Monday, 30 January 2012

Running into you...

I was a runnerof a kid
before i was
anything

I was known
by the kids
in the streets

Beat all my friends
and enemies
from lowell road
up cypress hill
up over hedges
down the old pine grove

Makes sense to me
now

Running away from something
was
a tribute to fear
a learned behavior
a way to never know
the unbearable
truths

'broken' by Katya
Running from you...
rarely now
Cause fear aint nothin
to live by

i used to like
Running through the hills
past the llama farms
the black sheep
of unincorporated
california

i used to get high off the fear
took the flight
over fight

i used to think gettin away
was gettin away

No longer running
no more
cant get away with it
no more
my body she
don't need no more help
feelin pain

If i could stop my
spirit?
like my runnin body
stop her in her tracks?

i would

Cause she hurt
too
runnin all my energy
hot and so much friction
so long now


'so long now' by Katya
No i dont need
no help
in hurtin

Laughing
become harder
become longer
become greater

laughing
become my wish

In a world
full of
howlin hurt
of pain
burnin eyes
of perpetual
rain

Oh yeah
holy shit yes!
ya

its been religious
all this running
it always made a clearing
in the darkness
of a day

You and me?
dont worry
we gonna do
all right
runnin into
one
another
like we do

'framed' by Katya

Maybe not fine i suppose
maybe terrifying
possibly traumatic
unlikely to be forgotten

woven round the swab
of our heads
like cotton

Running into arms...
like we done
Again
and again and again
hurtin with regret
tryin so hard to forget.

Fightin like bitches

'Exposee' by Katya
who hardly never fucked
talkin over
gettin high
hardly never sleepin
sharing words
holdin back

sharing what we wrote
guessing and assumptions
wailin and moanin
consuming the consumption

self-demolished
exhausted
pissed
sad


'twice-removed' by Katya
far ahead of the pack
we run half-blinded
A reckless, impossible pace!
they all say
every one so
tired of our shit

they done us already
like deja vu
they know by heart
the play-by-play




Still
they may never see
nor feel

Runnin into you
runnin into me




Sunday, 8 January 2012

Her gen-x self-formulaic (aka: gotta start somewhere, part III)



Alot had grown stale, circa 1973. Hamlet's aside kept repeating, in the cultural semi-consciousness; to be? or not to be? To be? or not to be? The needle got stuck in the groove, so it seemed. Kids like her would be oversaturated with a Shakesperean baseline. All rhythms and words measured against iambic averages, pentameter mean. Then when all seemed safely so, they were informed: we don't know who Shakespeare was, umm, or if he wrote those works and words we shoved down your throats, little chickadees. Sorry if its unsettling, shakespeares still the bees knees.

The nourishment had a limit, circa 1973. Gas lines for cars extended far as eyes could see. The avocados and Sonoma wines were the only locally grown taste, one could argue. California native. Freshness. Quality of product and price. She started to rebel against the grammatical elements, dangling her participles and positioning E before i. It got her out of self. She took E before me.Walking away from the farmers market into the unsettling processed food joints perched around the circumference, was an experience she found herself repeating. The objects became subjects, and got lost in the actions. Parenthetical fast food with its weak energetics, could well be complemented by halved avocado, she found. She was used. So she learned to use everything in some fashion. Using was more than just a passion. It was an embedded way of life. She stopped trying to break it, she took hold of it, embraced it.


No matter what she did, she realized, some people would never like her. Which was cool, once she understood, because this gave her allowance not to like or please everyone. She met the eyes of judgment with matching eyes of fire. Zinfandel could so easily wash away the pain of being judged, douse the fire. Back to the enduring legacy of generation x girls like her. To know them you need the backdrop. Where they came from, what they came from, and what they had to endure. In summary this was the process of finding seminourishment within the culture. She first found her capacity to nourish herself. Then looking outward she saw the offal of culture as it was. Hardened eyes and attitude maybe came from what had been processed, packaged, flavored, microwaved, heatlamped post its voyage to the bottom of the deepfryer. The grease could be mistaken for steam soaked into the paper scaffolding holding what never really came together, together. Think about the influences. Like diversity in people can be associated with diversity in climate, the weather.

All in all this amounted to a temporary something. Call it relief. Call it semireplenishment. Call it whatever you want. She could make it from noon to seven pm. A large enough window of time and energetics, to generate momentum to evolve herself slowly. Turtle evolution was cool and well known. (The story of the hare and the tortoise, locates the seed that was sown). One year stood out, astrologically so. She was about to touch the premier full moon of the new year. And with it came some potency, some amplified feeling in her. The feeling turned her on and turned on her social circle. Which then lit up like some 20 watt transparency with fangs of light sautered on the walls through the filter of the lampshade. Then her whole tribe sunk into the juicy metallic taste of a ripe half-century old american standard wall outlet for those old general electric turntables with matching postbellum deux de monde hair curlers become subservient t her tribe and their purpose to generate noise out of nothing. Scrap sound system picked apart and wired together haphazardly but with purpose. Definite imperfection in a very real way. Not all neatly up in a row like bombs awaiting their drop from a generic saab diesel! This momentum took its drive from possibilities without end. Like where Alphabet city meets Numeric Avenue which squares off with dead presidents on downtown streets. Madison intersected with B Street then got triangulated by Third Avenue. One two three, as it goes, hits a B side or floats up for a birds eye view. You can choose destruction over creation? she exclaimed one day to her posse, Who knew? Who fucking knew?


Well that did it! It was on! For her, the synapses all could be fucked with, managed, rearranged. So can we, exclaimed her transmittors in their neuro-variations. So can we! was the cry on the intracellular precision bands. Spirals upon spirals had her spinning in infinity. Like Paul Simon said, by way of translating some divinity. She resonated with it all, the music, the literature. The sex and the drugs. The intoxicating feeling of deprivation in the mountains. Air got thin. Air got cold. Afterwards the heat of the lodge felt so deliciously bold. Her world hit her hard, thats just the way it was! Concussion force hit the X generation like Vietnam veterans coming home from a very real nightmare. What was real could be sacred, she learned through and through. She would be real and anti-fakeness. Dress down the pretty faces. No hype, she conveyed to her circle, now a spiral to be exact, no adware spyware, dont nobody care for us in the marketing industry! They selling stepford white pussy now, lets get busy! She got control over image, by changing her ways. She jetted from the maniacal spinning out in her cadillac days. One dui was all she took, and she got so lucky, she knew. Drunk driving used to be a pasttime for her. She got control of her adrenaline junkie.

About fact-based theory. no second guessing. time to take a seat for some soakup session. Really, will you sponge now? Or are you not so resilient, not so forgiving, not so flex, not so cushioning, just an excuse for a really hard landing? If so, coerce the confession. Such a situation is damaging, diverted, divided and ready to be conquered. Starting with the humble confession, only then might it all come together and coalesce. The damage could undergo analysis. The unbroken fall from an unknown height measured in unknown stories of a nondescript apartment building two doors down from the austerity of the projects in the way of her common capacity to overcome deep deep depressive thinking leading to impulsive untold otherworldly actions orchestrations movements, in the key of desperation flat, followed by some prototypical chord progression the grunge movement adopted in between sets of screaming truth of tragic course of life, present time bookended vaguely as the life of generation x kids on x hitting skids from rowhouse repitition to moshpit meditative new releases. All of it naturally damaged the psyche,  creating chinks in the links of the spine, the C's one two three and four. Will certainly need to be fused, some doctor remarked in the ER, seeing the body and tissue so badly bruised. Generation X case study. Tragedy. Bag it and tag it. Cold case the file. Basement cold stored. Still down there, sure, but the quality always has a life about it, if its truly a gen-x case. A surprise in every box! There was, sure enough, hope in her wheat american midwest type hair with some ends acoustically radiant, could not be sized down, zipped, boxed, filed, cold cocked, nah! None could tame that wild in her. She had unfaded hair braided, evolution occuring. Then there became thought! Underneath the pain of the feeling, which was validated by thought, which at first silent, then became spoken, then on the mic, announced, then screamed, sung to the bottom of the lung kinda release only generation x types wearing fleece could make out of damaged bruised, otherwise written off parts of self in society. Others responded well. How could they not? She arose like a phoenix, no embellishment. They could not and would not diminish her primal scream. They allowed her to become their waking dream, the kinda trust the grunge movement established almost on the spot. Generation X. In love. In pain! In lust. The kids they all acrobat like scissors, dearly departing in mechanical syrup... the venue was mad fresh! Could just as easily been Seattle by the sight of it, the diversity, the alien energetics! Could have been Bangladesh! She went from the gutter to her fame by way of the express. She would settle for more, when all that was ever offered her and her peoples, demanded she settle for less.

Her distance from it (the less for which she was to settle, and the restlessness in her symptomatic of the gravitational force pulling her down from her dreams for more) grew out of the horizon, created a concerted effort towards liason, community involvement, converse all-stars tied into the music scene, the very scene, the one and only shot youth spot! She was wise to the window. She jumped out before it closed. Out into the scene. Out into the cold freshness so hypnotic. Her fears evaporating as she fell to rigid earth. Static plane. Her courageous act was considerably insane. Which made her ex-communicated from all things pragmatic, outdated, boring, sane. This made her magnetic like she would be now, and forever. Metal sharpened line planted flat in deep earth, all the C's breaking apart naturally, painfully to necessarily reform like her entire being. A chaotic script never written, simply followed. Done. Made in the shade! The age old experience: to come apart in order to come together. Coalesce in a genuine self-formulaic. The swords now rest inside the soul, crossing over one another the way cold steel embraces. The search for generous farmland indiana home words was over, for they could now be homegrown self-generated. They would. With them, the words, she was able to pick up her C's, exit intensive care, get together and cultivate the city intensive! Like through the mouth, through the belly! Dirt became a high yield commodity, like pagers dirt got its moment in time. Like her, too. Another gen-x signature series. Well done. Applauded. Used until useless. Loved until worn and torn and inside out. Delivered to your auditory kinda story no holds barred front right from the gate, she was! You never would have known the real deal before she made it. No matter. Acknowledge her, became the rule not the exception, or else be outdated. Shes an exceptional woman, divinely inspired! self-created!

Monday, 2 January 2012

Gotta start somewhere out of nowhere, like a flash flood of snake venom out of pink heart painted giftwrap, part II

Part I


Gotta-start-somewhere-out-of-nowhere... Part I




Part II
I've gotta start somewhere...she thought,  so why not right here? these the very words unspoken which opened up a reverb-dampening highway from her head to her heart. A long distance, if you're ever fortunate enough to start. And all that doubt (that was the reverb) always amounted to a whole lot of wasted energy down a dead end road, all that doubt which she could never trace back to source but which flattened her; that doubt suddenly ceased to be! All that verysame rushing flow of insecurity! That drainage, that trash which took dance out of step and reason from season into a sudden freeze... all that bullshit? She would have condemned it for sure, would have hung it from the rafters! Then strangled the corpse of it for hours even after. So sick it made her, for so long and weary a time. She would have exposed it to noon sun, unclothed and debunked it! She would have cut it clear through down the flank and leeched it of toxins! Then hunted the toxins down, heated them up in canola oil popping up from iron pan. Then sucked the remaining fumes of the matter, watching the dead thing past death as charred grizzle dripped down from cuts in the platter.


photo/edit by K.
I shoulda and may as well have planted all that bullshit in six feet or more of soil a hella long time ago! she told herself with some admonishment, pressing the spatula hard into the remaining griddle of old hopes long lost. To the sewers down deep would they drain, the pale tasteless no longer discernable former hopes, down deep to stay!  Underground to knock around aimlessly like hammers on iron pipes in sub-basement level areas. All that rattling silenced and out of earshot could no longer make her feel old and unable....cause all that runoff demoralization she made for damn sure got dissipated. Dissssipated. Dissipated! For damn sure! For goddamn certain. Hella gone to dirt and dissipated, forever fucking freeze dried, fucked, fried, fired to damn near charred immolation! When the fuel she used for sublimation settled, she dripped the oil into the basin and watched the water separate and bead. The goosebumps which popped up on her skin as the last of it fell down the drain, took quite awhile to recede. She felt like a sociopath who cuts back life without mercy, a killer who might not hesitate to take equal care of its own corrupt seed.

This was all so dramatic for her,  the process so cathartic. She spared no embellishment or extremity of passion, having lived her recent life flat as busts of heroin chic anorectic models of high fashion. She could no longer trash them. She was as culture-shocked and starved of self-esteem. Her Self-loathing had found her to evolve into someone or something not just alien;  utterly impossible for anyone to digest. For herself to digest. She consumed cigarrettes and alcohol and pharmaceuticals, as a constant diversion. She held herself out of reach on a ten foot pole! Consider a day walking the Mojave desert without water....hardly possible? She was that same day traded in for a night drinking diuretics in a sauna,  followed by a breakfast of dehydrated apples in a bowl of astronaut ice cream. Impossible!

That was then. The carpet she rolled out now, for her new celebrity skin, was Hollywood red. New money red. Blood-squeezed box office red. She needed to be so bold! To quiet the doubt, muffle the reverb, the self-conscious talk so creeping vine diabolical... the carpet was long like a bridal train gone transamerica. Old school in its beauty of carved redwood and exotic red crystal chandeliers. Old school the way she remembered once feeling herself. Vintage her and a good year, she recalled. The rains softened soil for an exquisite sweet crop. Her powers of creation endured well beyond the season, nonstop. Her smile and expressions made her both local yet accessible in a farmer's market-like way then, when she was young....her maidenhood caught the men's imaginations at prices reflecting highest class and quality. Equal to if not exceeding low supply market import levels.


photo by  K.

Fresh and local, in a world-embracing kinda fashion, she again found herself so enticing like that. But this time she herself got turned on. Not to be confused with vanity, she found she appealed as much to herself. Before her love stretched outward but had no real tension. Lost her form and her every careful nurtured dimension. Before long she no longer made impression. But skip all the recollections! She no longer collected. The hobbyist turned devoted to self and self-healing, and her impressions they vaulted straight to the ceiling. Still heavy on the wallet the budget the home economy, yet nothing could hold back her self-confidence... her momentum toward her vision, you see. She went from catatonic and outdated to catapulted via capitulation into a locus well beyond the atmosphere to the stars, self-refurbished and recreated.