April 16th, 2014

Sometimes, you just want to hand a bottle back and forth with someone, with the lights low, feet brushing against each other, as you sit on the floor. You want to read paragraphs aloud from philosophy books, and smile. You want to kiss their neck, just behind their ear. Their cheek just southwest of their eye. You want to whisper french terms of endearment. You want to tell them about the last time you cut yourself, or accidentally looked down to find blood from a scratch on your knuckle. 

You want to play the music a little too loud. You want to whisper the lyrics. You want to lose sleep. You want to cry a bit, from laughing so hard. You want to not touch at all except for fingertips. You want to dance, throwing your arms around, your hair a mess. Collapse with joy etched on your face. 

You want to lift the bottle up to your mouth and notice them watching your lips. You want them to want. You want to want. You want to mourn the 30 degree drop in temperature, and the week ahead. You want to tell them what you fear the most.

But most of all, you want to get drunk off the taste of them. Lips on lips. Drunk off the night, and the whiskey. The secrets, the laughter. Drunk off the idea that you didn’t have to be anything other than yourself. 

April 14th, 2014

Sometimes, I forget that I am young. 
I forget that I have only been blessed with a quarter of a century. 
I forget that mistakes are part of trying.
I forget that fear is motivation, not food for anxiety.
I forget that friendship takes kindness, and openness. 
I need to forget those who have made me less kind and less open.
I forget the way a first kiss feels. 
I forget to smile sometimes. 
I forget what it’s like to be wooed, except by myself.
I forget that it’s better to woo yourself than to expect others to do it for you.
I forget how to give a genuine hug to someone other than my mother and my father. Because I’m fearful others won’t return it. 
I forget the sound of my first boyfriend’s voice. 
I forget to eat well.
I forget to make eye contact, retail has killed a friendlier version of myself.
I forget not to stand tall and act like I don’t care, because of how I was approached when I cared. 
I forget that kindness and courage can go hand in hand.
I forget who I was when I was 19. 
I forget what it looks like when someone wants to be your friend.
I forget because I remember that no one can change my life, only I can. 
I remember these wonderful women who have looked me in the eye, and told me good, and kind words. Strong words.
I forget that each day is a blessing. That each day is what I make it. That each day belongs to me and me alone. 

I forget. 
I’m going to forget forgetting and start remembering. 

April 3rd, 2014

You can’t save ‘em all, Katharine. 

March 29th, 2014

I am prickly and mean when I have to stand up to your love. I feel like you are demanding that I cut off my hand so you always have someone holding yours. I think that you keep telling me I’m wrong because you are, and you never like admitting when you’re wrong.

I know you like to have me there, until I’m not, and the reasons I leave you punish me for. I’ve poured my love and my time into you, and I’m emptying out quickly because you haven’t poured anything of sustenance back into me. I went out on a ledge and told you that I wanted to cultivate and nurture myself so that I am the person I was when we first met, instead of this hesitant version of myself, this fearful version of myself.

I feel like a cactus that you get frustrated with because you assume I am too hearty to die, you justify that you’ve put me in a room that gets sun. You put up curtains to block out the direct light, and you water me too much some times, and very very little others,  both times with murky water. You keep the windows closed. I ache for full sun, not drowning in your attention or starving for your support. There is a difference, you know.

If I stay I know I’ll continue wilting. My base will become weak and wobbly. I’ve been asking for more, and you refuse to acknowledge that my needs are based in my experiences, and not experience. The difference in the lives we have led, and want to lead are becoming more apparent. Companionship is a word you seem to think I don’t understand.

It’s breaking a beautiful rare part of me that you uncovered to know that if things don’t change, this will be all over before we even really had a chance. But, I suppose we’d both have to admit we need change, and you aren’t really doing that, are you?

March 15th, 2014

people change over time, no one can help it. 
we all try to hold tight to how we make each other feel, 
but we forget names, and feelings.
We forget shared moments.
Struggling to reconnect we realize that one party feels one way,
and the other never will again. 

Shouts, hollers, prodding.
It’s all different now.
It almost is like it never happened. 

They weren’t them,
you weren’t you.

now. you just sigh.
deep aching, sighs.
and remember,
tomorrow will bring bright and shiny newness. 

package still intact, hard to pry open,
we have a new chance. 
just remember to be forgiving, 
to yourself and others. 

February 28th, 2014

I am round where others are flat, flat where others are round. 
I have rough skin on the bottoms of my feet, soft skin on the backs of my knees.
I have freckles, marks, scars and bruises. I breath deep gulps of air. 
I am not like anyone before or anyone who is to come, other than our ends.
I have no reason to compare myself to others.
Not the rounding of my thighs, or the set of my eyes. 
Not my train of thought, nor the way my hands flutter through the air when I talk. 
These are possessions that are unconditionally mine.
I didn’t have to pay for them, I didn’t have to bargain, haggle and scrimp for them.
I didn’t have to pine after them on the pages of magazines. 
Nor desire them from the pages of books. 
My eyes do not see them elsewhere.
I do somethings better than others, I do many things worse than others.
I need not compare my talents to others. 
I need not compare accomplishments or failures of  others to my accomplishments and failures.
So, my curves, my imperfections, are not imperfect. 
I am perfect. I am a perfect me. 
Me. 
Selfish, perhaps. 
However, I have to repeat these words each time I feel the doubt and fear creeping in. 
I am a perfect me.  

You
Reading this right now, you are the perfect you.
The set of your eyes, the hitch of your stride.
The scars you have or don’t have.
You are the perfect you. 
Relish in your perfection, often. 
Praise your perfection. 
Worship your soft, your rough.
The curve, the hollow, the point, the flat.  
Let’s agree you are perfect, I am perfect.
Live in your perfection. 
Stop comparisons. 
Start self praise. 

I am a perfect me. 

-Kat Keegan March 12th, 2012

From the past, re-reading my writing, which is making my heart a little lighter.

Reblogged from That Kind Of Woman
February 26th, 2014

It’s been a little over 10 weeks since I decided to meet my best girl Sarah for a drink at one of the private bars in our town, and when I was permitted to enter I was maneuvered to sit next to a giant smiling man with large rough hands. A man I had actively avoided and disliked for 2 months previous. Forced to allow him to pay for my drink, as non member I was not permitted to pay, I gave him a chance. My posture was relaxed but not welcomingly pointed in his direction. I ordered a double Jameson on the rocks, which his good friends have since told me is the moment he further fell for me. We talked, he made me laugh then we parted ways, but not before I had taken his phone and programed my number in it, telling him he wouldn’t spell my name right.

I yelled at Sarah profusely in her apartment why she had tricked me into sitting with him. She’d been smiling the whole time, because this handsome knucklehead of a man was loud, and ineloquent, but he was charming and warm. Needless to say I ignored him the rest of the night until he asked me where I was, I told him to meet me at my favorite haunt in town, the pub.

The pub, funnily enough was the place I had originally seen him and given him a cold shoulder after kicking his ass off the pool table. We ended up spending the entire night together, laughing and talking. He telling me that for the past two months he’d noticed me and tried without success to strike up a conversation with me. I covered my face and laughed at this tale. I’d always been drawn to him, a tall broad shouldered man with a brooding and unconventionally handsome face. 

Mike. Good lord in heaven above knew that I was as far away from meeting someone as I’d been in years. As you may have read in my past posts, I am in a transitional period where my selfishness is warranted. Or at least excusable… barely.

So, it’s been a topsy turvy ride. I have, admittedly been “play acting” at relationships my entire life. Okay, maybe not play acting, but comparatively to the past 10 weeks every other interaction I have ever had with a man has been with training wheels. 

I’ve loved before, but never have I ever felt the way I do about this big scarred man that has found his way to me. And never has another human being been more of a stranger to me than him. He’s a big goofball, he makes crude jokes that I reprimand him for, and he’s distracted constantly. Eight years my senior, I find myself more mature in some ways and extremely naive in others. 

I’m discovering what it means to partner in things, intimate and otherwise. I am learning to accept the things I originally scoffed at him for, like his compliments when I wake bleary eyed with bad breath in the morning. Or to snort at his attempts at romance, he usually just exhales his sentimental statements like a sprinter after a dash. As if I’m supposed to know what he feels and thinks. 

His voice is deep, and his laugh booming. He carries many scars inside and out, I am continually finding scraps and raised tissue on his face and hands. His hair always sticks up, and he smells like comfort and summer.

I think he’s the first guy who knocks me down on my ass only to encourage me tenfold to get up and fight harder. He’s not at all menswear savvy, or “hip”, but he can build a bar & restaurant up from destruction, make me a quiche from scratch and he puts up with my horrible jokes. He’s nearly my exact opposite, but all together familiar. 

He talks years down the line, and I can barely see into next week. So, here’s to 10ish weeks already having past, and everyday when he accepts my mistakes, and I support him through his. Because god knows, I’d always rather be laughing about something than crying. 

February 22nd, 2014

My life… recently..

Still living in rural PA, still working full time in Old City Philadelphia as an Assistant store manager. Still seeing Mike, which means splitting “off” time in Jim Thorpe.

Coming to NYC tomorrow for Capsule and a couple other women’s market week shows. It’ll be my first hands on buying experience as an assistant buyer and I am pretty excited. 

Also, in other news, I was recently given another position under Quaker City Mercantile / Art in the Age. I was appointed the social media community manager for AITA’s sister company Tamworth Lyceum & Distillery. Very exciting, as you may or may not know Social Media is something I truly enjoy and find challenging.

Also, I am looking into possibly making my summer into one that includes taking classes on carpentry, learning how to make and fix things ( thanks to having a boyfriend who can literally make or fix anything). Also gardening with my mother, which is something I dearly miss. 

No exaggeration, I have become mildly depressed (all of the emotions) due to the limiting activities that commuting, as well as this horrid season/weather have established in my schedule. Spring can not come soon enough in my opinion.  

Recently I’ve been  working on… well myself. I am realizing many things by settling down into a relationship. Mike is, well, nearly a decade older and his life is established in such a different way than mine. Mostly with our experiences. I am so optimistic and hopeful. I have nothing tying me down, no specific path. He keeps laughing when I jump from wanting to do one thing to another. It’s hard dating at a distance in the winter. We end up being very opinionated as to what works and what doesn’t for each of us.

I’ve also begun to realize that my independent nature is a wonderful and lovely thing, and in fact makes us both work towards expressing what we each need. Me in my alone time, and him in needing me to perhaps initiate texts and phone calls more often when we are apart.  

I need to be more productive. I need to stop just saying things and start doing them. I need to pull people closer to me rather than pushing them away as a means of protecting myself. 

Hmmm…. I need to write more often because my voice is rather scattered…. 

February 1st, 2014

sometimes, i think that a person can look at another person and peel back all the things that shut us off from others. that one person is able to lovingly part the armor way from our skin, from our fear, from our love, from our hate, from our self.

i think it’s love. not fondness, or love, or adoration, or pink little emoji hearts. it’s love, the manifestation of the ache and need to nurture. I want to peel away the layers of disdain you have for the world and pour a little love into you with my words of encouragement, of congratulation, of understanding. 

It’s not bought in jewels, or meals at fancy restaurants. it’s showing that person something you don’t share with others. 

i see the hurt in myself reflected in other people’s eyes. the doubt, the fidgeting . I see it reflected in wildly different colors. in reds and blues, in that beautiful charcoal grey that reminds me of salt, or sand. 

i want to hold you close. i want to make sure you’re okay. i want to feed you and wrap you up in a cloak of warmth. I want to make you laugh. I want you all to know I love you, from a far.

when i get too tipsy. when i’m near tears with frustration. when I panic, frozen and gut lurching. trying to convince myself it’s fine when it’s not. 

I love you. I love you. I love you. You strangers, you my love, you my friend, you my past, you my present, you my future. I fucking love you. and here’s the thing, i’m teaching myself not to need you to love me back. I just love you. 

January 22nd, 2014

I watch you a lot.

In the lovely bright light that comes in through the curtains in the living room as you sleep. Usually, lain across and half on top of me, only minutes after I chastised you about how you always fall asleep when we lay down in the afternoon. 

In the morning, I pause on my way back into the bedroom, in the doorway surveying you strewn across the bed onto my side.

I’ve never told you this but hate the color and pattern of your sheets, but you say they are soft. But, I want to say, the dark color detracts from the lovely hue of your skin. 

I watch you as you work, first in your rough paint and grime stained work pants and the loose fitting tee shirts. Now in dress pants and a button up behind the bar, smiling slightly and watching everyone else.

I watched you as we walked through the aisles of the lumber and electrical supply store we went to the first time I came to visit you. So confident and clear, your gaze falling upon me in an apologetic sort of smile because we were, essentially on our first date.

I watch you when we sit at the kitchen table and you load your plate with the dinner or breakfast I cook, knowing after your first bite you complimented still surprised I am a good cook.

I survey the broad strength of your shoulders. Your trim waist and powerful legs. I watch the lean masculine grace that manifests in the things you do.

Your face a comical expression when you catch me looking, taking note. A face that makes me laugh, because you aren’t really aware.

You aren’t aware that each time I watch you, I paint a picture in my mind, with feelings and songs. With words and gestures. So that I won’t forget, next week or next year, or maybe years down the line the small things that you do that make me wonder how you came into my life. 

January 19th, 2014
Can you explain your love / hate relationship to Frances Ha?
Anonymous

I love it as a whole, this gorgeously captured honest interpretation of friendship and life as a 20 something in New York CIty. 

I think I hate it because I honestly feel exposed as an awkward self centered friend, one that doesn’t handle bad times well, as Frances is the epitome of it.

I, about 9 months ago, was deeply in love with a friend. Much like Frances and Sophie are/were in the beginning of the movie. Their friendship becomes strained when Frances’s love for Sophie gets challenged by her jealousy of Patch, and Sophie’s evolution into a women more dependent on an adult stable life. 

Frances bounces to a new friend group, her dreams of becoming a successful dancer are trumped and she’s living with two men who are boys, one harboring a crush for her who she deems as just a friend, and another who is a revolving door of casual sexual encounters, who she becomes slightly impatient living with because they have money coming from other sources, while she struggles. 

The symbolism is beautiful, her arrival and departure from Sacramento with her family. The actual holiday that she is having, and the mental holiday she has until that moment in the bathtub when her mother prompts:

"Frances, how much longer?"

Her return shows her returning to new York trying to again transfer her love and goofiness onto another person. Again at the dinner party she passively aggressively bashes and praises Sophie, and her similarities to her. While in fact she feels more separated from her than ever. 

"I think I’m better looking then when I am in pictures." A guy prompts our understanding that the party has turned in to one we’ve all had were we share our own insecurities and yet keep bragging all at once. So Frances comes out with this brilliant drunken confession summarizing how romantic she is, how hopeful and bruised all at the same time.

"I want this one moment. It’s what I want in a relationship, which may explain why I’m single now, Ha, Ha. It’s kind of hard to… uh  It’s that thing when you’re with someone, and you love them and they know it, and they love you and you know it… but it’s a party… and you’re both talking to other people, and you’re laughing and shining… and you look across the room and catch each other’s eyes… but - but not because you’re possessive, or it’s precisely sexual… but because… that is your person in this life. And it’s funny and sad, but only because this life will end, and it’s this secret world that exists right there in public, unnoticed, that no one else knows about. It’s sort of like how they say that other dimensions exist all around us, but we don’t have the ability to perceive them. That’s - That’s what I want out of a relationship. Or just life, I guess."

Then just up and leaves. Runs into a overly dull vapid hip “pretty” girl and Benjamin, brags about a trip to Paris, and reading Proust. 

Flawed, and raw and awkward. You cringe for her, always running, falling. With crazy hair, and slightly masculine clothing. Going alone to Paris, and freaking out about it, because it’s reality and not romantic like she projected it to be, it’s lonely and awkward. Then Sophie contacts her in a sad misalignment in timing. Apologies and communication, but not full truths as both of them make sad smiles and fidget. 

The awkward view of her seemingly perfect best friend’s relationship and life that she witnesses. Flaws again. But her compassion to a drunken angry friend. Late night confessing that relive the best times of their friendship. Their worst times. A future that we all know isn’t going to happen. 

A written apology. A dramatic and embarrassing chase scene. A return to the city, a revival in a happy and successful, and confident Frances. It all picks up so beautifully for her. Almost the entire movie represented in her chorepgraphy and the final performance where everyone comes together to see the success of Frances. 

"Who are you making eyes at?"

"That’s Sophie, my best friend."

Sorry, I am breaking down each painful and beautiful moment. Most if not all of my college career I spent it analyzing movies, breaking them all down to the small moments. So, when I watched Frances Ha, sitting with 4 other people, one of whom I just had starting working with in a new city, in a new job, in a lofted out warehouse in Fishtown, lonely but not. Comforted but not. Things so raw and familiar matched with a new experience myself. 

I love it all. The depressing feeling it brings to me, and the wounds it opens about myself. But I hate it all at the same time forcing me to see traits I have reflected in someone else. But, maybe that’s just a personal reflection of the first time I watched it. I watched it just this morning again before responding to you and see much more of the growth and determination of Frances. The beautiful ending where she learns to take a moment and breathe, to appreciate the small doorframe and the ever charming way we learn the source of our movie title. 

Anyway, that’s pretty much a perfect movie. It makes me feel, real feelings, ones that catch and hold onto you. Not just while your watching it. Like how we used to cram information into our heads before an exam and toss it out of our heads. I still can’t remember certain biology facts. But, I remember how subtly Frances became all herself. 

January 13th, 2014

I dance with my close friends. Wildly twirling our hands, hair a frenzy of motion. We grasp hands and spin. Stamp our bare feet on hardwood floors, carpets and tile. Dizzily smiling, sipping beverages, lit candles flickering light across the room. Music loud and unforgiving, like our laughter and shouts of encouragement. Fools in love with each other and the moments that pass. 

I love to dance, to hoot and holler, I love to stamp my feet, and shake my shoulders. I dip my hips, and bump my side against a friends, grasp hands, drunk on the fun of it. I seduce myself when I dance, confident that no one dances like me, because I make myself laugh and grin, pout and shout. Running, jumping, mad with style. Falling on the ground together near tears at the beauty and joy of it all. Then dragging ourselves up breathless to do it all again at the next song. Unforgiving on our bodies and each other, because the music will end and the dance will stop. 

So, which of you fine humans would like to dance with me?

January 10th, 2014

I told myself I’d start writing more often. That my words would hold me a float like a body of water, and would guide me to safe shores.

Writing for me is a cathartic experience. I usually shut myself away, with intent, and pour out my feelings. I twist and turn through each sentence landing on the words that feel the best. Feel. Writing for me is a feeling, it’s how I deduce exactly how I feel. 

Similar to how, off the cuff when you answer a difficult question, you realize something about yourself in the answer you give. Every time I write, I seem to peel away layers of myself.  I seem to give myself the best advice, and seem to verbalize a stronger version of myself. Words become a foundation of strength and understanding.

I don’t take as much time selecting my words when I speak, a flaw I freely admit. 

Very recently, I am vocalizing a lot of my weaknesses to the people who have been most affected by them. It is said that the first step is admitting things, problems. Now, I must really make the effort to be more sensitive to how I interact with people and use my words. I really need to write more. 

(Source: tkow.net)

December 10th, 2013

Dating has become…just, more. Probably because as serious as I took considering a relationship, dating needs to be slow and deliberate. It’s also even more than that.

It’s because of my food allergies, because honestly, it’s not just a dietary restriction, it’s a whole lifestyle change. Where am I going with this? Well, I recently started spending time with someone who is as hyperaware of my allergies as I have ever encountered in a man. He tells me his whole outlook on food is different now, he is in fact scared to death that someone like me can exist and be killed by a small accident in a kitchen or in a factory.  

Mostly, I am sure, because if he wants to kiss me, he can’t have dairy or shellfish or any of the other products or derivatives I am allergic too. 

This leads to a lot of questions. It leads to odd dates. When he originally asked me out, I dodged his invitations to breakfast, then lunch and finally dinner the night we hit it off. I always take a step back when a guy wants to get to know me and when we find each other attractive, I have to gauge whether a man will understand firstly what I am saying. Deathly allergic. Not an intolerance, or even swelling and some hives. Death. 

It’s almost like a test. The get it, or they don’t. They put in the effort, or they don’t. Simple as that.

Well, not simple. This poor man who is terrified, I repeat terrified of killing me, asks so many questions. Which is lovely, it makes me blush, and laugh. Because he really gets it. It being the day to day fear. The paralyzing fear that comes from simple cross contamination. Mixed up production lines, not thoroughly cleaned machinery. From a chef not paying attention for just one moment. 

He admitted that he eats out, all the time. That he’s a picky, healthy eater. That some of his favorite foods, would in fact kill me, and some of my favorite foods he hates. 

Dating isn’t just about my bruised heart, or my insecurities. It’s not just about the age difference, or our pasts. Or my penchant for cursing, or accidental burps as he makes me laugh after I finish a good beer he brought over for dinner. It’s the texts about how he was eating dried fruit, and saw the ingredients said it was manufactured in a facility with dairy. About what brands I can eat. Accidentally asking me out to dinner, than apologizing. Him telling me he didn’t eat his normal lunch because it could kill me if he wanted to be spontaneous if he saw me. 

Dating for me is obstacle after obstacle. Not just that 2 months ago, a tall handsome guy asked me to play pool and I shut his “charm” down and beat him mercilessly on the table. How one of his friends told him I wasn’t interested in guys.

It’s not that then a couple nights ago, we found ourselves sitting next to each other at a bar, I gave him a chance and we found we ad a couple things in common and a lot of differences. It’s not just that my cat likes him and we both love the same hotdog and mustard, we like old movies and can quote Snatch backwards and forewards. It’s not that we are moving to different places farther away from each other.

It’s right now that he said to me “I’m just afraid of killing you.” and I say back with a small smile “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

November 24th, 2013

We keep promising each other that we deserve better. That when a certain person walks into your life you’ll know exactly why all the other people walked out.

I am in a great transition. I was raised in a house 3 streets away from where I now sit, I grew in a house of a farm 45 minutes away, 30 if I speed. I’ve sped, home. To the house that holds all the love that has ever been given to me freely. I’ve lived in an apartment above my father’s business off and on for the last 6 years. 

I commute now, just like I did to New York. But it’s different. It’s longer and harder. It’s scarier. Women being beaten, raped, knocked out. I’m exhausted by fear, fear of a foreign city, of being alone in a vast place. Walking alone in the dark neighborhoods. Past homeless people, past faceless people. Trust is such a foreign concept to me these days.

I broke up with my best friend and she lives in California now. I thought I was loved by people I gave a part of myself too. Instead, I am realizing that things don’t last. That maybe I should have enjoyed them a little more while they were happening.

Friends I have now are coming in and out. Revolving door. Because I end up getting hurt. So, what once was a deep understanding of each other becomes a shallow acquaintance. I want to yell. I want to shake them and ask them why we didn’t take care of each other’s feelings better. I want to ask if I mattered to them. I want to know why I ache for the loss and yet they seem just fine.

A lot of the people in my life have someone. Someone to laugh with over stupid things, to weep over painful things. To hold their hand. To rest a a hand on their shoulder. To gently uncurl your fisted hands, or your body when you grasp your knees and hide your face. They spread love into you with affection. With thoughts. With care. Slowly carefully, like the way my mom lotions her hands at night, gently and lovingly. With intent.

Intent. Intend. 

I want to hold someone. I want someone to hold me. Not just in my arms but in my heart. In my mind. In my memories. In my present. In my future. 

I don’t really have friends, do I? Or at least it just feels like people just come in then leave. I need people to stay. I need people to look at me and tell me the truth if they can’t stay.

I need someone to pour my love into because my heart feels like it’s about to overflow and drown me in it.

Instead I shake my head, I try to pour the love back into myself knowing that only time will be the answer. Time. Because over time people come and go. But I will always have myself. Overtime I will meet people who see that love and who pour their love into me, so that I can stop spilling my love on people who don’t seem to want it. 

A website dedicated to the things that inspire a young woman with a good head on her shoulders, an overactive imagination and a constant question on her mind: what kind of woman is she?