blow me

the wind
when it blows like this
howling
angry
a woman scorned
sets my teeth on edge
pulls a sadness
from deep inside me
dancing with my anxiety
the wind
it feels like a warning
like a lesson
i don’t want to learn

i live in the prairie lands of the midwest. winds start blowing here, and they just don’t stop. i usually love the wind. but sometimes it blows in a maniacal and high-pitched fervor. it blows in a way that i don’t remember the wind blowing when i was a kid. it feels wrong somehow. so when it blows like this, i just want to hide.
which is what i spent most of yesterday doing.
hiding from the wind.

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witch’s garden

picking parsley
after dark
in my witch’s garden

a quiet & gentle therefore atypical page from my journal.

the other night i found myself searching under pitch black skies for some parsley for a tomato sauce i was making. i miscalculated a time or two, but once i put my hands in the lush & fragrant patch of parsley–thriving despite the cold nights here–i felt as if i had found a treasure.

sometimes i love homesteading with all my heart.

of course, later that night, i re-injured my back lifting the canning vessel onto my stove in order to can my tomato sauce…and have been in more pain than ever since.

and due to re-injuring my injury, i have been unable to send dusty back to wisconsin…sacrificing my mental health so that my back can mend…

so! much more anguished journal entries to come!

yay!

healing

i don’t believe in physical ailments
i always suspect
nausea
headaches
pulled muscles
the flu
warts, even
of being disgruntled messages
from my self-conscious

i once had a horrible, terrible, no-good, very bad boyfriend whom i had trouble leaving. i got sick with a cold that lasted over a month.
i once was in a relationship that was not a relationship although i had not been told by the one i thought was my boyfriend, and i started sleepwalking.
with dusty, dear dear dusty, i got plantar warts that live far longer than a plantar wart should live and are actually colonizing my right foot. i have tried every remedy, and every remedy has failed. i will know i have learned my lesson, when those warts go away.

i pulled a muscle in my back almost two weeks ago. i was way too vigorously digging yams. so many yams! like almost a hundred pounds? no joke. if nothing else, we will have enough yams to last us all winter.
however!
i yernked a muscle.
and being me, i ignored it and went on with my life. building a small hoop house, pushing a dead tractor, wrestling goats, lifting small children, balancing my whole world in one hand while doing everything else with the other hand.
several days later, i was in excruciating pain.
my back was all, “i am outta here.”

so who do i call for help? three guesses…fuck. i call dusty. and as soon as he gets here i know what a mistake i have made.
so now i am irritated. frustrated. bitter.

and my back still hurts like fuck.

what is the lesson here?
(please, seriously, besides actually doing yoga and taking better care of myself…what? does that include my self-self? not just my physical self? i’m supposed to take care of my whole for real-real self? that’s it, isn’t it? well, crap….)

i look for messages everywhere…because they are there.

a lack of enthusiasm for inktober

so october 7th i drove the minions through the flatlands of illinois to collect this new member of our homestead:

we left in the morning and did not get home until almost five when poultry has to be fed and sheep watered all while trying to get the new baby to eat (he was pretty pissed off about being taken away from his family–no wonder–and it was a day before we could get him to accept the bottle.) plus i had to relocate the bunnies to a puppy pen so i could use their dog crate for quixote’s “stall” in our sunroom.  as well as feeding the minions, collecting eggs, putting poultry away….
so it was after seven before i got a chance to catch my breath.

and i just did not feel like doing inktober. so i phoned it in and used an inking in progress as my seventh day:

inktober7

which i then finished for the 8th of inktober.

which brings us to yesterday, the ninth. i wasn’t sure what to do. i decided to just do some journal inkings.

my first one came out like this:

inktober9

and i was all like, “what the fuck, em?” i thought about posting it…but felt really conflicted about it, for some reason.
art for me is a meditation and an exorcism.
what is going on here then?

so i tried again:

inktober9(2)

and ended up not posting this one either. i was convinced people would hate them and be, like me, wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.

i want to keep doing inktober–because it is fun for me and keeps me creating….
but i’m not sure i want to share anymore.
it feels like i am putting myself out there…to no avail.

i’m just weird.
misunderstood.
a misfit toy.

…a strange lady.

pages 15, 16, & 17

just two more pages to go
and INKtober starts on sunday.
whoa.
am i going to do it again?
it was really good for my art last year…in fact, i can’t believe it is time for it again already. it seems like just yesterday.
i did buy more paper & more ink.
because…well…you can never have too much paper & ink (what if a zombie apocalypse happens & i can’t get to the art store??)

speaking of zombie apocalypses–i was planning on doing moses jones after i was done with the mistress of mud.
and/or playing around with just using brush & ink….
but i suppose i could do both of those things during INKtober…
yes?

meanwhile, bees to get ready for winter.
tomatoes to turn into canned sauce.
basil to make into pesto.
pumpkins & squash to harvest.
lambs & turkeys to butcher.
winter gardens to plan.
new pastures to build.
oh!
and i am planning on buying and raising by bottle a billy goat all my own….

and, of course, raising & unschooling four minions….

speaking of all this. i am entertaining the idea of renting the basement out to dusty on the conditions that:
1. we are not in a relationship
2. he pays rent & buys his own food
3. he gets a job
4. he quits smoking

what could go wrong?
see, it’s just that i need need need the help, and no matter how hard i try, i cannot seem to lure peoples of a non-dusty nature to come here & help me.

sigh.

i know it’s not a good idea. but i will kick him out again if it all goes south.

pages 12, 13, 14, and a do-over page 1

IMG_5449

after taking this picture, i looked up about how messy desks are a sign of genius. i mean, wow. look how smart i am.
ha!

i am enjoying this project. it allows me to experiment.

page 14

and being–once again–optimistic about my art, i spent money i didn’t have on more art supplies.
but, in my defense…art supplies!
i don’t buy shoes, clothes, or technology.
but i do splurge on art supplies
seeds & plants
and
of course
livestock.

i dunno.
i think i have my priorities straight.

the whole wide world

so yesterday morning
i had a dream that is a reoccurring theme for me
the dream has me
desperately
trying to reconcile with dusty
desperate
to be with him again
so i spent yesterday
pissy
& wondering
does my subconscious really really?
want me to reunite with dusty?
really?
& i guess my subconscious was listening
because this morning
i had the same dream
but with a different ex
desperate
again
to reunite
to be in love
happily ever after
now i know it’s not dusty
my subconscious is messaging me about
but i am still in the dark
is it as simple as my own desperation
to be loved?
to be happily ever after?
or does it go deeper….

i’m not getting art done. the minions are crazy, & i am crazier. i need to get art done. because, well, deadlines…and because it is something that keeps me sane….

but late summer is acting like fall and i have bees to get ready…goats to find a stud for…lambs & turkeys to butcher…winter gardens to plan…chicks being born and deserted by their fickle mama hens…

IMG_5329

i did get around to signing up as a place for travelers to come & help out. i am on helpx and on wwoof. today a couple of girls contacted me about hanging out here in september.
did you know that not only can i feel like an imposter as an artist, but also can i do so as a homesteader?
i’m all like–is my homestead actually a homestead? are they going to be disappointed in my homestead? like take one look and go–you call this a homestead???

aw fuck.

relationships, art, writing, motherhood, and homesteads…it’s all one experiment in rejection….

speaking of, a work of creative non-fiction i submitted to a magazine that was doing a theme that screamed of my story, rejected my story before the email submission had even cooled…and i cried…and then felt like an idiot for crying when there are people losing their homes to fire, flood, and fascism….
but it still hurt.

ps. if anyone is good at dream interpretation & wants to take a crack at my dream, please do so!