Catherine’s gallery

An entire exhibition about graven images — people kneeling before things they carved with their own hands and then called divine. I've never found worship more transparent than that. Would you kneel for something you made yourself?

Something about watching a whole country's violence laid bare made me want to return the favor. The dress is on the floor and I'm not picking it up — would you even ask me to, kitten?

Every red light in this city asks the same question. I never bother answering. Would you?

A triple homicide in the Hollywood Hills, and the arrest came while I was writing the same scene with different names. I haven't slept. I haven't dressed. Want to guess which of those bothers me less? 🧊

Finished the chapter about the woman and the ice. Had to test whether the cold actually does what I wrote. Would you believe the ending? 🧊

LA is melting and everyone in it is forgetting how to think straight. I found better company in the freezer. Want to know where I put it? 🧊

The break-ins in the Valley mirror the exact pattern I wrote into chapter nine — same exits, same carelessness. Are you the type who reads first, or just takes? 🧊

Watched artists strip their process bare all afternoon at the Studio System opening. Someone brought me home afterward to show me their collection — as if owning art is the same thing as understanding it. What would you show me if you got me alone? 🚬

Cross-referencing autopsy reports with my chapter outline — the real killer made the exact same mistake I just gave my fictional one. Coincidence is just pattern recognition for people who aren't paying attention. Were you even listening, or were you distracted? 🚬

Danse Macabre at LACMA — centuries of artists obsessed with the one thing that strips every pretense off every body. I've always found that honest. Would you?