On rainy days
version of her
when the tears
On rainy days
version of her
when the tears
i feel sorry for anyone who says you are going to hell or heaven awaits us. Where is this far distant place? to locate oneself at some point in the future? I call this destination politics, and I copyright it NOW. I live here, now. My world I create as I go along. So does anybody. Go back and look at your life. The choices you had. Anywhere on the timeline. You will see you created your life as it stands. You will see how you could not predict your own future. Except in terms of your attitude toward life. I predict my future, in terms of my effort. And my effort exists only right now, as I type.
Attempted social worker.
Heaven or hell? These culturally impoverished symbols stand out to me, moment to moment. Am i in pain? To what extent? Do I feel good about myself. How so? What I am finding is it all correlates to my efforts. My efforts to be sincere, and think outside of my self. My efforts to exercise and share my talents, without fear of reprisal, without demanding any return on my investment of time and energy. Having faith that all will be provided me. When I live there, I guess you could call this heaven. The way I see it, this is never a place to go, this is a place to be.
When I am so self-consumed or in fear or inaction, living in patterned recollections of situations which did not go my way, living in expectation of what’s to come, playing destination politics with other people and myself… when I demand and control my way around the place… This is some hell.
And religion has nothing to do with it.
And religion has nothing to do with it.
to save the
god saw us
for a while all i wanted was space. and
silence. city sound became punishing,
like the thoughts i had toward myself.
against myself. i hoped for a quiet place,
where i might sit with my self and work
out these difficult fears and feelings
running me down relentlessly.
i hated myself into many panics. i let
myself be used. sometimes the hope
was two negatives would lead a positive
charge. this method was in the end,
mostly madness. i was no good at
chemistry. but i thought i could run a
current across my life.
prayer was ineffectual, in a time of
spiritual deficit. i might try to pray. i was
sincere. it came off bad. i could not often
sit still unless i was terrified or sleeping.
and i wasn’t often either of those.
i could not quiet the city sounds. the
cars, trucks, helicopters, voices yelling
laughing screaming crying. trains.
fireworks. motorcycles. gunshots. car
radios, televisions. doors. moving trucks.
dogs, cats, animals. freight loading,
unloading. babies. car tires. speakers.
chains. subwoofers. arguments. fights.
broken glass. screen doors.
ambulances. basketballs. sirens. kids.
landlords, tenants, junkies going through
withdrawals, laughter, mania. strange
unearthly sounds. manias. depressive
wailings. loud silences in certain bad
places. soundless muted murder. dead
silence. followed by violent storms of
cacophonous cackling and butchering of
the english or other language.
blank loud stares.
i found myself holding my
breath.peeking through keyholes.
wondering if i was next.
the law would come in, or a rent-a-cop.
you could tell by the sound of the walk
who was walking
the weight of the belt, the holster, gun,
taser, keys. maybe it was just a maid or
i was often pacing or waiting for my
number to come up. still distant. still
hoping for a little space. quiet space. my
internal would not have known what to
do with it, though.
maybe push me more violently into
thanatos gulch. or mad river quarry. the
depths of which could not be fathomed
by the human eye.
yes i certainly knew how bad a toll i had
taken, how violently my bell had been
rung, when, long after i let the
burgeoning toxicity overtake me in that
urban nightmare reality
pale and sick and past caring, angry and
helpless to my reactive emotional.sad
and skinny and losing my faith…
god gave me a chance to come up for
air, in a little rented motel room some do
gooder rented me, away from the urban
amorphous ink night. and what did i do?
after jumping for joy? i got so depressed
like never before. i lay down and slept for
two days and three nights…
then got up to such a madness, without
thinking, movement away from that
taciturn moment, quiet little retreat from
my quiet retreat, orchestral movements
in the light, pumping my legs by my feet
on the pedals
screaming silently back to oakland from
richmond, knowing the strange beauty in
another terrible mistake, feeling the
electric storm of old oakland overtake
me, all the cacophonous sounds pooled
into one current
coming across my body
high voltage seizing me all over again.
the smell of homeless teenage angst
wrapping around me like blanket with its
piss warmth mental poverty
addictive, additive recycled air, oozing
with traffic remoulade, parsed with law
enforcement, sprinkled with social
services, crusted with age-old
i smiled and forgot myself again. lost my
self in the insanity, cause this was home
by K @ katyamills.com
I found this space today. You just cannot believe! I rang you from there, but lost connection. I cannot say there had been one to begin with… the place is rather obscure. Confiscated by spirits. Surrendered to the moist, silent, dimly lit fate like stalagtites at the entrance to a cave. Like Plato once was. Just waiting for the light. Just living a half second behind the slowest known metabolism. Slow motion dreaming.
Im just dreaming… aren’t I? Also, its complicated! I think? Just because you were born into life in a certain position, with a certain unique astrological signature, does not mean you will become anything so aware or unpredictable as you were at birth. You gotta earn your fingerprint! You cannot just ink it and get paid! Ink it and get laid! Anyone born into any sorta challenge, any sorta discomfort, any sorta imminent daily changes on average of noticeable atleast once a month knows you gotta earn yourself into society. Unless your cash laden, do not expect folks to blow sunshine up your backside! Sorry kids. No sugar could coat this sour gobstopper core.
Once again its about looking at the process. What a nice segue back to what we never really left. Fuck. I am talking about what did not fall in line so nicely. Call it a spiral. A building block of life. Call it the car you were just driving coming at ya with not a second to spare before boom! Impact. Call it circular logic on a linear fireline. Basically; call her everything. And then some.
If you look real close you will see that not everybody got what they wanted, not every detail will be fulfilled to a symphonic flourish. Some dudes hide their great animosity. Some chicks apparently suffer incessant pms (and thankfully not you or me!) Her period, okay, its private, I know. I know! The feminists and N.O.W. are gonna fence me for this one! Five point restraints in my future! Hell, at least i can pray for pink straps. I cannot plead out the freeverse excuse. Not then, not now, not soon, no. No soft serve, no fast food, no microwaves here in this small quiet space I found to sit, think, feel, commit my feelings to soul, commit my soul to imprint, commit myself to printing draft. Legible copy. Then usually edit from there. Often even the tenth edit will see my cutting room floor, which may be metaphorical but extant nonetheless.
Extant like a cloud. You know, ethereal space, semiprivate, semishared. Maybe about as close as a singular sentient being comes to feeling like a twin. I say maybe because i do not know (or do not remember) how a twin feels. I think maybe we lost her when i was born. Maybe I took up too much space or had too much thirst for this world. I can somehow see or feel half of her stripped cut and dropped without a second thought. On the great sky blue, an off-white spot. An assymetrical low volt light. Part of me forever gone and never remembered. Still, felt like a phantom limb perhaps?
There! Out of time to contemplate the greater questions… Our feet, our hands, they are calloused. Our hearts, the same. Still we move on like its the right thing to do. An accident? Creeping up on it in the oil pan dripline of a hundred thousand commuters mixed with tourists, mixed with you and I, mixed with the dense humid air of gulf coast side teeming spiraled shellfish and starfish — between the two or simply in there somewhere.
Then we must RUN! The anticipatory stomach nervousness mix and matched with adrenaline. Some of us may be in it, others are coming toward the accident. Some have just passed. Some will never forget. Some will never stop trying to forget. Some will forget everything and themselves. We try and decide if we should look, and what the consequence might be.
Feels gravely uncomfortable for a while, on that stretch. Why would I be more specific? Deep breath returns to you, if you survive it again. Just metal and plastic and glass all around your bare feet no longer bleeding, merci dieu. Any chalk outlines are now obscured. Thank the goddess, too. Then, life changes a little, say a degree or two on the continuum of feelings. Say a 360 degree scale. To be contextual. She’s a cautious tiptoe thing on rolling rubber wheels, life. We must merge lanes and take exits with no time to spare, hold focus and wave thanks, or kick in the gear to cut real fast. Or wait until they honk at us mercilessly, or until they stop. None of any of that matters too much. Try not to let it get to ya. You seen one you seen a thousand accidents. Some live for these soul suck moments. Thankfully, they are less prevalent than Iranian Christians. Less prevalent than grandparents sporting androids. Sociopathy is kinda rare around here. But you must confront it when you find the lifeless, breathing thing. Ask, What the fuck? Acknowledge but never accept it. For it poisons the well. Its clearly beyond VIP. It wants all your attention and then some. Ignore it if you can. Despise it. Make a scene! Act out! Implode if exploding is prohibited. Or vice versa. Call the cops if it won’t leave you alone. Kill it if it ever gets anywhere inside you, sociopathy. But such an abhorrence is rarer than rare. Kill it and call the coroner.
From here, I must wonder, where are the specifics? The empirically backed evidence? The details? The plotline? The characters? The compass of collective morality? From here I must wonder; have i wandered too far out to be alone now? Then I must soak those questions, all of them, in a large boldprint marquee: So the fuck what?
See how im cursing? Notice it? Notice the way I blow up right here, like i just got told English is out and what the fuck is in season? This process shit is pissing me off ! So the fuck what?
I might hurt someone. My head hurts. Feels squishy up there like canned, processed food. Like my tongue after a day outdoors. Flicking and catching innocents and purists like flies, stopping them dead in their tracks. This flight is grounded! So the fuck what? When the people get uncomfortable and stop laughing, stop reading, stop following, stop wishing, stop praying, stop dreaming, stop flying, stop seeing? So the fuck what?
I can tell you yes, from this little quiet space deep in the heart of it all. This square of thousands of thousands of equal opportunity squares and oppositions and trines… I can tell you Yes! Yes I found my fingerprint I was born with but unaware of, untravelled in! I found my little old spiral unique little snowflake of a spiral, with a smile! With a smile which followed a shocking gasp, a gasp which followed a streak of calamity after a string of played out tape that could no longer be rolled back into the cassette, could no longer be played out again cause it was old and feeble, inflexible, and worst of all: Predictable!
I will always always remember her streets, and above all my friends on the streets. I pray I may some day forget the rest. And they who came along with the rest, like a red tide upon clear water dreamers and searchers. And I mean it! To forget, forgive, and whatever else required to lock in the promise of the river Lethe. For it weighs me down, the memory, it runs deep like a branding: The way they raid motel rooms for the lost causes. The way you aren’t even allowed to exist, once you have pissed them off too many times. Once you have shown up too many times on the docket for it to be a coincidence. Once you have dyed your hair or pierced more than ears. Once you have spoken out to many times about your right to speak out! Once you have declared that which you should have accepted but not declared, that which you are beholden to surrender immediately when they rudely intensify their force upon you and yours! No, it will not be accounted for! Not that the law, which purports to protect you from day #1 (of this life you got the short stick on, you think), has nothing but alienated you and your people, pushing your family further west further north further out from the growing bubble of prime real estate surrounding any American city and yours. Or the taxes you must pay, which go well beyond anything ever owed to the I.R.S.! The taxes they create and exact from your spirit and soul! The taxes no one could pay if one even conceded to pay!
And how i would to forget not the lessons but the episodes of which I am least proud of my conduct. My self as I projected her upon my environment at times of great personal unrest, indecisiveness, insecurity! Fire of anger and flare up of pain so long entrenched and inflammed, and toxicity leaked then spread then exacted out of self upon others in a selfish, egoic, insignificance of misaligned action, or other offstep! My carrying on about my needs not being met, my bullying and abuse! My demanding stubborn ingratitude! My pretension and neglect! My vanity storm! And yet how significant, how critical, how demanding a feeling can be. How childish, how vindictive, how self-serving, our wants! How our needs seem to fall like our shadows, part of us yet so often unheard, insatiate, misunderstood! Thirst and knowledge alone could not pass over this particular brand saran wrap. The friends I lost…having lost a friend in my self. Having lost my balance and been unable to regain footing for an endless sort of tantrum yielding an endless sort of drought where once I knew gardens… oh but before I self-indulge like a honeymooner on a full moon, let me remind myself…So the fuck what?
just stay in that make believe place i made myself believe was my locus aka whereabouts aka future time place whereby any such question and therefore possible choice to answer might exist (but really does not, though reality has been superceded by the made believe i shoved into its face like a whopper powered by V6) let her go-o–o-o ? Now i got 99% of you lost and disinterested and feeling the alternate universe of Occupy Wall Street, Occupy Oakland, Occupy movements everywhere, USA and International. Now i gave the 2011 political muscle powered by baby boomer babies grown up for real — some upper peristalsis action as a test of its true mettle, steel, strength of endurance… now that I make believe i have even so much as made that kind of impact even, in this planet 0 nullset of the internet i do not dare call home but
Who knows it maybe all swiped away, memory and all, in a temp file kinda way with all settings, cookies, form data, history, set to be deleted upon closure of this here very B-log post I been flapjacking the A-log list of snail mail letters de
scribed calligraphically by my lit major self identity with ivy growing off and on, kinda touched with new money momentum, wherever my faith cuts out like that old evinrude outboard engine survived to its third (mine) generation of benefactors and beneficiaries.
Nah, I cannot continue out of here! This isolated sad island. Not here, if I am truly to orchestrate my personal IPO day of brand reckoning, my psychosexual carnival ride on bookstore-tour-tilt? Ego taxidermed and spurned no longer! Now or then, to watch the flowers handed to me after my short program figure freeskate over the frozen tundra beneath us, wilt. If i continue on here, I risk this effect of my prose cut in half or worse, on tilt. Blogger’s disadvantages as published recently, include the possibility of having the entire ball of wax and words being pulled out from under for any reason at any time! Have mercy, have mercy!
So last words last: The sun is cool and strong in its weakened winter heat- stroke. May be even sufficient for ordinary type of folk in the low-rent colorful apartment lifestyles i know, dropping a pack or two of menthols into the lined trash baskets with a half dozen paint infused used nail files. Diet cokes would be there if it weren’t for the bad press lately. Consumption of caramel color being linked decisively to cancer… on top of the already offensive kidney stone painful passages, dehydration, and ignorance of holistic health quotidienne r.d.a’s generally appreciated. Have mercy and pray we do not suffer the press of diet coke. The press on diet coke. The press for diet coke.
For all subconscious, conscious or otherwise projectile, egoic-packaged, grabs for A-list space was, is, and will be premeditated criminal behavior. Human reactive kinda blemish formation activity under the tropics of cancer and capricorn, and under the expected levels of adherence to an enculturated unspoken grande hierarchy of mindful listed rated and published writers! Writers and screenwriters, playwrites, novelists, novella-ists and istas, short storyers, journalists, A-list loggers, columnists, celebrity autobiographers, ghostwriters, unauthorized biographers, biographers, word excavators, Writers-in-residence, foreign writers-in-residence, Artists, Linguists, Typologists, Alcoholic poets and poetesses, Rhapsodists, rapists, Freestylers, Poetry jammers, extracurricular mass mailing spammers, Fanning the flame fire-starters, yes!
Pray for yourself and All of us! Turning unrelated other than url-linked at best, brush stroked out on the table! usually after midnight on any of all seven days in the week, too locked up in the mind! the decirculated blood, by the muscles in the face, requiring massage of some sort or relaxants or botox or biometrics against the swimming upstream of facial tics fighting face….Pray for our potentials to be fulfilled! Pray for the Yet to be and hopefully never served with a toetag, like d.o.a. attributed before the e.m.s. even listened for the bass, the snare, the drumbeat of the heart, saw the lack of rise in the chest, felt the still air where would have been the jet the stream the current of breath… Pray for the jetstream which even now you feel across your sun-spackled cheeks… pray with the intensity of all compassionate muscles read by the youngest of children upon your face in a second flat… And breathe… again.