Short Mountain Sanctuary

An unusual element to this farm adventure are the people who own this land. In 1973, the year I was born, some hippies purchased several hundred acres around here and eventually passed it off to a group known as the Radical Faeries. It’s a fascinating bit of gay history—feel free to wikipedia the shit out of it.

Four decades later these acres are a queer motherland. There’s a surprising number of gays living in these hills, and they ain’t following nobody’s rules but their own. It’s a weirdo mix of hippie, hedonism and fabulousness. Solar panels, organic gardens and the occasional art installation. You’ll be hiking along through the forest and encounter a strange altar—with glittery beads and baby doll heads—where some tongue-in-cheek pagan ritual might take place. There is a heavy nod toward pagan things and magic around here, although I’m not sure if anyone is taking it seriously. Or maybe they are. Anything goes.

Now I’m certainly not one to take it seriously. I keep a pretty reasonable and level head and am not prone to giving much thought to magic and mysticism. I’m a skeptic. I’m a cynic. Probably an asshole.

They throw an annual Spring Solstice event here complete with debauchery and a MayPole. I went to this event two years ago, when the relationship I was in at the time was really good. Before anything had turned sour. They came here every year, and were excited to introduce me to the spectacle. It was a memorable week.

To be embarrassingly frank, I thought this relationship was “the one.” Like, enough to humor them with a week in the woods dressed up like silly magical forest creatures while tripping on shrooms. It was as close as I’ve gotten to feeling like I had found a significant “life relationship” in a long time. Possibly ever.

But it ended. It’s one of the happenings that have brought me to my current crossroads—and this crossroads to this soul-searching month in the wilderness.

Today our group spent the afternoon on the grounds where this MayDay (Beltane) event takes place. It’s the first time I’ve set foot there since the last time. (That’s a redundant sentence, but you know what I mean.) It’s a visually stunning place, and it triggered a lot of memories of that great week with them two years back. I decided to break off from the group and stroll around alone —as I felt some unexpected emotions welling up.

The Goat Barn, Short Mountain

I eventually found myself on the exact spot where our tent was pitched. Memories of that week flooded my brain and I stood there motionless for several minutes. It turned into one of those montages from the climax of an emotional film. Flashes and scenes of when we first met. Trips we took. Silly fleeting happy moments. Then the first time I felt disappointed. The time I stormed out of the house confused and angry.

I dare say, it was a magikal trance. Very full circle.

Then at the end of the vision I looked down at my feet– where we once laid in our tent. I saw myself. I saw them.

I said aloud, “I’m not that person anymore.” That person laying there was unfamiliar with the experiences, knowledge and emotions I now posses. I was happy for him— laying there in love. But that version of myself had several months of a downward spiral waiting before him—leading him to the current version of myself standing there alone in the woods.

I turned and walked away. At a fairly quick pace. With each step I went further away from the old version of myself and towards the self I am going to be. A strange electricity vibrated my body and I felt a burden left behind in those magical, mystical faerie-infested woods…

I tried to take a picture of the rooster outside my tent, but this is what I got. It’s not photographable because it’s apparently some sort of evil soul-less vampire chicken. I’ve decided to name this beast Fuck Face.

In elementary school we were taught that roosters said “cock-a-doodle-doo” at sunrise. Could be charming, but that’s not what they say. They say “er-er-er-errrrrr.” That’s how you spell what a rooster says. It’s not even a word. Cock-a-doodle-do is at a least a word, fuck face.

So stop prancing around my tent like you are the shit. Because you are not. On top of that the timbre of your voice is totally annoying and you look ridiculous. -Kevin

I’m learning if I make the headline angry and say “damn” or something, like twice as many people read the post.  Yesterday’s “I’m pissed” almost melted my server.

Today seemed normal in a weird way. Even though none of it was in my routine. My element. (or damn mother fucking bitch element- for higher internet value) Waking up with the sun barely spilling its silvery light over the wet grass. Running through a chigger infested field into the communal house where I’m forced to smile and whisper “goodmorning.”   Then off into the mountain in the back of a pick up truck where I’ll move lumber around at the order of lesbians.

I’m just a few days in and I’ve got the hang of it. And now as I lay here in my tent with sore feet—thankful that the day is over and the evening cool— I sense a glimmer of clarity.  I don’t want to rush or force it, but it’s something like this: the value of getting out of one’s element is that it almost immediately makes you miss your life.  The one you were so disillusioned and exhausted with. Or something like that.

Ok I need to at least pretend to go to sleep there’s this rooster that lives yards from my tent.  He and I aren’t getting along so well.

Let’s start things off easy.  Here’s a picture of my backyard at the moment.

I didn’t sleep very well last night. I was comfortable enough.  There was a cool breeze and my air mattress is surprisingly cozy. But I’m used to going to bed at 3am and it was like 9:30pm.  So I laid there staring at the ceiling of my tent.

I came here to clear my head.  I guess my brain decided to dive right in because last night in the middle of nowhere— quiet except for the strange sounds of goats n shit— thoughts began to surface.

I’m pissed.  I guess i didn’t realize I was pissed. I’ve been telling myself that I wasn’t angry about my recent break up, but that was a self-lie.  I am angry. I feel abandoned. I took a deep breath and tried to let it go just a little.

I think it worked.  I think.

I’m pissed that I’m so distant from my family.  I’m pissed I spend most days alone.  I have this memory from my childhood… now listen I don’t blame my mom for this… it was probably like freakin 1979 when she said it.  The world was different then.  It has changed.  She has changed.  But it was something to the effect of “gay people don’t live very long because they end up so lonely.”  Now my mom probably didn’t understand the impact of what she was saying.  I hope that in some way I’m not reinforcing that idea for her. There are some amazing gay relationships.  Gay people aren’t lonely just SOME PEOPLE are lonely.  I don’t know what I have done, or what is in me that makes me one of them.  But it isn’t the gay stuff.  I hope you can believe that, mom.

Another deep breath.

Today was hot as hell.  I made a picnic table with my fucking bare hands.  Then we made sour kraut, which is sort of a disgusting process.  See photo exhibit A.

What happens next?

roosters crowing at freakin 3:30 am this morning. I thought they were supposed to wait until sunrise. Oh well. not the first time I’ve been woken up by cock. HEY OHHHH. Also, I just built a picnic table with MY BARE HANDS.

…But thankfully there’s actually a shower.  And a toilet.  So yesterday’s Google search “how to poop in the woods” wasn’t necessary.

I’m settled into my new home for the next month. It’s a $30 tent I just bought at Walmart, but first removed the packaging so no one here would know I shopped at Walmart.

I’m here with a small group of people from all over the country building a log cabin and taking afternoon workshops taught by a fermentation expert.  So we’re going to make wine, sour kraut, etc.  It’s very Little House on the Prairie. My intention is to write and video about it, but earlier I had a moment where I considered saying “eff that” and unplugging myself.  We’ll see how I feel.  It feels ok right now.  But one of the reasons I’m here is to clear my head.  I’m always trying to “do shit.”  I’m tired.

So maybe this is all you get.  Here’s a picture from outside my tent.  Stay tuned.  or don’t

I accidentally developed this character at the Cincinnati Fringe Fest last week.  I think I love him…

This week Lydia (from the Strange Dreamz Podcast) joins me to talk about happiness in the realm of pursuing a career in the arts.

My most recent relationship was sort of an unusual one. It ended officially recently and I can’t afford a therapist. That’s why I podcast. I think this turned out to be a pretty great episode, and one you might relate to. Dig in:

ok I’m serious this time.  Tuesday April 30 will be the final episode of my award winning podcast “Strange Dreamz.” A couple months back I did a fake out finale episode, but I’m totally for realz now.  All good things must come to an end.  Mediocre things must come to an end too.  I loved that show, like for the first year and a half.  When I stopped touring across the country so intensely, the show lost focus.  Tune in on Tuesday for a fun recap of 3 years of Strange Dreaminess.

For the past several months I’ve been writing and planning for a new round of stuff and I’m finally ready to unveil phase 1 of my plot for world takeover.  Sooooo… Tuesday April 30th is simultaneously the end of my old podcast and the birth of my new one!  It’s called Happiness for Assholes, which is also the name of my new book coming out this summer. It’s both a podcast and a book.  Is that confusing? No. embrace it.  You can have a sneak peak HERE.  Ok kids get ready.