Winter Lunacy

Carlos theatrically lays bare the bosom of his insecurities; Jodi crochets

Summer and fall have come and gone, and we’ve been continuously shoveling snow and balancing precariously stacked firewood in our mudroom for what seems like the past 200 years. Not complaining. Just issuing some cold-hardy facts as a blocky and fumbling reemergence into the glitz-ambiance that is the blogosphere. Voilà.

It’s taken me the bulk of 2018 to realize that Jodi and I are, in fact, the stuff that cupcakes are made of. Worse yet, instant cupcakes of the boxed variety. With such reflection came the tosses and turns of what is, as a heterosexual American man of sufficient intellect and whiteness, generally foreign to me: self-doubt. I don’t know where to start we don’t have a nursery or greenhouse we can’t afford and still haven’t bought necessary infrastructure the chicken coop’s not done any chicks I buy probably won’t start laying this year oh lawd what’s the meaning of all this that’s it, I’m just going to fake my own death and start life anew as medical doctor/astronaut. And so on.

Jodi and I are, in fact, the stuff that cupcakes are made of.

I’m better now. The key was to recognize two extraordinarily important things, one for our time and place and the other for life. First, Jodi and I are not in a densely populated, fast-paced place anymore. The marketing maneuvers that, in previous undertakings, I’ve for so long employed (and heroically been unsuccessful at) now feel arrogant, somewhat manipulative, and plainly out of place. As such, I’ve abandoned the role of barker at my own circus and have confronted the reality of my own two hands and increasingly glitchy neural synapses. This very website will reflect such reservation when I get around to it. Second, and lovingly spooning the first, I do only have two hands and several misfiring brain cells left. There are going to be issues. Sowing and transplanting dates are going to scurry past as I stand, arms akimbo, surveying our land with blissful ignorance. Whole crops are going to fail by drought or flood or heat or frost. Insects and pestilence, like the wrath of God, are going to wreak havoc and lay waste to hours, days, and weeks of labor, and there’s not a tremendous amount of influence I can have over these outcomes, lest I raid the heavens to wrestle for control the many arms of Vishnu. Time will amend the mistakes of our early trials and I can do nothing but accept that. Boom.

Our very first seed order was placed today from a local company called Rainbow Seeds. All heirloom or open-pollinated varieties. While hybrid seeds are bred to better withstand the variety of problems mentioned above, I want to try my hand at seed saving (for when the SHTF*), and the recessive/dominant gene-tinkering of hybrid seeds won’t reliably produce what we originally paid for in successive generations. Plus, they’re fucking expensive. Going all heirloom, we were able to buy enough seed for more than ten, 100-foot plots, with 16 beds at 30 inches wide per plot (If only a quarter of them produce something resembling edible, I’ll be dancing in the streets). Ideally, samples of the most robustly fruiting crop will be saved, making each generation more and more suited for our specific soil type/climate/rookie buffoonery.


In all this disorder and quiet hysteria, I’m trying to make the chicken coop safe for the ordering of 50 Rhode Island Red chicks as soon as possible. Again, the wish to have everything controlled to perfection before being put to use has been a ridiculous hindrance that I’ve allowed to proliferate to impotency. All you OCD, ADHD, and anxiety-stricken sociopaths know what I’m talking ‘bout. Hey, maybe all you need is to move to the countryside and snow yourself in for winter to realize you’re a lunatic. Anyway, aesthetics have now been thrown out, retrieved, and then set alight in favor of practical functionality. Still, procrastination, a lack of materials, genital-shriveling cold, and said arresting neurosis have slowed me down. I’ll get there, hopefully before the end of the month. Next.

My captive, Jodi, has full-on launched her crochet business, Jodi Lynn Crochets, and she’s killing it (in the best way). It’s more than impressive to have witnessed her evolve from an absolute beginner, fumbling before the endless glow of YouTube tutorials, to the proficiency and perfection of a machine. If you’re feeling supportive, follow her Instagram and Facebook pages. If you’re feeling generous, share ‘em.

Abrupt mic-drop.

Glenvale, New Brunswick

*shit hits the fan

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