The Quest for an Abudance in Sunshine

where you find: the key to happiness, personal experience, a redhead's poetry, book reviews, new science, nature, rock'n alt. medicine

Tag: fiction

Free Write Thursday

fwt 3

click to enlarge! want more helpful tips donate $1 to THE HELP @–2/x/4196431

I’ll post 5 tips for better fiction writing, and with your support, I can provide more useful information. Have a question about writing you’re stuck on? Comment below!!


“Just Breathe”

>The breath is evidence that the mind and the body are connected. When you’re angry, you’re breath is quick. When you’re sad, you’re breath is different. Breathing is the fastest and most efficent way to find my center, even when I’m struggling with something difficult. It reminds me that I am not my emotions.

I’ve been practicing yoga for over a week, and I observed that I can make my body sit still, but my mind cannot. Soon, the thoughts in my head overthrow my pose. To correct myself, the only simple thing is to breathe. A spiritual teacher taught me to say “Sooo” when you inhale in your head, and on the exhale, “Ummmm” a deep vibrating tone. He explained that those words were the sound of my Self. Every one I met in Northern California told me I was an old soul. Is this why I’m looking so hard for something that I’m not sure even if it’s there, or what it is? Then I read that the breath is connected to your mind. You hear all the hype that yoga calms your mind, but my theory is that there’s something I have to do before that. I can’t participate in yoga until my mind is free.  My body is connected to my mind. And I’m connected to everything.


Remeber when I dug my fingers into the soil? On my knees, my wet hair drying under the sun, and it was like waking up from a dream, the next moment i let it slip through my fingers.

That was in May 2012. Weird how certain experiences change you.

A few days ago, I began research on the suppression of emotions. Yunno, I felt like that was a good direction to start in. I’m still in the beginning of my research, and I honestly don’t have all the questions answered. What happens to negative emotions when we don’t express ourselves? How do I reach my fullest potential? How do I express my soul? How do I lavish my heart’s desire?

and i know my grammer is shit b/c i’m typing this 100 words per minute, and I want to get out of this room.

Breath & the Cosmos

Gabby and Eduardo caught me practicing my breathing exercizes while we passed the pipe. All of us were venting. I’ll participate in breath reps when since it’s anegative topic or when I notice the tension in my abdomen. The jurist and Tantric scholar Sir John Woodroffe wrote  that the breath is a mantra that is not recited because it is said with volition. My last post I told you the technique the yogi taught me, that I can think of my breath as “So” (inhale) “Um” (exhale.) The scholar also wrote that breath is expressed through inspiration (Sa) or expiration (Ha). Sakti or Shiva, what does that mean? It sounds like what the yogi told me, “Sa/So – Um/Ha.”


Well I’m done applying for new jobs in the area, a chocolate hersey kiss is waiting for me on the counter with an open book.

Decadent Prose

Here’s some work I did over a year ago with interesting imagery that makes the prose imaginable. Surreal descriptions, please like and comment if you love my style. This work needs revision, i hope there’s no harm in sharing this!

I had a dream where I was running frantic across the Atlantic coast towards great heaving breasts, stranded orcas gasp, some facing that hot sun, white bellies up. I heard their dying chatter in my head. THen I had this other dream where Adam and Eve are throwing fruit at each other. Adam does a combat role into the bush as Eve, standing naked in the open, chucks mangoes. I could be an artist if I knew how to be brave.

I’d confess my love for Moreau and my passion for minimalist art. I was really good and everyone wanted to know about my success and how did you put so much into so little, I would answer “Part of the problem was investing intellectual seriousness in my work and trying not to pay too much attention to cinematic drama.” No would would guess that I was saved like a teddy bear at the dump.

Gangs bearing other hungry artists would recruit me. The serpent told Eve that Adam was going to hit her soon if she didn’t keep dodging him. By the ocean I took off my summer dress and ran naked towards the rushing water. I dipped the fabric in and thrust it out like a net, running, always running, back to the washed up whales in vain, trying so hard to keep them alive. Why did these monoliths die this way?

In all honesty, and that’s saying a lot here, I didn’t have an outstanding painting career. The smoking room is filled with other various artists, the joint is passed around. “But if I could paint,” I said letting out a cloud of smoke – “I’d paint Adam throwing fruit at Eve. I’d paint a scene of several whales washed up on a beach.” This guy sitting in the circle with the rest of us looks up at me with a cynical glare. “I dream a lot,” I said on the offensive. This guy retorts “Do I look like a therapist to you?” And because I thought this was really funny, I burst into laughter.

Who does a girl like me talk to, I sat beside myself peeking around the smoking room. My eyes stop on a poet who sucked the joint with her Lolita lips until she made a kissing sound and blew out lovely plumes of smoke. With surprisingly little effort, the smoke delivered blooms of peonies, so the poet reminded me of the poetic names peonies have, like Buddha’s Lotus Seat, Purple Pheonix Flying to the Sun,& Fat Concubine.

Her wrist were thin and her fingers were thinner. When she passed the torch she took it between her nails, as thin as a heart’s cell, and pointed it to the next sucker. She said mostly to herself, “What a smokescreen.” Her eyes dropped to her jagged knees.

I hit it so hard I choke like a maniac, my lungs desperate for lubrication. Then I fall back to bed.



Midnight Baby

1. I woke up too early, when outside the sky a pearl hue and the curtains ghostly white, a dreamy mist hung over my covers, I did not want to be enslaved by the unforgiving hour of first light, but my eyes had peeked anyways, and I felt this deep burning desire to run before it consumed me. 

2. It consumed me. My meager thoughts begged to perform, we couldn’t stop seeing beasts in the hunt, the moon curled up in the corner of the page, this tight feeling in my neck, my ass squeezed tight, and my stomach growls. I’m hungry and there’s no food and there’s no money. There’s leftover wood and paint.

3. Too ignore my hunger, I knelt down by my bed, at night where I imagine a pornstar playing with herself, so I could not fear the animal, or the ravenous beast. And I started to finish painting on the wood. 

4. It’s been so long, I’m so afraid, please God, let me realize how beautiful I am and not destroy myself.

5.  I can’t imagine eating anything, there’s nothing I’d like except maybe chocolate ice cream and strawberry wafers. Only desserts could ease my protestation, while I’m still young, 23 spoonfuls of sugar for the seducing rush, and how could any one fathom submitting to its unbridled passion and understand why roses sob in pairs at the sight of plucking a rose petal by petal for vain love.

6. I paint this picture without knowing what it means, if it does mean something, could it be something, I paint this picture from my skinny life form to avoid slumber and exile hunger. I am nothing but a waitress in a swamp city. 


Quests Completed

I wish so badly I had money to go to school. There’s so much I want to learn, so many skills I must sharpen. I’m 20 and I feel like already so much I’ve let pass me by. The past few months, part of my “personal coaching” was to remember good things about my childhood. A lot of things stuck out from my past that generated feelings of rejection, unworthiness, and failure. Even when I was little, I was so hard on myself, and weeped constantly. I think I was 8 when I created an imaginative world called Remoria that belonged to winged beasts, talking animals, enchantments and giant snakes. Lost in a new world, our heroine finds love by accident, her place in the kingdom, and a secret power held inside her. By the time I was ten, I had 400 pages of this world, with maps, encylopedia of creatures created by me, illustrations, and character charts.


I painted elaborate murals of this heroine’s accomplishments with topography- I’d even hold out a page at arm’s lentgh and admire the way the paragraphs flowed like a black river. I was responsible to cure the winged horse of a poison arrow, I had been destined to become a fairytale warrior, with the great sword from the capital of Remoria, decorated in dragon armor, my long hair like a flag in the wind in a conquered tower.


Why then, did I lose all the battles I fought? Why do I always declare war against myself? When I started showing interest in my own image, all i found were faults. My hair was hard to love, and helpless. Damaged, deyhrdated, and frizzy. My skin broke out in hideous red bulbs, I didn’t know pimples could get so big! I couldn’t hold up an iron skillet, let alone a great sword. Why, was I afraid of becoming something? I believed that I was just a crumb, or the leftover piece of thread after you snip it. I stayed within the domain of dragons made from ameyst and crystal, stones I had from my rock collection. I lost a compass at a strom in the sea, and it washed up in the artic northern lands that belonged to a colony of barn owls.

It took me a very long time until I realized that the love I had for this imaginary land served a secret desire in my heart. I’d like to finally feel beautiful and secure. I’d like to finally feel some credit of self-acceptance. My love of fantasy didn’t classify me as a nerd, it qualified me to love sci-fi by ray bradbury, self-portraits and expressionism, jewelry, traveling, herbs and things. I shouldn’t have been such a downer, I really inhibited a lot of potential to grow.

Last year after spring started, I had this epiphany that I could be reborn. Like new, recreated. I could abadon every notion I had of myself and start over. I didn’t push myself to write poems or stories, instead, I took this time to experiment with new tools, like a fan brush and fake eyelashes. I wanted to give myself something I had denied myself for so long – a knowing that I had found the key to happiness. As long as I had this key, I could unlock an exotic paradise.