what you think of yourself

a parliament of youth came together in the U.K. to talk about issues and I watched them on c-span. the most spirited among them stood up from the green leather cushions and waved arms and smiled toward themselves, you could see. I was drawn in by the process. these kids with their fantastic regional accents trying the whole chamber, the whole house of commons, for some eloquence and persuasion. may be what you think of yourself in the end that triumphs.

January ’13 (reminiscent ’12) -ii)

The holidays.
The fucking holidays. 

They stole my heart. Beat me down. They disappeared my cat Drama.I cried like a baby. I slept like i never slept before. Like sleep was going out of fashion. I waited in line to pay for my character defects. Stopped taking my meds. Stopped writing. My computerswallowed a system driver I had fed it accidentally, back in early December, and it took me three weeks of troubleshooting to figure it out. Meanwhile,my eyes shot blood.

 I was drinking tea. Well, I was supposed to be drinking tea. I had bought this dope electric kettle at Target. She was a beauty. All chrome chassis. I tried to show her off, but I guess I was the only one impressed. She was a miracle machine! She told you what temperature she would cook the water. She gave me choices. I liked having choices. I could turn her . I could turn her down from 212 degrees to 190, 180, and so on.

I would have been drinking tea if I could do anything at all. I thought about drinking tea with my ex of the year previous. Maybe to make amends. Maybe to heal. Last year was bad. Real bad. We were facing the holidays together, hoping to support one another through it all. The plan backfired, however. We turned on eachother. We were stressed. The earth quaked below us. Grand mal seizure style. We did not play nice, once the game got to a certain point. Like that point in Monopoly when someones getting raped by hotels and all they do is roll the dice and pray they will hit income tax or any other inbetween spot on the board…cause they haven’t  a chance...

Rolling allostasis -iv)

She was in her twenties, when she surfaced from the midsection of an iceberg, the frozen contents of some formerly fluid collective subconscious experience. In the middle of nowhere, mind you. A slow drip of unhappening. Congealed into living memories (consistency of molasses).  So she thawed from her heart out, and the ice around her began to soften in her light and heat, and collect supine at her feet. Aqua devotion. If water had hands… then prayer beneath her dry eyes. So rare did this sorta manifestation occur. The glaciers melt in their natural way before her. And she takes her damn time. You don’t hurry a glacier. You age it, like wine. Or wait for her to melt, to reference empirical evidence of global warming. Melting butter at room temperature. She never left the kitchen table. Painting her daily bread. Turning and turning yellow over time with the wallpaper. Gotta get worse before she gets better. Baby blue with white flowers, soft and malleable. Almost vulnerable, fallible – almost human again. As she wishes. As they want her. Sorry says the fight inside her, delivering the roundhouse Queen Anne Victorian style. Round one…TKO. From a frozen warrior #2 asana. Feel the heat. Sauna.

by Katya Mills, 2013

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published @ http://www.katyamills.com