Buy this book or This blog will make me famous

This is the blog that is going to make me famous.



I now live in a house of five including myself. The moving process almost killed me, my back is broken, and Mariah still is in deep defense mode, as if for a few hours I was a possessed during the move and she's not sure if the demon is still in charge of my body or not. AND there is still a ten ft volcano of crap sitting on a front lawn.

My new landlord seems cool though. He looks like Val Kilmers hawaiian brother Hal Kilmer, and he is doing a bicycle race in Tahoe on Thursday—cycling 140 miles in 10 hours. On Saturday, I told him I saw a man cycle straight up a mountain that looked 90 degrees from the base. He replied with, the trail I was speaking of was a: beginners trail. Every since, the only time I see him, he is either coming from or to some kind of kill-yourself work out.

**I debated this morning for longer than I would like to disclose here, if I should drive to the level I-II yoga class down the road.**

Needless to say, between the tragedy of summer ceramics, and the realization that I burn 30 calories a week by panic attack, I was feeling a little down. The familiar melancholy feeling always sounds it's three alarms. Its time to write in my graditude journal, its time to write a poem, and its time to be quiet.

#1 on my thankful list is I am thankful for my internal emotional alarm.

But this is where the crucial advice comes in. Pretend the next few sentences are in red bold: I am so glad that I have a ritual that I conduct when my center feels far away from where I am residing. I am so glad that I know I have a home that I have wandered from. I DO NOT want to taint the natural healing mechanism by bringing the same ‘you ain’t ever good enough’ attitude when I finally sit down.

On the way to a July 4th party I was talking to one of my new friends about writing. We had one of those new friend moments when you point your index at each other and feel perfectly validated that someone else in the universe sees things like you do. I admitted bashfully that, “every poem I write…in the back of my mind I hope that this will be the poem that gets me famous” That’s when she held on to her hat in sheer delight. I guess she had just seen her reflection.

After the pain in my bowls of Lopside, & after my landlord showed me up by 130 more miles that I have ever cycled in my life—do I need a critic that is demanding masterpiece every time I sit down to write myself back home?

I pray for my writing to be safe from the part of my mind that wants to hate on things. To be free from the heavy desire of approval. Constantly, I am wanting for people to prove to me that I am great, and talented, and full of love. Please show me in your eyes that you believe that I am special. But... if I were being honest, I’d tell you that it doesn’t matter what you say to me, because I never believe it anyway.

So, instead of trying to get my mind to see my greatness. I am going to let go of wanting greatness all together. By breathing ins these mantras: I write because it heals me. I write because it helps me to see clearly. I write because it’s what I do. That’s all. I will write poetry, and I will write this blog just to pass the time—because there is nothing more noble than doing what you do to find the moonlit breadcrumb.

Buy this book above... immediately if you are suffering from the same noise in your mind when you sit down to find your way.

I love you.
K