in need of nutrients
having embarked cold and thirsty upon the land
with a curious beating heart she
dislodged her diary and misted its pages
with secret emotions sketching
rough thoughts and plans
then. full of rebellion
dashed them
#katyamills
Showing posts with label girl. Show all posts
Showing posts with label girl. Show all posts
Saturday, 17 September 2022
Sunday, 12 November 2017
Friday, 30 September 2016
Saturday, 21 May 2016
misfit girl in dollar store slippers
The misfit girl
in dollar store slippers
in dollar store slipperslike you like it
huh
xxx
KatYa
Saturday, 22 November 2014
the girl with her life off its hinges
"We found her in that room again, a room with a door off its hinges; a girl with her life off its hinges. She was happy to see us, but her joy was capped off where it met her subsistence. I gave her a long and emotional embrace. Reaching her was like reaching down into a hole, and groping around for a sign of life. And finding one." - K.
Friday, 11 April 2014
she whose temples were rubbed -vi) ... the final cut)
She was not homicidal, she whose temples were rubbed
Violence was in her nature and yours. Maybe some Aztec. Some worship the sun
Maybe conceived on Mexican soil with a gun
Her parents became decidedly pacifist in the wake of all the bloodsport they boasted, as documented in the ledgers. Nobody read the ledgers. Pacifist was an unconditionally accepted façade
She wanted to live, made that choice early on
This was well-documented. On the cloud
The virtual copy spoke volumes
Real loud
Probably around four or five years
Suicide was dystonic to her and distasteful
She was clear as her favorite drink: one part lemon, one part tonic
She held it to the light like a chemist
To prevent its being corrupted, she drank it quickly
She was hard to figure
Was her finger on the pulse?
Or was it a trigger?
She excited all the men, and half the women
And one third of the royal family
A high figure
Indeed
Strange, how the only one (unseen) in all whom exist
who shakes up their rocks with a twist of her wrist
recovers her balance despite leaning - en list
now give us.
give us. now
give us a kiss
When all her luck seemed away from her
our loveless child of gen eXxers
true marinated in grunge
wore cycling reflectors
She drew to her temples
(like the strike of a match)
a guardian to protect her
Who held her down in the chair
where she cursed and she howled
caressing the pulse of her dome
where calm was endowed
The healing was practiced
not random
she could give a damn
about facebook and fandom
Damn! our girl cried
young girl, leaving youth
massaged all the way
-- past gloss and glass
and glitz and glamour --
all the way to the truth
and thereby enamored
The thoughts that once clamored
and crowdsurfed her brow
excised at the temples
the fingertips ploughed
The flying cuts flew
unlocking the locks
all the cuts
from her temples
right down to her socks
A wave of great and invigorate feeling
this young girl, leaving youth
-once damning found expression-
self-resolved as they say
fresh love welled up
self-propelled
by the way -- fin
Violence was in her nature and yours. Maybe some Aztec. Some worship the sun
Maybe conceived on Mexican soil with a gun
Her parents became decidedly pacifist in the wake of all the bloodsport they boasted, as documented in the ledgers. Nobody read the ledgers. Pacifist was an unconditionally accepted façade
She wanted to live, made that choice early on
This was well-documented. On the cloud
The virtual copy spoke volumes
Real loud
Probably around four or five years
Suicide was dystonic to her and distasteful
She was clear as her favorite drink: one part lemon, one part tonic
She held it to the light like a chemist
To prevent its being corrupted, she drank it quickly
She was hard to figure
Was her finger on the pulse?
Or was it a trigger?
She excited all the men, and half the women
And one third of the royal family
A high figure
Indeed
Strange, how the only one (unseen) in all whom exist
who shakes up their rocks with a twist of her wrist
recovers her balance despite leaning - en list
now give us.
give us. now
give us a kiss
When all her luck seemed away from her
our loveless child of gen eXxers
true marinated in grunge
wore cycling reflectors
She drew to her temples
(like the strike of a match)
a guardian to protect her
Who held her down in the chair
where she cursed and she howled
caressing the pulse of her dome
where calm was endowed
The healing was practiced
not random
she could give a damn
about facebook and fandom
Damn! our girl cried
young girl, leaving youth
massaged all the way
-- past gloss and glass
and glitz and glamour --
all the way to the truth
and thereby enamored
The thoughts that once clamored
and crowdsurfed her brow
excised at the temples
the fingertips ploughed
The flying cuts flew
unlocking the locks
all the cuts
from her temples
right down to her socks
A wave of great and invigorate feeling
this young girl, leaving youth
-once damning found expression-
self-resolved as they say
fresh love welled up
self-propelled
by the way -- fin
Tuesday, 8 April 2014
the girl whose temples -iv)
Irregardless of age, race, creed, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, ability, disability, awake, asleep, dreaming, fantasizing. Life was almost unbearable for her now. Irregardless of age, time, potential, history, or conscious presence. Irregardless of proprioceptive superstandard socialscapes and escapes.
Suck the colors out and it’s a fact. Thank god she could see it for what it was, almost unbearable but not. Or don’t thank god or anyone. Whenever she came to the crux of a decision to live or die, the choice was easy. Live. Experiment. Play with options. Do it differently, with no expectations. Except to suffer still. To love a lot. To feel a lot. To have a hamster in a wheel in her head who never stopped running. What an experiment! She put on her labcoat and stockings and sexy swag fitted label eyewear, her rose-colored lenses, and found her thirst for life. Yes, another day would come to pass of misinterpretation of her. Accepting it, sidelining all that crap, going back to the lab, had to be her undeniable satisfaction.
In a world that could offer little solace through bloodlines.
In a town that courted all its layman judges.
Citizens arrest. Unwelcomeness.
On a path that led to no known end.
The silence and her favorite drink, the feelings she did or did not feel, the strange form she took getting bigger herself every day as they tried to make her small by cruelties they inflicted or unkind words they would say, those around her... what influence had they? Maybe some. Maybe alot. But she tried to appreciate the ongoing evolution of her self. In trying she was almost able. And she tried to appreciate her only known given life almost as much as she could... and almost, she could.
In subsidiary was the account of the days of her youth... through a precipitation of all things heretoformentioned and avowed... through the fallen rain of colored locks of hair... through which all ugly jaundiced countenances saw to the unconditional freeze of her powerful icy stare...in this antiquated world of salons and sociopolitical theatrics of penelopes and patricks...of bulbs bare and loud enough to make the head ache...until a dull scream fell out of some poor child’s mother’s spleen. Or so somebody said. Fell out and fell down on the ground with a thud. Like an ice cream cone scoop of dark semisweet chocolate. Insensate.
She would not rub her temples then. Postmortem.
She would have.
She could not rub her temples then.
She would have if she could have.
She did not rub her temples because someone else.
Someone else knew.
Someone else knew what she would not do.
Someone else knew that she could not do but would have if she could have.
Someone else rubbed our friends temples with a fullness. A fullness that cannot come of judgment or jaundice or class action. A full indescribable spontaneous burst of parenthetically deserted straight up true natural overflowing...some semisweet one got her back.
Suck the colors out and it’s a fact. Thank god she could see it for what it was, almost unbearable but not. Or don’t thank god or anyone. Whenever she came to the crux of a decision to live or die, the choice was easy. Live. Experiment. Play with options. Do it differently, with no expectations. Except to suffer still. To love a lot. To feel a lot. To have a hamster in a wheel in her head who never stopped running. What an experiment! She put on her labcoat and stockings and sexy swag fitted label eyewear, her rose-colored lenses, and found her thirst for life. Yes, another day would come to pass of misinterpretation of her. Accepting it, sidelining all that crap, going back to the lab, had to be her undeniable satisfaction.
In a world that could offer little solace through bloodlines.
In a town that courted all its layman judges.
Citizens arrest. Unwelcomeness.
On a path that led to no known end.
The silence and her favorite drink, the feelings she did or did not feel, the strange form she took getting bigger herself every day as they tried to make her small by cruelties they inflicted or unkind words they would say, those around her... what influence had they? Maybe some. Maybe alot. But she tried to appreciate the ongoing evolution of her self. In trying she was almost able. And she tried to appreciate her only known given life almost as much as she could... and almost, she could.
In subsidiary was the account of the days of her youth... through a precipitation of all things heretoformentioned and avowed... through the fallen rain of colored locks of hair... through which all ugly jaundiced countenances saw to the unconditional freeze of her powerful icy stare...in this antiquated world of salons and sociopolitical theatrics of penelopes and patricks...of bulbs bare and loud enough to make the head ache...until a dull scream fell out of some poor child’s mother’s spleen. Or so somebody said. Fell out and fell down on the ground with a thud. Like an ice cream cone scoop of dark semisweet chocolate. Insensate.
She would not rub her temples then. Postmortem.
She would have.
She could not rub her temples then.
She would have if she could have.
She did not rub her temples because someone else.
Someone else knew.
Someone else knew what she would not do.
Someone else knew that she could not do but would have if she could have.
Someone else rubbed our friends temples with a fullness. A fullness that cannot come of judgment or jaundice or class action. A full indescribable spontaneous burst of parenthetically deserted straight up true natural overflowing...some semisweet one got her back.
Sunday, 6 April 2014
she whose temples -- iii)
She was not homicidal, but violence was in her nature and yours. Her parents became decidedly pacifist in the wake of all the bloodsport they boasted, as documented in the ledgers. Nobody read the ledgers, so pacifist was an unconditionally accepted facade. Neighbors only knew something funny about the spicy chili they spooned out at the annual neighborhood watch block parties, so spiced up with habanero and wasabi to silence the smell of powdered ear lobes, sending a rush of icy air through your sinuses and mine, getting accolades blockwide and block long. Nobody heard the powdered cries of the powdered owners of the powdered ear lobes they could not discern. Suffice it to say, the neighborhood watch was not watching.
She wanted to live, and made that choice early on. Probably around four or five years. Suicide was dystonic to her and distasteful. She knew this clear as her favorite drink in her hand; one part lemon, one part tonic. She held it up quickly at times when her arm and wrist began to falter. To prevent its being corrupted, she drank it quickly. An old and tired lemon and tonic was sad like the first rainfall in the city and all the imminent inevitable car crashes slding on the oils arisen from the asphalt. She approached the Bible the same way. She was confirmed in a Protestant Church, and the version was Good News. She scanned it that year, and basically never picked it up again. Except to box it with the other books every time she had to relocate. Why she held on to a text she found so sad and possibly corrupted, no one can say and certainly not herself. Maybe it was her name engraved on the leather cover? She was hard to figure. - to be continued
Saturday, 5 April 2014
she whose temples were rubbed - ii)
she whose temples were rubbed (a series of posts)
by Katya Mills, 2014
Part -i) ::: revisited
Anecdote from the cutting room floor, circa 2009 … cuts fresh falling off her aura, this girl. Locks of her soft layers of dyed hair flashing in the fluorescent light for the last time, in silence, her silence, the silence of her stylist, of her boots up on the old steel footrest.
She was sickly aware of being one of millions in her country. one of billions in the world. Any megalomania of her youth had been drowned or subsided into a pale ascertain of some kinda amegalomania minority status in the pantheon of petty class passive-aggressive weaker-than-war fare.
She was sick from feeling cold and sick of being stepped on like every footrest in every goddamn hair salon or rickety down home kitchen in the not so deep south where she hailed from. Snailed from. Slow to wake up out that hot and humid daydream.
Part -ii) ::: with tribute to Kurt Cobain, on the 20th anniversary of his young death
She knew she could neither recover the day nor the dream. She knew she would not recover, for she had nothing she wished to hide from herself anymore. What she had uncovered, well, it was all the darkness you could expect to find under an old rock toward the far edge of a garden, revisited after years of neglect.
She was a despondent girl. Our girl. And still people dared to stare back at her silent icy stare. For they knew her as the daughter of disgust and disgrace.
Fuck, she thought, hers was the legend she would carry all her life and to her grave. Hers was the standard by which all could measure, even the lowest of the low, and still be seen as if from below. Her only entitlement for all she was aware, was straight up misery. Not unlike Kurt Cobain. And she wore interesting sweaters over floral button down shirts, not unlike him, beneath her cold hard eyes true. Looking back at you.
So she stared. And she could have cared how you reacted, whether you cared or did not care. Or did not care enough not to care or care. Many if not most were subjected in her presence to having her eyes upon them. The uncomfortable, unwelcome, malevolent glossy glare.
The silence of falling years of color, could not have felt more free on this day however. She sighed in the chair, having untied her hair. By the weight of her breath, one would not have thought freedom. But feeling was the heaviness set forth in the room, bouncing across mirrors.
Rippling earth through the room.
Folks shied away, children started crying. For what sensation she lacked, she made one without effort. A natural audience surfaced from magazines. A natural uneasiness surfaced from her longstanding psychic wounds and kept people away like the bubbling molten rock volcanic.
It was said that those who ventured too close to her -- well... all anyone might hear was gutteral cries someone lost somewhere in their spleen. No one needed to know anymore.
She had some feelings about feeling. She did. She was not therefore unfeeling.
Who was?
Not to feel might be too plastic.
Whereas feeling was often way too dramatic.
So she strove for some middle path.
Which, despite her fair effort, often led her to static.
Whats wrong with static?
The silence that followed or preceded both her stares and her static...
she considered
This silence was beautiful, she thought, like her glock automatic.
This was her gun, not a clock, not a toy.
She found it beautiful yet deadly. Two incompatible traits. Incompatible but not impossible.
Her gun was something she kept neither to use nor enjoy. She found it in the pond by the old shed, where the shallows found coy.
Some spirit had told her she would find it there, and not only that she should or could - truly she had no desire to - but that she must go and retrieve and polish and learn the gun.
She did so reluctantly.
Then sent the spirit away with her stare... -- to be continued --
by Katya Mills, 2014
Anecdote from the cutting room floor, circa 2009 … cuts fresh falling off her aura, this girl. Locks of her soft layers of dyed hair flashing in the fluorescent light for the last time, in silence, her silence, the silence of her stylist, of her boots up on the old steel footrest.
She was sickly aware of being one of millions in her country. one of billions in the world. Any megalomania of her youth had been drowned or subsided into a pale ascertain of some kinda amegalomania minority status in the pantheon of petty class passive-aggressive weaker-than-war fare.
She was sick from feeling cold and sick of being stepped on like every footrest in every goddamn hair salon or rickety down home kitchen in the not so deep south where she hailed from. Snailed from. Slow to wake up out that hot and humid daydream.
Part -ii) ::: with tribute to Kurt Cobain, on the 20th anniversary of his young death
She knew she could neither recover the day nor the dream. She knew she would not recover, for she had nothing she wished to hide from herself anymore. What she had uncovered, well, it was all the darkness you could expect to find under an old rock toward the far edge of a garden, revisited after years of neglect.
Fuck, she thought, hers was the legend she would carry all her life and to her grave. Hers was the standard by which all could measure, even the lowest of the low, and still be seen as if from below. Her only entitlement for all she was aware, was straight up misery. Not unlike Kurt Cobain. And she wore interesting sweaters over floral button down shirts, not unlike him, beneath her cold hard eyes true. Looking back at you.
So she stared. And she could have cared how you reacted, whether you cared or did not care. Or did not care enough not to care or care. Many if not most were subjected in her presence to having her eyes upon them. The uncomfortable, unwelcome, malevolent glossy glare.
The silence of falling years of color, could not have felt more free on this day however. She sighed in the chair, having untied her hair. By the weight of her breath, one would not have thought freedom. But feeling was the heaviness set forth in the room, bouncing across mirrors.
Rippling earth through the room.
Folks shied away, children started crying. For what sensation she lacked, she made one without effort. A natural audience surfaced from magazines. A natural uneasiness surfaced from her longstanding psychic wounds and kept people away like the bubbling molten rock volcanic.
It was said that those who ventured too close to her -- well... all anyone might hear was gutteral cries someone lost somewhere in their spleen. No one needed to know anymore.She had some feelings about feeling. She did. She was not therefore unfeeling.
Who was?
Not to feel might be too plastic.
Whereas feeling was often way too dramatic.
So she strove for some middle path.
Which, despite her fair effort, often led her to static.
Whats wrong with static?
The silence that followed or preceded both her stares and her static...
she considered
This silence was beautiful, she thought, like her glock automatic.
This was her gun, not a clock, not a toy.
She found it beautiful yet deadly. Two incompatible traits. Incompatible but not impossible.
Her gun was something she kept neither to use nor enjoy. She found it in the pond by the old shed, where the shallows found coy.
Some spirit had told her she would find it there, and not only that she should or could - truly she had no desire to - but that she must go and retrieve and polish and learn the gun.
She did so reluctantly.
Then sent the spirit away with her stare... -- to be continued --
Monday, 18 November 2013
Boy and girl, Unified
I broke the 25,000 word barrier.
You can read about my process,
on In Filament, #5 .
I am thinking about how the
community of poets, writers,
artists, readers, and wonderful
representatives of the human
race, well, you all pull me up
'in filaments'. So thank you.
I get thrown into the fire of my
creative, internal. Tossed up
against that fence.
Then I bounce back with a
madness so sweet.
The catharsis kicks in, and
lays down at my feet.
Here now, is an excerpt from
my nano nano. I hope you
read it, feel it, like it, hate it.
Cause that's what it did to me
and that's okay. The feelings
keep me going, when they're
not shutting me down.
xoxo
Katya Webber Mills
Excerpt (in the 24,000+ range)
aka the flauna and flora floating
on the surface of my new moon
escape...
You can read about my process,
on In Filament, #5 .
I am thinking about how the
community of poets, writers,
artists, readers, and wonderful
representatives of the human
race, well, you all pull me up
'in filaments'. So thank you.
I get thrown into the fire of my
creative, internal. Tossed up
against that fence.
Then I bounce back with a
madness so sweet.
The catharsis kicks in, and
lays down at my feet.
Here now, is an excerpt from
my nano nano. I hope you
read it, feel it, like it, hate it.
Cause that's what it did to me
and that's okay. The feelings
keep me going, when they're
not shutting me down.
xoxo
Katya Webber Mills
Excerpt (in the 24,000+ range)
aka the flauna and flora floating
on the surface of my new moon
escape...
National Novel November:
"Could only put up with a boy for so long, especially since he was gettin’ some. Boys wanna start acting like they own a girl, usually because there scared of losing her. Then you try calming them down about it and relax, and they start thinkin’ you’re hiding something. All the insecurities arise, and then what was a pure oxytocin play becomes a big downer of hurt feelings, jealousies, physical abuse and emotional blackmail. Any girl knew the warning signs. Only some could pull out of a tailspin relationship in time. Attachment was a bitch.
But anyway, I began to feel something for the boy was keeping me happy-like. So before and after our unified moments, I would listen with some trepidation; only to see how he was recklessly gunning toward an opportunity to get shot or locked up. Cause black had him not only breaking the law, but then some. "
Sunday, 15 September 2013
the girl downstairs
The girl downstairs came up and knocked on my door. I asked who is it. ITS THE GIRL DOWNSTAIRS she said. I decided to open the door, for the girl downstairs. But i did not let her into my apartment. I didn't even know her name.
The girl downstairs is a blonde with a very well low-lit auburn section. She gets her hair done in LA, apparently. I can tell. Nobody up here in Sacramento can cut and color hair like hers. And if they can, I haven't seen it. Maybe i need to look a little harder. Maybe not. I would rather just feast my eyes on this LA situated hairdo, i told myself, and i did.
The girl downstairs was now dragging the girl upstairs, downstairs. Wow. And i didn't even know her fucking name! She was leading me like a horse, to water. And you cannot do that! Everybody knows! Lucky for her, I am not a horse. So she led me on downstairs and now we were like, two girls downstairs. If she had had a daughter, we could have called ourselves, two and a half girls. But she didn't have a daughter. Well, at least not downstairs she didn't.
The girl downstairs took me all the way back through an apparently identical apartment, to the bathroom. Which was WHERE THE PROBLEM IS. I guess she wanted to make her problem, my problem. But lucky for me. Today i don't take on other people's problems. Especially when i don't even know their fucking name. Hello!
The girl downstairs had an apartment almost identical to mine. Except for one key feature. The girl upstairs has VAULTED CEILINGS. Bitch! That would be me. I suspect. What with all the names she called our landlady in the span of five minutes while she showed me the bulge in her bathroom ceiling where apparently the water was collecting or WHO KNOWS WHAT.
The girl downstairs asked the girl upstairs, downstairs, without even asking really, to cosign on her conviction that the landlady was an alcoholic nightmare, post menopause. Well, i added the last part for effect.
You know, i really just had to introduce myself to this girl downstairs, before making my slow exit and tracing my path back upstairs and out of hell. Back to my vaulted ceilings and my bathroom which she had decided was imminent to COLLAPSE. It can be really hard not to cosign people who are strangers with convictions and right up in your face. And leading you around like that. I have to say I was rather uncomfortable by the whole kitten kaboodle.
But lucky for her, I wasn't gonna lead her into the street and allow a truck to run her down. I probably could have, because she was so lost in a zone of fury. But I am glad I smiled politely and excused myself. I said we could talk later, you know, WHEN THE FLOOR COLLAPSED AND DROPPED ME INTO HER BATHROOM. Maybe sometime this evening. I can't wait.
-by Katya, 09/15
(pssst... up until midnight PST, today only, my novel is free on amazon).
The girl downstairs is a blonde with a very well low-lit auburn section. She gets her hair done in LA, apparently. I can tell. Nobody up here in Sacramento can cut and color hair like hers. And if they can, I haven't seen it. Maybe i need to look a little harder. Maybe not. I would rather just feast my eyes on this LA situated hairdo, i told myself, and i did.
The girl downstairs was now dragging the girl upstairs, downstairs. Wow. And i didn't even know her fucking name! She was leading me like a horse, to water. And you cannot do that! Everybody knows! Lucky for her, I am not a horse. So she led me on downstairs and now we were like, two girls downstairs. If she had had a daughter, we could have called ourselves, two and a half girls. But she didn't have a daughter. Well, at least not downstairs she didn't.
The girl downstairs took me all the way back through an apparently identical apartment, to the bathroom. Which was WHERE THE PROBLEM IS. I guess she wanted to make her problem, my problem. But lucky for me. Today i don't take on other people's problems. Especially when i don't even know their fucking name. Hello!
The girl downstairs had an apartment almost identical to mine. Except for one key feature. The girl upstairs has VAULTED CEILINGS. Bitch! That would be me. I suspect. What with all the names she called our landlady in the span of five minutes while she showed me the bulge in her bathroom ceiling where apparently the water was collecting or WHO KNOWS WHAT.
The girl downstairs asked the girl upstairs, downstairs, without even asking really, to cosign on her conviction that the landlady was an alcoholic nightmare, post menopause. Well, i added the last part for effect.
You know, i really just had to introduce myself to this girl downstairs, before making my slow exit and tracing my path back upstairs and out of hell. Back to my vaulted ceilings and my bathroom which she had decided was imminent to COLLAPSE. It can be really hard not to cosign people who are strangers with convictions and right up in your face. And leading you around like that. I have to say I was rather uncomfortable by the whole kitten kaboodle.
But lucky for her, I wasn't gonna lead her into the street and allow a truck to run her down. I probably could have, because she was so lost in a zone of fury. But I am glad I smiled politely and excused myself. I said we could talk later, you know, WHEN THE FLOOR COLLAPSED AND DROPPED ME INTO HER BATHROOM. Maybe sometime this evening. I can't wait.
-by Katya, 09/15
(pssst... up until midnight PST, today only, my novel is free on amazon).
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