soli.tude

a dripping faucet. 

the breath. 

muscles lose tension. 

thoughts playful. 

they then fall into a hole. 

pores welcome sunlight. 

phone is motionless. 

solitude.

#katyamills

loner

they called you a loner they

thought of you 

weak

every day of the week god

given to seek

solitude  

made mainstream look 

shady

#katyamills

emo al.so

negotiating the hill

to your home the emo

set a dangerous 

tone like an alto circling

a tenor who felt dead

alone in a cosmos 

the shy of heart never

known

#katyamills

how uncommon?

how uncommon my love of being alone

is it not

in a world which runs on

society

i love good company

the warmth of fellowship

yet to be on my own i

touch into the

sacred

draw near the dark melody

out toward the center of the lake, august summer nights, the water dead calm. the atmosphere uninterrupted, both surface and air. they could not see one another and could no longer hear all the commotion on every shore. a loon gets lonely, too.

and there despair was born. made it's way up the long and slender throats. the necks pointed to the sky, and curves of beak parted, opening throats to air. the saddest melody filled the lonely night with sound. echoes in every cove.

we were young and holding hands. snuck out with flashlights to walk the banks to the painted bridge. hidden in the deepest shadows of the canopy, on a new moon night. drawn together out on the island, waiting. long winter a distant memory.

listen... the aching pain of solitude is calling! before i only heard your sweet voice. so small we are... touching your soft warm palm with mine... feeling your breath on my face... i may never feel so close to you again.

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.

super fragile composed of vapors

my world collapsed and formed into a star. the star was super fragile and made of vapors but i didn't care. there was little i could do about it. i infused the core with kindness and developed a fuck you solution for any intrusion. the moon of the earth changed by its proximity to the sun. i lived out there, too, and went through many moods. as one replaced the other, life got pretty interesting. we did not need to get along, you and i, but when we did we could walk and talk again, like friends. this was nice and i needed to be alone again, super fragile, composed of vapors.

the resolute kindness

Readers
Friends
Family
Comrades

I wish you all a bright season, and thank you for camaraderie and for showing interest in my work. For the first time in many years, since 2005 to be exact, I will be spending this holiday with family. I am excited. It was a long and painful separation, yet in that empty space my family once filled,  I developed a lot --what Jung would call individuation -- and, up against the painful silence of a careless world, I drew close to the warmth of the fire in my heart, and somewhere there located the elements of my survival. You may have noticed my tools. Writing. Running. Counseling. Reading. Mindfulness and meditation. Guitar. Your life can be what you make of it. Isn't that freedom? I feel fortunate for my small freedoms in our world of power struggles and abuses. Yet the resolute kindness had to be gifted to myself, and still does. There was a time when I was a child then an adolescent and a teenager, and the many kindnesses were insinuated toward me. I believe the most kind among them, lovers and family and lifetime friends, were the ones who knew me best. And I felt insulted. For I knew they knew I was some walking contradiction, that somehow I was an act, and could betray myself in an instant! The ones who knew me, knew I was not kind to myself at all. I treated them poorly and almost as poorly as I experienced myself. I was a classless example on a long and endless tour. I was Keith Richards meets Brian Jones for a swim. I was a party of one, divisible by all. I had to be alone, in order to patiently await the resolute kindness within me. Otherwise, I risked the endless incinerations, and being reduced to a fraction of myself.

2016 K 

This is my confession to you. I know my writings tend to give only a glimpse of who I am and what I have been through. It is only through the greater whole of this website, and through the books that I write (yes, I am a novelist), you may know me more intimately. And you may also see my play and foreplay with the resolute kindness, within and without. I am the filter, and I attempt to surface and demystify the demons, to spin them around like a top and turn them. Turn them into friends and allies, within and without. I consider it some kinda alchemical process going on. I don't create it, I just reflect it. When I am lucky, coal turns to silver and wine, into water. But I want to be honest with the process, and if all that turns up out the topsoil is a demon, well, there you have it, I will share a demon with the world and let the world handle it... I love it more when I can grow the kindness and press it out to you like a flower! This is (and was) my dream in twenty sixteen. And I will exercise a lien on twenty seventeen, and release more of this lovely, tangy stuff to you when i can, so we can share the resolute kindness.

you were the one all alone

The skies were always one way or another, laughing or crying back then. The horizons were wide and unflawed, or you couldn't see them at all. You traveled another highway, singing to yourself. The sea was waiting for you, carbonated foam rolling up and reaching out for anyone and you. You would walk in and never be seen again. But not today. Not today. The kids smiled when they saw you, immortal in your pain, you smiled, too, for you both knew forever, in a day the way you walked, your hands half in your pockets caught on the loops. The little hands they wouldn't ever let go.  But not today. Not today. You were the one all alone.

fractured

 I get fractured. I mean my personality. When I was younger and resilient, the tendency was like bruising, you know, out in the schoolyard it was no big deal to get rough in play and actually hit the ground and get dirty and bruised with the boys and the tomboys like myself, but when I say the tendency was bruising I mean the way that kids start forming alliances and sometimes shut you out, okay, now bruised, or if you got into it with one other kid and words exchanged and pushing and getting pushed around, but all the verbal lacerations, well, for me they just were bruises, because I could go home at night to a loving family, you see, so all was well with me back then. Today it's not the same, today I'm fractured. I don't have the loving family to come home to, anymore. I think subconsciously I choose to be alone. I need to be alone more and more each day, or so it seems, for when I go out there and things get rough with friends and personalities, well, I'm just not so resilient anymore.

Journal TWO/SIX JUNE

On two six June, some young lady with her hair swept under her cap, dressed a boyish fashion, suffered asthma on a hundred degrees. Hold the aircon, press the albuterol into the chest. Hold it now. Hold it in and take a snapshot of a room, box fan in window cuts through the night, ceiling fan casts shadow and cuts through the light. Some young lady, that was me.

I feel young and fine, but gravity has control and so I let it go and fixed to the earth am i, some young one but not so young as before, dreams as large as ever despite a social sphere leaves lots to be desired... still there are other spheres, online spheres, sleeping spheres, foamy latte bubbles bursting into the neurotranslation of my thoughts on ice.

Strange the night bathed in streetlight, kids shot out the bulbs but could not black the eye of the moon, half a pupil in the sky, waxing, and changing gears with a stick-shift turbo never gets old, crossing the trax is good for your health, kid. All the adults in the room but two, say their mother is their heroine. To me this makes the culture appear well-nourished then, but what about the dads? Has father's day long gone?

I bought Cross pens and sent them through the mail. My brother is a father and my dad is still my dad. Does anyone still write with pens? Of course we sign our names, they cannot take that away, can they? I sleep only one or three hours at a time, at the height of day, and a pillow suffices for someone to hold. Whatever you may call my life, today, is anything but desperate.