CW: these are uncensored reactions to animal slaughter on a small farm in Western Maine. There are uncensored photos also. Definitely do not read this if the word “slaughter” was rough: i need to get this all out. i have no reason to be doing or writing about this other than a relentless desire to fully understand all of life.

Today we wrangled ducks. Mostly i just herded. All the geese and lady ducks were shooed away to leave a flock of eligible bachelors. They all fussed a lot, but i haven’t ever seen these birds not fussing. They are loud and skittish. The farmer crouches to stare at the useful bodies all huddled. He takes his time. Focusing on one bird is like playing the shell game: the ducks clamor just a bit and you can’t tell which one you had in mind. He finds the breeding male for next year, tags him, then releases him to the flock. i told that drake he didn’t know how lucky he is. He doesn’t, because ducks are birds. In theory, this shouldn’t invalidate their worth, but only in death do they attain value for the man who raised them. So today, we wrangled four drakes from the flock.

All of the ducks and geese were clearly uncomfortable as we did this. Whether they understood anything is debatable, at best. Half to cope, i thought to myself, “Life isn’t all it’s quacked up to be anyway.” i laughed aloud, unheard among the nervous din, and thought about how maybe i wasn’t just coping, because that was a great joke.

Farmers handle animals like a belonging that refuses to. Like a child they don’t care to communicate with. When i ask him if he does communicate, the farmer here says, “I never stop thanking the duck. I thank it the whole time.” He teaches me to put the bird to sleep by forcibly tucking the head under a wing. It works, and i carry one duck to the cage on my own, out in front of me like a heavy rugby ball i’m a little afraid of. i want to hold it closer but i’m not trying to wake it up.

The process isn’t surprising. We take the caged ducks away from all of the other animals and cover them with a tarp. Knives are sharpened, water is boiled, and the farmer listens to sea shanties as he prepares. This is his thing. The birds go upside down into a metal holder not unlike a funnel. There is a bucket underneath.

i watch the first bird until the end, it’s white-feathered neck bleeding out from a nicked artery while firm hands hold steady, stilling the nerve-filled body as the blood flows down. A friend like me might notice that the level of concentration given to this task is one rarely seen from this person. He doesn’t look like an artist rendering beauty; he simply looks focused, and natural. He lets go after a time; i knew there would be twitching. It wasn’t nice, but i didn’t experience the full-on heebie-jeebies i’d expected. i didn’t flinch, or make any more jokes.

It occurs to me after a time that i am witnessing deaths, in succession. i examine myself for any signs of duress. i come up empty. There is nothing poetic or romantic about this. i am struck, in fact, by the lack of drama in general. This is an uncomplicated thing; true. There is more truth here than i seem to have experienced in quite some time. It isn’t good or evil or difficult or easy. It is actually simple, honest labor. Quiet.

After they’ve bled out, the ducks need to be scalded, not boiled, but heated slightly so that their feathers might more easily be plucked. They don’t seem easily plucked to me. This is repetitive, visceral, and a fluffy weird mess. There are downy white feathers flying everywhere with a darkly ironic whimsy.

“I never thought I’d be so appreciative of plastic sheeting,” this man is excited to tell me about all of his tools. Proud and glad of an audience. He’s usually like this, in truth, though today with a dedicated respect for his task. i ask him about that. “This is an achievement. Providing is primal.” A part of me hears this and scoffs, but the witness to this day is more measured, sees that truth. The efforts here demand the whole of a person. Even the repetitive plucking.

The farmer has draped his sheet of plastic indelicately in order to separate himself from the bloody, and now molting, dead bird on his lap. He has done everything today with his bare hands, and has already changed pants once, due to an abundance of blood. I guess the sheet is to save the new pants.

“Their first set of feathers” is what’s plucked now. It’s very boring, looks tedious, and sounds gross, like plastic velcro that isn’t densely packed enough. i entertain myself with the puppy (she did not witness the deaths this time, but she will be around it her whole life). When only down remains, the duck bodies are dipped in hot, melted wax and stripped of it. Who knew there would be something familiar for me in this day.

i am here on the ground, still bearing witness, writing as the sun wanes. The plucking goes on and on, and i am struck by the degree of labor yet again. “Do machines do this elsewhere?” “Yeah but the last feathers are always hand-plucked.” He talks about how much harder it will be to pluck the mallards—these are peking ducks. The puppy falls asleep on my foot, and the man waxing his bird draws my attention to it, “Starting to look less like an animal and more like a meal now, huh?” He’s not wrong. The skin and sinew of a familiar feast is now exposed, pale and muscled.

Pliers pluck the final pinfeathers as the sun goes down. The air gets cold and our party is relieved to return to the house, carrying meat that looks marketable. i am asked for the blow torch, which i hand over without receiving a please or thank you. Here i notice the toll taken by this kind of bodily labor on what might otherwise be a natural courtesy. Fatigue and focus, probably too that primal drive, have arrested the humanity of this project. (i suppose i could muse about humanity here, but i am only learning these things for the first time—there will be no judgment from me.) Whatever fluff could possibly be left of the feathers, but for the still-covered head, are blow-torched in seconds. The head gets a quick chop.

When the guts come out of the duck i find myself entranced by the beauty of the heart. i want to spend time drawing it, but it’s not mine. i settle for several photographs. i am overcome by the visible perfection of this small muscle. And it looks delicious, as if it might be brimming with favors toward good health. This is a bloody organ i am observing. i can’t help but notice how animal it feels to literally drool at raw meat. Primal, indeed.

Throughout the day there have been long stretches of silence, most often interrupted by some story or curiosity that has occurred to the farmer in the course of his killing. (At one point he starts belting out incorrect lyrics to a pop song i’m sorry i recognize and, comically, it’s the worst part of the day.) He tells me of air going through ducks as he cleans them, sometimes hitting “the quacker” just right. Sometimes a dead duck will quack, he explains, and it’s startling. He also tells me about hunters using those quackers to make duck calls for future hunts. Now he holds the noisemaker itself in bloodied hands. It looks like a fat, wet noodle with a tiny, slimy bellows, and seems too floppy for any further use. So, when he finds out i might repeat this particular hunting “fact,” this man does a bit of research and quickly debunks himself. i debate repeating the tale anyway—it just sounded so good. i am more than a little likely to insist on trying to force air through the next quacker.

The feet come off now, last, and a bird that lived this morning is finally just a piece of meat this evening. “Do you see that dense layer of fat?” The farmer uses a knife to point and it’s obvious even to me that this bird will be delicious. Every stage of this effort has been an achievement for the person who provides; milestones. Despite this, every step has also been wholly unceremonious. Part of me thinks of the song where the lady goes to the circus and wonders “is that all there is?” i didn’t expect much, but the even keel of the day has surprised me. There hasn’t been room for anything impractical, particularly not sentiment. Exhaustion will sneak up on me later, and i will wonder again at bearing witness to death. Was it difficult, in the end?

Only now, appraising meat that could look great in a butcher shop window, does this farmer allow himself to discuss the size and selling price of his ducks. He recognizes this shift in himself with interest, and says he will think about them again later as living creatures. So will i.

Sometime very recently, as in perhaps a week ago only, i started to see shapes in clouds.

i don’t know why i never could before—certainly not for lack of wondering about it. It seems a strange thing: that one is a creative and yet incapable of a common imagining. Of course, like all things before 2020, i took this issue rather too seriously. Personally, even.

And then, eight months and change in to this catastrophic roller coaster of a year, it just happened. i noticed a nighttime arrangement of glorious clouds that took up half the sky and didn’t look so different from a peaceful Audre Lorde. She had some comet pals, and a backdrop so deeply black that all her greyscale features were clear. She looked bolstered, capable and knowing above a constant Kennebec River. i thanked her.

Since then—every day!—i look up to identifiable illustrations. Anymore i don’t wonder or try. The sky shows me, and my eyes see.

It was not difficult to leave DC last August. There were people from whom i didn’t want to separate, but i was ready for a new life.

i was not ready for a second new life the following August. We’ve all been through it with this pandemic, and mine is a story of heavy isolation on a slippery slope toward a full mental breakdown, followed by the serendipitous last-minute purchase of a vehicle i could sleep in. i kept those tickets to Florida that i’d purchased in winter, and i don’t regret traveling one bit. That was how my 12th month in Maine began.

When i returned from seeing my best friend and her family—vacationing so hard!—i could no longer be home in the way i was before. A new life began without much planning, and it was startling. It felt abrupt despite being desperately necessary, and long yearned-for.

But everything has been falling into place. People appear, animals need tending, and it seems like everybody is getting ready for hemp and weed harvest. Like a toddler with cubes and spheres, i test out pieces of my new life to see what fits. And like a lucky little forest creature, i have been collecting many different pieces. Opportunities all.

Last night i got to be a part of a really lovely gathering. Today they told me to take anything i wanted from the garden.

i slept eleven nights straight in my car; tonight i will sleep in a bed. i’m so excited for this but more importantly to be in Erin’s new Vermont home. Being able to be close to loved ones like her and Candice felt nearly impossible not long ago. i am so very, very grateful.

i keep running into people who have done this before, who offer to normalize living in vehicles not built to be lived in. i am doing it, but it doesn’t feel normal. it feels vast and wild and so full of potential that i have no choice but to face miracles day after day.

i don’t mean this figuratively. With this freedom to roam (admittedly stoked by the prior several months of isolation) has arrived a feeling of space so vast that for miracles there is not only room but also welcome. This is an expanse—the entirety of my here and now—that invites beauty, stirs synchronicity, tempts fate, asks, and answers.

This untethering from societal structures happened sooner, and much more abruptly, than i planned. i had an idea of this freedom—not so much living in my car as separating from social norms and expectations—as a future goal that i was working towards. Instead, it came to me.

Some days this is a difficult truth to own and face. On those days i have gotten distracted by the job, family, “real” life of someone near me. My goal was to never have a full-time job again. In this i have experienced such early success as to wonder a bit at it.

A family of nuthatches has arrived squeaking and chittering all around me just this moment. A chickadee is singing nearby. They give me no choice but to pause, reflect on my most recent words, and commit to the truth of this life i now lead.

Thanks, you guys.

i am an empath, erstwhile pescatarian, and a person who tries to make friends with literally every animal with whom i have the opportunity to spend a minute. i don’t kill bugs if i can help it, much less anything else. When i think about taking life, i genuinely feel most comfortable picturing myself murdering troublesome white men. i’d rather let a bird live.

Buying local is proven, time and again, to be the most beneficial way—to community, animals, plants, local ecology and economy, it goes on—of enjoying food. Commercial food is the enemy here, not omnivores or vegans. Commercial vegetables are just as detrimental to the environment as meats, and much more harmful, in production, to humans.

So here i am, on a small (all meat) farm with a bunch of animals who will be gone in a month or two. i am significantly less sad about their deaths because i get to see how they live. i am going to learn to process them, and i am going to be happy to do so. Even though i haven’t really raised them, i still feel proud that they are well-cared for and destined to be appreciated for their deliciousness.

i have recently discovered in myself a sense of ethical responsibility to learn exactly how these animals live and die. i take their eggs and watch them get broody. i feed them apples and watch them argue. i bring them food and watch them get excited. Pretty soon, i will help kill and butcher them. The farmer calls this “harvesting” when he doesn’t want to offend.

i prefer to call it slaughter. If we are to be animals, why should we pretend this is anything but animalistic? i am sure i will cry, probably a lot. But i want to know exactly where my meat comes from. Chicken and pork are my favorites! How can i continue to consume them without learning what their existence is really like like? Can i continue to consume them once i understand?

Here is where the door opens for hunters. The argument for hunting goes along these lines: we use everything we kill, and we know more about these animals, and the land they’re on, than anyone.

(i don’t know if i’ve found more weed scraps or bullet casings while cleaning this farmhouse.)

i appreciate the argument. i agree that knowing a thing inside and out creates a natural reverence, and i think that a lot of hunters have tethered their souls to the earth in ways most of us will not understand. i read and watch Steven Rinella now. (If you don’t know this dude, he’s a friend of Joe Rogan, which could be enough said, except this guy is reasonably palatable. He stays in his hunting lane and literally discusses nothing else.) It’s not at all necessary reading and viewing, but i am Fascinated.

i don’t really have an opinion on hunting and i think that is okay. i am learning a lot, and voraciously. What i can say, with some surprise, is that i’m looking forward to the slaughter. This meeting with the gods, if not enjoyed, will at least be treasured. Though this attitude has surprised some friends, i am the same curious creature you’ve always loved: any new experience, any opportunity to learn—gimme.

i returned (happy and sad) from Florida on Monday to a lovingly packed and parked car waiting at the airport full of food and (hopefully) everything i’d need for two weeks away from most humans. After rearranging for an hour in the CVS parking lot, i got my COVID test (oof) and headed for the farm.

Ezzie’s Brook Farm is owned by a rad dude, and i think we get along pretty damn well. He offered me a flat space to park/sleep and gave me farm chores in exchange for shower, laundry, and kitchen use. i have thoroughly fucking enjoyed waking up at 5:30 and letting all the birds out of their coops, changing all the waters, and feeding the piggies. i am grateful to report that the latter have been surprisingly gentle with me! i really dig the physical labor, and i genuinely look forward to learning about processing meat. i want to do so much more on the farm!

Buffalo gotta roam though, and the farmer had some great advice.

Although i enjoyed every moment until bedtime, over night it became unnerving to be out in the woods completely alone without cell/wifi, miles from town. i had rested so well in my car at the farm—i didn’t realize that it might be weird overnight elsewhere. As soon as the morning sun touched me, i was again happy to be by my stream, reluctant to leave, but i decided around midday to pack up and grab some wifi. Not sorry i did! Coming back was even sweeter, and after a long night of hanging with myself, i slept like a baby.

The sun shields i have in the windows keep the car super dark and chilly, so the second morning i stayed in blankets a while, cozy. When i peeled off the shields, the sun came in gently through the trees—the air outside the car was warmer but not hot, actually perfect. Bathing in a freezing stream is tricky when you’re not overheated, but i managed the important spots. i cooked some food, as i’ve been doing. Nothing complex—just coffee, oatmeal, noodles, eggs, and fruit. i have to admit to loving this diet and being able to graze all day.

Living out of the car is wild and amazing this way—everything is here! i just have to open the right door/bag to access the things i need. Having everything on your back has it’s perks for sure, but i sure love being able to carry a variety of food, all of my art stuff, some books, lots of tools—a whole kitchen! and so much more that isn’t completely necessary but is absolutely reassuring.

i have traveled alone before, but never like this. i have road-tripped before, but also not quite like this. i think life should be an adventure or nothing, but i was really scared for this one. i still am. i am afraid of being a female body alone (i have weapons i hope to never have to use, right where i’d need them if i did) in wild country. i almost never have a cell signal. There are many signs of bigotry and gun ownership around here. For the first time in my life, and only because of these circumstances, it’s okay with me that i’m not the same color as my mama. i think the US does a shit job of encouraging community, but i also think i should have a little more faith in strangers sometimes. i’ve spent so much of my life surrounded by cultures and communities that took care of each other, and there is so little of that to witness in the US that sometimes i just go ahead and assume there’s none. Logically, i am surely incorrect. And so it goes: it wouldn’t be an adventure if i wasn’t a little scared. And if life isn’t an adventure what even is it?

i am quite fuckin pleased to report that i am able, want, and love to do this. Little buffalo, built to roam.

The thing i love the most about airline travel is that if you cry alone at any point in the journey, no one will tell you “it’s gonna be okay” or to calm down or anything. Once in a while someone wonderful will show up with a tissue, but most people seem to assume there’s a good reason for your tears. It’s so soothing to have a space that exists where humans let humans be human without interfering, and it is unwritten! It happens naturally because everyone knows transit is stressful. i have been crying in airports regularly and passionately (and often, like many times each year) since i first missed a flight in France when i was 19! Only once ever have i been questioned about it, and that was because i wasn’t alone. i was with a man and the woman who asked me was actually assessing my safety. i bawled a bunch in public yesterday and it felt so good to be among people and unbothered. So good. i fucking love crying in airports.

get a little frantic

do a little dance

so much stuff

what’s this mess

have a little snack

yell a little gripe

organize organize organize

(repeat)