12.27.17 (a brief sketch of self, 11:ish, before sledding, rantings of the beast man) 

First thing this morning, I took Dante to the leash outside, in nothing but my pajama pants. It was freezing out, still snowing lightly, but after the initial surprise, my feet felt fine. I stood there breathing it in, doing that intense rhythmic cycle breathing that mountain climbing guru Wim Hof teaches. 

I learned this fact, about how the cold doesn’t really hurt a while ago. I guess the first time when I was 11ish, and it was Halloween and we were hit with a freak eighteen inches of snow . And most everyone turned in and gave up, but me and my buddies kept it going. How all the people were impressed, doubled up the candy donations, told us we were crazy, but smiled as they said it, envious I’d like to think. 

Learned it again at twenty, was in a weird no-shoes phase of life. Winter came, I had went to see an exgirlfriend at her dorm, had gotten drunk at a bar (think I got by with a pair of flip-flops which I would slide off after I had penetrated the establishment), and came out and snow was everywhere. Everything was frozen, yet I felt nothing. Remember so clearly, climbing a hill back to the dorms in a stupor, yet hyperaware that I had moved beyond normal human perception somehow. I was ultra-aware of a fire that came from inside our bodies, that could warm against the winter. And it was liberating to realize that, to shake it off, roll with it, learn to laugh at the challenge. 

 That was the night of my first, and only, three way kiss, a final meaningless gesture from an ending relationship, numb and sort of detached like the cold, yet pleasurable in a viscearal way. That’s the yearning, to escape into the body, to be the thing which is natural, in its place, in the snow. 

Time to go sledding! 


12.24.17 (9:07 PM, a brief sketch of self, Christmas Eve, celebrating the Great Christmas Squat of 2016)

Laying here in the boy’s room, on the giant, cumbersome, super-bean bag couch-thingy Grandama bought the gang. Curled up with our ol boy Dante, he’s snoring, Mom’s trying to get the gang to sleep. The littlest Coen is hyped up on the spirit of the thing, cinnamon rolls and new toys. It’s hard to talk him out of the battle between the new T-Rex with the glowing red eyes and the commando guy with his truck. 

We told them we would camp out with them for the night, like we did last year at this time. Mom and Dad on the floor. Last year, it was so cold, the thermostat was stuck on 66 degrees, and we couldn’t really do anything to hold the heat better cause it wasn’t ours, and everything was so fucked, it didn’t make sense to weather strip a window. It was great though, sleeping somehow in this room, the only really liveavle space at the time, but even in the ruinedness of the place, and the possibility of some pretty serious life-crisis if our new deal/loan fell through, namely homelessness, yet still we slept like stones. All together. Safe. 

It was a perfect day. We finished up our gifts this morning, making the cinnamon rolls, packing candy and gift bags. We did the drive to my sister’s house and made a surprise visit over to my Grandmas on the way. My kids loved her up. She’s losing it mentally and physically been hating life for a few years now. Did so much for so long, and then took that bad spill at the casino and things were never quite the same after that. But we hugged her, made sure she knew she was loved and appreciated. She said it was the best Christmas gift ever. 

I’d picked up a six-pack of craft brew, Sir Mochalot, from Iowa native Exile Brewery and tossed back two when I got to my sisters. They were delicious, left them outside in the cold and walked in my socks to get another. Shared one with my step-Dad. Laughed and partied with my sisters. The kids after the delight of presents (some bad ass lego sets, and new swing sets) and afterwards chilling  with the cousins were perfect angels. And when we said it was time to go, they were happy to get back for Santa. 

I’m a sucker for nostalgia. Our “new” 1997 Honda Odyssey, just manufactures it. Foggy windows, yet a heater that burns ya up, old car patina throughout , with the cold outside, and the radio blasting, mostly Xmas music, but an occasional trip to a rock station for our own sanity, all made sure the drive was a delight. Noteable soundtrack moments, A great rendition of Creep (not sure by who?), Simple Minds Don’t You as we made the ill advised, yet inevitable trip to grocery store, for bread, onions, yeast, and aforementioned libations. They all love music, cruising, head banging and dancing in their seats, declaring repeatedly, THIS is their jam. 

It’s an orchestra of snores now. Most exquisite, yet mundane sound my ears have ever heard. I sense the lilest is holding on by a thread (a whisper confirms). We’ll rest for a few more minutes. Sneak out of here in bit, after we snuggle our dog some more. Then it’s time to eat Santa’s  cookies, and sneak some presents under the tree. 

Oh and most importantly, we got some snow!!! 

12.23.17 (Morning From Bed, A Brief Sketch of Self, Learning to love falling on your ass) 

Back in bed. It’s perfect, warm covers, space heater, I put a blanket on the window so it’s dark like a cave in here. Left the glasses and pants off and went downstairs briefly, Brit had breakfast for me, reheated sweet potatoe hash, with sausage and kraut, a couple soft eggs ontop. She tells me how she slipped outside on the porch, fell on her butt. I told how she should have read my blog last, as I addressed the value of falling on the ice and the fear there in. She laughed said it did wake her up some.

Like Hanukah around here, with several continuous days of celeberation. In my mind I love it, the good memories of yesteryear, the completed, perfected feeling times like this can bring, that things are special. After last night though, I’m a lil hesitant. 

My seven year old is trying to play positive attitude enforcer. I appreciate the angle, but ultimately it grinds the nerves, in the typical judging the messenger sort of way. Parenthood tells me he will fail before me, as it should be. I agree though, in principal, reality is something else. 

I think my ideal holiday would be on a mountain, snowed in, stocked and prepped, fireplace. Nowhere to go, nothing to do. Under a blanket, reading books. Maybe a late night viewing of Gremlins, hot cocoa. A smoke and a roll by the fireplace after the lil ones are put away for the night.

We drove through our old city last night, hunting Christmas lights. The moon hung there, a glowing, offwhite wedge. I pointed at it to the kids, asked how the heck did they get that big one up there, do they make cranes that big? Maybe there was a man up there, holding it up like that. Who knew? In any case, it was beautiful, we all could agree on that. 

Dinner at 5. Until then books, and entertainments. Coffee. Self. Good day. I hope yours is as well. Merry Christmas!I hope you fall on your ass and learn to love the fear of falling. 

12.23.17 (1:13AM, a brief sketch of self from bed)

It’s cold enough, but it won’t do it. Think the forecasters lied, said chance of snow Monday to play the hype. But now, they’ve revised. Just cold. Always the New Year, hopefully. I’m yearning for the snow, haven’t gotten a good layer of it yet, seems like it’s been forever. 

Up late, on holiday, back from Mother-In-Laws, mostly an unfortunate train wreck. Think divorced 80s and 90s kids got it extra rough in the holiday season, negotiating all those family relationships, and all the psychodrama that goes with it. How the next generation is held hostage while the adults battle it out. 

Grandma had tried to cancel, we had tried to force it. Don’t want to rant and deride MIL, no real point too, and already done, so better to polite and say she wasn’t at her best. 

It’s more than that though. You know how some people seem to be hurting all the time, but then when you try to talk to them about it, it’s like now your hurting them, so you get wise, try to shut up, but then they’re mad you’re not saying anything, that you’re just sitting there thinking; they hate when you’re just thinking. 

I escaped for a coffee. Housed a disgusting yet satisfying quarter pounder from McDonald’s, and realized the front light was out on the truck. Took the opportunity to fix it. Stopped and bought an obscenely priced pair of bulbs and put it in the driveway. Was unarguably cold, yet I ignored the coat in the truck. 

I like the cold. How it wakes you up, smells crisp, tightens the flesh, gets your juices flowing. It’s dangerous. A quick reminder you ain’t shit when it comes down to it. Bag of bones and blood, lungs. Your mind is forced to wholly consider the body. Ice sheets pierce the existential crisis, when a tumble can cause serious harm. When the lights go out, then we feel small. 

12.13.17 (a brief sketch of self, on anniversaries, marriage, voices in your head, the source of the true fire) 

Yesterday was my marriage anniversary, so my in-laws told me. My wife and I were legally married 12.12.12. I thought that was unique then, that day, the numerology part, that’s what I paid attention too. 

I had told my wife the whole time of our relationship which at that point, 12.12.12, had gone for years, that I was not into the marriage ritual, as is. Priests, white dresses, vows, spectacle, expense. I told her we were married anew each day, each day we laid together, and that she was mine when I decided she was mine, before she even knew she was mine, she was mine. 

But on 12.12.12, we went down there to the Saturnian representative, said some things, don’t recall what. Both our mothers came, we took a picture. I was happy Britney took my name, mostly; I’d told her for years, she could have it, if she wanted it. See taking the name was something else to me. That was the true spiritual cosigning. It meant you acted as a representative of that name, that person. So the question would be obvious, who was the person you were merging with? 

Bastard born, I’ve been uniquely aware of my position. Aware of the distance between families, between identities, I would not be what they wanted me to be, because really they didn’t care what I was at all. So in my vision, I would have to write my own story as it were. And metaphor is apt, because it was books, book after book, idea after idea, I self-mytholigised, dug in the family records, found the gypsies, and the witches, the hounds of the sea. I found a temple underground, filled with the treasure of my ancestors. 

So today is my anniversary, tomorrow is my anniversary, lady willing, Friday will be my anniversary too. There will be no trinkets, nor pleasantries. There will be breath and flesh, words, passions, and hopefully laughter and reason. But the rocks and stone will not testify to a thing. 

She became a goddes when she gave me my three boys. That’s an anniversary which is acknowledged daily and will be until the end. That’s a promise I can make. All this other business, monogamy, marriage, separation, divorce, these are theater for an audience most people are unaware, and I’m offended by. Any time I’m forced to don my costume, it’s ill fitting, and I’m missing the shoes, and there’s a line of eager stand-ins….I’d prefer not. 

Now,  if you want to meet under the stars, and laugh. And hold close, maybe scratch me like a bear, well, now we’re talking. In return for that, I’ll love you until the end of time and beyond. And those things we created together will be worshiped and tended by me forever. That’s it. And if it isn’t enough, I have no more to give. 

12.12.17 (3:49PM, while the noodles cook, brief sketch of self, Nordic impulses, and an invitation) 

Something weirds changed in my world view. All of that anger that came boiling over, during the weekend, has resulted in a calm, sort of slow boil simmering of self, which I’m finding oddly relaxing, like a session in a hot tub. It has hints of maturity, but I know the true textures are more complex. A shifting foundation of childhood insecurity, is the large part of the problem in mindset. 

It’s a frustration of having to do the job, hack through the weeds, boil the noodles. (Note the liberal use of mix metaphors, no better evidence of fracturing writer self.) I call it maturity because it’s an acceptance, twisted and irresolute of course, that you can’t change other people. And oh are we gonna try… 

 I feel a deep, dare I say, Nordic-like urge for simple things, a shovel in the dirt, an ax thru a block of wood, a grip on a curvaceous ass. That’s all it comes down to. Been taught its not polite or proper to feel that way, the lesson just never got hold. Mostly cause the ones saying it were hypocrites with hard-ones,  waiting for their turn on Freud’s couch. My mood is more a bonefire of Freud’s couch, and maybe a moon-lit hunt for the bastard. Who wants to join me?

12.11.17 (A Brief Sketch of Self) 

I got all worked up in a intended blog post, over the weekend. It was ranty, internal, melodrama sort of stuff. We do that and feel icky about it, or at least I do. It was about marriage and family, the problems of male and female. I thank the Uncaused Caused that I didn’t, that ethereal editor was amped up over the weekend. Maybe it’s a dying spiteful 2017, donning his funereal vestment. Whiskey on the rocks in one hand, something smoking in the other. 

In the middle of our arguing, I lost my voice. Had a bad cold thing brewing. I realized the lost voice was a huge blessing in a way. There’s something very dangerous, beautiful, and ugly in the rant. My wife is such a calm, level headed person, the anima inspired rant can get her into a confused swirl. She’s forced to latch on to extra-spicy bits and perry from there. 

I think about it. Why do some people get it, some don’t. Some are fighters, some aren’t. I think everyone wants to be. Like animals, we want to be free to impulse. 

12-2-17 (The World, Hunters, Homesteading, Remodeling, Family, Photos)



The World. Two dogs about to fight, while the pack swarms around them, riled with the spirit of it. Except, they’re not really dogs at all. Screaming steel eagles, with Easter eggs, for hell’s pleasure, tucked in under the wings. They screech through space, saying much simply; we are here.




Hunter stopped by, napped a good one. Young buck, right through the heart. Helped me drag it to the back of the pick-up, requested the antlers, told me to spray it out, pack it out with a 10lb bag of ice.

Hands stunk after, and you couldn’t help but smell them. Stare at it. I had to flip it around in the truck to wash it out. Through out the day, bits of blood and spit coagulated on the bumper.

Was told the butcher was a religious man, would only be open for a couple hours in the evening. Call up there to see when. Four to six, a pleasant sounding woman said on the recording, shotgun season. It laid there packed with ice, under my tree, while I finished applying polyurethane to the trim pieces,  intended for the coagulating living room.

Unusually warm, maybe sixty in the sun, a last whisper from Fall. Reflection is the spirit. It’s been over a year, since we’ve had that living room space, couch, table, TV. A place to just sit around and relax. It’s all still surreal, someone’s life I have stolen, or rather a role I’ve snuck into somehow. I walk around the house, can’t imagine all the work I’ve done, and there’s still so much to do, but there’s that light, a new normal, new nest in front of us.



All day, I was sort of nervous about taking the deer to the butcher. Nervous at the newness, I guess. Never hunted. Never washed out a giant deer carcass. Never ran down a highway going sixty with hooves dangling. Figured it would be a spectacle and it was. Whole town filled with trucks, loaded up with deer. Anxious, focused masculine energy. Guy behind me critiqued that they should just have a stack of forms to hand out, make a faster line. Speed it up. It was fine though, lady was nice enough, eighty bucks to be boned and bagged. I plan to process the rest, stews, jerky, etc. Excited for that, spending a winter smoking meat, and doing sunflower shoots inside. Spring feels right around the corner.



Britney cooks tortillas below me. They make an extra pleasant smell in the cast iron skillet. Ended up with a propane stove out here. Something about that real heat, it’s special, and cooks so much better. Hunters might bring us another deer, that and the pig we got, will almost fill our freezer. Including all our canned stuff, we hold a solid six months worth of food on hand, and really more like a year’s worth. And what’s extra cool, is there’s a lot of food processing in all that, which is expanding our homesteading skills, like learning how to make sausage.

Watched a video on how to butcher a deer today. Didn’t seems so hard. Neighbor said I was welcome to hunt his land. Said just go right over the hill there. Help yourself. Go in the morning. Set up before 6AM, when they come in to bed for the day. Don’t smell like nothing fancy, and be quiet. Aim for the heart. You want a younger, smaller animal for quality of meat. And make the shot clean, so the animal feels no unnecessary fear or suffering. Fear ruins it.




The Moon From My Porch 

Like a perfectly circled cut of light,

Out of the firmament, 

It shines. 

Blue, to purple, to pink, 

Provides the the backdrop. 

Intrepid birds, flutter and chirp in amazement.

It’s not possible, but there it is.

Ancient symbol of the deeper truth. 

Stationary, yet always changing. Illusions, obscuring hard realities.