can i hold you?
please?
[i need this]
closer…
lean into me…
[she strokes his back]
Ssh!
don’t talk…
just feel…
do you feel it?
[do you feel anything?]
be present with me…
please…
[she exhales]
closer…
come closer,
please…
your skin…
it’s so…
what?
what did you say?
i’m sorry…
i thought you said something.
[silence]
[she inhales]
i love how your hair smells…
[silence]
goodnight
x
[she kisses his back]
words (c) Kat McDonald 2025
p.s. it’s been a while, innit?
a baby’s shoe on the window sill… a plastic vase full of pink plastic roses… closed blinds… wooden blinds… window sill stained with coffee rings… blue blinds… a blue giraffe… an array of pottery mushrooms that look like a row of tiny penises… all shapes and sizes… a stained glass window, very William Morris… grubby curtains, closed… a vase of daffodils… pro SNP stickers: “Scotland’s future is stronger” – i doubt that… a jar full of incense… more yellow SNP stickers… aluminium blinds… wooden blinds…. narrow slats, broad slats, broken slats… a dirty window… a grease-smeared window… a steamy window… a host of birthday cards, lots of hearts and flowers… an empty pint glass, adorned with a red lipstick smear… a black and white cat, licking his paw and washing his face in the sunshine… a vase of pink and yellow flowers… a statue of a dragon… broken blinds… a stained-glass window, a pastoral scene, cornflower blue sky, golden sun and rolling green hills in all shades of green… caged windows… bars on windows… a mobile of stuffed birds, i would rather see these birds alive in flight, not strung up on a piece of cord with their dead eyes and limp wings… pink plastic flowers in a pink plastic tub… four empty champagne bottles… a little wooden sign that spells ‘happiness’… a boarded up window… a ‘bag for life’ – contents unknown… wooden blinds… torn curtains… an assortment of seedlings in colourful little pots, soaking up the sun… plastic gnomes, one with a broken nose, looking out and longing for the garden… nicotine stained net curtains… an empty can of some high energy drink… pink orchids, are they real? two silver stars… a hanged leprechaun – did someone not enjoy St Patrick’s Day? plastic plants, faded by the sun… rainbows and wind chimes… a black ornament that looks remarkably like a butt plug… maybe it is… frosted glass, i can’t see inside but their garden looks really pretty… a vase full of dead flowers… bird shit on the window… baby’s shoe on the window sill…. come full circle…
this is a casual observation into the lives of strangers, made on my walk to and from work… i do not judge. i just say what i see… through the windows of peoples’ homes, their lives…
today i took a walk along Kirkcaldy Promenade. it was a cold day, but the sea was a flat calm. like a black mirror.
promenade also means “to take a leisurely public walk, ride, or drive so as to meet or be seen by others…”. i found this interesting and relevant, given the amount of people walking the same walk as myself. i was walking to work but, ahead of schedule, i paused to watch the world go by. the Promenade was a busy place today. lots of people. everywhere. despite the brisk breeze blowing in from the open sea.
the tide was in. the sky was grey. the clouds hung out like giant ink blots. grey sky, grey sea, grey road, grey sea wall… a new sea wall… the result of more money invested in re-vamping this once thriving seaside town.
looking out at the murky horizon, i could barely make out the distinctive shape of the Bass Rock.
two oil platforms and one, two, three, four ships on the water. one of which looks like a cargo boat, with lots of colourful boxes stacked on top.
i giggle to myself as a Yorkshire terrier runs past me and stops to smell another dog’s puddle of piss.
a cyclist in pink trainers, sporting a pink water bottle and a pink face free-wheels past me.
it’s a busy place today.
a small child cries out for his mother. he has a runny nose.
today, there are lots of couples out for a stroll along the Esplanade. a promenade. they stop and chat briefly with other couples.
at the start of the Promenade there is a chequered line and a sign that says “Welcome to your Kirkcaldy Mile” – or words to that effect… i am guessing there must be another chequered line at the other end, to mark out that ‘Kirkcaldy Mile’. i don’t think i have ever walked that far along. maybe i have… i can’t recall. or maybe it’s just one of those things i never thought to look for as i have walked along this Esplanade many, many times… on an almost daily basis… and i have never noticed that sign until today!
another elderly couple walk past. the man is incredibly tall, rakish. they both look fit for their age… which i am guessing late 60s. they are holding hands. it’s lovely to see that they are still very much in love.
there is still a lot of construction and deconstruction work being carried out along the Prom as efforts are made to rejuvenate this strip and make it more attractive. a cold grey Riviera. new little car parks are appearing on the inland side. another revenue stream for the Council. more new blocks of flats spliced in between beautiful old buildings, although there are some architectural monstrosities… like the old multi-storey car park, built in the 70s. its then modern style has not aged well. it looks like it has been uprooted from war-torn Damask and dropped into place here. a carbuncle on the backside of Fife Council’s portfolio of architecture. i hope they pull it down.
i look out to see the sea. are they fracking the seabed out there? fuck knows.
a young woman in a black quilted coat has just walked past me, her mobile phone tucked under her chin as she tries to open a tin of Diet Coke with ridiculous long orange pointy nails. i smile to her but she does not return the smile. she has her hair scraped back from her face. she reeks of perfume. she has thick legs and her feet look like they have been shoe-horned into her black patent leather moccasins that seem to be two sizes too small for her.
a boy and his dog walk past and all i can think about is how they say that we, on a subconscious level, choose pets that look like us… i think that that is particularly true of dogs. i don’t think it’s true of cats. i don’t think that is possible. the boy and his dog could be brothers. they have the same squashed faces, squat build and short legs.
the cyclist with the pink trainers, pink water bottle and pink face pushes on past me in the opposite direction from before. she is pedalling hard this time. good for her. keeping herself fit!
a group of people approach me from my left. they have a huge Siberian husky with them, with a neckerchief around its neck. what a handsome dog, with his blue eyes. he, too, stops briefly to sniff the puddle of dog piss to my left.
i watch a seagull soar above my head. such a beautiful bird. i know some people regard them as a nuisance but i love them. to me, watching them glide on the thermals, they epitomise freedom.
all these changes must be affecting them too. more boats and ships in their sea. more pollution. more people on beaches. more pollution. more plastic. less fish. more rubbish and litter. why are seagulls pilfering kebabs and pizza?
so… if ‘promenade’ means a public walk way, to be seen or to meet… what about the collision of nature with man, or man with nature?
it’s all very well tarting up the Promenade to attract prospect and opportunity for economic growth, but at what cost to the wild:urban interface?
i will just leave you with that thought… i will leave it hanging there, like one of the dirty clouds now amassing overhead.
a light breeze floats in through the open window, toying with the light voile drapes in my bedroom. i feel it, but i am somewhere else. i am a million miles away. a million miles high.
i can feel the warmth of healing hands upon my solar plexus. these are not my hands. i am alone in my room, save for my cat, Alf, asleep at my feet.
then, out of the blue, the tears come.
and they flow from somewhere deep inside me. somewhere dark. an emotional dam, breached. a release. a flood.
“take my shadows” i repeat. a mantra.
i see my mother for the first time in three years and i can feel her hands in mine, cool and soft as i remember them being. i tell her that i love her. i tell her that i’m sorry, and that i miss her every day.
i see my father, for the first time in thirty years. he holds me close. i can smell him. i inhale deep and upon exhalation, i know everything is going to be okay.
my hands tingling, my heart feels heavy and i cry. i cry for loss. i cry in gratitude. i cry with love.
i am filled with an enormous swell of desire. desire to live. to really live and savour each moment, because it’s the little things that matter: every smile. a scent. a touch. a glance. every feeling. every word ever said.
i feel like i am bathed in light and supreme love. and still the tears flow.
tears of complete joy. joy for having been blessed with the fortune of family and loved ones. joy for having this complex and yet, paradoxically, simple fortress-like shield of love around me. love from my family and my lover, my friends that are family, and the natural world around me.
i see trees. tall trees, stoic and wise. these giants are beautiful and i cry for them. i cannot bear to think of a time when i will not see trees again.
stretching out my legs, i feel Alf’s soft fur against the soles of my feet. i hear him purr in his sleep. i cry for him. tears of joy for having the privilege of his friendship, and the knowledge that one day, he will be ash in my hands… just like my mother, whose remains (or what’s left of them) are in a small box, in a drawer, by my bed.
i see my grandparents. humble folk, hardworking folk and cry for the feelings of loss. of being cheated because i never knew them. but they are smiling.
i see my dear friend, Jess. my lover’s gran. i see her smile. we look into each other’s eyes for the perfect time.
i feel blessed to know these beautiful souls, and to have been bestowed and entrusted with their love, their knowledge and wisdom, their guidance and other gifts. gifts of smiles, embraces, shared laughter and raised glasses.
but the pain of loss and the knowledge that everything is infinitely temporary shakes my heart.
everyone is smiling, except me. the tears roll down my face and soak the pillow beneath me. i squeeze my mother’s hands. she tells me to let it all go.
and i do. i let go.
i focus on my breathing and soon become filled with an inner sense of calm and purpose.
i want to live. live better. to create. to live and love.
because love is everything.
Words & Images (c) Kat McDonald 2020
dear mum
i mean this in the nicest possible way but i am glad that you’re dead.
i am glad that you’re not around any more. and here’s why…
i am glad you are not here, struggling and alone, in this new and worrying ‘reality’ or ‘regime’ we now find ourselves locked firmly down under.
i am glad you’re not here as this new way of living would terrify you. it would defy you, deny you of your independence and the canny, simple and loving life you once enjoyed. and you could never do the whole social distancing thing. you loved us all too much.
i am glad you are not here, in the beautiful rural family-run care home that you, sadly, had to spend your last weeks in. i am glad because at your age you would have, most likely, fallen prey to this COVID-19 virus that is sweeping the Earth. this, with the added confusion and isolating delirium of Alzheimer’s and advanced vascular dementia, i am glad you’re already dead as this would have been even more terrifying for you. in isolation. and i would not have been able to have held you close, as you slipped away.
you would have been a real nightmare, mum. a real worry.
either we would not have been able to ‘contain’ you, in your little house. you were stubborn; or you would have been worried to the point of hysteria, reading daily newspapers and watching the BBC. choking on the fear. calling us countless times a day to ensure we are all safe… and still breathing.
… and can you believe that bumbling blond buffoon that you once used to laugh at is now running the UK, and making a real cunt of things like you once, jokingly, predicted?
you would hate this new regime, mum. not being able to visit family, neighbours and friends. and not having visitors round for a cuppa tea and a carry on! i know, it would kill me not being ‘allowed’ to visit you. you would be considered one of the vulnerable ones. a high risk.
in a sense, you have been protected from all of this. but who knew your death would bring relief at this time for me, and my brothers and sister.
i miss you, mum. don’t get me wrong. i miss you so bad some days, the pain as raw as it was that Sunday evening in July 2017 when your heart stopped beating beneath my hand…
… but today, like yesterday and the day before and the day before that, i am glad you are not here.
not now.
not now.
(c) Kat McDonald 2020
do you dream? of course you do. everybody does. i’m not talking about having dreams, per se, like MLK. i’m not talking about visions, ideals, or aspirations. we all have those too, to a greater or lesser degree. perhaps we have dreams of winning the lottery; dreams of becoming famous; dreams of a better fucking world… yeah, we all have those.
i’m talking about the dreams we have when we are sleeping. you know… the strange mind movies in which we find ourselves cast in a leading role; the weird worlds we frequently find ourselves immersed in, in the hypnagogic state; the queer and fractured alternative realities we all too often wake up from. as ocean-eyed teenage pop phenomenon, Billie Eilish, once asked of us ‘when we all fall asleep, where do we go?’
i have often wondered that myself, Billie.
three nights ago, i had the strangest dream. a dream that felt so real and, most importantly, one i was able to recall in vivid detail.
having studied psychology, i know what dreams are. but what comes of that? why this? shall i share it with you? feel free to comment.
it starts with the sound of a voice. a male voice. speaking in English. it sounds like a broadcast. as i become aware of my surroundings, i realise it’s coming from the car radio and i also become aware that i am behind the wheel of a large beat-up old Army Jeep. it has no roof and it is left-hand drive. i seem to be driving across war torn terrain. i think i am heading towards a city, or what remains of a city, rather. one i know not to be from my native Scotland but what appears to be (from the road signs) somewhere in eastern Europe. my gut instinct tells me i am somewhere in Bosnia and Herzegovina.
the man’s voice breaks on the radio, and he sounds distraught and terrified. it’s a live broadcast. an update. he is telling the people of the world that planet Earth, our home, is going to stop turning at 1600hrs. i glance at the time on the car’s dashboard. it is 15.49. i have 10 minutes left of life as i know it.
i come to a derelict building with vines and trees growing up and through the rubbling masonry. i stop the Jeep and get out. the sun is shining with a new found ferocity. my bare face and arms are burning in the heat. i look up at the white sky, searching for any other sign of life and feel my eyes burn. it feels like they are blistering in the sun’s wave. there are no birds in the sky today. i venture inside – hoping to secure shelter here. the building is merely a shell, no roof, no window panes and a ivy-clad stairway leading to nowhere. the walls are broken and blasted. huge chunks missing, like monster bite marks, from the building where mortar bombs and scud missiles sought to destroy its one time beauty and prestige. i walk through a gnarled door way and see what’s left of one room. a space that offered some kind of haven. some kind of protection from whatever the rest of me was soon to be faced with. the room was rather odd. there were, literally, hundreds of violin bows hanging from what remained of the ceiling, swaying in the breeze. no music.
suddenly the earth began to shake and scream. scream. a sound coming from God only knows where, stunned me, and violently threw me to the ground. i covered my ears. it was deafening. otherworldly. it sounded like the Earth herself screaming in pain, in the throes of her agonising death. and then it stopped. everything went black. just as if someone had pulled the plug on life.
shaken and terrified, i slowly stood up and peered through the dark towards where i had abandoned the Jeep and saw, to my surprise that only this half of my surrounding area was now in darkness.
this must be it, i thought. the world has stopped turning.
the world had stopped turning. and the screaming din had stopped. there was now an uncanny silence. a silence i had not heard before. but strangely, over to the west, and what looked like a 30 minute drive away, there was sunlight. daylight.
i got in the car and drove towards the light.
words/concept/dream (c) Kat McDonald 2019
should i embellish upon this, continue the story? as a book?
i have writer’s block.
i read, somewhere, that there are many ways to overcome this curse.
i thought “oh… what the hell – things can’t get any worse, or can they?“.
so i played a little game – some “word disassociation”.
here is the result of my “experiment”.
wishbone, elbow
and plastic cannon
limp leg
and jellyfish jargon
blade system, warm broth
damp disaster and
soft sponge
swamp surf
and temper ripped
telephone tampon
a signal pip
yellow dog and decaying sun
rattling flowers and
flavoured gun.
keys collected
on a pretend horse;
a cannon ball
with turtle force
pristine hands
and permanent grin
apricot eyes and
lavendar gin
howl, pull,
push harder
a crossbow found
in Cupid’s larder
wishful thinking
with lemon aid
splice, splinter
fizzle, fade
tiny mind
little bitch
lonely existence
thou shalt not suffer a witch
broken glass
and pineapple powder
sleep asylum and
tulip chowder
mask trap and
fuck face
vile greed
and petal safe
dog, cat and watermelon
thunder boom – put that dress on
a clever kiss
in blind rage
a fist full of piss and desert sage
stinking dust
good luck chain
fortune cookie and
lust for rain
ritual blood
earth quake
teeth chatter
vanilla shake
in forest dark
we travel light
turn
jump
petrol high
denim serpent
purple cloak
opium stab
at ticking clock
listen to jazz
hand on cock
cowboys
and lions
lipstick smear
red, dead
and drawing near
clip
cut
pussy pie
dull twist
shudder
sigh…
my lone piano
in temple building
mud paste
for sandwich filling
dragon light
and ocean fire
forest song
unholy choir
drowning thoughts
and downing bourbon
blue balloons
for a nervous breakdown
lick
lips
waterfall
of space perfume in empty hall
my empty pen
my broken sword
sacrifice the umbilical cord
of my wild imagination
Image & Words (c) Kat McDonald
June 2019
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.
i cut my hair. inept and small, the dull blades rip through its length with untold savagery and brutality.
slices of yellow and inky black tresses fall to the floor, landing in concentric patterns of chaos and curl.
the sound of nail scissors, the most inapproriate tool, chewing through my hair is curiously satisfying. like grinding teeth.
i remember, as a child, cutting my own hair with pinking shears – thinking it would make it zig-zaggy and pretty. of course, the end result was fucking horrible and my mother had to salvage what was left so that i still looked like a human girl child.
but i love to cut my own hair. it’s cathartic. cleansing. grounding.
it’s only hair though, isn’t it?
of course not.
it’s more than that for women. for girls. it’s everything.
i am no longer four years old. so why do i do this to myself?
i really should have ‘outgrown’ this phase by now; this phase, this compulsion, this fascination with cutting my own hair. but i can’t. it’s inexplicable and gives me such intrinsic satisfaction.
little fringe and long hair. years later, i am back with the same hair as that of the four year old Kathryn.
only its colour has changed. many, many times.
i’m such a whore with my hair.
let it grow. grow up.
ah… but it is only hair, right?
(c) Kat McDonald 2017
– anyone else out there cut their own hair and why?
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…!)
Inner Focus 