from the heart out

she was in her twenties

existence a slow drip of unhappenstance 

when she surfaced from the midsection of an iceberg

the frozen contents of some formerly fluid 

collective subconscious 

experience

ready to travel the world

she began finally to thaw

from the heart out

#katyamills

change was born there

Sometimes a change you make for yourself make you closer to the people, you know, and you are better for them not just yourself and the ones you love. And I don't know but maybe that was all you could have done to get there, subconsciously so, to the heart aching place where witnessed the birth of a change.

under an influence

I wonder about changes in perception a lot, in myself and other people. I love to be under the influence of marvelous ideas, and my perception of the world changes when I am immersed in the creative process; time becomes more pressing, life becomes more valuable, and a lot of toxicity is flushed from my system. I could be under the influence of a particular process, or a particular person, or a particular substance, or a particular form, or a particular place, or even a particular recurring dream or nightmare. Then there are collective influences like war, music, drugs, politics, books, coffee, environment, food, culture. Strange things happen when perceptions become altered and altered perceptions become new accepted norms and their own reality. I find myself taken aback almost yet always curious when confronted with various subcultures. There is the experience of being under the spell with others (immersion). Or being outside looking into (visiting) a subculture. There are the subcultures which we subconsciously accept (internalize) and those we reject. Change rolls in and covers a former way of being, and may sometimes obscure and distort, exaggerate or undermine what we know to be true. The truth becomes difficult to pinpoint.

All I know is it is hard and painful at times to be up against a subculture that I am not part of (rejection is too strong a word). If I walk down skid row, I will feel pain. If I go to a political convention, I will have trouble relating. If my friends are all on methadone (or any other drug), there may be something they are perceiving which I am missing, or something they are misperceiving which I am getting. This is curious to me. And how and why I would feel pain? I guess it is partially that my perception of reality is being undermined (rejection is too strong a word), and not really consciously. Usually subconsciously. When faced with a conscious rejection of my reality, recently, I stood up for myself -- I literally stopped my car and told the person to get out. I think they thought I was joking but I was not. We were only about a thousand yards from the destination, so it was not like I was stranding them. But it was a very painful split.

All I know is it is better to tread carefully and not reject anything completely out of hand, for I have felt the tremendous pain of having my world rejected out of hand and it feels terrible and violent to me. I would not like to impart this feeling on anyone, ever. But outside of personal relations and differences, how do we handle collective influences like war and indiscriminate violence? Aren't these also part of human nature, part of human experience? How then can I reject them? How can I not? IDK - I just wanna tread carefully and watch myself, and try and form and adhere to a personal code, so that I don't get swamped by my subconscious. But I cannot control my subconscious, that's why it is sub: under the surface goings on! But I do believe that what I am doing, consciously, every day, over and over, makes a tremendous imprint on my character. So this I can consciously control. And try and remain flexible in my self as reality goes through its changes and shifts around. Nobody wants to be left behind! But there is one thing remains eternal for me and always hopeful and refreshing, I believe, and this is the creative process. So I continue on, despite adversity and rejection and mistakes I have made. I am in constant search of a greater creative community of caring and sharing, enlarging upon this can only make life more worth living.

she whose temples ... - v)

She loved the feeling of the sound of her teeth
up against the wall
mango flavored hi-chews
seven eleven in the fall
when the insomniac in her was alive and walking.

Feeling like they were gonna shatter. painlessly
her teeth
through the veneers she wove her own ideas
who was anyone (or herself) to take her away the pragmatic reality?
what kinda place to live is there? (there)
in the heart of a shapeless heart-shaped box.
in the fire in the belly of the sky.
what so obviously presents itself to us
sunrise. sun set. rise. set.
No one could answer her.
not just yet.

The rocks in her glass, they came in contact and chattered about. sublimating down.
vespers. dawn. aperitif
conclusion of the day
demerit. thief
they sublimated down to water. in the base of the glass
they took the form of the glass
they worshipped the glass
the glass began to perspire
the rocks they cracked and chattered
A boisterous lot, indeed. Something like an audience.

k selfie 04/14

Reminiscent of audiences of years past....
Lenny Bruce's audience. Caesar's Palace. Vegas
Bad Brains audience. CBGB. NYC
Audience to the guillotine. French Revolution. July 14th. Bastille Day
Audience to Nine Inch Nails
Audience to Aleister Crowley.
The Order throws a party for #4
both major and minor arcana are invited
all suits. preferably hearts alongside spades.
preferably against the grain
the motor activity
motor city
throb

Audience to nothing.
Axl Rose won't come out tonight. his vocals need chakra treatment.
Elton John's done to much blow.
Billy Joel is scared.
Janis is laughing and drinking.
Phil Spector made a crime scene of the wall of sound.
Hall and Oates are making love.
Jim is in the bathtub. with gin.
That dude is coming out to sledgehammer watermelons again.
Mick Jagger's bff just offed herself.
Chris Brown's in jail.
Bieber's dodging Miley on a wrecking ball.
Rihanna behind her.
pushing

Witnessing the moving standstill of time.
Amusement park. Painted ponies impaled on recycled pole dancer poles.
Up and down. Robot lovemaking. Tin man grinding.
Judy Garland drunk underneath the platform.
She got in for free.
She can never leave.
Contemplation of navels.
Contemplation of labels.

Contemplation...
That something frozen cold could move quick
and lightly float like soft-boiled eggs popping out
of the clouds, bubbling down the gravity pressurized earthen
atmospheres, down...

down into soils
taking on nitrogen
feeling alive
glancing off roots
excavating now
unintentionally
sub sub conscious
Judy Garland
submarine sandwich
Malaysian flight
deep hollow
blue

deep down there lay
her temples
some fucking
where

young family portrait @ dawn

The day started well. We were asleep, as the night folded in and retreated, real quiet like. Real nice. Left without anyone knowing she left. After sharing her stars and her sweet summer darkness. Her shade cooled the earth and the air and the waters. She asked nothing in return, no, nothing at all. The night she retreated, and the day came, to call.

The air was a cool fifty. The sound of the silence was heavy, delicious. Like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Quiet. Rich. Impermeable and whole. The air, a cool fifty, going on fifty-five. Circulating through town, with the taste of corn and scent of almond, and sweet summer wildflower. She carried the scent of sweet wildflower honey.

Then the birds started up, politely, maybe two at a time. The calls they repeated, maybe three by three times. Then tried out a different spacing, between breaths. Carefully setting the tone. Up in the trees, or down under eaves. Outside the home, in a nest papered with leaves.

 A clock am radio, at a low volume humm. Some nightshift wonder, still talking fresh into the day. With a warm-hearted colloquial, and a laughter contagion. Rare few would catch it, the laughter contagion. The lucky night owls. He shared his thoughts so sweetly, and with such elation. Through speakers. Talking to anyone. Drinking hot coffee in his sneakers. Laughing about kids in his life, maybe nephews and nieces. About coming together...or falling to pieces.

The day started well. The air a cool fifty. The birds set the tone. Against the graveyard shift dj and the wonderful silence. The box fan shared generously, the breeze from the delta. We felt it come over us, in our dreams and subconscious.

We were all asleep in the apartment. The Tibetan bell hung from the ceiling fan, softly chiming every once in a while. The ceiling fan spun slow on its calmest rotation, pushing the moist delta breeze, pusing fifty. Pushing it around. The air did not care. Kinda liked to be touched.

The moon was running high, when it started to fade out, like an ice cube dropped into a warm summer sky. The moon, she had offered us all many chances. Chances for romances in the tall grasses. Chances to find what we otherwise lost. Chances to appeal to some final burst of energy. Some reservoir typically untapped. The moon offered chances, before fading out. In the tall grasses, in the outskirts. In the outskirts of the city.

The sun came up slow and easy. Would have been shot down in a gunfight. So there would be no gunfight, not when the sun appeared that way. The day anticipated peace. The scavengers hung their heads and searched the soil for worms. The sun warmed the earth, and made the day up like soft clay. The sun made the day. The day like soft clay.

We all awoke to this. This soft day of clay and moist air, set into tranquility. With birds and clock radios, calling us out. Circulating air a cool fifty. Summer dawn sun and moonlight, kinda blue.

You and me, and the kittens make four. Four little creatures inside a small house. We all awoke, all four, all four of us. Number: 4. We all awoke in one room, but only one at a time. One by one by one by one. First was the kitten, the orange one, to be sure. The orange tiger tabby woke up by your feet. By your feet, in the sheet, curled up by your feet.

Next was me, I woke up next. Back to your chest. My soft summer feeling arose from hard, wicked dreams. My countenance, upset. Almost disturbed. But my youth returned to me in a flash, not just thoughts but some feeling. I could feel your arms around me, and your body come up against me. I was harbored by you, that's why I smiled in the sheets. The cats were curled up like some ropes around cleats.

I smiled in the sheets, by the bay window there. In the cool air. The blue white light. With the kittens at our feet. This was so welcome, like the sound of the birds and the box fan and radio. Like the silence that surrounded and harbored us, each morning.

You were still asleep, next to me. Next to me. I was slowly awakening to the light of the day. And the orange tiger tabby, who awoke first of four? His big brown eyes looked in mine. Up from a valley, behind the white sheets. Behind the pure dream of my waking, and yours. With the light from the east, and you by my side. With a kitten by the west wall and another by the east. And those beautiful brown eyes.

Those golden brown eyes. Your golden brown skin.
My pale figure, heavy rising up from the bed. To replete the hummingbird feeder, with liquid sugar. To get some OJ out of the freezer. To pour orange into blue cup.

Then you raised your pretty golden head. And you got yourself up.
Then the cat by the west wall, stretched up like a pony.
The kitten. The west wall. The starch sheets and moist air. The blue and white dawn of the day, so clear. I awoke next to you, next to you, my dear.

by Katya 07/13
kissilent.wordpress.com

Rolling Allostasis Revisited -iii)

Shaking hands while shaking hands for votes of approval. What got overlooked: trash removal. On the other side of the trax, the real suffer the facts. Streets we cannot walk, hardly even drive. Cause our sense of reality got wedged between the seats, somewhere back in ‘85. One would statistically be wondering, how we're even alive. Check the pulse. Nothing there. The world under siege by an ergonomic chair. Lots of media distraction still keeps us at bay. Expecting, demanding conscious or unconscious reaction.  Poor self kept immobile. Poor spirit. In traction. A quick study, in quicksand. We need a bubble bath. Dear Calgon! Take me away! 

So we pray for you. And we pray for me. To get well and get conscious. Paradigmically free. Because it's hard every day. We fall back in odd patterns. Relearning our rings, all the way out to our Saturns. Whoops. There's another infraction: for shooting your mouth, your gun-- or your plan to extend nafta  further south. Like to yucatan peninsula. Somewhere most US Americans cannot locate on a map.

The media takes a nap on the reporting of corporate rule of one-star countries. Per Zagat new rating. Comp the countries like comparing motels. So offensive and intended, cause lord knows that shit sells. Controversy creation  a frequent occupation; if the interview for the position ends in controversy... you're hired. The placating drone in some den of iniquity down the street, getting wired. Lets pray another drone will not be sired. One model getting old? have it retired. Controversy prevention must be hardwired.

But what can we tell you about the one going sideways? The one whose engineering was perfectly misdirected. The one who took the controls away from the autopilot? The curiosity to all? The female Nietzche down the way? The fascinating one down the hall?

We could say chosen one, not for wanting to mislead. We can tell you for sure she was easy to love as the female lead. We learned to care about her, respect her, feeling her. Connecting on non-verbal levels. Collaborating on astral planes. Jumping the devil. Or 1940's era trains. The beat signature line. Ooh la la! She’s a part of you, a part of me. She may be difficult to see. She will get us out of our really tight spot. Shes the fancy persuasion. She's your connect. You're liaison. When she walks the street these days. Let's put it this way: its en masse, an Occasion...

[to be continued]