commerce

they came up with creative ways to describe what they were doing and what they wanted and how to get it...

belushi

rolling up the window

bang bang girl

#katyamills

cocaine (1996)

I found this piece I wrote in script, 1996
(black cover diary)...

cocaine

sweeping the powder
with the tip of the fingernail
composing your lines

and nothing can bring
you back

bend the neck down
let a shoulder drop
turn your head to one side

meet your creation

the tide comes in
washes you away

fade gently into the horizon
behind a cloud

the undertow

your world has
consumed you


-Katya

Book Review

Drugstore Cowboy by James Fogle
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I loved the movie so I decided to read the book. Much of the material is based on the author's personal experiences as a junky who knocked off pharmacies with his partners on the West Coast to maintain their habits, and as a result were marginalized and meshed into a subculture exposed to violence, degradation, incarceration, and often on the run. The narrator owns his experiences like an adventure he takes part in 'by choice' and as an exercise of free will. The tone is one of dark comedy. The book is a quick read with simple vocabulary and lots of speaking parts rounded out by short descriptions and visualizations in and around Portland, Oregon. I felt like I could care about Bob and Diane and Nadine and Rick, maybe even more than they cared about themselves in the end!


View all my reviews

GWB 1- XX - 1 a videobook

Maze 2:12:5 Storytelling

Book Two
Daughter of Darkness Series
Chapter 12:5

In the last episode 2:12:4 Kell's history is caught up, as she frees a Cadillac Escalade from the showroom floor in Texas with a head full of Oxycontin and some voices setting her on a course for Oakland and her people.

Maze 2:12:4 Storytelling

Book 2

Daughter of Darkness Series

Chapter 12:4

In the last episode 2:12:3 Kell uses Oxycontin to escape the reality of her bloodlines. She crushes on her brother's friend - a wannabe cowboy - who sells dope and turns her on to the stuff. 

you could believe in drugs

You could believe in drugs you could. You would want to have them always around and rely on them to get you out of a jam, rely on them to help you produce, rely on them for energy, rely on them for creativity, rely on them for calm. You could believe in drugs and demand they make you feel better when you are in pain or feel differently when you are sad, differently when you are upset. You could put faith into drugs. Or you could try and believe in yourself.

Journal # 02.20.15

Thursday. Judgment Day for the squatters, next door. The leasing agent was pissed. She woke me from my semi-caffeinated slumber around noon, yelling at a girl on the landing of the second-story apartment which has not yet been rented. Who are you? she shouted up from the yard, her platinum hair falling behind her. Her cobalt blue Scion was still running, in the alley.

"I live here," the girl lied.
Oh no you don't!
"I do!" she insisted.
You better get out. I'm calling the cops.
"The cops told me I could live here!"

The girl burrowed back into the house. They had tacked newspaper over all the windows, inside. This mess was gonna play out all morning. The cops wouldn't be here for an hour. The mp3 track was titled 'Leasing Agent's Lament'.  I could have used some more rest. Oh well. I went into the kitchen for another cup of coffee.

A friend of mine called. He was doing laundry down the street. He instant messaged me many times, and I got the feeling he could use some human contact, so I pulled on some jeans and a hoodie and stepped out for a little walk. I was daydreaming on the soft top of the kindle bestseller list, when my friend saw me by the laundromat and called out. Light like a spin cycle. He and the sunshine warmed my heart.

I gotta go, I said after a while.

Some guy had given us a strange look before stepping into his truck. This particular intersection was the kind of gentrifying line you don't wanna cross. I knew better than to stand there in a parking lot for very long, talking. The folks on the gentrified side were always armed with presuppositions. My friend looked enough like a drug dealer, anyway, and had been, long ago. Whatever a drug dealer looks like? And I once had a habit. In a past life.

Time to split, then. My friend, he gave me a a hug.

We could have stayed. It's not like we were breaking any law. The cops were pre-occupied down the street, placating the leasing agent. We could have hit the donut shop and interviewed the junkies. Then crossed over the imaginary line to the other side of the spinning cottons, to the fancy Italian delicatessen, and interrogated the special white mozzarella.

if K ruled the world

No one would be expected to smile or greet you, though they could if they wanted.
No dogs just cats.
Yes to miniature tigers and teradactyls.
You work at what you choose, and you may sleep when done working and work when done sleeping.
No more cell phones just walkie talkies. 

No mayonnaise. 

No social media, in fact, advertising and marketing are banned and punishable by tickle torture.
No more pavement and the animals live freely among us. 

No sentient being owns any other living thing.
You can still own property.
No currency just barter.
You can still fight wars if you want, but no draft and don’t involve anyone whose peaceable-like. 

Punishable by hippie farm segregation.

Sorry but no more cars or planes. 

Let the birds do the flying and everyone gets a bicycle on their 5th birthday. And a bell.
You can live in a house but you won’t need one. 

You can fall in love but that’s your business.
No weddings, and funerals are called commencements, and celebrated madly.
Only assholes and bitches get disappeared. 

This includes wannabe dictators, sociopaths, and tattoo artists who decide to deliberately ignore your design and permanently mark you up with their sad art.
Creative types get to create whatever they like wherever they wish, so long as its divinely inspired and not hurtful, just helpful.
If you like my world, please follow my website @ katyamills.com and buy my books on Amazon.
And feel free to write me in for mayor of Toronto, to replace the crackhead whose got the malignancy in his belly. May he get well soon.