rolling blackouts
by katie boyden
08.17.08
when you kneaded it like dough
and coughed up a week’s worth of not smoking
and the smog and the sheets were no match for
our stubbornness, and we tried to unscrew
meaning from all the toughest jars,
pried our fingernails clean off
and got nothing
we rolled into town
so to speak
and dirtied up the car
just to leave it
maybe someone else will clean it
I took you that morning
steamed you like cooking
made the walls get slicked with your cooling
while you secretly thanked God I have no fingernails
salty sweet and burned my tongue on the finish
when we stopped washing our hair
but kept scrubbing our skin
just so we could say we did something
and we missed the farmer’s market
every fucking Sunday and fucked instead
to make ourselves feel better about it
when our kisses drew blood
and your sharpened knife
sliced effortlessly through even
the softest and most bruised tomatoes
when the power shut off
and our food went bad
and the cat pissed on my bed
and we grappled and tangled and snarled ‘til we discovered
that we were evenly matched
and the credits rolled
and we were told that it was all
I mean all just a trick on the wall
smoke and mirrors
and we were just shadow boxing
and you were fighting you
and I was fighting me
and that made me smile because then
I knew that we could stop and not feel too bad about it
'cause we would still win.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Thursday, March 5, 2009
asphalt
my mother always told me I was perfect
but she must have been lying
i figured it out by the fifth grade
it was a playground brawl
and i threw the first blow.
the dog that followed me home
wasn't my dog
but i kept him anyway
i needed someone to look up to
my mother got rid of the dog
before i could even name him
she said he stunk up the house and chewed up her plants
after that i always tried to behave
so she would want to keep me
the whole reason the fight started
was 'cause christina couldn't decide
if she was my friend or amy's
but christina had to choose
so naturally we had it out.
i pulled amy's hair and she bit my arm
we were like those rams in mating season
that they made us watch in science
fighting over the female sheep
except instead of horns and hooves
we had sparkly green fingernails.
and all the boys cheered
'cause not only were we the only girls
who could win at wall ball
but also we were making quite a scene
the principal made us sit in hard, tall chairs
said it's natural for girls our age to compete
over boys friends grades but mostly boys
swinging our feet we played
endless rounds of tic-tac-toe on a wooden board
with slots for the X's and the O's
and didn't listen to a word she said
on the way home, me and amy were friends
and when i got to my yard, there was a dog.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
we are such stuff as dreams are made on
So.
It’s late and dark and cold. The Dads are telling us not to let The Dogs out to pee because there are coyotes roaming the hillside. If they venture into this dry, Valley night, they will surely be eaten and torn apart by members of their own canine family like ecstatic maenads in a Dionysian festival.
So.
The fire that we made has burned down to embers, which are hotter and redder than the yellow flames that lasted as long as the logs would allow, yet the color that burns the hottest, ironically, is blue. I sit on the mantelpiece with my legs curled up under me, wishing that I had a manuscript, and a glass of Pinot Noir, and maybe a Muse, just for kicks. I could really use some inspiration. I clap and clap until my hands are smarting with pain, but all I have managed to revive is the Absinthe Faerey. Tinkerbell? Is that you? What have you become?
So.
My lady lays in faded sheets. She is jinxed, wild and sparkling like the night. She walks in beauty. She will not be tamed. She.
She tells me that she loves me but does not believe me when I repeat those words. But how can four little letters convey the Great Abstraction. Our brains evolved to process emotions thousands of years before the acquisition of language came on the hominid scene. No wonder that words so often fail. Have you ever tried to explain how an orgasm feels to someone who’s never had one? It’s impossible. Pleasure, pain, heartbreak, grief…these feelings to which we affix black and white words are much deeper and older than our ability to name them. “What can be shown cannot be said.”
I get this. It makes sense. So I touch her instead, press my body against her warmth. She understands my love now because I’ve made it tangible. She feels it with a knowing that is ancient and female and divine.
So.
I sip and consider. I think about the social responsibility bestowed upon writers. Like, this just happened. Make it matter. “Make it new.” as Pound said. Make it puncture, make it steel, make it sound. Make it fusion, make it freezing, make it fly.
And so it is. I needed to write tonight because, well, I realized that if you spill beer on a keyboard it’s permanent. Something as silly as that. So. How could I spend my life being impermanent, soluble, and not say anything, given that everything could be erased in some drunk, erratic second.
There’s actually a shot called “Mind-Eraser.” I’ve had it. It’s nasty. Kahlua, vodka, and Sprite. Kind of like smog and charcoal and cherry blossoms mixed together. Kind of like exploding.
So.
Cyperspace is just an extension, a further dimension of human consciousness anyway. I want my thoughts to be held here is this electromagnetic fabric, safe from the pyres of book burnings and witch hunts that seek to destroy that which is beautiful in its defiance.
There is this post-modern disillusionment with linear Time. It seems that history as we know it, is coming to an end. Some say it’s long overdue. I say we have always lived cyclically, vertically inclined. Given that time is not a constant, but rather a fourth dimension, I have been fascinated with the folds, the fabric, as Nabokov has said, “the chance creases in the texture of Time.” Yet our contemporary American Dream goes chugging along as always. Always trying to be Top Dog. Until you get eaten by coyotes, that is. The scariest thing, I imagine, would be to get destroyed by a very close relative. I read about this in the paper. It really does happen, and it’s sick. Unfortunately humans are not immune to this behavior. Altruism does thrive, but it is painted on walls. In caves. We who can see are inherently blinded by sheer consequence. And temporality. But Space, the Comedy Villain, still lurks in the background, ready to disrupt its flow once again.
So,
To all the people, like me, who wished they were someone else, only to find out that the person they so ardently aspired to be was fictional….this is for you.
So.
When it all comes down to molecules and atoms, what will be left? Neils Bohr gave us energy levels in which to operate, but Heisenberg gave us the uncertainty to move elsewhere. To be chaotic. To be, in essence, free to do the unexpected. John Calvin would not have approved. Things are no longer the dualistic, confining either/or, but have now become both/and. Archtypes. Complementarity. Relativity. It’s thrilling.
So.
Where is this great migration? This diaspora. Tony Kushner says, “The world only spins forward.” Where do we go when all the earth in this Earth has already been uncovered? Who do we turn to but ourselves, our friends, our fellow humans, as the next great enigma to explore? When we run out of territory, I think it's only natural that our physical bodies become the Last Frontier.
“I believe in such cartography—to be marked by nature, not to just label ourselves on a map. We are communal histories, communal books. We are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience.”
–Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient
And how will we treat our fellow man. Like captives? Children? (as if we could say we are wiser than children) Natives? Savages? Just look at the carnage committed by one “civilized” nation towards another. Makes me want to till soil and worship the Great Goddess. Put my ear to the ground and truly listen.
Let us look not to the world that seeks to destroy us, but rather find the shred of goodness in each other that encourages us to endure.
“Death usually has to take life away. I don't know if that's just the animal. I don't know if it's not braver to die, but I recognize the habit; the addiction to being alive. So we live past hope. If I can find hope anywhere, that's it, that's the best I can do. It's so much not enough. It's so inadequate. But still bless me anyway. I want more life.”
-Tony Kushner, Angels in America
And so it is.
-katie
It’s late and dark and cold. The Dads are telling us not to let The Dogs out to pee because there are coyotes roaming the hillside. If they venture into this dry, Valley night, they will surely be eaten and torn apart by members of their own canine family like ecstatic maenads in a Dionysian festival.
So.
The fire that we made has burned down to embers, which are hotter and redder than the yellow flames that lasted as long as the logs would allow, yet the color that burns the hottest, ironically, is blue. I sit on the mantelpiece with my legs curled up under me, wishing that I had a manuscript, and a glass of Pinot Noir, and maybe a Muse, just for kicks. I could really use some inspiration. I clap and clap until my hands are smarting with pain, but all I have managed to revive is the Absinthe Faerey. Tinkerbell? Is that you? What have you become?
So.
My lady lays in faded sheets. She is jinxed, wild and sparkling like the night. She walks in beauty. She will not be tamed. She.
She tells me that she loves me but does not believe me when I repeat those words. But how can four little letters convey the Great Abstraction. Our brains evolved to process emotions thousands of years before the acquisition of language came on the hominid scene. No wonder that words so often fail. Have you ever tried to explain how an orgasm feels to someone who’s never had one? It’s impossible. Pleasure, pain, heartbreak, grief…these feelings to which we affix black and white words are much deeper and older than our ability to name them. “What can be shown cannot be said.”
I get this. It makes sense. So I touch her instead, press my body against her warmth. She understands my love now because I’ve made it tangible. She feels it with a knowing that is ancient and female and divine.
So.
I sip and consider. I think about the social responsibility bestowed upon writers. Like, this just happened. Make it matter. “Make it new.” as Pound said. Make it puncture, make it steel, make it sound. Make it fusion, make it freezing, make it fly.
And so it is. I needed to write tonight because, well, I realized that if you spill beer on a keyboard it’s permanent. Something as silly as that. So. How could I spend my life being impermanent, soluble, and not say anything, given that everything could be erased in some drunk, erratic second.
There’s actually a shot called “Mind-Eraser.” I’ve had it. It’s nasty. Kahlua, vodka, and Sprite. Kind of like smog and charcoal and cherry blossoms mixed together. Kind of like exploding.
So.
Cyperspace is just an extension, a further dimension of human consciousness anyway. I want my thoughts to be held here is this electromagnetic fabric, safe from the pyres of book burnings and witch hunts that seek to destroy that which is beautiful in its defiance.
There is this post-modern disillusionment with linear Time. It seems that history as we know it, is coming to an end. Some say it’s long overdue. I say we have always lived cyclically, vertically inclined. Given that time is not a constant, but rather a fourth dimension, I have been fascinated with the folds, the fabric, as Nabokov has said, “the chance creases in the texture of Time.” Yet our contemporary American Dream goes chugging along as always. Always trying to be Top Dog. Until you get eaten by coyotes, that is. The scariest thing, I imagine, would be to get destroyed by a very close relative. I read about this in the paper. It really does happen, and it’s sick. Unfortunately humans are not immune to this behavior. Altruism does thrive, but it is painted on walls. In caves. We who can see are inherently blinded by sheer consequence. And temporality. But Space, the Comedy Villain, still lurks in the background, ready to disrupt its flow once again.
So,
To all the people, like me, who wished they were someone else, only to find out that the person they so ardently aspired to be was fictional….this is for you.
So.
When it all comes down to molecules and atoms, what will be left? Neils Bohr gave us energy levels in which to operate, but Heisenberg gave us the uncertainty to move elsewhere. To be chaotic. To be, in essence, free to do the unexpected. John Calvin would not have approved. Things are no longer the dualistic, confining either/or, but have now become both/and. Archtypes. Complementarity. Relativity. It’s thrilling.
So.
Where is this great migration? This diaspora. Tony Kushner says, “The world only spins forward.” Where do we go when all the earth in this Earth has already been uncovered? Who do we turn to but ourselves, our friends, our fellow humans, as the next great enigma to explore? When we run out of territory, I think it's only natural that our physical bodies become the Last Frontier.
“I believe in such cartography—to be marked by nature, not to just label ourselves on a map. We are communal histories, communal books. We are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience.”
–Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient
And how will we treat our fellow man. Like captives? Children? (as if we could say we are wiser than children) Natives? Savages? Just look at the carnage committed by one “civilized” nation towards another. Makes me want to till soil and worship the Great Goddess. Put my ear to the ground and truly listen.
Let us look not to the world that seeks to destroy us, but rather find the shred of goodness in each other that encourages us to endure.
“Death usually has to take life away. I don't know if that's just the animal. I don't know if it's not braver to die, but I recognize the habit; the addiction to being alive. So we live past hope. If I can find hope anywhere, that's it, that's the best I can do. It's so much not enough. It's so inadequate. But still bless me anyway. I want more life.”
-Tony Kushner, Angels in America
And so it is.
-katie
Thursday, January 15, 2009
when there is october love
[when there is october love]
dedicated to Diane and Ken Boyden on their 27th Wedding Anniversary, October 4, 2007.
when there is October love—
(fall—ing
leaves
floating
d
o
w n)
crystal lake golden gate—brisk—beigepinkbrown;
dusky—dreamy, static—steamy,
a manandwoman speaking vows.
hope by heart, grief by joy
then in now, girl in boy
in time(less)ness we here not never
one become be alwaysforever.
tideful turning earthy sound,
lashes, lips
bound by crowns.
moonlicious crispy slated skies
winekiss (tastethis) laughsand sighs.
three for luck, two little girls,
leaves to years to eyes unfurls.
they get their needs to give their haves,
move their dreams, sing their glads.
hewithshe by longago lake,
seeds sown—upgrow(n)
in(their)love make
she some smallish days
she some smallish days my
ears prick tears—bathe us, taste us
as smiles dissolve into night.
the moonlicked lusty november
sky: felt it like velvet
beneath
her
and
i
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Mother
I.
Her smile honeyed warmth
Wraps around me
Stretches her love-shield, dresses wounds
Soft kisses all better
Uncries my eyes
It’s time for Sesame Street and pureéd broccoli
The little one is scared of the big world
And crawls into her mother’s lap
Buries her face in the safe warm floral patterns of her dress
Looks up into chocolate sweet eyes
Remember when, ostrichlike, i’d bury my head in the couch
Thinking no one could see me?
But you always knew where to find me.
II.
Virgin goddess running through thickets
The hounds fast on her heels
Lets out a wild call into the night
Limbs flying eyes blazing
She stops to shake out the moonlight
Then she sees him. Watching her
For once she does not react.
He was different.
I’ll let you catch me.
Just this once.
You can see the wild in the little one, can’t you?
III.
Little fat baby reaches for her mother’s face
Tries to pick fresh olives from her smile
Shiny perfect cheekbones grin down at
Little chubby girl.
She laughs and reaches for the fruit again
Little golden girl playing in the sand
Runs away skipping from the eager tide
Wraps her tiny body around Mommy’s calf
Dances in the showers of sunlight that fall from Mommy’s hair
See these eyes? They’re not tired.
Will you read me a story? I want to hear the one about Hazel again
IV.
Little good for nothing trouble maker
in her green velvet dress holding the hamsters
I know they’ll probably just fight
But I’m going to see if they’ll play nice this time
Little finger got in the way of angry rodent teeth
Drops of red on green velvet
But didn’t you always know you were it for me?
Little ballerina in a pink tutu jetês across the floor
Zig zags her way to the beam and smiles
I may be just five but I understand
That mirror is actually a window and
Mommy is watching me from the other side
You can see it in those big blue eyes
V.
Mother sitting adding figures on her machine
Little one tries to learn the keys
Mommy’s very busy, Honey, I’m keeping your Dad organized
Little one wishes she were as smart as Mommy
Little one draws carefully
Copying her t-shirt…a scuba diving Snoopy
New baby draws all over Snoopy
Little one starts to cry
Mommy takes the white-out
See? All better
Little one sniffle-smiles
Skinny girl blonde ponytail runs and runs
But can’t seem to ever get to the ball
Mother watches, yells GO KATIE GO!
Yells Oh my God that girl is twice her size!
Yells I love you!
VI.
Mother is a constant, a count on me, a safety,
a soulmate
a sunshine.
Mother is a puts on my dress. A pick me up when they knock me down. A wipe off the gravel and clean the cuts. A kiss on the forehead. A song. A face the world. A pair of wings.
A little bigger one presses the keys and Mommy sings
Even when the girl messes up Mommy always finds her place in the song
Like it was her own heart
A girl is digging rivers in her backyard.
Once again the poor hamsters are part of the plan
Mom comes out to see the progress
Saves Frisky from drowning
Even when I fought you tooth and nail, I always knew you were right.
VII.
Mother’s eyes go back centuries.
Soulful, huntress gaze.
She watches time crumble empires
Sees the evil in the world and vows in her
Deepest heart to protect her little girl
A girl gets kissed on a hammock
The whole next day she knows Mom knows
But when she confesses it turns out to be a surprise
A girl sees red for the first time and cries
Mom barely conceals her joy
As she cradles the shaking shoulders
It’s ok you are a woman now
You are now among the lucky and proud
A girl grows up building sandcastles in her eyes
A mother keeps a watchful distance
She will always know when her daughter needs her.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
this can't be good for my health
Hey all. This is a tad bit strange, since I probably don't you, but I imagine this is kind of like meeting someone random at a party where you're supposedly acquainted with everyone. In these situations I just tend to talk excessively in an attempt to diffuse the awkwardness which usually leads to me discussing something inappropriate and/or personal that is probably not included in the limited realm of "casual party conversation." And that's the point where I just start chugging Corona and pretend I wasn't actually saying anything. It usually works. Hopefully I'll have more sense than to do that here, but we'll just have to wait and see.
The truth is, I used to have a blog. It was in '03 (well I think I started it in '01 or something, mid high school, but it met its grisly end in early '05). People generally liked it, which's good, I suppose, though at the time I was so entrenched in D-nial and los angeles (straightsororitygirl) bullshit that I can hardly recognize my own prose. There are a couple of good entries in there, but I'm not going to link to them because that would lead to everyone finding entries that I wish had never existed in the first place.
Part of the problem with that blog was that it represented my then-absurdly high level of trust in the inherent goodness of humanity and (very misguided) belief in the fact that no one would intentionally try to fuck me over, especially not through my writing. Then someone did, in fact, use my writing against me in order to fuck me over. This led to my sorority (I know, I know, just understand I was in the middle of erecting a complicated facade) getting in a lot of trouble. I mean a LOT. Purely by accident did I incriminate them, I might add. Who knew that making us drink jack daniels while dressed in leopard tights was hazing?? It was fun! (fun? really, katie? really??)
Regardless, I had to stop that blog (which, by the way, was not actually about sororities, though admittedly and embarrassingly tainted by their omnipotent influence), and suffer the consequences of free speech in a dictatorship run by women who've inhaled too many tanning bed solvents. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I've always been a writer, that really never changed. I just finally realized that while my life continues to remain in this bizarre purgatory between student life and "the real world," I should probably do something with myself and my free time. Plus cocktail waitressing really stresses me out (as stupid as that sounds, it's the truth, for some reason my brain is much better at abstract literary analysis than remembering that someone didn't want salt on their margarita). Plus I'm really different now. Like, really. This is what all the cool UCLA grads do anyway, duh, despite the fact that "cool UCLA grad" is probably an oxymoron.
So, in an attempt to validate my existence, and because I'm suffocating under the noxious vapors of 1) LA smog, 2) post-grad depression/ennui 3) insatiable anxiety and 4) a general sense of idealistic restlessness, I decided to start a new blog. Because it's just one more thing besides facebook and myspace to distract you from your responsibilities...consider it a gift. l'chaim!!
-katie
The truth is, I used to have a blog. It was in '03 (well I think I started it in '01 or something, mid high school, but it met its grisly end in early '05). People generally liked it, which's good, I suppose, though at the time I was so entrenched in D-nial and los angeles (straightsororitygirl) bullshit that I can hardly recognize my own prose. There are a couple of good entries in there, but I'm not going to link to them because that would lead to everyone finding entries that I wish had never existed in the first place.
Part of the problem with that blog was that it represented my then-absurdly high level of trust in the inherent goodness of humanity and (very misguided) belief in the fact that no one would intentionally try to fuck me over, especially not through my writing. Then someone did, in fact, use my writing against me in order to fuck me over. This led to my sorority (I know, I know, just understand I was in the middle of erecting a complicated facade) getting in a lot of trouble. I mean a LOT. Purely by accident did I incriminate them, I might add. Who knew that making us drink jack daniels while dressed in leopard tights was hazing?? It was fun! (fun? really, katie? really??)
Regardless, I had to stop that blog (which, by the way, was not actually about sororities, though admittedly and embarrassingly tainted by their omnipotent influence), and suffer the consequences of free speech in a dictatorship run by women who've inhaled too many tanning bed solvents. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I've always been a writer, that really never changed. I just finally realized that while my life continues to remain in this bizarre purgatory between student life and "the real world," I should probably do something with myself and my free time. Plus cocktail waitressing really stresses me out (as stupid as that sounds, it's the truth, for some reason my brain is much better at abstract literary analysis than remembering that someone didn't want salt on their margarita). Plus I'm really different now. Like, really. This is what all the cool UCLA grads do anyway, duh, despite the fact that "cool UCLA grad" is probably an oxymoron.
So, in an attempt to validate my existence, and because I'm suffocating under the noxious vapors of 1) LA smog, 2) post-grad depression/ennui 3) insatiable anxiety and 4) a general sense of idealistic restlessness, I decided to start a new blog. Because it's just one more thing besides facebook and myspace to distract you from your responsibilities...consider it a gift. l'chaim!!
-katie
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