“I missed her somethin terrible, Kell. She let me soak right through her skin, caught in the city, and live there protected, exceeding her lung capacity inhaling, then giving me her lips and taking in the deep river of air. Segue from there. And I began to cry when I first saw through her eyes, okay, the place had been blasted apart and made a clearing, my pupils pinning and dilating, pulsing as I really got into her, how uncommon the hopeful pain, starvation and loss for so long, god, Kell, where didya come from? Where did I come from? She was right here, beside me, pressed up against my ribs, our bellies greeting through our clothes, what hips we had trying to push around, and she started to catch the tears on a fingerprint, getting closer, cupping a hand to my face and though she let me in, she was not aware how deep I was gonna go, her fingertips she took to her lips and already salt. I would make her thirsty, all feeling her dying and coming back to life and knowing now the interior of addiction and then come clean. I took a simple breath just beyond my lung capacity, made dangerous, then kissed her a hit of my madness, and came back to myself with a gasping kind of whistle. She covered her mouth and laughed. There’s something funny in all of us. I had to crouch down to the floor so blown away by the difference in her and me, and really the influence she had on me, I mean her life, as it came to me in flashbacks, and she crouched down beside me wondering was I gonna be okay. Hiding the smile I gave her, of me. I fell on my knees on the floor and threw my arms around her. God, you are so awfully sweet. How can you be so wonderful? Looking into the green and wandering reflective marbles of her eyes. Like you saw the swamp and survived and it made ya an emerald by its burn, ya, butterflies flew you up and outta that sewer. Catfish gasping for air and feeling for the bottom. Goddam. A million particles of mulch. The rays of the sun as though caught under ice, bounce around until smothered by the anaerobic. The fish that thrive are all muscle and gray as a country mare. So rubbery they could make for playground balls if you stitched up their mouths. Slippery when dry. All you need to know. Not many survived the swamp, but she did. My Kell. Don’t cross her. I will fuck you up. We cut our teeth on the horns of bulls. Such is why she can go emo and the world will go with her, rainclouds forming and air churning, and a foggy sadness making clarity in your head. Well, someone had crossed her, and I was about to cross them out.” – Drafted from Book#3. Ame and the TE. by KatYa
my friends, confidence rises as the words fall into place and chapters materialize around central concepts and characters. the cover is itching for play as i write into the future of this series. not knowing where it is going, i understand myself better seeking who i am then being who i have found myself to be. i need not wear the booksellers cap right now. of course i crave readership and less do i thirst for sales. i am much more interested in communicating with my audience than banking off of them. how separate the marketing mind is from the actual making of a book. july has been very good. best month in months for WIP production. i have been back to shouting out from behind my desk, alone in my room but for cats! a very good sign. i don’t holler much unless i’m onto something. like any project of any kind, the builder can see when things are falling into place (or not). with this book, not unlike the others preceding it, i found the process of setting the foundation to be painstaking, almost like the surface was some scraggled slippery rock on saturn. like bones on the mend, i had to literally break it up several times and reset it. there were days i could not even walk and meet the site, the reminder of all the work needing done. the healing has begun. the foundation is in place and the structure rises up and takes form against the harsh landscape! though the inners must be fulfilled, it is a lovely and most tingly experience to walk around and above and look upon the book, the materialized form of it! (i mean in my mind, materialized as a vision) again, this work heals me and has little to do with the separate process of bookselling and building readership. it’s a faith play. knowing that it’s a fine house and someone will make it their home. the cool thing about a book or work of art, is that the builder shares the home with the reader and the world. i am unsure how large my fan base is, at this time, and it may be very small. but the author, the one who writes, is carefree! carried across the healing process, jettisoned into fresh space, wearing saturn’s ring. saying what i needed to say, in an ordinary, heartfelt (ritualized and methodical) way. and the paint job? the cover, she awaits, ornamental, itching for play.