Tuesday 30 July 2013

notarize the thighs -iv)

You became at that moment - for something. What a relief. Even if you were not exactly sure what you were for, anyone could tell you were for something. By your healthy pulse and that certain laser light, in your eyes. You would be one of those walk-ons in a method acting audition, who couldn't act your way out of a bag, but whom, without a single line spoken, got the part. Cause of the way you carried yourself, of course. Props to Marlon Brando and Tennessee Williams. Props to Faye Dunaway and Charles Bukowski. Props to an effortless way of being. Props to the effort behind it. Props to you. For the je ne sais quoi. Your vox accompli.

Gone are the days in the margins, barely alive. Still a loner, but no longer alone. A non-subscriber, but only by choice.  A subscriber for certain to your own gliding voice.

Throw out the bricks and mortar old rolodex situation. With the tinted glass cover and the black plastic foundation. With the earmarks from contacts you once had relied on. In a corporate scenario that paid real damn well. Welcome to owning your own ebullient label. The style is touching, though the earnings? unstable.  Welcome to endless contacts who you have not yet met. There will be no more rolodex and no more personal jet or jet-set.

No need to monitor some worked up fabrication, to keep you employed in some unforgiving niche. But you may have to pull a Rod Stewart, and start your wave digging ditches. Those who dare not to step out the parameters set for them, are worth all your compassion and benevolence. No doubt. But never look back for too long. Amassed is an archive so full of the evidence, of what happens when the spirit is packed up and stored in the attic. Or firewalled off from your heart, until it hits static.

Not a pretty picture, the motionless scene. Of the spirit once blazing, now lounging. In limousine. With a whiskey and water, and lips wet with saying; some day it will happen, some day maybe soon. Some day I am sure, and maybe next June. Some day, and now pass me the map to the treasure. I am almost halfway there, and at my own leisure.

You and me, we are different. It's quite a dialectic! There's nothing to demeaning or ill-willed coming from us, we wish all the best of each of us, always. But some can relate to another so well, you just start communicating and fall under a spell. Your spirit informs you all the way up through your chakras. The moment we meet becomes an instagram memory. We cannot privatize our sense of fellowship. The generosity of spirits aligned in a moment. Captured true and irrevocable. Outside of time, space, locus, place. Defies x,y and z axes. All around us fades to gray, for a second. In the flash of a conducted energy across the impenetrable body armor. The primal scream is released. Props to Reich and to Tesla, and the Orgone Accumulator. Props to spiritism and its history, quite alive through the centuries. Like a redwood rising above all the mundanity deluxism.

Take the lux out, and there! The je ne sais quoi. Notarize the thighs, but don't break the law. Just live like you're living, whether homeless or funded, keep giving! That's all. We are the ones who come so far to surpass the situation. The whole enchilada of titanium insensate fear-inspired, fear-financed, mass indicated, mass appealed, safety-sealed, moment in time treasured, intricately coded and measured, bureau monitored, otherwise insurmountable, cultural affair.

by Katya Mills, 07/13

Monday 29 July 2013

We wait

We wait...

4 someone to text us back
4 our luck to change
4 the rain 2 cleanse our soul
4 inspiration when we have none
4 the laughter between us
4 our froglegs 2 defrost
4 our hearts to pump blood
Back into our sleepy limbs
4 the silence
4 the water to boil

We wait...

2 feel the coffee warm our insides
On a cold predawn
2 pee in a cup
2 get over it
2 feel

Sunday 28 July 2013

notarize the thighs -iii)

It's nice to think life can be conducted like a train. Simply ride the straight rails, by what we know to be right. Making a pledge to honor and uphold the common human decencies. Promising, to anyone who will listen, not to circumvent our committed position. But soon comes the turning point, the moment of truth. Like a buoy marker flashing, or a smile's missing tooth. You could see it steady smoking in the fog of the dawn. In Chicago, Milwaukee and Boston. In Nashua, Hartford and Brooklyn. Maybe someone got trampled right there in the square. And lay face down in the mud, in an air of despair. Taken out with the trash by the morality banshee contigent. With the law behind them, to serve up the indigent.

What kind of charges were enlisted, that could really stick? Possession of marijuana, was often the trick. Soon to be thrown out of court, was the case. The accused then tossed out of jail, with just as much haste. With a record  blind-carbon-copied, bcc, for enforcers. So they can jack you again, whenever they please! Subject of past arrest? Get on your knees! 
The song remained the same, no matter how one carried oneself. Employed and educated, to the highest degree? Out on the streets, it's not what they see. Its your punk ass demeanor, versus their blind carbon copy. Some irrelevant nonsense. Like some herb, rolled up sloppy.

You can do as you please, but the truth remains elusive. You could travel the globe for the purest of sugars. Then come home with a sigh, all sweet in the knees. And notarize your thighs for the sex industry. Do as you please. Just don't blame anyone, at the end of the end, if you cannot stand tall, or still have to pretend. Kinda dextrose or sucralose, high, mid or low fructose. Tapped out on a plastic tree farm of sameness. Caught in contextual quicksand. Do as you please, do what you can. Simply notarize the thighs, to make your currency pass. Outsource the sex. Give head, with class.

Pop goes the nipple, for sensation. Immediately sends the blood to the caps. To the face and beyond, flushing meadows run over the place. Fight to edit your internal mixtape, all you want. You can pan and collect your instagram gold archives. You can curse about everything fucked up until you're blue. Or not. Go live alone, in a shoe. They might brand your take on culture, on a cereal box, while its still piping hot. Fortify with vitamins in a preservative base. For the kids.

Saturday 27 July 2013

notarize the thighs -ii)

And there in the alleys, lay the sweet marrow of culture...

With ink on the arms and legs and the core. boys and girls who seek safety in all diverse self-expression; who know no other refuge in a lifestyle recession. all races and creeds and classes unite. welcome to the miracle of usa subset! creative. inspired. inspected by #444 yet mostly misunderstood. resistant to the tool and die cast condemnations. flipping the script on all morality-play machinations. the courageously stumbling around in the dark. the seeking to define a new future for all. taking chance to defend the foundation integrity. shooting down any luck of the draw. this is where we found shelter, or where it found us.

where you found me, and i found you. the intimacy between us, beyond any screw. the end of the end of the end of world wars. the anti-authoritarian seam. running up and down the side of some chix flicking-eye-lash. An awesome metallic spark for the scene. The rebellion burning through the black-leather soul. A heavy-hearted embrace, from one to another. In the eyes, we see home. We drink sumatra. We eat seaweed. We laugh and we cry. Back home and we missed you, the whole place got shy. Without the wild heart of a beloved lost soul out at sea. Nourished back home now, and got love for you and me...tbc  xxoo

Katya Mills, 07/13 

Thursday 25 July 2013

young family portrait @ dawn

The day started well. We were asleep, as the night folded in and retreated, real quiet like. Real nice. Left without anyone knowing she left. After sharing her stars and her sweet summer darkness. Her shade cooled the earth and the air and the waters. She asked nothing in return, no, nothing at all. The night she retreated, and the day came, to call.

The air was a cool fifty. The sound of the silence was heavy, delicious. Like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Quiet. Rich. Impermeable and whole. The air, a cool fifty, going on fifty-five. Circulating through town, with the taste of corn and scent of almond, and sweet summer wildflower. She carried the scent of sweet wildflower honey.

Then the birds started up, politely, maybe two at a time. The calls they repeated, maybe three by three times. Then tried out a different spacing, between breaths. Carefully setting the tone. Up in the trees, or down under eaves. Outside the home, in a nest papered with leaves.

 A clock am radio, at a low volume humm. Some nightshift wonder, still talking fresh into the day. With a warm-hearted colloquial, and a laughter contagion. Rare few would catch it, the laughter contagion. The lucky night owls. He shared his thoughts so sweetly, and with such elation. Through speakers. Talking to anyone. Drinking hot coffee in his sneakers. Laughing about kids in his life, maybe nephews and nieces. About coming together...or falling to pieces.

The day started well. The air a cool fifty. The birds set the tone. Against the graveyard shift dj and the wonderful silence. The box fan shared generously, the breeze from the delta. We felt it come over us, in our dreams and subconscious.

We were all asleep in the apartment. The Tibetan bell hung from the ceiling fan, softly chiming every once in a while. The ceiling fan spun slow on its calmest rotation, pushing the moist delta breeze, pusing fifty. Pushing it around. The air did not care. Kinda liked to be touched.

The moon was running high, when it started to fade out, like an ice cube dropped into a warm summer sky. The moon, she had offered us all many chances. Chances for romances in the tall grasses. Chances to find what we otherwise lost. Chances to appeal to some final burst of energy. Some reservoir typically untapped. The moon offered chances, before fading out. In the tall grasses, in the outskirts. In the outskirts of the city.

The sun came up slow and easy. Would have been shot down in a gunfight. So there would be no gunfight, not when the sun appeared that way. The day anticipated peace. The scavengers hung their heads and searched the soil for worms. The sun warmed the earth, and made the day up like soft clay. The sun made the day. The day like soft clay.

We all awoke to this. This soft day of clay and moist air, set into tranquility. With birds and clock radios, calling us out. Circulating air a cool fifty. Summer dawn sun and moonlight, kinda blue.

You and me, and the kittens make four. Four little creatures inside a small house. We all awoke, all four, all four of us. Number: 4. We all awoke in one room, but only one at a time. One by one by one by one. First was the kitten, the orange one, to be sure. The orange tiger tabby woke up by your feet. By your feet, in the sheet, curled up by your feet.

Next was me, I woke up next. Back to your chest. My soft summer feeling arose from hard, wicked dreams. My countenance, upset. Almost disturbed. But my youth returned to me in a flash, not just thoughts but some feeling. I could feel your arms around me, and your body come up against me. I was harbored by you, that's why I smiled in the sheets. The cats were curled up like some ropes around cleats.

I smiled in the sheets, by the bay window there. In the cool air. The blue white light. With the kittens at our feet. This was so welcome, like the sound of the birds and the box fan and radio. Like the silence that surrounded and harbored us, each morning.

You were still asleep, next to me. Next to me. I was slowly awakening to the light of the day. And the orange tiger tabby, who awoke first of four? His big brown eyes looked in mine. Up from a valley, behind the white sheets. Behind the pure dream of my waking, and yours. With the light from the east, and you by my side. With a kitten by the west wall and another by the east. And those beautiful brown eyes.

Those golden brown eyes. Your golden brown skin.
My pale figure, heavy rising up from the bed. To replete the hummingbird feeder, with liquid sugar. To get some OJ out of the freezer. To pour orange into blue cup.

Then you raised your pretty golden head. And you got yourself up.
Then the cat by the west wall, stretched up like a pony.
The kitten. The west wall. The starch sheets and moist air. The blue and white dawn of the day, so clear. I awoke next to you, next to you, my dear.

by Katya 07/13

Wednesday 24 July 2013

my friend the diy queen and killer (and lead singer for the bacon maybes)

Let me tell you about my old friend. The DIY Queen. Stitched her own clothes. She was that kinda chick. I am sure she would have homeschooled her kids, had she lived long enough to have kids. She was just that kinda wonderfully eccentric. Licked her stamps, long after stamp licking went out of fashion. She refused to buy the stickers. You couldn't tell her half of nothing! Patched her bicycle tubes with the old-fashioned patches. Thats how they got her DNA (the stamps, not patches), the detectives who tracked her down somewhere between Boulder, Colorado and Roswell, New Mexico. She wasn't able to run no more. She had broken her leg, on stage, after eloping with a clown. Such is the common result of fabricating your own shoelaces from yarn. Eloping with clowns, that is, not breaking a leg.

She was long gone just before then, long gone from California and where we grew up together. She sent a postcard to the State Fair and all its entertainers. That's how they caught her. Through those postcards she wrote to create alibis for herself, the profilers later said on the news. Selfish-like! That's the reason I decided to write this, here. Because someone needs to set the record straight. And I can tell your for damn sure! She never sent a postcard selfish-like in her all-2-short life! I know. I even have the sweet postcards she sent me, to prove it. But it's all too late for that, now. They claimed for a fact she wrote postcards selfishly, for appearances. Not to cement friendships. And she prioritized the envelopes with little sky blue Par Avion  stickers, thinking flight would hasten delivery from out of state. She conveniently forgot the extra postage required, they suggested.

She addressed the postcard in question to: 'family '. Yet those damn fool profilers and lawmen done her wrong, simply to do her wrong. Because she was the diy killer. Well, let me tell ya. She may be the diy killer to you, but she was my diy Queen!

The postcard was delivered by a truck without wings. The driver of the truck drank coffee from machines, and endlessly smoked smokeless e-cigarrettes. Just like her. Lucky for him, commonality ended there. He was simply an inconspicuous courier for the communique of a murderess, they said. That's why they could not pick her up sooner. She was too much of a yarn-laced straight shooter. An environmentalist. Contributor to the Save the Manatee campaign. No ifs. No ands. And No butts. She gave a shout out to technology, before they remotely switched the fatal dose of electricity into her (After her last request e-cigarrette with the near fatal dose of chemicals, in an e-filter she had put together DIY style during her many clocks on death row).

All the wannabe amateur tattoo artists shed an extra ink tear that day, for her. She had revolutionized the making of ink guns behind bars, among other things. The pivoting needles she made with smuggled ball bearings and button wheels, had earned her the nickname Rosie the Pivoter, which was a great promotion from her original name Suzie the Shuffler. She had not been overmedicated, however. Little did they know when they named her, she was simply effecting static electricity by the soles of her shoes.

No one at the California State Fair could remember her at first. The bearded lady finally ID'd her, with help from the psychic and a lineup, and some vague threats and from certain cops, not the least of which was to shave her face. This happened after the suggestion of near future financial windfall (not the shave, the ID). In the midst of a healthy reward, posted by an cuckolded clown. The bearded man (a detective) turned the whole thing over and over in his mind looking back. He felt disturbed. He had a strange attraction to the bearded lady. This attraction became an immense and lifelong distraction and burgeoning addiction to hirsute porn. So they say. He stuck the postcard to a lonely corkboard, with a paperclip he straightened into a pin. When questioned about his methodology by the chief of police, he suggested he was trying to live inside the head of the alleged diy killer. The chief screwed up his eyes, then called upon the local stock employee to stock the detective's office desk with pushpins.

They had the diy killer by her own confession, finally. What other way could there be? She took great pride in having taken the law in her own hands so naturally, in her vainglorious DIY-style. Her band, the Bacon Maybes, may have made their debut the following year, had she not been locked up. No one will ever know what kind of fame they would have achieved, Rosie the Pivoter and the Bacon Maybes, outside of her great infamy.

Far as I can tell, she was the first DIY Queen, I mean, she was mine. We made our own kombucha. She taught me. It was a nasty start, but it was a start. Ultimately she made good on her promise to one day have her own hens to lay her eggs she could crack in the frying pan. Plenty leftover to trade for milk and cheese at the farmer's market, or for hard boiling. Hell, if she had lived long enough to have had her own land, I wouldn't dare bet against her trafficking in just about anything the earth can turn up. Give her the sun, a hose and some dirt, and pretty much anything and everything was made possible.

But not men. She did quietly outsource them her whole life. She confided in me how she loved the adrenaline rush of a one night stand. Made me shiver. She was a modern woman. Not a feminist. Not traditional. Just a single mom by choice. She didn't hate men. She loved whomever was worthy of her love. Whom just so happened to be clowns, most of the time. Not losers, mind you. Clowns. Entertainers. Entertainers of children and families alike. They loved her, and she loved them. She could accessorize a clown with enough of her inventions to draw his act out a half hour or more. And you thought flowers that spit water and noses that honked like horns were special? Please. I don't have time to go into it, but please! We are talking about my diy Queen.

She just made her choices, with the experiences she had been given. Long ago, when she was still a teenager, she got caught up with a boyfriend turned sneaker pimp. Soon he had her pulling tricks. By proxy of another bad habit she learned from him: phenobarbital washed down with margarita mix. The storebought kind. Corn syrup with a whole tie-dye list of artificially flavored, numbered colors. The nightmare was over almost before it started. She was far from a pimp's paradise. Within a year or two, well, she was sleeping in her own bed again. He was nowhere to be found. Not just not in her bed, I mean. Nowhere. The sneakers, without the pimp.

The way I like to look at it? I guess one of them was bound to disappear, anyhow.

I choose to remember my friend, I knew. Not the DIY whore she became. We used to chew on licorice stalks, and talk serious about light things like cloud formations on an otherwise partly sunny day. She had this magic of making light of what was serious, and vice versa. We made eachother laugh. She inspired me to see things differently. We once had an benevolent kinda influence on us. Evolution of trust. if you ever heard of trust before. Trust existed way back when, before tv and sedentary life of suburban planning, when people had to rely on people to survive. Before culture began to stall like seems to do, now. Before shit got so comfortable. Before the able became the dysable. So simple it makes no sense, no more.

Sunday 21 July 2013

Profile: filter systemics, 2013 -iv)

We are searching for something, you and me.

Could be found in the brief archive of human forgiveness within the heart of a democratic republic made to look slightly impotent for a couple of seconds of precious global socioeconomic relations in the seventies splash colorscheme of an cold war era soviet international airport metropolis. Could be bled out of some lock and jaw campaign. Remain silent as long and far as possible, except when filling out asylum request cover letters which require embellishment in a video age for the global youtube market consumers to know you, by seeing.

Searching makes us feel alive. Still breathing.

Gives us a place to hang our hopes, our judgments on. Popcorn strands of accusations upon. Unrealistic unfulfilled praises on. Allows for our glorious monetary pools of purchased media frenzy. Intellectual circlejerks of spy vs spy classifications. Debunking and declassifying, when classifying fails to reach the widest audience. Taking some heat off Israel and Syria. Taking the edge off of Putin's own curious enterprise. Room to breathe for Kim Jong Il, Jr and Dennis Rodman. And Iran. And Saudi Princes and Princesses who knock down iconography of first world countries and/or hold their maids hostage within the recreation of antiquated slave trade triangulation.

And room to breathe for you. And me.

Friday 19 July 2013

Profile: filter systemics, 2013 -iii)

She tried to grab her identity before anyone else. In the year 2050, this was a hopeless prospect. Babies were suing multinational corporate enterprises focused on this niche. They called it the born-on-capture initiative. And sadly, they had bricks and mortar presences within a mile radius of every major children's hospital in every major American city. These enterprises were expanding exponentially, and the Supreme Courts in every state were so bogged down with the useless appellate productions coming through the judicial systems in waves, on such trite milled over morality plays as abortion, same sex marriage, and gun control, they could devote little time to proper slashing and burning of the heads of this now fifty-headed monster.

The only way to handle the situation was to invest in the temporal portal merchandise which would enable the jumpback to 2013 (although not guaranteed  successul) to remedy the situation via introducing a personal profile element now getting good marks on consumer reports and widely praised by the BBB better business bureau. Even Yelp, which would slowly be pushed out of the consumer ratings market by Squeal and Sigh, had remarkable traffic from avatar and gravatar subscribers, commenting on this particular element.

This element was getting a cult following, for sure. Geeks and tech-heads were definitely the first to understand it all. Props to them. They could save their money in 2050, because they had already invested in filter systemics and thus, their profiles were firewalled and their identities were safeThe rest of us were having to pay for parts at the identity salvage yards popping up everywhere. And, as the auto industry before them, you can bet these salvage yards were in bed with the towtruck webcrawlers, and milking and bilking consumers.

There was even a giant resale market of piecemail identity components, aggregating out from Eastern Europe's satellite-fueled under and overground, no longer cottage industry. The industrial revolution long-since revamped to environmental demands in the Western world, was still a wilderness the East, and a playground for Saudi third world industrialists headquartered above the clouds in Dubai.

The more surreptitious operations fueled by tax dollars of second world governments' peoples, were now in their infancy in locations only accessible by nuclear submarines or otherwise military zoned; Atlantis (under deep sea shelves around the globe), the Bermuda Triangle (mythically-feared and thus perfect for government sanctioned embedding) hashmarked areas outside Las Vegas (whether alien-inhabited or not), the Lyndon Johnson atoll, within and without the recently flooded Japanese reactors, Siberia. All locations were of course inaccessible to all but the most elevated credentialled contractors (most farmed out from the former NSA's and KGB's of the world), and, legend has it, had harnessed great teams of accountants to work over the tax dollars for slick conversion into operative dollars.

Katya Mills, 07/13 kissilent.wordpress.com
[Remember, this is fiction: You didn't hear it from me! ]

Wednesday 17 July 2013

Profile: filter systemics, 2013 - ii)

Ya, she was dope like white collar crimes seeping through your walls in a barrage of white noise. Getting a pass even in the Obama reign of overdue terror on starched collar crime spree offensives. Like the library finally collecting on borrowed books. Then throwing the book at them. You only have a chance by immediately exercising your right to remain silent, getting Perry Mason for your lawyer, and certainly never taking the stand. Not even in the appellate courts which, for sure, you can bank on seeing. The be unseen and unheard approach. Without argument at all, in the idyllic case scenario. Prayer circles at night promoted through facebook by the extended defendant family, for some effective tragedy, like a juror's amnestic situational disorder, or a should i stay in lieu of a should i go, or a premoral anarchastic divination, or, just an inequitable act of god ghost-written by the by-law insurance carriers of the judicial branch of our great order of litigation, usa.

Monday 15 July 2013

Profile: filter systemics, twenty thirteen

She was pretty cool...
before she became lead singer by her own self-election
within the band she formed of her own vainglorious self-promotion
after years on the trail of herself (like a bloodhound) and her own self-unfolding...
in deinterlaced leaves of cascading simplicities.

She was pretty cool by unfair prejudicial standards.
Like teenage mutant ganja standards in the lone star state. Or one of the many states that share its borders, despite vehement sworn disassociation.  What made her cool, cooler, was the precision marching up of bands of heat. Such efforts of interstate hate would not go unnoticed. Unfortunately.

Her reputation bubbled up over bunsen burners, in the kinda legend-making labs only the usa could conjure. Some of the same labs that produced our torrential downpours of cultural insomnia and paranoia, within the context of widely consumed sheets of shards of glass. Ya. A greater misfortune could not have been told by the third of three eyes, in the great psychic trailer pantheon of the sky.

Outside, the lamentations of the past, present, and future loosely-affiliated yet heavily congregated fearful remnants of the war on drugs, were not enough to put out the fire. Perfectly phalanxed in picket line style, yet penetrable nonetheless. Penetrable as a whose-who of crackhead ho's short-on-crack and long on tar black.
Penetration was not even the word for it. Much more subtle, merci dieu. Like those black and white b-flick wannabe cowboys and draft dodgers and other escapades escape-e's wandering into some sunken like forest and high or low-stepping right into quicksand. Sucked into the earth. That kind of sucks. Kinda sux.

 firekiller by katya
This was twenty thirteen. This was filter systemics. Filter politics. Filter engineering. The language obeyed its master. Penetration became Permeation. And permeation defied most laws of geometry. Thus rendering the phalanx useless. And linguistically defunct. Thus turning up the dial on the lamentations. Which only made what sucked, suck worse. The filtercone for swaths of glass had not yet been perfected, by the labs situated conveniently across the street. They were too busy shrinking the nuclear families of warheads for the current fear lobbyists of nuclear war, by government decree, and the tax of psychosocialspiritual stressors on such an endeavor was so high, the barrier of entry was one wrinkle short of a homeland security sanctioned fingerprint. So what sucked worse, only sucked some more.

Ya. She was pretty cool and out of touch-like, and going cold now. Heading toward hypothermia and frozen hysterics. She and her minions would need to purchase a really cool team of youthful fronting lawyers, by cagey corporate costly law school standards, to even gain a fraction of a chance of a snowball in hell with a colonoscopy-probe-probability following on the ass of a seldom struck facebook page. Open the fucking fan club vault, minnie mouse. It's gonna be a reach!

by Katya Mills  @ kissilent.wordpress.com
July 2013

Friday 5 July 2013

Rolling Allostasis -fin)

This girl. My great friend. She would be in her thirties wherever she may be today. Don't get me wrong, not all is lost. I have her in spirit. And she. She has me. Our paths diverged, converged, and diverged again. But that only makes room for a natural confluence in times to come. Until then, I will remember. Every day I must remember. How we braided one another's hair. Mine was dark. Hers was fair. Softly tucked into one another's love and friendship. Spinning in ascending spirals of synchronicity. We both had hard lives. Spare moments, like tires, we reserved for felicity otherwise contraindicated. Our belief systems ran through us, like a syndicate. We talked serious about light things like cloud formations, on an otherwise sunny day. We fried our eggs runnyside down, on an otherwise sunnyside up ticket. We had this magic of making light of what was always considered  heavy serious, and vice versa. The kind of deep shallow friendship most everyone's always looking for. She made me laugh and inspired me to see things her way. We had an benevolent kinda influence over us. Sunnyside us, in our evolving door of trust. She thought i was hella cool, and i thought her the same. We were never disappointed. Except by all those earlier years lost, passing one another by in the great halls of our separate schools of life. I was held back because i broke too many rules. She was pushed ahead, because they couldn't handle her. We didn't hurt anyone. Just coloring outside the lines, creating new paths of learning that veered sideways of the clear expectation. We made them uncomfortable, so they made us the same. But until we found one another, we could not feel fully appreciated. I guess.

Culture began to stall, when shit got comfortable. Unable replaced the able. Complicated the simple. Made no sense to us. We were easy targets based in our culture of fringes and folds where those marked and judged can be pushed and hidden, you know, like this great free country, yes? But still a box, a little ice tray mold into which the spirit is poured and then frozen. And then consumed? Not us! Though assimilated, we would never be accepted. We would not melt in any mouths. So we became something of great fortitude. Thank goddess we found one another for that great moment in time! While the populace fell to platitudes. Unremarkable. Mid-range.

And all her life the others in it, they considered her strange, and preferred her estranged. They watched her. Invited her. And tried to embrace. But she was bouncing that spirit all over the place.
Could not sit still. To her, life was to no end, a thrill. She listened to short wave on transistor. When the short wave broke, she cried. Your outdated! her little sister said, watching her sipping from a crazy straw planted in a New Coke.

She raised no objection. Circa 1985, and she knew it. Just liked to get under the nerves, hit the CNS sideways. Like pharmaceutical Adderal's gonna save you from stress? There was a shiver. Transistor radio. She shook it hard. Still wouldn't deliver. Purely mad for a moment, was she. Mad mixed with strange, created a rolling allostasis. She arched her back, crossed her legs, and entered held prayer stance. Energy flowed through her spine, chakra to chakra. Short wave breakbeat broke through pores of wood - so slow she could still catch it...and she would.

Remember. She is strange. Oceans of sound = place she reside. With flora and fauna, she lets herself wash in with the tide. Found often by fishermen, but never side by side. Incomparable. Unusual. Only self-referential. Be careful reading into her! If she trusts you, she may confide.

Remember, she's strange. Handle her with care. Whatever your arrangement, you must rearrange. Reconfigure central cortex, adjust it two firewall lengths down. Then you may be lucky to touch into her-  but only if she looks to be found.

Often hiding in shade with the lights drawn blue. Often sharing her heart, not what's in it for you.  She's a catfish among perch. She's treble to the bass. She will come up for air when you just got attached. She was a champion of indigenous peoples for the better part of the past century. She was indigenous to herself, and life, her own fascination...

She had only understood her life was hers, after a long drawn out anticipation. Like the breath of the divine into the void...for creation.

Katya Mills   07/13 kissilent.wordpress.com