It’s been wonderful. Scary. Stressful x 10. Hard. Exhausting. But we’re here and we’re making it work. Many things have happened already.
Last Saturday Jack took me for homemade ice-cream … the only ice cream that has ever beaten me in all my life, which warrants it to have its very own blogpost. I’ve stopped eating sugar almost entirely, so i only have maybe half a pack of peanut butter M&Ms and a iced tea+lemonade on the weekend. Everything else is pretty much protein, broccoli, eggs, oatmeal and bacon. So this ice cream kicked my butt, but what a beautiful battle it was. A homemade waffle cone the size of my head, around five enormous scoops of farm churned chocolate chip ice cream.
I regret nothing. Find a guy that buys you farm ice cream for breakfast and takes you to pet all the baby sheep and goats before the crowds show up.
Born of stones, and by that I mean I’m a tough kid, tougher than most I’ll wager. The days are trailing on and the heart of the west is beating at a pace I can’t catch up with. Like a door that moves further away the harder you try to grasp it. The sweet west where the wind is bitter, the sun is a son of a bitch and every day is a gift. Today is the second of July. My birthday has gone and passed as it does every year and I’m another wrinkle richer; another year bolder. The sun has slept and the moon risen — as they do every day. The eaves weeping. I’m supposed to be working but instead I’m bleeding at my keyboard counting the hours till I can go home. Lately I’ve been entirely engrossed in my writing. When I’m not writing — I’m thinking about writing or dreaming up something macabre from a memory, lacing characters with a realistic mean streak and a fat lip. My mind is so full of ideas and dreams and an honest wonder at how to achieve them all when time runs so damn fast. But its running in the right direction. With me loping behind grabbing whatever the stagecoach of time leaves behind.
So far summer in the granite state has proven fruitful with warm afternoons and lapping lakes, bee’s bugging the shit out of everybody and groundhogs dead as dickens doornails by the side of the road. Instead of blogging and losing hours a day to Instagram – I’ve been meddling in photography, cinema trips and enjoying the last of what the northern states can offer us as we ready ourselves for new adventures and new horizons wherever they may lay. And as I said previously, writing and writing and writing. I’m becoming more aware of how ready I am to let me people read the work that I’ve kept so close to my chest all these long years. My secrets. The dark. And the characters peppered like stars cut out from an old curtain finally seeing the light of day.
And as my darling mother tells me; let them read it.
The day will come, to be sure, that I’ll let you read the chapters I’ve ached and wept over for the past few years, the many characters that came from the cruelty and the broken hearts born from death.
You’ll know them all when the time has come.
Soon there will be some changes to my blog, just like my Instagram of abandon and I can safely say that I appreciate those of you who are still reading and following; even after my constant disappearances and ramblings. But here’s to the future — to you, to me and to us who have struggled.
Where your washing is dry before it ever gets put on the line.
And to create this type of fencing because it’s magnificent.
To have a rooster with a magnificent head of hair.
For this to be my office every day. Old wagon, long horns, happy horses, psychotic chickens, a handsome husband, couple of cats and dogs running around. Just being grateful to be alive and to have blood pumping through my veins.
(NOT MY IMAGE) A big beautiful Jutland draft horse, so i wont be the only Danish soul on the ranch.
(NOT MY IMAGE) A nice comfy old truck with a spare pair of boots under the bench seat.