drama 2

the run was over 

the lead wiped the makeup off his face

staring down the dressing room mirror

backstage

wishing they would take this show 

on the road

jealousy lay in wait

outside these theatre walls

the kind of drama you could not 

rehearse for 

#katyamills

Journal # ten four

The theatre was replaced by a store, on the street dead-ended at an r.v. park and a crown jewel, on calendar day ten and four. the grasses there were brown as the ground of an aftermath island by a category storm, planks of wood in a dance as they logged the water and dove by drift and distances great, colored settling on ocean floors for schools of fish. we painted on better days that shook a palm tree head of gloom. and so you stood a-looking mournfully out to the deserted street by the window of my room. the dust was swept up and circulated off of the street in the midsummer heat, damselflies at the mercy of cats and lizard wind. you turned to me with a look asked for help. i could not but inexplicably mirror your distress, and in a moment was i your mistress.

go slow. go quietly in your creative process

Imagine if you slowed your process down and watched it, played it back for yourself like a film. Yes, you can drip all the butter you want on your popcorn. Just eat one popped kernel at a time. Taste it. Lick the butter off of your fingers very carefully, like you are giving head. You can put your legs up over the seat backs cause you are the only one in the theatre. Ladies cross your legs, just in case. Someone always prowling in the darkness, maybe come off the screen and wanna be with you. Hopefully its the hero or heroine, and don't you dare make love to yourself, it's a cardinal sin, if there was a hell you would go to it but mostly we agnostics know you would just feel bad about yourself and sick to your stomach. This is a work of fiction cast out from the booth in the back to enlighten the screen for your eyes, you who receive. Imagine the warm blue light triangulating out into the darkness and above your head. Closest to the projector you can even see the air we breathe is swimming with dust. Our lungs must be ingenious. Focus on your breath as the numbers count down from ten, with an old radar-like image and a line traveling clockwise around back to midnight and the numbers fall and the excitement of what's to come... What's to come out of process, is more process, the consequence of process, the marvel of creation, making our lives one brilliant second at a time as we go. Swimming through our lives and slow it down commensurate with a wave. We are fragile. We are breaking. We are falling in love again.  xxxxox  KatYa

Journal # only one way to get the rush

Look I am worn down, too, after what me and you, we been through look at us -- are we not friendly now? All the vanity got rubbed off and the ego decimated and sentenced to hang where the public could watch, and really good riddance to the rubbish anyway, now we can rest and work behind the scenes where the works are, the ropes and pulleys, the measured weights and ladders and a train of laundry bins on tracks carrying reels and tapes and costume clothing... where the bespectacled producer discusses the talent with the director while his bloodhound noses about some dusty storeroom treasures and everything smells of woodsmoke and light is coming from the back where metal doors have rolled up into the ceiling so the caterers and couriers can unload upon the docks the goods, look, under my eyes are long crescent moons turning purple in the seam tonight, and the crows feet show in my laughter, as I listen to another stagehand talking about a date went wrong, smoking down here in a bay in the back, where the light is white and the air is cool and far from the action on the stage which would not exist without us, of course, sweet dream, you and me, to file away the old script that felt strange on the tongue, and the makeup made us look so pale and so young, let us be casual and severe, minding our business back here, lending a hand to the horn section of the band, as they parade off the symphony half-shell. Off broadway is nice slice of life for us now.