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    LUKSURIES OF MANHOOD

23

 

What if your whole life you strived to make the inappropriate appropriately easy? What if you normalized unreasonable expectations until Soul cries out to you, crying while drowning in a sea of never ending _______ (chores 4 maintaining broken systems). Pleading for openness — an expanse of experimental time and space — S u p p o r t m e w h i l e t h e w o r l d s t i l l s p i n s ✩ she criessss

Any systems
you're bold enough
to fix before _______?

Cranky not getting attention soul crossing the mind-body barrier: Hair falls out clumpy, eyes going fuzzy, and nervous system the bad kind of buzzy --- each together demanding you hold still and honestly account for where you've been and where you're going (bumpy)

Would you answer?

Could you not? 

But because *we are where we are until we aren't* the sole question really boils down to:

What does it cost to listen to your soul? 

Remember

Your soul like a child allowed to be a child — I need something, not this. I don't know what, but help me because I'm overwhelmed and crying for you. Change me, feed me, hold me, figure it out for me, with me. P r i o r i t i z e 4 m e ✩

I was born into my pattern. I married it, procreated with it and co-parent with it 👅👅👅👅👅👅 then I push it further, falling farther in love with it, fuck it so good from any-every angle 👅👅👅👅👅👅👅👅 Then there's me. Me as in Us. And I want to be a baller baby dadi beholden to Soul — my long abandoned daughter — and my sons — my living, breathing, fascinating true family who show me more grace, more patient L O V E than I have ever known.

You're doing the same. You're propagating your pattern. Did you follow the rules and put your mask on first? Or is the role you play the mask you're drowning behind? (The Rules.) Trick questions.

And your patterned babies are lovable and deserving of love, as they do what they're designed to do, eating up resources ∴ demanding you self resource like you've never known how.

T

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d  o  w  n

Is that why we are here? To live the immersed pattern until we can identify the pattern, see it separate from Self, see ourself putting it down, Pattern down on the ground, gently backing away from maintaining the broken ∴ moving towards  fulfilling Soul's callings, with all the precious babies strapped to your chest, your breasts, your back, sat up on your shoulders. Responsibilities stemming from iteration after iteration, held close, arms free for the labor required to live the alchemical transformation:

N U R T U R I N G w e

22gentleman farmer

🧶

VOGUE FRANCE N1029-AOUT2022 🐑

2.0

 

❧GURL👩‍👦‍👦DADI☙

👖

👢👢

farm&d

postmarked

mom&dad

eastonMD

🐟🎶

♀︎When is to do to deal?

♂︎When is to do to avoid?

eight

The most It you can be is yourself. This is where to allow It more than push It. Push the obstacles out of your way to create a space of allowance.

I hear myself speaking with my farmer and I don't like how I'm sounding. Instead of lying when I don't know something, I'll learn it. The hesitation to know here annoys me even as it tracks. I'm applying my inside work to the outside. A raw land long game demands practiced patience, and my nothing budget is what's made It a game.  2 Win: kick @ least 1 bucket down the road every single day

Farm leases are often verbal. Together we uncover 3 disparate events that occurred in 1983: Bobby got married, Uncle Robert planted two forests in the middle of tillable land, and Meghan was born 40 miles east. Bobby stresses that he’s been faithful for 38 years. I’m not sure if that’s about his doppelgänger, or loyalty in general — even though he’s planted the 2.7 acre llama pen before getting my go-ahead.

My hungry * horny * sweaty * human body is my husband. My soul and her mission are my wife. I love my wife, and she scares me. I feel like wives are supposed to be good-scary.

Being my woman's man makes me their daddy, a 38-year-old father of two. Dadi's on a business trip, which means he'll bring home presents, if you're good to mommy.

Taking Turns: oscillating rows of harvested winter wheat and flowering soybeans. Don't step on the baby edamame. Ripen past the salty mommy. Hard shells are pressed for oil and the scraps turn to chicken feed. Eat your inner mommy to become your outside daddy. Quickly now ! America really hates her mothers.

Example: When I have to pump gas at 5am and it’s still dark, I know I’m the only daddy who scopes the scene before getting out of my truck. The awareness of getting hurt just is. Keep your hurt. It's yours to deal with.

Fun Fact: Single mothers can smell one another in pheromonal connectivity. I met 5 on this trip and all but Melissa are further down the path, if we score by the age of the children.

☑ This is It

☑ You’re doing It

☑ It’s also called life

MINECRAFT ART BY ROGAN

?

what peppers your path

?

 

𓁹
came home to a B&W feather on my front steps

kid u not

seven

The word landlord will go by the wayside.

That energy is already on the way out. 

☑ primary bedroom
☑ primary bathroom

You must live like yourself because life is happening now.

I sleep with my pajama shirt unbuttoned in one move closer to being a daddy.
A dadi.

I wake to sleepy talk through a freedom declaration before taking a cup of coffee to the muggy front porch of my childhood.

A different front porch with the same summer morning weather.

No yelling here that I've yet heard.

Get up anytime you like.

Panting, grunting, moaning.

Couples making moves through the thin walls of the bed & breakfast.

This muggy is my sweet spot.

Sweaty from being still.

Yesterday, I lay in the cedar grove for hours. Set up shop set on a sheet printed with suns and moons. My red rental Wrangler is parked nearby with windows down, serving mobile commissary:

☑ electrolytes 
☑ bug spray 
☑ baby wipes 
☑ Jung
☑ curry scented incense

I'm dozy when a red Wrangler parks at the high point startling me. It's the guy kombucha grifter come to yell and shake his braided beard, full of bogus claims. Some of us always wait for the yell. But the truck has charm and out steps a different character. Farmer Bobby more like Bill Clinton than I remember. There are campy Darth Vader helmets in place of his 1989 Jeep's e's.

I'd like to see a vast carpet of wildflowers partnered with a honeybee commune. "Cutting garden" is a home phrase I never quite shake. The paths need fresh stone in a different color. He'd soon like to see an old fence brought down to plant a few more rows of beans. The bushes growing into the fenceline are fast becoming tree-like and crowding the back road. We already know that the tree-trees need help, even if they're not 'supposed' to be here — hence all the bunnies, and a magnificent large doe.

The farmer's next-door neighbor is Luke, doing the demo of the old tenant house, allegedly burned down after some story about blow jobs in lieu of rent going awry. How? Turkey buzzards have been roosting in the collapsed eaves. Apparently they really stink, as in smell fowl. Someone told me that if you hit one with your car, they automatically vomit, and the acid in their stomach eats through bones so eats through the paint of your dented bumper. I cannot learn enough. Endless knowledge when not worried all the time about where the baseball gear's been lost now. Just keep it all in one spot. Get some old-school lockers and anchor them to a wall in your basement addition. Spray paint them or leave the tarnish, like that industrial unit we put in the apartment.

Dragonflies follow me when I walk the farm. They followed me because my boots kick up little bugs. Disruption feeds serendipity. People whose lives work well tend to keep this to themselves while others get distracted in reaction, unseeing what lies ahead. If you want, push your way to the front of change and avow no harm done to the back of the line.

☑ Rearrange

   ★

I'm writing, but I'm right here with you. 

Current worlds making room for new worlds.