now that i'm semi active again do i have to change my age in my bio i can't believe i'm 22 that's so gross fuck that i'm 17 foreva baby
somewhere, there's a party
It's often found in the most unlikely places.
The Lovers (Marc Chagall, 1914)
the crush
i stop for a moment by the gate, my heart bursting with some indescribable feeling, how one might describe tasting blood or getting the lights punched out of you.
but this is not that aggressive, no. this is the lightheadedness that comes with having drunk an entire bottle of sparkling wine the previous night, not having eaten, and uh, having an object of infatuation. some might call it love but my friend oishee calls it 'low iron and you need to eat'
look. i dont have crushes. i dont fall in love. i agonize over and pick apart the intricacies of how people feel about me and hate myself in general because of how people view me, i guess, and the things i say... but. i dont do this because im in love with them. because i want them. to really really really like me. like that.
maybe i've spent so long not feeling like someone could ever like me. so when a beautiful older bandra boy in a floral orange shirt and a warm tropicana smile flops onto the bar seat in front of me at err, woodside inn, and asks me why i cant look him in the eye, talks about the coffee shop aesthetics he's making with dall-e, pays the bill, and drops me home in an auto like a gentleman and says he wont have sex with me tonight cuz im not sober, i, uh, er, kind of fall fucking hard. fuck, someone respecting you is so fucking hot. maybe it's sad that i've never felt that throughout my life but god.
you dont understand. with the knowledge i was meeting a bandra boy, my entire day was on hold. i went out to get the usual hair removal products but also new shoes as there's no way i could wear my tattered chappals to wherever the fuck in bandra we'd meet.
to be continued
Lena Meyer-Bergner, design no. 4/39 “Diagonal”, for a knotted carpet, 1938. Geneve, Switzerland. Via Antiquariat Schneider.
“Someday, you will be in love again. The sun, a wound on your windowsill. Light falls on your dreams. It sounds like someone knocking.”
— Sanna Wani, from “Memory is Sleeping,” The Puritan (no. 53, Spring 2021)
kinda random, but as someone who has serious existential slash depressive meltdowns more frequently than i’d like, i’ve been trying to find my way out of these thought mazes for years, and i’ve come to the conclusion that trying to combat it by going a few levels even more abstract in the philosophical meter - which is what i personally thought had to be the answer for a long time - is, in a lot of cases, counterproductive
what i mean by that is that i’m (still slowly) beginning to realize that the only remedy for those particular types of crisis is not isolating yourself even more radically from tangible human experiences and trying to find the answer in your own head, but to fully immerse yourself in daily life as much as possible, and allow yourself to be really, truly part of the world you live in - a kind of poiesis of being, if we’re trying to be poetic, that’s about reinventing yourself with each second you remain open to the reality that is existing in the present moment. that won’t magically sort shit out for you, but i get the feeling it helps paint a different mental picture in which your thoughts can roam in, and maybe find different, new and hopefully better paths of thinking/being
having a rich inner life is possibly the most valuable part of existing as someone capable of cognizant thought, but if your brain goes at 100mph on the daily, it can reach exhaustion levels in the blink of an eye and start almost cannibalizing itself with anxiety and circular thought patterns. the beginning of it is: take a moment to stop. check out that building, the cobblestones in this street, that person selling their artwork on the sidewalk. this is the city you live in. these are the people you’re in the world with. there’s life outside of yourself
Magazine update;
People submitting:
Mash, oishee, me, bhoomi
need to tell them deadlines and what kind of stuff they're sending in
self:
- one article on physical spaces, limimal spaces, thresholds, portals, nature, humans, drugs, and the interconnectedness of this. and on ritual actions; socio technical animism
- another article on; everything everywhere all at once, adhd, attention, drugs and alcohol
- on what a circuit/breaboard is, what tantra is, what tarakhi is
- music; albums and Playlists
- on beauty
- on films
- on sex
- on tarot and myth and zodiac and occult
Old men type out their will and testament in Simon and Garfunkel YouTube comment section
♡ Books to Read ♡
- girl, interrupted - susanna kaysen
- the beguiled - thomas cullinan
- my year of rest and relaxation - ottessa moshfegh
- girl in pieces - kathleen glasgow
- women who run with wolves - clarissa pinkola estés
- pride and prejudice - jane austen
- the bell jar - sylvia plath
- the secret history - donna tartt
- black swans - eve babitz
- severance - ling ma
- beloved trilogy - toni morrison
- bad behavior - mary gaitskill
- the year of magical thinking - joan didion
- there there - tommy orange
- valley of the dolls - jacqueline susann
- american psycho - bret easton ellis
- requiem for a dream - hubert selby jr.
- ariel - sylvia plath
- lolita - vladimir nabokov
- anna karenina - leo tolstoy
- rebecca - daphne du maurier
- the virgin suicides - jeffrey eugenides
- gone with the wind - margaret mitchell
- the interpretation of dreams - sigmund freud
- the stranger - albert camus
- madness and civilization - michel foucault
- the woman destroyed - simone de beauvoir
- just kids - patti smith
- to the lighthouse - virginia woolf
- play it as it lays - joan didion
- gone girl - gillian flynn
- normal people - sally rooney
- prozac nation - elizabeth wurtzel
- how to murder your life - cat marnell
- the catcher in the rye - j.d. salinger
- love is a dog from hell - charles bukowski
- jane eyre - charlotte brontë
- her body and other parties - carmen maria machado
- eileen - ottessa moshfegh
- bunny - mona awad
- little women - louisa may alcott
- the perks of being a wallflower - stephen chbosky
- homesick for another world - ottessa moshfegh
- frankenstein - mary shelley
- the picture of dorian gray - oscar wilde
- diary of an oxygen thief - anonymous
- boy parts - eliza clark
- the seven husbands of evelyn hugo - taylor jenkins reid
- a room of one's own - virginia wolf
- mrs. dalloway - virginia wolf
- wuthering heights - emily brontë
- slouching towards bethlehem - joan didion
- the white album - joan didion
- trick mirror: reflections on self-delusion - jia tolentino
- the idiot - elif batuman
- 1984 - george orwell
- sense and sensibility - jane austen
- the handmaid's tale - margaret atwood
- the great gatsby - f. scott fitzgerald
- city of girls - elizabeth gilbert
- animal - lisa taddeo
- a certain hunger - chelsea g. summers
- in the dream house - carmen maria machado
- the new me - halle butler
- death in her hands - ottessa moshfegh
- norwegian wood - haruki murakami
- the feminine mystique - betty friedan
New year new life means a new mood board right I've spent so long drifting while trying to be in control of my life and having it spiral so away from me that I need to grasp to things that give me some semblance of a personality. I'm so mean to my girls and friends and I'm so dumb about boys it's getting boring boys are boring nikku is so boring, I have the potential to be a hot af bitch who is talented and smart and writes and makes cool shit and I've spent the last year surrounded by beer cans and old monk and hiding it from everyone. I've gained 10 kgs from one year in Mumbai that's what freedom and work and money did to me. I've fucked up so much and I need to do better ok ok ok whatever
But I'll have to start from the beginning
And like. How am I ever gonna find my personality and is it maybe just shit.
Anyway I just need a place to mood board shit for a while and dream I guess I guess I guess
Its okay to be a mess you just need to be hot and sorted and talented while doing it