{january 30, 2000} ......,........................<--ramblings, observations, & mistranslations---
eight days soaking in the mist more than 2,000 miles from any continent: the remote beaches and jungles of maui. i loved it so much i'm plotting a return as soon as possible, just to continue hiking and exploring that isle. i want to learn to scuba dive, as well, as after tasting my fair share of snorkeling, i have become far more curious about the ocean's elegant depths. i have always been enamored by the sea, i wouldn't mind spending a couple of hours gliding amidst the fish and coral. so much to learn, to understand.
last sunday i was hiking to the top of mt. haleakala, one of the now dormant volcanoes which formed maui, breathing in deeply the scented mountain air....imagine ice in maui! frost and snow and crisp tradewinds softly nipping at all exposed toes.
this sunday i am rearranging this little house. yesterday, i moved the bed into a new part of the house, only to be thwarted by 1/4" section of wall. i built some shelves, as well as painted a new storage space for all the crap i collect, intimating that i will eventually create either great art or great trash, which you may be certain shall end up on this site one way or another. the house still is in a disarray, piles everywhere.....
before leaving for maui, i had my fortune read by shani, the woman whom also concocted my 'psychic scent.' it was interesting, the 'crystal ball treatment,' as it were; and oh so deliciously vague i feel like i could take any bit of liberty with it and it would come out okay. luckily, all of her psychicisms were positive, so if they were to manifest themselves in my sub-conscious, thusly coming to fruition through the persephonic forces, it wouldn't be half bad.
and just when things were starting to get back to normal, clouds rise up again and cover all things in a greenish hue. there have been days that i have allowed to pass for no reason; moments collected in a scrapbook i gather blindly, a postcard to the future me. sometimes it feels as if my senses are collecting an abnormally large array of experience, only to be analyzed by an older, more worldly self, years down the line. i feel like who i wanted to be at twenty-one is but a microcosm of what i am at twenty-four. just three years and my skin is starting to feel better again: free and easy like the tree-climbing eight-year-old i once was.
love, kat
p.s.:
a snapshot of a half-lived life:
corners bent
yellowed, but not torn
(must have been sixteen
when he first thought to run away
but didn't see an exit
far into twenty-four,) eight
shadowed halves softly pouring
as shattered eggs
lazily across the breakfast table
horizon against the cereal box
three yellow suns
emitting no light, only reflection
begging for a wash cloth
or a frying pan
{january 2, 2000} ......,........................<--ramblings, observations, & mistranslations---
so, we're here and i think i have the use of all my faculties (the ones that were working before the apocalypse, at least.) i have been pondering which direction, if any, i should take this journal, and i've decided to share a poem i've been working on for awhile now.....maybe as a catalyst to posting more poetry up here again and actually have a legitimate 'artistic' site, instead of this wee corner of vanity i've carved out for myself.
i hope each of you made it out into the streets and screamed and shouted and made merry with the new year. i found myself down on second avenue with all the cast and crew of my life, acting as modern day hannah-barbera st. bernards, handing out plastic flutes of champagne, instead of martinis, to the barrage of cars milling down the avenue. it was great fun and i didn't hit the pillow until well into the next morning.
we've got a new millennia on our hands, kids, what are we going to do with it? all ideas encouraged.
yours, kat
dark/eating
i'm dark or i'm eating
the catch of the day
is a little turn of phrase
it's dark or i'm leaving
an impression on the backwards
return
flicker, and the sun isn't on
nothing affected by
a crumpled essay penned in guilt
all fastidious and painful
and it's dark, oh! and i'm screaming
fog, as innocence, erases
replaces sticky ink tire swings
and rusted sea-foam ten-speeds
with a creamy canvas, blank
and dying for the kiss of your
willful imagination, altering everything
in the dark, or in the keening
minutes following a brief accident
flash of light so white williams
wrote it does not exist outside
of memory
and even t.s. eliot cannot allude to or quote
it's clarity
in the night, so dark, and teeming
with the broken yowls of know-it-alls
hands slapped and slurred
reason rooted in fear of dying
pawned off quickly as a fear of flying
so if you never grow up
you'll never grow old
and you can spend a lifetime thumbing
through plastic-covered comic books
or wage a gritty war with your
semi-automatic, snub-nosed squirt gun
soaking all who dare to cross
the dark, or the grieving
a whole life molded to imitate sex
and amended to remove the intimation of death
after it's dark, or when you're eating
alone.