broken toys of cyberspace

one died of a bullet through a heavy bound text shot by a girl and a go pro camera. another talking trash on a binge drunk rampage got murdered by the character he assassinated. one took an elevator up a high rise in China then climbed free and slipped to his death. a million followers more cannot help you when you're gone. we will remember these years for all our sad broken toys in cyberspace. someday may they be retrofitted with new capes and powers and costumes. and endless lives in the deadly video game where they reside.

journal #07.17.15

I had a technology crisis no more, all the broken pieces lay before me on the floor. i picked up the space bar which was pinned under what remained of my hard drive, and cut myself on a shattered screen. held to the light, the space bar had lost all its power, a sad shell of black plastic. i must have counted a hundred geometric shapes before i realized what a great day had arrived; i was finally free of technology. i walked outside and wondered what to do? then i saw you know who, yapping away on her cell, ha, what a waste of time.

yes, i was gonna be lost and disconnected like never before.

i would not know the weather before it happened. neither would i know the political climate in the country, whether Greece was bailed out again, or the latest on the Kardashians or the royal family or Hollywood, or any one of the wars being fought here, there, and everywhere. i would no longer be able to shop from home, socialize from home, work from home. i would not be able to fight my battles by text, or hide behind emails and instant messages.

yes, i was gonna be lost and disconnected like never before.

and i could not wait. no more 3D printing how i feel, no more facsimile of life. i was gonna be the real me in the real life, circa 1979, i was gonna be a child again and see the world through fresh and open eyes, i was gonna talk to everyone out standing on our feet, fight my fights in person, give them a taste of Katya Mills, rolling up my sleeves and fearlessly flaunting my personality.

we are gonna have a great time, you and me, no longer stashed away behind our technology. i sure hope you get this message. i know it was past tense, but it's a prediction for the future. i know the future is not here yet, and i am behind this keyboard projecting. i could not find any emoticons to describe how i feel about it, so i wonder if you understand? how will you get back to me? feel free to tweet me. i plan to turn my phone on in about 6 hours after it's charged. presuming my alarm clock wakes me up. we can meet somewhere, okay. did you google that cafe i was talking about? the one behind that classic old theatre you know the one we read about on wikipedia, very cool, but...

ummm, i know this sounds stupid but do you think it's really real?

K READS INVISIBLE IMPENETRABLE TRANSPARENT NONEXTANT WALL PART II

ORIGINAL NONFICTION BY KATYA MILLS

(first published on kissilent.wordpress.com)

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.

k reads 'invisible impenetrable transparent nonextant wall'

original creative writing & spoken word 

by Katya Mills

'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?