home at last

Well, it’s been a month. A month that felt like hell and high water was kicking me in the lip the whole damn time. Friday was my last day at work, so finally some pressure will be off for a while and thank hell for that. I tell you. Moving during covid, packing the entire house, training LeDoux as well as working full time — utterly overwhelming. And the whole time i just wanted to sleep and write. I don’t think i’ve written properly for a month. I’ve taken notes and had word prose coming out of my ears — why sure. But i haven’t had a novel thought since Laramie. Laramie which seems so far far away now. It already feels so far in the past but it was less than two weeks ago.

Yellow Texas flowers
Fields of flowers.

I didn’t want to leave Wyoming and it’ll always have a place in my heart, as will the Black Hills and the dead gulch of South Dakota, but i was ready to go back to Texas where i can buy my heart full of land to live on. Not wanting to move or pack boxes anymore or live through old furniture that has eight poor-man generations of farts and ugly seeds living in the lining. A new start in an old place with a clear vision ahead and dead reckoning the rest. It’s good to be back.

Palo Duro Canyon, TX

After all these long years out there in the states living and dreaming — we’re finally home in the Lone Star state. It sure is weird to be back. The place has changed a lot and i almost don’t recognise it. I’ve had job interviews, but selfishly i’ve been hoping it’d take a little while for them to get back to me so i have a chance to catch up on a few things. As i said. Friday was my last day working for my job in Laramie, Wy. Covid at least enabled me to keep my job whilst moving and a little thereafter. Everything was sent in, but no one spoke to me for the last week or two. And no thanks or goodbye. Not that i expected any. Riddance and good and feck away. Im glad to be unburdened by it all.

Dog off leash
LeDoux free running like a boss.

I wanted to restart this post once or twice but theres no real way to express learning for the first time what coming home really feels like. My heart pumps in my chest desperately trying not to wake me from my reverie, but im really here. Out in the fields amongst the horses and june bugs zooming at 80miles a minute into my face. Doux running like freedom could lift him. And on top of it all our apartment is ace with a view of the paddocks and outback of  piney bush n’ wood.

Dog and horse communicatin through fence
One of his new best friends.

Returning to Texas was like being welcomed with opens arms and served a dr.pepper in a glass bottle as soon as the welcome sign flew past the window. All that long time no see bullshit but this time it cut me up and i fell head over boots once more for the Lone Star State. Right now im unemployed and the place is settled enough that i hope i can work on my writing again next week. There are a few other ventures im hoping to dip into while i figure out my next steps. Some acting, stand up prospects and filming ideas. I’ve been considering trying to get an acting agent but i don’t if i want to drown myself down in that rabbit hole. I mean, i want to act but i dont know how it all works. Whether i’d need two separate agents for acting and writing. Meh. Time will tell. For now its crap o’clock and all i got is dreaming to do.

calamity B

I never thought that life could be beautiful. I didn’t think any good things were meant for me aside from giving people laughs at a night show, with me slipping out the back door before anyone could catch me in the light. What i thought doesn’t matter, what matters is that i admit that i was wrong. And i do. I admit. Hellfire and broken arms — i admit it.
I didn’t get where i am by luck. I gave in every time life got hard and i cried and i bled and i died over and over and over again, but i still went on with all those cigarette burns and piss sodden pants i was locked away for. I always said what if? I never believed a single dream to be too stupid to try.  And thats how i ended up in the BlackHills on a god damn stagecoach with the love of my life. Pulled by a sweet pair of Haflingers called Tuff and Tea.
If i had given up all those times that i thought the world did not belong to me, well i’ll go on and say what you’re not supposed to, the world would’ve been mighty poor with me six feet deep. A lot of kids in bad schools would’ve had to take their own beatings, cause i wouldn’t have been there to stand in for ’em while they ran to some place safe.
I’m good at a lot of things, and i’m bad at a couple, but lately i’ve been trying real hard to find out what it is to be me and living on every edge of the American frontier. Only now, the first day of the rest of my tomorrows, do i know that i’ll do it all. Eventually

There’ll be no choosing this over that, calling her over him or giving up that to live like this. I can’t be one thing, i’ve tried and in my heart it don’t make no sense.
I wasn’t born for that. I’ll be the artist my mother is, the musician my father is and i’ll be the parent my stepfather showed me — the heart that a man could be.
If those days come my way. I’ll write, i’ll be the runner i wanted to be, i’ll feel it all a little harder than most but thats how you get me. I live through all those pains, bad eggs and rotten boys so others can read about it in their sun room with a cup of tea, from a dusty porch with a bloodhound at their knee or simply for myself. I sit here and i write for all of you, but the most important of my writing is that every word, letter, broken heart and bloody gape its all for me. To keep on living through hell to see the sunset in Texas. To see it all. And maybe one day, when it’s time to die, i’ll be able smile at myself and say, “holy shit, you did it. You did it all. And yet still, you’ll never find sweet tea in South Dakota girl. Thank hell for that.”

So when you think that bad thought about giving in, or letting her walk all over you or whatever the hell pain you see yourself in. Turn the fuck around and go a different way. Get out of that sad bad marriage, let go of that ugly feeling you get when you look at yourself. Flush it out like Sundays Curry and move the hell on with your life. If this cynical bastard before you can do that — there ain’t nobody who can’t. Be you. Be selfish. Be good. Be human. So you did a few bad things — its ok they’re only mistakes. And help change the world.

Where words fail.
Words fail.

Deadwood Gulch, Dakota Territory


Well, my time came, there in the gulch of rotting gold mines, smoke and dead wood i turned the ripened age of twenty eight. I don’t feel any older. I dont’ feel aged at all. I reckon  i’ll stop recognising my birthday as time goes on, feels a little like i’m living on a timer. It’s not an attempt to escape the daunting journey of old age and perspiring into the casket — more a case of saving my brain from feeling like its got so much to accomplish and far too little time to do it in. I don’t expect to grow old much anyhow.

This year my birthday was something out of this world, something more fitting of the old world we all left behind — a world most of us choose to forget because we’re too scared to face how cruel we could be. Jack surprised me with a trip to Deadwood, South Dakota, a place i’d always wanted to see. I wanted to walk to the badlands, sculk around Chinatown and stay at the Bullock Hotel on Mainstreet with its ghosts and windows looking into the old thoroughfare. All of which we did. Together the best way i know how to be.


We rode the Cheyenne to Deadwood Stagecoach around town and made fast friends with the drivers. They asked us to move into the house down the street and start working the town with them. And that was only the first hours of our first full day, my birthday.  We found a new favourite haunt in the Wild Bill Bar, the original number 10 lot on discovery where Wild Bill Hickok was shot by Jack McCall, with a buckboard full of dead animals nailed to the wall and red lantern lights hanging from the embellished bar frame; we couldn’t resist the place. I hope to make it there often even though it’ll soon be nine to twelve hours away. I shall never forget my life, though brief, when it was in South Dakota.

We visited Mount Moriah where Hickok, Calamity Jane and many other familiar names rest in peace, at least for the most part. Seth Bullock and his wife rest on top of the hill (its actually a god damn mini mountain haha), forever looking over Teddy’s tower somewhere beneath trees on the other side of the gulch. It was murder for me getting up that damn hill but it was worth it, i of course insisted on wearing my finery, to see my sweet Calamity and pay my respects to her and her supposed lover of time gone by, all of which consisted of boots, linen shirt with long sleeves, my good felt hat and my best jeans.

I see a lot of myself in Martha Canary. I suppose all my years i always had been a little different. I cut off my hair and i dressed as boy for most of my youth, and even once my hair grew back, and to this day, im still largely mistaken for a man. The cussing and such dont much help on that account. All this while i was dreaming of living in a place where it always felt free and everything else was unnecessary. It was a dream i didn’t believe would come true. The difference between her and i, is that my choice of self neglect is not juicing the corn, i have long since made the decision not to drink but that didn’t hold up all that long in Deadwood. No. Its a place where the folks are good, the nights are something to aware of but the Black Hills are scared land and i have never in my life seen anything as beautiful. There were fresh water creeks laced with wild bank flowers of all colours. Red deer danced and pranced through life all safe and fine. A little ways away you’ll even see mountains and hills full of buffalo. Right now their babies are all red, small and unsteady but perfect. Anyway, Calamity to me is who i am by day, all cussing and unladylike.  However when my depressive state  and sad sad suicidal ideations take over i believe i become more like Joanie Stubbs. Thats what i’ve named the dark side of my life. Joanie and Jane. I don’t mean that in some weird fan obsession in regards to the show or movie, i mean that as a survivor and that is something that helps me keep on.


Deadwood for me was always going to be a game changer, i just had that feeling you know? And in my previous blogpost where i mention coming to the end of our travelling days, the end of finding some foreign state to live in being done. Well i don’t know.  I could move yesterday to be amongst the Black Hills. Its holy ground to the Indians, the red nation, whatever they prefer. We’ve caused a lot of harm on that land, any land, but to me that land is a powerful, a spiritual place and something i can never un-feel. It all lives there on those hills. Though we may never move there, its a place to come as often as a wage allows.


Theres something wild and strange about meeting real like minded people who just fit into your life like puzzle pieces created millions of miles apart. The folks doing the street and bar shows took to us quick and fast. They were all like us and they impressed us as i believe we impressed them. I never have had the feeling that i wanted to interact with people, because i always felt that my head and my heart were some place else. Somewhere i’d never find anyone worth talking to who was the same. But i found  folks in Texas, and i sure as shit found some in Deadwood to boot.

For now i believe thats all i have. Im trying to juggle a lot lately. Training LeDoux, working full time, packing house, keeping appointments and writing and reading. Sadly i dont believe i’ll have my photo editing time till im in my new place in Texas. We’ll see.

the big horns



I believe that the world owes nothing. No debt to pay or government to over throw. The earth will keep on keeping on long after I’ve kicked the bucket. Same as you. The big horn mountains will still stand. The ridges may be different, but they’ll be there. Out by a fire in the middle of no place where the space is vast and full of opportunity. That’s where I go. When I’m done I move on. Carrying what little I have to my chest close as kittens. Mostly photographs, writing, old books handed to me by my grandfather and that’s all — aside from memories.
I live in my own world, because that’s where its safe. Everyone is equal there and left to themselves. It’s quiet. Smells nice to boot. Fresh grass along the streams. The desert has its time to sing. There’s nothing to worry on, except what I concoct over a fire after midnight myself. But its free. I am grateful for my chance. I don’t rub it nowhere. I don’t regret. I don’t forget. I belong where the western winds blow. I belong under the skies so deep and clear that I could paint my hearts true conviction for beating.
And all this time I’ve wondered why I wasn’t like everyone else. Why I carry a burden the way I do and now I know. It is those who suffer and keep suffering that will always, somehow, find a way to survive. Then one day, when I’m old and dying by my fire, perhaps some young good looking kids will sit by me and ask. “You’re a long way from home ma’am. How did you come to America all those years ago?” And I’ll look into my fire and smile.

what kind of writer i think i am

I’m not sure what i want to come out of this particular post but its a question i often find myself pondering.
Im not your run of the mill woman with words only in defence of vaginas and all woe is me about how bad life is because “men”  and how much i struggle and point point point at the devil who fucked me over.  If thats your thing you wont find it here. Nothing wrong with it i suppose but i just don’t buy it. I’ve met more bad women than men, but there are equally as many men that aren’t good. No one is better than the other. Nevertheless I complain a fair amount and a lot of what i write is probably construed as “negative” — its not necessarily, its just honest and raw. But i don’t believe i am owed a single damn thing because of past experiences.

I like men and i like things that men do, they’ve done things to me i didn’t like and i got over it. Eventually. Cigarette burns turn to scars and disappear in the sun, thats good enough for me. I don’t see ’em no more.

I’m a life writer. I used to be a good person and in the deepest pit i still can be. But when i write its all born from the pain, hate, loss, goodness, life, true exhilarating glee, experience and what kept me alive. When you read my books, my poetry, songs and plays — you are reading me, loving me and living with me. Im not some beautiful soul with well wishes and kisses for babes. Im the woman in the dark without a kind word for anyone but the poor lad by the fire, and he’s the one i chose to save.

Im a broken hollow bone story teller, and thats what i’ll write when it comes to my author bio. It’s my niche, my living and hopelessness all laced into a short phrase with the power of some bad God behind it. I’ve started paying more attention to the business side of my journey to becoming a published author, not just a magazine writer or lonesome mole with a lyrical sense to scribble in the dark. I used to write for magazines, i sent in my work and it never truly worked for me, especially after some son of a bitch stole my article. He took it, edited it, had it printed and fucked me over royally. Imagine my embarrassment when my mother and sailing friends bought the magazine purely for my work… and it was nowhere to be found. That was an unhappy experience for me when i had to admit to them, that yes — my article was stolen and no i don’t know that i’ll get over it. I never wanted to write again because “what if?” So i don’t publish my real work online anymore. The stuff you read on instagram is just soliloquies and train of thought. Its all bullshit and bloodwords. I liked the magazine business sometimes but it was a lot of work for something i was not truly invested in, Mutiny Magazine was the favourite that i wrote for and i would still like to write for them now and again when my schedule frees up. Great, fun & happy pirates & mermaids. Ha.

Anyway back to my point. My instagram tag has changed from “hyggjaa” to my name. I’ve considered this change since i started really working on this novel, i knew for a fact an agent would suggest i changed it to make readers able to find me with ease. So i went ahead and got it over with. Same with my facebook page — last night i officially changed it to Writer/Author, but i imagine my posts will still be somewhat the same but perhaps with more books or the like. This is also the reason for 95% of my unfollows. I kept those relevant to my happiness, or those i enjoy following and the rest have been unfollowed. It’s nice to feel it is a fresh, raw if you will, start. Over the next period of time there will be changes, considerations and probably intermittent silences. I will be working my absolute hardest to find agent i can work with, get my book published and really dive into my first few chapters of a second novel.

My next steps will be to complete an author bio (this will change over time but i’d like a good solid start — but i am TERRIBLE at writing about myself. I hate it and i dont believe in bragging – its ugly.) I will start to reach out to my lists of possible agents when the books is totally finished ( i am prepared to face many many rejections, just like acting thats what this business is like — though i am yet to be rejected in acting. Ha. Brag. Ugly.) and i will keep writing through it all. Doing my exercises, living and writing.

May you stay well and live as you like. If you have something to say, please feel free to comment below !! I’d love to connect…. on my own terms.