Entomophile

I am the kind of City Girl who will call a friend on the phone or the guy from across the hall to come and deal with anything creepy crawly.  Or I'll let my mom do it.  Her OCD is allayed for just a few moments as she scrambles across tabletops or counters on the kitchen to swat a pesky fly.  I can't kill flies and I definitely will not kill spiders.  I will find a Tupperware and piece of paper and scoot the insect into the trap and let it go outside.  My inner Zen monk comes out around insects.

It's not that I am horrified at the idea of killing living things.  I will step on ants.  I used to get great joy out of it as a child, stomping on lines creeping around the sidewalk and watching them scatter in confused loops.  I also enjoy killing fleas.  I remember a particularly bad summer as a child when my cat was host to their party and I would walk around with knee-length white socks waiting for them to jump on me.  Then, I would get great satisfaction out of picking them off my socks and filling the toilet with their scrambling bodies.

Ants and fleas are the general exception to my killing of insects, but I don't kill insects, mostly, because I've been terrified of them.  I spaz out when a bee flies within a foot of me.  I'll marvel at a grasshopper or cricket, but jump faster than they do if they move.

Needless to say, my first few weeks in the country were a challenge.  No, actually,  I was entomo-challenged for at least the first month: constantly swatting, flicking, scooting and scratching.  I was a goddam buffet for the mosquitoes, the chiggers, noseeums and any of the other many, many biting insects.  After complaining to Judd's boyfriend, Argent--a quiet-spoken, observant gentleman who's lived in the country most of his life, he commented to me that tolerating insects is simply a way of learning how to deal with the irritations of life.  I am easily annoyed and irritated.  I thought about our conversation for some time and realized that maybe that's one of my lessons right now: to learn how to deal with the irritations of life, and not be bothered by them--not to scratch or pick at them, to not get flustered and reactive when they occur.

I am also learning how to appreciate all of them for their inherent, individual beauty and function.  I've seen some of the most incredible insects since I've been here: an array of butterflies, dragonflies the size of my hand, fireflies that put on a nightly show in the trees, the most curious creature with a burgundy body, short black wings and a beak-like tendril that dipped into the stigma of the flowers it fed off of one-by-one like a hummingbird.  The most amazing insect I've seen is the lunar moth.  It's as large as my hand and looks like a creature from faery tales.  It looks like it could glow-in-the-dark.

The longer I stay here, the more I like bugs and think they're pretty cool.

Gothic Appalachia

I arrived at Sassafras, the artist's collective located about twenty minutes from Ragmar, several days ago after trying to pack up the last of my stuff.  As I trekked to and from from my car, it began to thunder and rain, and out-of-nowhere I received this barrage of text messages from the Scottish Whore.  I last texted her two weeks ago.  She proceeded to "show me" how she and Indigo Boy had "something" as I carted stuff back and forth from my car in the rain.  I thought I was done hearing from her or about the whole mess.  She's just a dumb-ass bitch in my book.  Stupid whore making my blood boil again.  I told her to fuck him or someone else and just to fuck off.  Things aren't working out between them and now she's getting psycho on me.  Just stirring up shit because she can't leave well enough alone.  Doing everything now to screw the both of us.  And still I try to find peace in the woods of Tennessee 2000 miles away from L.A.  I'm glad I'm not there because she's the type of woman who would go to extreme measures to get back at us because she finally got dissed by him.  And I am glad to be here because I have peace; they don't.

I have found my peace here at Sassafras.  My cellphone has no reception, so phone calls and text messages are few and far between.  What relief.  What silence.  What a breath of fresh air.  I have Internet connection, my computer, great company, a gorgeous structure of windows and carefully-hewn wood to call home and 300 acres of verdant woods to roam and find reason.

I also have the company of two gorgeous L.A. artists: Judd is all tatts and overalls, Appalachian beard and an easy, lovely laugh; Anouk is all limbs and a cascade of red hair--the Lady Godiva of Hippie Hill.  They've brought a little rock'n'roll and a fine eye to the mountains of Tennessee.  They are sophisticated modern Gothic aesthetes.  A mid-century modern Danish couch and table line one side of the Great Room--an awesome 60 foot high room that's all windows.  A hand-crafted wooden trapeze swing dangles from the ceiling above a massive Chinese carpet.  A taxidermied deer head, a Victrola with a disco ball plugging its mouth, an impressive book and record collection, happy plants and an electric piano line the walls.  I've found my little niche in the Great Room and write there as the sun pours through the windows, the ceiling fans overhead creating a rhythmic lull, or as the rain drums on the deck wrapping around the house or as night falls and I switch on the Noguchi-esque lamp.

Anouk and I have become fast friends.  She reminds me of my friend, Remy--this stunning model-sized woman who is all heart and fierce style.  We've taken refuge in one another, I think, because we are cut from the same cloth: both L.A. girls, both grappling with how to make money as artists, both loving and disappointed by men, both fun, flirty women who can talk for hours over wine and cigarettes.  Judd is impressive for his kind personality and strong work ethic.  He can build or fix anything.  Recently, he began a construction project in the woods: a sturdy structure with a metal roof that will be encased completely by walls of antique windows.  He wants to put a pot belly stove in there for the winter when the people who live here or a visiting artist can go and make art as the snow falls around them.

Over the weekend Judd had help from two friends visiting from Los Angeles as they made their way to New York.  The four guys--"two drunk retards and two queer mountain men," à la Judd--raised the roof on the structure.  Naturally, I thought the two drunk retards, Xavier and Paul, were also queer as everyone else is around these parts or who visit.  I've been the lone straggling straight person.  Despite the fact that they--absolutely charming, lovely men--dressed up in drag, all chains and pink dress and tacky red Liza Minnelli 80s Dynasty dress and polka dot bow, to go to this queer music festival with Anouk, I learned later that, no, in fact they weren't gay at all.  Just really fucking fun straight guys with a firm grasp on good cheer!

I had a rockstar weekend with the lot of them, drinking whiskey on the porch and nursing bad hangovers the next morning.  The day before Xavier and Paul left, the three of us hiked for two hours up the dense wooded mountainside, through a depressing decimated clearcut where we got lost, and back down through the trees and foliage to the Refuge.  We hiked and walked for hours in our tall rainboots that we wore to protect us from chiggers and ticks.  Eventually, we made it to Ragmar's (after walking another 45 minutes or so from the Refuge to his property) and collapsed onto the hammock.  Anouk had to come pick us pathetic city slickers up, but we showered, had a lovely dinner of shrimp scampi and salad and slept like babies.