metaphoricallove

in my spice cabinet

cumin sits next to cinnamon,

dill next to clove.

shelves unlabelled,

contradictions coexisting,

once stood tall in dreams.

in reality, heat pinned my tongue.

chilli split the air,

the mouth braced,

awaiting cold relief.

none came.

sensation thinned,

sound dulled.

These days, I practice

keeping my mouth open.

letting bitterness bloom,

the roof of my mouth

hardens into refuge

for unsettled flavour.

cinnamon above oregano,

basil beside the nutmeg.

nothing rearranged.

Mojo Jojo is on a rampage, yet again.

Laser beams shoot out of his eyes as he attempts to conquer Townsville. My eyes are glued to the screen hovering above me. I know he won’t succeed. He never does. Even so, I dig my palms into the futon and lean my head forward in anticipation, my mouth agape.

I am hungry.

At this stage in life, food is simple. I desire it, but I don’t yet understand it. I know how instant noodles are made. I know how french fries are made. That’s about it.

A spoon heads straight for my mouth.

It appears without ceremony, without explanation. It is simply there. Warm. Deliberate. Inevitable.

This is how care first arrives in my body: quietly, without asking me to name it.

Sutr means thread. A string. A strand.

On its own, sutr is not a particularly sturdy word. It must be wound and stretched, coaxed and held.

This process gives birth to Sutriyan (soot-tri-yaan)

For a long time, they were a mystery for me. I simply remembered their taste – savoury, warm, chewy.

Feeling precedes naming.

I encountered them again when I was sixteen, sometime after midnight. I had spent the day on my feet, cashing people out, counting change, wiping down counters. When it was quiet, I hid in the back room with my biology notes spread across a crate, memorizing diagrams I hadn’t made sense of yet.

I was tired, with a hunger that felt dull rather than sharp.

When the bowl was placed in front of me, I recognized texture first.

In Deccani Hyderabadi cuisine, sutriyan are the underdogs.

They are not particularly boastful or debonair, like Hyderabadi haleem or biryani, nor are they complex or misunderstood, like sheer korma or baghaar-e-baingan.

Sutriyan are, traditionally, a way of using what already exists. Leftover rotis. A pot of broth that’s been simmering quietly. The kind of meal that assumes more than one body in the house, more than one plate on the table.

We don’t live like that.

There are no leftover rotis here. There is nothing waiting in the fridge to be repurposed. So I knead the aata myself. Roll the dough. Cook fresh rotis one by one, only to tear them apart again.

I create the conditions the dish requires in a space that does not naturally produce them.

The process takes nearly two hours.

Halfway through, I can’t shake the feeling that I have worked against the grain of the recipe rather than with it. I turned something meant to be economical, collective, and quiet into a small act of insistence.

Time stretches before us, and tiny fissures occupy the spaces left behind.

In another life, this recipe would have taken fifteen minutes. In another life, there would have been leftover rotis folded into a cloth, a pot already half-full, a house calibrated for reuse. Instead, I work slowly, deliberately, recreating a logic that no longer fits how we live.

My mind latches onto a memory fraying at the seams; it clings to a world that precedes distance and precedes efficiency. Once you’ve spotted fracture lines within a structure, it’s difficult to pretend they aren’t there. You can still show up. You can still participate. But the spirit, the assumed camaraderie, no longer arrives on its own.

The cooking does not stop, although some ingredients are missing.

Halfway through, my fiancé runs out to grab paneer – an errand that takes five minutes because the grocery store is directly across the street from us. Walkable. Casual. A form of convenience I haven’t experienced in many years, and am only now learning to value. He returns without ceremony, slipping back into the apartment as though he never left.

In the meantime, our kitten discovers the stovetop.

He jumps up with the confidence of someone who has unlocked a new level. I scoop him up, gently lower him to the ground – and make stern eye contact to show him that this isn’t okay.

He does it again.

This, too, becomes a game – one I protest, one I secretly enjoy.

The yogurt waits in the bowl. I lower the heat. My hand hesitates before stirring it into the onion-tomato mixture, my heart thudding with the unreasonable fear that it will curdle and ruin everything.

It doesn’t.

Sounds emerge from the living room: a vlog of an Uber Eats driver. Youtube content floods our home like a makeshift ritual. We don’t discuss why. We don’t need to. Slowly, and without much fanfare, time does what it does best when we stop rushing it.

The two hours are arduous, yes. But they are also charged.

By small returns. By new habits. By interruptions I don’t resent.

When we finally sit down, our bowls are modest. Two spoons. A tiny table. A mini can of Pepsi Zero sweating onto the surface.

Nothing about this resembles the world that sutriyan were designed for.

And yet.

Care still finds a way in.

My partner raises a spoonful to his mouth. I hold my breath, my eyes tracking every micro expression on his face.

He sinks his spoon into the bowl for another bite before lightly remarking:

“There will be no leftovers tomorrow, I’m going to finish this tonight.”

My thoughts pause mid motion, and hunger dissipates:

sans fanfare,

sans abundance,

sans efficiency.

I have been fed.

And can you blame her?

Can you blame her for seeking refuge in the gaps

a home that recognizes her form,

that is: no form at all.

A truth too sharp,

a truth too bitter;

a truth soldered and squandered,

pressed thin enough to swallow -

and can you blame her?

Can you blame her

for slipping into void,

into space,

into shapeless hollows,

into the unbecoming

where even the echo forgets her name?

Can you?

Tout le malheur des hommes vient d’une seule chose, qui est de ne savoir pas demeurer en repos, dans une chambre. – Blaise Pascal

When you don’t control the words, and the words don’t control you -

you are experiencing a stalemate with The Creator.

A few years ago, my hyper-fixation on chess gained its resurgence (courtesy of the pandemic, and one too many aspirational Netflix shows). It’s a neat little game, with many moving parts. If you aren’t careful, you may find yourself spending more time getting lost in theory than in practice – and where’s the fun in that?

Nevertheless….

One of my favourite chess concepts is that of the stalemate. So let’s talk about it.

In essence, a stalemate is the game telling you that you cannot force someone to move into their own death (a deceptively benevolent offering from an otherwise ruthless environment).

To me, the stalemate has always been the ultimate mercy call masquerading as constraint; a reminder that even in a world built on force, not everything can be compelled.

So what does one do, when faced with such an outcome?

To be honest with you, my dearest friend: I do not know.

There are moments when the sentence refuses to move – the ideas don’t block me, but they do hold me into stillness. I cannot abandon them any more than they can provide me meaning, and yet….

we stay with one another, the words and I, circling the same quiet square on the board.

We also circle the same quiet truth, one we know all too well in our weary, decrepit bones. A truth that is stranger than time and kinder than witnessing:

A stalemate is not the death of motion, it is its recalibration.

It’s precisely within this recalibration that something else begins to emerge. A truth giving birth to another:

Movement does not cease simply because it cannot be witnessed.

And perhaps that is the real mercy buried inside every stalemate: that while the board appears frozen, while the sentence lies dormant, while The Creator Himself seems unwilling to intervene – something unseen continues.

Motion, I’ve learned, often begins long before it becomes legible. And when it finally reveals itself, it does so with the gentlest of gestures: a sentence leaning forward, just enough for me to follow.

So it goes.

You drill into my knuckle. A power drill—moving slow.

Our eyes lock as bone splinters: crunch.

I don’t feel it – though I know I should.

You don’t notice -

The drill continues turning: steady, clockwise. My knuckle is a crater.

You pause only to brush the dust of me from your shirt.

I watch the fine powder settle on your collar – my bone, my blood, a pale constellation.

Still, I don’t flinch.

You ask if I’m comfortable. Your voice is gentle, as though we were sitting over tea.

The drill hums in your hand, waiting.

I nod.

Because what else is there to do, but agree?

I am as hollow as the crater.

As hollow as your smile.

As hollow as the slow, steady turn that will not stop until nothing of me remains.

1. Sensitivity might be overrated, but that doesn’t erase its presence. I think of it like polyester: overrated, awful for your skin, and generally problematic—but undeniably real. Ignoring it won’t make it vanish….It’s here —so the question is, what are we going to do about it?

2. My void is far more accessible than yours – let’s set all the voids on fire.

3. I’ve started laughing at the monsters underneath my bed—largely because they’re so awful, it’s comical. What’s a girl to do? I can’t tell if this is terrible or reasonable.

4. For better or for worse: Community. In my case, for better – thank God.

5. Perceptiveness is a curse.

6. Everyone wants to start a cult these days – always – all the days.

7. My company is wonderful (for me), like a safety blanket: Never loud, rarely messy, always safe. Chat GPT tells me that polyester safety blankets can last for 10-20 years before they become safety hazards. I think they’ve always been safety hazards, what -isn’t– a safety hazard these days?

8. The urge to whip out my vulnerability abacus grows stronger everyday. I keep track of every bead like a frugal maniac.

9. I always wind up here when the knots must be unravelled. Today, I tie the sturdiest knot known to mankind.

10. Pizza Pizza in the middle of dreary November. This is okay (463 k cal, $9.45).

11. Funky monkey brain committee (????)

12. Eradicate self doubt, allow suspicion space to flourish instead.

13. ^ Satire

14. ^ Sort of

15. I open my palm for a silly little high five – you finger gun in response. This is connection. Shall we blame your fingers for their hesitation or my palms for their openness? Maybe neither. Neat fingers, cool guns, warm gloves.

16. Cats probably don’t have these problems. Of course not, they have paws.

17. I haven’t touched my piano in a while, I’m slightly frightened of the outcome.

18. The apples from the advice tree fall hard and fast. I sidestep swiftly—so swiftly they barely miss me, just barely. The effort is exhausting. Can’t they see that I’m dealing with a hot potato? No of course not, that would require digging in – I need gloves not apples.

19. I hate apples, by the way. Oh yes – controversial opinion (black pepper, lemon juice – something, anything, to zest them up).

20. Peaches are wonderful. Sweet corn season is over – this is ….Grief inducing.

21. The affordable space travel industry occupies an unreasonably large space in my mind.

22. Some by Steve Lacy will always be a fall classic. Thank you Steve Lacy (& producers).

23. I feel like a rabid ferret sometimes, it’s so calming -

24. I haven’t gotten a speeding ticket in many years – is this death?

25. Oh my God, I’m almost thirty.

26. Grover from Sesame Street was onto something. The Elmo fanbase has unnecessary traction – then again, that -

27. Powdered peanut butter tastes better than regular peanut butter in yogurt – regular peanut butter tastes better in everything else; clean answers do not exist. As usual, the solution does not exist.

28. There are thirty days left until fall is over. But it’ll return—I’ve been counting down the days since August (I know). This is something I do often; my relationship with time is…complicated. I’ve spent the season soaking in the colours where I can, while quietly mourning what’s already passed. Prediction is two parts pattern recognition and one part deduction—a recipe for great detectives and even better basket cases. I’d urge you to live in the moment, but that would be terrible advice—the moment is already gone. When I was younger, I used to cling to it. These days, I’ve learned to let it go. Funny how that works.

29. Funny how nothing works.

30. One cup of warm milk, a tea spoon of honey – and any comforting spices. If you don’t have milk, use water, so long as it’s warm. So long as there’s warmth, you’ll be okay -

    “But I prefer the cold frigidity of the calming winter evenings-”

    Okay edge lord, enjoy your ice block escapades.

Wow – twenty-nine, where do I start?

Since this is a kind of ending, perhaps….At the beginning.

A few years ago, on a particularly frustrating evening – I dove head first into a dialogue with myself (at the time, I treaded the fine line between “tortured angsty young adult”, and “polite hesitant dork” – my fingers shook, my feet ached – it was a whole thing). What had started out as an innocent diary entry at 22 (one meant to air my frustrations, whilst concealing everything else) – eventually morphed into a seven year conversation with the void.

It was an interesting time in my life – so many firsts; what was a girl to do?

• My first time being out of school.
• My first attempt at turning a house into a home.
• My first experience being on the run from that very home.
• My first journey flying alone….
• My first match lit.
• My first rebirth – reduced to ashes.
• My first time breaking a heart; and in turn, having my heart broken.

I observed endless dualities, moving in sync like codependent twins: (good / bad ; kindness / hatred; obsessiveness / escapism; magic – and its steep cost….)

The experiences were absurd, violent, and brutal in some instances – calm, conscientious, and soothing in others; absurdism and existentialism both led me back home (to myself, and to you). Some may consider this movement cyclical – much like a carousel, and to those people I say:

“Let’s agree to disagree.”

Together, we differentiated what mattered – from that which was fool’s gold. Although, at times, painfully difficult – I held onto the courage of my convictions. Much like Shaggy, Velma, Fred, and Scoobs – I called bad guys, bad guys – instead of attempting to romanticize them – because wrong is wrong, no matter how well we may dress it up.

I have a lot to be grateful for, all of which is fuelled by you. Your love, your kindness, your generosity, your prayers, and your blessings – these are just some of the things that fill my frisky magical well to its brim. This note is for my loved ones (those who are still with me, those who took their leave long ago, and those who silently support me from the shadows).

You know, lately, I’ve been looping a childhood memory in my mind. This feels like the right time to share it with you:

It’s a bright sunny afternoon, and my grandfather stands behind my shoulder, whilst I’m deeply immersed in a computer game on my brand new PC (a PC which he had gifted me earlier, for my sixth birthday). Grandpa gently nudges my shoulder to capture my attention, and he points to the cigarette held loosely between his index finger and his thumb.

“Is it okay with you if I smoke this in here?” He asks, in a rather playful tone, while standing tall and proud in his signature attire: A pair of sharp white dress pants paired with a crisp, starched shirt to match.

My response is abrupt, and firm – I don’t yet have the ability to filter through my thoughts as an adult might:

“No, nana. Please take this outside, if you must.”

Flustered and embarrassed, my father (standing besides my grandfather), immediately asks me to course correct, and to watch my tone.

But my grandfather stops him mid sentence -

“She is absolutely right. Don’t interrupt her when she is right, right is right, and wrong is wrong.”

And that was that.

I’m often asked about the secret behind my decisiveness in my twenties – and my ability to make the right decisions (seemingly every single time).

To this question, I say: Firstly, let’s park our assumptions at the door, I am as capable of making decisions haphazardly as the rest of us are (and I often have); I’ve just mastered the art of dressing my mistakes up to the nines. Outside of that, though, life has whipped its fair share of impossible scenarios my way over the last seven years (picture: the trolley problem on every substance imaginable, whizzing through the space time continuum).

Here is my somewhat controversial take on impossibilities: We no longer live in an era dominated by black and white thinking, nuance surrounds every topic – notions of good and bad seem like child’s play in a world inundated with endless discourse, critical thinking, and limitless notions of ‘right’ and ‘wrong.’ When I feel overwhelmed by this world, I revert back to the simpler times in my life – memories which, for better or for worse, have attached themselves to my consciousness – and these memories light the way.

So we have some visibility – but visibility doesn’t fight the monsters for me – and there are plenty of monsters, no matter which way I turn; but the ability to see certainly lightens the burden, or at the very least – it provides the illusion of comfort – and maybe, this illusion is all that stands between chaos and cohesiveness.

If this doesn’t make sense to you yet – I hope that it eventually will.

My advice to you: Allow your storytelling to guide the way – these stories are all that we have – endless stories, endless narratives, constantly cascading over one another like lost sailors floating limply against the currents – tethered to a force far greater than any of us.

All of that’s to say:

Thank you so much for your incredible company during what have been….The wildest years of my life (so far….)

I can’t believe we made it through this together, albeit in multiple pieces. I hope you’ll continue to stand by me as I work to create something meaningful from the fragments. See you on the flip side.

Xo, M

Where do I put all this grief? Where can I store it?

Should I preserve it through fermentation, breaking something simple into something even simpler? Should I wait patiently until this feeling transitions into something more digestible, more tolerable? Is the breakdown worth the breakthrough—if at all?

Should I splay it across my walls, drowning in shades of blue until I run out? And then what? What will we do once our supply of the blues runs dry—if it ever does?

Maybe we could freeze the grief in a Polaroid—yes, that’s it.

We’ll freeze the moment in film, storing it in my attic forever. But nothing lasts forever; you know that, don’t you? That Polaroid will wave goodbye at the 100-year mark. So what shall we do?

What shall we do with all this grief, where can we store it? And what about all this love—how do I control it?

Absolutely no one asked for this, but I am going to share it anyway – because you and I share a telepathic connection, and I can sense that you’re dying to read these riveting answers.

Just kidding; I’ve had to write about myself (a lot) lately: What I like, what I hate, who I am, where I work, what I do, where I went to school – what I want.

It’s been an incredibly jarring experience, to say the least….And so, to lighten the mood, I’m doing this N.F.A.Q (also helpful for new Vsco pals who may have joined me over the past year – welcome!) Let’s get started with the basics:

What’s your name?

I may never answer this, simply because of the nature of my life outside of the internet (yes, my day job). But, I’m certain that if you scour my blog, you’ll find the answer to this somewhere. Some of you may already know the answer to this, in which case – skip ahead! The rest of you: Bonne chance!

How old are you?

I’m 28 – I am frightened, I am simultaneously 8 and 85, I do not know what time is. And I turn 29 in September – what was the question?

All things photography: Do you consider yourself a photographer?

This is one that I do get asked often, and so….Let’s break it down.

What’s a photographer? Someone who takes pictures with a camera? If so – then yes, I’d consider myself a photographer.

But, if your definition of a photographer hinges on technique, knowledge, and precision – I couldn’t be further from a photographer. I am simply a woman who enjoys taking pictures of things, and detests rules (unless they interest her).

Lately, I’ve been trying to figure out how to get sharper results with my camera; and so, I’ve been doing my homework on shutter speeds and different aperture settings. I am going to follow these rules, because I need to. Because I want to. Because I took beautiful shots in Spain that I couldn’t use simply because they were too blurry, and that was a very frustrating experience for me. I learn rules when I need them, I learn things by doing them – so maybe, one of these days, I’ll morph into a photographer. Does that make sense?

I do consider myself an editor (colour grading? I’m your girl. Bringing beauty out of nonsense? All me. Finding stories where others may not see them? Also all me).

What camera do you use? What lens? What editing tools?

Can I be so honest with you right now? It really doesn’t matter. I’ve been sharing pictures here since 2017, right? Back then, I was working with a half broken iPhone 7, and I managed just fine. I hadn’t invested in a DSLR (my Canon) up until two years ago.

It’s not the lens, it’s not the camera – it’s what you see, and how you choose to showcase it to the world, I know I know I know – that sounds so cheesy. But it’s true! I urge you to take pictures with whatever camera you may have on hand right now, find stories in your shots – crop, angle, play with colour grading, play around with highlights and shadows and all that jazz.

You don’t even have to Google what each concept means, by the way – this is an exact reenactment of how I taught (& how I continue to teach) myself stuff:

Moving the temperature scale back and forth on a specific image, left and right, left and right – with my eyes fixed on the image itself.

Me (after twenty consecutive minutes of doing this): I think this thing makes my pictures more or less yellow – neat. Now I know what temperature does.

That said: Do I just slap filters on my pictures and call it a day? No. I use Adobe Lightroom in conjunction with Vsco filters – that’s a really long answer to what could’ve been a short one-liner. But you aren’t here for one-liners now are you?

What motivates you to keep this blog going?

I enjoy documenting my cognitive decline.

Terrible joke, not much of a joke.

In all seriousness, you – you motivate me to keep it going. You being here? Reading this? Magical. I love the unique space that we’ve created for ourselves, we can’t interact – not via conventional means, anyway – and yet, you and I connect on a level that’s far deeper than anything I’ve experienced so far, and that makes it all worthwhile for me.

Many of you have grown up with me, our shared experiences deserve continuity, don’t you think?

Unless you’re bored of me (booooooo!)

Who are you outside of this? Personal life stuff….

I’m intentionally vague about these things, usually – but this is an N.F.A.Q. We may as well disclose some fun stuff:

I am a writer (note – writer, not grammatical whiz / editor – I have wonderful, talented friends, who take care of this for me).

“Where can I find your stuff? I googled your name and noth-”

You may never find it. I may take my secret identity to the grave with me. And I think I’ll stop elaborating on this point right here.

Outside of that, though – I’m also in management, and I’ve been a corporate drone since I was 22-23-ish. Although, I’ve been working for far longer than that, I got my first field relevant gig at 21.

I got into this line of work because I wanted to give people jobs – seriously, that’s it. I wanted to talk to people, and to hear the joy / relief in their voices when I delivered the good news. My naïveté was overpowered via the first criminal background check I ever ran. Therapist appointments were booked, and I got a holistic picture of what my job -actually- entailed outside of the fluff.

So that’s – work stuff.

I have friends, I have a family, I am in close proximity to both – and I’m eternally grateful for them.

Let me be the first to state: I am not an easy person to deal with, this is not a self-depreciating ‘woe is me’ moment, it’s a fact. I get moody, I get restless, I swing drastically between having all of the energy and none of the energy. Worst of all is my tendency to self-isolate, I need my space when I need it, and I’ve never been graceful enough to justify/rationalize my disappearances (some of which have lasted for years).

My friends and family have been incredibly accommodating of my quirks over the years, not all of us are this fortunate – and so, I take my wins where I can get them.

You have also been incredibly accommodating; when I withheld my words for nearly three years, I was certain that I’d come back to crickets here….But, you gave my thoughts the warmest welcome they’ve ever received, and I’m eternally grateful for that. I mean it. Thank you for staying.

My romantic relationship status is irrelevant, you and I have far more interesting things to discuss don’t you think? For example….

What does a successful (non-platonic) relationship look like for you?

We plan a heist and succeed, we didn’t need the money, we did it purely for the adrenaline, and we totally got away with it (also we’re both secretly spies and we have an awesome fighting montage in the kitchen that makes us look incredibly attractive, and you write letters to me and I keep them all, and we’re friends but we morph into more and we’re the exceptions and you hold me on a sinking ship, you have to die – but it’s okay, because I end up with this wicked emerald necklace, and every night in my dreams I see you, I feel you that is how I know you GOOOO ON) – just kidding. Just kidding.

I don’t know. I really don’t.

I’m slightly old fashioned, unfortunately sensitive, and I’m a romantic.

Growing up, I wasn’t raised in a community that held individualistic beliefs; but rather, a community that approached all things from a collectivist lens. This is important, because at my core – I’m an individualist, through and through (maybe I’ve always been one, maybe I morphed into one over time – let’s save that debate for another occasion). I also recognize the importance of maintaining a collectivist perspective / approach (for what? For nearly everything in life) – so I find myself torn, often. Torn between what’s expected, and what I truly believe (which I still don’t know), and what I’d like to carry forward. Does that make sense?

Why am I sharing this? Because seemingly nonsensical things like these do impact the kind of partner you attract, how you foster your relationship, how you raise your children (should you choose to have any); all of it matters, and none of it matters at the same time.

Religion is also a big factor, for a lot of folks – and I respect that. I am private about my faith; I’ll likely never feel comfortable discussing my religious beliefs in someone’s living room or around the dinner table; in fact, I often find myself feeling awkward amidst such discussions. Collecting points for being “good”, and carrying these points like valued currency in social scenes – it’s a practice that never resonated with me. Positive reinforcement has its place, and I can understand the appeal but – I think I’d like to stop discussing this now, I’m rambling.

Why did I bring this up in the first place? Right – what does a successful relationship look like for me?

Ideally, I’m with someone who understands my complex relationship with faith, and who is open to / accepting of this – not someone who hopes that one day, I’ll morph into something that I am not; or worse, someone who hopes that with enough positive reinforcement I’ll “come around.” This applies (concurrently) to potential religious & non-religious partners.

This is important.

This is tricky.

This is delicate.

On that note, let’s switch to a lighter topic

Vsco tangents! Why do these always get deleted? Who are you addressing? Why do you treat Vsco like Twitter sometimes (or X, now, I suppose?)

! Because Vsco is primarily supposed to be for photography, because my tangents make the space look messy – because the whole reason behind me creating this blog was to avoid exactly that – and yet….I continue to post my tangents on Vsco.

I am addressing you, always, of course.

I treat Vsco like X because I never treated X like X – hope this helps.

Do you have a muse?

Of course I do, it’s you, it’s always you.

Will you review my resume for me?

I will not, but I reckon that Chat GPT will do a far better job for you than I ever could, you just need to ask it the right questions. I’ll help you with interview prep, though (it’s a common request that I’ve received over the years; always happy to help, no I don’t charge anything, and no I’m not trying to start a small business, not that there’s anything wrong with that. Just paying it forward). Speaking of small businesses….

Is this space monetized? Do you make money from affiliate links or recommendations or photography or …

No. No. No. Never. This space exists just for fun, and it’s highly unlikely that I’ll ever look at monetizing it – the words in my brain need an outlet, you need….Well, whatever it is that you get from this space, so voila – this space exists. I don’t need to monetize anything (+ that would take away all the magic).

This does not mean that there’s anything wrong with monetizing these spaces! We all need to be fiscally responsible, I have my methods, you have yours; but neither of these methods have anything to do with my blog, okay? So if I link anything here (as I did with my Spain post), it’s for my reference as much as it is for your general knowledge (I don’t want to forget!)

So – yay for authenticity, but also – I can’t guarantee that our tastes will always align.

Last year, you were very private and careful not to overshare. What has changed to make you more open now?

Well – I’m medicated, for starters (yay!)

I like to keep you on your toes.

I’m riding the wave, and I’ve perfected the art of sharing everything and sharing absolutely nothing at the same time.

But also – around this time, last year, I was just finding my way out of a significantly difficult period of my life (one that had lasted for nearly three years, and one that was getting progressively more intense / scary as time went on); I know, yikes.

I say ‘finding my way out’ with caution, here, because I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of the blues entirely. I’m just continuously learning to coexist with them (as I imagine most of us are).

But also – let us not forget that I promised you I’d be back, and I’m not one for breaking my promises. I imagine that I would’ve returned even if I hadn’t found my way out of that emotional space, although – my content may have been slightly less humorous in the conventional sense, and more entertaining in a ‘dark and twisty’ sense.

Why do you never share pictures of your face?!

Edit: July 19, 2024

Here

How many languages do you actually speak, and how much of this is just pretence?

Three! I’m fluent in Urdu and English (reading, writing, speaking). Intermediate in French (v. proud of this one, actually, bc it wasn’t easy! Again, reading, writing, speaking). Will I pick up a fourth? Maybe, after I become fluent in French.

Can I connect with you on (Linkedin / Instagram / Vsco etc); would it be weird if I were to send you a message?

Never hesitate to reach out to me via any avenue ever (unless I’ve distinctly advised you that I do not want to connect with you, or I’ve ignored your attempts at connecting with me in the past; please respect these decisions, and do not bombard my inbox / phone).

Otherwise, I am open, and I’m always happy to chat (although, I may be slower to respond – I have my notifications muted for basically everything on my phone – Vsco, Whatsapp, Messages, Gmail, etc ; this often gets me into trouble, but thats not really a shocker). This is a good place to stop.

As for this N.F.A.Q – I think I may leave it up here, and update it as time goes on, and newer questions come in. I’ve done these before on Vsco, but they always get buried in my posts, don’t they?

If you’ve read this far – there’s a man with 1,000 + children in the world (wild, I know); he started off in Australia, and then he made his way to Mexico, and the States, and even Canada! You may have 500 + half siblings walking around the world of whom you’re unaware, dun.dun.dun!!!! This may be a good time to connect with the parental unit.

Have a good one.

Xo,

M

We don’t need another song interpretation, we don’t need another song interpretation – we don’t need another ….I wrote up a quick little song interpretation:

Title: Fresh Out The Slammer

Artist : Taylor Swift

My interpretation of this song’s narrative will delve into the idea of locking away a part of oneself—not out of desire, but out of necessity (to ensure its survival).

Throughout the song, our protagonist explores her experiences with these survival instincts, and their role in her life. Rather than being rooted in anger, denial, or resentment – the protagonist’s exploration is rooted in resolute acceptance (and subsequently, weighted grief). This is precisely what attracts me to the story being told here (it’s a fascinating one, and we’ll break it down together, line by line). Let’s start:

Now, pretty baby,I'm runningbackhometo you Fresh out the slammer,I knowwhomy first call will be to (Fresh out the slammer, oh)

First and foremost: I’d like to take a moment here to define the differences between ‘home’ and ‘house;’ these words may seem similar enough at first glance, but they are not! And this distinction becomes increasingly important (especially as we approach the bridge of the song later on + the fine line that will be drawn between reality and curated reality).

House: a building in which someone (anyone) lives – an object, material, easy to build – easier, perhaps, to tarnish – and to build up again (much like your reputation / dependent on moving parts, perceptions, forever shifting – forever in the market, bought and sold, curated and staged). A building that can be created to suit any occupant.

Home: In contrast, a home can refer either to a building or to any location that a person thinks of as the place where she lives and that belongs to her.

In the opening verse of this song, our protagonist runs (there is a sense of urgency here) back to her home. Irrespective of where this ‘home’ may actually be, what’s important to note here is that there’s a sense of belonging created by this space, a sense of belonging that is unique to the protagonist – and to the protagonist alone.

She is fresh out of the slammer (some sort of a cage / restriction / prison) that she occupied (for reasons + a duration unbeknownst to us as readers. This is intentionally left ambiguous – but mental prisons come to mind here).

All we know so far – is that the protagonist is in a rush to return to this sense of belonging.

The second line of the song, then, leads us to another fascinating discovery; here, we learn that this belonging isn’t unique to a specific space – but rather, to a person:

I know WHO my first call will be to.

Anothersummer takingcover,rolling thunderHe don't understand me

Splintered back in winter, silent dinners, bitter

He was withherin dreams

I have to defer back to another one of my favourite narratives to break down the first line here – High Infidelity; in High Infidelity, the tone of unease/ foreshadowing / urgency / tension / confrontation is set up vis a vis the weather: “rain soaking, blind hoping” & “storm coming, good husband – bad omen.”

Similarly, in this narrative – the rolling thunder personifies some sort of an external threat that pushes our protagonist into taking cover (with summer + the sun, I think of a spotlight, and of being in the public eye i.e “I’ll stare directly at the sun, but never in the mirror” from Anti-Hero).

The use of “another” is important here, because the protagonist isn’t new to this anymore – it’s yet another summer, yet another phase of protecting this part of herself because she must – because the thunder is rolling in, and the spotlight is on, and there’s (perhaps) no other option.

This rolling thunder, then, introduces a “he” into the narrative. This is someone who we do not know, and who does not understand this part of the protagonist that she’s trying so desperately to protect.

Interestingly, we’re also introduced to a “her” – important to create a distinction here between “her” and “me.”

These two may very well be one and the same; but, perhaps, here the protagonist is reflecting on a past version of herself – a version which is so detached from who she is now, that referring to “her” as “me” just doesn’t fit. A split happens here – we’re now discussing four characters:

• The home (and whoever this may be (only the protagonist knows); pretty baby, “you”)
• The threat (“he”)
• Another woman, a past version of herself perhaps “her”
• The protagonist herself, in the present “me”

Let’s assume, that this threat accompanied our protagonist long after the spotlight was off – and as the winter rolled in.

The weight of this threat led to a tension that was so palpable for our protagonist, that she nearly broke her back from carrying it – amidst silent, bitter dinners (if that doesn’t sound like a prison I don’t know what does).

At this point in the song, we’re no longer discussing the protagonist herself (as she currently stands) – but, we are discussing another character “her”: The perceived threat (“he”) accompanied “her” into the dream space that “she” occupied.

Here you may be tempted to say:

“Into His dream space, right?”

Not necessarily.

No possessive pronouns are used when referring to the dreams here, and this is (in my opinion) intentional. He wasn’t with her in “his dreams,” “her dreams,” “my dreams,” or “their dreams.”

This is important, because here, the writer is subtly recognizing that the origin / ownership of these dreams and fantasies isn’t nearly as significant as the jarring fact that this threat, this “he” held a space next to her in these dreams (by default, like a limb – like a spare part that she could not lose).

This goes hand in hand with approaching her time in the slammer from a space of resolute understanding / acceptance, rather than aggressiveness / denial.

This is our prison, this is our slammer – this is our baseline.

Gray and blue andfights andtunnels

Handcuffed to the spell I was under

Forjust one hour ofsunshine

Years of labor,locks andceilings

In the shade of howhe was feeling

Butit's gonna be alright, I did mytime

Nowpretty baby, I'm running backhome toyou

Fresh out the slammer, I knowwhomy first call will be to (Fresh out the slammer, oh)

In the second verse – we’re introduced to this theme of an escape; an unsuccessful escape (evidently).

Here, the narrative is fleshed out a little more, and we’re provided with the backstory behind the protagonist’s eventual exit (not escape) from the slammer.

Grays and blues are fairly straight forward (blue has always represented – well, the blues). A bruise from a fist fight also comes to mind here. A fight against whom? Your guess is as good as mine – but personally, my greatest battles have always been against my own mind.

What’s important to note here: That there was an attempt to fight, an attempt to escape vis a vis this tunnel (an unsuccessful attempt, as the protagonist ultimately found herself back in the slammer, handcuffed to a spell).

Let’s explore this spell, though, because it’s fascinating.

In fairytales, when characters are under enchantment spells – more often than not, they don’t have a level of awareness re their minds being under the influence of said spells. In this case; however, our main character does have a certain level of awareness re the spell she’s under (it’s giving….The Truman Show). Why am I making this assumption about her level of awareness? Because of what follows, because of what’s spoken – and most importantly, because of what goes unspoken (in parenthesis below):

Handcuffed to the spell I was under (that I gave into / eventually accepted) FOR just one hour of sunshine (fame? The spotlight? Love? Freedom to daydream? To create? To breathe?) Irrespective of what the sunshine represented, a tradeoff was made – one that the protagonist was aware of, and one that she ultimately found herself tethered to.

Following her failed attempt at an escape; our protagonist spent years labouring away, picking at locks, breaking ceilings (glass ceilings + potential records?) Whatever she did (or didn’t do) seems irrelevant now; ultimately – she was cast into the shade of his feelings (yes, the “he” from earlier – he must be a hoot at parties. I digress).

The tradeoff hardly seems fair in the grand scheme of things. As the protagonist looks back at her time in the slammer from the present, she pacifies herself by saying “but it’s going to be alright (now), (because) I did my time.”

You know what that reminds me of?

Have you ever heard experienced, bitter people saying something along the lines of:

“you have to put in the time, to earn the flexibility to be as relaxed as I am now?”

Or:

“You can’t have success handed to you on a silver platter – you’ve gotta do your time.”

The idea is nauseating, but it’s also – unfortunately, true. That’s how the world is structured – and it’s no different for our protagonist, there was no escape from this prison – there was just resolute understanding….But because she put in her time, it’ll now supposedly be alright (my inner cynic is plotting her prison break as I write this, but that’s neither here nor there).

It’ll also be alright because she’s running home to someone who accepts her for all that she is (and all that she isn’t); she is running home to that sense of belonging (one that remains preserved, protected).

Cameraflashes, welcome bashes

Get the matches, toss the ashes off the ledge

As I saidin my letters,now that I know better

I will never losemy baby again

She’s not home yet, though – if getting home is the goal of her quest, then she must first pass these camera flashes and welcome bashes. Hoax is another wonderful (and incredibly depressing) song, and I’ll briefly touch on some lyrics from Hoax here:

“my best laid plans, your sleight of hand – my barren land, I am ash from your fire.”

Ashes now seem far more impersonal – and this is where our character’s growth / experience comes through. At one point (in Hoax) – the grief from this fire, this tragedy was so new – so heavy, that the protagonist felt like she was nothing more than ash from the destruction. In Fresh Out The Slammer – she herself gets the matches, and she tosses the ashes (past versions of herself? The residue of grief / destruction) casually off the ledge. This doesn’t mean that the weight of the grief is any less than it had been in the past; but perhaps, with the support of her experiences – our protagonist is better equipped to carry the grief with her.

We also learn another interesting fact here: That the protagonist had been writing to her “home,” her “pretty baby” or “you” while she was in the slammer – and that in these letters, she recognized her past, inexperienced self. This was the version of her that initially landed in the slammer (and subsequently caused her to lose her connection to her “pretty baby / home / you”).

My friends tried, but Iwouldn't hear it

Watched medaily disappearing

For justone glimpse of his smile

All those nightsyou kept me going

Swirledyou into all of my poems

Now we're at the starting line, I did mytime

I love this verse of the song because the self reflection is candid, which is important. This prison, the slammer – her confinement – she takes ownership for all of it (yes this situation may have been unfair, yes I didn’t have the experiences to make sound decisions when I landed in the slammer – but that wasn’t the be all end all). There were people that tried to help along the way (her friends); but, she wouldn’t hear it.

Instead, she allowed a (very important) part of herself to disappear daily…For just one glimpse of his smile. This is the first time in the narrative that we get the sense that our protagonist (at one point) longed for his validation, his approval – even though, we’ve identified now that he was an immediate threat to this part of herself that she was trying to protect. It’s a complex dynamic – a fundamental flaw of the human condition.

Despite all of this, whatever it is that she’s trying to protect, kept her going ; she swirled “you” into all of her poems. And she’s only now at the starting line – as she approaches this person that she’s been referring to throughout this entire reflective saga

Now, pretty baby, I'm running

Tothe house whereyou still wait up, and thatporch light gleams

Tothe one who says I'm the girl ofhis American dreams

This is interesting – notice how she says she’s running to the house…Not the home (which is what she opened with); and yet, “you” are in the house (a home can be anywhere, a house may just be a building – but, in this case, it’s a building with “you” waiting up for her, specifically).

Also present in this house? Someone (impersonal), who “says” (which isn’t the same thing as “believes” or “knows”) that she’s the girl of his American dreams. Unlike the opening verse – he’s not with her in dreams – but she is supposedly the girl of his American dreams – this is important, because we mustn’t confuse “the one” with the “he” from earlier.

“You mean there’s another character?! This is getting confusing.”

Indeed, there is another character – but I promise, this is the last one. “The one” waits for her in the house, alongside her actual home – or her pretty baby, or “you.” The porch light gleaming is also very American dream-esque; the house itself personifies the American dream – but, this house clearly has layers, and it’s protecting / hiding what actually matters – her home.

There’s also a shift in the power dynamic – previously, “he” was with her in dreams (she didn’t seem to have much control over this fact, it was just accepted). In this case, our new character “the one” in the house, is claiming that she’s the girl of HIS American dreams – she doesn’t need him, but his American dreams may need her if they are to sustain themselves.

And no matter what I've done,it wouldn't matter anyway

Ain't no way I'm gonna screw upnow that I know what's at stake

Here,at the park where we used to sit onchildren's swings Wearingimaginary rings

It doesn’t matter: What landed her in the slammer, what she may have done in her attempts to get out, how she may have screwed up in the past – she accepts it all, but it’s irrelevant, background noise. Even the house, as it currently stands (her external reputation), isn’t our main point of focus anymore (she has come to terms with the fact that this house must exist).

She is now, ferociously determined not to mess up (an abundance of life experiences appear to support her with this lofty goal). She now ‘knows’ (she may not know much of anything else, but she knows what’s at stake, and what she’s trying to protect).

I imagine her exiting the house, through a backdoor, and landing in a park. This is where her home is…This is what she’s been running to all along, this space here, that is so unique to her, and her alone.

She’s at a park where “we” used to sit, on children’s swings…Wearing imaginary rings – she has come home….To a version of herself, that was tucked away for safekeeping – that had to be tucked away for years, lest it be lost to the gruesome slammer, to the tension of being with “him”, or to her own inexperiences.

She is coming home to her innocence, to a child who was preserved – despite it all (and to whatever this child represents for her).

That’s heavy – I know…But…

it's gonna be alright, I didmy time