i'm finding it hard coming back here.
not like last year.
last year i posted for over 300 days, according to my review. not bad. but not great, either. it's admirable being prolific, but it takes its toll, and detracts from other venues of creative self-expression.
is it wrong of me to say i love you, but wish i could be more?
i love hive, but it takes time and energy, which then surfaces frustration that feels like why am i not doing more of myself in other ways, in other places.
or maybe i'm just a little lost girl, just in general. maybe it's just a draught. not creatively, just for being here.
what's going on with me? year's started. year's ended. i'm still riding the coat-tails of my hopes and ideas.
just like last year.
i have some different ideas of who i'd like to be in 2026, and i'm trying to stick to it. drinking cocktails. mixing gin.
i don't mind having straight hair, but if it can be like pj harvey, it'd be best.
i found this little gem squirreled away inside the knock-off section in rough trade in london. i like all songs with my name on them, but invariably expect them to be about the cahterine. before i was born, i was a convergence of women that were only, in very small measure, saintly. afterwards, i came out, and turned out to be another sort of person, entirely.
do you take after the people whose names you carry?
mothers, don't strand your babies inside labyrinths forever.
i hear you never really know who you are properly, but you get older, and hopefully, you get better.
i'm so cold, let me in at your window. i'm more vengeful, obsessive ghost than i am saint. suppose why my name always came more from emily bronte's melancholic fantasy deep in the english moors than from any bible story. you ask me, this catherine of sienna, if she had proper character, woulda come back and haunted poor maxentius' ass.
haunt me, drive me mad, just don't leave me.
the question of love.
not like last year.
not named for. not even known be-fore. but such is life. sometimes children introduce you to men who sang your child's name when they were still only tiny, brittle things. was i brittle at 8? i remember being taller than the boys in my class already. being too smart for my own good, falling on my nose. disturbing class. bleeding into the christmas play.
not yet haunting.
not yet sienna-proud.
în orleans a fost catrin
when i hear this man sing my name, it almost makes me drop an 'a'. i left elementary school, and the principal wrote in my yearbook i was much to the credit of my christening much like a hurricane, and should go onward as such.
is it awkward being a hurricane when you're supposed to be a girl? my mother's perfume still clings to my sweater. i'm still a child, with a matron's name. am i hungry to unravel my own name? not more than any of you.
at least, i remember tuesdays. that is not nothing. hi, 
