Clan Witch & Word Refinery

Echo

‘Dear Diary, I exhaust myself.’

There’s nothing lonelier than when caring is one-sided; pouring energy into a void until there’s nothing left.

My heart went from feeling full and lucky to unpicking stitches, scrutinising the details, and bleeding out; I might have stitched in an echo; must stop trying to be everyone’s safe place. I don’t know that’s what I’m doing until I’m alone, and it really starts to hurt — by then it’s too late. Or maybe I do know, saw it coming. This time, I definitely did, but I did it anyway because I prioritise them over myself. I’m an idiot. And really am ‘too old for this shit’. I’m frustrated with myself, and saddened by deaf ears in which I choose to speak. Hello? Are you there? Another missed call. No signal. Busy.

When you ask them to show you they care and they don’t… they don’t. It should be easy to remember this, shouldn’t it? But I’m soft hearted fool who forgets to apply this at times.

This was one of my entry thoughts into the new day. I have work to do, as we all do. I unconsciously trauma bond with people. I may have written here about this trait before (echos). When I do, I furnish them with so much space in how I’m treated in that connection — whether it be a friendship or romantically, I offer up swathes of ‘whatever you need, I’ll give. You don’t need to give me anything, just take’. But it always progresses the same way, void of accountability, they are careless unaware, unbothered and I’m left undone with fractured pieces to pick up again if I can find them. And it’s not because I expected any other specific treatment necessarily. They don’t mean to hurt me, they never care enough to mean anything towards me at all. That’s perhaps my problem too — I don’t expect anything, I accept. When asked, What do you want? (the ones who hurt never ask) But it would always be… to be whatever you need. And another trait, I can’t seem to break is I always take absolute accountability for it when it happens; the hurt in myself is my own fault; I created it through what I accept. I’m so self absorbed, right. It’s not their faults though. I feel pain, I feel their need and I instinctively need to be some sort of peace, safe place, a friend, a lover, a mother, I want (need) to help. I don’t want anyone to feel unwanted, uncared for, unloved, unvalued, I don’t want anyone to feel the cold chill of the sharp edge alone, so I give them my life (time). I’ll hold space, a safe space. Do you just need to sit? Somewhere warm to lay your head? Because I’ll hold you until the voice that’s making your head spin, and your heart ache quietens, I’ll kiss you until the sun goes down and I’ll keep kissing you until you feel only love. Then you can close the door, forget I exist. I hate that about myself. The disposition to be willingly used by folk who don’t give me a second thought. I’d hate it for anyone I care about to be used and left feeling this vulnerable and raw. I hate how I hurt myself.

When communication fails, I write myself out of the story.

Blog post from October 2024 — maybe I’m the echo.

Time for a walk.

Long December

When the Pages are Stuck Together

I was supposed to come back a few days after my last post. Well, I hold up my hands, it’s been more than a few days since May, but before the calendar year is out. Take it or leave it. I’m giving both. So here is something for this dark day. Pure human, untweaked, unsanitised, no washing out the blips because they are MY WORDS. Do folks even do this anymore? I’ve read so much that’s run through AI before it’s posted (it’s catfishing using words instead of pictures). I query those pristine lines when I don’t know for sure, and the text feels off. But more often than not, I know, I feel it in my bones; the lies, the manipulation. And I’ve seen those sanitised, helped-off-the-messy-floor words from folks I know—they run a thought through a processor then post a stream that’s void of human voice. Why? Does it make their thought more eloquent, make them appear smarter (appearances are the substance for some), or does the trickery furnish validity to a voice? The truth is, it kills it. Nullifies the tone and heart; the AI shushes your truth with buttered-up bullshit that lacks humanity. It lacks grit! It doesn’t make these fearful folks seem more put together. It dumbs the real down. Faux intelligence and faux art—these are not enhancements, it’s just disrespectful bullshit. Can you tell I’m not a fan of AI in art or writing?

I’m here, tapping the glass as though I were speaking a stream, and my notes have their own life, a voice unsanitised. I’m far more comfortable with the letters on the board than those stumbling from my lips when my vocal cords shake, voice cracks, or paces in a little silence between executing the words. Sometimes they (I) fail because who is really listening anyway, like those who never really read. They see a quote, hear someone else’s summary and think they know the experience or read the book (no, the synopsis or quote was not the book). I’ve noted the curious look in wavering eye, the way the pupil changes when the stream bursts happen to flesh ears. I’m frequently told I’m poetic or passionate, but I feel the ponder addition of a little ‘crazy’. Sure, all three are true. Anyway, even in the digital print now, it’s still me right here, you can fucking well trust that. I sometimes wonder when they ask. Like the pleasantries of how are you and what’s the weather like, they don’t care; it’s just noise. And I’ve never understood that. When it’s asked, and it matters, I don’t know how or what to give. Which edit should you get? Which version can your palate take before you grab the pitchfork and execute me? They’re all real, just naturally diluted with fresh water because I know how heavy full-strength is. My being has been attacked since dawn, learned defence behaviours I’m intimate with. I’ll carry that without any of the huffing and puffing ghosts of complaints from the so-called help. Learn to listen beyond the mirror. There’s always a filter, some knobs to turn and tweak, and a few buttons to release the script. And no, it’s not inauthentic as those who bay for blood in some self-righteous regime may cry. It’s self-preservation built from experience. Experience of challenging what I know the outcome will be (maybe it won’t this time. Maybe they’ve grown. Maybe it’ll be different than I think), misreading signals, thinking their eyes or title or ‘closeness’ meant safety, but it never did. Never does. Because behind every question there’s expectation, and I’ve sometimes missed when they want their answer, not mine. Anyway, that’s all by-the-by, but I’m haunted in Winter. A bag of fucking ghosts murmur; my body thrums in ways that have the floorboards quaking. I’m unsteady, a little weak, like I’ve forgotten to eat. But I’m routinely feeding others, so I must’ve had a bite. Maybe I just sniffed it and told my brain that was enough. The scent is enough. Like teasing about love, I can pretend I know what it feels like to receive that, but I’m a magnet for liars. I take them in like strays and orphans, make them a bed and make them safe enough to play jump rope with my intestines. They’re twisting, and I need to send them away. Maybe I need an organ transplant; the recovery is perhaps less painful.

Fuck. It’s a ‘Long December’ (Nah nah nah nah. Nah nah nah nah nah nah. Nah nah nah nah, yeah).

Organic; Now or I’ll Forget

I can’t believe it’s been this long since I’ve shared anything here. I’ve meant to, but the intention has slipped several times. Perhaps so often, I thought I had already paid these pages a visit. This year, I’ve not written in solid form beyond spatterings of ideas, character notes, and stray poetry swirls—none shareable in any fashion. I’ve written extracts from things I can’t yet give the time and sustenance to nurture and grow. The spatterings of poetic lines, sequences, and numeric strings from the noises that cause my eyes to fly open from technicolour dreamscapes to muted grey silence. Rest? What is that? The threads make sense in how they weave into knots, and those taut threads melt, strengthening into chain links that rattle the posts. I’m awake! I can see constellations within them just as I do with every inspiring bruise, but they’d be senseless to anyone else. A showcase of some insanity; the hyperactivity of the mind fighting against the bloody dripping bones to focus! Ooo, did you see that pretty bird? I wander off direction, tired of the paths I’ve seen and all those damn arrows. Fuck the arrows. I veer off the tracks of tedium, where all the stories have been over-shared; they’re overtrodden, smooshed into the dirt with so many lost details.

New faces, old eyes, same stories. I’ve heard them before, but I’m quiet while they speak. Sometimes, a word will be yanked from among the twigs with blurry intentions, “It’s new!” they’ll cry. It’s never new. They’ve just jumbled up the old letters and pretended to be founder finders. I yawn, say nothing, smile. They declare titles on their stickers and pins like it means something. A statement of what they are—just children role-playing. I prefer the details—the answers to questions, but they don’t allow space to be asked.

I need the wounds that I can still taste the blood from when I draw the air in and pennies dance on my tongue; my mouth waters for more. That taste shows what you are. What you do when all the words are gone is what you truly are. Maybe that craving is why I’ve been painting with blood again. It’s just mine. The aroma has changed. I need the stories that make my core tingle. I’m listening for that. The details can’t be found on the tracks I’ve seen. And I’ve no interest in walking in anyone else’s shoes. I’ll stick to my bleeding bare feet. I like to feel the mud shift from wet to dry and back again. I like the way she sucks my toes after bleeding them. I am in a bloodthirst right now—something else that was entombed. Then I have some pouring when it shouldn’t—life literally bleeding away—an obvious other factor of distraction. I’m not sure what I’m doing here. I’ve been stung by labels and tags in the ear—too tired and tedious to repeat. They are distractions or some showy bunch of rosettes I’m supposed to wave to be part of a series of communities, cults, some dire, suffocating populous that I’ve never trusted. It’s uninspiring, and I’m bored of looking or more so, I’m bored of seeing since looking implies I’m seeking what I’m not. Perhaps that’s why I can’t write how I want. That, along with the lack of time, too many distractions, and desires weeding out falsehoods and fantasisers to find substance that, perhaps, doesn’t exist.

I’m not publishing anything of note right now; I’ve been undoing things that have undid me. I’ve been unburying myself with one handful of earth at a time, and I’ve been remembering, waking, accepting, breathing, working it out, growing, forgiving, and trying to ‘be’. That’s the most challenging part when life is so busy, and it’s not just mine in my hands—it never was. And my mind is cluttered with so many to-dos and the ever-humming starving pieces that have risen from the dirt I’ve been steadily shifting. I drink, and I drink, and my skin is still dry, but I’m not as dead as I thought I was. They’ve been singing to me in some survival revival—those little canopic jars of my organs thrum. The dirt is under my nails, and I’ll keep digging. I’m an archaeologist, and there are revelations from all these old discarded pieces reforming. It’s all in the details. It’s all in the context. I didn’t intend to lack eloquence quite as much as this, but no one can say it isn’t organic.

I’ll come back with more sense in a few days.

Sandcastles

I tried to cut it out—to stop the rapids from rushing the empty. A tsunami simmered beneath tiny ripples, I said, ‘Let’s stop’, and goodbyes in other words. Because saying it caught like barbed wire in my soft throat, “I feel for you”. I knew you felt nothing. Goodbyes stuttered at the ends of my thumbs because I felt what I considered long dead…. Until we kissed…I was a dead thing, perhaps a mirror of you. Tattered fragments scattered across the basin, worn and ground, fine and sharp after too many storms, too much friction, too much pain, fleshless broken bones—just sand.
Then my heart woke, and my soul burst in Aurora—electromagnetic, chemical awakening—
I was powerless. But I was just a child with her imaginary friend making sandcastles. I have a habit of loving those that can’t love me back—dead things too shattered to fly. I thought I was one of them….Then we kissed. I tried to say goodbyes in too many other words when I realised what you were between the lines, when the flowers I laid upon you withered and your pretence slipped. You were bored and I was a fidget toy within your reach. The sweetness masking the bitter fast dissolved. I tried to accept the end of your mornings and silence of nights, then you’d say, ‘Let’s do’ but we never did—you’d bail because of some unforeseen that I foresaw every time I said with hope, “yes”. I accepted your literal words to my catastrophe.
Now I’m hurt by the inevitable absence—the ghost I knew you’d become but hoped you wouldn’t. I foresaw it through the hope I was encouraged to dress in. You never really existed.

—Natasha )O(

She’s Hysterical

Emotional immaturity, lack of self-awareness and lack of accountability. When he calls her crazy, wheels out his stories of psychos and other such variants — ask of his actions that instigated her reactions. He’ll not be able to answer, at least not truthfully, because that would mean being honest with himself. The ego prefers those lights off. Instead, believe that he is so desirable; simply existing drives any woman crazy. If asked, though, he may anger at the audacity of being questioned. He’s even the victim in his mind, and he’ll tell himself another story — how dare she, another fucking psycho.

Years later, he’ll return, peering around corners, lurking behind a screen, fingering old pictures, wondering where she went. He’s alone in his asylum of echos.

Of course, he/she is interchangeable, but it dominates, as noted. Just consider even recent 19th-century history, with a pandemic of sorts and a surge of women being diagnosed with Hysteria and other so-called ‘mental disorders’ for not meeting man’s mark of what is considered reasonable, sane, and well-behaved.

But back to the top, flip the narrative and consider each in equal measure. The truth is often somewhere between — hanging in tatters of opposing communication styles, the shredded ribbons of whys, and paragraphs wedged between the lines.

Suppose we scrape back a little and admit the chemical truth; that although of the same species, the sexes are inherently wired differently. It’s not just physiological; it’s chemical (hormonal) and psychological. We’re not the same. We are not equal. Understanding and empathy can go a long way, but tired, pre-conditioned, defensive, and damaging routes are sadly still more frequently trodden. Footprints smash and merge on that sad muddy path. Nothing grows there.

Popular culture, including methods of control wheeled out by religious and governments, have fed into the tropes that categorise the ill-expressed emotionless and logical male as somehow strong and superior and the overly emotional, sensitive female as unreasonable and, yes, psychotic. And within our sexes, we even betray ourselves. Yes, the external gaslighting happens within the borders too. It’s a fucked up mess to untangle and rework. Neither perpetrator likes to be called out, but that does not mean they shouldn’t.

Unless one is willing to open their eyes and look through a few other lenses, what’s the point? There’s no use in rinsing if one is doomed to repeat.

Hogwashed

I watched Hogwashed, Joey Carbstrong’s spin-off documentary following his film Pignorant (which you can watch on Amazon Prime).

Have you seen either of these yet?

Our abuse animals, particularly through the system of animal agriculture is one the truest horrors of our world. It fills me with terror how desensitised many of us are to the entirely unnecessary atrocities these animals are put through.

Isn’t it absurd that the release of these documentaries on YouTube are age-restricted? We can eat the murdered at any age but need to be carded to see it…. Many people feed these victims (sorry – bacon, ham, pork, etc) to their children (mmm, bacon, right?), so why not let them see where it comes from, huh? Fucking blows my mind. If you cannot face them, if you can’t look your dinner in the eye while you take his/her life, don’t fucking eat them.

I wasn’t shocked by the footage and the mountain of easy evidence showcasing blatant barbaric abuse and neglect captured by Joey’s team from UK farms, whose products are stacked on shelves and in restaurants with all the shiny feel-good labels for those that consume them; RSPCA Assured, High Welfare, Organic, Free Range (all bullshit to make consumers feel good about the animal abuse they pay for). I am not shocked, but I am constantly appalled that people continue to support it with their eyes closed. Lying to themselves about the glory of animal farming and the benefits of feeding our children the dismembered and skinned corpses of other species. Corpses that have been pumped full of antibiotics so it’s ‘fit’ for your fucking plate because of the disease-ridden, cannibalistic conditions they are forced to ‘live’ in before they are killed. Remember what kicked off BSE?! Yummy!

It (darkly) amuses the fuck out of me when folk who consume this stuff have the stupidity and audacity to talk about ‘healthy’ diets or the problems with pharmaceutical companies and vaccines while chowing down on these animals. And ‘High Welfare’? These words are meaningless as far as animal agriculture goes. How delusional can this collective be? It’s insanity! If I wasn’t already vegan for reasons of compassion, care and respect for other animals that we share this rock with, if I had no care for these living creatures and saw them purely as products for consumption, I’d still be disgusted! How can folks feed this to themselves and their children? Seriously?! the abuse isn’t just of the animals — think about it, and be honest with yourselves.

There’s a moment in Hogwashed where a farm worker drags off dead pigs (who likely died of disease), then washes his hands in the pigs’ medicated drinking water. This is the meat people are eating! What the fuck?!

Anyway. My reaction was as expected. Sets fire to my rage and deep sadness towards our species. And I’ve watched a lot of this type of footage from breeding to abattoir processing – both the ‘clean’ processing the industry likes to share and undercover day-to-day. It’s all fucked. More of us need to do fucking better. Stop making pathetic excuses.

I also want to throw in the deep admiration I have for the brave vegan activists who speak up and take action, often putting their own safety and even lives on the line to advocate for the animals. 💚

Until the Last Breath

Another Annoyingly Introspective Personal Post

I was never soothed or comforted – born into a ‘let her cry it out’ parenting style, with the technique of — if a child is that upset, threaten to give them ‘something to really cry about!’. I know that it is not entirely untypical of the 80s and 90s. I can’t deny the impact, though; a significant part of my nature of dealing with everything myself to the point of extremely unhealthy hyper-independence was very much a result of the lack of nurture. I isolate. I squirrel my emotions away so no one else is inconvenienced by them. I process and work through little and big hells in solitude. And that hyper-independence has been taken advantage of in poor relationships.

I’ve never felt loved, only tolerated. And that has carried through all my relationships, including the romantic. I’ve never been loved – tolerated, settled for, or convenient, but never that. Even when those empty words were uttered, I knew that they loved what I did for them, how I made them feel. I was never the subject to be adorned with that robe. That word was never mine. Folks have given me the minimal and I’ve been grateful because I shouldn’t exist. Being born was a mistake, I should be grateful for the crumbs.

I know I’m worth more than how I was conditioned to believe. I know I’m not just an instrument for others. I know I’m more than tolerable.

Still, accepting the minimal is a hard piece of conditioning to break when it was so deeply embedded from the moment I let out my first cry. The world told me to be quiet. Be seen, never heard. And if one could avoid being seen, all the better. I’m trying to fix it. And I’m awful at creating massive swathes of room for the broken parts of others because I want them to feel all the acceptance and love that I’ve never had. And I’ve offered it in abundance to my own detriment. I never want anyone to feel as awful as I have – it’s dark in here, always cold. There’s work to be in done in this messy hollow. I’ll weave the spindly roots into knots, so you don’t fall into the dark when you walk over me. I’ll turn back clocks and drop all time to make someone I care about feel loved, heard, accepted. I struggle to give that time and space to myself.

Every day I’m trying. Changing. Attempting to remake so many broken pieces or accept them with that word. The one that wasn’t mine when it fell from liars’ lips.

I think prioritising being loyal to myself is becoming one of the hardest lessons to learn in this lifetime. The perpetual work in progress until the last gargled breath. Still, the geese. At least none of this is forever….

Mono No

The problem with monogamy is everything.

As with monotheism, the narrow, single-track pathway does not stimulate growth, enlightenment, wisdom, and fulfilment. I line those things up side-by-side because love and sex are profoundly spiritual and primal. Minimising and restricting the human experiences of those things is developmentally devastating to the brief human experience. It dumbs us down, numbs us. The nuances of our needs in love and sexual desires are too complex to be satisfied and advanced in a mono union (confinement).

When openness and confident communication are embraced, there’s no room for liars, mistrust, or cheats; there’s just love and true evolving connection.

I need to run in the woods—to feel the earth caress and cut my feet, the bark scratch his claws down my pale back, the rain pat at my face and tangle my hair, and the air lash my body with a thousand desperate kisses.

Rosslyn Chapel

It’s been a couple of years since I visited this spot. Rosslyn Chapel, and Roslin Glen is one of my favourite places to spend time. There’s an immense peace around this area. It’s a cleansing meander where time could stop—of course, it never does; what we spend can never be made back. This setting has inspired many poets, storytellers, novelists and artists for hundreds of years, if not more. I admit it inspired a fictional setting in one of my short stories. I wonder if any of my readers could spot it? That story has more to it in the pipeline — don’t they always.

Today, after another restless night, I took a slow venture to Roslin village in Edinburgh. My journey was flanked with sorrow from the moment I left the house; a lone magpie was almost constant in my sights. Different individuals, but always a solitary sorrow. I penned some notes. At the village, I paid a visit to the chapel first. I asked after William — anyone who has known Rosslyn in recent years may know of the black cat often found around and inside the chapel. My heart hurt to hear of his passing in 2021. The first time I visited, he sat by my side in the chapel. The cool cat left a strong impression. When inside, I took a moment on that pew with a memory of that energy. We’re all just passing through.

Rosslyn Chapel was founded in 1446 by Sir William St Clair (Sinclair) as a family chapel. (Like the name? As a Sinclair, I have a blood draw to the place like many from our rich Scottish/French/Scandinavian line). The founder died before the building’s completion 40 years later. It was not finished to William’s original design. As with many such buildings, following the 16th-century reformations, the little chapel fell into disrepair. Cromwell’s men later used it during their attack in the 17th-century to stable their horses. In the 19th-century, the chapel underwent some Victorian restoration, and services began again. Unfortunately, the work performed to protect the sandstone carvings, along with the high humidity within the chapel, was discovered to have a deteriorating effect, and major restoration works began in the late 20th-century by The Rosslyn Chapel Trust.

Read more about the chapel by visiting here.

I find it interesting how peaceful the building itself is. Silence enveloped my bones the first time I stepped inside it; silence and comfort. I have sometimes felt visceral unrest in Christian buildings — the energy poured into their design is distinctly to pay worship to their single god—a god whose people I’ve had conflict with. I feel the judgment and persecution beneath its serenely carved masks and outward message of peace. Peace that’s splattered in blood. I can feel dirty, hateful hands squeezing my throat. I’ve never felt a whisper of that at Rosslyn Chapel. One could shelter there under all those carved eyes, flowers, stars, and green men. Rosslyn feels more spiritual than religious. I love that about her. Perhaps she was designed for monotheism, but she feels far more polytheistic to this pagan. And you don’t have to look far online for information and theories on the glorious tapestry of symbolism carved into the sandstone inside and out of this divine little gothic gem. But, if you’ve never been, I suggest not reading a single thing — visit her, sit in her cradle of silence and tell me what you feel.

The chapel sits above Roslin Glen. A wee wander down beneath and by the ruins of Roslin Castle is a divine way to cap off or sandwich a visit to the chapel. The ancient woodlands along the glorious River Esk are perfect for a quiet contemplation walk and just as good for a fun day out with the kids. I needed the former, and I will no doubt be taking my little monsters on the next trip over.

Oh! As I left the chapel grounds, I was approached by a confident and curious ginger cat. We exchanged pleasantries, maybe I’ll see him next time on the pews.

The Screamer

I saw a comedy sketch taking the piss out of folk (women) who are noisy during sex and chining them for being fake.

It made me think of, like many things, how we’re picked apart whether we’re too noisy or too quiet— she fucks like a whore or fucks like she’s frigid. Judged and executed no matter what the fuck we do (or don’t). She needs to relax more, oh no, wait, she’s too relaxed!

As a vocaliser (I know, it’s always ‘the quiet ones’, right), holding back is a conscious effort during physically expressive acts whose essence, and one of the primary goals of exchanging sexual energy, is to create and build pleasure and ultimately let go. And submit to the little death (or a few, if lucky). Of course, there are times when we must, like when in a public place perhaps or as a guest, those times sneaking around and sex is against the rules. Times when desire is high, but outward expression must be controlled. But for the most part, exchanging sexual energy should not be the time for minding our oooos and ahhhhs, our grunts and growls, our moans and screams.

Personal anecdote time: That sketch reminded me of something that happened in my early 20s, where my vocal enthusiasm was subject to gossip thanks to an ex’s absolute lack of integrity and disrespect. Not just any ex, he was the first I loved. My younger sister was exposed to this gossip, which wasn’t confined to a single conversation. It spread. Honestly, when it came to my attention, I was mortified. Intimate details being talked about in such a crass way in a group setting by someone I trusted was disappointing towards their character and any emotional connection, I thought we had shared. I was disgusted, embarrassed, and hurt. This discussion was spread beyond a singular conversation. And I got hints of it before I knew when I was introduced to some folks by the loose-tongued fool. One of them, when we shook hands over the loud music, with wide eyes said, “Ahhh, you’re Natasha—the screamer.” Funny the little lines we remember, huh? From almost two decades ago, I can still hear that. Anyway, at the time, I crossed my brow, a bit confused. I guess I knew but wanted to see the best in people, so I brushed it off, he wouldn’t talk about me that way, would he? (Yes. He was a player. He would, and he did). It was a few weeks later, my sister shared with me that I was being gossiped about. Again, at that juncture, with our age gap, she was my baby sister, so I was seriously mortified that she was exposed to that discussion.

This could have made me insecure in how I sexually expressed myself, especially since this gossip was from someone I mistakenly trusted and thought more of. Thankfully, for me, it didn’t. But I know that such slights can impact many folks enough to hinder their openness and expression. Honestly, fuck that. And fuck anyone who judges your intimate expression. Let that heat shimmer, glimmer and ripple, the bubbles, the sparks that catch under your skin and prickle; let it build in silence or groan and moan and scream your pleasure. Let it pour out in whatever way is natural. These things aren’t always for thinking; they are waves to be ridden. That sexual pleasure and expression is yours to create. Yours to share. Yours to express. Yours to own. Yours to fucking scream (inside or outside your body)!

Personally, I love the noises folk make when they fuck. I am a creepy wee voyeur for listening in when I’m not part of the action. It stirs the ardour.