The Quest for an Abudance in Sunshine

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Tag: prose

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.

Finders Keepers! FOUND

“Luck is when preparation meets opportunity.”

california22 002

california22 001

Good evening cats! This morning I had the rare chance to take an uncommon trip with Mrs. Zella to the next city, 30 miles away from our private property tucked away in the scenic detours of our small town USA. I roused Edwardo up. He put a tote together with both our MTG decks while I dolled up, attempting to represent the serious entrepreneur business woman. But the cold broke my concentration, I was outside Sonic Drive In with icy tears, juggling my body heat to stay warm to Chris Brown’s pop single “Don’t Wake Me Up.”

“Warm me up up up up up up.” I sang under my breath.

We visited a few businesses, no one said they were hiring.

The purpose of this sidebar post is to  show & tell the goodies I got at the Humane Society Thrift Store.

I could not resist temptation. Before it was time to go, I had a few inexpensive trinkets my paws gripped on. I refused to let go of the clutch, golden “rivets” i called them, picture frames, a fossilized e.e. cummings poem, & 365 Ways to Be Happier.

A warm thank you to Mrs. Zella who gave me the $5 to buy these lovely impulses! The neatest thing is the money goes to charity for animals in need; it’s important to remember that no matter how badly your hurt, you can still give a contribution to someone more poor than yourself.

The poem inscribed on the slab of wood is “Old Age Sticks” by E. E. Cummings.




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. 


The Art of War



Sunday is Appreciation Day, which I remembered promptly at 3:45 p.m. A little late in the day to remember to be thankful, no? Nevertheless, I took 60 seconds to think about Mrs. Zella’s charity, the hard work Edwardo is clocking in, and the ability to feel astonished.

I was also happy to be in a healthy relationship with Edwardo, and although the battle is a long one, we still have the strength and provisions to keep pressing forward. 

Edwardo changed my life with his lessons of war history. I let him explain Germany’s ingenuity for efficient weaponry and defense, demonstrating with Google pictures of the different tank designs. He taught me how to disarm a gun in a blink of an eye, get cover, and how to aim with a sight. One lesson he stressed was to be stoic, or be like water. If there are logs in the way, water moves swiftly around it. Edwardo is a tactician, his talents reflected in his ability to play only bad ass video games like BATTLEFIELD and DARK SOULS on PS3 in LEGENDARY MODE. Edwardo never played a video game on NORMAL or EASY. Never. He’d change the settings of the game play to experience the engine’s highest potential. I miss the merciless heat of the humid summer when Edwardo paced with the ART OF WAR in his hands, as he read aloud in this magisterial voice summoning the strategies of an ancient high-ranking Chinese general for my benefit. He was trying to save my life the way he had saved himself – survival of the fittest.

Here’s an analogy: My first snow was a trap. I admired the cotton fluff snow at the cost of hypothermia. The south has NO inkling how cold 28 degrees Fahrenheit gets. I would complain, until I remembered Stalingrad. 


it’s a tactic I use to get myself motivated and to keep fighting for what I believe in. 

Zombie – The Cranberries

DARK SOULS game trailer

Draw Your Swords

There’s everything in the world left to lose.
The only possessions I have are buried
some place safe that only I
Know the secret location of. If someone tried to shake me around for the key, they’d wrangle me like a towel
but I still wouldn’t make a sound.

You are mine. I am yours.

Nothing changes this fact.
Kick me to the ground.
The world is cruel, but I will never
My feet tramp uphill, around steep curves,
I vanish behind the bend.

I’ve picked a place inside my self that’s easy to defend.

You are mine. I am yours.
Nothing changes that fact.

I’ve strapped my heavy heart on my back and rode my bike
through a field that smelled like apple cinnamon pie.

Sometime Around Midnight

Before the wreck, dark purple circles under her eyes,
the hospital bed, recovery, the exile
we enjoyed ice cream on a cloudy day.

She said, before her jaw was smashed down her throat, the semi brake failure, her beloved camera in smithereens in the passenger seat,

“Let’s be happy.”

Carpet sand, it’s hard to dig a hole without a shovel,
seagulls land perfect, shell chips, skinny bitch,
I’ll sit on the shore not really knowing any more where the horizon is.

“If only you knew how beautiful you were.”

After the wreck I could not recognize my friend, bringer of Delhi morsels, blunts, the secret
charm bracelet dangles in front of my eyes not mine sex lines
a jade elephant

“I didn’t want to break your heart.”

A secret division, how did I perceive the truth, was it The Truth, Who’s IT when everyone comes out of hiding?

“It looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Damn motives. Evidence. It’s the 21st century, every person hides behind a digital encryption, if I wrote this story would any body listen. Damn photographers. Poets. Models. Artists bleed.

Does he love you?
Does he love you?
Does he love you?

After the wreck, it was only you in the room. Food for thought but your stomach howled and your heart puked.


I did my butt workouts. They felt energizing. There’s some questions I have that need to be answered tonight. I’ll have to wait until all the lights are out. Covert mode.

None of your business what I’ll be up to. Let’s just say, I’ll be wearing the fur of the animal I am most afraid of. I was outside looking up at the sky full of white clouds, and I tried to look at the broad picture, and see everything as a whole. I did the most glute push ups this evening than I have. I have a lifeline (instead of deadline) to have a sculpt body by the end of this month, along with employment.

I’m determined to get hired. I can sell shit, take orders, greet customers, handle money, and fix the internet. I need something temporary, for a couple of months to Level Up, before I head into my potential career.


Trying to explore all my options. Jeez, I should’ve figured this out by now?! But I was blown off course, torn apart. Once the darkness lifts, a warm flow fills my body and I’m out expressing my mind in other ways I thought I couldn’t, but you realize, it IS A WASTE to not use your mind, to not live your heart’s secret pleasures, and there’s a light underneath my skin penetrating through my pores, I raise my arm up slowly and tip my head back and dance.