type

sometimes you don't think you got anything to say but give it a try and it will come. like releasing a bull from a pen. storm out of there bucking, all the thoughts and feelings stored up over the years. a super sweet release and i would not stop for nothing, full bore, no breaks. no getting a glass of water or blowing a nose or answerin the phone. no stretching no standing up no looking away. gotta stay devoted to that cadence that rhythm, keep pressure on those keys ... and the headache soon abandoned the scene for somewhere else ... and the heaviness in the heart dissipated ... and the darkness behind the eyes finally gave way to light.    #katyamills

type.writer -vi

the voice of the machine
unmistakable. a whole room listens as
the natgeo journalist in the forest of my mind
takes a tentative step forward

that night
the ritual

a quiet preparation of the scene
the placing of a sheet
rolling it into view

the smell of oiled letter arms
placement of the fingers
for some thought momentum

the ringing of a bell
the end of every line

i slap the arm to sweep the barrel
down the rail again
hit the block and then recoil

writer's block...
deus ex machina

carry on

mid august melody

you were space
you were operatic

i was listening
but could not hear

like a potted plant i
needed time to take on
water. once i drank
i was full

i need to paint my nails
a soft shell blue
to remember me
with you

you are angry
i am yelling
you are pacing
i am telling myself
not to cry

i believe i'm gonna
sound the pitch of railroad tie
a'buried in the ground

locked in there. to stabilize
a nation. split in two

i am crying the earth away
so i can see you
again. next to me
saying your sorries

they mean nothing
they mean nothing

i am space
washing saucers
operatic

you are history
you are gone

i am thinking of you
i am typing

you are reading
i am writing we are
dreaming we are
one

summer's gone
and come

you are dreaming
i am typing we are
reading in the
sun

PIANO -- Journal # 06.16.15

When I type I sometimes imagine I am on the piano, in a romantic era, composing something magnificent. A lot of what we do, how we do it, depends upon approach. To me this is a creative process before a creative process, framing the mind for my work ahead. I might imagine that I am captain of a ship. I know that there at forces at work beyond my control, and I must surrender to the great sea. Yet one takes great pleasure in knowing that one has a responsibility of such magnitude, even that there may be lives at stake, and it affords little room for error. With this sort of attitude, a small room and a table by myself can became quite a large happenstance to which I am beholden, to which I will call upon all my whole storehouse of knowledge and experience to bring my wisdom to bear upon the page. Upon the paragraph. Upon the sentence. Upon the word. Upon letter by crisp, clean letter. Black keys situated between and above the off-white keys. Each key desires an expression, tripping a wire to evoke a sound. The memory I have to locate each letter. The response of each key to the pressure of my fingertips. The unseen residue of an oily fingeprint differentiated from all other fingerprints. What I leave on the table. The felt which silences the key so the string can sound alone. And what is this sound? A vibration! And what is this happenstance of incomparably quick composition at so many words per minute? Nothing if not a rhythm translated from the vibrations in my soul. And what are these spaces between, if not sacred?