Homesteading . . .

I don't spend whatever extra money I have on clothes, or dinners out, or liquor, or tech gadgets, or magazines, or new things before the old ones have exploded into a million dust motes. I buy books. And not just any books. Homesteader Por*n:

 

And this doesn't include all the books I check out of the library. Anything with the words "homestead" in the title, as well as multiple perspectives on chicken tractors. And let's not forget the 187 books in pdf form I bought off the net in cd-rom form - everything from soil improvement to cultivating mushrooms to survival skills to fresh water fish pond culture to handtools to goats and rabbits and everything else. Sure, most of it is old, some of it from the 70s and 80s, even some from the turn of the century. But it is some seriously practical stuff. And that, sweetcheeks, is sexy . . .

Weaselville Farm. What will it look like?

There needs to be beehives. And a half dozen chickens. And a garden big enough to put vegetables and fruit and grain and legumes up for winter food. NC is great for cotton, and with a few sheep, the possibilities for clean organic fibers arise to be made into fabrics for clothes and home stuff. A few goats for milk and yard duties. Rabbits for meat. A three-legged black dog named Homer, a sausage dog with one eye named Delilah and we're good to go. 

The most I've ever done was grow kitchen herbs, raise kitties off premium kitty kibble from the co-op. But I keep asking myself why I hate food so much, why it makes me so sick. And all I can think of is how separate from it I am. It's a concept of objects I mix together, or tear the plastic off of and then devour. And my body heaves and rolls from it a little bit more horribly with each passing day.

This Hiveworld existence is not where I want to end up. I can feel it winding down in some way. It's a means to an end, and I'm grateful. But how long will Life keep me here? I don't know. But in the meantime, I keep buying p*rn, and plotting and planning my escape . . .