Unspectacular Musings and Then...

My mind is kindof blank at the moment.  It's not really coming up with anything significant to write about.  I could write about #occupywallstreet.  (What the fuck does the # mean?)  My baby just got home, that's a good thing.  She's going to make dinner.   a stir fry with vegetables and cajun style sausages.  That sounds delicious.  Things have been a little crazy of late.  I became famous when my first professional piece of writing was published on the Albany Patch.  The link is in the blog posting just below.  I've had to deal with a whole new level of celebrity.  My friends all ask, "How did it happen?  How did you do it?"  all eyes staring at me with this enthusiasm and curiosity, sparkling, and me comfortable in my new level of celebrity, answering, "well, it happened like this...blah blah blah (but very confident/laid back, funny, witty and self-effacing), so they all think, "yes, he is a good writer!"  just by the way i talk about my writing.  it's all been a bit much.  and then my parents, who I wrote about, are being recognized now on their Solano walks.  they are now famous, too.  I have to come back down to the earth, the earth of New Mexico, the dusty red, earth of Taos, where the snake shaman is practicing for the ceremony.  He will keep the bullet-noesed-rattler snake, indigenous to southern New Mexico, in his mouth, bitting softly around the mid-point of the snake, coaxing the snake into a mild trance.  And I will sit and chant as the sun burns away in the south-western skyline, dark edging out the burnt hues of the light, now comes eagle and lands to take the snake out of the mouth of my celebrity coach.  The shaman.  And the eagle flies away.

But I must remain rooted in the earth.  I cannot let the winds of change, albei-them positive winds, i cannot let these winds of change ruffle my feathers.  I must not let the new connections and conversations allow my brain to self induce serotonin labor, and spike goes the euphoria, which i've discussed enough to make you nauseous.  As i go from your average sailor to Moby-fucking-Dick, I must keep the little people in mind and remember i get sad.  I do get sad, all the time.  For no "reason" yes there are reasons, but not reasons for making people sad.  I get sad and need to cry because I went to a work retreat and I didn't know anyone and it felt weird.  I get sad and need to cry because i feel overwhelmed with good things.  I'm already working on Patch article number 2 and i've got the interview for Patch article number 3 lined up with my doctor.  Does it get any more significant or miraculous, this new level of fame and fortune, writing for the Albany Patch?  The patch pays me between $25-100 per piece depending on if it's good and if it has a lot of photos.  I'm fucking rich.  I don't know what to do with the money.  I invested the money from the first article in a new camera, which makes hellof sense because i get paid more when i take more pictures, i think, but then i interviewed my Patch #2 guy and felt too awkward to take pictures even though i had my brand new camera right there.

But the point of this article/post is I need to stay grounded otherwise, best case scenario i get sad, worst case i have a physiological panic attack, meaning i have horrible chest pains which i interpret as the beginning of death, the clear, incontrovertible, absolute beginning of quick death, and so i panic and there is a horrible hysteria.  That I would like to avoid.  So i have to remember that even though I want to open my soul to the stars and make little connections like a kite with all the stars from my soul, i can't make a connection with every fucking star.  There are hellof fucking stars.  Just Think About It.  So, my guts are open and I'm trying;

FUCK EARTHQUAKE!!!  AHHHHH I"M GONNA DIE!!! I"M 21 FLOORS UP!!!  okay, I'm okay, seriously, but gotta go put away my laundry.

love you guys,
Anthony