Kate Morgan


  1. : the act of entering : entrance. the seal prevents ingress of moisture.
  2. : the power or liberty of entrance or access.

‘This text is aware of the bodies that read it, and of how its body is different, wets differently.’

It’s difficult to describe what this book is, though I’m not sure description matters. I’m sure you and I see it differently. When you sit down in front of the page, what is it you see? Do you want to do it justice, or do you just want to let it seep out the cracks.

A continuous thought process, where abruptness lies at every corner. To avoid a corner, to look the other way. A word may be a reminder to a person. Someone definitely said something. The flow of ingress. The ingress of words. An intimacy to our own idea of ourselves.

‘Often there’s water on her face.
You are close to her, she looks at you.’

Perspective can often be confusing. If you take less than a second, a line blurs. If you remain alert, maybe you’ll be surprised. Another glance, another step, a stare into space.

How much do you listen when someone is talking? Focus can be spun both ways, what is it that’s good for you, what is it that you’re drawn to?

Eileen Myles says you need to say something more than once to feel it. They say that’s how you build muscle. By holding something warm over months, you speak to and of it differently: it shines, but also slims, by handling, by dwelling.

Your intent is different than mine. It makes me anxious…unsure…when I look do you see the same as I?

There is something about looking at the same thing over and over again. That same routine, that same passing. The continuous object that holds your gaze. Its simplicity is insufferable, yet your glare does not wane.

‘How to notice events unfolding is itself an act of intimacy’

I tend to misunderstand, I tend to misinterpret. Though once it’s there, is there any correct answer? Viewed through a new lens how much of that context is missed. The words as a symbol of a given time. Once passed, does it ever mean the same thing?

I want to hold onto things. A memory maybe. Sometimes you feel so close to it, almost as if you can touch it. How could you even have forgotten.

with bodies moving
with weather being what it is,
with you peeling into you and me
Then and you.

Sitting upon that wooden box watching your notebook lean against the wall. When there are no thoughts, they tend to be in abundance.

A process of ingress as each word lays on the page. Stretches out, as if it’s been waiting for this moment for a long time. I’m sure it wonders whether it can be free from its restrictions. It must wonder why it cannot mean anything else. Why must I be placed in this strict position? Printed, again and again.

‘Deeper still, the slick of a moment pours away, from you, from itself’