a fucked up lovesong

https://miaowmcdonald.bandcamp.com/track/a-fucked-up-lovesong

Sunday 19th January 2019 was a horrible day. one of the worst days of my life. it was the day i almost lost someone i love completely. i have never felt so scared, so helpless in all my life. those twenty two minutes, waiting for the ambulance to arrive, seemed like twenty two hours.

i caught a glimpse of a Death, his shadow, his black dog… i fought hard, and won. Death would not take his soul. not this one. not today.

having to come to terms with this trauma and process its reality, and the many subsequent questions, is something i never want to relive.

but from the intense discourse, in the days and weeks that followed, came an overwhelming realisation that my love for this soul was strong. stronger than i ever thought possible.

from this event, this ‘ground zero’, i learned a lot about myself. there was a lot to process. even now, after a year and more, i am still haunted by that vision of Death and his black dog.

although lessening in frequency now, i still have nightmares and panic attacks in the small hours of the morning. i wake up in a cold sweat, cradling myself and reassuring myself it was just a bad dream and that he is safe. but that coup d’œil of what life would be like had i not arrived when i did, still chills my bones, turning them to powder.

living through this has made me appreciate the little things. it’s those little things, that seem insignificant at the time, that really matter when someone is gone. and by gone i mean not just in a different room. i mean gone somewhere where you cannot follow. ever. one day, you will never see one of their two hundred forty one different smiles again, or hear them sing in the shower. and it’s then you’ll punish yourself for not appreciating the little things, like the little kiss on the top of your head as they walk past, or the smell of their hair. even their moods and grumpiness will be something you will miss with a crushing weight upon your chest.

so tell them that you love them now. don’t wait.

listen to them.

be mindful, watch out for them. ask them how they are feeling. let them know you are there.

listen.

listen with your ears, your eyes, and your gut instinct…. it could save a life.

people deal with trauma, shock and grief in different ways. for me, writing is a cathartic process. a compulsion. a necessity. it always has been.

and so, i picked up Julio, my 30 year old Spanish guitar, and wrote a song.

this song… a fucked up lovesong.

SAMARITANS 24 hr HELPLINE > 116 123

(c) Miaow McDonald (music/lyrics)

(c) Miaow McDonald Photography (image)

pink lemonade for a blue girl

Pink Lemonade for a Blue Girl 2

this is a pink song about feeling blue…

it’s a gentle track, with a hint of ASMR about it and, perhaps, an unexpected time signature change.

it’s a song about summer feels… a song about the sea, its melancholy and escape.

“Pink Lemonade for a Blue Girl” is the 3rd of 13 or so songs from my debut solo album, Year Zero.

this song is available to LISTEN TO / BUY on bandcamp miaowmcdonald.bandcamp.com/track/Pink-Lemonade-For-A-Blue-Girl

“Pink Lemonade for a Blue Girl” will also be available on all other digital platforms to download and/or stream… iTunes, Spotify, Napster, Deezer, GooglePlay, AppleMusic, TikTok, Soundcloud, YouTube etc etc etc…

(c)(p) written & performed by Miaow McDonald

engineered/co-produced by Robert Davidson, the ‘Aged Choir Boy’.

Miaow McDonald: Vocals, Guitars, Piano & Synth
Additional Musicians:
Robert Davidson: Drums, Tuned Percussion and odd field recordings
Joshua Jamieson aka CyberneticZ: Accordion

 

 

528Hz: an emotional healing

 

IMG-8320

a light breeze floats in through the open window, toying with the light voile drapes in my bedroom. i feel it, but i am somewhere else.  i am a million miles away.  a million miles high.

i can feel the warmth of healing hands upon my solar plexus.  these are not my hands. i am alone in my room, save for my cat, Alf, asleep at my feet.

then, out of the blue, the tears come.

and they flow from somewhere deep inside me.  somewhere dark.  an emotional dam, breached. a release.  a flood.

“take my shadows” i repeat. a mantra.

i see my mother for the first time in three years and i can feel her hands in mine, cool and soft as i remember them being.  i tell her that i love her.  i tell her that i’m sorry, and that i miss her every day.

i see my father, for the first time in thirty years.  he holds me close. i can smell him.  i inhale deep and upon exhalation, i know everything is going to be okay.

i see my lover.  we are swimming in a deep blue ocean and we embrace, in the water.  like the waves we break through,  i feel a surge of overwhelming love for him.  immeasurable love.  and a longing to hold him.

my hands tingling, my heart feels heavy and i cry.  i cry for loss. i cry in gratitude. i cry with love.

i am filled with an enormous swell of desire.  desire to live.  to really live and savour each moment, because it’s the little things that matter:  every smile.  a scent.  a touch.  a glance.  every feeling.  every word ever said.

i feel like i am bathed in light and supreme love.  and still the tears flow.

tears of complete joy.  joy for having been blessed with the fortune of family and loved ones.  joy for having this complex and yet, paradoxically, simple fortress-like shield of love around me.  love from my family and my lover, my friends that are family, and the natural world around me.

i see trees.  tall trees, stoic and wise.  these giants are beautiful and i cry for them.  i cannot bear to think of a time when i will not see trees again.

stretching out my legs, i feel Alf’s soft fur against the soles of my feet.  i hear him purr in his sleep. i cry for him.  tears of joy for having the privilege of his friendship, and the knowledge that one day, he will be ash in my hands… just like my mother, whose remains (or what’s left of them) are in a small box, in a drawer, by my bed.

i see my grandparents. humble folk, hardworking folk and cry for the feelings of loss.  of being cheated because i never knew them.  but they are smiling.

i see my dear friend, Jess.  my lover’s gran.  i see her smile.  we look into each other’s eyes for the perfect time.

i feel blessed to know these beautiful souls, and to have been bestowed and entrusted with their love, their knowledge and wisdom, their guidance and other gifts.  gifts of smiles, embraces, shared laughter and raised glasses.

but the pain of loss and the knowledge that everything is infinitely temporary shakes my heart.

everyone is smiling, except me.  the tears roll down my face and soak the pillow beneath me.  i squeeze my mother’s hands.  she tells me to let it all go.

and i do.

and i am back in the ocean with my love, and we are kissing.  tears of joy rushing back to the ocean.  it’s like we have found each other again.   i don’t ever want to lose that.

i focus on my breathing and soon become filled with an inner sense of calm and purpose.

i want to live.  live better.  to create.  to live and love.

because love is everything.

 

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Words & Images (c) Kat McDonald 2020

fire with fire

fire with fire idea5

so have you ever loved someone so much it burned?      <<< Shhh.. Listen >>>

 

p.s.

18 months ago, i began to put structure and integrity into a bunch of songs i had written over the past few years, using only chaos theory, my voice, a tenner’s worth of iPhone music apps and Julio (my 35 year old Spanish guitar).

three years ago, it had been an emotional storm: too much illness, too many deaths and one near death.

every day ago, lessons learned.

 

FIRE WITH FIRE is the second single from my forthcoming debut album, Year Zero.

you can stream/download from all major digital distribution platforms, iTunes, Googleplay, Applemusic, Bandcamp, Spotify, Napster, Deezer, TikTok, YouTubeMusic etc etc.

<<< LISTEN HERE, I LOVE YOU >>>

 

 

 

 

Thank You for the Music

The Two Ks

once upon a time there were two little girls and, for a long time, they were inseparable.  they spent all their free time together. they were the best of friends.

two little girls whose names both began with the letter ‘K’.  two little girls with April birthdays, one a year older, K1, and four inches taller than the other, K2.  two little girls in love with all things that 8 year old girls fell in love with then: roller skates, lip gloss, dolphins, puppies and ABBA.

two little girls who loved to sing.  and sing they did.  every day.

they called themselves “The 2 Ks” and, every weekend, they staged ‘concerts’.

K1 would save up her pocket money to buy every album ABBA ever released, or she would bribe her parents into buying them for her, by promising to tidy her room more frequently.  soon the girls did, indeed, have every album ABBA ever released, and their repertoire was growing.  they soon knew all the words to all the songs, by heart.

K1, being the taller of the two girls, with the fairer hair and stronger voice was, obviously, Agnetha.  K2, being smaller with dark hair and a deeper, rich, velvety voice was, naturally, Frida.

the two little girls would rehearse almost every day or night when they had free-run of K1’s living room and her brother’s stereo, with speakers that were as tall as them.  the TV would be turned off,  the door closed and nobody was allowed to enter the living room until the girls had finished their rehearsals for their next concert.  and every Friday or Saturday night, there would be a concert.  each concert would last three to four hours, or until K2’s mother decided it was bedtime.

planning these ‘concerts’ began every Monday afternoon, after school, when the set list was prepared and decisions were made regarding who would sing what song.  rehearsals took place all week with painstakingly choreographed dance routines. harmonies, and counter-melodies were worked out and memorised.  by the end of the week they were ready for the next forthcoming show.  costumes would be tailored to suit the theme of each segment: leotards with chiffon scarves carefully attached so that they moved like flames as the girls danced; silk pyjamas with grown-up strappy sandals; gypsy skirts with boob tubes, no boobs and boho beads; Bermuda shorts and shirts with bow ties. 

tickets and signage were other important aspects of the shows that the girls meticulously prepared: signs such as “No talking or smoking during performance”  were hand-drawn.  K2 was particularly artistic.  she would spend hours designing and colouring in posters, with a full spectrum of felt tip pens at her disposal.  she would often embellish the posters with glitter or fresh flowers glued to them before pinning them up in obvious places: the hallway door, and the living room door – the entrance to their ‘auditorium’. tickets were issued the night before.

One of K1’s older brothers, S, was in a band and he would often set up an amp and microphones for the girls, to which more chiffon scarves were attentively attached.  the volume dial was, after being set by S, strictly out of bounds. they were told not to touch it but the girls often cranked it up regardless – especially if they thought that their audience wasn’t giving them the attention they felt they deserved!

the concerts were all the more special for the two little girls with microphones. however, if K1’s brother had a gig of his own, then singing into their hair brushes would have to suffice.  this happened on many an occasion.

every weekend K1’s house would be full of music and joy.  the two little girls would sing their hearts out.  a mixture of singing together and solo performances, while the other ‘K’ went backstage to slick on more lip gloss, brush her hair and sip some water, or to pet the dog.

to the two little girls, the concerts were real.  in the wilds of their minds, they were performing in a stadium, in front of a crowd of thousands of screaming fans – not just singing along to records to an audience made up of their long-suffering mums, their neighbours, the neighbours’ kids and the dog, in a mid-terrace Council house living room.

these two little girls had feral, unfettered imaginations. for the duration of these shows, they really believed they were ABBA.  An ABBA without Benny and Bjorn, however.  their Bennys and Bjorns would remain invisible.  they did, however, at one time ‘audition’ a boy to join them.  the boy had huge ears and lived next door to K2. he was a firm friend to both girls but he turned out to be completely tone deaf despite the size of his ears (wholly incapable of singing any key played on K1’s piano, despite their best efforts to teach him) so they abandoned that idea, post haste.  he would remain their friend, however, and was often bullied into being their compère for the evening, or invited to ‘mime’ the vocal parts of Benny or Bjorn, should that be required. for the most part, Benny and Bjorn would remain being merely the girls’ left hands, as the girls would practise their kissing on the back of their hands during the intermission.  the tone deaf boy with big ears never got any kisses, but he lived in hope.

backstage, it was chaos.  a trail of discarded chiffon scarves,  thick tinsel boas, the odd ballet pump or long black velvet evening glove would leave a trail upstairs to the “dressing room”.  once again, K2’s artistic skills were put to good use where a big Broadway style dressing room door sign, complete with glam gold Hollywood stars, would adorn the bedroom door.  more scarves; fancy patterned tights, with one leg inside-out; kitten-heeled sandals; a pink hairdryer and curling tongs would be scattered on the floor of K1’s bedroom floor.

little pots of iridescent green and gold eyeshadow and loose translucent powder spilled over the dresser;  lipstick kisses smeared many a mirror;  skirts, sunglasses and furry hats were strewn across the bed; hairbrushes, that just happened to land spiky side up, on the floor would be hidden hazards to small bare feet rushing “backstage” to change costume.

and there were a lot of costume changes.  every half hour, and that meant a lot of hairspray.  it is no wonder smoking was not permitted.

but these two little girls could really sing.  they sang with everything they had, belting out hit after hit.   they sang with such emotion and raw power that their parents’ friends suggested they enter talent competitions, or apply to be on some televised talent show, join a theatre group or even write to Jim’ll Fix It.

but like all little girls, they grew up.  by and by, the ABBA obsession ended as, eventually, did their friendship.

K1 went on to make her first real public performance as a vocalist singing with her brother’s band at the tender age of nine and a half.  she sang ‘Daddy’s Working Boots’, a real heartbreaker of a song written by Dolly Parton, one time at a local Country & Western club.   K2 joined the local church choir.

the reason i know all of this is because i was one of those little girls.

 

The Two Ks_collage

 

(c) Kat McDonald 2020

dedicated to Karen O.  wherever you may be now…. big love, my dear friend, and thank you for the music.

 ❤️

 

 

Pandora’s Box

pandoras box

spending a summer under a belly of cloud is one thing (actually, it’s to be expected, i live in Scotland, after all) but spending a summer under a Government imposed ‘lockdown’ is not something i ever envisaged having to endure in my lifetime.

but here we are.

we are living history, in the present tense.  and things are tense.

locked down, under house arrest.  only permitted to leave the house to shop for ‘essential’ items and/or to partake in some form of solitary outdoor exercise – keeping a safe 2 metre distance from all other humans at all times.

with that said, i must’ve walked for miles.

life sucks right now.  no work. no pay. having to claim benefits to keep a roof over my head and food in my fridge.  but i’m not the only one.  we have all been stricken by this… whatever it is…

“pandemic” they say.

this pandemic is serious, with serious repercussions for us all.  life will never be the same.

but i have a lot to be grateful for. i have my health and my sanity.

while words like “social distancing” and “lockdown” were once upon a time confined to lines from some Hollywood script they are now in everyday use, uttered by five year olds out for walks in the park with their fearful masked parents.

i wonder (and worry) about the psychological effect of this new ‘norm’ and burgeoning fear being pressed upon us by Governments and the media on the children of this world.

A world where children can no longer play with their friends. A world where they can no longer hug their grandparents.  A world full of rainbows in windows and applause, ringing out from the streets and gardens, on Thursday nights as we are asked to applaud key workers, risking life and limb, it would seem, in our hospitals and hospices.

we were never prepared for this.  were we?

but ‘they’ knew it was coming.  i’ve seen the videos of speeches from the world’s ‘leaders’ and their band of equally megalomaniacal aides.  i have followed this with interest, impartiality, and, to some extent, fear and shades of cognitive dissonance.

i have followed the money trail and i’ve been sickened by what i have learned when digging deep.  deeper than any mainstream government/Gates Foundation-funded media would ever allow.  i suggest you do the same.

so many deaths. so many lies.  lies and fake news.  fake news and lies.  conflicting statistics and contradictory statements from polarised camps of scientists and government lackies.

and rest-assured some people stand to make a fuckload of money from this ‘plandemic’.

but i’ve been a good citizen, i am doing what i’m told as i watch more and more truths unfold.

sitting on my doorstep, sipping iced tea i watch empty trains flit by; i hear birds singing, oblivious to it all; i hear sirens wailing and i watch as storm clouds gather overhead.

i see it. i see it all so clearly.

and i cannot believe what i am seeing.

but i will keep being a good citizen and keep doing what i’m told.  controlled.

but this has changed me.  i can feel it.

this will change everything.  i know it.

our lives will never be same after this and the smoke clears.

i watch as the world, our beautiful world, spins out of control, spilling and contorting into a dark and terrifying place to be.  this is year zero.

is there hope for the human race, or are we marching closer to engineering our own extinction event?  sometimes, i hope so.

the way things are heading that may not be that far away, or as far-fetched as you may think.  again, dig deep.  check sources, who is funding what articles, actions, and casting what aspersions.

open your eyes.  question everything.  follow the money.  don’t believe everything you read in the paper, or see on BBC etc (remember, they were complicit in the harbouring of paedophiles for decades).

it’s hard to know just what is real, and what is spin for profit and power.

all we can do is hope.  hope one day love will prevail and the sun will return to our skies and unite us as a species.

and one day, Orwell will be considered fiction again.

 

(c) Kat McDonald, June 2020

 

 

 

dear mum

mum

dear mum

i mean this in the nicest possible way but i am glad that you’re dead.

i am glad that you’re not around any more. and here’s why…

i am glad you are not here, struggling and alone, in this new and worrying ‘reality’ or ‘regime’ we now find ourselves locked firmly down under.

i am glad you’re not here as this new way of living would terrify you.  it would defy you, deny you of your independence and the canny, simple and loving life you once enjoyed.  and you could never do the whole social distancing thing.   you loved us all too much.

i am glad you are not here, in the beautiful rural family-run care home that you, sadly, had to spend your last weeks in.   i am glad because at your age you would have, most likely, fallen prey to this COVID-19 virus that is sweeping the Earth.  this, with the added confusion and isolating delirium of Alzheimer’s and advanced vascular dementia, i am glad you’re already dead as this would have been even more terrifying for you. in isolation.  and i would not have been able to have held you close, as you slipped away.

you would have been a real nightmare, mum.  a real worry.

either we would not have been able to ‘contain’ you, in your little house.  you were stubborn; or you would have been worried to the point of hysteria, reading daily newspapers and watching the BBC.   choking on the fear.  calling us countless times a day to ensure we are all safe… and still breathing.

… and can you believe that bumbling blond buffoon that you once used to laugh at is now running the UK, and making a real cunt of things like you once, jokingly, predicted?

you would hate this new regime, mum.  not being able to visit family, neighbours and friends.  and not having visitors round for a cuppa tea and a carry on!  i know, it would kill me not being ‘allowed’ to visit you.  you would be considered one of the vulnerable ones.  a high risk.

in a sense, you have been protected from all of this.  but who knew your death would bring relief at this time for me, and my brothers and sister.

i miss you, mum.  don’t get me wrong.  i miss you so bad some days, the pain as raw as it was that Sunday evening in July 2017 when your heart stopped beating beneath my hand…

… but today, like yesterday and the day before and the day before that, i am glad you are not here.

not now.

not now.

 

(c) Kat McDonald 2020

 

year zero

so this happened…

ambulance_miaow_mcdonald_2020

18 months ago, Kat McDonald, the former chanteuse of Little Buddha and Bedhed, finally gave in to the burgeoning suggestions, from her fellow Pilgrim and lover, that she record the songs she had been writing.  engineered/co-produced by the Aged Choir Boy, she began to record the handful of songs she had been writing.  crafting songs from chaos using only her voice , Julio – her 35 year old Spanish guitar and a tenner’s worth of virtual instrument apps on her cracked up old iPhone.

the past 3 years, for Kat, had largely been teeming with love and moments of joy but they were not without stabbings of grief  as she watched my mother grow sick and die, as she watched her ‘adopted’ gran grow sick and die, as she saw her boyfriend struggle under the duress of a complete mental breakdown, as she held too many hand of friends as too many of her friends’ mothers died, as she struggled financially and now there is this… THIS!

what is this?

Kat finds herself locked down in a weird existential delirium: in the throes of the new and merciless pandemic virus that has its jaws firmly clamped around the world.  a terrifying and yet curiously calming time to reprioritise.  and time to create.

and so, in the wake of the vicious pummelling to her heart and brain, she sought solace in writing songs.  for her, it’s a chaotic, visceral process.  yet cathartic.  “a primal scream at the top of my lungs”, she says.

a release…

after 5 months of deliberating, pacing like a caged leopard, as Kat made mad scribblings of possible album names on napkins or any other bit of paper available, she has finally decided to name it “year zero”.   because that is what it is.

13 songs about this life.  because this is her ‘year zero’

and it is our ‘year zero’ – from hereon in, life will never be the same.

under her creative name, Miaow McDonald, her debut album ‘year zero‘ will be out some time under lockdown……  available on all digital platforms, incl. bandcamp

‘ambulance’ – the debut single from ‘year zero’ and will be released Monday 13th April 2020. available everywhere.

https://miaowmcdonald.bandcamp.com/releases

“a very special thank you to the Aged Choir Boy/fellow Pilgrim (Robert Davidson) for his patience and believing in me, even when i felt like an imposter, i know i can difficult to work with…  “you are my dragonfly” x”                                                                                                                         – Miaow McDonald

 

Miaow McDonald: vocals, guitar, bass, piano, Theremin, synths and responsible for some other sonic perversions and samples.

album cover _ YEAR ZERO

(c) Kat McDonald 2020 – locked down, performing/recording as Miaow McDonald.

whoever would’ve thought an onion bagel with peanut butter, blueberry jam, toasted garlic & chilli flakes would taste so good…

well, well, well.  it’s the end of the world.  for real.  or so it seems, at times.

the bogey man, this time around, is called COVID-19.  a pandemic.  a corona virus.  and it is invisible.  and terrifying.

i have watched it sweep from east to west.  it’s not discerning. it favours not the pretty nor the tall; the rich nor the hirsute; the male or the dog.

it is a new contagion.  a new threat to life as we know it.  worldwide economies are breaking,  thousands of people are dying.  life will never be the same.

i have watched it shut down our neighbouring countries.  Italy. Spain. France.  and i’ve wondered why our limp Governments have been so slow to react.  lock us down, please.  full lockdown.  if you want to ‘flatten the curve’ you have to stop the migration and congregation of people.

today, first official day in lockdown (is it lockdown?) here in Fife, Scotland where we have currently 19 cases of Coronavirus confirmed.  out of a population of close to 335k, that may seem like a blip, but given that you can drive around Fife in 3 hours and that these cases have emerged since March 17th, i would say we have reason to be concerned.

but i had to go out today.  latex gloves on, antibacterial gel in my pocket – like a gun a holster – i ventured outdoors with my boyfriend, Robert.  we needed to get some essentials.  yes, we are in isolation together.  i guess you could call it ‘twice-olation’.  keeping a sense of humour when adrift in unchartered waters is essential.  as is toilet roll, it would seem.  it’s been 5 days and i’ve yet to see any on shelves when i’ve made a trip to the supermarket.  it’s as rare as hens’ teeth!

we got, pretty much, what we went out for: food for us, and food for Alf – our cat.

i have been self-employed since 2012.  now i am not working.

i have had to claim emergency benefits. having paid my taxes for all my working years, i feel thankful that i can do this,  feeling no shame in it, and that my claim has been dealt with swiftly.  i only applied yesterday.  and after a brief telephone interview today,  i should have an emergency advance paid to me by Thursday.  that is a relief!  at least i know now that my rent is covered, for another month anyway, and that i will be able to pay my bills (hopefully).  yes, i have to pay that advance back, but on my terms.  i was not expecting that.

so here i am. no work. all been cancelled or postponed.  how do i stop myself from becoming engulfed in the fear, swallowed up in the mass hysteria and going stir crazy? it’s all everyone is talking about. and rightly so, it is a strange and terrifying time to be alive.  and we are all scared.

and things are going to get worse before they get better. i can see it coming.

so we are doing what we are told. washing our hands.  staying indoors.  not making any unnecessary journeys.  avoiding contact with anyone and everyone. i am not even visiting my family (some are high risk with underlying health conditions stacked against them).  it’s just me, Robert and Alf – the cat.

initially, i had moved in with Robert to continue working on a solo music project that he is producing for me, as i have four new songs that i wanted to lay down.  that was 10 days ago.  we have decided it best that we isolate ourselves together, keeping our shared car in one spot – in case of an emergency.  it’s working out well.  and we give each other space – that is essential.  but it isn’t all that bad, being locked up with your lover and cat.  we have some fun times.  singing in the kitchen, cooking together.  making music together. i have been playing a lot of guitar lately.

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so this is where i wrap this blog post up for today…  it is 1.31am and i am having my supper:  onion bagel with peanut butter, blueberry jam, chilli flakes, toasted garlic and jalapenos.  i know… it sounds weird and disgusting, but i swear… it tastes like hope.

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stay safe people…

 

(c) Kat McDonald – March 2020

i know what dreams are. but what comes of that?

sarajevo

do you dream?  of course you do.  everybody does.   i’m not talking about having dreams, per se, like MLK.  i’m not talking about visions, ideals, or aspirations.  we all have those too, to a greater or lesser degree.  perhaps we have dreams of winning the lottery; dreams of becoming famous; dreams of a better fucking world…  yeah, we all have those.

i’m talking about the dreams we have when we are sleeping. you know… the strange mind movies in which we find ourselves cast in a leading role; the weird worlds we frequently find ourselves immersed in, in the hypnagogic state; the queer and fractured alternative realities we all too often wake up from.  as ocean-eyed teenage pop phenomenon, Billie Eilish, once asked of us ‘when we all fall asleep, where do we go?’

i have often wondered that myself, Billie.

three nights ago, i had the strangest dream.  a dream that felt so real and, most importantly, one i was able to recall in vivid detail.

having studied psychology, i know what dreams are.  but what comes of that?  why this?  shall i share it with you?  feel free to comment.

it starts with the sound of a voice.  a male voice.  speaking in English.  it sounds like a broadcast.  as i become aware of my surroundings, i realise it’s coming from the car radio and i also become aware that i am behind the wheel of a large beat-up old Army Jeep.  it has no roof and it is left-hand drive.  i seem to be driving across war torn terrain.  i think  i am heading towards a city,  or what remains of a city, rather.  one i know not to be from my native Scotland but what appears to be (from the road signs) somewhere in eastern Europe.  my gut instinct tells me i am somewhere in Bosnia and Herzegovina.

the man’s voice breaks on the radio, and he sounds distraught and terrified.  it’s a live broadcast.  an update.  he is telling the people of the world that planet Earth, our home, is going to stop turning at 1600hrs.  i glance at the time on the car’s dashboard.  it is 15.49.  i have 10 minutes left of life as i know it.

i come to a derelict building with vines and trees growing up and through the rubbling masonry.  i stop the Jeep and get out.  the sun is shining with a new found ferocity.  my bare face and arms are burning in the heat.  i look up at the white sky, searching for any other sign of life and feel my eyes burn.  it feels like they are blistering in the sun’s wave.  there are no birds in the sky today.  i venture inside – hoping to secure shelter here.  the building is merely a shell, no roof, no window panes and a ivy-clad stairway leading to nowhere.  the walls are broken and blasted.  huge chunks missing, like monster bite marks, from the building where mortar bombs and scud missiles sought to destroy its one time beauty and prestige.  i walk through a gnarled door way and see what’s left of one room.  a space that offered some kind of haven.  some kind of protection from whatever the rest of me was soon to be faced with.  the room was rather odd. there were, literally, hundreds of violin bows hanging from what remained of the ceiling, swaying in the breeze.  no music.

suddenly the earth began to shake and scream.  scream.  a sound coming from God only knows where, stunned me, and violently threw me to the ground.   i covered my ears.  it was deafening.  otherworldly.  it sounded like the Earth herself screaming in pain, in the throes of her agonising death.  and then it stopped.  everything went black.  just as if someone had pulled the plug on life.

shaken and terrified, i slowly stood up and peered through the dark towards where i had abandoned the Jeep and saw, to my surprise that only this half of my surrounding area was now in darkness.

this must be it, i thought.  the world has stopped turning.

the world had stopped turning. and the screaming din had stopped.  there was now an uncanny silence.  a silence i had not heard before.  but strangely, over to the west, and what looked like a 30 minute drive away, there was sunlight.  daylight.

i got in the car and drove towards the light.

 

words/concept/dream (c) Kat McDonald 2019

should i embellish upon this, continue the story?  as a book?