Recent Writing Samples:
[I'm also writing for the Go Folk Yourself Collective these days, you can read my reviews here
home, a moving target
by katie king
my suitcase hitting every crack on the sidewalk while walking down andersonville at midnight
that damn wonderful mississippi night owl, wooing us from outside our bedroom window on morrison ave,
the 26 pounds of brown & white fur curled up by my ribcage in the mornings
the sweaty walk to school in heredia post papaya
homesickness: twice. both in 2011:
i- Chicago, a city I had a large crush on. I arrived on Sep 4th, the same day Oprah did but not the same year and slept in my car on the streets for two nights with a rhodesian ridgeback in my lap, and a sense of happiness that seemed like it could mean something.
ii- Guam, because it housed the place where I could find his arms and the seven years spent in and outside of them. Not to mention the young pumpkin in the backyard, the wedding album in the living room, the series of romantic cornball polaroids lining the wall, the fruit juicer in the kitchen and the strange pure idyllic merriment in spite of a slowly slipping hell.
electric blankets
hearing the doorbell ring in the heat of a denver august
the internet, the invisible world
5262527
mom
I 70 & I 80
q. "is it safe to go out after 6 pm" Age: 21.
location: 96th street | upper west side
relationship of interrogated: husband
150 + plane flights
shyla's couch
heather's lawn chair
pasta, the dog not the dish
swiss cowbells
the creaking of the evergreen tree too late at night and too heavy for the morning
tall trees. tall buildings. tall men.
leggy sky
my very first movers, signing the lease papers, a 3BD castle with a view and watching Steven shower in the the gutter run off on a particularly rainy day
movement & the rush rush parade
lost items: purses, cell phones, the dirt that piles up in the bottom of your purse that you feel with your fingernails when you are trying to get to your favorite chapstick.
that piano I spent 9 years on ::heated & muffled chords <--- [if there are roots to be had they would be found here]
the place under the antique bench, pressing the pedal for my sister when she nodded her head.
the blood stain where my first dog was run over
pike's peak
the mint my brother & I planted in the front yard
chris & sara
childhood home; the belief that a warm english breakfast tea and three tablespoons of sugar can get you through the woods, or at least to them.
waking up to snow
hostels. hostels in the bernese oberland, in ireland, flagstaff, lautrubrunnen valley, london, costa rica, new york city, hostels with guitars in them, with rock gym/ foot oder in them, hostels that charge you 1CHF for a 5 minute shower, check in check out, hostels with communal meals in them, hostels with kids and families in them, hostels that throw parties with hot tub heidis in them.
mail.
those 6 weeks in the spring of 2009 I lived in various navy hotels, washing plastic tupperware in the sink, sharing half ramen rations and the 9 months sleeping on the floor afterwards.
the stomping grounds of unfamiliar head spaces
being a newlywed at 8 1/2 Glorietta Lane w/ with orange ice cream smoothies in bed served by a naked chef in the mornings
unusual insensitivity to change of surroundings, natural unmindfulness
camera on the car dashboard. out the window. under the armpit.
anywhere within at least a 45 minute radius of joel
the rootless itinerant. the transplant game
i. begin:
ii. I'm a colorado springs-austin-flagstaff-seattle-girdwood-lugano-heredia-london-olympia-gimmelwald-tuscon-san diego-virginia beach-new york city-biloxi-guam-san francisco-new york city transplant.
iii. begin again
iv. send the flood
solo visits to churches on sunday mornings
that 7 hour china bus ride and the songs I wrote during a 3 hour maintenance delay
walking the path to the 18th hole (with my eyes closed), past the red velvet poppies (with their eyes closed), towards the house with the light on.
a blank piece of paper and a ballpoint pen
the warm smell of the new york city subways
phonecalls to tiffany
takeoff
// laura’s red hot candy love//
Laura had red hair and listened to really cool music that I knew nothing about. On vinyl. She was talking about our generation when OWS was swelling in the mass press sweet-spot that warm new york winter of 2011. Harping on how our generation didn’t have a single brass nerve to its name, she said we had nothing to fight for-or against, nothing tying us together. That instead of having something to stand for we were all standing up drunk, or trying-going from one hard to find run down venue to another all for the sake of underground music, slowly crossing our arms and pulsing a nodding head bow just to psych the drummer out.
It was, if nothing else…something.
Between the five pets, rats and chainsmoke we were all having trouble breathing. I was staying far away from the only couch in the room, knowing way too much information about the kind of liquids that had soaked into it the night before. Ms Brunch Drunk Laura sat sprawled on a chair Julie had jacked from the mad mckibbin street. There were twelve of us crammed into that wharehouse basement, and we were all paying for it.
I got there without a shitton to work with. I was going through a personal crapshoot of a year myself which I nicknamed my party year since I didn’t drink until my divorce. And I didn’t stop screwing every brown haired brown eyed thing that moved (and some that didn’t even) till I got married so it wasn’t too much of a memory jog to start right up where I left off before the stainless steel vows whose current state of stale left not just the ripe raw wounds of heartbreak, but something much, much worse:
hope
hope that the bastard sailor would come back on his weak addicted knees.
I didn’t care if it took 5 months or 50 years, but I could smell it in my bones like the sweet scent of savory smoke lit on some mountain top somewhere that I couldn’t see, but had only heard about in crusty library reference books-
you see-steve and I’s history was just so. 7 years of come and go or rather, well, you know & go left a smart stain of repetition on my genital parts at least..there was a fire between us that no amount of lovers, cocaine, deep seated city flesh or hurt could water down. the question was whether that fire was good or bad.
The rest of my journey was about how I managed to get my kicks while I waited for him to return from his latest adventure: hating the living shit out of me.
In the meantime I wanted something tough to chew on so I didn’t join in the family chorus of Drugs, Murder & Childbearing. Not right away at least. So I moved the two dogs with me to brooklyn new york where we tried our best to chill the fuck out and bring our dreams to fruition while ending most days by spooning. Most nights I slept naked in a mass pit of dog hair, bone crumbs, and paw dirt. I loved those dogs like I loved my own skin-they were the only things left from the life I lost which I so loved creating.
I had been a military wife for the last 3 years, so moving to brooklyn was like staring my own generation in the face and forgetting we had ever met. These people were all born within two and three years of me, but instead of not knowing what to do with their lives hungry for the next pleasurefest, they had come to all sorts of conclusions about what to believe, what to eat, what gender they liked to fuck best, and where to buy their clothes.
I was strange in the sense that I hadn’t come to conclusions on most of these things yet, so these people seemed to be faking it. I wondered what sort of free course on early twenty decisiveness they all must have taken to come to so many hasty conclusions in such few years. They probably wondered the same thing about me and my marriage. But anyone who wondered had never been in love.
I arrived as bushwick’s latest plaything. Attention starved enough to appreciate the applause, but fragile enough to play into it, I managed to make a whole entire mess out of the first four months of my return. Brooklyn took me under it’s stinky armpit. Mistook my implacable nature for a free spirit, blood-given southern charm as sweetness, and my sad sad story as a hearthrob. As usual, I let people pin me as whatever they wanted because it made me laugh. I knew what I was. And I was one broken piece of work.
Everyone was trying to get famous fast, of course and it took me four months to become totally sick of it all. Everything for Everyone-was a graffiti quote I saw outside my work which called the kettle black. My own personal hang ups of greed & impatience made this a pretty easy tenure to cling onto for dear life. Newly cynical from my past slogan of One thing for One person, all it took was a pair of leggings and a triangle-shaped necklace to fool these folk into thinking I belonged here. Instead of back in the wild west canyons or rocky mountain reservoirs where I’m afraid I may belong.
Either way, one of my main prerogatives in this town was to see brooklyn get up and dance. To move those busty hips and get it on.
But Laura was on the road. Jet set on the west, she left me hot & heavy for her return.
I’d be dancing alone with the thirsty city in between my thighs.
[I'm also writing for the Go Folk Yourself Collective these days, you can read my reviews here
home, a moving target
by katie king
my suitcase hitting every crack on the sidewalk while walking down andersonville at midnight
that damn wonderful mississippi night owl, wooing us from outside our bedroom window on morrison ave,
the 26 pounds of brown & white fur curled up by my ribcage in the mornings
the sweaty walk to school in heredia post papaya
homesickness: twice. both in 2011:
i- Chicago, a city I had a large crush on. I arrived on Sep 4th, the same day Oprah did but not the same year and slept in my car on the streets for two nights with a rhodesian ridgeback in my lap, and a sense of happiness that seemed like it could mean something.
ii- Guam, because it housed the place where I could find his arms and the seven years spent in and outside of them. Not to mention the young pumpkin in the backyard, the wedding album in the living room, the series of romantic cornball polaroids lining the wall, the fruit juicer in the kitchen and the strange pure idyllic merriment in spite of a slowly slipping hell.
electric blankets
hearing the doorbell ring in the heat of a denver august
the internet, the invisible world
5262527
mom
I 70 & I 80
q. "is it safe to go out after 6 pm" Age: 21.
location: 96th street | upper west side
relationship of interrogated: husband
150 + plane flights
shyla's couch
heather's lawn chair
pasta, the dog not the dish
swiss cowbells
the creaking of the evergreen tree too late at night and too heavy for the morning
tall trees. tall buildings. tall men.
leggy sky
my very first movers, signing the lease papers, a 3BD castle with a view and watching Steven shower in the the gutter run off on a particularly rainy day
movement & the rush rush parade
lost items: purses, cell phones, the dirt that piles up in the bottom of your purse that you feel with your fingernails when you are trying to get to your favorite chapstick.
that piano I spent 9 years on ::heated & muffled chords <--- [if there are roots to be had they would be found here]
the place under the antique bench, pressing the pedal for my sister when she nodded her head.
the blood stain where my first dog was run over
pike's peak
the mint my brother & I planted in the front yard
chris & sara
childhood home; the belief that a warm english breakfast tea and three tablespoons of sugar can get you through the woods, or at least to them.
waking up to snow
hostels. hostels in the bernese oberland, in ireland, flagstaff, lautrubrunnen valley, london, costa rica, new york city, hostels with guitars in them, with rock gym/ foot oder in them, hostels that charge you 1CHF for a 5 minute shower, check in check out, hostels with communal meals in them, hostels with kids and families in them, hostels that throw parties with hot tub heidis in them.
mail.
those 6 weeks in the spring of 2009 I lived in various navy hotels, washing plastic tupperware in the sink, sharing half ramen rations and the 9 months sleeping on the floor afterwards.
the stomping grounds of unfamiliar head spaces
being a newlywed at 8 1/2 Glorietta Lane w/ with orange ice cream smoothies in bed served by a naked chef in the mornings
unusual insensitivity to change of surroundings, natural unmindfulness
camera on the car dashboard. out the window. under the armpit.
anywhere within at least a 45 minute radius of joel
the rootless itinerant. the transplant game
i. begin:
ii. I'm a colorado springs-austin-flagstaff-seattle-girdwood-lugano-heredia-london-olympia-gimmelwald-tuscon-san diego-virginia beach-new york city-biloxi-guam-san francisco-new york city transplant.
iii. begin again
iv. send the flood
solo visits to churches on sunday mornings
that 7 hour china bus ride and the songs I wrote during a 3 hour maintenance delay
walking the path to the 18th hole (with my eyes closed), past the red velvet poppies (with their eyes closed), towards the house with the light on.
a blank piece of paper and a ballpoint pen
the warm smell of the new york city subways
phonecalls to tiffany
takeoff
// laura’s red hot candy love//
Laura had red hair and listened to really cool music that I knew nothing about. On vinyl. She was talking about our generation when OWS was swelling in the mass press sweet-spot that warm new york winter of 2011. Harping on how our generation didn’t have a single brass nerve to its name, she said we had nothing to fight for-or against, nothing tying us together. That instead of having something to stand for we were all standing up drunk, or trying-going from one hard to find run down venue to another all for the sake of underground music, slowly crossing our arms and pulsing a nodding head bow just to psych the drummer out.
It was, if nothing else…something.
Between the five pets, rats and chainsmoke we were all having trouble breathing. I was staying far away from the only couch in the room, knowing way too much information about the kind of liquids that had soaked into it the night before. Ms Brunch Drunk Laura sat sprawled on a chair Julie had jacked from the mad mckibbin street. There were twelve of us crammed into that wharehouse basement, and we were all paying for it.
I got there without a shitton to work with. I was going through a personal crapshoot of a year myself which I nicknamed my party year since I didn’t drink until my divorce. And I didn’t stop screwing every brown haired brown eyed thing that moved (and some that didn’t even) till I got married so it wasn’t too much of a memory jog to start right up where I left off before the stainless steel vows whose current state of stale left not just the ripe raw wounds of heartbreak, but something much, much worse:
hope
hope that the bastard sailor would come back on his weak addicted knees.
I didn’t care if it took 5 months or 50 years, but I could smell it in my bones like the sweet scent of savory smoke lit on some mountain top somewhere that I couldn’t see, but had only heard about in crusty library reference books-
you see-steve and I’s history was just so. 7 years of come and go or rather, well, you know & go left a smart stain of repetition on my genital parts at least..there was a fire between us that no amount of lovers, cocaine, deep seated city flesh or hurt could water down. the question was whether that fire was good or bad.
The rest of my journey was about how I managed to get my kicks while I waited for him to return from his latest adventure: hating the living shit out of me.
In the meantime I wanted something tough to chew on so I didn’t join in the family chorus of Drugs, Murder & Childbearing. Not right away at least. So I moved the two dogs with me to brooklyn new york where we tried our best to chill the fuck out and bring our dreams to fruition while ending most days by spooning. Most nights I slept naked in a mass pit of dog hair, bone crumbs, and paw dirt. I loved those dogs like I loved my own skin-they were the only things left from the life I lost which I so loved creating.
I had been a military wife for the last 3 years, so moving to brooklyn was like staring my own generation in the face and forgetting we had ever met. These people were all born within two and three years of me, but instead of not knowing what to do with their lives hungry for the next pleasurefest, they had come to all sorts of conclusions about what to believe, what to eat, what gender they liked to fuck best, and where to buy their clothes.
I was strange in the sense that I hadn’t come to conclusions on most of these things yet, so these people seemed to be faking it. I wondered what sort of free course on early twenty decisiveness they all must have taken to come to so many hasty conclusions in such few years. They probably wondered the same thing about me and my marriage. But anyone who wondered had never been in love.
I arrived as bushwick’s latest plaything. Attention starved enough to appreciate the applause, but fragile enough to play into it, I managed to make a whole entire mess out of the first four months of my return. Brooklyn took me under it’s stinky armpit. Mistook my implacable nature for a free spirit, blood-given southern charm as sweetness, and my sad sad story as a hearthrob. As usual, I let people pin me as whatever they wanted because it made me laugh. I knew what I was. And I was one broken piece of work.
Everyone was trying to get famous fast, of course and it took me four months to become totally sick of it all. Everything for Everyone-was a graffiti quote I saw outside my work which called the kettle black. My own personal hang ups of greed & impatience made this a pretty easy tenure to cling onto for dear life. Newly cynical from my past slogan of One thing for One person, all it took was a pair of leggings and a triangle-shaped necklace to fool these folk into thinking I belonged here. Instead of back in the wild west canyons or rocky mountain reservoirs where I’m afraid I may belong.
Either way, one of my main prerogatives in this town was to see brooklyn get up and dance. To move those busty hips and get it on.
But Laura was on the road. Jet set on the west, she left me hot & heavy for her return.
I’d be dancing alone with the thirsty city in between my thighs.
rates:
small, local weddings {500.00}
package includes:
One Photographer
Wedding Ceremony, Portraits, and Reception Coverage
Disc(s) of 250 High Resolution Images with Copyright Release
options to add to your package
full event coverage: +200.00
Rehearsal coverage: +100.00
prints: 50% off store prices
An inside look at the horse power behind Daytrotter Studios
a photo-documentary on daytrotter studios
photography & text copyright Katie King, 2011
post editing & web work by Kimball Denetso
a photo-documentary on daytrotter studios
photography & text copyright Katie King, 2011
post editing & web work by Kimball Denetso
screen play
Scene:
(+ look through all notes)
There are a few scenes here. We're going through a relationship sequence, A disorientation scene, a childhood sequence. Maybe More.
Frank: "
++
I was in bed stuy and covered in blood, sweat & cum. The night before I was wearing a mask and getting a cock shoved down my throat but this was all welcomed in a warped sort of way. Where the back of your mind knows that you are entering a room of danger and you accept this but you have no idea who it will belong to and what corner it will come from. I was in new york city. For the third time in three years. And instead of it really feeling like home it felt like a good friend's house, one which you would want to return to often to press the reset button. Less a home and more of a place to touch down where you feel like you belong, and could stay forever if you wanted to. But you know you won't. It's less like a home and more like a rest stop. Presently.
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