strange luck

Strange luck before the full moon on the thirty of July, in the early hours of the morning. I went out into the night to the front porch, sat down on the stairs where I met an open silence. Then I saw a shape out by the curb and went down to investigate. A lacquered wooden table tall with one drawer with a knob with emerald etching, someone put out for the taking. A fine object, I thought, one would have to be out of their mind to turn such a piece out on the street. The gods are with me tonight! With all my might I lifted and carried it home. I put it in the kitchen where it stands, this table, and walking around it I felt calm and centered, observing its quality. I went into the study with a mind toward the interior design, and pushed the area around. Then I heard a noise and saw a small plastic box fall to the ground. I picked it up and soon realized what I had done, knocked into the little cube which one plugs into an outlet to fit a usb connection. I got down and saw the circuitry exposed, and went to replace the plastic box over it -- a flash of light and sound and sensation -- I jumped back and stood up with the surge of electricity in me,  the casing fell again to the floor. A strange feeling came over me; what if that had been the end? Surely, I thought, the gods are with me tonight! Strange luck on the approach of a full moon on the thirty of July.

LA and DV and ADDICTION

Draft material from the Daughter of Darkness series...

(this chapter refers to Maze's mother and family)




" LA was a long way from here, but his mom was a short distance to his heart. She was a social worker and worked to help women like herself escape from situations and cycles of domestic violence. She was the shoulder to cry on that she never had. She had a fine memory of her own necessary flight from danger, and the hundreds of half-baked efforts which preceded the determination she ultimately summoned to leave half her offspring in the hands of God and her sisters to look after. The kisses on their little heads. The telling them it was gonna be okay, when she herself was not convinced. The every little setback she encountered on her traveling up and across the border and into the suck of American culture, had her pining, sometimes bodily, to return to her many loves. Her family. All spoiled by one splendid scoundrel and fool who knew only how to transmit his self-hatred by beating on the one who loved him the most. He considered her a permanent fool for being permanently smitten with him. What was he worth? He considered himself, like his father before him, to be garbage. The more he beat her in the alcoholic stupor, the more he hated himself. The more he hated himself, the greater a fool she became for standing by him. So he would make her suffer, and prove himself right about both of them. Never worried and never conjuring any image of what life might be like if she grew a spine and left him. Which is why he went on his own mental vacation and never returned, after she did. He could smile and laugh at anything. The anger was gone. He no longer needed a home or anyone to support. He could see his remaining kids and not recognize them, somehow. Yes, it was sad. But the strange way he reacted made the depths of his loss a bit easier to bear. For now the people called him smiling old man, with nothing to smile about. "

Impressions? Keep it or lose it?
You can read Book One of this series here... Grand Theft Life

a star obsolete

I am so sad and there's nothing I can do, well that's not true, I can do my nails and take a shower, I can get dressed and go to work, I can glue myself together and hope that it will hold, yet, sometimes I feel I am headed for a break, like just the other day when my world had turned grey and I fought back the tears and so misunderstood, it took all that I could not to go back and fight, but to give up on the chance to make things all right... yes, it was right around then as I pulled to the curb, slow-cooked my head and sat there disturbed, as the breeze off the delta came whipping around, that I said to myself in a scared voice asking god, is it gunning for me, my psychotic break? Will I sink to the bottom of this salt water lake? I could feel my heart was not into the commitment of losing my mind to starfish and brine, I could feel that my heart preferred to stay sad maybe shocked after my spirit got clocked and devastated so quickly, after such a good run before sands got so shifty.

The only big difference I saw from the past, the last time a friend dropped me hard on my ass, was my own situation how far I have come, 'cause back then I was full of nonsense and chewing gum, unable to work and basically done, no longer young, cold-spirited idle and sometimes suicidal. And the friend and ex-lover whom I lost at that time, carries all those qualities still so I can see through her how I have changed, how that is no longer me. But I don't need to look back anymore or compare, I don't need to be faced with a mirror and stare, to know how I have stretched for my dreams to this place, it's written in my eyes, it's visible in my face, but more essentially woven into my whole character, and though I may fall back upon self-treacherous times, in a moment subdued by a flashback or heartache, and go into madness and anger and venom, and say things I long since stopped saying, and panic and fear and confusion can enter the room... I am essentially goodness and warmth and white light, by noon I will have come out of the darkest of night, and back to my senses and self and clarity, the departure of all fear, weakness and irregularity, where in the cool silence of my study I see, my journey is there, patiently waiting for me...this may not be so, but I hope so to dream of a chance to shine if only to be a lighthouse standing tall, for all the ships out there heading straight for disaster, may I at very least be a star obsolete to guide you, an aster.

under an influence

I wonder about changes in perception a lot, in myself and other people. I love to be under the influence of marvelous ideas, and my perception of the world changes when I am immersed in the creative process; time becomes more pressing, life becomes more valuable, and a lot of toxicity is flushed from my system. I could be under the influence of a particular process, or a particular person, or a particular substance, or a particular form, or a particular place, or even a particular recurring dream or nightmare. Then there are collective influences like war, music, drugs, politics, books, coffee, environment, food, culture. Strange things happen when perceptions become altered and altered perceptions become new accepted norms and their own reality. I find myself taken aback almost yet always curious when confronted with various subcultures. There is the experience of being under the spell with others (immersion). Or being outside looking into (visiting) a subculture. There are the subcultures which we subconsciously accept (internalize) and those we reject. Change rolls in and covers a former way of being, and may sometimes obscure and distort, exaggerate or undermine what we know to be true. The truth becomes difficult to pinpoint.

All I know is it is hard and painful at times to be up against a subculture that I am not part of (rejection is too strong a word). If I walk down skid row, I will feel pain. If I go to a political convention, I will have trouble relating. If my friends are all on methadone (or any other drug), there may be something they are perceiving which I am missing, or something they are misperceiving which I am getting. This is curious to me. And how and why I would feel pain? I guess it is partially that my perception of reality is being undermined (rejection is too strong a word), and not really consciously. Usually subconsciously. When faced with a conscious rejection of my reality, recently, I stood up for myself -- I literally stopped my car and told the person to get out. I think they thought I was joking but I was not. We were only about a thousand yards from the destination, so it was not like I was stranding them. But it was a very painful split.

All I know is it is better to tread carefully and not reject anything completely out of hand, for I have felt the tremendous pain of having my world rejected out of hand and it feels terrible and violent to me. I would not like to impart this feeling on anyone, ever. But outside of personal relations and differences, how do we handle collective influences like war and indiscriminate violence? Aren't these also part of human nature, part of human experience? How then can I reject them? How can I not? IDK - I just wanna tread carefully and watch myself, and try and form and adhere to a personal code, so that I don't get swamped by my subconscious. But I cannot control my subconscious, that's why it is sub: under the surface goings on! But I do believe that what I am doing, consciously, every day, over and over, makes a tremendous imprint on my character. So this I can consciously control. And try and remain flexible in my self as reality goes through its changes and shifts around. Nobody wants to be left behind! But there is one thing remains eternal for me and always hopeful and refreshing, I believe, and this is the creative process. So I continue on, despite adversity and rejection and mistakes I have made. I am in constant search of a greater creative community of caring and sharing, enlarging upon this can only make life more worth living.

we search ourselves at risk

In this life there are people who may be unable to understand you or what it is your trying to accomplish, and how you go about getting there. There are people who may be disrespectful toward you, or worse. If your paths have crossed by some intended accident, and you have had a good run at it as friends, well, your run may have run out. When the end comes we can feel lost and confused, hurt and resentful, misunderstood. Some things were not built to last. When I am by myself in the quiet and calm of my home, I try and think of the best times I had with anybody like that. Then, if I am still hurting by another air raid from bombs dropped on my head, I try and remember who I am and why other people seem to love me through it all, this life, while some cannot and never will and that is how it goes. If I find the need to untangle the elusive truth of any matter -- to settle it once and for all so my mind can rest -- I can walk myself through what happened and focus not on what was said between us but what was done. And there may I find anything approaching the truth, for normal self-seeking prejudice and pride can neither stand up to the evidence before me then. Feelings cannot discolor facts. And I can only hope that I took right action, for we search ourselves at risk! You cannot escape your behavior. It is a humbling experience to lose friends, for sure, and everyone will go through it and most of us will go through it many times over. If you find yourself malicious with words, it is a good idea to go silent.

Today I came into the dawn with one less hand to hold. Troubling words were exchanged over the course of recent weeks which left me lost and confused. I saw the turmoil of my emotions and how I gave voice to many troubling feelings and it was not always pretty. Last night I spent with close friends I have known for over twenty years, who were in town from Chicago with their young son and daughter. They camped in my backyard. I introduced the three year old to Lucky Charms, and now he cannot get enough. I was fortunate to hold a child on my knee. Then we said goodbye and I was back on my own. I had already gone silent on the dead sea of dead ends, because all I had to say anymore was selfish and useless. Instead I prayed for relief from that pain in my heart. And I took the risk. Then I took a long afternoon nap, and it was restful. And I woke up and sat up from bed and was scared coming back into the world without that old hand to hold. But a calm came over my spirit like no other! For I have been true. I have been true!

when i hurt i want you to feel hurt too sometimes

I know not where you live
i live here
in the heart of my head
in the heart of creation
in the heart of disaster

dawn by KatYa

in the heart

i know not how you live
i live here

recklessly in relation
bubbling into air
scratching recreation

falling
off glass

here

i know not why
i am passionately
uninvolved

- KatYa

WIP - developing tension

Nobody wants to read a book of fiction that lacks tension. My immediate efforts as I prepare my latest in my Urban Fantasy series - MAZE (Book #2) - involve setting up central and peripheral tensions. I want to have both internal and external conflicts mapped out (outlined), and then freewriting can help determine what happens when the characters actually come up against one another. Sometimes you have relationship stuff (eros) and sometimes you have survival stuff (thanatos), I see Eros as the love or sex drive, whereby characters are wanting to merge with other characters. Thanatos is the death drive, whereby characters are wanting to eliminate anyone who threatens their survival. My central character, Ame, is falling in love in Book 2. She is also learning to hunt down humans, not to kill them, because they have something she wants and knows how to extract. Her internal conflict, in basic terms, involves her relationship with herself. In psychology this is called 'ego-dystonic' (as opposed to ego-syntonic): parts of yourself you are not comfortable with. Ame is learning to hunt to survive, and has been taught by her native people, the 'Delux' (Latin for 'of light'), how to master this art. It can be violent and can result in human death, but not always. Ame was adopted and raised by humans, so she is about to experience an identity crisis of sorts (which will carry on far beyond Book #2). She does not want to see harm come to humans, but at the same time there is a thirst and an appetite for destruction in her with which she must contend.

Journal # only one way to get the rush

Look I am worn down, too, after what me and you, we been through look at us -- are we not friendly now? All the vanity got rubbed off and the ego decimated and sentenced to hang where the public could watch, and really good riddance to the rubbish anyway, now we can rest and work behind the scenes where the works are, the ropes and pulleys, the measured weights and ladders and a train of laundry bins on tracks carrying reels and tapes and costume clothing... where the bespectacled producer discusses the talent with the director while his bloodhound noses about some dusty storeroom treasures and everything smells of woodsmoke and light is coming from the back where metal doors have rolled up into the ceiling so the caterers and couriers can unload upon the docks the goods, look, under my eyes are long crescent moons turning purple in the seam tonight, and the crows feet show in my laughter, as I listen to another stagehand talking about a date went wrong, smoking down here in a bay in the back, where the light is white and the air is cool and far from the action on the stage which would not exist without us, of course, sweet dream, you and me, to file away the old script that felt strange on the tongue, and the makeup made us look so pale and so young, let us be casual and severe, minding our business back here, lending a hand to the horn section of the band, as they parade off the symphony half-shell. Off broadway is nice slice of life for us now.

Journal # fantastic waste of time

I believe we have the innate capacity to identify with one another, even over fantastic distances, I believe in you just as I believe in myself in that wherever you hang your lantern, you may shed light upon for us all! and nothing need be a fantastic waste of time, no, for what anyone designates a waste of time may be so for them, not me or you; and furthermore I say it is decidedly unreasonable for anyone to impose upon anyone else the proper usage of time, for to do so is not fair employment, and would be more aptly named 'slavery' unless they are paying you for your time.

 Ninety-nine of a hundred people would argue that my sitting here in the middle of the night, writing, is a waste of time, and I may be the only one who disagrees, vehemently! But you see this is all it ever takes, and this is one of the secrets to life, most of which are hidden in plain view. If you are to be anything you wanna be or become, go hang your lantern where you must, even in the darkest worlds no one else has cared to uncover, and keep your faith about you: be the fantastic waste of time everyone says you are! and be it defiantly! be it aggressively! be it nonsensically! rebelliously! be it whole-heartedly! be it consistently! and definitively!

Yes, be it from the first cup of coffee at the beginning of your day, to the bitter end. Be it on the ups, and be it on the downs. Be it before and after anyone's party. Be it in a the crowded square, and all alone in your own home. And never believe them, shut your ears and do not listen for they know not what they say.

the end of friends (conceptual freewrite)

Please i would do anything if only to call up a memory of you or a memory of me hurting not because  i want anyone to think of me that way, hurt, not because i want anyone to feel bad, no, only for anyone to know that i hurt, too, just like you, and that the lies do that, grey skies do that, and all the plans that fell through a black hole back through me back through you --- please i am already crying on a deserted ground when the kids are off for summer, there are many good memories and games to play and no one is waiting for a swing or a push, i can push myself and push myself around, too, i am not you but you can understand, can't you? you can remember the way i treated you before you pushed my limits --- thanks i loved you so and go on loving, because i remembered how i could and it was so good, to really care and truthfully the dare was one i did take, otherwise how could i die by the venom in a few words roughly strangling, a few thoughts issued like blankets in the winter and then i'm smothered beneath them, devastated by the heat, and wondering where this darkness came from how the wind came about so sudden --- thanks i will find my way back to light, out of irons, cautiously and quickly like i did when i was a child coming home late after supper when i wasn't allowed out but went out anyway because i cannot be tethered well, even if it was for the best, thanks, i will find my way slowly closing the door behind me, so carefully tiptoeing up the creaking wooden uncovered stairs --- even though i did some kinda wrong by you, i only did what i had to do, because i am who i am and make no excuses for myself, i have my energy to run and to run me over the fields and city streets, i am replete in my heart with the love that got me in this bind to begin with, for were it not for loving me for loving you, there would be nothing you would do --- no terrible lies, no striking out, no leaving no way out for me, no ladies and gentleman, this is the end of the show you must go, no drawing of heavy curtains behind which the hurt may be hidden, no accusations that this was what i paid for, no terrible, no lies, no whites of recidivist eyes.

Journal # curiosity, torque and the WIP

The fireworks began just before the fourth of July, and continued on in my imagination, working off a basic outline with some central tensions, rounding out the love story, letting myself drift into the unknown, for what is compelling is not often on the map, but rather a billowed sail out to where you were told to believe the world would fall off. You had to have the courage to go there, yes, and even before the courage, the critical questions and the curiosity.

I must confess I cannot always break through the finite limits I have placed upon myself. Forty years of acculturation and shaping as an American in a society of human beings and animals of course has done some domesticating, as it always will. But I have had my years upon years of rebellion against the status quo, which ultimately left me alienated and alone. I was missing something essential. I had lost myself somewhere in the neurosis. That little tumbleweed had grown so large in traveling across my life, it was all i could see anymore.

The love for self and the spirit of exploration has slowly come back to me, but there will always be the root acculturation that is like hardware and very difficult to change or recreate. The foundation of my self in society. I am not trying to uproot all that, I can work off of my hardware because it's a great foundation actually, lots of Latin and a strong work ethic, and a loving nuclear family. I am one of the lucky ones.

So now I am creating from there. And just trying to get more and more involved in my own creative process, because I know the feeling: attractive, magnetic. But the feeling is hard to reach for me. It requires sustained force in one direction for a long time. Perhaps a month of daily ritual immmersed in the WIP, with a singular devotion, takes me into that particular effort zone where it is pulling and not pushing off. Because it is difficult is why it pushes off. Even now, maybe halfway through Book Two (the finished product), I am still finding more pushing away than pulling toward.

And it drives me crazy, to sit down and get involved, and an hour into it feel like I have to walk away! I only know from experience the tables will turn, the tectonic plates will come together just right, if  I keep at it, sustained force in one direction, physics, torque, and KABLAM! Suddenly fall into orbit around the central planet of tension! The atmosphere is so fine.

Journal # in summer

author in summer

In summer i drink coffee to wash down the flowers, and the wasps get in my bloodstream and i am stung... i swell up with pride and run down the stairs for a love letter, because love letters only come on the longest days of summer and shortest days of winter, and the mailman's wearing shorts. In summer i put a blanket over the refrigerator 'cause she is awful shaking to stay cool, and i cradle the old phone by my ear for all the gossip i don't need to hear and when i hang up they will go on talking 'cause they did not mind the click... the hummingbird wings are faster than the fan blades but everything is spinning, even the laundry, and we spin together into casual destiny in cotton.

memory of falling in love

Some memories are trapped in music. When I listen to a song, I can tap into a memory. Some music is trapped inside a memory. When I go back to 1992 all I can remember is walking to the record store and picking up this EP by a lesser known band, and the title is SAP and the band is Alice In Chains. And the Seattle scene and the Olympia scene captured me in the heart of the country, the midwest, halfway between where I grew up and where I would end up, California. And the colors of my emotions bled out from my headphones on down, every day walking around the flats of north shore Chicago, like the first wash of flannels you wore, coming out in the rinse. I was falling in love maybe for the first time, by 1993. I knew I was falling in love because we were already talking about the first time we met, a couple days after we met. We met at a party near the university. We spotted one another and she wanted to talk to me, and I wanted to talk to her. We talked for a while and the conversation was lively. Captivating. Still it almost did not happen. You know how you can see someone and they can fascinate you, and if you do not get their digits you risk never seeing that person again? And sometimes never will? Fortunately she wrote her number on my arm. I called her the next day, but already I was falling. The soundtrack was Nirvana and Common Sense and Enya. There would be implicit trust. No formal dates necessary. We just began to kick it every day, on the sofa, in the coffeehouses, with or without friends. I got to know her family and she, mine. We were together for a couple of wonderful years. I didn't make for a very good companion in the end. I broke a lot of trust. I couldn't really trust myself, those days. We wore out that tape, scratched those records. Sade and Seal and Smashing Pumpkins. The trees shook off the dead leaves, but my feelings did not come out in the rinse. You know you were in love, when life is unbearable without them. For months maybe years. Everything reminds you of them, and heartache isn't just an oversampled word. I couldn't believe it was over... just to hear her voice. The color just would not wash off. I wore them like a bruise. I was a waitress, and could barely raise a smile on the job. I could not concentrate, kept daydreaming away. I feel so lucky to have fallen in and out of love.

mercurial. random. streaming from me to you

try and remember when you're feeling down, no one is getting out of here alive, and sure this may sound on the surface like a downer, but if you embrace it for a few solid moments you might see what i see,  an open invitation to live more freely, responsibly, yes, but without the snafu of collective cultural expectations of you, because nobody can touch you in the distance, and yes, we will all be forgotten someday, we will together collectively be forgotten holding hands outside of temporal confines, and the extensions of us, the children, the works of art we left behind, the spirits chasing sand dunes and leaving a hundred thousand feathers hanging in the air, black and white catching the light any time of the day and long into the night with the candles arranged just right and the memories that tried to stay conscious and the flannels that haunt central station, the scarecrows leaving straw for homeless kids to lay their heads on, the final cuts you tour behind and the cannabis in the air, the charismatic leaders and the denim on a tear, yes, remember, when you're feeling down, you know you can be loved just by loving yourself, first, and out on the scene with your paper trail bursts, killin' open mics with an subterranean method, dropping hearts to minds in your curious unique pattern, mercurial the way you are and you know that's why we love you, not hiding or disguising the honest way you feel, speaking truth to power with a power chord on fire, unplugging for some silence, for a moment off the grid where you get to hug your kid, the quiet tracks of snow have got you feeling all aglow, and you know, like i know, nothing beats this moment, i don't care what the hell they do with it, nothing beats this moment, even if we blew it, nothing could compare and no, nothing ever will, so get yourself together and meet me in Berlin, Portland, Chicago, Amsterdam, Seattle, Sacramento, Olympia, meet me cause what we have here, no one will ever see again

journal #07.17.15

I had a technology crisis no more, all the broken pieces lay before me on the floor. i picked up the space bar which was pinned under what remained of my hard drive, and cut myself on a shattered screen. held to the light, the space bar had lost all its power, a sad shell of black plastic. i must have counted a hundred geometric shapes before i realized what a great day had arrived; i was finally free of technology. i walked outside and wondered what to do? then i saw you know who, yapping away on her cell, ha, what a waste of time.

yes, i was gonna be lost and disconnected like never before.

i would not know the weather before it happened. neither would i know the political climate in the country, whether Greece was bailed out again, or the latest on the Kardashians or the royal family or Hollywood, or any one of the wars being fought here, there, and everywhere. i would no longer be able to shop from home, socialize from home, work from home. i would not be able to fight my battles by text, or hide behind emails and instant messages.

yes, i was gonna be lost and disconnected like never before.

and i could not wait. no more 3D printing how i feel, no more facsimile of life. i was gonna be the real me in the real life, circa 1979, i was gonna be a child again and see the world through fresh and open eyes, i was gonna talk to everyone out standing on our feet, fight my fights in person, give them a taste of Katya Mills, rolling up my sleeves and fearlessly flaunting my personality.

we are gonna have a great time, you and me, no longer stashed away behind our technology. i sure hope you get this message. i know it was past tense, but it's a prediction for the future. i know the future is not here yet, and i am behind this keyboard projecting. i could not find any emoticons to describe how i feel about it, so i wonder if you understand? how will you get back to me? feel free to tweet me. i plan to turn my phone on in about 6 hours after it's charged. presuming my alarm clock wakes me up. we can meet somewhere, okay. did you google that cafe i was talking about? the one behind that classic old theatre you know the one we read about on wikipedia, very cool, but...

ummm, i know this sounds stupid but do you think it's really real?

territory. uncharted

When all was silent in the night
angst took ill and died

the pulse declined to forty-two
i drew a line around my eye

All the soundless longing
 the palette of my mind supplied

No one knew just where I was
least of all did I

- KatYa

Journal #07.15.15

Yesterday I had a consciousness - ZAP!

I restructured an additional 10,000 words into MAZE (Book Two). So now the first 20,000 words are positioned pretty well to tell the story. I'm gonna need to retool it all very carefully, but these past two weeks have been fantastic thanks to my lame situation: I cannot type too well because - as some of you know - I had surgery on my finger. Which shifted my focus from freewrite to structuring - exactly what needed to happen!

I removed the bandage and rewrapped it neatly and thinner. I saw the incision, it was a lot longer across than I thought, about two inches, wow, I guess my hand modeling days are finished. I am thinking about good stories I might tell, how it happened...

One of my miniature tigers was playing and slashed me.
I was in such a zone I was typing furiously and the keys melted below me and my finger split open.
I had to have surgery so they could fine tune the microchip that controls me.

I got sliced by a butterfly wing.
- KatYa

Journal # 07.14.15

Maybe I have been digital multitasking for long enough, a few years now almost uninterrupted, and I am not sure it is advantageous to let this go on, there is something calling me from afar, maybe some romance I have for the endurance of thought over time. I guess I have a crush on the idea and sensationalize the image of myself leaning over my desk for days with a fire in my eyes, starving because I forgot to eat, burning ink into the page, turning dreams into silver dust and stars. Of course it's a lot more painstaking usually and not like that at all... but I think I want it back, I long for the extended cuts of uninterrupted working on long form, I tasted it through back to back Novembers (2013 and 2014) and the experience really caught my eye, really turned me on to something I had long ago before my life took its own direction and pulled me away from the writing life. In this crazy world I have finally found the simplicity - after so much trial and error - of lifestyle, I was longing for. Yet I have complicated my simplicity by DIGITAL MULTITASKING, and the link there points out statistics proving more and more detrimental. They say the amount of time it takes for the mind to regain momentum of devoted attention, when pulled away by emails, texts, twitter, social media, is 15+ minutes! Wow. So I look at my own experience and it seems to match. I will be writing, and then get pulled away, and true, it does seem to take quite a while to get back to whatever momentum I had gathered. So anyway, consider it a curiosity. Experiment. I have the private setting and the foundation of former days of undivided attention from which I can shape something magical and then give it to the world inside an open hand cupping an amethyst-dusted eggshell.

kettle water

The day the week the mid-month begins with a tremble in the soul and awaken from some useless worry in some recurring dream I cannot ever work out,  to a chance! I get up -predawn- and put raw blue flame under the kettle water, just like my grandma and her mother before her did, say my prayers and heat up that old American dream!

no rest on sunday

No rest on sunday, this sunday... i found myself awoken by crying, though i went to bed listening to laughter dispersed through fan blades. Got up and had my cup, took a shower and took my meds,  decided today to venture out and see friends, a grand idea, really, to find fellowship at a turbulent time, internal... Afterward my friend and I, we went for coffee and talked. She asked me how's it going with your book? I found myself with a big answer whistling through my teeth off an inspiration, and you could not possibly shut me up if you tried! I had only taken a couple of sips of my coffee. I surprised myself. This is good news for the days ahead working on and out my material, on the urban fantasy and out into something fresh worth publishing... my friend seemed to enjoy what I had to say, and really I didn't monopolize the conversation... i know well enough to say what i need to say, and then get quiet and curious, discover another life and listen, carefully. I know how to be a friend by now, thank god... I have been delving into the pages and trying to make a first draft make second draft sense. I have been stopping when challenges - by the complexities of a novel - cause me over-exertion. I have sat down and allowed myself the time to be curious about solution; to daydream, and even dream myself into inspired revisions! There's nothing like the free-associating mind to work it out. But I cannot help the intrusions of life, the pain of things past my ability to comprehend or change - the complexities of a feeling - from arising and flooding my system and sometimes shutting me down for a while. But I will protect myself, because in so doing I also protect my work, and anyone who reads my work, from harm. My thoughts may at times fall tragically off the rails, pressuring the heart, but I am well-versed in survival and remain determined to keep faith and courage in this ever so critical process.

Book Review: 'Places and Times' by Arthur Turfa

Five Stars for Mr. Turfa's book of poetry

PLACES AND TIMES

"The voice behind the stories told, the memories, the dreams, the paths chosen and faces and seasons, is a loving voice, a gentle voice, a steady and constant companion to us in this world suddenly rushing open. And ushered in was I, into a meditation through stained glass the cold wind blew, as the seasons changed, and the feelings so adeptly expressed and the times so dearly explained, from the tragic and recent fall of Joe Pa and the Nittany Lions inexplicable, to the heights of Assisi and mill towns, Pennsylvania, to the converging of cultures in an ordinary stop for gas by the Interstate, to the echoes and wonders of faith intoning voices conjugating evolutions out about and falling down the steeps to the river to lost. From Parnassus to a classroom in New Mexico, the poet takes us confidently through a checkered past, always anchored by a deeper faith abiding, along the river to new and old settlements, fields that once were walls, where the fog lifts, finally, and all can be seen in like a still reflection. I was amazed at times by the imagery and the measured pace of the verses, which held my hand through to the end and new beginnings. It is no wonder how many poems here find us set upon a different hilltop, looking over near and distant lands. For it is from this vantage we get the most intimate details of a life most valuable and true. What a deep sharing, here."  - KatYa

Journal # 07.11 - the writing life

I may some day write a longer work, one greater than say, a couple hundred pages, but for now I am content practicing the art of novella. I am devoted to these puppies, shy of a hundred pages. The difficulty I create for myself - with the market - is that fantasy genre works are typically 3-4 times the size! So these monsters are overshadowing my lil kittens. No matter, though, because I follow my intuition which is very clear right now like bluish spring water captured at the source. Almost surprisingly clear, like 'perfection' became part of my vocabulary again. As the series will progress (and you can count on that!) I believe I will become more prolific, for I am getting deeply involved with my characters and I am already intimately connected (via past experience) with the setting (Oakland, California). And I fell in love with the process, particularly the finishing flourish I experienced - in fifth gear killing it! - back in February in Palm Springs when I published Book One. The 2 polliwogs I am releasing this year -Grand Theft Life - and - Maze - I believe will blossom into 3 more flowers in 2016. If I can reach and sustain the pace of 3 yearlings a year, clocking in at 25,000 words each (about 75 pages) - one book continuing where the previous left off - I will be a Buddha zen hen laying speckled eggs!

end of technology?

Improvisational
comedy

by
KatYa

fractured

 I get fractured. I mean my personality. When I was younger and resilient, the tendency was like bruising, you know, out in the schoolyard it was no big deal to get rough in play and actually hit the ground and get dirty and bruised with the boys and the tomboys like myself, but when I say the tendency was bruising I mean the way that kids start forming alliances and sometimes shut you out, okay, now bruised, or if you got into it with one other kid and words exchanged and pushing and getting pushed around, but all the verbal lacerations, well, for me they just were bruises, because I could go home at night to a loving family, you see, so all was well with me back then. Today it's not the same, today I'm fractured. I don't have the loving family to come home to, anymore. I think subconsciously I choose to be alone. I need to be alone more and more each day, or so it seems, for when I go out there and things get rough with friends and personalities, well, I'm just not so resilient anymore.

code

No one can decodify your heart, but you. Not only have you great promise to communicate what otherwise remains unsaid, you are the only one who could give us what otherwise will be lost. Lost to us and remain in you. There is no one else can present and represent this, only you can unearth the thing we see behind your eyes when you speak to us, calm in your center, of your embattled soul. Only you. If I were you, I would capture an hour a day if you can, perhaps before normally waking, perhaps after you put your children to bed, perhaps when you toss and turn in the middle of the night you can throw your body into the chair behind the desk and unravel that enormity keeps your insomnia alive. Believe me, the beginning of which is a mess of creation. Think scattered lava thrown all around, a horrible abscess cut into and scream! What comes of this, comes natural, you, tumbling your spirit out onto the canvas, the page, the ambled screen, the paper, in ink, in oil, in variant font drippings... you can sort it out later, rest assured, but please for the living and the dying, decodify your heart and find you in the world.   - KatYa

Journal # 07.08.15

The day is ours!
I wish you coffee... plus

a smile
a flower
an inspired thought
a change of heart

a sunrise
an embrace

quiet concentration
an undisturbed moment
an adventure
in reality

a kiss
a validation

a walk into sunlight
a refuge in the
 shade





KatYa

vanish. intact

It was hard to extract a wait and see attitude from a now or never upbringing, and time could not be unhinged. Someone was gonna have to ask for help or take off their watch and throw it into the sea. Maybe he would hold her hand. Maybe she would trust him for a walk and a talk, a smoke and a drink. The fog would settle in at low tide, and you could smell the fish that never made it out. Hemingway's ghost headed up the coast. We were lucky he lived that long at all. There was a secret still intact like an oyster with a pearl. Something about the saline seal along the mouth of the shell made us safer. For in there we, too, could vanish intact.

Journal #07.06.15

The sun has risen again, and everyone has gone to work. I work at night, so I am at home watching the light edge across the patterns on my couch and carpet, and the quilt my mother gave me. There is firework paper and debris all throughout the city. The night of independence saw me at home, drinking coffee and walking from front to back porch and back to front, listening and looking. From my location, rather central to this city, I could imagine skirmishes all along the perimeter as though we were defending our home from invasion. A strange sensation of patriotism crept into my heart as my imagination took hold. For my city has never been on the verge of attack. My person, yes. My character, yes. My philosophy, yes. But never this place on the map.

life of an indie author

Here's the kinda feedback from you, my dear readers, that really makes the life of an indie author so worth living! 

"Hi just wanted to write a quick message to thank you for your amazing book “Daughter of Darkness: Grand Theft Life.”  Last week I had to travel to London on the train. Stuffed down the side of my seat I found your book. Now as I was the only one in the carriage I assumed someone had got off the train left it behind. I had some work to do as it is a 3 hour journey from where I live but I did not do any work as I started reading your book! I have read it twice now and I just wanted to let you know how brilliant it is. I absolutely loved it. Now as I did not buy the book and to show my appreciation I have donated £20 (around $30) again thank you for writing this excellent novel I look forward to the next instalment." Best regards  -Andrew

ran away from home

The man was sitting alone in his apartment. His longtime girlfriend moved out a few days earlier. He had not called off work because this was the only thing could get him out of bed and into his shoes and out on the sidewalk and down the subway stairs feeling the hot breath of the city and wondering if it was god. He had long since stopped feeling sorry for himself and had just finished off the urge to push her into a train for giving up. Now he had the moment of insanity to play with, a real opportunity to change everything, and he laughed at the horror of love and loss as he cut himself shaving with too much pressure on the razor scraping his beard through the soap suds, having run out of shaving cream and too lost in his pain to remember to stop at the pharmacy after work; rather than rip a corner of cotton to stick to the wound he just let it bleed and sat alone in his apartment, careless of the time. Today he would close his bank account just to feel a couple hundred twenties in his hands. Today he would close down his social media accounts and send his cell phone to his unemployed son. Today he would not go to work because what he needed to do for himself today was more important than work, though he could not say how or why. Today he was insane and therefore not in any need of rustling up a tired old defense. Today he would go to Central Park and walk around it as many times as he needed, and meet the perfect strangers, and walk through its midsection, and listen to the breeze in the multitude of deciduous trees loving him by shaking all their leaves. Today he would appreciate the living city, and run his eyes up and down her silver and charcoal straight edge streets, and wistfully smile through his tears, giving lollipops to the vagrant kids who also ran away from home.

Latest 2 Reviews!

Here are the latest reviews of my book, Grand Theft Life. If you like what you hear and are interested in picking up a copy, just click on the title above, and it will take you to the Amazon page. My book has rendered eleven 4-5 star reviews on Amazon, and an average of 4.39 stars on Goodreads.com since its publication in February 2015. This is an urban fantasy novella and literary fiction...

4An Unquiet Mind

ByG Doggon July 3, 2015

Format: PaperbackVerified Purchase

Many novels feature a woman who moves from the city to bucolic wonderland... then learns to ride a horse to win over the rough hewn man who doesn't put up with her cosmopolitan guff.

Mills flips the script then tears it up and brings Ame from bucolic wonderland ("Green Mountains") to the city.

Mills doesn't weave a story so much as switch gears. Ame is hearing voices at age 22, typically 3-4 years after schizophrenia or manic depression unveils itself. Quickly, though, the story turns linear with Ame as reliable narrator. The voices are never heard from again. Ame is Patty Hearst indoctrinated to Tanya in an hour rather than days, by daddy of darkness Freddy. Pages later, a character says, "You're not Patty Hearst. This isn't the SLA." More or less. Ame gives us GPS on the streets of Oakland, a story, some social commentary on the criminal culture, and poetic flourishes. And she uses an inordinate amount of (not-big-city-jaded-but-rather-inner-child) exclamation points!

Toward the end, the novel veers toward words - Mills' comfort zone. One would think Mills is another writer writing for writers in their echo chamber where they only write for each other. On the whole, though, the book is explicitly for a general audience. Kudos.

A kidnapping, guy thrown out of a van with spooky force, party, fight, dislocated knee -- 4 stars, check it out.

5Five Stars

ByThomas Phillipson May 7, 2015

Format: PaperbackVerified Purchase

I love the character of Ame...can't wait till the next book in this series...fun read!...😸

Surgery

Dear friends, I went in for surgery today and had my index finger on my left hand sliced open by a very kind and soft spoken MD while I talked to a really nice nurse named Renee about fireworks, Southern California and waterskiing. Good thing I hit the grocery store yesterday and bought food to sustain me for a week. My finger is bandaged and has twelve stitches making it whole. There will be pain once the numbness wears off, the doctor assured me. I have light painkillers by prescription in case I need them. I feel relaxed at home and though I have had some painful and trying times recently with close friends, god-willing I may get through it with a determined smile and wish everyone the very best. I cannot type with my hand wrapped up this way for the next two weeks, but I will use my iPhone if I must to keep writing to you all my ongoing impressions of this strange life of many miracles, uncommon pleasures and pain. I have to uncover its meaning every day and so my spirit is polished like silver to shine for you. - KatYa 

another song. played out

please
i am already

on deserted ground
 waiting for a swing or a push

i can push myself and
push myself around

i remember the way i treated you
before you pushed
my limits

i like who i was
then i could 

make you laugh
and it felt good to laugh
with you

now i'm drowned
in venom

not so long go
nearly all i had left to give was
giving of my
time

now nothing
can be undone
or done

no more terrible
no striking out
 no leaving what is left
no ladies and gentleman
this is the end of the show
you must go

i got the last issue
a few words chained together
hopelessly

given
gave up

blankets in the winter
piled into my arms

Katy self-portrait '12

and then

silently
smothered

be cautious now!

be quick! i tell myself
be careful anymore!

dear child i am again reduced
or blown up
to revisit

i come home late...
 long after supper...
slowly shut the door
up the creaky
stairs

though i coulda
done some kinda wrong by you
i only did what i had to do
which was hard

nah, easy
over easy
real easy
sunny side up
(dark side
down)

to protect me and
grit your teeth!
to protect
you, too, me
and you

what's done is done
and the recidivist rate
of suffering rises with
the mercury...

not just you
i hurt
too

i am who i am and make no excuses
 i have only so much energy
i do what i can to keep
the pilot lit

i guess
some think
i start fires

but i believe
i build them