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.... 

. 

the metaphorical house

 MY STORY AND MINE ALONE.

Everything good around you always has a price. 

The undeniable truth of this all is, no matter how gold and green the situation looks on the outside there is always some sort of dark twisted karma that has been brewing behind the sparking lights. I hate to say I was lucky in this situation, that the years of older men playing with my pigtails trained me to not trust men in suits, or father figures, or people who pretend to be your friend. 

I understand my existence and the space it takes up and the undeniable sonder that every human holds. I'm not unique in any other way than the way my molecules take shape. I knew then what I know now, that I was just a girl. 

I caught the signs of a man trying to make my innocents into something more and I understood the game, my position, and all of the plays I needed to make in order to escape. I know I held faults and lost pawns between each move, but again. I was just a girl, who had been searching her whole existence for movie-type bullshit that created the idea that a girl could ever be loved past her worth.

 It started simple, like how all games did. We traded music, movies, and cereal. which became late-night talks over-caffeinated hearts and the dissection over my childhood trauma, relationships between past lovers, family members, and reasons why I never returned to the south. He used each piece I handed him in a way to build power, he used my desperate need to get out to keep me trapped in a position of need. In a metaphorical house with unlocked doors that held consequences. 

I stumbled on a tight rope existence between being a girl wanting out, waiting for a paycheck, and not wanting to create an unhealthy work environment. cause sometimes having a metaphorical house with unlocked doors is better than having a house with barred-up windows and stainless steel doors. 

I gave him everything he wanted, agreed to all the rules, and played his game, constantly strategizing in my stuck position. I was hopeless at certain points of the game, surrounded by people who worship his every move and praised him for the empty acknowledgment he brought them. but in certain settings, I found hope, in people who felt the advantages he was taking. The first time was when a friend gave me a pocket knife after meeting the owner of the metaphorical house. the second being the time a customer joked about getting me help. the third when a blonde stumbled in asking me my age and if I felt comfortable in the metaphorical house. yet the hope was empty, the pocket knife couldn't protect me, the customer never figured out the punch line to the joke and the blonde never came back to check back in on the condition of the house. And the terms and conditions he wrote me regarding the relationship between a minor and an adult didn't even shock the professional I trusted with my secrets. the whole world was blindsided and took sanctuary in rose-colored glasses that kept them safe. 

The thought process between staying in the game: pedophilia in my study, is a habit, a need, urge, an uncontrollable want. and falls along with the same idea of any addiction. if he wasn't using me for his urge or a daily dose of fucking with kids, he was going to do it to someone else. So I stayed, long enough to find out, that my heroine existence wasn't strong enough to keep him captivated by only me. In which I knew the game had to end.

I started to bring friends to the shop to prevent any misconduct. but only introduced him to more kids who fascinated his interest. I began to watch him use and manipulate other women in the scene to profit use and discard. I felt disgusting and just as responsible as him for not forcefully ripping off their rose-colored glasses and showing them the unlocked doors before they held consequences. But I was too late. the coffee had gone cold and the muffins had all rotten. so I ended the game and left the metaphorical house and accepted the consequences. 

I don't think getting out was cowardly, just never warning the people who bathed his feet. I knew they were good people with extremely large hearts but I was unsure of the devotion they held for him and if id just is considered another girl from the art scene making a big deal about something nobody would care to hear. But here I am.  Allowing the world to make a decision on where their devotion lies, with a man who counted down the days till my 18th birthday. 

dollar coffee

I sleep on crumble pieces of paper, marking my existence

the first girl I ever wrote about asks me to do it again

I contemplate all the memories of her, that I kept track of in a scrapbook long before she knew of my existence

when she was just a girl stumbling around the halls of empty elementary

fast forward 3 years and she is a tween crying in my bathroom

and for the first time, it feels as if there is a person in my hallow home.

I am decorated in pearls and a goodwill dress sewen to the fitting of my first homecoming and the dress has riped in my attempt to get low enough to hear her.

 I pull out a pen-soaked journal and my forbidden mouth reads the embarrassing lines between a poet and an emerging teen with a learning disability. and she is laughing. 

starstruck with the embarrassment of admitting the feeling of pain and my romanticism that surrounds it.

There's a type of resentment I feel or guilt for being the girl who lit the first cigarette or introduced her to a new type of healing that surrounds chaos and self-harm. Or the fact that I allowed her to resign there years after.  Using her as an example of my good doing and a constant reminder of who I once was or who I wanted to be.

we are both merging adults now and I watch the chaos pour out of her like damn that had been filled past capacity, the citizens running for shelter and the self-proclaimed mental reevaluating themselves. Her boots are pulled up past her caff and her hair is ever so changing.  from motorcyclist, road rage, consuming music, last-minute business ideas, and are plans of getting out. I always self-proclaim as a girl who always changing, yet I still find us sitting on the empty porch guzzling cigarettes and dollar coffee, asking the sky when will are adrenaline rush starts to feel like a rush again and less like our Sunday mornings. 

 

Francesca Kula

Arresting the emotion is one of the hardest criminals to catch. Always shapeshifting and becoming whatever the viewer deems innocent or guilty. We seem to have lacked understanding of the simplicity and force-feed our emotions onto art. But behind every great work, there is an artist, a person, a whole living creature just as complex and their art becomes the stories they fail to tell with words. 

I first meet Francesca in broken-down physics class. She was the introduction of beauty and brains and completely broke my black and white thinking. That some people are born all brain-like and successful. while others are made of mog-pog glue and emotions too deep to conceive. Francesca was different, the calculated form of art mixed with dark thoughts she kept stuffed in her portfolio. She captured every moment she could and made the forgotten homes in the hallowed city, more than just a place I go when I have nothing left. The houses before her arrival were never less beautiful, The structure never changed and the light never stopped flicking. She didn't shapeshift the story into a different reality or make it look better than they actually did. She captured it in the way they were. Allowing the emotions of still objects to liquified in her art. 

History is often overlooked and the memories we hold pass just as fast as they were created. But every now and then there comes someone great, a person built to not only tell their story but to give us the sense of nostalgia we have lost and remind us of all the beautiful parts of life. Francesca Kula, the time-traveling
photographer dancer is without a doubt one of the Greats 

-katbird02

short shit films

 

Dull Ziplock

CLick tHe iMaGe 

click for the short film