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.
.

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

pink lemonade for a blue girl

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

 

 

fire with fire

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 >>>

 

 

 

 

Pandora’s 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

 

 

 

tundra

not posted anything for such a long time.   since the death of my mother, i’ve thrown myself headfirst into my music project with my love, Robert.

together, we are called Pilgrims.  we have just finished our second studio album, Tundra, which will be dropping in all major download and streaming platforms on 21st May 2019.

be sure to watch for it…

we also have a 2-hour radio interview / album preview on Sunday 19th May at 1900-2100hrs (GMT) with GEE FORCE, on Bridge FM, 87.7fm – be sure to listen in… hear all about our songs, their meanings and origins.   international listeners, and those outwith the 87.7fm range can listen in on Bridges FM  >> CLICK HERE <<

 

thank you for your support over the years!

i love you all.

 

Kat xx

 

 

a green cardboard box

all that remains of you rests in a green cardboard box:
6″ x 9″ x 6″.
your name, printed on a generic white sticker,
with a number and a date:
the date we set you free
by fire –
and all that remains of you now rests, with me, in a box by my bed.

a green cardboard box.

you weigh less now, but you are, surprisingly, heavier
than i anticipated.
i didn’t know what to expect, to be honest, when i got the call
to come and collect you.
but you were given to me, gift-wrapped, like a present.
gift-wrapped in a silver bag, with silver rope handles:
like a belated birthday gift.

having you, for my mother, truly was a gift.

with my brothers, i will scatter
what’s left upon the graves of those you lost long ago:
your lover and your son,
just like you wanted, Mum.

but, truth is, i am finding it hard to part with you.
so long as i have you, in this little green box,
you remain a part of me.

but, part we must.
i cannot hold onto these fragments
of bone and cinder
– that were once strong arms that held me
– that was once a beating heart that loved, unconditionally.
i must let you be
and scatter you to the breeze
and set you free.

i must learn to breathe for myself.

some days, i feel like i am drowning,
suffocating,
in my own loss and self-pity.
Sundays are the hardest days to bear

because i was there that Sunday,
when you gave your last breath back up to the sky
– do you remember?
i saw the light in your eye
turn off, like a light,
leaving my world a whole lot darker,
despite the sunlight.
i was there, with you, with my hand on your heart.

i felt it stop.

part of me died with you.
oh the pain of physical severance.
our umbilical cord, cut.
finally.

i know Death is not the end.
i know you walk with me.

i know you have stopped by… i know.
i could smell your perfume.
and i heard you, rattle my cup!

but i cannot keep you here, comforting as it is, having you close.
i must set you free.
i must let you be: be with Dad and William.
it’s the one last thing i promised you and
it is time.

time. we always think we have time.
truth is, there is never enough time.

time. my past, my present and my future:
all in one little green box.
time. it is all we had.

they say, in time, it becomes easier…
… this… breathing for myself.
i hope so
because sometimes i feel
like i am weighed down at the bottom of the ocean.

 

(c) Kat McDonald – September 2017

Rest in peace, Mum.

My late mother – on her 91st Birthday!  7th June 2017… she passed on 16th July 2017.

letting go: the right time to die

i remember, as a child, everything being so tall… perhaps it’s my earliest memory.  i remember everything being above me… the dining room table… what was there?  the kitchen work surfaces… the bathroom sink, where i would struggle on tip-toes to wash my hands… the book case… the ceiling…  the shelves in my bedroom, stacked with toys, all just beyond my reach… and the sky… the Heavens… seemed so far away in both distance and time.

i remember walking through a forest of legs.  i remember my mother’s legs.  i remember holding onto them in places familiar and places new.  i would cling to them when i was scared, unsure or feeling lost amid the voices and conversations i was not yet old enough to comprehend…  lost, amid the cigarette smoke and the laughter and the music;  lost, in another world, an adult world,  a world i couldn’t fully feel at home in, but home it was.  i remember that with one stroke of my mother’s hand upon my head everything would feel better.  and i loved it when she sang to me.

i remember looking up at my mother, admiring her… how pretty i thought she looked with her hair curled and shining; her face smiling down at me with so much love in her eyes. love, tinged with sadness.

oh, i knew that she loved me. i knew that she cherished me because she told me that i was precious.  precious because 10 weeks before i was born, my mother lost a son.  a son called William, he was 18 years old.  he was just a boy. a beautiful young boy.  a boy that my mother said i looked like.

i remember looking up at a particular photograph.  i remember wondering why the boy in the photo made my mother cry and wondered if the reason she often cried when she held me was because of him, or me.  i remember, one day, taking that photograph and stuffing it face-down in a drawer.  i didn’t want my mother to be unhappy any more, and the boy in the photograph seemed to make her unhappy.  all of the time.

she went crazy, tearing open cupboards and drawers… then she found it.  she asked me why i put it ‘there‘…  i told her.  and, again, she cried.  it was then she told me the story of William: the brother i never knew.  the brother who she would, understandably, pine for for all her days.

time, forever the paradox, hushes that memory and that day seems so far away – in both time and distance.

today i went to visit her in hospital.  she is 90.  she is frail.  she is small.

today her eyes are still tinged with sadness, but they still teem with love when i walk in the room.

she is a shadow of her former self.  she is not eating and is barely drinking.  she is not well, neither physically nor mentally.  i wonder if she is just biding her time here with us. i wonder if she is simply tired of the struggle… tired of the pain… the loss and the hopelessness.  has she given in?  has she lost the will to continue on, in this cracked and useless mortal coil?

she tells me she’s done, yet she asks me if i’m happy.

“yes!!” i say… with resounding cheer in my voice.  “i am very happy.  the happiest i have ever been”

… and yet upon hearing the resignation in her voice, i am the saddest girl on Earth.

as i fold my arms around her bony frame, i am reminded of my own mortality and the cruelty of death and loss.  i feel like i am losing her and if i hold her too tightly, she may just disappear from me altogether and leave me in a blind panic.

a panic.  just like a time when i was a little girl, shopping with my mother and father, and losing her amid a strange, deep and dark forest of strangers’ legs and loud voices, and hideously patterned floor.  i remember looking… searching… frantic for my her, for her legs to cling to… for her hands to stroke my head… for her voice… that song in her voice.

i was lost.

at a loss, and lost – as i feel right now.

but today, i am taller.  my mind, still curious, is now awakened to the weird fairtytales that were once adult conversations.  the smoke has cleared and i’ve learned to dance to the music. i have found my voice and i have travelled to the other side of the world.  i no longer search for her legs to cling to and hide behind… oh… but what i wouldn’t give to be able to be a child again… for one day… to be, once again, with my able mother and have her hold me and tell me everything is going to be alright.

because it’s not…

… she isn’t going to get better.  her body is failing and her mind is permanently on vacation; it has a one-way ticket out of here.

i wish I could keep her here, now… or in that memory… but maybe i am not enough… maybe my brothers… her grandchildren… maybe a visit from her other daughter…?  or  maybe… maybe our family is not enough to keep her here.  i mean… how could it be? it’s incomplete.  someone is missing… someone vital… someone who could have sealed the cracks.

tonight, i stood tall and gazed up at the ceiling… there are cracks in the ceiling… some big, some small… many irreparable.  just like those memories of childhood, when i would gaze up in wonder.  the mystery is no longer a mystery.  the cracks no longer hold mystery;  she is no longer a mystery, but yet i marvel at how she managed to go on after such loss.  i know what she wants.  the cracks are beginning to show. they are deepening stress fractures from bearing such a load.  life. loss. death.  death of a son.  death of her parents.  death of her sisters and brother.  death of her husband and my father.  death of friends.  death of her able body.  death of hope.

but her mind is, strangely, liberated.  i take comfort in that.

sitting side by side on her hospital bed, haplessly covered with a stained blue blanket, we talk.  she tells me she’s done.  she tells me she is tired.  she tells me things that only her eyes can convey.

as a grown-up, i now understand. i get it. but oh it is hard to bear.  hard to hear.  hard to accept. but not hard to comprehend.

she is trapped inside ‘this useless body’ – she is imprisoned. imprisoned in ward 3.  imprisoned in her dementia and silent world.  it is no wonder she prefers to escape with sleep.  sleep ‘to pass the time until…’

‘until what, Mum?  elevenses? visiting hours?’ i ask, choking on my own throat.

[the big sle..?]

but her mind is on holiday, she changes direction, and once again i am that little girl lost.

so… should i patch up the ceiling… could i patch it up?  could i patch her up?  if only i could, yet i wonder…  if i should?  i feel as though i am losing her, little by little, crack by crack and splinter.

maybe i should let her go…  or have i lost her already?

 

(c) Kat McDonald 2017

 

 

 

 

Post-Brexit Thoughts from “An Immigrant”

Hello Followers and Casual Readers…

… I have to share this post written by a beautiful soul I have come to know through Social Media and mutual love of art and animals, floof and sweary words! I have not met the girl… YET… but I am working on it and I am confident that our paths will cross one fine day.
It saddens me to read this entry in her blog TetrisandCheesecakes because NOBODY should be made to feel like this. There is so much hatred in this world and we are all too quick to blame other outlets, such as mental health issues, media, peer-pressure blah blah blah… but really… the only person to blame for ignorance in the way we view and treat others is ourselves and our own blinkered ignorance.
I cannot abide racism. I cannot tolerate it and I will not turn a blind eye to it, but when a lovely girl, like Lucie, writes about the HELL that she has been through in her life only to be met with unfeeling and mindlessness by people in her circle of supposed ‘friends’ it is just too much to bear. NOBODY deserves to be treated like this. she is a human being. a wonderful, intelligent and caring human being.
please read this carefully and digest every word. she could be the girl next door, your brother’s girlfriend, your girlfriend, your daughter…. she’s a woman. a human being. being made to feel like an imposition, an inconvenience, an imposter, a freak, a taker, a faker… is completely immoral, unethical, cruel and ignorant.
next time you look at someone of colour, or converse with someone with a non-UK accent, please consider this: what is their backstory? they could be like Lucie. a good person, who fled from fear and certain death and control (something that privileged British white people cannot even begin to imagine) to a supposed better and safer life – only to be met with judgement, hatred and assumptions – is just insane. insane.
wake the fuck up, humans! #evolve

Tetris & (Cheese)cakes

The past few days haven’t been the easiest. I have seen so many stories of an increase in anti-immigrant sentiment, heartbreaking stories of families and schools being targeted by those who misguidedly thought a vote to leave the EU equalled sending all “foreigners” home. I may be unique amongst my friends as I do know people who voted “Leave” for reasons that didn’t include the immigration issue. They made the decision based on their own feelings and histories, and I really don’t want to detract from that. It’s tragic that though their personal reasons were not have racially motivated, their voices have now given credence to the racists and xenophobes in our country, who have taken their numbers as a sign that hate is justified. 52%. I really want to believe that 52% or Scotland, England, Wales and Northern Ireland aren’t racists, and who want people like me to “go…

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soon…

“soon….. x” he wrote.

“soon….. x”

 

[Oh the unquantifiable wait.
the undeniable weight.
oh the irrefutable beauty
of monosyllabic
poetry.

four letters. infinite variables. one critical
sum, happening in my head… quicker than
i can convey verbally
and i can be verbose.

soon = absolute x.

i was good at math
but you know that
don’t you?]

 

 

(c) Kat McDonald 2016