I live on a farm.
A milk producing, collie breeding, fruit treed, auto fixin', bread making farm.
Cheery children sing about, doing their chores.
It feels like miles and miles toward home. But is home something you carry with you?
Grams lives down stairs, in this Amish built barn house we share. I hear Mercy throwing
a log in the cast iron stove that heats this home. I'm wearing a thick nightie sewed up for me by the first born daughter, Elle. A full orchestra of Little Women and Where the Red Fern Grows. The second act of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Go to back story. Start at the beginning.
Alcohol is like a toxic lover, all seduction and band aids while he devours your soul. Otis says
addiction is never anonymous. He comes on this warm canvas. But then I'm like, gene pooled into this creative madness that has insured my very survival, an artist ancestry of gifted lunatics, who walked into the sea or stepped off of ledges, it's legacy burns my fingers in it's mammoth bite and murdered too many of us, yet has given me some sense of purpose.
Would I trade my talent to be normal?
Define normal.
Like, somebody has to do it.
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