Kat Musings

Priestess of Delphi, John Collier, 1891 John Collier, 1891 I’m tired of being an emotional tampon for unwhole men, sponging up pieces they left behind, patching their cracks with my patience, distracting myself from my own edges. I’m not your oracle. Not your mom. Not your counselor. Not your bandaid. Not your plaything. I do not exist to anticipate your moods, to translate your silences, to fill the gaps you refuse to face. I am mine. I hold my own pieces, every shard and cu

If I go, bury me with sunflowers from the backroads. Scatter my hair with the ashes, or send me off with gold on my eyelids, a wreath of broken glass for the light to catch. Downwind of the graffiti dam, past the debris, into the lake. Let the flames kiss the surface. Let the current carry me beyond memory, beyond name. --- The first few lines came to me out of nowhere. I kept thinking about a kind of send-off, something ritualistic, almost like a Viking funeral, at Wallace L

Something I’ve learned from being in the public eye Someone will always find a way to criticize the work you do that it’s not enough that it’s too this or too that without offering their hands to help build the future they’re complaining about

Sometimes self-awareness is bloody annoying. I “art” (yes, I’m using art as a verb, don’t judge me) my inner thoughts, hoping to be seen, recognized. Many artists, and really anyone trying to navigate the human condition, crave to be truly known, even while fearing exposure . I guess the question is: is it safer to be the observed or the observer? I suppose the central question in artistic expression is this: what is truth? And I wonder, through whose lens are we seeing and

I’m starting something new, a space for my “Kat Musings.” Somewhere for my ponderings, scribbles, and the little flashes of life that linger. It is a place to share what moves me and to give you a glimpse into my inner world. When you can’t sleep, so you write a little scribble… A Flash I’ve seen you in a dream or maybe just around town somewhere between streetlight and memory Something about your eyes feels familiar like they know what I might be before I do Do you tilt your