belly #8

on location

the belly of life

sink teeth in

#katyamills

hell and back

she had been to hell and back

worked with animals for several years trying to restore her credit and sanity 

there were tons of new friends to make over mocha

in her heart lived the ones she loved the most

the ones in hell

  #katyamills 

fight for it!

He served in the Navy and had been a pilot. They thumbed through scrapbooks together and he showed her. There were photos of him arm to arm with his brother and father, both who were aviators before him. It was an intergenerational thing, a legacy. She didn't have to act impressed. When she fell on hard times he volunteered to cover her lodging and food until she could get herself situated. He would not take no for an answer. She said she could handle it but he read between the lines. He would have kept her safe to perpetuity. She loved him a little before all this. They were both fighters. She would love him a little more for loving her, afterward, by heading out into the world with renewed strength to fight for her life. 

 #katyamills

the creative life

they found refuge in the creative life

after years of deconstruction

born to a mother who 

wanted a clone
disliked for having formed 

an identity outside of 

her own

#katyamills

the earth does all the heavy lifting while the sun just shines

the sun crossed the sky

everyone was amazed 

reminded her of her ex

didn't do a damn thing

and got all the credit

#katyamills

Reading (ATE48)

An excerpt from my book...

eight.three

i am constituted of methods mistaken for madness by those who believe so strongly in ideas they have fixed to a chain in the backyard. we are not made up of thoughts of us. they can cuss you out to kingdom come. cursing's what they made of. go and live your life. I am constituted of good will and fire in the belly for a creative compelling outcome manufacturing something rare of high quality, worthwhile.

searching for (and finding) meaning!

searching became seeking on an otherwise atypical weekend. seeking became leaking when the sought after was found and overflowed the fullness. leaking became luck when it just so happened the collection was rare and appreciated behind glass by the mass. luck became suck when the interactivity failed to give a deep felt sense of belonging the masses hoped for and needed. suck became destruction when the place got torn apart in a collective rage. destruction became relief when they all realized how connected they were by their anger. relief became regret when they witnessed the damage they did and the collection was ruined and history would miss out completely. regret was not set in stone. regret was reformed by the mission. the mission was to get up every day and pray to get out there and be helpful some way to someone in need. and not just to pray. the mission was getting up after prayer. the mission was showing yourself. showing up. making molehills out of mountains. standing courageously on an edge. jumping into life. making meaning where otherwise there was none. 

eighth wonder of the world

getting up at four in the morning to write, with a head full of dreams, is like traveling to the eighth wonder of the world, finding it closed, then climbing over the fence. 

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

your atypical

your atypical was beloved
we were all so inspired
especially me

when you acted like a child
and ran circles around
the tree

when you drew a moon
where the sun was
and it came
to be

atypical. photo by katya, 2017

december upon us

the month was turning over like you, beside me, in bed. i knew you would be there for me and that was the point. i got so tired of getting passed by and passing by and i began to understand i deserved more, i wanted more. but first i had to understand how to be alone and be good with one, at peace with that. now it's december and not so cold, anymore.

journal 10 october

do not be afraid. be terrified.

type.writer -xiii

Day old adherents

keep pressing and pressing
free press makes a difference
but truth falls again
to the floor

nothing sticks
in a day. a month
not even a year

your expressions are painted
to resemble the real
the artwork's on sale again
imitating a steal

unless you step out of your comfort
and into your twilight zone you
cannot be credible and
that's how i feel

find out what you care most about
what you believe in
and share

at the end of every night
lie down with your work
to wake up with it

the cards are the same
they get dealt and
we deal

we suffer. we feel
that's how real gets to real

make friends with your fear
have tea with anxiety
have courage to say what you believe

let your island of opinions
into the weave

type.writer -vi

the voice of the machine
unmistakable. a whole room listens as
the natgeo journalist in the forest of my mind
takes a tentative step forward

that night
the ritual

a quiet preparation of the scene
the placing of a sheet
rolling it into view

the smell of oiled letter arms
placement of the fingers
for some thought momentum

the ringing of a bell
the end of every line

i slap the arm to sweep the barrel
down the rail again
hit the block and then recoil

writer's block...
deus ex machina

carry on

type.writer (archive #K) -iv

we drank coffee and squeezed oranges
in the morning. canadien whisky
at night with milk. smoking
4 finger lids

the letter c
started to stick
i had to find oil
and take arms
she was essential
to my vocabulary

tuning our guitars together
swimming out past the
sandbar to the lone buoy
the hammerheads liked to
circle

when pennies were copper

mag wheels for eyes
roll out in silent film
silver screen dyes

down walkways
floorlit and salted
and buttered with
scenes

of someone else's storied
childhood

long legs falling in love
with strapping lads on streets
paved flat by
pennies

land without
cell phones

a sunday. 1955
a city. 1959

when churches were
sanctuaries

mark the time
by the bells and
the sun

we rest on
bloody knees

the automobile
extinct

home. 1936
the sky. 1910

the pool
1920 and two metres
deep

the denim
1969. when pennies
were copper

the board
she saw better
days

cut elbows
in ink

porcelain cheap
for the poor

inscripted
the names
in powder blue
soap

sliding down rails
to the subway

we saw better
days

laughter echoes

a certain
despair



- KatYa, July'17

twelve

Twelve went out for a run at eleven only to be liquefied by noon. A group of children roaming free for the summer came across the silver tracings and got down, low to the ground, and dipped their fingers into the silt, looked at one another and laughed. They painted their faces and tracked twelve back home. Lodged in the system for good and no longer alone, twelve struck twice a day and made himself known.

Grand Theft Life 1.19.4

GWB BOOK 2 11 2