Journal # 06.26.2016

Tonight I seem to have lost a year but it doesn't matter, time is fluid showers over us, slanting down shoulder blades, slips between fingers, in and out of endless divots the fabric of pores, circles the drain and away, guided by threads and spinning. Tonight I am petulant, a tenured professor, setting myself up against impossible deadlines, racking my brains and then breaking. Tonight I am quiet going about my weekend, on the steps of the back porch platformed above the backyard below sky, listening to catfights, a solo calling bird, waiting for dawn and the burgeoning rush of highways, the streaming of sound, faraway, trying to trust, outdoors. Tonight I could be any old brick of clay, unformed and pulled from plastic, rather drab and uniform yet gleaming somehow from the inside out, on a table of hardwood in the center of a studio... with so much promise I could only walk away from myself disturbed, hands suffering and unoccupied, clasping one another in desperation. Tonight I am insatiable as moving water, thirsty as a life behind bars, free from all resentment not worrying about the future, schizophrenic, I could dive into the fabric and bury us there. This early morning time exposure of lightening, geese in arrows across the sky, ducks regimented walking to water. Find me disoriented as usual, unable to fall in line, unwilling to surrender, drumming up another battle, steeled against this order... this morning I make my own cadence, lucky as hell, restless like Cassius Clay, on my toes, laced up, face down in this adventure, counting seams, watching the canvas of the earth receive and genuflect, feeling the sensuous tension, riveted into play, feeling the sweat bead up and draw watermarks... dropping my head back to see stars. and god it was bright i saw stars.  -KatYa

Journal #05.07.15

Touch became a rare and valuable find in a market consisting mostly of audio-visual sensation. A new trend took place, whereby bodies were lying on the ground. Many people left the city for an hour or a lifetime, in order to find a field to borrow or to buy, in order to be able to finish breakfast and coffee and online communications, and head out of the house, off the bottom step, past where the pavement ends, into the center of said field, and dropping oneself first on to one's knees, then back on to one's back or forward even on to one's belly, with or without clothing, to feel the touch of the earth and all the organic matter therein and thereunder. Sun bathing was another form of intimate reception, but no longer viable due to melanomas. Human touch was another form of intimacy, but quite unlikely due to unfavorable market conditions, legalities and general phobic disinclinations. This sorta experience was almost miraculous in the year 2059. Metrosexuals would stop and circle and glom in an insatiable crowd. Certainly not within reasonable expectations. Anyone who cried out about lacking this sorta intimacy, would be ridiculed for sure. Like walking down the street expecting someone to hand you cash money without asking. They would wonder aloud what planet are you from? To which you might respond, Earth, circa 1973? After which, disheartened and alone, you slagged on back to your field of glory, removed your polyurethane skin, and dove headlong into the irrigated mud, hoping to drown. Good news. The exfoliating powers could be exponential.