The Cat Spot

Lately I've been having issues with what I want people to call me. Family and old friends know me as "Katy." People I've meet after age 20 know me as "Kathryn," and my stage/dj name is "Cat Spot" and people currently call me "Cat." None of these are really working for me. Many people in my life have been telling me, "I don't know what to call you. What do you want me to call you?" I've been perplexed by this identity dilemma. Today, all that changed. I had an epiphany while eating brunch at Birchwood Kitchen after late night shenanigans on my rooftop. We were talking about names and nick names. I really don't like any of my names right now. I thought about all the derivatives of Kathryn and then it hit me. "Ryn." Why didn't I think of this before? Why isn't this being used by more people? Holy shit I love it! I'm going to meet my soul mate and he will call me Ryn. I've gone through some maj

A griot visited my dreams last night Woke with a taste for Ali Farka This moon phase has my womb wondering wild Soothed only by the sunday serenade of plucking strings

"Now I see that our belief in progress stems from our fascination with the content of consciousness." - guy laramee I recently stumbled upon this artist and fell in love with his work. Creating off the already created, as most art is. The scenic wonders atop, inside, and around books excite the mind of our past, present and future. Books are a more recent public institution of our society in comparison to primitive times when humans communicated with their immediate surroundings. Laramee speaks of bringing us into this thick "cloud of unknowing," and his work lingers in a hazy wonderment and leads to thoughts of nameless existence.

Every summer my family and I spend time in the Keweenaw Peninsula. Aunt Angela and Uncle Chuck bought the Quincy Hill House back in the 70's. It belonged to the former Quincy Mine's head master. The house is believed to be haunted and as an eerie essence that feels like it's stuck in the 1800's. My cousin Mimi, the oldest of 10 children from Angela and Chuck, invited me over to the Quincy for a telling of the Quincy Hill House story. Most relatives and locales are freaked out by the house because of some paranormal happenings. I've always been enchanted with it. So of course I had to go. The story never gets old. The basement and the attic are two places that no one goes alone. I however didn't want to wait around from someone to go into the basement with me so I just went. I also wanted to see how long I could stay down there till the chills came. This is entrance to the basement. It's is believed that back in the day there use to be an un