18 / 06 / 2026 - The Tabby Cat and the Black
There is a pair of them, of course. After all we were all created in pairs. Something about apples. Adam and Eve, Zeus splitting the apple in half to bring forth us, separated from our destined others… That sort of thing.
The black one is the man, I think. Adam. He is overbearing, creeps slowly towards the tabby cat. She welcomes him, solemnly. That’s how you know it’s a she. Even cats can’t escape from the scorching judgment of our notions of bioessentialism. They can’t escape from my pen either.
I lift my head up to look at them, they are pulled into each other as close as can be. I like to think they are making love. (I like to think a lot of foolish things). For if it looks like this, I think it is beautiful. The poets taught me love is meant to be beautiful. I dared not challenge the idea… I take a pause here.
When I lift my head again to look at them the tabby cat looks at me, they stand parted now. Good girl, sees me looking and jumps down, good little lady. Modest, bashful. She wishes not to be caught in a moment like this. “Tis most improper, my lord.” Some 80s bodice ripper line repeated in my head over and over. Now that’s how you know it’s a she.
And here she goes again! The one who wields the pen. She does it once more.
“Why are you projecting your shame onto some poor cat?”
How unfortunate for you, this is my canvas and I do not have to answer to you. Neither about my feelings on love or shame.
Or cats.
God, I envy them.
I envy a lot of people.
17 / 06 / 2026 - Filth
Rotting flowers, stone statues invaded and overtaken by moss, run-down manors with floorboards that creak and rot and show the bones and dust underneath. Imagery. That’s how all my stories start. I am good with imagery. Or at least I like to think that I am. I like to think that I am good at a lot of things. Not always, not even most of the time. It comes in bouts, like bouts of typhus. Only I do not spit up blood on a handkerchief. I vomit all over the pages like this. It is a good vomit, the kind that doesn’t leave a smell or small unrecognizable chunks of yesterday’s dinner. The filth is the same though. Everything that spills from my pen is filth. I like to make my mark, to live the filth behind me as I dust off my skirts and pretend I don’t know where that came from. “Didn’t see who did it, officer. But it sure is horrible, isn’t it?”
Sometimes even I am surprised by the filth that spills from my pen, the acid in my stomach, these putrid clumps of distaste that I seem to puke up on the pages of my journals. It surprises me, because I am clean. In every sense of the world. If cleanliness really is next to godliness then there is no girl on earth godlier than I. Twenty first century saint, Mother Theresa in patent leather shoes. The Virgin Mary. Someone did call me that once, eight months or so ago, a jest that made the whole table chuckle. Whether you believe it or not. It felt strange, to say the least, but I didn’t shun the comparison. I shouldered it with solemnity and (though I would never admit it aloud) with this austere sense of pride.
If you never step into the filth you never have to get clean. I never got clean, I barely dipped my toes into the swamp of filth. I only watched it from afar and let it fill my pen, so it could spill later. And God, did it spill good…
06 / 06 / 2026
Today, I launched this site in the exact way I wanted it to be at last. It feels like something worthwhile and intimate. Though I have stayed far from anonymity in the traditional sense through my pictures, I feel still that there is a level of comfort which I can continue to maintain so long as it is people far and wide who visit my little shrine and interact with me. I shall use this page the way a blog should be used: full of everything nobody would actually care about, that is! Unless you came here seeking it...