friction diaries [feb '25]

mud. give me all your mud

sonic bullion

Tune into WKDC, sonic bullion radio for an audio version of the diaries, chock full of easter eggs (frankly, it's two distinct versions of the same diary entry)...

Leftovers from draft 1 of this diary: My machinery is warm and bloody. frissons of inelegance and the long way round.

With that said, Let's dance—

HIBERNATION

no syllable shall form or prosper. winter is for rest, while at the same time I’ve been finding my sea legs amid the flooding sewage from die herrschende Klasse. i’ve fallen blissfully behind on posting. aka i’ve been sleepwalking unable to muster the energy to snarl. but i have been reading books. and editing. Oh, the edits.

and frankly, when I am going through hard times I go quiet and draw inward. I listen. I begin questioning (again) how to use my voice and if, and why, and then for a while I am lost.

You may well be going through a similar experience. we're all figuring out our plans and sharpening our knives and grounding ourselves so we can fucking squabble up.

at some point during my long winter's fugue i realized that if i rest now, i shall summon a tongue-lashing hitherto unknown, cutting across eternity to dog the steps and box the ears of abusers, the cruel, and the ruling class skunks everywhere.

With Mars direct (Mars has been retrograde in Cancer, and I have a natal Mars in Cancer. my weapons are the ocean and the moon), I feel much more whizzbang than I did just a few days ago. The yards are soup but the fresh air smells beautiful—melting snow and I care not! if my sneakers are muddy or wet. I am outside.

Here's my favorite hand cream I tear through each winter. What with the seasonal dryness, near-compulsive handwashing with all the bugs roaming around, lotsa home cookin, and a tot in the house, a good hand cream remedies like a miracle in a squeezy tube. Old Burt's works quick and absorbs quicker, not greasy in the leasty, fragrance free, available at your local drugstore. Here's to your hands and nourished skin.

[Nope, I'm not an affiliate, just an advocate for their product that works wonders. But if you're listening, Burt's Bees, feel free to send me whatever you like!!! Thank you!]

Elsewhere in skincareland, I tried out the Dieux Instant Angel and... THIS STUFF IS THE TRUTH! I have "normal" skin (not oily or dry, usually), but I have a weather eye on the horizon (aging) and not only has this moisturizer gotten me through drywinter, it's given me the glowing, hydrated moisture barrier that we all deserve. She is steep but she delivers, worth every cent. And I am pleased to give my business to Milady Charlotte Palermino.

[Once again, I'm not an affiliate, just spreading the wealth to you, dear reader... But if Dieux is listening, you are welcome in my home and mailbox!!! Thank you!]

[So commences Kate's backdoor pilot of bringing her lifelong passion for cosmeceuticals into her writing 🥰]

VISIONS&

been walking through Tokyo and London, slowly bringing down the old cortisol levels, regulating my nervous system, walking my visions into reality. I'm not sure how ethical these videos are because the other folks walking around in them can't have consented, right? But until I can fly around again safely, I will walk my way there with the help of YT walking tours and my walking pad. One day soon I will open my eyes and my soles will greet the cobbles and the pathways of botanical sanctuaries. I pray your sanctuaries are near, gentle reader, likewise nourishing your spirit.

been watching Cien Años de Soledad. This show is one of my all-time favorites already. I cannot wait for part two to come along and level me all over again. I remember looking at the softcover, walking past it again and again as a kid, imagining that the book might be about a calm respite, a family sojourn into pastoral tranquility... Mom hated the book and didn't finish and that made it more alluring of course. Now reading it, I laugh. Because of course a family that refuses to acknowledge, understand, or learn from its mistakes would rankle. hits too close to home, I imagine.

been thinking about how much I miss NewsRadio, but really I miss Phil Hartman (since 1998; what a year). I’ve been in love with this man’s sense of humor [originally I typed out “sense of human” so I’ll tuck it in here], inspired by his artistry for almost 30 years. … and feeling petty about Joe Rogan and wondering, If only his career stopped there… what could have been…

speaking of grifters poisoning society—

STATION NOTE:

this newsletter's new (haunted? hope not.) home on Ghost because I refuse to be newsletter neighbors with this garbage, swill, and sewage. Thank you, Maris Kreizman, for leading the way.

folks, please consider decentralized and open source platforms for housing your art. own your masters. all that jazz.

DISH

i love to cook. I made basil pesto for the first time and now I can never go back. Thank you, Smitten Kitchen/Deb Perelman. I made falafel for the first time and botched it right off the bat by using the canned, rather than dried chickpeas. We’ll get 'em next time. I was able to salvage the yummy flavor with some thickening (flour, panko) and convection baking. for the Kendrick/SZA Sunday concert, I made these addictive darlings and these sparkly Gretas.

Kate's Valentine's Special: Balthazar's cream of mushroom soup, by way of (you guessed it) Smitten Kitchen. Me and soup are a slow burn together as I learn how to wield it. a mother, a wooden spoon, winter, fresh rosemary, thyme, garlic; all that earthly, ancestral, loving alchemy. Nothing quite like it to make me feel human and grounded.

I grew up afraid of soup: instilled with a pickiness that didn't belong to me and a wariness of broth (i.e. the texture)... and the notion of eating certain foods for the health of your spirit rubbed wrong against my family of origin's ethic that taking care of yourself is laughable, selfish, and a practice reserved for boring dorks. borks?

Good thing I got out of there and started making my own. With my wooden spoon, my cookin house slippers, myself a mother concerned with nourishing and protective care—I make soup. I savor evoking and teasing out the flavors from the herbs, spices, bones, and all. I love cooking with the seasons. I love soup. New soup, yummy soup, soup to beat the band. Soup to go with the band... we can do that, right? 🥰 French onion and creamy garlic tortellini and cream of mushroom. A simple, deeply gratifying journey for someone who loves to cook, who loves to share nourishment. Thank you, soup.

FOLKS,

For me, February is synonymous with family. This month is marked with their births, deaths, anniversaries, estrangements. An alien streak runs deep through our blood. There are always surprises.

So when I happened to spot a family member spewing bile on social media regarding Kendrick Lamar’s Super Bowl... A very public and avoidable self-own indeed, claiming the performance was "making [their] ears bleed". My eyes rolled out of my head and down the hall, I doggedly followed, dusted them off, popped them back in and weighed my options.

I love my Cousin. I am guessing the recent death of their true love is helping cloud their judgment down the long bitter road. (Context, no excuses.) And as far as inheritances go, many of our kin are more than happy to double down on ignorance (xenophobia, racism, homophobia, what have you) ... Despite loving disco? And do I really want to engage? Is this deserving of my attention? If I address this, am I not just amplifying some horse shit that none of us need right now?

Well... racism doesn't sit right with my spirit. It sounded to me like I needed to show my cousin some love:

Here's the longform, for posterity:

Dear Cousin Wayward,
Think it over. Please do not tread the path of your uncle, my grandfather, who in his bigotry had the fucking audacity to, among other things, assert that Halle Berry is not one of the most beautiful, gorgeous goddesses to have ever lived. (God rest his soul and help him see the error of his ways. gadzooks.) Remember how agog we were?
Remember how much of a joke he made of himself? How sad? Always lost, always late, clawing for health and love. A caricature embittered with lost dreams? A man who often stole from himself.
Remember how lonely? You are lonely now, I hear you. I ache with your pain. I know I don't get it. I wish I could do that for you, for a moment. I wish there was any part of this mourning I could carry for you. But I won't steal from you.
I recall the glimmers of Grandpa's humor and knack for storytelling. I remember how transcendent and easy your laugh was, cuz. Vivacious. Grandpa loved to run and you love to dance.
Instead of his yelling at the teevee, here you are, yelling into the yawning abyss of facebook , asserting that Kendrick Lamar isn't putting on powerful poetry? Hating? Really? You?
... Are these the terms of your surrender?

Think it over.

TL;DR: Honey? Need a referral for a therapist?

Love always,
Kate

Then again, the likelihood of my family reading my writing is...? 😈

Fortunately, I've been a Kendrick Lamar fan since Swimming Pools. Similar in age, fellow Cancer Martians with significant Gemini placements (👀 peekaboo), both poets in ferocious love with our pens, both healing past addictions and in therapy. Kendrick Lamar's writing and music feels familiar to me, feels like home. I treasure riding the wave with him suffocating the status quo and cresting, roaring with community and healing. Plus! This man's wordplay! His mind?! Takes my breath away! Makes me giddy and scared in the most delightful way. Thank you for the lighthouse, Kendrick.

So when my birthday came around last year, I was over the moon as the feud played out while I was celebrating—poetry in motion, his surgical and soulful rapier dissecting the status quo's cynical corporate clown creepshows.

... And to the kind soul who would like to bestow upon me the gift of Grand National World Tour tickets for a certain special birthday I have coming in May, thank you with all my heart 😁 Flying over the moon for the second birthday in a row 💕

Growing up, I took the Bernard Pivot/James Lipton version of the Proust Questionnaire (as a major Inside the Actor's Studio addict) countless times but over and over, my least favorite word was resignation. The seed of rage sprouts low in my sacrum at the mention of it. My nostrils flare my eyes narrow my lip curls, I can't help it. Being resigned?! But we are alive!!! Right now!!! It feels like sickness because there's no time to waste!

Resignation, ignorance, bitterness. Choices. So is my pen, my channel. Mom always said I was the white sheep of the family.

🎶 I'll cut my granny off if she don't see it how I see it 🎶

It's gonna be a sweet love.

JUKEBOX

To my tender folks for whom the above album still echoes in your hearts like it does mine: what are your favorite tracks? A tough question, I know. This baby is a no-skip classic, a goldmine, a gem. Most folks on my Doug beat favor "Al & Moo" and "Doug's Lucky Hat" most. I love these too, of course. But at this moment in time, it's "The Painted Gorge" and "Happy Ending" giving me happy tears. Thanks for the music, Doug, in my heart soothing her all these years on.

Speaking of music, here's my own personal Piscean compilation album (~2019-present) for your listening pleasure:

As you may know, I love making mixtapes, aka playlists, aka my own personal jukeboxes each season. It started back in 2018 when Aunt Cathy died—I made a mix like a time capsule or a bread crumb trail so I could travel back to those crisp-grief days when she had freshly transitioned into the next realm. Over the waves, my nets caught songs that were either in vogue at the time, or songs that I didn't necessarily like or dislike but kept crossing my path, demanding my attention one way or another, recommendations, new loves, old loves, long-lost loves. This and the poetry knocking at my door were the two horses of my chariot, helping keep me sane. They still do. Thank you verse, thank you music.

The compilation album above, Feel True North, echoes with my astrological compass. Pisces North Node nestled in my 3H (Placidus)/4H (whole house) at 1º (an Aries degree). It's funny how my destiny points toward the depths of my chart, not too far from my astrological nadir. I'm curious how this plays out for me in 2025 with my 1) nodal return, 2) 1st House profection year (mentioned above), and 3) it's a snake year and yours truly is an Earth Snake... with a natal Venus conjunct Algol, the demon star representing Medusa.

Indeed, February is telling me: Surrender; the solution is courage.

Keep your eyes peeled here for more on this developing story, and don't touch that dial, we'll be back right after these messages.

Stay wavy, baby. Until next time, your loving bard,

Kate

P.S.

here's where else you can find me:
• the website where I keep myself busy. You are welcome to drop me a line if you're interested in collaborating 💕
• my brand new Chill Subs profile and portfolio (!!!)
• on the skyline

and you can find me in hell (instagram, twitter) until I deactivate @bardicbullion 😘