Tuesday, 27 February 2018


the mouse was hidden in the belly of a swan. the swan found some cheese someone left by a bench overlooking the pond, and though the swan did not care for dairy, ate the cheese anyway, hoping to feed the mouse something it liked. the mouse covered his face with his paws, so his whiskers would not tickle the swan. a child saw the swan and began to shout. the swan swam over to present itself to the child and untucked its wings gently, so as not to disturb the mouse in its belly. the mouse could sense the presence of the child, and uncovered his whiskers for a moment. the swan got tickled and flapped its wings, causing the surface of the pond to ripple and stir. the child cried out and jumped with joy. the swan got scared when it saw the commotion in its reflection, and began to rise out of the water with exceptional strength. an old lady walking along the path began to smile for the first time on this day. the mouse began to squeak, as it tried to keep its footing, and something dislodged from above and fell right beside him. the most beautiful package he ever received! when the quaking settled, he carefully covered his whiskers and spent the afternoon nibbling on cheese.


I have a race on saturday. Let's call it what it really is, a crawl! Up in Auburn at the Way Too Cool 50k trail run, forecast now shows a giant storm expected to land tomorrow and turning the trail into a mess of mud, rain, wind, and snow!
Yesterday when I saw, I felt terrified! I called and whimpered about it to several friends and my family. Today? I am thrilled! 


One sorry ass good-for-nothing morning from hell, i decided to do something about it. So i had lunch with my brother and spoke to my niece on the phone and texted my cousin, and if that was not enough to make a life worth living, i spoke to my aunt and texted another niece and called my mom and dad, and voila! i felt a little better, like the bear who found the honey pot. What would blast this space ship into another orbit? Oh. The phone is ringing, now who could it be? An Unidentified member of my Family Of Origin!  Next stop: Saturn.
ultra on saturday - 50k in the rain!

Saturday, 24 February 2018


brownies selling cookies in a strip mall today. little girls with their moms all laughing and chasing around. it doesn't matter if they sell a single box. they had a time!

the new vanilla

vanilla got complicated and ran away with itself. so many flavors. too many choices to make every day. someone wrote a letter and did an intervention. petitioned the court for that taste at the back of the throat. the sorry question polluting the air: could vanilla go plain once again?

when the verdict came in, all the grown children began to cry and ask why? the gavel came down and the judge asked for order and announced with a smile: cuz vanilla ain't vanilla no more!

Friday, 23 February 2018

strawberry milkshake disaster

twilight zone found us yesterday. a little boy in a burger joint in midtown early evening, chewing on his dad's wallet, waiting for his strawberry shake. an older salesman peddling smiles and drinking from a flask on the other side of us. he guessed the city where I came from. We ordered our garlic fries and hammer#1 off the menu. daddy got his boy a piggy bank for quarters. this boy loves his daddy restlessly, and excited for a shake. it's a timeless nameless place and I dunno why. in a moment everything changed when a six foot glass door to a show case, fell off and shattered all over the dad and his boy. how? why? the boy was crying and we rushed over to help get the glass out of his jacket and clothes. everyone was shocked by the sound and the waitresses all milling about with brooms and proprietary concern. the boy could not be consoled but he was okay. dad was quietly fuming and our orders all came up and the salesman got back to laughing and knowing things he had no business knowing. you and me we were wondering about it all, drawn up in the strangeness. then another shockwave through the air, rippling the nameless, timeless space. I turned in my seat and saw the cashier, she had a strawberry milkshake running down her hair and her dress. the boy had gone away with his daddy carrying him.

Thursday, 22 February 2018

killer -v

We are right to remember the lives with such promise that were lost. We are right to focus on the survivors and the families that must move on though no longer whole. We are right to care about our kids and our schools and how to protect them so they can feel safe and trustful and go and keep learning and growing. And if we care this much, we must also care enough to understand a culture that contributes to a violent disposition.

Wednesday, 21 February 2018


I won't allow my depression a millimeter, a fraction of a second, an incomplete thought, a syllable, a single note, a lapse of judgment, a crumb of cake, a seed, a drop of water, a feather to float itself out on... all my depression can have is a one way ticket to a polar ice cap, where it may freely melt itself out of existence.

Monday, 19 February 2018

killer -iv

Light comes out of darkness sometimes like flowers growing in the cracks of paved over places, like stars who rise up from impoverished neighborhoods, like strength and protest taking power back from the mighty and abusive, when fear can no longer stomach itself, when vulnerability transforms into courage and action. My very own niece all of 14 years old, in 8th grade, decided to start a petition against gun violence, because she and her friends are feeling powerless and scared to go to school anymore. People ask what difference can it make to get signatures for some local politician to see? I have to admit I feel powerless too, in a culture obsessed with guns and the right to bear arms. The more fearful folks become, the more inclined they are to arm themselves to the teeth to defend their families. It's instinctive. And the NRA  loves to count the sales. But I say; if we can find a creative solution to our fear, methods to empower ourselves however personal they may be, non-violently, and put our own stamp of right action on our experiences of cultural traumas, then we may be conscious and free from the old and stale reactionary turns. And listen, not speak. Tonight I was lucky to listen to a kid tell me how she goes to school scared, and against hers my experience compared, and to know all I ever worried about in my younger years were rocks and fists, and even the meanest bullies gave in when kissed.

Sunday, 18 February 2018

40 miles

I ran 40 miles in the past week. The winter olympians in South Korea inspired me. My longest run was a personal best (non-race) distance of 22 miles up river from Sacramento, north toward Auburn, where my next race will be held on March 3rd. I will rest my legs between now and then, and focus on my diet and yoga. The #WTC Ultra 50K looks to be a great challenge for me again this year, as I got poison oak while hiking in Winters and could not do much hill work. As in 2017, I am not prepared for the steep ascent midway through the trails. No matter! What I love about the ultra is how it tunes me mentally and spiritually, and to endure physical pain. This tuning benefits me in myriad facets of life.

dawn came

when dawn came I got myself up and hit the street. you know you're blessed when all what's inside you -- all your thoughts and feelings stirred together into a psychosocial paste -- has the same consistency as a cool and placid sunday morning, touched by sound and light

killer iii

they will not ever be who they were before they killed. the part of them that had a chance to be anything other than cold-blooded is gone with the light in their eyes

song of words

a sunday morning begs me to create. i choose words. the creation of things may come less by tranquility than by chaos, equally informed by experience. the energy a song of words holds is generous and gives, if not selfless or attractive. we are naturally drawn to a sweet rhythm carried on a baseline. words have many meanings. our cultures are the context. I like most to let them free in the wilderness of a curious city

Saturday, 17 February 2018

killer -ii

a killer is lost like a river wandered off became a stream then an eddy then a trickle until it dropped off the face of the earth and dried up into nothing, so far from the source was it


ends are unlike me I like moving along and on and breaking bread with friends again. many months from now to trade memories and embrace, we will see how we never ended at all

Friday, 16 February 2018

a killer -i

a killer dies by taking life. when you must take a life to have it, you have little life to begin with, to need it so bad. and then to steal that which is not yours, you confirm you have no guts.

Monday, 12 February 2018

cross examine yourself

A winter's day. The mercury stood up and shouted. The polar bears' coats were dirty and keeping cold would be next to impossible. I cross examined the witness and the witness was me. The argument in favor of the species had lost steam with the jury, and we were running out of time to ruminate. Better hire a platypus to come in and dash the thing apart, then dish about it all to our confidante on the Twitter feed to Mars.

Sunday, 11 February 2018

last drop

I would question the sun's motives were he situated different, in closer proximity to the earth. If I got close enough for the interview, I would get all the answers I need. My pen would melt before I got a word down. Awakened by brilliant light, see me run toward the darkness at dawn. You would be waiting for me at the plateau, I know, the last drop of water on the edge of our collective sanity machine.

change was born there

Sometimes a change you make for yourself make you closer to the people, you know, and you are better for them not just yourself and the ones you love. And I don't know but maybe that was all you could have done to get there, subconsciously so, to the heart aching place where witnessed the birth of a change.

Saturday, 10 February 2018

have to have

You can order what you want for us
I drink all kinds of cola
I'm fond of fried potatoes
Greens and beans frijola

You can play the songs of yesteryear
Quarters in the slots
Flirt the room from dusk to noon
And rush the polka dots

I don't care
The noisy air
The drunken sotted

All I want
And it's the truth!
I have to have you
In a booth

glass of broken thought

I wanna ignore some thoughts in my head or top them off a boil and float the bastards away. Tired of telling myself sometimes I'm a loser, I'm no good, I cannot hold a candle to you. I wanna take them out back and twist them dry, but you cannot get water from a stone.

I wanna take the stone cold self antagonist inside me and shatter her through some wall length plate glass window and stand there and watch, and listen until every last fragment and shard falls to ground in a puzzle of unsolved life.

Then listen to my pretty head full of nothing and adorn her with flowers and songs and flashes of light. I will grab a broom and sweep up the pieces of my broken thought. And hang them on a wall.

ame and the tangy energetic. excerpt

Even without Maze and my past and all that’s gone and lost, perhaps never to carry us up into the thick of it again, even across the landscape of my mind so many times the thoughts got spun into superstitions like if I wear cotton candy pink today, he will come to me and see me different; then, he will come to his senses and we will be how we were again, won’t we? Or if I trace the edge of every book cover in this room, one at a time, by the pulpy flesh just between the nail bed and callous print of my ring finger… even such a great loss and mindfuck could not end me, no, for I have a home here where I am honored, where I can argue and fight and kick and scream but will never wear out my welcome, where I am known as a small but vital part of our greater clandestine movement, our secret society, to be seen and heard and neither dampened nor erased nor concealed nor painted over. - by Katya, 2018

Monday, 5 February 2018

belly button

you and me the way we
think may change the
color of our sheets unlike
the coral green they
when you and me we
acquired them
the sky a different hue than
the one she wore in 1822
before the war
how blue
the sound of the sea unlike what our mother knew through her shells
fathers buried
in sand the beach stretches
a band
me and you
imperceptible our teeth and
bellies move like gelatin
foam at the mouth
relentless the wind
the age will define us
at last
the sun dies every day
how sad
the belly buttons
how smitten we are with
our world in the end

angels in portland

I have many angels they come in many forms. One time I was in Portland and they followed me there and saw I was in a weak state, susceptible to influence and likely to walk into danger. I had many an adventure over the course of several days, there, and met hardened criminals who I spoke with plainly. And I exuded an emotional honesty. I was smoking lots of cigarettes. I was in a lot of pain then, having survived a sequence of nightmarish events. I was in between worlds. I did not always realize right away I was in danger, but when I did I had enough time and conviction and skill to maneuver my way out of it. I believe I remained unharmed because of god, intuition, family, and my angels. I have become the kind of person who is more modest than proud, more intuitive than smart, more compassionate than driven, and more conscious of others than I am of myself. And someone whom anyone would be less willing to harm, maybe, more willing to get their needs met by asking me first, knowing I would be inclined to give whatever I can to you, freely.

Sunday, 4 February 2018


I passed a young man of Asian descent lying on his side, he was bald-headed and bloody. He told me how the politicians were tracking him. He had a square of metal and tapped the top of his head where some of the skin had been scraped off. He was smiling and calmly began scraping at the cut, and I asked him to stop. He asked for water. I had a bottle in my bag and gave it to him. I walked up another flight of stairs to a room crammed with technology like the inside of a space shuttle. There were operators in there who knew me. I became enraged, feeling helpless. I believe the operations people carry out across systems could be more carefully intended and tended. Instead they get rushed and executed, payrolls capping both ends. People are shut out and they suffer. There's barely enough water to go round.
'street art midtown' by k

Saturday, 3 February 2018

world of black of white

The beauty in being American was and still is the freedom to set your sights on a lifestyle you dream for yourself and go after it with all your spirit and cleverness and nerve. The hurt you feel when you fail is yours and yours, alone. Maybe it will lead to a dead end street and bar or romance. An ashtray full of butts. 24 hours of loneliness can be hell. And then your back in the game, if you're young, the world is black and white.

they let me feel innocent

I was a little kid with a heart full of feeling and a head full of up to no good. They let me feel innocent and sent me to bed much too early. Though I hated it and cried and fell asleep to their laughter and songs, I guess you could say I understood. 

Archival footage K.2012

The right is preaching morality again. Not that the left isn’t. This is not news. The right is taking sides again, damn it.  They are halving these lemons with merciless stainless steel knives they sharpen behind smirks and glassy eyes, listening to Limbaugh and talking about handicaps. They are crying now, the right, crying while their daughters work their confidantes into friends into acquaintances and phone lists to drum up a ride to the clinic and some cash for the procedure. Its outpatient. Its dire. It has been weighing on the young girls’ minds for longer than necessary. And the tears fall at around the same time. Early afternoon when the lemons are being spruced up and gutted of seeds for the marinated mountain trouts. His eyes are stinging and he’s crying and laughing as the compatriots rib him over it. Like they always do. Grown man crying. She’s sedated but still more aware than she would like. The nurses told her best to take a mild sedative not a deer in the headlights dose. Why?

Now she knew why. They were right. Because hey, she was still in her body afterwards, and though the seconds were hours, they were gone like seconds and she found herself looking back into the outpatient room almost as though it were too soon to go, unnatural so. She was saying goodbye to the nurses, now. They were trying hard to smile. They were doing it for her. Focused on minimizing the trauma. No one wants this. No one asks for it or deserves it. The right was wrong. The far right. The crazy deadstare lifers with their deadweight x-rate images no one should ever be forced to see. The deadend lifers dead to the daughters of the invisible American family experience. The parents whose lives have turned a difficult turn again, and no it’s not the best time to share. Not the best time to care.

Will it ever be? Maybe. Maybe looking back ten years gone, looking back and apologizing for being absentee to the emotional discord, the spiritual movement flexing inside a young bright star, young girl got screwed and screwed up, misjudged the guy, misjudged the timing, got drunk with her friends and got stupid. Lost alertness… lost a whole lot more. Even with the benevolence of the nurses, the nonjudgment, the suspension of judgment, the carrying out of reduction of harm. The understanding the psychology of trauma and loss and grief. The grounding the girl’s process in smiles and facts and exactness of protocol so as to provide a tight container of love or compassion for someone so young and asking for help, and still learning to love self through the madness of all the bad shit we do and see and have done to us over the years. Some to survive. Others to survive longer. And all of us to endure that steady certain suffering in whatever dose we can take, and then working to stem the tide with our pharmacies by our sides. Crutches are good for a while.

What kind of world could be more intriguing than this mystery mansion with its deadends and distortions? We witness ourselves and one another, going through contortions.

Published on WordPress in May, 2012 by Katya