I am unceremoniously being buried beneath an avalanche of everyday minutiae (spilled crayons, Lea hitting her eye on the corner of the bathroom counter, laundry up to my armpits, smashed blueberries, whatnot), but Thursday doesn't feel like Thursday if I don't post. So here I am.
Just had a delightful conversation with Bronx poet Rich Villar, best known here at Nesting Ground for crashing my blogtail party and eating all the lechon. Anyways, as can sometimes happen with people you don't really know, I felt free to ask for some help regarding upcoming readings and my mild performance anxiety. So there I was going on in my typical spaz fashion when Rich busts in with words of Yoda wisdom. He said, "Do it in the way that best honors the work. It's really not about you and at heart it's not about the audience, either. If you honor the work, everybody (listeners and storyteller) will connect and all your issues will take care of themselves."
It's really not about you.
If I ever get around to re-christening my blog, that is what it will be called: It's Really Not About You. I will emblazon it on t-shirts, caps, and the back pockets of my jeans. It'll be a bumper sticker, lapel pin, and Loverboy-like headband. If ever I faint, fan me with an issue of Zoetrope and say, "It's really not about you." At first I will reply in a whisper. I will say, "Yes it is, yes it is, yes it is..." But then my eyelids will stop fluttering and I will snap out of it.
Many thanks to Rich for helping me to, you know, engage my core. Am belatedly linking to his blog, too. Speaking of blogs, it's Aimee's last day at Gila Monster. Sadness.
And so there's really only one way to end this post:
*love ya like Aimee loves daschunds, peacocks, cupcakes, and fluevogs*