DEADPOOL 2

Aw, man, I almost peed myself laughing. That shit is so grotesque and over-the-top it's awesome. >.<

The plan today was to go and try shoot (lying on my belly) 'urban gladiators' jump over fire towards me (Sounds like a Bonnie Tyler song, I know). But a call from my neighbour early on changed that - she asked if I'm in the mood to climb the popular local hill, with a pie and coffee on top, her treat. It was a beautiful day for a small hill with a pie on top. She even insisted I drink a shot of some home-made 60% alcohol with herbs thing that could power a submarine if need be. That cost me half my Veto card - the other half I burnt on the dog walk later afternoon, when I had mojito ice-cream. Dayyyum, it was a fine day for booze. See me grinning? :D

An almost over-nighter outdoors ...

Alright! Back from … half of an outdoor experience :D It was amazing, but it was only half the night, so …

Right now a massive storm has passed, and we’ve hardcore f* through it, because I am a little uneasy during violent lightning and thunder and the General takes the opportunity to distract me by doing ungodly things to my body. I was up against the wall aside of the bed when the first orgasm hit me and it felt like I was chained to a rock with sea waves crushing against me, trying to drown me. And THEN he really came down hard, because I was not coherent enough to fight him. It hurts to sit a little.

But so does my shoulder, because that’s not the only pricking I’ve had to endure today – we had our second round of anti tick brain inflammation thingie. Luckily I overheard the radio ad in which they announced it’s another 50% off if you come in before 3pm. I also told G in front of everyone ‘Be brave!’ and the nurse looked at him, at this Khal Drogo creature, and asked, considerate: ‘You are afraid’? :D :D :D

I knew sleeping away from him for a while will drive him nuts :D I took the train again to his parents’ tiny farm yestereve, asking permission to set up camp beneath their garden, where the ground is flattest. (You wouldn’t believe how annoying it can get if you keep sliding off your arrangement.) It felt good to arrive by train; there was some sort of an old-timer convention, super cute. I got to my spot and began to set up the pitch. Didn’t put the tarp low enough, though. For the longest time it was okay. I was going to start writing and illustrating my log, but I could hear laughter and cheer a few houses away on the other side of the field. The General told me most of everyone is having a pre-birthday party at the neighbours, so I strolled there and I got loads of food. People sang folk songs and compared hospital stories.

Once I returned to the cot, I saw there was a fat pale spider inside, which I probably brought with me crossing the high grasses. I blew on the spider and the poor thing curled its tiny legs, afraid. So carefully, ashamed I probably spooked it, I used a grass bloom to sweep it to safety. I am not necessarily bothered by bugs, unless they sting me, but I am worried I will crush them unintentionally, which I do not want to do at all.

The 6 bucks blankie I brought instead of the sleeping bag proved unusually okay. I was prepared to be cold, in fact I didn’t expect to get any sleep at all, but even after it got cold, I just put the blanket I slept on over my hips and it was okay again. I hadn’t even started putting clothes back on. The sounds didn’t bother me at all: a hedgehog or a badger huffed and puffed pass me in a hurry, some of the cats came to see what I was up to, birds and mice hunted in the grass, crickets were going full throttle. It was beautiful.

The problem was hardness of the ground. Ye, sure, there are mats you can buy that are super cushy. I am not sure I want to be super cushy. A retard can be super cushy while camping, if they waste enough money on comfort. It kind of defeats the purpose of bushcrafting. I still haven’t proper stakes, so G made me cut my own out of sticks and branches. It worked perfectly. I can do this shit.

Not sure when I finally found a position comfortable enough to doze off, but when I opened my eyes, a tremendous man was standing not ten feet from. He looked so surreal, just a silhouette of trees, grass and this giant. (My cot was completely hidden in trees and grass on private property, there would not be any way for anyone to find me unless they knew where to look.)

“Have you had enough of this nonsense? Ye, you did. Come on, you’re sleeping with me the rest of the night.”

(He was at work until a little over midnight.) But we are not really easy sleeping in other people’s places (he was asked to stay the night so he could help out in the wee hours of the morning), so lying perpendicular on an L shaped couch, our heads rubbing and hands entangled, we hardly got any real rest at all.

The cot has meanwhile drowned in dew. I have no idea why, between a plastic footprint and a tarp purchased especially for this, the condensation gathered on EVERYTHING so heavily, the dripping pooled on the mat and the shoes and the bug net. Took me an hour to sun-dry the lot. Even the stuff that were not wet were moist, even my poor forlorn journal. That’ll teach me to set up cots haphazardly.

My plan was to finish the journal while he ran his errands, eat some and then walk back to town to catch a museum train home, but the vaccination invite changed that a bit. I began reading Bruce Springsteen autobiography Niko lent me while in line for the tick medicine, and it’s really well written. I’m about 30 pages in. It’s the exact opposite of the worst biography I’ve ever read – Ava Gardner’s by some fucking retard so called journalist.  

Sooo…. It was a lot more pleasant, the camping, than I was afraid, but I need to work on some crannies. I also need a fanny pouch, because (I didn’t bring the camera), when I was told to leave the backpack behind I made a pouch out of the buffy and carried everything but the domicile in there. You’re supposed to keep the fundamentals on you even if you detach from your pack. Plus my water canteen sits better on the fanny pouch strap than it does on the backpack strap.

Uh, did I tell you the other day I was chased by a bee? A fucking bee. We were raking hay and this fucking bee charged at me – you’re supposed to go stand in a tree – but I panicked so badly when it started hitting my head behind the ear, trying to get in through my hair, I just laughed, screamed and ran indoors … And the fucking thing was waiting for me outside the door for ages! A fucking bee!

A time from before I was ever in love ...

While I was rummaging through my old drawers at my parents' house, looking for text pages that would look like a serious speech, I found some old photos, (rare), one of which might, probably is, should be a photo of my ex husband... He may be a kid or something - (or is it a young girl? Or dD? It's too dark to see the colour of the curls) I can't even be sure it is him, because in The Brain his features are different, while The Heart remembered him exactly: who else could it be in a shy pose like that, without clothes like that? 

Brain has mixed things up together and people have turned to stories and stories have turned to reflexive remembrance on a membrane level. I was such a sucker at the time, I'd have believed The Heart anything.

The photo is bad and it's faded, but it's from a time exactly before the first time I was ever in love. Oh, there's been plenty of crushes on fictional characters (*hkhm*Jareth*hkhm*), couple of hot celebrities, even deep and curious attractions to certain people who were more like siblings ... After that moment come long, incredible, incredibly wasted, years of being fully submerged, not even a heel left out. I  found a potent verse from an old song from the period, that I haven't thought of in the past twenty years:

I can't believe the keys, the doors, 

the clouds that block the sun

Were all on my mind

Now I'm one with fools of love ...

I've felt a tremendous amount of feelings for a great many individuals, actual or benign, in these past three decades, of my mostly beating cardiovascular engine, but the one to own me in absolutes was this fictional wonder in the picture. I can really clearly remember what it was like before I fell, one could describe it as a vast, clean, heavy white silence. I know I would die or come next to death if I ever stopped being in love, it's just how I am built - a lighthouse or a library, I have but one honest purpose - to be a poet. There was always only ever going to be one charge per a lifetime for me for this cannon, had the straw Adonis not turned out to be unable to reciprocate awe, himself designed devoid of  tender follies. It's a fucking miracle - or a tremendous amount of intelligent providence - that the man who has my heart safely now, today, the rebound guy who turned out to be the missing cogwheel, keeping it safe from me at times, even, has not a sinkole chest. Where the fuck was he when this picture was being taken? He saw me, he knew me, but left me standing out in the rain! I wake up in the morning and stare in first light at his beautiful body, the warmest, softest skin in the world, the heaviest legs, the largest hands, the plough, the plight pill, the least forgiving lips, thinking: I know. I know. You wouldn't have liked me if you met me at seventeen: I fancied sprites.

Because life is not porn, as mythology would teach us, if you see 

a naked beautiful woman looking curious(ly) at you in the middle 

of nowhere, where there probably shouldn't be naked maidens abound, offering a chill drink or a free song, or a pot of gold or something, run like hell.

Dad's BD party finally came and went. Aw, man, was that a buildup. I slept for 13 hours after it, could hardly get up to pee last night. The fence had to be ready, my bro even rushed the last few hours to fix a slowly collapsing porch beam, and a ton of food, as always, had to have been prepared. I made the cake and used the edge cut-offs to make rum balls and Sacher cubes and the like. As always, there was no human way to eat all of it, so we're going up there today to help finish it off. (Before all the dogs are killed by cholesterol.)

        Dad is still under the impression, shocked at how many people came, old, young, some newborn actually, people brought gifts, sentimental stuff on top of beautiful stuff, there were chats and speeches ... we managed to avoid most toasts, if not all, so as to avoid people getting drunk, though some alcohol was circulated. Thankfully nowhere nearly as much as there used to be, which almost always ruined the parties of past in the end.

        I was to have the first speech ... to be more exact, my elder brother chickened out of the task at the last minute and I had a rad idea to deliver one myself, so I taped together 60 pages of an old text from my old bureau (if there's a place I lived, there's bound to be several thousand printed pages of my old texts lying around), so when I announced the speech, I threw the kilometre roll of printed text across the crowd and said brother only helped with the first half dozen pages of the introduction, the rest is anecdotes from everyone dad's ever met. People who have met me stopped breathing, because they are aware I am fully capable of reading an entire biography of an unsuspecting victim if need be :D 

        I began: "Little is known of our dad ... And even less is believed." Thank you.

....

       And that was it. :D :D :D

       My poor family started breathing again, dad stopped looking for his heart medicine and normal people took over the speeches... :D We even found out that for a while dad worked at a glass button factory!! That explains so much!!

       Crazy old fool.

       Dad hadn't gotten unexpected prezzies from non-family members in a long time, so today he's all giddy and idiotic with happiness; even mum said some warm stuff about him while we were preparing. Example, she's mentioned that on top of probably having a broken knuckle which he won't admit to, he also nodded off the other day and fell of a dinning chair, hurting his other knee, and he dozzed off and left a sausage cooking until it was vaporised. He asked me to reserve several loafs of bread at the bakery and then drove off to get it, but didn't ask which bakery was it, so he just went from one to another until he found the right one. Mum said the sorry old fool tries so hard, but he's such a mess. He wrote on wet lacquer mum used to paint the fence with, to write the date: fifth of May, 2018, albeit he had to ask mum whether it's the 2008 or 2018. He passed through a flea market on his way, amazed at all the great stuff he can buy there next time, buying an old book for the General. The second funny bit of that story is that the General, who was supposed to originally collect the bread and was sleeping after a night shift, ignored most of my text when I told him dad's on it, and called me an hour later, angry: Did any of you already get the bread?!

         Read your fucking messages, dipshit. 

         So, in the end, at least so as I am aware, it was great. The weather was a tad gloomy, kids might have been a little bored, dogs were a little nervous, but other than that I think even mum was happy with it, even though we had to drill the concept into them. A lot of family members we only ever see on funerals were more than happy to come. In truth my parents are a lot more popular than they think, or try to be, and the more of the old stories we still get to hear from their childhood friends, the better.

I know I'm dragging with you, my beloved blog, I know, I know, I'm guilty, but these days have been so busy all I do is feed the beasts of Instagram and run errands... We've almost completely finished with the railing (we ran out of material), dad's birthday is upon us, we had to mow in the vineyard, dig holes for baby grapevines, help finish and clean up, help the in-laws with their renovations, work with the bee hives, mow around the hunter's post, shop and we photographed a bonfire, but in a hurry, because the neighbours were freaking out - the wind was taking sparks way too close to their farm.

It's great, life, at the moment. But SO compact. I try to publish something every day, but I just get home and pass out. Last night there was a storm, so I went to bed early, disconnecting the computers for safety and I just fell asleep. (Actually I tried to rape the General for the third time that day, because my hormones are through the roof and I am on him like a chick on a noodle. I wrote two smut stories - one in which a gigantic hornet rapes a woman and one in which Pik van Cleef rapes a woman. But politely. They are love stories. With a lot of forced insemination. I even got a comment on my Hentai Foundry page, which I was not aware I maintained, but it does sound like me.

This is the size of a small bird.

We have a few stormy days coming in. After that, I should finally start hiking, anxious and restless and wired up. I know there's lots of stuff in the real World left to be done - I have to dig nine more holes tomorrow at dawn (gets too hot later on), and make a cake for dad, but other than that, and a ton of photos I'm still owing to various clients, I should be scott free next week. Gods of hiking contingent.
 

Weighting my current, existing gear:
Backpack - 980 g
Tarp - 350 g
(* stakes - ?? )
Cords - around 150 g
Towel(s) - 145 g
Bug net - 170 g
.. can't find my sleeping bag, so will take a blankie and a husband to keep me warm. Blankie is around 200 g and the small sleeping bag around 300 ...

I've tested some set-ups, letting dogs play in it to see what it can take. I only garden-pitched it, in perfect weather, so this isn't a proper trial run yet in any sense ...

This is a 'half flap' two poles sunny windless set-up that can come with the big net if need be. I don't know yet how much the bugs will bother me...

Comfy, actually. I can make it a lot bigger, but small suits me just fine.

And this is for the rainy days, but I have to add some loops to the tarp or some poles beneath it, otherwise it'll become a basin and a very unpleasant morning shower.

...