Kat Musings

Not everyone is privy to my presence. Not everyone gets access. I decide the threshold. Who enters. Who learns the shape of my light. My silence is not permission. My distance is not cruelty. I have learned what it costs to leave every window open, to mistake every knocking for love. What remains is mine. My quiet. My fire. I am learning that closed doors can still hold warmth. That chosen hands arrive gently. That light does not owe itself to every passing shadow. Those who

I came thinking language might be enough to rebuild what time had loosened. You were already halfway into the night before I could name what I needed from you. You were already drinking when I got there like it had started earlier than the conversation like I had arrived in the middle of something I wasn’t part of but still had to stand inside. You kept your hand around the drink the way people hold something they don’t intend to put down. And still there was warmth. That par

I’ve been moving through something like an inheritance I did not know I was still carrying, part heritage, part grief, part return. Not belief exactly, but something closer to recognition forming over time through place, ritual, and memory. My grandpa, Philip Oliver Correro, passed in March 2024. My Grammy, Dr. Carole Ann Lax Stewart, followed in July 2025. In the wake of those losses, grief did not arrive as a single absence, but something layered. It moved backward as much

I was always reaching for connection, as if it was just out of frame, just beyond the reach of language you called it pressure I called it connection we were never naming the same thing Star trails over the One-Mile Radio Telescope. Image credit and copyright: Joao Yordanov Serralheiro.

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 curve, every flame and shadow. I am not a

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 be

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