I have a hunter's heart, a love-poet's soul and a vegan brain.

What happens when you are really tired and you've spent the whole day creating and listing new items on the store. You don't list 1 item worth 57 bucks, you list 57 items worth 1 buck. 

Even on a good day half my coherence is meandering sexy thoughts of dark-eyed huntsmen, and half dealing with whatever Real World throws at me on regular basis, but today I have PMS and am racing to beat the Black Friday sales, posting as much as I can. 

And it's past 1 in the morning and I still can't sleep, because the General is out, working. Bought myself an airport book for the trip, tho, so I'm pleasure-delaying, otherwise I'll end up reading it BEFORE the trip, as I have been known to do. 

Had to go down to the police station to file a report regarding a petty theft, and the partner of the officer who took my statement was our age random-looking fella, but he spoke with the Goatland accent and my ovaries stood at attention like Doberman ears. Who needs Brad Pitt or Idris Elba, if you have Goatland yokels!

I hate my brain.

... Was thinking - that moment when you realize you're old - for me it was when the saying 'Youth is wasted on the young' made perfect sense ... And today I was passing the statue of an old medieval philosopher-poet, this proud, venerated bronze statue of an academy man, thinking "he was actually kinda hot"...

     I'm gaining on him, age-wise. 

I so wish that we were explorers and not hunters. You can still carry your Winchesters, guys. Or whatever that thing which looks like you could single-handedly liberate Afganistan with that the Huntsman carries is. A sniper's jerk stick. But why must we be hunters? Why can't we be cartographers or pathfinders or frontiersmen? Same fingerless leather gloves, same good shoes, same canteens and dry snacks, same shrubbery, thorn and mud, drizzle and fog, same crooked terrain and winter forest, the dark spruces and the rustle of birch leaves. Same pond pits and sudden gorges. Same tracks. Same animals. Same dogs.

Some new stuff promo pics :)

Shitty phone pic, I know, (this is a road I crossed, not walked. I walked the patches of spruces and thorn left and right and up and down :D ) but it was such a magnificent day in the woods. I am SOOO tired. Dirty to the gills. Tried honing in on G using Google maps synch, but missed him by about a 100 meters (which in woods like these is same as 10 miles.)

Guess who got the only kill.

Fuck I couldn't sleep last night... Which is not the best thing not to do a night before a hunt. And I did everything right - had a nice productive afternoon, nice dinner, nice movie, nice book, nice sex, nice bed, nice thoughts, and still, the brain would just not shut down. Could have been the fact that G worked a night shift week again and the inertia dragged on, or the gazillion ideas rolling around in my brain regarding paint, or that I wondered whether telling the Hunter, if I find him having shot another magnificent creature tomorrow: "I've known you for a quarter of my life and you are the most talented huntsman I know, but I still can't decide whether I want to kiss you or hit you in your stupid fucking face ... " would sound cute. He seems like a person who's frightfully unpleasant when he's angry. Oddly literate, though. I read some of his angry letters. Punctuation and all. Makes me really want to provoke him into losing his cool. But then the General would probably take away all my drawing pencils ... O.o

Osti jarej!

It seems like we won't be participating in the hunt this Sunday, as the General is still on a verge of dying from cholera (read: he has sniffles), so the universe has fired up my morning (spent thinking of the Hunter) by putting him directly on my path as I was off to shop for drawing paper in a mall just outside the town. I don't think I've ever seen him in civilian clothing, in the Real world, at least not for a couple of years. Never out of nowhere. Fuck he's hot. Good taste. Great color choices. If you can imagine me - in my old dirty (*paint dirty) trainers, ugly old battered shoes, cheap jacket that does nothing for my femininity and a cap that looks like part of PJs you get in a mental asylum, well, he is the opposite. Good, new clothes, good body, dark and elegant. Good stride on the man. I made a mocking serious frowny face when he failed to register me until we were nearly within reach, and then he snapped out of his trajectory and beamed up, recognizing me. He reached for my elbow in kinda half-hug closeness and I asked him 'sup. He asked how is the General and I commented he acts as defeated and miserable as my dog over there (as the dog looks like the sorriest, most abandoned stray ever when she has to wait outside a store and she really makes it work for all she's worth when she can tell I am looking at her.) I asked if he has time for a coffee and he said sorry, no, just on his way to (some city, I forget which.) I asked what's there and he gave me the knowing, slightly diabolical look: you know, fieldwork. (He's an inspector.) Oh, he must be hella scary, walking into places all official-like. I wonder if he's nasty. Beautiful AND cruel. Damn.

             I wish people didn't have such filthy minds. I wish I could go out and spend the whole winter night sitting in a hunter's outpost, looking at the forest, watching him breathe and think, study the woods and prowl, and nobody would assume something indecent took act. That way the General's reputation would not be challenged and this whole desire I keep adding fuel to, which has NOTHING to do with wanting to suck someone's dick - nothing, in a hundred years - would be understood for the giddy exhilaration that it is. 

            Made me laugh, the thought of kissing him, the other day, when the General again explained how the women of their region react. If he told his father and the hunter's son, the men would be insulted, their feelings hurt, their faith in me and my decency tarnished, but ... 'okay, it is just a kiss,' they would say. 'A kiss is nothing serious. Women act out in romantic crap like that.'

            Yet if he told his MOTHER and the hunter's WIFE, well. That would probably be the last you hear of me, dear blog. Nobody would ever find my scattered chopped-up pieces. You do NOT cross the kind, gentle women of the region these men are from. They have been known to choke a wild boar. 

Secondary silence (The poem version of the Hunter's dream)

In this poem, you are only human indoors
Thick dark-green wool clothes, felt, really
Moist and warm, shoed and standing
The breath, the smell, the sound, the taste,
the sense of you,
all human.
But I am not an indoor beast and although
meant thoroughly, kissing is not what I live for.
Outside, you are a fox
Dark gray, large and quiet, following me through the snow.
It is a high but weightless snow,
Waist-high and I am pushing through it
like it was feathers.
It is night and dead still, all of it,
No stars in the overcast sky, no light
Natural or human anywhere.
The hills, covered in silver
Spruces and ancient oaks, all pitch black silhouettes
Naught but the sound of my footwork
Grinding the snow like a metal
And you, traveling with me
We can only be hunters
For we are calm and want to be here
We want to walk these hills and woods for ages
Our existence in this moment is absolute.

New stuff :D

Damn birdies totally stole the show :D

The dreams with the huntsman are really quite so beautiful. Had another one today. He was warm and moist and gentle and kind, thick wool of his clothes, his breath and his voice, but that is not the part that got to me, for kissing is wonderful, but it is not what I live for. We left the dark, basement-of-a-cottage-like indoors in which we were fully clad to go outside and then we were not so dressed anymore. I was normal, my evening, summer hunting clothes, but he wasn't a human any longer. There were 3 feet of snow up to my waist, the lightest, dryest snow you can imagine, and I pushed through it as if it was feathers. It was nighttime, we were on a hill, surrounded by a forest, black spruces, ancient old bare oaks, as quiet as only the dead of winter can be. Starless, flawless night, silver and still, the hills around us perfectly dark, clear and distant. Not a single light, civil or natural, anywhere, just the wild glow of snow that's never been thread upon. He walked behind me, now in the form of an old, large dark grey fox. We just walked. Just the sound of crushed snow. Waist-high snow. Starless sky, black spruces, two stuck souls, and it was perfect. Like a poem to exist within. 

I think I know why I never pursued a career of a photojournalist (a job I was born for)...

Can't think of a single good one who'd lived happy.

New stuff on Etsy