likes us silent
likes us dead
likes us silent
likes us dead
Such a prodigious commentary rolled out of a disconnected narrative. All the ghosts of old mama Bell had to glom together as operators, pulling and pushing their wires into that old electronic wall. All the calls incoming got patched through, and where hello meets goodbye, a patch could efface the English language, in any such redirection, the power of the women at the wall, operators, any which way. And blue came across the neurons and fired them off like static and clung to the statement preceding. Contradictions were contradicted and life would go on this way through the world wars, and endless series of splicing and bringing people together through a wire. Afflicted with afflictions, some operators were, and found peace only after the in betweens of their shifts and smoke long breaks twirled away. Nobody always knew nothing could turn into something when a push met a pull and were patched away from blue to gray. There were often a few kids meanwhile caught like in spiderwebs, tied up in an apron by a hem.
|‘operators at the hem’ by K|
|k by k on a sunny day 2016|
Thinking back on my life… there is no wonder i am changed and yet remain quite the same at the core, rock steady somehow, trying to be an innovator, trying to express myself in meaningful waves, and hopefully many more years even twice as many years in store, which i could not even say three years ago today, when was my time of dying. Some like myself cannot stand (for our health) lashing out upon the world when we feel we have been forsaken. Instead we go inward and hurt ourselves, which is no less terrible perhaps – but I would rather swallow the poison than poison you, if between the two was my only choice. That’s just me. http://www.katyamills.com/2015/08/lucky.html
Soon it will be as though I never existed. I did the dishes and swept the floors and vacuumed the carpets and dusted the shelves and made the bed and paid the bills and put out the trash and wiped the counters and bleached the tub and sink and soon it will be as though I never was here. Inside the pillow the down is on the rebound, for I have left for work. The kittens are chasing shadows, inattentive to the faraway sound of classical music in the faraway light from the closet. A guitar neck edges up from a dark corner. Silent. The glass is cooling off fingerprints. Spiders are waiting for someone to open the door, will someone ever come open the door? Our houses and possessions, what will they do without us? How will the things inside continue to live? Someone will come. And then the gods of destitution, financial and economic futility. I find myself back in that different life, like a dream now – was it real – helpless and hustling … mixed in with the street level decay, perhaps unappealing to the eye, a vibrant if desperate life demanding all of one’s innate qualities be brought to forefront without notice! The very same things gone dormant for hours upon hours behind locked doors at home, behind books, behind screens, behind bars. Comfort was comfortable for a moment before it murdered you in a stifling blanket party. I urge myself out of bed, off the couch, urgently I urge away from the television, the movie, the dinner table, the concert, the opportunities to hide and plant myself and vegetate. The clinging vine of pharmaceutical quality anything, uncut mental and emotional, physical and psychic vacation, the headphones, the lottery, eye candy, ear candy, the hailstones get bigger and pummel us down and pound us into the ground, fragments of brain lying in shards of glass and ice. The trees weep for us. I urge myself away, back into the self-generating energies, and always what I left behind me comes back again like a solar storm strike. My glasses have been shattered. I grope across the keyboard how to say it. My heart is frozen in my chest, and I nudge it toward a thaw, urgent for a season, decidedly optimistic in the atheistic static. All the gods slap my face with all their many hands, and I wake up out of blue and into time to thank you. I make myself a solar-powered sail, a foil, a blackness to absorb, a whiteness to reflect, I reshape my fucking attitude into a redemptive puffy cloud heaving water, then I rise above it all floating, singing the screams, vomiting terror, rubbing confusion into my eyes, then looking blind into space. Thank you. I hate you life full of suffering. I love you life come and go. I will not forget or regret you made the most of me. Use me. Abuse me. Love me like you do. For I am you.
This piece was first published on my website…
A flash of prose I wrote about yesterday morning with a friend… http://www.katyamills.com/2015/08/friday-morning-recalled.html
The geometry of the room calmed me until i saw the centrifuge which caused me to eat the entire seedless watermelon. The bitter rind, typically dyssed, soothed my soul. My body double, once released, was able to free itself and form its own identity. Which pleased me, her initiative. The brazenness. No one has a body double quite like mine. The trick she used was separating sandwiches we made for the party, from their crusts. Tomorrow arrived with a name sewn to a shirt pocket, in North Dakota, and my old friend (now) Dante, was entrusted to play under the hoods of late model cars. I saw myself in her, by the choice of her name. It was our birthday today. We went bowling in the Inferno. In separate states. They made it easy into a chain. All the balls were round.
From Daughter of Darkness, Book #2 …. “I wandered the streets always wondering how I got here, wondering how I got here, always wondering how I got here. The buildings were perspiring, I saw their vulnerabilities by the windows, I could see the sweat beading off the leaded windows. The sky was aloof and did not care at all. There were eyes behind the windows, there were eyes behind the clouds. They watched me. Someone was up to no good. And it was me.”