march 31, 2001
cloy: (v) to cause distaste or disgust by supplying with too much of something originally pleasant
morning greeted me with a swamp in my bathroom, how lovely! seems the earthquake that happened 'round these parts recently further shattered the already crushed pipes that make up the septic byway 'neath the house. looks like the landlady will finally have to fork out the loot to fix it up -- which i will appreciate, as i detest having to have those drains snaked every three months.
so, i have a new addiction. it's dangerous for me, but i like it. it allows me to live out my secret fantasies of operating a stealthy ring of assassins. i suppose that channeling this silly energy into a digitized re-creation of reality is the safest way to expel the frustration. a friend of mine told me last week that all his friends are frustrated tyrants. if i count myself among them, i can see how he'd reach this conclusion.
life is so loose, incoherent. hey, wait a minute -- i wrote a poem about that once. do you remember?
rereading these archives gives me a strange thrill. watch myself grow, change, rage, laugh, miss, worry, wonder....i feel so incredibly lucky for who i am & what i've done. sure, i may have had a bit of a hand in it, but i truly appreciate the randomness of the cards.
postcard from the edge of this particular cliff:
by default, i feel curious.
march 29, 2001
"god is in the house"
complexity = cryptic tyrant with little/no sense of humor.
pages in this book of mine are damp, peeling, shattered -- burning down like the natchez rhythm club fire of 1940 -- i'm running away from the flames, trapped against a steel plated wall....only a table to shield me. for a moment.
frustration, indecision, pain waxes & wanes. often, i think of childhood friends and wonder if they feel this emptiness as i do, this need to share something, to show the inner most parts of myself.....framed by the inability and sadness/fear that were i to open this muthafucken can of worms, who would run and who would stay?
who do i want/need to stay?
a shipwreck, my face streaming with tears -- nick cave tonight and oh, darling, how touching with his piano, fiddle, and bass guitar. solo performance laced with suction, tenderness, lucidity, and twinges of nostalgia. my impatience for the crowd at hand lent me a sour mood, and i was ultimately annoyed by the atmosphere. when the lights stayed down and the song reigned, my mind floated amidst the paramount's teal-stained brocade ceiling and velveteen chairs, small refuge from the overwhelmingly self-centered attitude.
most often, it feels like I'm surrounded by people who think they're putting on their own video show. movements carefully tailored to provide the highest number of useable still shots; volume on portable stereo pumped to the 10's to keep the soundtrack perfectly in synch with the hip movements; hair clipped and styled, showing off napes and ears and shoulder blades -- fine patches of skin fading in varying plays of maturation.
the mtv generation all grown up and ready to host their own program.
ah, beauty. yet again, i feel so slighted by such small definitions. narrow, graded -- i always thought that if i loved myself enough, thought myself sexy enough, my buxom body and quirky looks would no longer be an issue. that my mind would transcend any physicality or sense of traditional beauty and encompass me in an infectious happiness. that if i just told people enough times they were ridiculous for applying great import to such a fleeting state, they would accept me and lock their critical pupils away.
but again, i find myself stuck in the glue/wax/mud/cement that is the capitalization of sex. it is easy enough to say that i will rise above and if someone uses such a limited set of terminology and description to measure me, then I'm clearly uninterested in expanding my relationship with them. but it's much more difficult to hold hope and enjoy someone, only to have it thrown back, flippant -- throbbing fish in the lake of my desire for mutual-comprehension.
many moments, colliding, should concur that at times it feels it might be best not to foster any hope at all. lay waste to expectation and hold the hand of cynicism.
a little over a year and a half ago, i made the mistake of sharing too much too soon with a dear friend who (though his denials of such sentiment rang rampant -- then silence) was probably disturbed by my show of abandoned emotion. i wanted so badly to share with him, to hold him, to allow our energy to comfort each other for just a few moments....the intimacy of apes grooming each other -- small gifts of selflessness and hunger. sexuality was not a factor, i was not looking for orgasmic comfort. whilst attempting to explain to him what it was that i wanted, i realized i had no way of saying it and that truly, it was the sort of request that should not be spelt out....
if it is going to happen, it will. in this specific situation, it did not -- and i lost the friendship, sadly.
i am most probably not a very good friend. too often, i am caught in my own melancholic fears and circumstance -- i try to offer what little i have to those that i love dearly. but it rings hollow. solitude is a sweet and lovely state, yet even during times of intense spheres of yellowing streetlight glow, there is an aloneness that i think will never be alleviated.
i cannot be someone who i am not -- i already tried that, with horrid results. lost, wasted, crying, begging, all the pain that is me bubbling up to the surface and shaking off the thin veneer of content. i will never do that again, but why, then, do i feel as if i am stepping in that direction? in my job, i am so incredibly uncomfortable i feel the strain of nonidentity rearing its ugly head -- a ghost without any memory of happiness in its short and miserable life.
i am stuck in a feeling. what am i feeling?
exhaustion.
march 24, 2001
stripped: plangent
shaded eyes as mine,
seamlessly fashioned from broken constellations
& crushed-atom sunrays filtered
through heirloom appletree leaves,
should collapse beneath such keen observation
resolving inwards, a cinematic
reenactment
of bit madder-root lips, tongue caged
by minted teeth, i notice the myriad of
unused trails and tales: an organic playground in which i wish for you to
romp
so come inside, please
immediate left shines
several homecrafted
chipped glass creations
flirty & lambent, beckoning with scissors, glue, and frame
small benches, produced solely for your visit (excuse the pliability), crowd
a king's table
sideboard providing scrap paper to communicate across the plain
at right, step carefully
although i'd certainly appreciate the whole of you slipping inside my
deepest corners
no doubt you should grow tired of playing the lusty pawn
and would soon abandon my passion
to continue your journey forthwith
disregard my childish concupiscence! steer clear of my sirenslide!
(moving forward, i would suggest a path in specificity, but i'm aware you have chosen one prior to your arrival)
up ahead is a foxhole
-- don't touch
masticated bodies of childhood pets proffering thin wisps of soulfulness
jumble of limb and memory slovenly teasing as you pass -- there is no clean
way
to remove yourself once you have looked inside
every image implanting itself in your own mind
melding with your kinetic memories
embarrassing, in future
reconnaissance, as you realize
these ideas are not your own, just sloppy snapshots collected
whilst traipsing through my brain
now: a staircase, idle
treeclimbing
unabashedly, i pray you, step up choose a rei(g)n as guide
begin the ascent (delete your trepidation)
record right turns and left hooks on the back of your hands
yes, embrace this cliché labyrinth and explore as the cunning somnambulist
crests in a circular room,
soft and filled with all of my favorite moments
(ah! south of france sunrise & blue moonrise over forgotten olympic lake)
(oy! make-out in spanish disco & caught in the baja rain without shoes)
(ha! running naked through parisian highschool hallways & swimming in grandma's
orange county pool)
cascading florets of all
the best parts of me
displayed cryptically behind glass cases
precocious jewels dripping, taunting
but continue, for in the
far corner is the antique doorway
locked by the very keys we have exchanged
so come inside, please
march 19, 2001
preventative strength
i have been layering my days.
playing tricks with time.
assessing events out of order.
mixing moments up.
giving situations new dimensions.
refusing to evaluate linearly.
today, the little girl in me spent most of her time throwing a tantrum. it was unbelievably hard to keep up -- pitter patter, smash crash bash collapse, kicking at liver, kidneys, heart -- i was on the verge of tears all day. so frustrating.
keeping it real, i suppose. crumbling self-satisfaction giving way to a magnetic longing for ........? something, anything, everything, nothing. wait a minute, there's a lesson here somewhere. i think.
when i am upset, i seek the soothing, steamy silence of my shower. comforting and solitary: problems and muscle kinks slide down the drain with the soap, and for several minutes, i sometimes lose my anchor in physical reality....my body melds with the water, matching the temperature, until i feel almost no pressure from gravity at all.
a womb.
ah, sensual regression : a fleeting, bittersweet pleasure.
{ f o o l s }
oh, how lovely!
(cheeks pandering ruddily)
(tick on clock pauses, breathes)
whir as elation spins southward
crack in your patina of usefulness
& charm
darling, how sweet!
(feel the edge of every laugh)
drama converting itself to
fit more cleanly/closely
with the tendrils of your
veins
wrists up
just concentrate!
steer the tearbuds nestled
within retina and iris
to the back pages of a book
and let them drop
freely
march 18, 2001
http://www.pure-sex.tv/Hot_chick_with_nice_pussy.jpg
steamed/rolled
your mystic, climbing stairs
mind fueled by psyche's touch
shadows obliterated by the glint
of a drunken fortuneteller's
fake diamond rings (10)
sequestered in the attic
disrobe and address the chair
skylight clipping the tips of trees
ufo's fucking the astral zodiac
(sit down)
it will only take a moment
to
open all the trunks and
discover every secret
shoved in rotting books
buried in moth-eaten scarves
you'll find
all the you that's yours
march 16, 2001
early a.m.
dreaming
euphoria: graded light
peeled blue gray (wine)
drank deeply through shower head
kleptonic calypso
blurred & returned
on the hood of a kharmen
ghia
hollowed small of back
arching
in favor or battle
hemming in pleasure
(keep fantasy from escaping)
hardened nipples
gasping lips
curled toes
against chrome
march 15, 2001
rewrite the map
newness has a delicious aftertaste.
oh, jesus, i can feel my heart beating and the underwaterdrowning sensation of fear -- the possibilities are endless!
feeling = rolling around on wet grass, nude.
capitalization. at times, i don't feel i capitalize on everything that i could.
do you ever feel like everything is so wonderful, there must be something wrong?
when i was eleven, my mother took me to aberystwyth -- she was studying dylan thomas. i spent countless days waiting outside of bakeries (they had pastries designed to resemble hot dogs and ham sandwiches!), listening to samantha fox (hey -- fuck you), and carousing the local "boardwalk" -- replete with mechanical coin thieves, poised and intent on removing spare change from pockets with as little protest as possible.
one month in this town, and i'd felt like i'd seen it all.
i was eleven years old -- i knew a girl who shaved her legs, i wore a b-cup bra, i'd seen a man (well, really he was a nineteen-year-old kid) pull ashtrays and bar towels out of his pants -- i was a motherfucking badass.
it stained me. i have never been satisfied since.
certainly -- there have been incredible moments. they continue to pleasure and surprise.
it is an idealistic view of life that gives us the momentum to continue. i say embrace, for it seems only a fool would refrain from accepting oneself.
oh wait -- that's solipsistic.
what is it that i want to achieve? harmony? amusement? peace of mind?
perhaps real energy -- perhaps i want to recreate time.
kat
march 11, 2001
ctrl - c
hey, quit yer laughing.
that graphic makes me feel stretchy. i shit you not, i just gazed at it and slipped into space for twenty fucking minutes. no, don't do it. i'm telling you -- it'll fuck your shit up.
see, what did i tell you? rub your eyes.
i'll wait.
actually, maybe it's the words, not the design. ( ! ) of course, they're not mine, they're pilfered. i'm the worst. rob brezny's free will astrology is almost always certain to inspire & entertain. this time around, his prophecy is nearly accurate -- i have been operating within a nearly lethal clarity. my brain is soaking up every minute detail and it craves more by the second -- i'm nearly exhausted trying to keep up.
there's just not enough time on the clock. move move move quickly (keep going) move move move. not enough time to:
a) pontificate
the evil of pippi
b) allow
my mind & body several imaginative hours (thanks, richard)
c) read
copious amounts of "important" things
d) take
a trip to ontario
e) listen
to the sunshine ("the revolution will be terrorized") (i'm shameless)
f) entertain
charming animals
it's kind of like walking into fat boy slim's praise you -- every pleasurable moment, each euphoric second, pouring back over you via synth & sample. i imagine the real estate on that particular sheet of music to be simply peaceful -- lovely or breathtaking. (well, both.)
tonight it was max, adrienne, my mother, and myself giggling in the back corner of a haiku party.
we're incorrigible.
max's contribution (penned on turquoise post-it-notes, stuck to the right side of a beam):
this haiku is bad
it breaks my heart to hear it
kill poet quietly
personally, i think the last line is six syllables. the kindergarten-wonderlicious-pick-me-pick-me-i-look-like-i-have-ants-in-my-pants part of me claps and says 'poet' = 2 and 'quietly' = 3 -- just add the 'kill' in there and what the fuck do you have? 6.
it doesn't take a genius to tally, i suppose.
what do i want to talk about? i think i have something interesting to say.
hmmmm.....oh yes, perhaps it is how amazed and excited and elated i am with my mother as of late. she has really come out the other side of a very painful period -- her will was tested, her strength given a silent audience. one day that woman will realize she can survive anything. she already has.
among the infinite realizations life gifts us with, there is one that liberates you unlike any other. maybe you're looking in the mirror or watching a leaf ripple across a mud puddle -- or maybe you've just been fucked and you roll over and think, "wait a minute -- aren't i supposed to be having fun?"
(each relationship should be akin to an amusement park.)
(each moment an embroidered stage play -- provide your own laugh track.)
i personally strive to purvey an essentially magic mountain experience -- call me rollercoaster incarnate. i just wish i could do some of my cool shit in slo-mo, ya know?
and it won't be a particularly special moment -- hell, the entire fucking day will be boring -- but suddenly, eating a quesadilla and staring into space, you'll think to yourself, "i like feeling things."
and you'll start to feel everything: fine pin pricks from the breeze -- honeysuckle stick of a starfish's grip -- stiletto smooth marble in the bass note of your lover's moan -- every fiber in the crotch of your black satin panties -- pain (oh my!) pleasure (oh my!) elevation (oh my!) --
-- this could go on endlessly (and it does.)
when you start feeling everything, you notice how much more there is to feel, and you can't imagine not at least trying to find it all out, embracing each dynamic, body-slamming the details (if only to cement them into logic.)
and you can't imagine ever -- EVER -- going back. it's impossible, anyway -- you'll know too much to be satisfied by single-digit-dimensions.
if i could build myself one fine present, it would be a swimming pool filled with the gelatin-incarnate of the aforementioned awakening. i wouldn't wear a life jacket -- i wouldn't wear anything at all.
(and I'd do the back stroke)
I'd blow bubbles.
(and I'd swim in a zigzag)
just because i could.
kat
march 04, 2001
"i've pulled myself clear"
crisp & cloudy sunday. over the last couple of weeks, i have been thinking about my philosophical leanings -- what gives me comfort, how do i relate to my fellow humans -- or to the cat or plant or dish of paella?
valuing one form of life above another is simply hypocritical. my base theory is that how can one gauge the importance of a specific life form when one does not really understand the origins of all life forms? how to judge on the bell curve if you don't know the coordinates of the curve?
for sometime, i have felt an ultimate disrespect for ideas and suppositions generally assumed to be fact. it seems that each hypotheses is translated with an anthropocentric lens, staining it with our own human interpretation of what life is and how consciousness should be defined.
for example, the death of an animal has caused me the same amount of pain as the death of a close friend. i thought about why this is -- do i subconsciously disregard the "importance" of my friends' death and interpret it in the same manner as i do the animal -- for emotional processing's sake? do i reassign my own set of values upon the animal or the human, just to keep everything even and easily translated?
the crux of it: i am completely at home in the impermanence of now, i do not function in reaction to a fear of insecurity any longer. to me, life (and the universe, her-gorgeous-self) is a crapshoot -- it's amazing that this tiny speck of blue and green happened upon the perfect conditions to promote oxygen-based evolution, and i do not discount this for a moment.
and what do we do with this totally unique reality -- an unanticipated gift of the space-time continuum? we show off, make shit up, and hurt each other. we watch for the tiniest moment to pull ourselves up a rung on the ladder and apologize in effigy for any wrongs we may have been involved in.
i suppose my philosophic redress can be distilled into one principal: experience is finite and limited -- respect the wonder of life and treat each moment of consciousness as the precious and fleeting gift that it is. i do not fear death fundamentally, i refuse to allow a fear of something so definite influence my actions and dictate my life. i will live and know and embrace and share until my last breath -- whenever that may be.
it is difficult to find satisfaction or true companionship, but those seem to be continual and important motivations in life. i accept that i crave someone else's understanding, but i refuse to paint that person in any one gender or moral fiber. i do not function or define my life by the majority's rule, i am my own majority. could freedom be the ability to identify the errors in your society and recognize them as the result of humanity's own shortcomings -- and, most importantly, not to punish yourself with or for them? every human civilization falls prey to the savagery of the reptilian mind, yet we seem to feel our own forays into violence and hatred somehow justified by our own advantageous belief in the superiority of the human mind. we kill, torture, and abuse for more reason than just petty survival!
i have as yet come up with a less pretentious or silly way to convey my most personal adage: it is my responsibility to create my own life. since i generally struggle within the realm of language, i strive daily to write my own life. i view each day as another chapter or element of a grand design. my motivation is not garnered from the desire for others to read my life at some point in the future, but rather for my own benefit. if you wake up everyday and think, "what experiential gift will i give myself today? where will my story turn?" you will ultimately develop a life filled with laughter and mistake and wonder and true, unadulterated excitement.
And, who knows, you may end up having a little bit of fun, too.
philosophy is as stagnant as a gnat's wing, but it gives peace and continuity. my ideas will no doubt be put to test and either fail or triumph, but i am not driven by a desire for veracity. all i'm looking for is a way to keep my finger in it, for my biggest fear is forfeit.
you can play -- i'm yours!
kat
march 02, 2001
quake!
6.8 is the final call and woah ( ! ), was it a doozy for us seattleites! of course, it's nothing in comparison to the baby that nearly leveled india, but it was quite a ride. a pal of mine at groovetech sent us some footage of a surprised dj caught in the shake, rattle, and roll.
i am one of those fucked up ladies that likes earthquakes -- or anything ultimately chaotic. not because i often extoll the virtues of anarchy (up against the wall, baby) -- but because i find myself wishing that this lovely planet would give me a little taste of sumpin/sumpin.
a dilettante's stance, no less. i dreamt a few nights ago that i was ordered to break the necks of my childhood pets -- two dogs so unassuming and precious i've written about them and pontificated on the varying values of humanity vs. reality. in this dream i was incredulous and refused, yet the individual who ordered the dastardly deed attempted several times to break the dogs' necks -- and they kept coming back to life.
what could this mean? probably nothing -- i dare not suggest that i offer even a modicum of wisdom. but sometimes i feel like, no matter how much i try to reconcile or move beyond it, i am fundamentally disgusted with my father.
i'll tell you what: it is one thing to function in a non-reality, completely unaware of choice and "free will" -- yet another thing altogether to willingly disregard the potential to realize the amazing person you could be.
often i hear stories (i don't talk to my father any more) from my siblings detailing his failures and inability to appreciate that which he has sown. this makes me sad more than anything. and, most often, i fear i shall follow in his footsteps. does he feel the same complete misunderstanding that i feel so very often when meeting a new person? does he wish that the complexities of "now" would be replaced with the simplicities of "always" ? who is the man that has so willingly disregarded the children he had a hand in raising? who is the man that walked away from the opportunity to know the souls of those closest to him?
it seems to me that during much of the time spent raising a child, one must replace independence for instruction -- and only when those children reach maturity can one truly appreciate the human being one helped mold and create: the moment they begin guiding their own life completely, "take hold of the reigns," trip through mistake and circumstance -- and laugh because, ultimately, it's only life, after all.
it is a gigantic, beautifully wrapped gift (let's pick bright pink and pseudo-fashionable orange) that mocks and mistranslates. i am no one in its shadow -- i have nothing and i give nothing and i don't know when to stop measuring its negativity and when to begin monitoring my own. is my hate a reflection of my pain?
it would seem that "existential crisis" is the easiest label to lend my paternal baggage. it would be so lovely to walk away and offer some sort of blessing in place of my presence.
life moves on -- and smoothly, at that. those who duck out of my life are replaced with equally comedic and enjoyable personalities -- always ravishing me with humorous and fresh reinterpretations of that which i had previously thought as finitely determined. i learn a new thing daily -- what more could i ask for?
emotionally, i have journeyed through "true love" and come out the other side (after two long years) without bruise nor scar -- and only the powerful hope that i will again share myself so completely with another. of course, i would be so incredibly lucky if i was gifted with that brand of openness in return.
the planet spins, darling -- pick a section of the globe (it could be the open-wide ranch in rural india or that life-affirming farm in ireland) and don't look back. i want to keep on walking, i need to keep exploring.
the me that was so importantly me before these moments is trapped in the lense of a shattered camera -- i can't use it anymore, and the film is trashed.
semi-futuristically, i am
working on capturing my voice as i improvise through experience. here's a
portion of the way I've spent
my time the past several months. all other moments presently unaccounted for
should be considered
a) a complete waste of time
b) lusty moments that would blow your mind
c) witty and amusing and "oh my god
-- did i really say that?"
d) more important than simple text can
convey
as per usual, i leave you with something -- i'm not quite sure what -- and please use it well. we might not know what it's for, but if i gave it to you, please don't muddy my name with your own excess -- okay?
yours -- i'm no cheat!
kat