Tag: creative nonfiction

December 21st. Happy 13th blog anniversary.

~ Catherine ~ 1 Comment

December 21st, 2012 was supposed to be the end of everything. That’s what people said back then, anyway. The end of the world, the end of a cycle, something final. I remember the mood around it, that strange mix of unease and freedom. And I remember thinking that if everything really was about to end, then I didn’t have much to lose. That was the thought that led me to start this blog on that exact day.

I didn’t know what it would become. I didn’t even know what I wanted from it. I just knew I needed a place. Somewhere words could land without being rushed. Somewhere I could return to, again and again, without having to explain myself.

Over the years I tried other platforms. Some I left because they got too loud, some because they stopped feeling right, some because I simply lost interest. This one stayed. I never really questioned that. It feels strange to even write it now, but it’s true.

I was curious today. I always loo at the stats on the anniversary of the blog. And what stood out was music. Song reviews, album notes, listening posts. Those were the things that surfaced first this year.
(If you’re curious: Antimatter, Sivert Høyem, Weather Systems.)

That sent me back to the beginning. Because it started like that. Mostly music. Things I listened to obsessively. Notes written quickly, without much distance. Those early posts aren’t here anymore, but the rhythm is. Music first. Words following.

There is a lot of poetry on this blog now. Probably more than anything else. It almost overfills the place at times. But the music is scattered. Tucked in between. And that still seems to be how people arrive. They come for a song, an album, a listening note, and then sometimes they wander off somewhere else. Or they stay. I don’t always know which, and I don’t mind not knowing. That’s a lie, I would love to know, but as I said yesterday, the blog doesn’t invite comments or thoughts, not by design or desire, but because the posts don’t demand anything from the readers. I consider myself to be a poet, a writer if you will. The fact that not one poem appears in the top 10 most read posts this year feels weird, at the same time it tells me that what I share about music is just as valuable if not more, than the poems, the opinions or the short stories. And there are also the pages people keep opening every year, discreetly. I notice that. I like noticing that.
(about me • books)

And somehow, all of the above keeps circling back to the day it began on. Going back to the start.

December 21st is the shortest day of the year. Winter solstice. The darkest day. And the turning point. Nothing changes visibly, and yet from here on, the light comes back. Slowly. I never noticed how true it is for me too. I don’t believe in coincidences. It had to be this way.

The blog changed. I changed. The voice shifted, the urgency softened. The staying didn’t. Thirteen years is a long time to keep showing up to the same place. I only really notice that when I stop showing up or when I question myself too much.

Thank you for reading, for finding this space, for following a song or a sentence and letting it lead you somewhere else.

For we are all listening to the sun.

Sea sick or World sick?

~ Catherine ~ Leave a comment

I’m lying here in the dark, with the rain and wind knocking at the window, asking to be let in. My head’s spinning, and I can’t tell if it’s a stomach bug, a migraine, or something else entirely. The dizziness makes everything feel like a blur, like being seasick but with nowhere to steady myself. Maybe I’m world sick.

Tears slide down my face quietly, more out of frustration than anything else. Frustrated that my body has decided it’s not up to the task today. When I close my eyes, strange images drift in and out—a man I don’t know, a man who isn’t mine but whose presence feels comforting, as if our souls are shared dust. And then another image—a blade against my skin. No cut, no blood; just an echo of past pain. These thoughts don’t belong together, but they linger in the dark, fragments of something I can’t quite piece together. I wonder if the dizziness brought them on, blurring my thoughts the same way it’s blurring my senses.

And then, like an anchor, my sister-in-law’s words float to the surface: You’ve been longer with my brother than without. She’s right, and I feel a flicker of pride in that thought. I’m still here, beside a man I love deeply, weathering whatever comes our way. Even on days like this, when everything feels unsteady, I hold onto that, as if it could keep me grounded.

Outside, a sliver of daylight is creeping in, outlining the shape of the lamp above me. I don’t dare move. The world is already spinning enough. But maybe if I just close my eyes and empty my mind, I can drift off and let sleep take me. Maybe my body knows what it needs, and I just need to give it space to heal itself.

For now, I’ll surrender to the quiet, trusting that the storm will pass, and I’ll find solid ground again. Not sea sick, not world sick, just here. Breathing in the new morning air.