did i take the yellow pill, or the pink?



a harlequin bows to greets me, backstage. with one graceful and balletic movement, he offers me his gloved right hand. a hand with six fingers. i take his hand, and let him lead me down a violet-scented corridor with forty doors into the deepest realm of my subconscious.

where the fuck am i?

the air is fragrant and warm on my bare legs, as i am wearing nothing but a simple white shirt. my breath echoes around the cathedral vaults of my mind. in the temporal lobe, a blue ginger candle burns bright; its tiny flame licks itself clean, casting off enormous and wondrous shadows across the triforium of my inner vision, a stained-glass gallery of memories – old and new.

in the centre, there lies a bed. a bed adorned with silky smooth chocolate sheets. i slip into its creamy coolness. the harlequin whispers:

“this is where i leave you… what happens now is your doing.” as he hands me an emerald ring.

he takes four steps back, bows, without averting his gaze, and disappears into the inky darkness.


the emerald ring burns as bright and exquisite as fire in zero gravity.  i watch, in shock and awe, as it melts into the skin.  lying on my back, gazing up at the ornate ceiling, it is then i remember…  the ceiling depicts enchanting scenes of woodland creatures, like the wallpaper i had in the bedroom of my childhood. exactly like that. i am captivated.

all of my six senses spin out of control as my mind pixelates and begins to break apart, crumbling. it is quite humbling.  i am a fractal; spiralling out of control but the sensations are beautiful.  i close my eyes and drift in arms of the Chaos. Chaos is my mother.

oh mother. i came from inside you.  her voice, soft and low, is soothing. she is manic. she tells me how she never enjoyed sex.  i am confused. how did i come to be, if not borne out of ecstasy?  heavy and shaken, i awaken.

the unmistakable feeling of fresh air on my face stirs me from my bleak reverie and i find myself, in a white linen bed, upon an Alpine mountainside. the air is white. i feel light as light. there are four goats, standing, staring at me. they are chewing, ruminating on something… i stare back. the black goat, with large twisted horns, speaks to me:

“you seek answers” he bleats. “you are inside you…”


with a jolt i find myself on the ceiling of a round chamber, looking down at a pack of wild painted dogs. they scavenge and scrape. they wait for me to fall so they can pull me apart and feast on bone and gristle. they whimper and simper. their mouths, foaming. their teeth, bared. snarling, their eyes burn into me.

a beautiful young boy, of eleven years, walks into the room through the wall and picks up a red violin. he begins to play. the wild painted dogs become placid, docile; turning and turning twice before settling down. the music is beguiling and i find myself dancing.

the harlequin reappears and throws me a ball of fire. i catch it in my left hand and rub my palms together.  with two fingers, i smear the ash and grease across my face, like war paint. i am wild, like those painted dogs. he throws me another. the flames cannot hurt me because i am a child of fire. Inferno is my father.


punch-drunk and bewildered, like a wildebeast with a lionness upon its back with her mouth clamped on the jugular, i clutch my throat. i am bleeding. i have been bitten. smitten with eternal life. who is this beautiful creature, in turquoise velvet? i have been turned and returned to this strange and promised land. he holds me, in the palm of his hand. he is fair and fey. i look into the galaxies of his turquoise eyes and see my own reflection. my throat is cut. the blood flows. a thick, red gloopy wine.

did i take the yellow pill, or the pink?

i frantically chase that memory but it flickers and rolls into the static, like an image on an old cathode ray television set, blinking and on the brink of its own obsoletion.

my mind is awash with bizarre and bric-a-brac.

the violinist suddenly stops playing. he lays down his red violin and tells to me to:

“run: the wild dogs will smell the blood.”

and so, i run.

i run into a beautiful emerald-green ocean, disappearing beneath the ninth wave… returning to my self.

image & words (c) Kat McDonald 2016

– the mind is a wonderful entity.

today, i am that snowflake



this day; today.
a day, made of clay.
cold and wet.
i step outside,
from one storm to another.
i was born in a storm.
i ought to be strong
[stronger than this]

the wind roars and scalds
my face with its chill.
sleet falls
like a rain of gunfire.
glass pavements impede my gait.
battered and blown,
i walk slowly.
a funereal pace.
i breathe in the petrichor,
a smell i would
ordinarily relish
but today
it smells like shit.

i feel like i
am made of clay.
my cold, damp fumbling fingers
seem useless.
i should cut them off.
my feet,
heavy and
tired, tread
and there is silt
in my spit. i swallow
down the abrasive
residue. i taste
of earth.
but onwards, i trudge.
my bones ache
from fear of falling.
but i keep falling;
and flailing.

Janus heralds a time
of new beginnings
and transitions;
of gates and doors
and passages.
and time.

his perfect
[comedic] timing: it is to be expected,
i guess, with
his cruel squall
and winter wall.
i search for a way
through but it stands
too tall.

i cannot climb over.
my feet are heavy and
i am stuck to the ice.
i am clumsy.
[this is not funny] i am inept,
despite my eloquence.
if only i could
find a way through.
but i soldier on.

he sent this blizzard.
to suffocate and
i hear his laughter, mocking.
i scream at the sky:

“Janus! stop this fucking war!”

all that i want
is peace, and peace of mind.
but my mind
i cannot find?
i would retrace my steps but
my footprints are covered
i am lost
in this storm.
this [inner]

i think of home.
homesick, i dream of
a place of warm.
a place where stains and
traces of embraces
still hang, fragrant,
in the air.
a place where that
smile can colour
and set fire
to a room.
home, like a womb.
where sleep comes easy
and dreams
ignite and fuel the hopes
and tropes that
shape the self.


i succumb to the [white]
frill and freeze
as the snow falls thick
and [pillow] soft.
paralyzed by my
own worry, i fall to my knees
amid the flurry.

“i give in…!” i cry,
buckling beneath
his uranic hand as he pushes me deeper into the sand
and clay.
he dismembers me,
he crushes me into the ground.

in this clarity.


in this ephemeral realisation
i look inside.
and find the origin of my symmetry, but
what purpose?
am i one?

my eyes weep crystal tears.
i fall. again and again.
i am that snowflake.
i fall, like all
my good intentions.
i only wanted
to make the world
a prettier place.
but being unique
is not enough.
i am weak.
and insignificant.
i feel
like that snowflake.
like the other
snow white soldiers,
in their hundreds of thousands.
in this storm, this war,
they fall
to their death,
unto sodden ground.

[Christ, i just want to be held]

with patience,
in every breath,
i step off this icy ledge
with arms outstretched;
there is nobody here, to see me weep
there is nobody here, to catch me
on hand or cheek.
not one soul
to care,
or fall upon.
and so my fall
remains unbroken; spat.
i will deliquesce
into the clay,
beneath your feet.

[blink] and thy will be done.

words & image (c) Kat McDonald 2016

reversal of a dream


play it loud, they demanded.
who are these people…
… the decapitated people in my dreams?
played people can be dangerous people if,
like Tarot cards; they fall
into the wrong
then the fool is hanged.
in giant wastelands
i stand,
beneath a sky so vast
i cannot see its seams,
nor breaking point.
my journey begins
with a book in my hand
and a hawk on my shoulder
and thoughts older
than fire.
a skyful
of paper kites, their tails
kicking out-
flickery flickering ticks of
too many swingers and swings, and
not enough roundabouts
to turn around
and sing.
i dance barefoot
on crushed pearl.
who is that girl
in the broken glass mirror,
amid a cloud of white
a naked angel
stands, watching,
smoking a cigarette,
his mouth taped shut;
his pubic hair, a tangled forest.
i guess he’s just like the rest of us,
painting a picture.
his hands are dirty
like her mind.
hailstones fall
from between her legs
as the storm shakes
and breaks the Earth
in two.
feeling broken into,
the Holy Man urges,
in hushed low tones,
“leave me alone..!”.
so i lay on the ground,
amid the screams of
car alarms and
waves, and i can
feel the Earth
though i am upside down
looking down upon my
i see self, thrashing,
and the wind blow
through my hair.
my dead brother says
“the road is
… where it takes you is up to you”
and so, i look beyond the sky.
and such a beautiful sky it is today too!
’tis the bluest i’ve seen it.
’tis no wonder we are fools
for unicorns, rarely found
in my backyard.
a yellow taxi takes me to
the farside
of the city.
it is not a city
for angels…
it is a movie set
at the bottom of a pool.
this is where i see things clearer
but now,
i will write you 7 letters: M, S, Q, R, V, X, J.
i have a yellow lamp
for a blue room, for a blue-eyed girl
i want to love
(and love i do) like
noone has ever loved
“the soul remembers the beauty it
used to know in heaven”, said the blue whale
and i
believe him.
he too has been lost in
this city of lost dreams
and pearls; of
pills and girls and
casting couches; of
wormholes, magazines
and vouchers.
you sleep too long
and deep, my friend.
beneath these skies
beneath the ripples.
you left your
left palm upon my right nipple,
like the fire
of a thousand stars or suns.
the smoking angel turns to me and runs
away with my heart and mind
“we are not leading the lives
we were meant for…”
he screams, hysterically.
what of Fate, and free will?
the Romanian holds my hand and
draws blood from my heart line.
the cut is deep.
the blood, it seeps red
for… we never knew which way to go
even although i held a string of shells
around my
neck, but i will write
your name in the sand with
a feather.
you lay on your back and gaze up
at the neon and skyscrapers.
two old men, twins,
play chess
in the middle of The Avenue of The Americas.
the tidal wave
racing… fast towards us.
please, stick needles in my eyes to
wake me from
this strange
from the old brown couch
my eyes chase light up
through the skylight.
i think of my dead brother
i never knew him,
well… not in this world.
i punch a hole
in the wall.
these empty offices leave
their windows open.
the wind in the windows
scatters the stack
of papers,
that was my book.
[fuck it.]
“take another swig of whisky, Kat.”
the angel says, returning like a tide
he plays upon a broken harp.
it is a sorrowful song,
an elegy for the blind
and bare.
as i climb the staircase,
outside and upside
the lights in your eyes
switch on.
champagne is a dirty trick.
it leaves you with two whores in your bed
and a headache.
i dive into the
pool beside
the man in the blue suit.
he’s been in this dream before.
his mouth is full of nonsense
that spills so i
take off my dress and
step in beneath the fountain.
white haired girls should
only ever wear white
or gold.
my hair is black and
covers my eyes,
like a veil
for a widow.
a mystery of mourning.
“good morning” you say
and wake my sleep.
i take your hand and we tango.
a glossy black stallion strikes
his hoof in sparks
like the fire
in our eyes
“we are alive.” i breathe.
having never been
to Sarajevo, i figured
there are too many places i
have yet to be, but
for now it is nice to dance
with you on the lawn,
at dawn and watch
the sun and moon share
the sky’s velvet for
a little while.
but thinking is best done
where thoughts are dissolved
the soul, absolved.
you sing in the morning and i
love how your voice has
the power to blow
from my mind and pathways.
you cut the gangenous from my life
and limb
you, the amputator,
me, the somnambulator.
and walking head first
into a brick wall.
the ‘you + me’
is the best remedy,
when i am afraid.
you push away the fear.
you take me to a vast
expanse of  beach
it seems life’s rich bitch
cannot survive here on nothing.
it is just the two of us
and this infinite space
to play
and breathe
and be
and love.
“you are the love of my life, have i told you this?”
i have sunbathed on runways and railtracks
and i have tried to swim
in the pool of hot wax.
looking for answers
but with you, my fear
of the dark has gone.
footsteps echo in the marble hall
as the Romanian stumbles
breaking her
you break her fall.
“fuck me” she begs,
pulling at you with
moth-eaten hands
and bitten nails.
blond and bland
i tie her tongue
with rubber bands-
i don’t want to hear what she has to say.
she pulls your face
between her legs
and begs
“phmmuckk mi”
“mock you?” you mock
“fuck you?”
i smash her head
unto the floor
it cracks like a fallen vase
upon the tiles
and the bile, it gathers
up in my throat.
the skull cracks
the sound smacks; and her blood
thick and slick and sticky
like the wet on your face.
how could she disgrace me,
or try ‘second place’ me.
so i spit on her.
i piss on her.
i piss in her mouth
that notorious mouth that once
was a carnival; her crooked teeth
like the broken pearl
beneath my feet.
i slip off my shoes…
i step into the blood
and leave footprints down her twisted spine
and i pirouette upon her.
you applaud, on bended knee, and
beckon me
to follow you through the yellow door.
behind this door, lies a garden where
we used to lie and sip
wine of plum and leather;
where bees tickle
the skin of shin,
soft, “can we go back there?” i ask
“can we come together and never peel apart?”
“can we sit together and whisper
to each other poems, like the lovers we were always meant to be?”
this hawk has a broken wing
and needs to fly.
it may heal in time.
white curtains blow and billow
i rock backwards and forwards, like the tide.
moving but going nowhere.
we need bicycles for Sylt.
but right now, all i have is a dripping tap.
my mind, a speeding car;
a bullet;
a whip;
Fake Canadian Dave says:
“nobody cares about reality anymore”
and i don’t disbelieve him.
beneath the blue light
and above the running water, we run
a man with no arms sits
at a grand piano.
it is a dark music that he plays
as he sways, from side to side,
like a pendulum or
as the trees advance,
towards us
doing their strange little dance
– this is all so absurd…

(c) Kat McDonald 2016

image: (c) Kat McDonald Photography

wilderness – part two : this is the most honest we have been.

wilderness part 2 COVER

Source: wilderness – part two : this is the most honest we have been.

[a huge fan of Pilgrims, obviously, being one of the singers/songwriters… but don’t let me cloud your judgement.]

this is the sound that came from a gorge . this is what happened when lovers cut each others hair with a samurai sword. this is inside out and up ‘n’ down. this humble creation from this hibernation. baring and purging. this is defining heroes. this is katsu curry & fermented pears. this could be winter. these are our scars. this is our music.

hands up who remembers their own birth?



micro flashes of neon spark behind the eyelids. i close my eyes tight… tighter. the colours blink and blind. they dance. they sparkle, streak and fluoresce. it’s a beautiful sight, despite seeing blind.

from my bed, i can see deep space – seemingly endless darkness. darkness and dancing lights. these are not fairy lights to furnish my festive mood, these are galaxies that shimmer. these are nebulae. with my eyes closed, i feel i have my back to the sun and i am staring out into deepest darkest space. i can see 13 billion light years into the distance, into the past. i can see the birth of the universe itself. it feels so close. tethered to my bed, if i could snip the birthing cord, i would float off into deep space. i would lose myself there, for sure. but lose myself in my thought.

and what of our own mythologies? these constructs of self-imposed mystery in which we clad ourselves. the fables of self-perception and the myriad of different selves we create by thought, and the thoughts of others. do these other selves exist in alternative universes? of course they do. the self i see is very real. you will, in your perception of me, create another Kathryn. how many Kathryns exist and co-exist and collapse and collide into one another? are they real? what does your Kathryn look like? she will differ from mine, but she will be real and have her own back-story and mythology. what colour are her eyes?

and what of the tiger lillies and sugar-coated almonds of memory? so many memories exist. so many memories yet to be born.

hands up who remembers their own birth?

i once had wings. i once could breathe underwater. but that was many many years ago.

we humans are dangerous. we love, we maim – with words and actions. we destroy. we share, and we covet. we are greedy and self-serving. we could face our own extinction and not care. what do the animals think of us, and the zoos… the volitional cages we exist in? materialism. we are driven by materialism. and these frames… time frames, mainframes, wire frames and picture frames. pictures, we all see differently. the colour blue – my blue will differ from yours. we could learn so much from animals. yet we wittingly protract our souls. we must nurture our creativity and not lose that childlike innocence. cognitive dissonance. we are blinkered. we do not care about anything outside of our periphery. but we should care.

the pills are really taking effect now. am i dreaming? lucid dream. these dark thoughts steer the subconscious to terrifying places. the mind now a post-apocalyptic holocaust.

the lights have gone out. no indoor fireworks. no cute furry bunnies or pugs. no giant strawberries in this field. my mind is no longer the fun fair, or childhood tree-house.

it is a barren and arid place… i stand barefoot upon the baked and cracked earth. a voice calls my name. i recognise the voice. i walk towards the source and find an old lady, in a rocking chair, sitting with her back to me. she has my mother’s hair, and voice. she calls my name: “Kathryn…”

i stand in front of her. she is my mother, yet she has morphed into a giant ant.

[Morphine+Burroughs has proven to be a horrible combination]

she fixes her eyes upon me. her feelers grope and fumble. on six limbs, she grapples towards me, touching me. i recoil at the sight of her. what has my mother become?

i take a step back, she advances. it’s a strange dance.

she spits at me. the hot fetid acid burns into my side. it hurts. it hurts like Hell. i scream. but my voice is silent. i scream. i howl and yowl, like a wounded animal, as the acid bubbles and dissolves my body. the stench is indescribable. the pain unbearable. the light is fading.

i writhe and twist in agony, retching and spewing as i watch my own body dissolve in a pool of blood and bubbling flesh. my strength is dissipating. i can barely move. the neurotoxins have paralysed my being.


she motions to her army.

soon, i am being feasted upon by one hundred ants. giant ants. i feel their spit burn into me. the pain. the seething pain. their armoured bodies are overwhelming. the sound of the scuttling is terrifying. they are powerful and i have no strength to fight. i am eaten alive. i feel their pincers, bite. sharp. they pick at my bones. the sound of their gnashing and grinding. the sound of my own flesh being peeled from my bones like the sound of tearing bedsheets. i cry out. my voice cannot be heard above the crunching of bone and the fizz of melting flesh.

no more lights. only darkness.

only darkness exists now.

only darkness.

(c) Kat McDonald 2015

why are there two moons in the sky tonight?

so… i lie in the dark and wait for the pills to take effect.

pain, in itself, in its purest form, can twist the mind into delerium.  it can turn the mind into a fun fair – a weird and wonderful place.  it’s all about mind over matter, control…

but what happens next?

what happens next is expected when opiates numb and distort one’s reality.

i lie in the dark. the window is open. the mild chill of a calm December night trickles in; a welcome winter breeze, heralded by the gentle tickling of the wind chime… a sound like my lover’s whispers, soft as his lullabies.

my eyes feel heavy, like poppies, laden with sleep.  codeine is fanciful, in her red velvet dress, in her coquettish play.  she likes to play mind games.  she is not good for me, but i cannot breathe without her tonight.

i feel myself begin to dissolve into the bed beneath me. my bed, an ocean bed. i look up behind closed lids and see the room is filled with water. i can hear the sea. the soft light from my dying cellphone illuminates the water. the water is salty. i can taste it. i reach out, with tingling hands. the fabric of my ocean bed feels like velvet fur. the water is soft and enveloping. entangled in seaweed, i stretch out.

the whole body is tingling. i can feel every atom of my construct. my being. every particle. every photon. i am light. i can feel myself break apart and dissipate into the walls. i could walk through walls. am i upright?  i can feel every particle vibrate, quiver. i shiver. sharks circle above me. i feel myself break apart – i could float up through the ceiling or disappear down through this bed, through the foundations of this building and return to the earth.

i follow the light, i become light. every photon dispersed, scattered. am i horizontal? i no longer know. i look down at my feet. i am upside down. which way is up?

a rainbow in my hand. the colour yellow smells acrid and tastes bitter. like dandelions. but butterscotch is sweeter.  yellow is not my favourite colour, green is. green has a hollow taste and sounds like distant church bells. i follow that sound.

but wait.  what is this colour i see now?  i have not seen this colour before…

the sea breeze beguiles, it feels like my lovers hand across my cage of ribs. gentle. i urge the pale pink sea breeze to keep touching me.  “don’t stop…” i moan.  i taste the breeze on my lips.

i must find Adam, i need a new rib.  i search for him.  he is hiding beneath Codeine’s velvet skirts… Adam. a cross-dressing dwarf with a beard longer than his limbs and the hemline of his emerald green sequined frock. he extends a hand, and we dance. we spin around and around to the sound of church bells.  distant church bells.  when the pealing stops,  he gives me a rib.  i kiss him lightly on the forehead and walk away, weaving my way through a field of giant strawberries.

i reach out to touch a strawberry, it begins to glow and throb – like a beating heart.  the smell seduces the senses. i take a bite… sweet as honey.  where did they come from?  they are all around me, as far as the eye can see… a sea of giant strawberries, ripe, red and rare.

are they really this big?  or is it i that is small?  i take another bite… the juice runs down my chin. sticky and thick, like honey.  i touch another one… it begins to glow, pulse and hum… a sound i have not heard before but it is music to my ears.  i touch another, it too glows and hums, in harmony… i weave through the field, making sweet music.

at the edge of the field, the land falls away into an infinite chasm. i look down and see eleven beautiful white-tailed eagles circling below. their piercing cries fill my mouth with the taste of wood and sets my ears on fire.  their cries sets off a ringing in my ears… like a wind chime.

i step off the edge…




the most beautiful eagle, with piercing eyes, soars beside me – it is then i realise i can fly. we soar together. i have never been this high before.

i hear my own joyous laughter as i fly with the eagles, my arms outstretched.  my fingers are my primaries.

he speaks to me:

“cashee cam a waa naa poonta”

his eyes are intense and i let him carry me home, where i lay curled up like an embryo upon his downy bed. i nestle in while he fans me with his big, beautiful beating wings.  the soft thrumming sound lulls me to sleep.

why are there two moons in the sky tonight?


i am back in my room, on my ocean bed, amid seahorses. they shimmer as they flit by me. i make my way to the surface and break the meniscus.

i am in a field of corn.  a beautiful field of dancing golden corn. the taste of butterscotch is strong, sickly sweet.  the sky is violet. the crows talk to me. they are as large as houses.  they tell me i hold the key to a map.  i draw the map on the back of my hand.

i follow the contours of the map… and i find myself in the palm of my own hand.  the dwarf is there.  with a chimpanzee.  the chimp takes my left hand and traces the lines on my palm. he grins at me, chatters to me and wraps his arms around me, holding me close.

the dwarf turns to me and asks if i saw the two moons?  he takes out a silver hip flask from under his dress.  he unscrews the top and takes a swig, offering it to me.  i cannot refuse.  it would be rude to.

it smells musky and has a queer taste – like watermelon and rubber. i drink it all down, while the dwarf plays his jew’s harp.

the chimp wraps me up in pale pink tissue paper… around and around… sounds become muffled from inside this strange cocoon.

i lie and look at the moons. i can hear them rattling as if they are made of tin.  battered tin, peppered with bullet holes.

but why would someone want to shoot the moon?

why are there two moons in the sky tonight?

i ask the dwarf about the interloper moon.  he says it is only the chosen few that can see her and tells me to sleep as he scatters me with poppies…



(c) Kat McDonald 2015

another codeine dream…


The Pulitzer Prize & Irn Bru

as many of you know, i am a photographer – and writer.  a few weeks ago, i was booked to shoot Irish writer and Pulitzer Prize winner, Paul Muldoon – and two-times Mercury Music Prize winner, PJ Harvey.

PJ 21

this was for the University of St Andrews in Scotland for an event called ‘Soundings’ – a wonderful evening of spoken word and music.

i was also fortunate to have dinner with these beautiful minds.

which alludes to my burgeoning question:

“what does one talk about when one meets his/her heroes?”  

why was it that, when i found myself sat beside this literary heavy-weight… this mind of James Joyce proportions… this hero wordsmith of mine… all i could do was fumble for words, all i could muster, without appearing sycophantic, was talk about Irn-Bru?

((those of you unfamiliar with Scotland’s other favourite national drink, please… ask Google))

Irn-Bru… its distinctive taste… its sugar content…  and how difficult it is to source in Manhattan… blah blah blah… [he now lives in Manhattan, you see and NY is one of the few cities that i feel homesick for].

i mean… Irn Bru… for fuck’s sake!

i did buy his book, however.  a first edition, hard-back… signed, of course.

he was charming and witty.  me?  i was reeling inside, but trying to appear cool despite the surreality of it all.

and Polly Jean… she was everything i expected her to be, and more.   she is waif-like, with bright burning eyes and that mouth…  and what comes from that mouth.  oh my stars!

PJ Harvey has been such an inspiration to me.  we spoke, across the dining table, of her recent travels to Afghanistan, Kosovo and Washington DC, her poetry and the first time i saw her play live.  we spoke of White Chalk, her new album and her honky saxophone.  we touched briefly on my work, my musical project ‘Pilgrims’ with my lover (who was also at the table).

she told me to buy an autoharp.

and i will.

and i bought her book… beautiful, hard-back, first edition… signed, of course!


so… back to my original question.

should you meet your heroes?

i say “yes”


they say you shouldn’t meet your heroes…

but i am so thrilled that i did.



(c) words by Kat McDonald 2015; photos (c) Kat McDonald Photography 2015


Thank you to University of St Andrews, for this serendipitous encounter.




a journey, a long and beautiful journey, that saw me and my words and images drift around the Sun six times has led me here…

… happy 6th anniversary to me!


THANK YOU all of my loyal followers, and accidental readers…

Your support has been noted.



OMFG! a big f*@king thank you!



just a little THANK YOU to all of you out there, in WordPress Land, that have followed my INNER FOCUS blog thingy… i am blown away by the fact that i have almost 1000 followers. i never anticipated this. i am really touched. i write for myself, not for anyone or any reason. i just write.

[it’s cheaper than therapy]

i enjoy reading your comments about my writing, and answering your questions about where my inspiration comes from etc.  truth is, i can’t pinpoint it to one specific thing.  i read alot.  and i am a photographer and musician, so words and imagery are vital to me.

i try, where possible, to put both visual imagery and written imagery to good use.  i am often vague, cryptic and explicit. a paradox.

but that’s life, isn’t it?

anyway… i am rambling.

this is just a short wee post as a means of thanks – to you all – for the loyal visitations to my page, for your constructive criticism and conviction in my writing. sometimes i have precious little belief in myself and think “oh what the hell! publish and be damned… nobody reads it anyway” but almost 1000 followers – WOW!

i am, genuinely, moved by how my inner focus has been received here.  thank you, thank you, thank you…

IF you want to view my OTHER wordpress account, visit here – it is a series of true stories (equal parts funny and tragic) based on my love/hate relationship with public transport.  it’s called ‘Life’s Rich Pageant’.

[sounds boring…]

it isn’t.  you may laugh, you may cry… you may even LIKE it!  🙂

thank you all for taking me into your hearts and minds.


Kat x



the sun throws strange shapeshifting shadows across a white wall. they dance to the hum of traffic. quiet time. the mind is not quiet. the mind is a fairground. a fairground distraction. thoughts and memories spin, like a big wheel of disjointed thoughts, round and up to a dizzying height; the urgency of emotions make the belly lurch, like a rollercoaster of emotional spin, alternating currents of momentary weightlessness and serious gravity.



the  mind              is     lost.


the body, tight, an over-wound spring.
the mind, a sidewinder, coiled and primed.
step back, for it will attack.


(c) Kat McDonald 2015