calendars are bastards.

i don’t like Sundays.
but still they come…
reminding me of those times when i shook hands with Death.


first, my father.

one fine sunny Sunday morning in May…

i can still hear my screams:
Kathryn, darling… Daddy’s died” my mum said,
softly,
cradling me in her arms.
was this real? i was 13.
a child. why me? why my Dad?
why, Death, why?
can you tell me that?
why did you take him from me so soon…?
there was still so much i had to share with him:
he should have taught me how to drive;
he should have been driving me to and from the airport;
he should have been there to tease and taunt my boyfriends;
he should have been there to hold Mum in her last days on Earth.
he should have been there, then.
and he should be here
now.
Oh what i wouldn’t give
for one more day with him… because

i didn’t get the chance to say “Goodbye.”

i am sorry, Dad. i am so sorry…

and then, another Sunday morning… my little friend, my dog…

i am sorry, Bonnie. i didn’t know you were as sick as you were.
neither did the Vet.
Saturday, you grew sick. convulsing. struggling, gasping for breath.
“keep her comfortable, make sure she has fresh water” he said.
i slept by your side,
on the kitchen floor,

stroking you, whispering comforting words to you.
you died in my arms, through the night.

i woke up and you were gone.

your lifeless body, cold and stiff.
blood from your nose and ears
on my hands and sweater.
i am sorry i failed you, old girl.
if only i had known you were as sick as you were,

i would have, mercifully, done the right thing by you.
but the Vet sounded hopeful…
he was so apologetic when we took her little body to him,
for cremation.

i am sorry, little one. i am so sorry…

Sunday 16th July 2017. 5am.

i receive a phonecall… “Kathryn, it’s West Park Care Home… it’s time, darling

in a haze of ‘this cannot be happening’
i call my brothers.
i am first to arrive, a lonely vigil, at her bedside.

my Mum had Alzheimer’s and dementia.
i had ‘lost’ her weeks before her physical death.
but we cling on,
with dear life, to prolong things. to anything

i didn’t want her to go.

but i wanted her to go… does that make sense?
i couldn’t bear to see her struggle,

and writhe, her face contort in pain and confusion.
did she know i was there?

was she conscious? did she know she was dying?

could she hear me?
could she smell me?
could she sense my presence?


i hope so…
because that is all i have to cling onto now.
a hope that she felt my love
in her last few hours.

all i could do was sit by her,

stroke her hair,
sing to her, softly….

willing her to go to sleep…

willing her to let go…

was i ready for this? she was ready…
i was not.

Death entered her room at 8pm.
i felt his chill in the air, and

in her gasping and clawing,
in her sweating and writhing,
her fever,
her delirium…

i willed him to take her.
to take her back.
back to those she had missed
so sorely…

all i could do was lie down beside her,
cradle her, as she did me, when Dad died.

whispered goodbyes – could she could hear me?
my words, my heart breaking…

i hope she knew how much she was loved.
and how much she would be missed.

but i was about to shake hands with Death,
he was so close now…
the minute we met,
i felt her heart stop beneath my hand.

a wave of golden light filled the room,
filled my body, like a surge of power.
did she pass through me?

i still hear the sound of my heart breaking,
when my Mother’s heart stopped beating.

every Sunday, at around 8.03pm…

i am sorry, Mum. i am sorry that you had to suffer so much.
i wish i could have done more.
but please…. know that you were loved. and that you are missed,
so sorely…
as i now feel properly orphaned.

the next time i was to shake hands with Death,
i refused to give in.

he was my love, my best friend. but where did he go?

another Sunday. he had been gone for hours. no explanation.

my stomach in ropes, i hailed a taxi to find an open door.

i find him,
in a darkened room,
surrounded by feelings of hopelessness and despair.
he didn’t want to live.

i screamed. again. why?? why???

a letter. empty bottles and empty pill packets.
the longest 22 minutes of my life, waiting…

waiting for that ambulance to arrive…

listening for his breath. watching his pupils dilate.
trying to keep him with me.
trying to keep him alive.

No Death! you cannot take him.

you can’t take him. you cannot take him.
not this one…. no…. no…!

he has a boy. he has a mother. he has a sister.
they need him. i need him.

please let him stay.

you can’t take him!
you CANNOT take him!

i can still hear my voice… my screams, as i find him…
lying, curled up, on the bedroom floor.

pale. like Death.
cold. like Death.

but still breathing. barely.

time slowed down.
it was the longest 22 minutes of my life.
and his life….

his life, worth saving. because he is beautiful.
too beautiful for this ugly world, for sure.

i am sorry. i am sorry that i didn’t see the signs…
those warning signs.

i feel like i have failed you.
your life should have been saved long before you had to resort to this…
this…

but your life was saved.

and for that, i am grateful that i acted upon my ‘gut’ feeling.
grateful that we can have more time together, here.

in this life.
in this moment.

i hope… i love… i remember… i cherish.
yes, we all die, and

ultimately, we all die alone.
it doesn’t matter if our deathbed is surrounded by all that need to be there…
we all must make that final journey alone.
no matter what.
sometimes, we have time to prepare – but in reality, nothing can prepare us.

sometimes, we don’t have time
then spend all our time wishing we had made time.

time is all we have. make the most of your time. this time.
because… they will miss you when you’re gone.

believe me…..

time heals, yes.
but calendars are bastards.

(c) Kat McDonald 2020

image source: Pinterest
Artist: Unknown… but if you DO happen to know who they are, please leave details in comment box…. thank you.
.

when did silence become so loud?

when did silence become so loud?

i lie, awake, in the dark.

i know she’s there…

she’s in every exhalation, every sigh,

in every flicker,

in the corner of my eye,

dancing, like a flame.

i feel the night behind me.

cast iron, clad, a heavy blanket

midnight blue, a black-out.

no stars above,

i’m empty.

medicated.

exhausted,

like a threadbare carpet, or

a wrung out cloth.

Oh Insomnia, please… just fuck off

and follow someone else home.

leave me in this half-life, with no patience

and no joy.

a street light fills my window.

enormous shadows of myself brush up

against the ceiling.

have i left my body, or

am i just dreaming?

(c) Kat McDonald 2020

talking to myself…

what should i do today?

i dunno, Kat, you have options…. go for a walk with your camera, shoot the sky – look at it, it’s beautiful this morning, all red and purple? or you could watch a movie, like that Meryl Streep one about the singer with the shrill voice that Lynn recommended. or you could write something…? you haven’t written anything in a while. or maybe you could get your finger out and write a synopsis and cover letter for sending Life’s Rich Pageant to agents…? or you could play your guitar? you’re always bleating on about how your ambition exceeds your ability, well fucking do something about it… play. practise. play. or you could, of course, go back to bed with Alf, or just continue to mope around in this covid-era depression.

what should i wear?

well, i’m up now. teeth cleaned. i hear sirens. it’s all i hear these days. but hey…. is it cold outside? the sky looks pretty, but it is November now… i guess i should wear some warm layers. who cares? i doubt i will be leaving the house today anyway, and if i do i’ll be sure to stick a mask in my pocket. so sick of this…

coffee? d’you want a cup?

oh yes, please…. that would be great.

what time is it?

it’s 9.12am. why? what does it matter?

i guess it doesn’t matter because time doesn’t exist, does it? i mean, it’s just a human construct by which we cage ourselves. you should make the most of each day. oh… remember you have washing on… the cycle should be finished soon.

i guess so… so back to that question… what should i do today? it’s Friday.

… and we’re back to cages. why do we do that? put ourselves in these cages??

i think it’s so we can organise our days… and what we do with our time. for something that doesn’t exist, per se, it’s a precious commodity. much sought after… more valuable than gold, or data.

hey… Kat… the kettle has boiled!

ok… i’ll be right there. one homemade oat latte coming up.

[i get up from the comfort of the smaller of my two green sofas and slip into the kitchen. i rub my eyes. i check the washing machine. 10 minutes left.]

i’m tired. already…

[i take a mug from the mug tree and coffee from the jar. one scoop. i add cold oat milk, and fill my mug half full]

wow, that’s optimistic of you!

[i top up the mug with boiling water… not quite a latte but equally as milky – trying not to fill it ‘vulgarly full’ – as my late mother would say….]

Fuck. i miss her. but i am glad she’s dead. and not here at this time… she wouldn’t understand. Hell, i don’t even understand what’s going on these days… so much fake news, ‘bought’ news, biased and skewed. i don’t know what to believe these days…

[i take a sip of my coffee and return to my seat to find my cat, Alf, has taken up residency there…]

hey little one… shift!

[i give him a gentle nudge, he vocalises his displeasure with a little grunt. i love this cat. he’s my best friend]

so… Kat… what are you going to do today? will you publish this on your ‘inner focus’ blog? will you whore it around your social media pages?

publish and be damned! a wise man once said… was it Hemingway?

it may very well have been. so will you? i mean…. who would want to read this? it’s the ramblings of boredom.

i may as well. it gives me something to do. i haven’t written anything of worth in a while. this has been a good exercise. in self-discipline if nothing else…

self-discipline… something you haven’t exercised in a while. you’re the world’s greatest procrastinator. care to talk more about this?

what are you? my therapist?

yeah. i could be… but if you don’t want to explore these issues then that’s fine by me. i just thought, you know, while we had the time…

oh back to that again! time! yes. much sought-after time. i have lots of time so why don’t i want to make the most of it? what is wrong with me?

i think what you’re feeling is natural. i think a lot of people, in these strange times, feel the same. going through phases of having zero motivation. i think it’s uncertainty.

let me just enjoy my coffee, please? you know… sometimes i can’t stand being around you.

why’s that? because i speak the truth to you, Kat? you need to give yourself a shake – stop moping and get on with something.

sometimes it’s hard. sometimes i just feel so…. disheartened. dispirited. and i think ‘what’s the fucking point?’. everything is so superficial. nobody cares what i have to say, or write about, or sing about. nobody cares how i view the world around me, or what f-stop i used in a particular photograph i have taken. nobody cares. everyone is too caged, by their own periphery and public personae, to care about my little world. i dunno… maybe i should take a break from social media. it can be a toxic experience.

it’s a double-edge sword. you need it promote yourself…

ha! yeah. okay.

it’s true. you do. i think your imposter syndrome needs a brick to the face. i’m tired of hearing this. i’ve told you before – it’s completely natural, during these strange times of change and reset. a lot of people feel exactly as you do. and i think creative people ‘feel’ it more than most. emotions are in a state of flux right now for a lot of creative people, all around the world, not just you. you’re not alone.

so what do you suggest?

i think you should chill the fuck out. drink that coffee, go for a walk down by the sea to blow away this negativity. then return, refreshed, and pick up your guitar (either one) and finish that song you started a few months ago… the one called ‘i hate you’… pour all these feelings into this. it’s a great song, or has the potential to be… finish it.

right now, i wish i had a million quid.

wow… diversion tactics. you are one hella procrastinator, aren’t you? why? money isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on… it can’t buy happiness, it can’t buy health, or love….?

well it can actually, even if it’s just momentarily. i am just sick fed up being skint. i haven’t worked since February and i am tired of scrimping and scraping. wondering if i will have enough money at the end of the month. that dark day looming when i wonder what i will spend my last £10 on… top up my gas for warmth or buy food. and it will soon be Christmas. and you know how i feel about Christmas… fuck Christmas!

fuck… you really are in a foul mood this morning aren’t you?

yeah. you said it was normal. that i am allowed to feel these things. don’t you ever wonder how long it would take you to spend a whole million quid? i reckon i could do it in a few days, if i really wanted to.

yeah. i bet you could. i firmly believe you.

you make great coffee, by the way… anyone ever tell you that?

no. well, yeah…. but you’re the first to tell me that today. okay. so a walk along the beach? Better sort out that laundry… hang it up on the airer.

ach… i don’t know. and yeah… i will do.

[picks up Fender Jaguar and tunes it… cranks up amp]

maybe you’re right. maybe i should vent this anger and disappointment into that song….

you know i’m right!

*wink*

i guess so… now piss off and leave me alone with my guitars and savagery.

that’s the spirit. you just have to keep creating… vent through your writing… your music. there has never been a time when you’ve needed music most. don’t be so fucking hard on yourself. please. it’s heartbreaking. give yourself a shake and fucking create something. do it for yourself and fuck everything else. but hang that fucking washing up!

i guess. hey… you’re swearing better today, Kat.

*giggles*

(c) Kat McDonald 2020

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.

 

IMG-8583

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