notarize the thighs -iv)

You became at that moment - for something. What a relief. Even if you were not exactly sure what you were for, anyone could tell you were for something. By your healthy pulse and that certain laser light, in your eyes. You would be one of those walk-ons in a method acting audition, who couldn't act your way out of a bag, but whom, without a single line spoken, got the part. Cause of the way you carried yourself, of course. Props to Marlon Brando and Tennessee Williams. Props to Faye Dunaway and Charles Bukowski. Props to an effortless way of being. Props to the effort behind it. Props to you. For the je ne sais quoi. Your vox accompli.

Gone are the days in the margins, barely alive. Still a loner, but no longer alone. A non-subscriber, but only by choice.  A subscriber for certain to your own gliding voice.

Throw out the bricks and mortar old rolodex situation. With the tinted glass cover and the black plastic foundation. With the earmarks from contacts you once had relied on. In a corporate scenario that paid real damn well. Welcome to owning your own ebullient label. The style is touching, though the earnings? unstable.  Welcome to endless contacts who you have not yet met. There will be no more rolodex and no more personal jet or jet-set.

No need to monitor some worked up fabrication, to keep you employed in some unforgiving niche. But you may have to pull a Rod Stewart, and start your wave digging ditches. Those who dare not to step out the parameters set for them, are worth all your compassion and benevolence. No doubt. But never look back for too long. Amassed is an archive so full of the evidence, of what happens when the spirit is packed up and stored in the attic. Or firewalled off from your heart, until it hits static.

Not a pretty picture, the motionless scene. Of the spirit once blazing, now lounging. In limousine. With a whiskey and water, and lips wet with saying; some day it will happen, some day maybe soon. Some day I am sure, and maybe next June. Some day, and now pass me the map to the treasure. I am almost halfway there, and at my own leisure.

You and me, we are different. It's quite a dialectic! There's nothing to demeaning or ill-willed coming from us, we wish all the best of each of us, always. But some can relate to another so well, you just start communicating and fall under a spell. Your spirit informs you all the way up through your chakras. The moment we meet becomes an instagram memory. We cannot privatize our sense of fellowship. The generosity of spirits aligned in a moment. Captured true and irrevocable. Outside of time, space, locus, place. Defies x,y and z axes. All around us fades to gray, for a second. In the flash of a conducted energy across the impenetrable body armor. The primal scream is released. Props to Reich and to Tesla, and the Orgone Accumulator. Props to spiritism and its history, quite alive through the centuries. Like a redwood rising above all the mundanity deluxism.

Take the lux out, and there! The je ne sais quoi. Notarize the thighs, but don't break the law. Just live like you're living, whether homeless or funded, keep giving! That's all. We are the ones who come so far to surpass the situation. The whole enchilada of titanium insensate fear-inspired, fear-financed, mass indicated, mass appealed, safety-sealed, moment in time treasured, intricately coded and measured, bureau monitored, otherwise insurmountable, cultural affair.

by Katya Mills, 07/13