statistical statist

There are ways in which we become a product of our reality, are sponge-like child brains absorb the world around us for inspiration. Leaking segments of our reality and turning them into unique perceptions.  

The first time I was knowable acknowledged for my childhood traumatic endeavors. the south lisped surrounded the idea that he acted the way he did because something bad must have happened to him. And the prosecutor became the symbolic version of a victim. 

Generations of abuse and neglect for acknowledgment made me question if I too would hold the same virtue. Grow up to be the type of person who hurt for the purpose of hurting. There is a type of loneliness and hatred for oneself when you discover that your very hands could be the same hands to hurt someone else. and how do you prevent yourself from being a satistical statist?

to better explain what I'm trying to figure out.... every time you watch a true crime episode they litter the abuser's childhood to help you better connect with them. they make you view the person as not all evil and more so a product of their reality. but how does a person with a similar background not become them?

This would be my biggest fear. I know as a human, I cannot be born all good. there are parts of me id admittedly state as toxic and sinful. There are things I've done for the betterment of myself and the downfall of others.  I've been selfish ad unmanaged. and in these times when I'm completely still, I ponder my thought of life and how I may slip into this statistic. as a child and my many failed attempts to prove to my family about the abuse, I was experiencing and the denial they gave me. I began to view the world as a fictional challenge. something where everything was made up. So id sits quietly, legs crossed until the historical trauma would creep into my feet, and my head would explode with realization. Sobbing to my mother to make the cycle stop.

I cant give you a complete answer on how not to become a statistic, I can only explain that you have willpower. and the only solution I have found is solitude.

katbird02 

Hiding under a peach

 hey so... I'm a sneaky bitch. I stopped writing publicly for the past 6 months cause I switched over to a more personal and underground blog format.. and today I've decided to choose a couple posts and discuss them. Maybe cause I'm bored.. maybe cause I wanna do something for myself. 

disclaimer: since it's been a year, I've decided to remind all of you readers.. that I don't do this for you... so my grammar and spelling errors will not be adjusted.. and none of this will make sense. 

Okay also.. all of these are very cringe but I'm a person and I'm being open about my views. so whatever..

WELCOME TO PEACH

basically- I was depressed. just joking.. To be honest, even as badly as I treated my body growing up, I had never really experienced ongoing illness or had been so stressed that my body invented one. And I think that this day was the first time I really realized I couldn't keep treating my body like shit. As much of a yoga mom, I sound like... It fucking terrified me to my core. And I think that I had reached a point where I was so tired and exhausted I couldn't get through the day without telling myself it was fake and I was actually having a bad dream. I don't know, as cringe as this post was, I think it was a good observation of what I considered my life at that point. 

This entree is a repetition in all of my writting. the idea of this cycle of grief that keeps giving and how lonely it is to watch yourself lose feeling for things you loved over time and become so unsure of yourself.  I also think this relates a lot to the song "stone" by Born without bones but from the empty person's perspective. idk as a person in a clock-work society, I feared becoming robotic and a southern stereotype as I started losing myself to routines. 

Okay, so this one is my absolute favorite. I remember that even as messy and unmanaged the situation was I still thought it was utterly beautiful. and that's all I have to say. 

thank you for coming out tonight.. I hope you enjoyed the performance. I don't really care though if you didn't. -katbird02

December 7th 2021 drafted

 I haven't written in a while since my fingers froze cold. It's funny how all the things you love can turn up empty. I used to think I was gifted in that way, in which I could shut off myself to existence. shapeshift me into a new person. I use to refer to all of myself in the third person, each experience that was too heavy to deal with got stuck with an old version of myself. But things will continue to happen and there will be less of me than there was in the morning. 

I didn't understand the issue at first. when things happened it was all slow, targeted issues. I first forgot my oldest brother and left the smallest version of myself with him. I called it grieving while alive. I left my mother, and my father and signed their names to all the traumatic instances they could have prevented. Yet how do you escape a whole society? everybody surrounding you just sitting and watching you trying to pull yourself out of quicksand, how impossible it is not to blame them.

At first, I thought I was tired, grown out of old friendships, effects of time, and the lack thereof. But no, the truth of the matter was I desperately wanted to want them, yet couldn't forgive them for what they have done. 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Okay so I wrote this a while ago, and I think it kinda explains a section of my last entree better. 

I mean what I'm trying to say is that after lawn gnome I was in a horrible position and I couldn't separate the people I cared for from the situation (which is an ongoing issue in my persona). And with the mention of the wounded person, I was attempting to describe how it felt personal for leaving everyone. Like I had sabotaged myself and then painted this idea of strength for getting out of that town. 

Girl, Interpreted

 Today, I have decided to write again. 

A poet once said that a wounded person does not crave a bottle, a cigarette, or a pipe full of addiction but rather the need and urge to be hurt again. We become so consumed in the idea of the pain that we ache for the next spill of blood,  and I don't particularly think the wounded person is seeking this for the pain itself but for what comes after. or what I like to call a false sense of "freedom", a position of being so far gone there is nothing left to do but live for yourself. 

"You think you're free? I'm free! You don't know what freedom is! I'm free! I can breathe! And you... you're gonna choke on your average fucking mediocre life!"-Lisa  (girl, interrupted 1999) 

I remember as a middle schooler this quote had a chokehold on my personality. I looked at my life in front of me and the cursive carved pain and thought- that even as unhinged this character was- and even the irony that shaped this quote. I thought it was the perfect definition of "strength/willpower". and I lived by it, thought my ability to move on as quickly as I built something made me more of a person. I ran through people differently than most and became so close just to disappear completely. I thought I was smart, able to read the person before they even understand themselves. I'm not internally sure if I ever was.

Today, I have decided to write again.

I've decided to write again because I had forgotten about individuality. Became the type of serotype I hated. The type of person too afraid to let go, the uncertainty in their ability to be only their own. and even though I don't believe there is any more freedom in loneliness, I do believe that it allows you to understand that there are bones in your wrist and that those bones have the ability to move and with the motion, you have the ability to live. Not just for your person, your mom, your friends, and your family. But completely for yourself. 

The poet wasn't wrong. And even though it paints a shitty portrait of myself. It got me far enough to build things, even if I left them. It allowed me to dance to old music in a motel. It allowed me to want to break a stereotype. It protected me when I need protection and was done completely for myself. You may call me unfiltered words to comfort you in abandonment or hatred for your loneliness. But I will continue to thank you for the memories you allowed me to take up space in. 

-papercutkneecaps/teddy/chip/hannah

-I always read the title of the movie "Girl, Interrupted" as "Girl, Interpreted" and I think it's more fitting. To be interrupted is to be stopped, to lose motion. To be interpreted is to think about the theory of who we are. The character didn't stop living because her shit hit the wall, she just started realizing why. - 

anyways thank you for reading.. not sure if yall wanted me back... but idc im back. also none of my writting ever makes sense 

college

 two hours away. 

we use to call every-night when we were only a 5 minute car ride away. 

now there is no telephones that reach your lines and the faces of the people I pass in my new town hold no memory for you.

they said leaving was scary, but it wasn't. leaving was the easiest part. I have become so use to goodbyes, I turned my self into a mortician, dancing over empty memories and justifying the reasons they had to go. the scary part, was the realization, that nothing had actually changed. the empty side of your brain that kept you from living kept going. and you were. still just as alone as you were the night before. 

try- dear and the headlights 

"Thought a change of scenery would make me feel better

Moved four hundred miles away, I'm still staring at the floor

And feeling useless as a mime in a counseling session

Here's a million mute expressions,

Here's the one where I choke on my words"

baker

 she became tired of picking up the phone. pretended she had answered it and fell asleep with the buzzing noise of the micro bugs living inside of her electronics. He fell asleep. always in loud places. near the train across town, across roads, cities and the bakery that never sliced their bread. 

the baker like everything put together. he had gotten so use to everything falling apart he took pride in the things he could keep together. he enjoyed the company of the boy who fell asleep to loud noises because he never split the pieces up, he just sat with his knife and fork waiting for the courage to tear something apart but never could. The girl on the other hand, the one who had bugs living in her phone, tore through each piece, slaughtering the molecules and crumbling the dough that had taken its whole life to rise and form into shape. The baker didn't like this. She was unkempt and unmanaged. she tore things apart unfazed by the art before her. 

yet the two customers, the boy and girl, always sat apart. watched each other in solitude. She hated his patience and he despised her gluttony. And in spite, the girl decided to take the boy patiently, allow him to be just who he is, accept the unsliced bread, the art and all the needs that allowed him to rise within the heat of the oven. allowed him to be fazed by the sound of the baker's timer ringing off the walls that made his eyes heavy with sleep. 

but the boy took the girl as she took her bread, unmanaged, disoriented, picked up the pieces of her breaded existence and crumbled them in his fist. allowed the flies and insects to snack on the scatter crumbs 

and the baker watched. everything come together and fall apart. if only they had stayed, towns, cross roads, cities and bakeries away from each other. 

idk what this is, im tired and confused and have been eating alot of bread... hope you enjoy

katbird

Dirty Girl

 my computer is creeping onto death, and the files hold untitled documents that eats up my existing space.

I stopped writing or speaking out-loud

I became aware of my existence, and I really cared. 

I took pride before, for being unkept, unmanageable, and nothing but my own.

but there are women on the streets, each starting to look a lot like me, or me like them. 

and I can't comprehend anything.

I must have been somebody else the day before.

woken up in the same body but confronted with my own self. 

changed my name enough times to out run what ever part of me was being dissected by people who swore to love me more then god himself. 

but at some point you have to stop.

the joke has gone to far

and there is nothing left to cover up what is already happening 

the name has already been used, wrangled, and hung up to dry.

Im not sure what I'm trying to say anymore. my father told me to forget, that its been a month, I should be better, moved on. happy even. yet I can't help tripping over the shoelaces he never taught me how to tie. and now I'm stranded with centuries and story's of knots that eat away at the eroding chord.

not a poem, just notes

the kindest thing I almost did.

In honor of your life, I will put my stubbornness to bed and write you the final letters.

my almost friend,

you never wrote me that letter, I waited two months after, fumbled through the mail and all the ways I went wrong, searching for any sign of you. but I was too hard headed to ever talk to you first. 

The day you died  I carried a worry stone around in my pocket, I miscounted the signs of misfortune on another friend and uncontrollably lost myself to what my mother claims to be the effect of the full moon. but my body knew. all of me knew somewhere deep down, stuffed between boxes and mix match socks, you were growing smaller into the shape of a quiet mouse, becoming something within my bones and disappearing completely. and all I hold is the voice echoing the words promising me your forever. if only we knew your forever would be too many years too soon. 

The psychic told me your state was calling my name and I planned my future accordingly. I'd like to introduce myself under a new name, something unexpected. I hitchhiked 1,412 miles to that gloomy state. visit the field of flowers you laid to rest in and watch magicians blow bubbles of hot melting glass into the air. or maybe I would have gone to that college, studied art history and opened up my gallery, but I depended on you, or somebody to give me some sort of hope for the future, but you lost yours completely and I hate you for that. so I won't introduce myself with a new name, I will crash all the cars and graffiti all the trains I hop on my way to where you used to be. I will stomp on your beautiful flower field and smash the hot glass on the floor and watch everything I hope for melt into the ground. because you, gifted me an abundance amount of grief that will continue to keep giving and I will give you nothing but a haft ass obituary asking you why you couldn't undo fate. 

but my almost friend, 

the sweet innocent awaking of everything good in the world, I won't say you were my first, to be taken from a world were you almost had the chance to survive in. only that you will be remembered, over and over again and it will continue to hurt until it becomes nothing but happiness for the moments  you allowed me to share with you. so I am sorry, that it will take time and I will blame you for the thing you couldn't control, and I know this final letter is filled with disrespect, yet I am so fucking mad at this universe for only gifting me this gluttony of grief. that will continue to eat until my wrist begins to shake from the weight of the fork I do not want to bear. 

Dear Almost Friend,

I promise you forever, if you want it too.Thank you. I'm sorry that I almost got the chance to say goodbye. My failed potential friend. 

Your truly,

Hannah-kathryn Whitney 

Bianca phipps- almost

the hopeless romantic is a stalker

I've found myself sleeping backwards, the ends of me resting where the starts of me use to. the bed is fully made, sheets tucked in the same place since the last load of laundry. I've convinced myself thinking completely still is the same as sleeping, and so every night the recorder play thoughts began to spin but I do not cave into the temptation of rest. this time its different tho, its going backwards and the window is completely open. because if he's going to watch me topple and fold on the made bed, I must be able to see him. if there is a creature in the closet, by my door, under the chair, I want them to be as scared as me. 

being watched is something I've grown used to. a poet once said something critical along the lines, "that if you are the type of girl people wanna look at let them look", I know the statement was a metaphor or some sarcastic joke were the punch line is abuse. but after years of being followed, chased, and observed I grew incredible tired of trying to hide my identity in the dark crevices of the world. I still continue to change my name out of habit. remember the cars that park at the grocery store and by my house. He's name was always changing to, never the same guy either. a part of me wished it was one, or at least someone I could prepare for. He came into my work a few times, followed me down the aisles and observed the tangles in the back of my hair and the cracking of knee caps. I liked to think it was tortuous to him, always having to be hiding in the same ways I was. the other versions of him were not so great, one was a women and her husband. they eyed me down in the art aisles and quietly watch me everyday, using there daughter as away of interactions, as the unknown child id never meet before in my life screamed my name up in down the aisles, jumping and grabbing on my limbs. I never learned what they wanted. 

                                                                

others threaten my life, called me from unknown numbers and watched me sleep as they sat on my window seal in which they deemed poetic. it wasn't strange, being a child of the internet, interactions like this began in 2014 and become a side affect of existing once I entered high school. I came to my mother once, in which the evidence of my fear meant nothing until it was too late, like how it always did. the psychics of the city claimed to be a default of my energy, as if the universe gifted me some sort of "asking for it" aura. so I prepare, for the next after this one, and I will not apologize for how I choice to deal with it. 

heyyyyoooo, first blog backkkk... a lot has benign going on and I decided after careful concatenation that I will not be disappearing with in myself... this blog post is based on a poems I wrote regarding the five men who stalked me and that wacko couple.. lol. I should have not been given kik or Tumblr as a little fuck. anyway--- little update.. I'm doing a little better, check out she-rants and I'm going to college soon, also I haven't downloaded grammerly on this computer yet so its probably incredible flawed.. but this was made for me and not you!!! hope your day is great and your breathe smells like dogsshit.

-katbird02 

last show.

 The clerk mistook me for an abused housewife. Placed in a dress surrounded by a color I despised. My arms star-speckled in bruises from the series of shows I misplaced myself in the nights, weeks, and months before. I stumbled into the Moreland house after a series of stubborn car alarms and failing engines. In which I meet the start of Fight the Vomits set, seasick and star-struck, missing belly button rings and the crashing sound of my already cracked up head meeting the concrete. didn't affect the rush of the gravel below us. 

I greeted strangers I meet before, shuffling make-believe names waiting for somebody to catch the inconsistent storyline. we danced, threw arms, bodies, and rocks into each other as if we defending our family's name. greeting each other with unexpected smiles in between each song. the strangers I've met who clashed and fist-fought sat in unholy matrimony on a color-changing bus. swaying in and out of conversations as commiserates setlist roared in the background. I observed each band enough times to know when to look up during the clashing of symbols and synonyms. enough times to feel a part of something more than a setlist. 

I consider myself the type of person who plans each step but found myself slipping off the color-changing bus before I even got the time to process the familiar song humming in the background, played by a band I had not yet had the chance to hear before. Pushing Pluto created a retrograde of sounds, spinning the songs of bands I thought I knew. creating a type of urge to keep pushing my insomniac legs as I shook the pins and needles out of my hair, neck, and kneecaps. I wish I could have experienced the type of environment Moreland Home provides long before cops and robbers decided to play a part in the evening. Wondering a series of car alarm thoughts surrounding if Id ever find a type of safe haven like this again. the series of different ways I could gather up crumbled change in order to keep it running. And if id ever be greeted with another full set performance by pushing pluto. 

hannah/teddy/katbird/smith/whoever

i fucking hate this dress... reminds me of farmers and cooking for people with bottomless stomachs. also heyyyy.. um kinda a review but also more of an observation of the environment... ummm... yeah.. idk if I'm gonna keep blogging ab this stuff, but this is for the two dudes dancing on the bus... goodnight.... 

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