be put in a box.  i would rather be alone than to be told who i am.  i would rather be alone than to not be heard.  to not be understood.

i don’t know if he reads my blog or not….i guess i will find out.

what do you do
when the one person
you always want to tell your thoughts to
funny stories
what happened today
just now
what happens when you no longer
feel safe
talking to that person?
when you feel it might be a bad idea
to open up
to that person?
what happens when the person
you used to wait for to walk through the door
what happens when you start dreading
his walking into the room
when you feel like you have to guard yourself
your heart
your thoughts
for surely he will find something
to criticize
something
to attack
some flaw in you to burst wide open
and leave to spill onto the floor
as he walks away

the other day i was in tears. in the barn. yelling at the sheep. the other day i let my sheep get the best of me. i wondered–loudly and with a great many curse words–what i was even doing here, on this half-assed homestead, trying to get milk from meat sheep who clearly hate me, running from me, and in the case of tyler durden the ram, stalking me and ramming me in the thighs until i cry.

what am i doing?

the other day, i tried to talk to dusty.

stop. right there. that was my mistake. i tried to talk to dusty. i tried to talk to dusty. dusty. who on the day of my brother’s funeral (8 years ago) asked me what was wrong, and when i told him i was upset that he didn’t bother dressing up for my brother’s funeral, he responded, “well look at what you’re wearing.”

dusty.

he likes to ask me what is wrong, and then punish me for having feelings. lately he asks me why i don’t respond when he asks, “what’s wrong?” but the weird thing is, i don’t remember him asking me. i think i have learned to tune him out so that i do not even hear him ask because then, if i hear him, i want to answer…and then i get punched right in my emotions.

so i don’t even hear him anymore.
i don’t look forward to seeing him.
i don’t tell him anything.

or i try not to. i can be a bit of a blabbermouth, forgetting who i can & cannot trust with my feelings. i am like that. soft in the head.

so i tried to talk to dusty, about “us.” it was, of course, somehow interpreted as an assault on him…maybe it was an attack. i don’t know the fuck anymore. but i tried to talk to him. i used the wrong words. then it got ugly.
he accused me of being a facebook junkie (i’m not)
and i responded by slamming shut his video game
and possibly breaking his laptop?
and then
he murdered three of my potato plants.
and tried to knock the internet dish off of the roof
with a steel t-post.

this is where i stopped writing.
his laptop is fine. my potatoes are trying to recover, but look like my heart feels.  wilty & broken.  undernourished.  struggling to survive.

 

chaos

good chaos
bad chaos
& all the chaos
inbetween
my muse
& my unamused

what keeps me busy, inspires me. what inspires me, keeps me busy.

on the bullfrog song homestead with me:
7 sheep
8 hens
8 pullets
2 chicks
7 muscovy ducksings
7 turklings
1 gosling
2 toads
1 tarantula
1 cat
1 dog
2 beehives
4 minions
and one ex-husband.

i welcome most of these things. okay, all but the ex-husband. i have realized beyond a shadow of a doubt that i do not want to live with him.

whether he’s good or bad, i do not want to live with him.
i want to get on with my life.
and he is not my future.
i do not love him.

bunny moon

part of my process
when i am getting familiar with a character
is to draw that character over & over
until i have gotten to know her.

i really like this character
i am excited about being part of her story

i also started another ink stain drawing

IMG_3673

it’s kind of chaotic, but i think i can pull it off
that’s part of the fun for me
making cohesion
out of chaos
that is actually my life
gluing together the good bits
arranging the parts that work
filling in the blanks and drawing out the whimsy
to make a perfect picture…
or something like that.

let me illustrate

a friend asked me to illustrate her story. this is an ink i did in my process of figuring out how i want the characters to look. it’s just a mess around rough draft, but i really liked how it turned out. my months of doing ink stain work has shaped my drawing skills and given me lots of fodder for other projects.
i’m excited about working on this project. it is my first chance to work as an illustrator. other than my own stuff, that is.
i like collaborating. i always have. i have found that i work well with others. either flushing out their ideas or letting them help me flush out my own.
i hope that this is the first of many collaborations & illustration gigs.

i haven’t gotten much art done.
i have tried to milk sheep with minimal success.

IMG_3607

i have been growing seeds for spring.

IMG_3626

i have been putting in beehives.

IMG_3581

and raising up more chickens.

IMG_3589

and planting potatoes…(no picture here because planting potatoes is not really a photo op)
ah. the life of a homesteading artist.
with kids.
and dog.
and sheep, chickens, and bees.

and, of course, the dysfunctional relationship that i am working really hard to avoid dealing with.

at least angst is an effective muse

he is the drink
that i shouldn’t take
the fall from grace
the downward spiral
to hopelessness
& a crippling
lack of faith
he is the drink
i shouldn’t take
the step towards
no control
my soul crumpled
on the floor
forgotten panties
stained & unwanted
he is the drink that i should say
no!
to.  the drink i should
feel strong enough to
avoid.

…why am i not strong enough?

i say, “i feel this way.” next time we fight he mirrors my words back to me. some fucked up mind game. some
fucked up
mind
game.
does he even know he is playing?
i wonder.
is it a reflex? a survival technique? does he want to hurt me?

or is he just protecting himself?

journal

you’re overthinking it, em. i tell myself. what do you want?
what do you feel?

journal2

i don’t want to share my life with him.
he is a big parasitical turd.
i don’t want to share my life with him.
we go for a walk in the woods where i grew up.
where i wandered & where i found myself
the first time i was lost.
my church.
i go into these woods with him, and i feel like it is sacrilege.
he shouldn’t be in my church.
i shouldn’t let him near my soul.
my being.
it isn’t safe.
i don’t want to share my life with him.
is this a want? or a warning? an instinct?

journal3

maybe he’s right
maybe he isn’t the problem
maybe i am the problem
but that does not change the fact that i do not want to share my life with him.

 

the far beyond

days & days
of staring at an inkstain
drawing a line here
& there
squinting to see the shapes
in shadows & smudges & splatters
meanwhile,
putting up beehives
raising chicks
building pasture
planting seeds
& trees
& flowers…
eleven days into april
just one inking,
but so much work

i’m exhausted. but i finally finally finished this. there were several times when i thought i was done…but then the light would hit it just right & i would see another face…another creature…more magic.

i am having trouble focusing on my artwork. it shouldn’t take me eleven days to do an inking. or should it? i am distracted. with spring and all the work of a budding homestead.

but, also, with dusty around, the little voices whisper to me that he thinks i am wasting my time.that he thinks i am neglecting the minions. that he thinks i am being silly–thinking my art is a worthwhile endeavor. that i should be doing something else–something worthwhile.
when dusty is nearby, it echoes of my childhood & when my dad would enter a room, i feel like i have to look busy…i feel like my artwork is not real work.

i could very well be projecting this.
or i could very well be sensing it from him.
he has made snide comments in the past.

some days i think i can keep dusty in my life.
i am trying really hard to be nice to him
to see if that changes how he treats me…

…but most the time, he is still a turd.

sigh.

dream weaver

i have a wicked head cold.
which might be responsible for this inking & its title.
which may have been a psychosomatic response to my letting dusty move back in.
i can barely breathe.
i can barely think.
my functionality is pretty limited.

sigh.

dreamweaver3

it might be a defense mechanism of mine.
i was once sick for a month straight in one doomed relationship.
i can’t remember which one.
it’s like my body says, “this is bullshit.”
and shuts down.
my immune system gives up on me.
or thinks, “maybe this will get her attention.”

fuck.

dreamweaver2

how many times can i fuck up in the exact same way?
maybe that should be the title of my memoirs….

dreamweaver1