I saw you before you were born. The interview went well. You were optimistic towards the opportunity ahead. Although all the suffering baked into this cake was unappealing, wholeness of being beckoned. Despite western ways to be forced on an eastern soul, despite aggravated assault in the capitalist moshpit, despite countless insipid efforts towards persona redux, and begging martyrs of grave emotional toxicity, you would not resist the call.
You bravely went under the spell of your god, and i watched on edge as they cleared your cache and robbed your memory bank, ritual washing you. Then they dressed you in snow white linens as your affect went flat. Baby powder, and the shaving of head. You will do well in America, they told you. You looked at them blank. Confused, but so willing.
Tears suddenly welled up my eyes and placed you safely inside one saltwater drop. After you left me, my love, I carefully swept up your off-color locks. With my hands. Tearful, I took up the salt and pepper remnants of my one true love of this life. On my knees now. Sweeping.
Weeping. I held you soft in my hands there, and ritually cursed the insipid god who i believed at that moment, responsible for this.
Our unchained tragedy. My uprooted life. Unmoored heart. Broken. Again.
Yes I am on guitar on this clip, but for those who like my spoken word this one should appeal to you because the lyrics are very clearly spoken, not sung. The lyrics are located on this post...
A stretch of small city road, gone country under a blanket of fallen leaves. A crunchy bicycle ride over said dead leaves. A look all around and see colors. In a cafe, inspired to say, i love you, to yours, as you hold them by woven, heavy cotton and wool, at the arms just above a pale palette of wrist.
Autumn Was...
What was this world where when autumn arrived…
How they harvested, by hand. How they jammed the jam. How they hunted the land.
Made wind chimes of bone. Tapped trees for sugars. Thanked the almighty. Venison, quail, turkey and trout.
Facing the winter with faith and tobacco. Exposed to the elements.
Cooking the fats over a crackling fire, on irons they traded for pelts. Chanting at sunset and dancing til dawn. Large fires contained within circles of rock.
My friends, my close friends, my less than close friends, my new friends and old ones, the loved ones, the tough ones, the tests we endure, the balance of days coming together. Then the sun rises, again, and you find one another, and stand by and cry and try to find the heart, and it comes so natural like a Lexus start, clean and quiet, eyes meet eyes in subtle surprise; the things unsaid, the weight like lead... falling off your shoulders. And now your older, and see it to contextually, in the texture of the connection, see? And the sublimation occurs, two hearts collide, energy synch dream! Friends seldom seen and then it's like a dream again. Seen again. But why so far apart? You fight it, stomping your feet til the dust comes up. The trust come up and recede again, like the lost of lost weekends -- a painful trend
left you wishing and crying for more, feeling the living and dying, feeling right down to your core. It hurts but it means something, too. So be there in spirit, you say it, you mean it! I can lose the colloquilism, touch the vernacular, turn it inside out and make it spectacular. This will work at any distance, like quantum physics, like a system. The charges we send us, like photons the light moves. The energy hits airwaves you catch on your itunes. The paradigm keeps shifting its tectonic plates. The dishes they fall on the floor we explore, find out what we are made of. The texture, the real thing, we thirst and manifest and burst on the scene. Listen and you may hear it. The tear. The salt. The water. So simple, like tide rush cool over your feet in the sand! The way we understand one another, like a sister, like a brother. This is a rush cause its true: your family is those who meansomething to you.
Today i really felt like a singer-songwriter. It has been some hard work and alot of fun to get to here. Although i will always be a novelist at heart... here is an EFFIN' K PRODUXION
'BEEN HAD' One time and I knew I would drive you all mad The velocity grew The had had been had I really got you upset I made you so mad When I sank the canoe The tadpoles were sad You came up for air Pulled on my hair We fought til we swore and We cared I'm so glad when it's good I'm bad when it's bad The had had been had When the had had been had Had had been had had been had had been had had been
So i was rolling with this sweet-as-saccharine, pretty young latin thang, on an real affective high, joining in the bipolar unilateral uncompromised brilliance of the new day, treading on an adidas insole grip, feeling like a princess for a change, when suddenly she stopped and turned me around to look at this ugly street scene. She said something about getting a french roast at one of those less than average corporate coffee outfits, maybe Seattle's Beast or Starfux or something. I really cannot pay attention, on purpose.
Hey hey hey hey now! I said, making mad circles with the palms of my hands facing her, like I was painting a Starry Night again. What did you say?
She told me again with great controlled precision, almost irritable-like.
Were she not so saccharine-sticky-sweet like, with her unfrosted platinum blonde wig all situated like real hair on her dome, I would have been audi 5000. I gave her my full attention, and my pressure cooker started heating up a bit. Not a good feelingstate for my mental. I tried to channel it out of my shoulders with a roll and a couple of shrugs. But it got locked up, in between the blades, and started bouncing around in there, my chi, like a video game-gone-beserk. Damn. I wanted to slap her already, but it was just a thought.
So we went anyway, and she got her gingerbread shot or whatever, and I sat impatiently on the cold, dry, laminated redwood, waiting. I always wondered how I got into this kinda mess. Some double-blind study was I. Blinded first by her beauty, then by my own future idyllic daydream of what life could be in the presence of said beauty. Never once did my mental suggest sitting on a plank in Central Yuppie, California, while holier-than-thou got a gingerbread.
MENTAL PART I original flash by Katya Mills I was talking to my therapist. It was a pretty chill converse. Almost like we were friends or something. I kinda started to think of her as my friend, until she diagnosed me crazy. I thought that was really rude, coming from a friend. I let her know. She told me she wasn't my friend. I started to cry. She called me tearful. I had about had it with the labels. But I did not blow up, because at least she was right. I asked her, will I ever get better? She said it was a process. That made me feel worse. I told her she was a rotten therapist. Her affect remained unchanged. I told her she had no feelings. I asked her how does it feel, not to be able to feel? She gave me that Buddha smile. Totally unphased. I was impressed by her robot. I shut up and started listening. I had eyeliner blend into my eye from the crying, and asked for a tissue. She told me get it yourself. Not to be mean, just because (as she had explained a hundred times before) that would becaretaking.
To whom does intimacy port? How does intimacy travel? Is it firewire fast? Scanned thoroughly or just one-passed? When intimacy gets all awkward for us and scares us, like we are losing the ability to connect, man to man, woman to woman, cross, duck under, stretch, stare, flare, and circle in courtship with such fanfare? The movement is fascinating, but what about the other plains? Do we not still need umbrellas, every time it rains? Relics of nylon stretched over the wiry, long, hovering fingers to the tips. Do we even touch the rain? Does it touch us? What does it mean to dodge all this feeling, being, suffering... seeing?
How will our your species keep up, unless we me port ourselves soon? We know how to run. To hide. We are intimate with rather the ever more impractical, ancient art of NASA space shuttling, away away away. Gasoline is so flammable and smells bad. But it's energy, so take it, tangible smelly burning solitude of petrol, never to upload. Simply bleed out and soak in, absorption into the earth, dissolving into the air. Breaks your my our collective heart. From about where to where? Away away away. So much easier to gravitate away, along the shipment channels standard, the paths prepioneered, the snow carved out like ribs like rivers like thanks, like giving. Less work, more sedentary Tryptophan-inspired ennui.
And thus you me? You me we? You me we are free. Aren’t we? HBO specials on dead presidents who stare back at us, with iron spirits carried on currency. Have currency, have freedom? Have nots have none? I you we get confused mixed feelings that throw off our equilibrium sometimes. Fresh liberation we feel so true! Next year enslaved in another addictive groove. Low and weary, we they obey the countenance command: level up from source – level up now…. sad.
Stored back with the medicine balls, the deflation. In the dark, reprioritized, put on the desktop and in the taskbar so you cannot miss it, humanity; but its like an antiquated major looking uncomfortable as Latin between Chinese and Spanish…uncomfortable, horribly so, inside the cardboard strung together, placed over the shoulders of our teenagers needing currency so bad, so bad they would advertise something other than themselves, direct produce and starring in your next product placement plan you put to action. Doing things like we know nothing. This much about nothing.
This much about something. Something about suffering. Something about not able to get quite warm enough in the cold, cool enough in the heat. Not quite able to get exactly the comfort required to prevent a progression toward madness. The garden grows out and over, the vines together cut back to the knees for having passed the invisible, impenetrable, transparent, nonextant wall divides you, me, us. What was to protect us in our idea of safety and personal refuge? What was. What is solitary kind of confinement. Solitary refinement is how you work that angle of free, solitary, introverted, workaholic genius. Empirical proof for us all to be in relief. Relieved.
'invisible impenetrable transparent nonextant wall' part -i
With the profound global defrag project underway…polaroids drop and flip over and over and over scattered out over a small piece of arab sky like confetti at a ticker tape parade, photos of women in the sunlight of the new dawn of some new Democracy Operating System. Peel back the material like a girl on her way to wearing different colored socks under different sized flats kicking out desert sand against the aimless hungry avarice of rats.
The future is enveloped in a mist. This much is clear. That much is breathed on fogged over passed by prone to blindness and rage. Turn the page. I wonder, do you feel fairly credited for your vast impact on the domestic stage?
One to another and another between us, any of us,all of us, out and in relationship with ourselves, our bank accounts, our phones synched with our laptops and our kindles lighting up in happy togetherness, in a information cloud, skyped out and G-tricked suspension…where is the time leftover for real sentient human contact? Maybe a hug here and a kiss there, but how many a day where you really stop and mean it? hug large? kiss and kiss again? lie down and look into eyes? Wait, adobe needs an update. Cc cleaner needs to clean. Malware may be near.
In this new techno speeding, natural disaster breeding, freedom by facebook (or seeming) type world, has eye to eye human face to face contact been devalued like the dollar? I suppose we might begin to get a little scared about full social schedules. All that work to get dressed, transport, and perform the slightly awkward machinations of truly American USA kind of confused melting pot talk about nothing between meals and talk alot. So many cultures to reckon with, downloading names and faces and deleting the browsing history after every event. Only to reboot a week later. Another weak flyer marketed event, corporate. Yes, its catered.
The wrists are held out in front of you me us them… the bare pale small long wrists facing up with longing. Here we stand in our your their belonging. Yet without a home, us, without anything much more than an entitled titled costly human drone zone? Check your real estate! What do you really come close to, what do I? who am I to know you to know we to know myself and the world?
'cold steel got love like us' part i by katya mills
I remember I once had her...I remember this well. The blue steel. In the eyes, reflected off the glass of bottles and bottlecaps which had been rolled smooth into the street. The saddle brown leather was matte, in opposition to the glossy deep sky blue. The kinda deep blue you rarely see in city skies anymore.
Ya, I once had her. Around the time shit got crazy for us, the whole web of us, maybe a core of ten or twenty, interconnected and related intrinsically to a surrounding second tier group of maybe fifty or sixty. I had her at the start, when I knew very little of what was to come. She kept her single tone metallic gold finish, when it all started.
She showed me in somehow, though i never knew the likes of her before. What was foreign to me became so intimately familiar. What a shock. Then I felt something special had arrived. So of course I showed her off.
This felt quite natural, our coinciding, however unbelievable. We would not settle for less. She would not. I would not. Sometimes Hollywood comes out of anywhere, thin air like. Hollywood is Hollywood. Often the simple task proceeding from such a discovery, is to arrange the travel itinerary, from wherever to California.
We were already California. I just had to show her off. She just had to let me, and she did! She really did! No need to acquire the funds, the permissions, then pack up and bid au revoir to the extended or nuclear family. There was not and should not have been any dissent. When you see this, you know this. Real end of the rainbow shit. Storybook status. Like we already made history.
