The Disincarnation Of Katherine Scott, Chapter I

   She woke up to bright rays of sunshine filtering through the wooden slats of not-quite-closed shutters. It took her a minute but slowly she realised she did not have plantation shutters on the windows of her bedroom, and as she slowly looked around the large bedroom it hit her that she was not waking up in her own home. 

   Her thoughts jumped quickly from "Where am I" to "How did I get here" to "Who still decorates with twall?" 

   She sat up in the large bed - "This can't be a king-sized bed, I have a king-sized bed, and this is much larger than my bed" - and continued to take in her surroundings. There was what appeared to be a mid-'60s peach colored princess phone on the round, doily covered night table to her left. She reached over and picked up the receiver and lifted it to her ear. To her surprise, there was a dial tone. 

     She pulled the receiver away from her ear and stared down at it. She looked about the room again, and for a brief moment thought she was having one of those odd half-asleep, half-awake dreams she remembered having in her teen years. She pinched herself. It hurt. She wasn't dreaming.

   The sound of muffled singing in the hall outside the room caught her attention. Instantly she pulled the large comforter tight up to her collar, unconsciously admiring the quality of the material. It was then she became aware that she was wearing a very fancy, extremely comfortable nightgown, and scenes of a 1930s movie featuring Jean Harlow flashed through her mind.       

   "This is bizarre," she thought as she clutched the heavy comforter. "Have I been drugged and kidnapped? Who would want to kidnap me? Did I go out last night and get roofied by some rich perverted bastard who took me home, raped me, and then dressed me up in an old-fashioned nightgown and then put me in this oversized bed? Where are the clothes I was wearing last night? Why can't I remember anything?'

   On that thought there came a sharp rapping on the bedroom door. The muffled singing voice became a soft but stern voice that clearly addressed her through the door as Emmeline and said that breakfast was ready and if she wanted her oeufs cocotte hot she had better get a move on. 

   The voice that had come from behind the door was that of an older female, and the language the voice spoke in was French. Now, she mulled, it is really getting weird, as not only could she not speak or understand French, she was most certainly not named Emmeline.

   Her name was Katherine Scott and she was an American woman who lived in Alliance, Ohio, in a small two-bedroom house on Waugh street that she had inherited from her grandparents. 

   Katherine got out of the the bed and started to touch everything in the room, at first gently as if she was in an expensive antiques store, but eventually with a bit of force, as if she was shopping at the Wal-Mart. Everything was solid, real. That only added to her confusion. She spied a cheval mirror across the room and briskly walked over to it.

  The mirror was large and allowed her to see herself head to foot. It was her, Katherine Scott, though she was wearing a decidedly glamorous light gold silk nightgown that probably cost an entire paycheck, and her hair looked a little longer than she remembered.

   It hit her then that she could remember. She could remember everything about herself and her life except for last night (had it been only one night?) and how she had got to where she was, wearing what she was wearing.

   Next to the cheval mirror sat an ornately carved chair in front of an equally ornately carved vanity. A dressing gown that matched the nightgown she was wearing was draped over the back of the chair and she put it on. Tying the sash around her waist she commented to herself that it was remarkable how well the dressing gown fit her, as if it was custom made. She slipped her feet into a pair of house shoes that also fit perfectly.

   Then she opened the bedroom door and walked out, somehow instinctively knowing the breakfast nook was located down the hall and through the family room, right next to the kitchen on the opposite side of the dining room. 

   Standing at a long counter that was decorated with what looked to be inlaid hand made decorative tiles was the woman Katherine assumed had been the one who had announced breakfast. She was fairly petite, probably 55ish, and was wearing a traditional maids uniform, much like the one Katherine had worn to a Halloween party some years ago.

  "Bonjour Mademoiselle," The woman in the maids costume said in the same soft but stern voice she had used to announce breakfast. "Souhaiteriez-vous du jus de pamplemousse ou du jus d'orange avec vos oeufs aujourd'hui? Ou bien je peux préparer du café frais, si vous preferez."

   Katherine stared at the woman intently for a few seconds, taking in the fact that she understood exactly what the woman had said and wondering when she had ever wanted grapefruit juice for breakfast.

   Then the room suddenly started to shake, or rather, shiver. At first slowly, but then extremely fast. Katherine suddenly felt as if she was watching the scene, not being part of it.

   Just as suddenly everything became perfectly still. Katherine was seated in one of the four hard oak captain's chairs that matched the small round oak table that she had inherited from her grandparents along with the house. She shook her head as if to silently disagree with someone. The toast popped up and she looked over at a small clock on the wall. She still had a half-hour before she had to leave for work.

   The house was as quiet as it always was, but there was a slight buzzing in Katherine's ear. She looked around the kitchen and felt an odd sensation of being unsettled and thought everything was non resolu - and then immediately thought to herself "How in the world would I know what the French word for unresolved would be?"

   She got up from the table to make her way to the toaster and immediately stopped in her tracks. Looking at her feet she momentarily swayed and said out loud, "Where did I get such a nice pair of slippers? Did I do some thrifting that I'm blanking on? How weird is that?!" 

   The cat, who had been enjoying his nap in the sunbeam that came in through the kitchen window, turned his head slightly towards her and yawned wide before going back to it's nap.

     

   

The Cat Pondering The Unfairness Of The Universe

 

   The cat sat on the sill and stared out the window, watching as the birds flitted from branch to branch in the big tree out in front of the box, and she wondered why.

   "Why, the cat mulled to herself, do birds get to fly? What kind of deal did birddom strike with nature that enabled them to be blessed with such a wondrous ability?"

   The cat was in awe of the birds ability to fly, and also extremely jealous. "Why were cats not granted that special little super power? Why are we cats regulated to just running or jumping about? I'd give my tail to be able to fly, even if it was only low-level, slow-speed flight."

    "Screw the birds, they don't deserve to be able to fly. Half of them never go anywhere but from one tree to the next. If I could fly I'd definitely be all over the place, no question."

   Her face seemed to squinch up a little as she stared out the window with angry intensity. Inside the big box with her, sitting in the chair on the opposite side of the room of many chairs, sat the human who served her food and cleaned her bathroom, staring at the magic window that showed places and things that were not actually in the big box, oblivious to the injustice that cats suffered as a result of being denied the power of flight.

   "Just let me out of this box for 5 minutes," the cat repeated angrily, which caused the human to look over at her and say something incomprehensible in the language of the humans, which she ignored.

   "Just 5 minutes. I'll show those birds a thing or two...just 5 quick minutes."

    

Time To Mow The Swimming Pool

 

He Was Lousy With Letting His Ruminations Get The Better Of Him

He spent an inordinate amount of time redecorating

His three room apartment with the trampoline and the swing

Considering the place was on the fourteenth floor

There was very little room for error when opening the kitchen door

Occasionally he rested by hanging from the chandelier

Between meals consisting of cold rice and warm beer

Like a falcon he enjoyed perching on the balcony

Observing the stars and practicing ancient Wailian alchemy

There are those who claimed he was deliberately esoteric

What with his clamshell bath and pet hedgehog named Derek

The again, there were those who stated he was an occultist

Who spent hours playing charades with beings that shouldn't exist

Though no one was ever found who could state with impeachable certainty

It was thought he made dill pickle marshmallow puffs from a secret recipe

Like a cat he spent a lot of time sitting in the kitchen sink

Reading pessimism porn and painting his toenails with India ink

No one knew where he came from or when he first moved in

Maybe someplace up north a little east (or west) of the antimeridian

But everyone agreed that his Saturday soup swap parties were the best

With bowls of Calamari Chowder, Saltibarsciai and Swamp Chicken Breast

Very spicy, yes, but oh so delightful on the tongue

Just had to ignore the warnings of developing chronic black lung

Like a Sailor's parrot he repeated every vulgarity ever spoken on earth

He claimed it was a talent more than an ability and was vital to his self-worth

It was thought by some that he was once a respected member of Academia

Who lost his status when he developed pernicious disorganized schizophrenia

His thoughts he maintained were often lost and seldom ever found

Which suited him fine as he never desired to live in the foreground

Just to be left to his own devices such as the hybrid electric water wheel

Most useful for those that needed to save money whilst grinding corn meal

Like an actor playing a character wrestling with a comedic trauma

He told himself jokes and suffered through the persistence of melodrama

The Only Place He Ever Wants To Be

On a day like today, such a grand and glorious day

It's hard for him to believe there are people who stay inside

Today is how he always wants it to be

Here & now is the only place he wants to be

He feels like he's feasting on the everyday joys

Birds chirping on the wing, sun shining through the trees

Simple little things that make him break out in a smile

Doesn't matter to him if he has grass stains on his knees

His universe is full of bright colors and sweet sounds

Nothing and no one can stop his happy reverie

This is how he always wants it to be

Here & now is the only place he wants to be

Warm gentle winds caressing his face 

While he wanders through the world without a care

For today he shoulders no burdens or worries

And hears nothing but playful laughter in the air

Some people search for meaning some people search for love

He wants of nothing that needs to be captured and maintained

That is how he always wants it to be

Here & now is the only place he wants to be 

Riot Fest Chicago 2026 Day 3

Riot Fest Chicago Day 2

 

                     Strait out of Dublin, it's the Gurriers. Guess Ireland wasn't damp enough for 'em

                       The key to surviving enjoying Riot Fest is getting a little rest an relaxation in

                                              Shirt couldn't state the truth any clearer 

                                                     Gogol Bordello's set was exceptional

  The guys from the Boston area band Fiddlehead - that's lead vocalist Patrick Flynn wearing their shirt