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.

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my iphone’s stream of consciousness


i’m not going anywhere near the border with a new song.  this is the best of all time favourite songs that you can listen to but
i’m not sure what the future is.

i’m so tired but can’t even see the point of having to wait until the end of this year.

the fact is, you can do this for free but ‘it would mean the world’ is not an option.

the fact is, it is a very long and slow process now.

the only way you can get the chance of winning this game is by being the most beautiful thing that you could have been. 

and you know what you want me to be.

just because i don’t have a perfect example is not a bad thing.

by the way, you can be a great way to let me shine.  this isn’t the only thing that i love about you.

i’m so excited about the new update to earth and the best bit about it is people don’t know what i intend to do with it.

aliens are real and the other side is a great way to go back to.

i will most likely be sleeping on my way home and then you can do the rest.

be careful with your friends and family members.

this girl just said i look like a good one for you and your guitar hero to play with.

trust me when i get a new song.

why do people have stupid grins and square feet in my head?

it hurts to know that the future is bright and, yet, the rest of the year too dark.

tomorrow will bring me some food for thought because i have no clue how much i love you because you simply can’t measure it.

wild animals are my life and death of the year is going well.

you will find me listening to music while playing the piano in a bar, barefoot.

she said that it would mean the world to her and her friend to be in the first half of the best thing.  this is not the only thing that would make me laugh so hard i cried for the rest of the year 

before you go back and forth between a new song and the other hand please fix the problem with this phone.

it is happy to have a nice dream.

the fact is, i can see it as an excuse for the next few weeks of tomorrows.

i’m big on this way home from work.

i don’t think it’s time for hours and hours of sleep until i see the new version.

the ultimate use of the year is where you were in the Amazon Basin for a while, proving to be the best of the year for you. 

high quality of life.

try and open up, it’s true you have the only thing.  

we have to back up and get it right away.

your phone is a lot of fun.  play this, you will never get tired when you get to the gym today.

besides, it is not the year you get it right away.

i just want to love it.  it hugs you back, in my head, and it is not even the new version.

stars are the only thing that would have made sense up and down and across this earth.  their emotion is used in a statement issued to those i love.

it used to be the best of ups and downs.

planet earth is the only one. i love it and the voucher program under which it has just enrolled made me laugh so hard for the first half of the year.  it will not have a nice dream about the future of the best thing ever.

i’m so excited about this dance and it will take place on earth. the best time-killer. 

a few more weeks of movement and thought school for the rest of the people. 

it will arrive the day before, then i will have to go.
(c) my iphone… this is its stream of consciousness (kinda spooky…!)

saying goodbye to the family home

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the words ‘good bye’ are said daily.  we have countless euphemisms for our departures: “cheerio” “see you later” “ciao” but the words “good bye” suggests a certain finality.

i have said these words countless times but, today, i uttered those words, with finality, as i said “good bye” to the house i grew up in.

today was the hardest day.  saying ‘good bye’ to such a ‘friend’ was the only time those words have strangulated.  it was the only time i have felt a sadness unlike any other sadness i have felt. as i closed the door, for the last time, i felt something close inside me.  it was final.  something was severed, just as my umbilical cord was cut many years ago.  i now had to breathe my own breaths.  it was the first time i ever felt alone. it was the first time i felt real loneliness. i felt at a loss for a loss that was not yet gone. i felt orphaned by the searing pain of familiar nostalgia and the gnawing ache of a new melancholy.

today was the hardest day.

home is where the heart is and our home was filled with love.  as i drove down our old street, looking for a place to park, i already felt an overwhelming sense of emptiness.

and then it hit me.  this would be the last time i would ever return to this place. this place called home, to which i had returned countless times.  this place was sacred. somewhere I knew would always be there for me from when i returned from my travels.  this place was my rock.  it was grounded.  earthed.  steadfast.

a light would always be left on.  it was a place i knew i could return to and be safe when I needed to feel. to feel loved. to feel comforted.  it was my home.  it was the only family home i knew.  this home was more than a house. more than mere bricks and mortar with a few roses planted by the door.  my home was sentient.  this home was my friend.  and now i had to say ‘good bye’.

i parked the car outside and composed myself.  i sat, gripping the steering wheel, and looked into the garden.  a garden where roses grew.  roses that my late father planted.  a garden where ghosts of little Kathryns played.  i could see them all so clearly.  i could see a seven-year old Kathryn, with long blonde hair, playing with her little black poodle and giggling happily.  i could hear her.  she was truly happy and oblivious to the black clouds that would darken her future skies.  i saw a teenage Kathryn sitting on the back porch steps, on a hot summer night, with girlfriends from school – music blaring out; and i could see her saying ‘good night’ to old boyfriends.  i could see her returning home and the joy in my mother’s face, beaming, as she reached out her hands to welcome her, whether that had been returning from a trip to Sri Lanka or a trip to the local shops… my mother, she was always like that. always happy to see me home, safe.

but today she wasn’t there to welcome me.  sadly, she is now in a care home.  dementia has her in its vice-like grip and i cannot do anything to pull her out of its clutches.  she is slowly disappearing from me and, in some strange way, saying ‘good bye’ to the home was like saying ‘good bye’ to her because she, too, was home.  i have no idea where that home is now.  but i have my own home, life, love and career and i am happy.  i am happy that she could see me grow up and become the woman that i am today.

but today…

…today was the hardest day.

with a sigh, and heavy heart, i got out the car and went into the garden, fumbling in my numerous pockets for my key, whilst trying not to spill the hot coffee i had taken with me.

that garden. that garden was where i played as a young child. it was in that garden that my father taught me how to skip.  it was in that garden i played with my rabbit, Benjamin. it was in that garden i would twirl around the clothes pole until i was dizzy and giddy.  it was in that garden that i would sunbathe and it was in that garden that i would often sit and read on warm summer nights, drinking in the heady fragrance of night-scented stock that my father had planted beneath my bedroom window.

my father.  i could see his ghost too. i lingered by the old garden shed and i swear i could see him in there, through the small dirty window.  i could see his weather-beaten face. he looked as though he was working on something.  as i recall, he would spend many happy hours in that garden shed, pottering around, making hand-sculpted wooden toys and odd boxes for me to keep my secrets in.  or he would be sharpening his tools, the lawnmower’s blades or cutting the neighbour’s kids’ hair.  he was always busy but he always had time for good people and animals.

i could see the ghosts of our dogs. i could see them running about the garden and jumping up to welcome me home.

there were no little dogs to welcome me today.

i climbed the steps and put my key in the lock and turned it open.

the sun-filled porch was warm and the air was musty and hot, like a hothouse.  my mother’s bird of paradise plant stood alone.  it took seven years to flower. i am glad she got to see this happen.

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the back porch as we called it, even although, technically, was the front of the house, was a place where i would sit with my mother on lazy summer Sundays.  we would sip iced lemonade and play Scrabble, or we would talk until the small hours of the morning.

there were so many ghosts here today…

i opened the door to home.  the staircase was first to greet me.  a staircase that was not just a means of getting upstairs, or  downstairs.  this staircase was an old friend.  a place i would retreat to when i needed space from family gatherings.  a place where i could just sit and be alone with my thoughts.  thoughts often broken by the family dog licking my hand.  that staircase held so many ghosts…  as a child that staircase was a pirate ship, a jungle, an alpine mountain, the Empire State Building and a spaceship… that staircase was anything and everything that my childhood imagination could envisage.  my friends and i played on that staircase.  we would slide down it, head first… racing each other to the bottom. we would do this countless times until either my mother’s patience or the skin on my knees wore thin.

latterly, that staircase had a stair-lift.  that had now been removed but the scars remain:

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the carpet, discoloured; and holes in wall-papered walls where its fixtures once secured a safe means of aiding my mother’s mobility.

the dining room was bare.  the dining table and chairs were gone.  table and chairs.  table and chairs where once we all sat around together to eat many a family meal together.  ghosts of birthday parties.  so many candles and wishes.  so many Christmas dinners and crackers pulled. so many NYE parties, and so many times i sat at that table with my friends. so many ghosts here today – all seeking one more seat at that table.  i could hear laughter and voices from the past.  so much joy.  all that remains now is faded wallpaper and cobwebs, with patches intact where pictures once hung.

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the dining room now empty and forlorn.  a room where there once was so much love. so much laughter, and tears.  a room once filled with life and belongings now empty.  a room where, as a young child, i would play with my friends.  the old dining room table was not just a table.  in the wilds of childhood imagination, it was a Sherman tank… a spaceship… a tree-house… a cave…  or a place to hide when i hurt myself.  i used to run and hide each time i hurt myself, as i was scared of pain.  there was no table to hide beneath today. and i was hurting.

i took a deep breath and stepped into the living room. the ‘living‘ room. there was no life there today. it was empty.  boxes of stuff sat in the centre of the room waiting for someone to make a decision as to what best be done with them.  a lifetime of stuff, now in boxes waiting to be discarded.  my mother, the hoarder.

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before the wall unit took pride of place in my family’s living room, there was a piano. our family home was always filled with music.  always filled with music, love and friends.  so many family gatherings. so much joy and song.

this living room… this living space was once alive and filled with laughter; with love; with breath, now lay empty.  loveless.

the old gramophone was, as a child, the core of entertainment.  more so than the television. music was a big part of my childhood.  the house reverberated with music and song, and i am sure i once heard it sing along. but not today.

i decided to take the old gramophone home with me. i have nowhere to put it, as yet, but it pains me to see it end up on a landfill site somewhere… unwanted and discarded as junk. to me it was worthy of saving, of salvaging.  it was something i could cling onto as many hours of my childhood were had listening to scratchy old ’78s.  jesus. what will become of them?

i look out across the street. houses, where friends once lived and hear the music that we all once took great pleasure in listening to.

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and then there was the fireplace that my brother built, when he was learning how to work with stone and brick.  it quickly became the heart and electric hearth around which we sat.  me. family. friends.  i would sit by the fire, on a cold winter night, basking in the incandescent warmth of fake coals and play solitaire or read; or fall asleep curled up like my dog, faithfully by my side.

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but now the fireplace is cold. it offers no real warmth today.  i could turn it on, but it’s not ever going to be the same.  things have changed. my life has changed and like this house… this home, i feel it emptying of something irreplaceable.  is this preparation for her death?  is this symbolic?

this living room. this living space once filled with breath. once filled with laughter and love now lay empty. as i turned to close the door, i took one last ‘snapshot’ of memories but all that remains now is lampshades, covered in dust – the only tangible reminder of those who lived here lies in the minute particles of their skin as they slowly shed their mortal coil; and indentations and footprints upon the carpet – impressions of what once was there – a coffee table, sofas, armchairs… the shuffle of countless footsteps.  footsteps that once danced, but now are crippled.  these impressions will soon be gone and a new family will make this home.  fuck.  i hope they can make as many happy memories as i have accumulated over the past forty years.

but the ghosts don’t want me to leave. they are liveliest here.  they beg me to stay.  i watch them dance and play, and walk around and through me,  just as i have walked through this house.  this home.  am i a ghost now, too?

this was once the liveliest of spaces. now it feels the most empty of all the rooms; except, perhaps, for the chambers of my heart.  i linger and hear distant voices: my mother singing; my father’s laughter; old Hank Williams records, crackling.  someone, please return the stylus to the start because i, too, feel so lonesome, i could cry.

and cry i did.

i hear someone play the piano… badly.  i see the ghosts of old friends and family, baby nieces and cousins from Shetland.  i see conversations dance before me;  i can smell the sound of the old projector of when we would have family gatherings and plough through troughs of old photographs and super8 home movies.  i can smell the perfume and feel the smiles of beloved aunts.  i see so many bad choices of wallpaper.

there have been many tears, over the past forty years and more.

so i closed the door and broke down.

it feels like a loved one has died.  for so long, this house was the only home i knew.  it was where i learned to walk and talk; where i learned to read and write (thank you, Mum – for equipping me with these skills before i started school);  where i also learned how to take a photograph, roller skate and jive;  how to ride a bike (thank you to my eldest brother, home on leave from the Royal Air Force, for his patience and determination); and how to skip and knit… and kiss.

it is where i learned about life, love and loss.  it is where i now learned about myself, that i am, perhaps, not as strong as i once thought.

i exhausted myself of tears, wiped my face with trembling hands and picked myself up off the floor and continued on my quest to say goodbye to this loyal friend; to say ‘goodbye’ to this house and the ghosts of former Kathryns… the ghosts of all tomorrow’s parties.

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before heading upstairs, i ventured into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water.  but there were no glasses. no cups.  no cups overflowing with love and hot tea.  and so i sipped the cold water from my cupped hands.

our kitchen was small, but functional. and always clean and tidy.  and there was always the fragrance of fresh laundry hanging in the air.

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upon returning home, from anywhere at any time, my mother would most likely be found in the kitchen.  she loved to bake and used to bake the most incredible scones and cookies.  i remember, as a child, following her around like a greedy pup – waiting for her to let me scrape out the remains of the cookie dough.  i can still taste its sweetness.  sadly, due to illness and depression, she hasn’t baked in a long, long time but i can still smell that warm aroma of toasted sugar and chocolate.

i look out through the net curtain to the house across the street where one of my closest friends grew up.  Linda.  we were the same age and looked similar:  two little skinny waifs with long blonde hair and huge eyes.  hers green, mine blue.  she was my soul mate and to this day, although we don’t see as much of each other as we perhaps should as life is short, when we get together it is like not one day has passed since we last hugged each other.

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i see the ghosts of these little blonde girls, playing on roller skates or bicycles or running with kites.  i see ghosts of them as teenage girls, standing on her doorstep and discussing what to wear to the next high school dance.  i see it all: pages of those old teen diaries coming to life and i reminisce, with a smile.  but where has the time gone?  it seems like only yesterday.

i remember the Belfast sink by the kitchen window and how, as children, many of us in this street were bathed in the sink.  this was mainly for convenience, i think… i hope!  i remember the teasing of friends as those who were allowed out later than my own curfew would stand by the window, and laugh and point; and me gesticulating wildly and shouting back at them, laughing.  they would only laugh until it was their turn to be the spectacle in the window. oh precious memories.  my friends and i still joke about these moments to this day.

food was a big part of our family life and social gatherings.  for many years, and much to the chagrin of my mother, i had no interest in food and she, my father and brothers tried everything from cajoling me, bribing me – even ridiculing me – in their attempts to coax me into eating.  i had become a worry.  a talking point.  i received a scolding from a red-faced aunt.  still, i couldn’t care less about food.  i wasn’t interested.  my cousin once highlighted to me that i once went through a phase of only eating food that was white.  jesus.  what a little freak!  i would only eat haddock fish, boiled potatoes, pickled onions, milk, cauliflower or lean chicken breast.  it was a  major concern.  so much so, my mother took me to the Doctor who duly examined me but seemed more preoccupied with the length of my eyelashes and my precocious stare than my incongruous diet. it was a relief to all when i became a teenager and becoming more interested in food.  food and boys.  i realised that the two can be fun. and so i learned to cook in this kitchen.

it was here that i also learned about the loss of another kind of friend.

i remember the dove grey and sky blue chequered pattern on the tiled floor. i remember finding one of our family dogs, Bonnie, lying dead there one Sunday morning.  she had been ill – more ill than the Vet had realised.  i remember the pain in my heart and the sound of my own shock and grief.  i remember curling up beside her – just as i had done so many times before by the fireplace – cradling her cold and lifeless body in my arms and seeing a trickle of blood weep from her little black nose that i loved to kiss.  i remember the sound of my heart breaking.

and as i close the kitchen door, i hear that sound again.  as fresh and raw as it was that Sunday.

and so i ventured upstairs, one step at a time.  it’s strange, but the wood of the banister felt unusually warm to the touch – almost like skin.  it felt as though this house… this home… still had a pulse.  it was like she was still breathing, and breathing with me.  as i climbed the stairs, which seemed to be endless, i noted stairway walls anointed with the oily marks, from repeated hand placements; and the faded frames of blank images, where once pictures hung, often at odd angles. unambiguous; these empty spaces will remain, until my home’s new occupants paint over them.  they are, today, the only proof  of our lives here.  they still, in a strange way, adorned the stairway – or gateway – to the quieter spaces in this home. spaces where meditative rituals took place: the brushing of hair before bedtime; the bathing; the faint mutterings of my mother’s prayers and the dreams. what dreams may come now is anyone’s guess.

i pause and take a deep breath, then step into my old bedroom. immediately, i am greeted by the same funky pink plastic lampshade i chose when i was seven years old. a lampshade i once so sorely wanted – now faded, jaded, dusty and discoloured.  that pink shade saw many a dream and was a comforting pink cloud of solace on many a sleepless night. a pink cloud of optimism, at a time when my grief for my father completely overwhelmed me.

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it was here, in this room, on this bed, that i was when i first knew real darkness.  it was here, one Sunday morning in May, that my mother came to wake me to tell me that my father had died.  it was as if someone took the sun from my sky.  it was as though all the light from life was sucked out.   as though the fires inside were extinguished.  those screams of anguish and grief, i could still hear them.  they were deafening.  they are now recorded in the very fabric of this room.  they still deafen and defy.  if i were to touch those walls, i would still hear those screams,  screams like those from a wounded animal.

my old bed, still covered with the furry horsey blanket -a gift from a favourite aunt, looked small.  and yet, at some points in my life, this was my island, my haven – a place to retreat to and listen to the radio or to write in my diary, or a place where i would go to just to think… or disappear.

i removed the clutter from it and lay down on the bed with a box of old diaries, i kept as a teenager, and thumbed through them. teenage tales beneath a pink cloud brought a little light and humour into an otherwise dark day – despite the sunshine outside.  i felt a smile break my fall.

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i opened the old built-in cupboard and was immediately transported back in time. a time where i collected Ladybird books and erasers.  although the cupboard was now empty, i could see my white ice-skates hanging up, and i could momentarily hear the slice of blades on ice; i could see, in my mind’s eye, my books – all lined up neatly; stacks of magazines, scrapbooks and old Polaroids.

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i could also see a complete collection of ‘Family of Man’ magazines i collected a child. i was precocious. how many 9 year-old girls do you know that have such an avid interest in anthropology at that tender age?

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a gentle breeze carried voices of children, playing outside in the sunshine, through the house.  i followed the voices into the toilet and was touched by the sight of a picture of the sun my mother, in her early stages of dementia, had drawn and stuck fast to the toilet wall with sellotape.

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it made me laugh out loud.

i ran my wrists under the cold tap and shook my hands dry, blotting  the excess water on my jeans as, for once, there was no fresh towel.   the children’s voices seemed to be getting louder. i followed them into the bathroom where i found the net curtain billowing softly in the breeze of an open window.  the bathroom felt cold and airy; the blue dolphin patterned wallpaper, faded and peeling.

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the old 1970s bathroom cabinet was open and empty. it once held a collection of toothbrushes, all in various states of fray; tubes of pile cream and minty fresh toothpaste, squeezed until every last drop was used, as though they had been passed through a mangle; bottles of clear Avon nail polish, with the caps screwed on squint and stuck-fast; a tub of cotton buds;  a tin of Germolene ointment; and a box full of discarded dentures.  like i say, my mother – the hoarder.

the upstairs landing, once filled with the fresh smell of pine-scented steam from hot bubble baths and the sweet stench of baby powder from habitual dustings. but now, only a strange smell of stale toiletries and cosmetics lingered there.  no fresh smell of pine. and no steam.  both the house and i had run out of steam.

i felt weary. exhausted.

standing at the entrance to my mother’s old bedroom, i caught my own reflection in the dressing table mirror.  i looked empty. i looked lost. i looked dead.

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i could not bring myself to enter.  i could still smell her perfume.  i realised then that i was beginning to mourn her, even though she was still clinging onto life. but that smell of perfume.  Youth Dew.  it was her signature fragrance.  it is not a scent i care for, however, at this point in time it was the most beautiful aroma. it filled my lungs and evoked many happy memories of special ‘mother-daughter’ moments in this little room. this room used to be my room, as a young child.  a room where my mother would sing me to sleep, or lie beside me and stroke my face until i fell asleep when i was ill. it was a room once filled with toys and dolls.  fuck.  how i hated those dolls. i used to ask my mum to chuck them in the cupboard each night as their dead eyes scared me.  feeling brave, in the throes of that memory, i opened the cupboard.  i was relieved to find it empty.  no dead-eyed dolls glaring back at me.  just empty space.   yet in the mirror, it was my own dead-eyed doll expression that would now haunt me.  taunt me.  scare me.  scare me of my own mortality and the harsh realisation that our parents are not immortal.

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my mother’s wardrobes were now empty.  this was a task i could not bring myself to undertake but never voiced my concerns.  my sister-in-law took it upon herself to remove all my mother’s clothes and donate the best of them to the charity shops that my mother believes are worthy.  i cannot begin to say just how much i appreciate my sister-in-law’s interception.  it was a very mindful and kind thing to do.  a task that i think, in hindsight, would have broke me completely.

with a heavy heart, i sat at the top of the stairs and cried so hard that i thought i would never be able to stop, cradling myself in my arms.

this was the hardest day.

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Words & Images (c) Kat McDonald 2017

dedicated to my mother.  they say home is where the heart is.  she has my heart. she is, and will always be, my home.

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for my birthday, i had a tattoo done of a little drawing she did of her and i… she says she doesn’t recall drawing it on my leg. [smile]

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i intend to have her ‘doodle’ made into a necklace for her to cherish… as a ‘mother-daughter’ thing.

Today in my heart a vague trembling of stars and all roses are as white as my pain…

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“Hello Mum…” i say

from closed throat
as i choke on tears
of the inevitable.

she is slumped
on one side.
three pillows.
three pillows hold you
and support you as
you gaze through me
with eyes dim
and full of antipsychotic
medicine.
“medicine”
medicine that has taken
my Mother and held her hostage.
it seems dark in here, in there.
there is precious little light
here now…
and it is fading fast.

i wipe the tears from my eyes
and the drool from her chin.
‘medicine’ they say.

her hands, the skin – so soft, flaccid
and thin
like tracing paper
delicate like a trace
of life… where is that spark?

where is that fire?
that spirit?
that beautiful soul?
where is my hero –
where is she?
where did she go?

“oh Mum…” i say
and hold her hand, tight.
i don’t want to let go.

“Mum? Can you hear me?”
i know you’re in there, somewhere…
do you hear me?
do you hear me, crying in the night for you
like i did, as a child,
when the monsters would come
into my dreams.
i need you, Mother.
i need you – but i can’t find you.
i can see you but
you are no longer here,
in my world.
where are you?
where did you go?
i have so many questions, Mother.
so many questions…

“Let me sing to you…” i say, choking
on dread.
i can barely breathe. gravity is
crushing and caving my chest.

i can see you, but
you’re not there.
do you hear me?
please, come back to me.
do you want to come back?
is it better where you are?
away from the grieving for the lost one;
away from the pain and prison of illness
and isolation;
away from the four walls that house you;
away from the loneliness of not hearing
or remembering…
“Oh Mum…” i say
“come back to me…”

come back to this world
where we wait…
where we, your flesh and blood, wait
for you to return.
but…
looking into your eyes, i can tell
that you are
not coming
back…
are you?

Oh Mother.
you are unaware of how my mind
tortures my heart
as i think of you,
now a prisoner of the bones
and flesh that house you…
… and your smile.

i watch you smile at me,
your mouth quivering,
frail… failing.
i think of your voice and
how you loved to sing.
is there music where you are?
because you love music and
you love to
sing…
sing for me, Mother.
sing a song for me
to comfort me –
just like you did when
i was a child.
sing out loud so i know you are there…
so i can follow your voice…
so i can find you.
i know you are in there… somewhere.

where did you go?
you left so quickly.
your eyes are shadows.
your eyes, once teeming with light,
now tired.
tired of seeing.
tired of seeing this
broken slideshow of your life.
do you see me?

do you think of me,
your youngest child.
your youngest daughter.
do you remember my laugh;
my face;
my name?

where are you, Mother?
i wish you could return
so we could take a walk
through the woods
and talk, like
we used to.
where are you, Mother?
i wish you could return
and brush my hair and
you could tell me all about where
you have been… and
what it’s like there.

because…

“i miss you, Mum…”

i seek a moment’s comfort
in knowing in your fugue
state of mind
that you are, perhaps, blissfully
unaware of
what this world has become
without you.

and yet… i am full of fear:
fear of knowing that this is the end;
fear of knowing that you are alone… there;
fear of knowing you are struggling, perhaps,
to return… clutching thoughts
with only fragments of this
and that
and this reality; with only
broken
and dis-
jointed memories and
not knowing
what
is
real.

are you lost?
or are you rambling through
the forest of your mind?
lost in that deep, dark forest.
do you know where you are?
or are you lost – in a manic
panic –
desperately searching
for a way
to come
back.

if you could, would you find your
way back
to me?
to us?
to the world you have left behind?
or…

are you happier in this sedative dream?

what is it like there, Mother?

sleep does not come easy to me these days.
i lie awake, listening to the sea and
think of you, drowning… choking… fighting
for breath… searching
for the familiar… a lifeline… to
fight against the black water
and return to us.

Oh Mother. what am i to do?
what am i to do, without you?
i am not yet ready to be an orphan.
sure, i am a grown woman
but you are my mother.
you gave me life
and now i look
towards the end
of yours.

Oh Mother.
are you too far gone?
somewhere… in that frail
and useless body
i know you exist.
i know you are in there…
but…
i can’t get to you.
i hope you can hear me?
hear my thoughts?

i hope you can hear me, Mother
as i have not abandoned you.
i am right here.

i worry that in this pergatory
you can see us… see our tears.

“why is it so dark in here?”

is it dark where you are, Mother?
is it?
i wish i could let some light in.

i wish i could just…
i wish…
i…

if you find light in your darkness, Mother,
don’t be afraid.
i have not abandoned you.
i am right here.
i will always be right here.
i hope you find some light
in your forest…
“it’s a beautiful day today, Mum”
“the sun is shining…”

what is that sound?
oh it’s my own voice.

(c) Kat McDonald 2017

img_2083

– watching someone you love be consumed with dementia is heart-wrenching… especially so when that someone is your mother… the one who gave you life and light and love.
it’s hard to watch your world become slowly starved of that light as her life slips from her, and you, with certainty of lengthening shadows and loss, can do nothing but wait.

and that weight is unbearable.

today, my heart was broken… more than i ever thought possible.  my Mother had not been allowed any visitors for almost a week as she, sadly, had to be sectioned for her own safety.  today was the first of me seeing her in a little over a week.  the change was, inevitably, a huge departure from the soul i last saw.  she is fading fast, like roses.

mum

my mother, aged 15

mum3

my mother, a keen photographer it would seem…

mum1

my  mother, on her wedding day…

mum4

my mother, with my lost brother, William, who died 10 weeks before i was born. he was 18.

Title borrowed from one of my other heroes… Federico Garcia Lorca:

Autumn Song
November 1918

[translated by DK Fennell]

Today I sense in my heart
a vague tremor of stars,
but I lost my way
in the midst of fog.
The light trims my wings
and the pang of my gloom
will moisten the memories
at the font of knowledge.

All roses are white,
as white as my sorrow,
but the roses are not white
that have snow on them.
Once they dressed in a rainbow.
Besides there’s snow on my soul.
The snow of my soul is
kissed by flakes and scenes
which disappear in shadow
or in light when thought of.

The snow falls from the roses,
but the soul’s remains,
and the grapple of the years
makes a shroud of it.

Will the snow melt
when death takes us?
Or will there then be other snow
and other roses more perfect?
Will there be peace among us
as Christ teaches us?
Or will there never be
a solution to this question?

And if love cheats us?
Who will resurrect us
if twilight buries us
in the scientific truth
of Good, which perhaps doesn’t exist,
and Evil which flutters nearby.

What if hope gives way
and Babel ensues,
what torch will light
the roads on Earth?

If the blue sky is a fantasy,
what will become of innocence?
What will become of the heart
if Love has no arrows?

And if death is death,
what will become of poets?
and things in a cocoon
which no one remembers?
Oh sun of hopes!
Clear water! New moon!
Dull souls of stones!
Today I sense in my heart
a vague tremor of stars
and all roses are
as white as my sorrow.

letting go: the right time to die

kat-mcdonald-aged-2

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

 

 

 

 

into the wild… the making of ‘Wilderness’

“WILDERNESS” – a collection of 13 songs inspired by animals; animals that have been totemic in the relation between a man (Robert Davidson) and a woman (myself, Kat McDonald).

a sound born in a storm. this is what happened when a bird fell from the sky and foxes followed us home. this is supernatural, homespun honesty. this is soup, at 4am. this is a map of the stars that trace our fate. this is paprika tea. this is animal instinct. this is our story. our music.

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.

this is the chaos of living with panthers in a house by the sea, where ravens share their secrets with those who speak their language. this is our allegiance to our ancestors and the salt in our Bourbon. two years of travelling the sun, we are finally home.

Source: into the wild… the making of ‘Wilderness’

Listen to WILDERNESS >> HERE <<

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…

View original post 756 more words

chewing the fat – a short story

jack-sprat-small

 

Black Friday. the streets were mean and surly as the hustled bustle of frenzied Christmas shoppers began to reach fever pitch and a new-found level of savagery.

still owned by the same family, now in its fifth generation, Mickey’s Diner is the oldest diner in Brooklyn and it hadn’t changed one iota since the 1900s.  the smell of Irish stew and coffee became as synonymous with Brooklyn as the Bridge itself.

Escaping the Christmas contagion and mass hysteria, Harold and Maeve Spratt entered the diner, as they did every Friday.

Harold sat opposite his wife, Maeve.  he motioned to the waitress that he’d like a coffee.  “black n bitter” he scoffed.

the diner was busy and crammed with people.  people loitering; people taking seats and leaving seats; people with harried expressions; people hugging and laughing; people impatiently roaring “check please!” – to which the waitress would roar  “i said i’ll be right with you, goddamnit!”.  there were lovers in corners, huddled over steaming bowls of stew; there were whining children – pissed because they’d been trailed from shop to shop on a promise that they would get to go see Santa Claus if they were good little boys and girls but their whines seemed justified – it was a little after 4pm and they knew that they’d been duped; little kids, stropping, rigid in strollers, screaming for attention, their bottom lips quivering and their faces red.  poor little bastards.  what a toil for them, being pushed through a noisy jungle of legs, ill smells and the odd dog’s unwanted overfamiliarity.

Kim, the waitress, had waited these tables for thirty six years. “in with the bricks” she’d cajole, with a tired smile and swollen ankles, smiling lamely at customers as she waited to take their order, stabbing her chewed pen on the notepad in her slender hand.  “what’s it to be, Harold?” she asked, arriving at Harold and Maeve’s table.

Harold ordered another cuppa Joe “black n bitter” and a naked mixed green salad “no dressing”.  Maeve was still pondering over the menu.  “should i get the blueberry pancakes, with maple-cure bacon, Harold?” she asked “or should i have the a big slab of that pecan pie…?  i just love pecan pie… ooh peaches…”.  Harold silently scolded her with a glower, cutting her off bluntly,  as he casually unfolded today’s Gotham Gazette and snapped it open, putting it up as a barrier between him and his wife.  he quietly sipped his coffee and muttered, from behind the headline: “have whatever your heart desires, Mae – what the Hell do i care!?”.

“aw come on, Maeve, i got other people waiting” said Kim, loudly cracking her gum, like a gunshot.

“ok… i’ll have the blueberry pancakes, with the maple-cured bacon – and two eggs, over-easy… and i’ll have the corn muffin with peaches and syrup please” she said, looking pleased with herself, smiling smugly at Kim as she handed her the menus.  Kim stuck her pen behind her ear, took up the menus and zig-zagged off in the direction of the kitchen hatch, where she brayed the order at the cook.

Harold and Maeve had been coming to Mickey’s Diner for almost 50 years.  every Friday, since before they were married.  those early Fridays saw them sit, as young lovers, huddled over a milkshake with a stack of quarters for the jukebox.  Hell, they’d even been known to get up and dance, like there was nobody else around.  later Fridays saw them bring their children for birthday balloons and sparkling sundaes.

but today Harold and Maeve sat in silence.  she, now 40lbs heavier, sat looking around her, with her hands close-knit in her lap while he sat, quietly sipping his coffee, reading the funnies.

Harold was 78 and a retired cop.  He was a tall and intolerant man, with a wiry frame. granted, it was a little bent out of shape nowadays but he tried to keep himself lean. still, he had a bone-dry sense of humour, a boner for the waitress’s legs and a bony face, to boot. he was an ugly man and had been known to make children cry with just one glower; his piercing eagle eyes and hanging monobrow made him look like ‘the bogey man’ to the children in the street where they lived. however, with age, the severity of this look was lessened by the thick horn-framed spectacles that were now perched on his prominent aquiline nose.

Maeve was a retired cook.  she loved food. oh boy she loved ‘a good eat’.  “a little too much” Harold would say, to his friends at Tuesday night poker club, when Jimmy ‘One Shoe’ McGonigle and Tom ‘Crab’ Fisher would ask after ‘the good lady’.  “gah, she’s as good as an old slipper” he would say “a little worn and twice the size she was when i first tried it on with her”

yes. it was true.  Maeve liked her food. she loved to eat. she was 72 and overblown. “a diet of fat and flour will do that to ya”, as Harold would say.

amid the rabble of babble and clatter of crockery, the cook roared “one mixed green salad, one pancake pig-out for table 17!”

Harold squirmed in his seat, shaking his head with embarrassment and burying his face in the day’s obituaries.  Maeve smiled with glee as she watched Kim weave through the tables, a plate in each hand. cracking a large gum bubble loudly in Harold’s ear as she laid their food down at their table, Harold tutted and threw her a contemptuous glance.  “sorry” she said, huskily, with a nonchalant shrug and ‘like-i-give-a-fuck’ smile.  Maeve began to sweat and squirm with excitement. her eyes widened and lit up like cooker rings when the platter was put down in front of her.  she pulled her seat in close to the table.  so close, her huge tits pushed the plate three inches away from her.  “thank you, Kim, you’re a sweetie” she said, cloyingly to the waitress.  “can i trouble you for some extra bacon – two skinny rashers like that ain’t gonna fill me up?”  Harold rolled his eyes to the waitress: “… and a heart attack on a plate, if you got one of those too?” he snarled.

Harold neatly folded his newspaper and laid it to one side.  he picked up his fork and began to eat. quietly, in silence.

Maeve picked up her napkin in her plump hands and tucked it into her blouse, near spilling her cleavage onto her plate.  Harold looked at her with equal parts contempt and dread.

a few years ago, Harold had grown to hate eating with his wife.  her ill-fitting dentures and vile table manners filled him with anxiety.  his intolerance of messy, noisy eating had grown exponentially over the years.  there were many occasions where he would sit at the dining table, in the comfort of their home, silently plotting ways to kill her as she chewed hungrily on a turkey leg or slurped her coffee or spoke with her mouth full of ham and egg sandwich – plosively spatting slimy chunks of half-chewed bread and mush across the table, often onto his plate.  he now found this woman, the former love of his life, disgusting. repulsive. like a pig.  an old sow.

today was no exception.  he sat and picked at his leafy veg, polite forkfuls of spinach and lollo rosso quietly masticated in his closed mouth, as he ruminated on her demise.

with a whore of an appetite, she attacked her plate… chopping up her pancakes with the fork gripped tightly in her chubby fist.  her eyes twinkling as she greedily licked her painted lips. she was hungry.  she was always hungry. she stabbed at pancakes, bacon and blueberries – stacking them on the four prongs of her fork, closing her eyes as her mouth yawned open like a whore’s cunt, stretching and glistening with greed.  Harold watched in horror, at what seemed to occur in slow-motion, as she slammed that fork in her mouth, cramming it full of what she craved; thrusting it deep inside that gaping cavern. her pink painted lips creased around the fork as her eyes rolled back in her head in ecstasy; her chubby fist deftly removing the licked-clean fork and returning it to the platter only to be stapped full of more fat and flour; more glutinous grease, as that ugly and guilt-free grin opened across her puffy face like a septic wound, seeping and encrusted with crumbs and spit.

and that sound!  Harold hated the sound.  the sounds were the worst imaginable.

the rattle and clicking of her ill-fitting dentures frayed his nerves with each bite. the jaws snapping, snapping; her poorly painted and puckered lips smacking, smacking… and the gulping.

Harold hated the gulping.

she would take a swill of her coffee, gulping down air with her mouth full of pancake and pig.  the squelching and sweating.  she would sweat with excitement and effort. how could she fill that mouth so full. the sweating… as her stomach succumbed to the stretching, she was like a foie gras goose. her eyes would gleam and her mouth would glisten in her unabashed gluttony, her chin wet and shiny with trails of jus and bacon fat. but it didn’t stop after the plate was empty… oh no. this was the bit Harold hated the most.

the rattling.

after eating, she would rattle her dentures around her mouth; her tongue poking around in there, scouring for remnants of half-chewed food. her painted mouth stretched outwards like the muzzle of an adult baboon. oh that sound.  it drove Harold crazy.

*cough* *splutter*

suddenly, Harold’s murderous fantasy was interrupted by a violent coughing fit. it took him a while to realise that his wife was choking.  he sat, quietly forking away at his salad.

“don’t talk with your mouth full, Maeve” he said, awkwardly, loud enough for all to hear, as he quickly polished off his salad.

the coughing and spluttering grew increasingly more urgent…

“someone call 911 – that fat lady’s choking!!” someone yelled.

for Harold, everything seemed to be in suspended animation, surreal. he watched, chewing on his watercress and kale, as a young bearded hipster guy in skinny jeans and man-bun tried to pull the Heimlich manoeuvre on her but he could barely get his arms tight enough around the bulk of her corpulent form to perform the move effectively.

Harold sat and watched, in disbelief and quiet amusement,  as his wife’s face reddened and her eyes bulged as if fit to burst. Harold watched as everyone rushed and fussed around her.  he glanced outside, it was starting to snow.  he turned back to his wife and stared into her eyes, her watering and bloodshot eyes.  he watched as her face turned purple and her heaving mass slumped, hard, onto the floor.

“call 911… QUICK!! she’s not breathing!” yelled the bearded hipster.

“Jesus, man, what’s wrong with you!?  your wife is choking!” he barked at Harold, as he took a hold of Maeve’s hand.

Harold couldn’t move. he seemed blissfully paralysed.  he simply sat and watched the drama unfold before him.  he sat and stared at her plate. he sat and watched as the Coroner came and took her body away.  he sat there, still.

“it’s not like her to leave food on her plate…” he thought.

damn.  she hadn’t touched that corn muffin.

“what a waste!” he thought, as he stabbed his fork into its peachy depths.

 

 

(c) Kat McDonald 2016

~ an idea for a screenplay.

 

 

just another vegan rant…?

HEY FOLKS… did you know that veganism has increased by 350% in the UK? it is one of the fastest-growing movements worldwide as people become more aware, more responsible, more enlightened.

[i want to keep this brief as this post isn’t specifically self-centric…]

i have been vegan for almost a year now and it has not been an easy ride. some days are a struggle. this is particularly so in the area where i live – not TOO many places to eat out without being asked:

“what’s a vegan?”

“ah… you’re from Germany!”

“i can make you a cheese sandwich… or an omelette?”

but… more and more eateries are now catering for those choosing a plant-based lifestyle.

i feel like a burden has been lifted from my shoulders by adopting this lifestyle and following the vegan movement.  not just for my health, but for the animals, AND for the planet. i felt it was my duty. a duty of care.  and after watching movies such as ‘Vegucated’, ‘Cowspiracy’, ‘Black Fish’, ‘Earthlings’ [to name but a few!] my feelings were consolidated. verified.  i just knew i was doing the right thing, by making the sacrifice and switch.  i just knew i owed it to myself, my fellow earthlings and the planet.

the time was now.

my lover, who is also vegan, has felt compelled to share HIS journey into veganism, by way of making some videos. this one’s not for the faint-hearted, but being vegan isn’t easy… almost always we have a daily battle with many things… here is his testimony about why he became vegan, and the obstacles and objections he now battles with… he says it’s ‘just another vegan rant’ – but i think it’s so much more than that. 100% honest, with a little humour… features Alfie, our Cat.

one love, folks. we are just doing what we can, chipping away, educating ourselves, educating others… supporting the movement…. just trying to make the world a better place as we, humans, are racing our own extinction.

the time IS now.  always will be. it is never too late to make the change.

spread the love. share this around. if you are curious about veganism and how it can benefit you, feel free to contact him – subscribe, leave a like, leave a comment, ask a question, offer advice – every day is a school day.

i have been met with trolls and objection, but i always throw this rock back:

“hey buddy, the argument is not with me… it’s with your own conscience”

 

** CONTAINS GRAPHIC IMAGES, OFF-BEAT HUMOUR & SWEARING… **

 

thoughts (c) myself, Kat McDonald 2016

video (c) Monkey Productions 2016 & Robert Davidson 2016