down an uneven stretch of stockton boulevard in summer, south of sacramento, i came across a classy broken broad, remarkably postured like a runway girl, walking bubblegum pink stilettos, long tan legs up to daisy dukes, a halter top, don’t stop, the mechanical boyish stroll, dry heat tempered by a bottle blue parasol angled off her skinny shoulder blade, urban electric milkmaid conjuring the ghost, to the tomb of some unknown soldier
The medical tech excused herself to speak with her supervisor. She hid her worry rather well. I was in a gown after an EKG. I had a paperback in hand, from the donated library in the waiting room. This happened almost every time. I was once living at high speeds. Sleepless nights. Racing around to no end. Years ago I exited my madness. Since then life has been something to cherish in slow motion. Few sudden surprises. When I saw her, she looked relieved. I asked her the number. Today my pulse chimes in @ 39.
Over airwaves easy works its way
into the soul as sun
makes the home
and lives complete
our last reflection
My heart was no longer aching, not today. Maybe cause i got down on my knees to pray. Maybe i was just lucky. The truth was somewhere, obfuscated by layers upon layers of typewriter paper. I could catch a glimpse of it now and then, but today i could not tell you, if you asked how i was. i probably would not give you the old routine.
No really, how are you?
Nah, at least i can say that on my behalf. I won’t tell you i am okay. somewhere between 4am and 10am, the smoothest window of my life in a day, something goes awfully wrong. And it happens almost every fucking day. Maybe 8 cups of coffee is too much for one person? Maybe two cats is one too many for this girl? Maybe i do not know how to be alone.
i’m not okay.
well, what’s wrong?
Nothing is necessarily wrong. My life is a superfluous cliffhanger waiting to happen. I fall like my novel, into the ebook via freebook via genre fiction via romance via mystery and suspense via suspense is killing me, category. I may be featured #1 of the suspense is killing me bestseller list, at any given moment in time. This is heartfelt#1. by Katya.
In the meanwhile all that is required of us, is to keep that punk attitude @ level main street. Not flaunt it. People get the shit wrong. People don’t understand (punk). They need some help, probably. Punk isn’t insulting, until it’s insulted. Punk isn’t violent unless its backed up against a wall, facing a violent death by censorship and suppression. Parental controls gone control freak, sometimes. Afraid their kids might turn punk on them, no! There’s a local punk show at the bowling alley, don’t go! like skid row. Punk is so far from that, I swear. Punk is not drunk or distancing itself from the life. Punk is life!
Punk is life.
In your face, maybe but not necessarily. Defensively perhaps. But when embraced and believed in, every punk is a mother-loving gift to the culture. A shooting star across the international waters divide. A high def play in your mono nucleosis. A comicon chameleon. A standout from the crowd, with flavor. A vintage black on chalk white heat streets. A friend to the end, when you are lucky enough to have one.
I’m not trying to get anyone to find a rare flower. I just think folks should give a punk a break. Give a punk some bottle water, if you see one. At noon, under electric in bucktown, Chicago. You cannot miss us. The black on white dream. The hairstyle to die for. Rhinestone and leather on a curb. Not even smoking. And there when it counts, in the madness of main street, the punks come down from the wells of the stairs, to help set shit straight.
Ready to exacto knife the badness, the pseudo fake-ass pathetic sadness. So obvious and a sore sight, to be washed off the street. The punk takes it on. The punk got your back, maybe, if you at least try and understand. You won’t be sorry, unless you apologize. Some day you may even come to relate. Because all that is asked is that you just represent. That means be yourself in the most yourself of the sense. In a pure play fingerprint identification of compatriot kinda way. Let your people and mine know that we exist, and support ourselves in the realization that we are not alone, in the difficult reality of our minds.
Every change is painful. Every push gets pushed back hard, and yeah, the pushback itself must get pushed aside in a tai chi kinda way, using the energetics of the situation in a natural way so that the force of the truth is preserved. The flavor of the night is working class punk. Cause it requires great effort with little apparent return. But well worth working toward. And so greatly appreciated by those who have such character as those in common with that uncommon and dramatic and seemingly inappropriate flare, ie, those like us. And we recognize one another, one way or another. We cannot always call upon the courage we have, but we must try, again and again. Every change is painful. And what do we do in the streets is our business. Social media yearns for our currency.
We don’t have to celebrate our connection by way of tattoos or cranium collisions or non-furtive glances, but we will if we want. Cause we have nothing to hide. We will show our tits to it. We will throw a picnic in its honor. We will break out in song for it. We will be our own amplifiers. In the midst of whatever wave of rock and roll, trend, or currency. We are at once the life of the street and the death of the dying. And you can be, too. You can be, too.
But hey, this is all just my half-jaded half-faded, semisweet opinion. Love it or hate it or like it or not. Plus one it or flag it or share it to tumblr. It’s in our best pinterest. Manhandle it, juice it, and tear it apart. See how it ticks. Pawn it, for sure. Do what you want, and just do it, for real. Drop it like a bad habit and archive it now. Or ask yourself why, Katya? and who? when or how? Whatever you do, just do it, please do. So do it, please do. And thank you, sincerely, thank you. Thank you.
-Katya 08/13 – http://www.katyamills.com
The mouth has been watering for some time for a little taste of the really real! Far from the office-as-is. Far from the home-land-security-cam. Far from the life-support system. The Business class. The identical non pinstripe suits. The ladies unable to wear open-toed shoes. Life which is not a beach, even when you live directly on a beach. The gentleman frowned upon for windsor knotting their ties. This isn’t England. We don’t have time for that shit. Deducted from your paycheck. The mentality here. The program we must follow or else. Leave your dreams at home. Put your unpublished novels in the shredder. There’s no glory in your personal story of desecrated ennui. You owe yourself and your country some restitution, for all that rest. Bipolar? Autistic? Schizoaffective? Come one, come all! People wait in line for a diagnosis, just to get away. Fuck the stigma. Be the illness. Covet the experience no more. Self-actualized mental illnesses. You wanna work it like that? Stranger things are happening, so get in line. Start somewhere. Let a county physician try and know you better than you know yourself. Cognitive behave yourself badly. Be a kid again, or role reverse your kids into parenting you. This is the quiet desperation of those who have spent the better part of their wonderful miserable lives within cubicles.
Heroes. That’s what we ought to start calling ourselves. Those of us who have sacrificed our sanity, to join the really real. Because heroes are the ones who wanna wake up, sunshine, and want you to wake up, too. No envy, no coveting nothing. No needing of what can be ordinarily supplied, to get them going with their bad selves and into the world that way, all human and scarred and shit, all making mistakes and so forth, all in the luxury of the poor, dishevelled, diy, really kinda real and sensitive and depressed and anxious and emotional and socially awkward or not but creative in a way of living or working all day at some best effort cause with a heart and some passion or compassion otherwise sold at such a great discount and cost on some chopshop butcher block of supposedly trickled down economics. But instead owned and held dearly though appearing laissez-faire or loose or otherwise inaccurately judged, when all it is really, is worn out from trying. Worn out from giving. Worn out from being other than.
We are the untold heroes and we are real. We don’t need to dream, but we do anyway. We might be found cracking nuts in some blue diamond almond factory down the street in the day. Or throwing paint chips at some glue-dipped armchair and passing it off for high art at some oakland first friday telegraph avenue meet bourbon street doused in whiskeytown rotgut penniless parade in the evening. All the drunken prairie dogs come up off their wooden skateboards to see. It looks like some lost vision. But it’s not lost, not really. Just looks that way. Don’t be fooled. And sure, the pickpocketers will be among them. High art, my ass! will be the first thought crosses your mind. sometimes. Bottle bands and road flares lit up for applause. Kids hooked on ropes, bouncing off buildings. Calling it dance? There’s solid proof of wasted time and effort squeezing dreams dry. But we don’t let them stop us. Because this is heroics, 101. Acceptance. Insanity. Serenity. Insanity.
Can we continue? Not if we have to ask, no. This is the whole of it, to press on and on doing what you believe in most, then going to sleep, waking up, and doing it some more. You won’t always be happy, you will experience alot of pain and ridicule. But you grind up and juice some more caffeinated heroics, what with yourself and what you offer, and you offer your lifestyle, up to the world, and the young ones see you and wanna be you, because when they meet eyes and meet hearts with you, the mind falls away and the age and the physical and mental pain no longer affects us. We become made in the shade and bonded to one another. All artisans and artists, sisters and brothers. And we get beat up and beat down, and life throws us shit. But we somehow manage to just handle it. We work ourselves up to something good, something greater than great. I think we get there and feel it, then our bodies and minds let up and relax so nice. So natural from living this way. Then we can laugh our souls out right onto our tables, out of our windows and doors on the street. The light and the laughter. Replenished. Replete. Through and through, and another day approaches us and we take it, no fear. Because starvation cannot locate itself in something so dear. Its our twenty thirteen heroics gonna get us out of any bind. We are our national treasure, no doubt. keep our heroics in our attitude, share our talent like its gratitude. save the usa. this way.