tongue.

through the years they lost everything they ever loved or had. the relationship with language endured this troublesome time. to a point of speaking somewhat in tongues  

#katyamills

misconceptions

if you decided to confine half your life to a tiny cube where you were walled in and given security in the form of money, health insurance, a predictable daily routine, comfort, artificial light, food, a title to define yourself by; would these conditions result in sanity? And how would you know you were sane, when you were insane determining?

'people work better when driven. insane' -viii)

On the topic of  'SPIRITUAL EMERGENCY'
 
Original material performed by Katya Mills
from K IS SILENT
 
 
 
People work better when driven, like rain
Not like nails through plywood
Not like slaves
Nothing narrow
Driven to a point as deep as bone marrow
Where the levee breaks

The point of overflowing
To the point where sanity and reason dead end
Where we may become highly emotional
Charged
Where we conduct electricity and switch channels
(with ease, if you please)
 
 Irrational? for certain. Intelligence? Beyond standards. Insane? Well, not sane, in the best of any sense of not sane. A psychosis? Perhaps. Psychotic break? not necessarily. Long past the neurosis? Most likely.
Ferocious? Like a tiger!
Outlawed?
Most definitely, like the wild are outlawed
from tea parties.
 

sachomes #1 by k

What american culture seemed to have lost sight of, somehow, somewhere in the past;  was the continuity and emergence that soon comes to pass. That dead end or limit, got taken literally, indeed. Never mind if travel may continue on foot.
If left unbound and not institutionalized, unmedicated in some cases, people can relocate themselves in the land of the lost. What by all appearances looks hopeless, even criminally insane, may find self-remedy, in the realm of the spiritual.
The soul has no ordinary bounds, you see.
The soul was made for being extraordinary.
This is the soul’s inclination.  
Past the point of knowing, really nothing is clear.
Past the point of comfort, the mapped out area.
Past the well worn territory of both mind and body.
Past the breakpoint of rpms in your cousin's Ferrari.
Past familiar. Out of area. Quite impossible, and why?
Because part of our nature needs to learn how to fly.

this was home

for a while all i wanted was space. and silence. city sound became punishing, like the thoughts i had toward myself. against myself. i hoped for a quiet place, where i might sit with my self and work out these difficult fears and feelings running me down relentlessly.

i hated myself into many panics. i let myself be used. sometimes the hope was two negatives would lead a positive charge. this method was in the end, mostly madness. i was no good at chemistry. but i thought i could run a current across my life.

prayer was ineffectual, in a time of spiritual deficit. i might try to pray. i was sincere. it came off bad. i could not often sit still unless i was terrified or sleeping. and i wasn't often either of those.

i could not quiet the city sounds. the cars, trucks, helicopters, voices yelling laughing screaming crying. trains. fireworks. motorcycles. gunshots. car accidents.

broken glass.

radios, televisions. doors. moving trucks. dogs, cats, animals. freight loading, unloading. babies. car tires. speakers. chains. subwoofers. arguments. fights. broken glass. screen doors. ambulances. basketballs. sirens. kids. deadbolts.

landlords, tenants, junkies going through withdrawals, laughter, mania. strange unearthly sounds. manias. depressive wailings. loud silences in certain bad places. soundless muted murder. dead silence. followed by violent storms of cacophonous cackling and butchering of the english or other language.

blank loud stares.

i found myself holding my breath.peeking through keyholes. wondering if i was next.

the law would come in, or a rent-a-cop. you could tell by the sound of the walk who was walking

by

the weight of the belt, the holster, gun, taser, keys. maybe it was just a maid or maintenance man.

i was often pacing or waiting for my number to come up. still distant. still hoping for a little space. quiet space. my internal would not have known what to do with it, though.

maybe push me more violently into thanatos gulch. or mad river quarry. the depths of which could not be fathomed by the human eye.

yes i certainly knew how bad a toll i had taken, how violently my bell had been rung, when, long after i let the burgeoning toxicity overtake me in that urban nightmare reality

pale and sick and past caring, angry and helpless to my reactive emotional.sad and skinny and losing my faith...

god gave me a chance to come up for air, in a little rented motel room some do gooder rented me, away from the urban amorphous ink night. and what did i do? after jumping for joy? i got so depressed like never before. i lay down and slept for two days and three nights...

then got up to such a madness, without thinking, movement away from that taciturn moment, quiet little retreat from my quiet retreat, orchestral movements in the light, pumping my legs by my feet on the pedals

screaming silently back to oakland from richmond, knowing the strange beauty in another terrible mistake, feeling the electric storm of old oakland overtake me, all the cacophonous sounds pooled into one current

coming across my body

high voltage seizing me all over again. the smell of homeless teenage angst wrapping around me like blanket with its piss warmth mental poverty

addictive, additive recycled air, oozing with traffic remoulade, parsed with law enforcement, sprinkled with social services, crusted with age-old desperations

i smiled and forgot myself again. lost my self in the insanity, cause this was home

this time, last year

Companion to last year, this time


This time, last year, well.... i was pretty tore up. Looking forward to nothing. Twelve twelve twelve, and the end of the fucking world. I was living in a truck in Richmond, California. Not a nice place to live, really. Definitely not a nice place to live in a truck. It wasn't my idea. It wasn't my truck. Just shy of forty, and just shy of some incomprehensible impending doom I could feel, lurking around the corner. Literally.

This time last year, I was rescued. From an abusive relationship with a kid I met at a vending machine. He had sold the machine out of the cookies I was hoping to buy, with what was left of my bank account. Little did I know he would sell out on me, a few months later. Back to black. He went from telling me he would take a bullet for me,  the day we got mugged in De Fremery Park, to holding a fragment off a mirror he shattered, in my face. For real. All we ever had in common were those fucking cookies he sold out on me.

All I was left with was my impoverished beat down self, in the end. Staring at that metal coil behind glass, wondering how my spirit got consumed. I had all the time in the world to figure it out, this time, last year. Unemployed and unemployable. Mental Illness is a bitch. Causes you to get another degree in pharmacology, just to get baseline. When emotional flatline is your goal? you got problems, kid. Another degree in chemicals, had a reverse lake effect on my mental illness: took me a degree deeper into my chaos. Paranoid about people. And twelve twelve twelve. Unemployed and unemployable. Board and care, no longer cared.

I became bored. And careless with my self. That's what you get, when you take the road never traveled by. Who gets involved with an ex-dope fiend turned dope fiend, by choice? Mental Illness is a mother. Another landlord had had enough. I was about to kick me out of me! For real. Mental case. Up all night. Up all day. Writing? Yes, of course. But that was the last of my sanity, I guarantee. Never lose gratitude for cold cold reason. Always appreciate your frontal lobe. Do not sell it on the black market, like I did. This time, last year.