sincerely, billie

my name is jaswin “billie” sangha, and this is where i put some of my art, words, and bucket list documentation. stick around for awhile. i’m trying to.

[jokerous]

BARBENHEIMER (2023)

[majorlycelliers]

Holy shit can’t wait to watch this in the theaters.

[pastelpressmachine]

Black Mirror’s Demon 79 and the Justification of Brown Feminine Rage (warning: spoilers)

What if intrusive thoughts can be valid, and it is okay, maybe even necessary to act on them sometimes? If violence isn’t the answer, why must it so often be the question? 

Keep reading

[sincerelybillie]

in the beginning of the episode, you can see she’s flustered by the eye contact and she doesn’t know he’s a fascist until she overhears him. that’s how.

[sincerelybillie]

happy APIDA month AND mental health awareness month, y’all.

[sincerelybillie]

an open letter to the unsupportive desi folks

building bridges of understanding between indians and americans has shown me how disconnected we really are. the distance of the hyphen in indian-american cannot be reconciled by one person who makes art related to it.

and i know i’m not the only one making art, and i’m much less prolific and well known than other south asian artists. i envy their networks and friends and family who share the identity and passion for it. in my case, i am literally the only one i actually know drawing, writing, filming, memeing this experience. i don’t think that makes me exceptional or special; if anything, it has felt very lonely.

i wouldn’t change my decision to be an identity-focused artist because i find a lot of meaning and joy in it. but it has been very hard. you can enjoy something deeply and still experience intense challenges related to it.

when i share something, whether it be a short film or story or visual art piece or a series of memes, i am relieved and thankful for warm receptions among non-indians and the literal i-can-count-them-on-one-hand-and-still-have-fingers-left-over amount of desi friends i have in real life. i try to express my gratitude often and directly.

but i do also sometimes get disheartened by the judgment and condemnation i have received from other indians for drawing attention to us, whether it be about our historical and present-day mistreatment as a minority, our own flaws as a culture and ethnic group, and even the celebratory stuff like our holidays and fashion and food. 

i am not entitled to anyone’s support, no matter how much we have in common and how much i feel like i’m doing the right thing. but i get irritated and offended because i feel attacked for standing up for my own people, only to have them say, “shut up, sit down, why are you doing this?” it is a familiar pain that doesn’t hurt any less than it did when you were younger and you found out it is easier to make them ashamed of you than proud of you. am i doing it wrong or something? is there something bad or embarrassing about me or my work? what do you gain from your dirty looks and condescending words? 

so many of my own relatives and so-called “community members” seem to have grown complicit with the erasure and ignorance of who we are, judging me for making a big deal about legitimate hate crimes, harassment and discrimination in the workforce and other spaces, and a long list of mental health deteriorating experiences. they want so badly to associate with whiteness and accumulate wealth and prestige, without seeing the price of assimilating too hard and not defending your own kind, before they end up killed. too many times, the indians want to be riled up and demand justice then, never affiliating with organizations, public officials, or artists who can create visibility, legislation and understanding to help prevent such events from occurring.

i understand that keeping our heads down was a survival tactic for previous generations. we couldn’t afford the luxury and privilege of art careers and activism back then. but i’m here now because someone did the work to ensure that was even possible, allowed, and safe. so i won’t just settle with that, and stop there, when there is still a lot of work to be done.

so i had to re-evaluate who my art was for, if some people were going to be ungrateful, unsupportive, and just plain mean about it. i had to specify what my intention was before posting something and who my audience really is. my art is for people who can relate and support it, as well as those eager for and appreciative of opportunities to learn, to have their minds changed or opened up. those type of people invigorate me more than anyone tears me down.

and i need to stop making the mistake of momentarily forgetting how many desi issues are internal to our own culture’s classist, sexist, colorist, racist, homophobic aspects. white colonizers had historically exploited that as a tactic to make different groups within countries they invaded fight each other. indians were mistreating each other and sparing the actual enemy the dirty work.

i don’t want any part in fueling this, i don’t want to engage with people who are hell-bent on carrying similar sentiments into their interactions with me, someone who is trying to provide information to others in a creative way that i can also enjoy. because it is labour-intensive and exhausting, and i wanna have fun while doing it.

i have learning and growing to do in this craft and personally, but i need to surround myself with people who care about that, not just about censoring me because they have always been told to shut up because their voices didn’t matter. and now, they’re projecting it onto me.

your voices, even when you’re using them negatively against people like me, do matter and do impact people. i hope you see that and choose better what to do with yours. i hope to learn from you too. create the opportunity and adjust your mindset to allow that, though, please.

[thesadghostclub]

ya just never know but let’s hOPE SO <3

Love from the sad ghost club

[sincerelybillie]

this isn’t a monologue

I had asked for a getaway when I arrived at the cabin. My old roommate worked in the city and was too much of a workaholic to reap the benefits of having a place in the woods to escape the sirens and expectations of the metropolis by at least 45 miles. I needed to see what stars looked like, what my own thoughts sounded like.

On the inside, the cabin looked like the set of a 90’s sitcom set in the suburbs. Small, blocky television in the living room, with hardly any matching furniture or drapery. I sighed. I loved it.

Around 11pm, I could tell my body hadn’t gotten tired yet because perhaps being here made me feel more energized and willing to actually stay up late without the reason being that I was going to catch up on work or wrap up a dissatisfying date.

I felt like baking a cake, doing yoga, and starting a screenplay with this newfound solitude and the energy it provided me with. But my options were limited and it had gotten cold out, so I opted for mindlessly bingeing on whatever was on TV, a classic activity of suburban folk.

When I tell you that about halfway through a rerun of a forgettable show, the TV set burst into flames, I am saying that randomly, the TV caught fire and the screen made a popping noise as the flames began engulfing the stand and moving towards me. I panicked, shuffling out of the blanket and flapping it over the flames and throwing it over the fire while I searched for a fire extinguisher. I couldn’t find it, and when I went back to see how bad the situation was getting, I saw that the fire was out. Completely gone. I lifted the blanket, and the TV, stand and all, was there, perfectly fine.

I rubbed my eyes, feeling delusional. Maybe the late nights were catching up with me, but that felt too real. I stepped outside onto the deck to process what I had just apparently hallucinated, and when I did, I was met with bright sunshine and saw the frosty breath escape my mouth as I gasped.

“Billie!” called Lora, dressed for a brisk winter hike or something. She waved at me, and I saw she was with some of our mutual friends. “Why are you still in your pajamas?” she asked, sounding disappointed and like she had been waiting for me.

I had walked up to them, mostly to see if they were real, but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. I turned around to see Isaac step out of the now snow covered cabin behind me, holding a cup of coffee. He was also in his pajamas. I turned back to Lora who smirked, knowingly.

“Oh, I see.”

I still couldn’t say anything, but I could put together that Isaac and I had apparently slept together. There were a lot of things wrong and disorienting about this situation already, the latest one being that Isaac and I hadn’t spoken in almost three years, since I moved without ever telling him. I had never planned to see him for more than casual chit-chat and sometimes sex. It became clearer to me later that he had felt like a heads up that I was moving to another state would’ve been worth mentioning.

It seemed complicated and honestly out of character for me to be briefly back in town, having moved back to the state and living in a different city, and hook up with him. I would have been seeing someone in my new city, if anyone. I didn’t even have Isaac’s number anymore or any social media connects had this been a booty call. But does that mean I had invited him to the cabin? Lora hadn’t known him, so how else could he have ended up standing on the deck? He looked so content. I felt both pre-guilt and post-guilt for wanting to ice him out again. I wasn’t for this.

Lora was talking with the others, so while she was occupied, I rushed back to the cabin to avoid getting cold and confront Isaac. But I still couldn’t find the words. That didn’t stop the look of disappointment from once again befalling his face. I recognized it because it’s the same face he made when I didn’t kiss him on our first date.

Going to that restaurant has been so awkward for me ever since because my first time was with him, and I could tell he was convinced that promising summer night was going to end with sex. But now, we were here, in the dead of winter, and something had ended or started with sex, I couldn’t tell. Maybe he could actually see my desire to leave this time. And because I was unable to speak, the pity party seemed futile so I changed frequently and rushed outside to get help or some semblance of sanity from Lora. Why couldn’t I speak?

But Lora was gone. Everyone was. I was in my high school graduation outfit now and running late because Rocky (who I only knew from elementary because we didn’t go to the same schools after 5th grade) grabbed me and rushed me to an auditorium of a school I only recognized as one I did a service project in years ago, not one I attended as a student.

“Come on!” she said, and a musical number kicked off. Everyone in the room rushed in circles around the aisles and perimeter of the seats, while others sang onstage. The whole spectacle was chaotic and loud and overwhelming. But I couldn’t bring myself to separate from it or yell in protest or confusion. As we were about to finally take our seats as the song neared its end, I felt myself getting lifted and held in the air, but I didn’t know who was doing it.

When I was placed back down, a hand remained on my back and guided me to my seat. I had lost my graduation cap and was sitting in a disheveled gown, feeling awkward about how exposed my legs were and the fact that I was running, dancing, and being lifted in a dress. Rocky sat smiling next to me, as if this was all normal, and I noticed the person seated on her other side was Hewitt.

I had the most inconveniently long-lasting crush on Hewitt for half of elementary school and well into middle school, and it was so terrible because I guess from even a young age, I self sabotaged my love prospects by being mean or aloof to guys I liked. He had told me I was one of his best friends because I had befriended him first as the new kid and we would always make art together on Fun Fridays. That began to change as girls and guys became more separate within their social groups between ages 10 and 12. He started making fun of the way I looked and throwing dodgeballs at me, even if I wasn’t playing in the game with the others. And then one day he had the audacity to outright ask if I liked him, and I was confused because at one point, I really did and he was my favourite person to see at school. The confrontation threw me off, so I told him, “No, you’re stupid and annoying.” We had faded entirely as friends by then, but made constant eye contact in the halls and sometimes ran into each other outside of school as we got older. It always felt like he was taunting me to admit I had lied.

He didn’t go to my high school, either, so I was wondering why he was at this graduation. I was wondering why I was, too, but that thought got pushed aside by the sight of his face again. He looked at me and seemed kind of tired and sad. Something about the moment we shared, gazing at each other with Rocky blissfully unaware in between, reminded me of Isaac. My friends were usually over-optimistic about my status with the latest guy I was seeing or developed a crush on, and some of the guys themselves were never given the truth or reciprocated feelings. It had always seemed easier and safer for me emotionally to seem like the one who had invested less.

Rocky and I exited the auditorium before I remember ever walking the stage or seeing the caps get thrown in the air or any of the program events one would expect with a commencement ceremony. We walked towards a shopping center and she asked me if I was interested in seeing some high-end clothing and gourmet soaps and food. I didn’t vocally say anything, but she nodded affirmatively, and then we walked into an Asian grocery store/artisan market. I’m not sure what it was, but I spent some wandering the aisles and admiring the foreign packaging. I picked up something, debated shoplifting it, and saw Rocky in another aisle, likely contemplating the same. She looked up, spotting me, and smirked, knowingly.

I felt myself wanting to ask her questions, like if she knew what was going on, but as we exited, she said she had to get back to campus. But it wasn’t the high school campus. She walked towards what resembled the music building at Las Positas College, where I had studied for two years before moving/taking a couple gap years. I don’t remember Rocky ever having attended, though.

She left, and for the first time since the TV catching fire, I was alone.

[sincerelybillie]

don’t reach out to people who harmed you, even if it’s the holidays

This is advice I probably wouldn’t have taken this time last year, but it’s a lesson I keep having to learn because I continued to put myself in positions for disappointment and more harm because I felt guilty for being harsh enough to pick my emotional and physical safety and self respect over them.

When it comes to my friends and family, I remember the little things about them and their passions, niche interests, and inside jokes. When birthdays or holidays come around, I pride myself on having the right words written in a card or perfect present.

Even with people with whom I ended on bad terms, I still end up remembering birthdays or other significant dates where I would usually be around or reach out. In most cases, I ended the relationship. If someone broke ties with me, I don’t reach back out, or rarely ever have a reason to. Seeking closure is futile and unnecessary, and you rarely re-enter a space with that person feeling better than you did when you just weren’t in communication anymore.

For me to be driven to the point to really sever ties with someone, they have to have done something really morally or legally wrong. My tolerance has gotten lower, so I endure negativity less, which means I have the self esteem to recognize when I am being mistreated.

Thankfully, it’s not a decision I have had to make often over the duration of my entire life, but unfortunately, it is one that I have made repeatedly over the past few years. This is because I am now processing these actions and moments as an adult with an understanding of the abuse/trauma I have endured and accumulated. It took longer than I would have liked and I carry a lot more pain in my heart for it, but I did realize I I deserve immensely better.

Actually doing something with this information and realization can be scary when you have the language for it, and also accept what happened to you as a fact, because you might be alone in your decision to cut ties, might be pressured to reconcile/patch up, maybe your feelings and evidence for making this difficult decision are invalidated and gaslit by both the abuser and their friend group or family members. It is difficult and uncomfortable and isolating to decide you don’t want to deal with someone who is bad for you anymore.

For a long time, I followed a pattern of setting aside my trauma, anger, and pain because it was someone’s birthday, the holiday season, a new year, some family occasion, or other “important” event. But no event is important enough for me to sideline my self worth and mental health because it would make everyone else more comfortable within a shared network that I not think so-and-so is an abusive piece of shit anymore. If I got over it. If I appeased people’s discomfort with having to be held accountable, or holding someone in their network/friend group/family accountable for how they treated me, someone who everyone in this circle also claims to care about.

You can’t care about me and the abuser at the same time. I am not putting people in positions of having to pick sides, don’t worry if you ever have to be given that unbearable burden. I’ll make it very simple. You don’t have to pick sides.

Because you are literally either an advocate and supporter of crimes, injustice, and evil, or like me, you don’t tolerate it either. Passively or directly, the relationship doesn’t matter. Complacency with abuse is an issue because you’re deciding it’s not worth you getting upset about, which means you don’t care about the harm done to me. So you already made where you stand clear. Being polite, civil, hanging out less, maintaining social distance? That’s also just a half ass attempt at not fully committing to what you think of either person.

I shouldn’t be the only one making tough decisions, because part of what makes those decisions tough is how many people will still want you to suck it up. Some won’t believe you. Some won’t care either way.

I had my eyes opened up so painfully wide and often this past year. I made a couple of poor decisions in who I was friends with. I tolerated family members because cultural norms demand I keep my mouth shut, not be sensitive, and be respectful towards people who threatened to kill me and got very close to doing so.

I have to stand my ground. And if my situation sounds like yours, you have to make the moves that will save your life and stand your ground, too. Yes, it’s the holidays, but you are under no obligation to grin and bear it. You don’t grin and bear it through your life, especially not what is supposed to be a happy, warm time and end to a year.

I was given a soft plead to “patch up” with someone in my family, and I had to stifle the misguided guilt I initially felt for “causing drama” by deliberately opting out of scenarios where I would have to interact with them much less so interact in praise or respect of them.

I made my position clear. “Do not ask me to do that. Do not expect that of me. That person means nothing to me, and just because we share DNA, that doesn’t mean I have to do anything in regards to them.” I do not wish that person ill will, I do not seek any sort of revenge, and have not hurt them in any way. I cut ties and communication, for myself. I will be not vilified for that when the actual villain won’t even be vilified for actual bad things they did.

It was only uncomfortable to say this and clarify this to people because of the pushback I received from them, people who don’t empathize with me or think my feelings or safety is as important as this outward image that I have a thriving friend group and perfect family, with no infighting, drama, or dark secrets whatsoever.

One keeps me alive, the other is a lie. What I choose to uphold also tells me what I think I deserve and how valuable I consider my own safety and sanity. And granted, it is not any easier or safer to disconnect sometimes because cultural and situational consequences can often be worse than just silently taking the disrespect, mistreatment and abuse.

But I’m almost 25, and it’s gone on too long. I don’t want the feeling of being respected within my basic human rights to ever become foreign or new or refreshing because I suffered for so long, and then chose to lay low and suffer some more when there was an inkling of risky hope to get the hell out. I don’t want to normalize this for myself. I don’t want to believe this is the way it is and will always be.

I don’t want other abused people to tell me I shouldn’t complain because they had it worse or developed some Stockholm’s Syndrome like relationship to their abuser or to other new, abusive people who treat them terribly as well. I don’t want to hear about how pathetically sensitive, theatrical, and self-victimizing I am just because I decided I don’t want to be screamed at, threatened to be killed, harassed, judged, and have shit be broken around me or thrown at me. I don’t want to be asked “When was the last time I hit you?” Or “When was the last time the cops needed to be called?”, as if the time lapse from one violent event to another being wider is called improvement, when it should not be happening at all.

I have higher standards for humanity, for the humans I surround myself with, and for the human I want to be. I’m obviously not perfect, but I don’t deserve violence, disrespect, or abuse. No one gets to inflict that on anyone. No one deserves that.

I don’t give a shit about an evil person’s birthday, if they have a merry Christmas, or a happy new year. I won’t be at these peoples’ weddings, I won’t be impressed by anything they become or accomplish. I won’t have their cell phone numbers, emails, addresses, and eventually, I’ll forget their birthdays or their faces. If they somehow become parents, which scares me for those children, I won’t have any connection to the partners or to kids, unless it is to warn them. If I don’t seek legal action, I can at the very least just do what keeps me safe, happy, and healthy, surround myself with and build myself a community that takes care of each other.

I’ll remember how much strength it took to protect and defend myself, to pick myself, to celebrate myself, and to rebuild myself, and how alone I was in so much of this journey. I will not be guilt tripped, shamed, undermined, or sucked back in. I will be thankful for the people who stood by me, found me and picked me to be in their circle of love and trust, and stay there today. I will celebrate the big days with them. They deserve my energy and attention in the best possible, most positive way.

This is who I want to be and how I want to run things.

[sincerelybillie]

Longer Than Most Marriages

That’s what I hear the most. About how long this has lasted. And as if marriage hasn’t come up and pregnancy scares haven’t manifested into something that forced me to become a better long-term planner than someone with depression can sometimes even be. I think I’ve had my one Big Love. I realize it more in moments of traumatic flashbacks and fresher, newer, more recent abuse. But I definitely knew it was a Big Love when I first felt it, as a teenager turning everything into poetry and playlists. Though that girl has barely changed.

Once I had been treated bad, then good, it made me feel the pain of having been treated bad in a different way. Even if I was already grieving the years I lost and unraveling the twisted ideas planted in my young brain that hardened me into a clay pot that breaks much easier than it was built and can’t grow anything that doesn’t die quickly... the brain that had my processed good, healthy love was also processing your sadness and resentment that I didn’t get it sooner. 

Having it bad isn’t a prerequisite to deserve good. It is not the only thing that can teach us to appreciate or nurture someone and the love you share with them, as if some polar opposite experience has to be the singular source of perspective. You’re justifying your own hell at that point. 

What I learn every year initially makes me deeply uncomfortable, and starts with a series of triggers that I have to muddle through (tightness in my throat, tears pouring down my face, soaking my shirt, and swelling my eyes, and genuinely believing the only way out of this situation and feeling is killing myself).

On the other side of that horrific tunnel, I have always made it out alive, more empathetic, and more reasonable. Better, kinder, more useful, more honest. I still get Bad Brain. I still lose my temper. I still have nightmares and panic attacks. And I still haven’t quite figured out how to completely cut off the people who continue to invalidate, gaslight, and abuse me, and then tell me I am playing victim. 

I’m not playing. It’s not a role I claim or pretend to be. It was imposed on me, assigned, without consent or remorse or accountability. I know I am a victim because I know they are perpetrators and I know what they have done to me. The fact that they have been victims and experienced trauma themselves does not give them a pass. Statistically, it gives them motive and/or mental health disorders. It also does not impress me if they endured more and didn’t “complain” as much as I am by talking about it as much as I do (which still isn’t very much and is still relatively ambiguous for safety reasons). 

They won’t get therapy, they won’t tell people the truth, and they threaten me if I discuss anything that might link them to the events that have harmed me physically, mentally, emotionally, financially, psychologically and sexually. I have little control over their response, values, or sense of humanity.

I also know I am a survivor. Some days, I don’t feel like that because I am still keeping secrets, I still live in fear in certain spaces, and I still haven’t sought legal action against the crimes committed against me by multiple people. I’m just this person who has been set off fire, had my entire body damaged inside and out, and continues to walk around and live life. That’s supposed to be badass, maybe. But sometimes, it’s frustrating and depressing to have become that charred, scarred thing. Even if people do praise you for being brave or strong. I didn’t want to be known as those things, while keeping their causes a secret. I didn’t want that secret to be the price I paid to become those things, especially became I became other less admirable things, too. And the price came with interest. 

Whether I talk about it today, have been slowly talking about it in a little more detail over time, or whether I mention it in 20 years, I know I will be met with skepticism, shame, or disrespect, more so than I have received it now. It has discouraged me and hurt me and made me want to not even bother, stop trying before even starting to seek justice.

 I can’t put everyone who’s done something heinous to me behind bars or in the ground because I am not the one who serves justice, acts on my rage violently, or honestly has financial resources or time to focus on that person or person(s) enough. I don’t know what justice or reparations would even look like because I have gotten so used to navigating the world with the hand I was dealt, or creating physical distance from that hand as my only escape/solution because the law or the culture wasn’t designed for me to get much else if I was even lucky enough to get to leave.

The kindest thing I did for myself was invest in a relationship that was good for me, in a person who was good to me, and take care of it as a friendship and relationship for over ten years. I consider art to be so important in my healing too, but this person and relationship allowed me to blossom as a writer and as an artist, and often provided seemingly endless inspiration. Positive inspiration, as I didn’t have to draw from my hurt or reveal to people in moments of vulnerability or over sharing - whichever it was at the time - that I have had my mind, body, and spirit rattled by intense, unforgettable trauma. And look, I can do something creative with that trauma and sell my sadness. 

Today, I am so much more affirmative in both my relationships with people and in my art. I celebrate more than I mourn, which wasn’t happening before. It’s like going on a writer’s retreat in a jumpy castle. Or doing something as simple but significant as sending people you care about cards just because you want to, as opposed to being in a prison and only using your creative passions for escapism so you didn’t go crazy or kill yourself.

I was in very dangerous, toxic, and regrettable environments and relationships before and even after (for familiarity) the one I shared that I can actually be proud of and am deeply fond of. I had to acknowledge how cruel and ugly I had become because of what I learned and picked up and accepted as the way I was going to handle and survive relationships. 

But I got to unravel, cry, and grow up in a safe and healthy space to do so, with someone who was patient and compassionate and taught me an unmatched level of unconditional love. I did not take it for granted, knowing they deserved the best from me too and weren’t in service to my growth just because I was some fucked up thing they ended up loving somehow (though I was confused, self sabotaged, and hurt them in the beginning). It wasn’t their choice to like or love me, but it was their choice to stay, and I wanted to honour that. 

I wanted to earn and maintain what I had been so lucky to have found and been given, and even when we weren’t together, I wanted to be good for the sake of being good.

I wouldn’t say this means I won’t fall in love with anyone ever again because it will be and has been different and meaningful in other ways to love others and enter a variety of platonic, romantic, and sexual relationships from my teens to my mid 20’s. I had to be careful not to assign so much significance to the healthiest, best thing I had ever had (so far, at the time) that I became close minded to anyone or anything else. 

I do, however, stand by the sentiment of knowing I have had my one Big Love. Maybe if you check back in a year from now, I will have experienced something even more transformational and radically uplifting. I haven’t said that in the ten years I am talking about so it seems unlikely based off history, but I’m still open to the possibility. 

I just think about people who talk about all the heartaches it takes to find the one or even the divorces that happen before someone meets their soulmate, and how I have mixed feelings about monogamy, and I am only 24, and I took what, like one sociology class on marriage and family? And I have gained so much more language and understanding about what I want and who I am, so really, what the hell ultimate conclusion could I possibly come to at this point in my life? 

But I shouldn’t discredit the experience and knowledge I gained with my Big Love, especially because I experienced it during such developmental years as a teenager in high school, young adult in college, and well into my post grad life and now, wow, the age where I’ve been around for a quarter of a century.

I am forever thankful for my Big Love. I got it so young, among other experiences that shaped me as a child and adolescent. Amidst absolute chaos and hopelessness and feelings that I was getting shortchanged from the whole goddamn universe, I still had my talent, my soul, and people who loved me and allowed those things to flourish more than they could in other spaces among other individuals.

It’s hard (but still possible and does occur) to be mad at the world when the same one did give you something so special. I don’t find the trade off fair to be honest, but I don’t get a say in that, and despite my lingering youthful wishes, I can’t change the past.

I do get a say in who I become, how I respond, and how well I love. I deserve to be, do, and have the best. That’s what my Big Love taught me. So, now, I love big. 

[sincerelybillie]

i still think about the time a teacher saw me waiting to get picked up after school and told me i should try out for the swim team or water polo because i had the body type for it. when men comment on your body at a young age, meaning well or being massive creeps, it’s easy to become hyper aware of things like your long legs or broad shoulders or whatever compelled him to say that. i don’t want to be told i’m over thinking it when so many women experience this and can probably tell you the first moment they felt like this, too. i was at an age where i simultaneously wanted to be noticed as more than a kid, but felt way too awkward in my own body to know what to do with it. and it’s so crazy that a man can just walk by, comment on your body, then get in his car, and it stays with you for a decade. imagine how long other things, things more harmfully impressionable, stay with you.

[sincerelybillie]

If you’re a poor, broke, or struggling young person or just too well off to even know what that is like, if you don’t like talking economics because it’s “boring” or “complicated”, this video is for you!

I polled Instagram a month ago about what they wanted to learn more about and here’s what they picked: how to understand the impending recession that will impact the everyday American.

[sincerelybillie]

hey. So, I just came upon your poem "Admittance of failure". It's very good. You're an extremely talented poet. I haven't read anything else that you've done yet. So, keep on keeping on. Maybe your writing will be able to pull me out of a slump. I'm still writing but doing nothing with it .... Take care.

hello, and thank you so much!

i’ll be honest, i have been scrolling through the archives to find it (might be a very old one), but i appreciate your kind words. haven’t been writing much poetry either, so maybe we’ve helped each other a little bit out of that slump.

thanks again, take care as well x

[sincerelybillie]

“oh, you must be so proud”

i pulled into the promenade towers’ parking garage, using the time until the parking attendant walked over to me, to engage in a staring contest with a  woman who very critically wondered what i was doing in her neck of the woods. she was sitting with a man at a table outside of the cafe of the shopping center that was connected to the complex. they were wearing matching tennis outfits. 

“if only she knew what her boyfriend was doing in the neck of my woods,” spoke Garnet, a specter that sometimes rides shotgun with me. i lost the staring contest by turning to look at her. 

“the guy sitting across from her?” i looked again to see that the woman had turned to him. she aggressively flipped her blonde hair over one shoulder and crossed her arms, as he retreated into his seat. Garnet nodded. i placed my forehead on the steering wheel. “fuck...”

when i sat back up, the parking attendant was smiling at me, asking with his eyes, “long day?” i greeted him, in a manner that a polite and normal person would. the gate lifted, i somehow crammed my large sports car into my narrow parking spot, and Garnet and i walked up to my studio. 

the leasing agent greeted us, me with a warm smile, and i noticed her with who i assumed to be a new tenant heading towards the same elevator as me. i decided then to take the stairs, but seeing as how i lived on the 14th floor and Garnet was already yanking me to the elevator, i inevitably ended up with the three of them. the tenant was a man about my height, who looked to be in his early 30′s but carried the sadness of someone who lived much longer and failed to fill it with things that made him happy. but whatever he spent that time doing, it afforded him this place. 

the leasing agent, Theresa, introduced us, and i wish she hadn’t. his name was Frank Gennaro, he was moving in today after living on the east coast his whole life, and he was single. Garnet perked up and looked at me, and i pretended not to notice her, which was important. because normal people weren’t supposed to notice her. 

as we ascended stories, i began to worry Frank was going to be occupying the vacant studio on my floor, the one i shared a wall with. 

Theresa does this thing where she likes to double as a matchmaker so her workday can involve something other than telling people about the unreasonable fees that make living here unattainable for the average american.

“if there’s anything i haven’t shown you or told you or answered questions about, i’m sure this wonderful lady here can help you,” Theresa said, rubbing my arm affectionately. i forced an uncomfortable smile, trying to make it look like the kind a wonderful lady would give someone. i got out first when the elevator dinged. i winced when i realized Theresa was, in fact, unlocking the apartment next door. i heard a whoosh sound and already knew Garnet was gone. the door locked behind them, and i sighed, entering my place.

i walked to the edge of my less-than-400 square foot studio and stepped into my solarium, watching the afternoon ubers and commuters and metro buses below. every time i’m up here, it feels like i’m levitating above the city. if i was more of a classist, it might actually make me feel like i’m better than everyone down there, better than the girl who was giving me death glare even though Garnet slept with her boyfriend and didn’t let me know. 

speaking of the devil, just a moment later, she phased through the wall and rushed up behind me, startling me. she laughed, knowing i had plenty of thoughts of the window somehow shattering and me plummeting to my death from the 14-story fall. i know Garnet had compulsive thoughts about pushing me, too. 

“he’s definitely single,” Garnet confirmed, not that i was curious. i checked my phone, noticing a missed call from my dad. he probably wanted me to meet some relatives for dinner in la habra, mention my degree or job or the things he can find it in his heart to be proud of me for. i texted him an apology and said i wasn’t feeling well. 

and it wasn’t a lie. i hadn’t been feeling well for awhile. Garnet had become tangible, started body snatching, and even killing people. i couldn’t really go anywhere without her, and it was hard to explain my current living situation without delving into the madness of it all. but maybe my dad could finally brag to people that i got into stanford, as long as he omitted it was the psychiatric hospital. 

it might also be hard to explain that my “savings account money” that allowed me to apply for the promenade without a guarantor was money Garnet phased into a federal bank for. and i, in true cliche scandal form, got the highest paying entry level job one could find in this industry, through blackmail via information that Garnet retrieved. and that since the new year began, i don’t remember the people i have slept with or that i have slept with them because Garnet only tells me weeks after it happens because she gets a twisted kick out of watching me bump into my, her hook ups. 

Garnet was a curse, but she got other people’s parents to tell my father, “oh, you must be so proud” in regards to me. so, in a way, i was indebted to her, even if i didn’t ask for or agree with the ways she showed up in my life. she was supportive and destructive at the same time, so it was hard to really figure out how i felt about her. the same can be said about many parents. 

that night, i decided to clear my head and go to the jacuzzi by the south tower because it was the less popular one and therefore the one where i could have more time and space to myself. it was only less popular because the Rich Old Business Men lived in many of the south tower condos, and most young tenants know not to go to their jacuzzi at night, lest we want an uncomfortable encounter with someone who is more than likely a registered Republican. 

i took my chances because i wanted to be alone and it was 1am on a tuesday night, so the Rich Old Business Men were probably too sleepy to sexually assault a neighbour. this was naive, and as if i wouldn’t already be forced to assume responsibility for the actions of a repulsive, entitled but ultimately powerful magnate...i would be actually a little at fault for what happened tonight. 

i don’t really wear bikinis out in public because it’s out of character and style for me. i typically dress like a 19 year old boy. a 19 year old boy interning at a late night talk show if i’m being business casual. when i do wear them, people come to the realization that i have long legs and tits, parts of me other people have always liked more than i ever got to. 

i sank into the jacuzzi’s bubbling water, needing my muscles to relax after a long day at work and dealing with the awkward aftermaths of anything Garnet had been a part of. but i would be lying if i said my body’s tension wasn’t partially caused by the fact that i saw the sliding doors of the fitness center open and a mysterious-looking man step outside. he began walking alongside the pool, towards me. i wanted to hide, like an alligator in swamp waters, only i felt less like the predator and more like the prey. i didn’t know if i would be able to do anything if the man was to suddenly join me in the hot tub, if i was already this scared from this far away. the offense was more Garnet’s speed. and the one time i think i actually needed her, she was nowhere to be found. 

the man came closer, and underneath the light, i finally saw that it was Frank. 

“hey,” he greeted. 

“hi,” i said, slowly lifting my body back up. i noticed his large gym bag, dangling from his right hand. in an attempt to move the conversation to its cordial end, i told him, “you know, everyone gets their own locker in the fitness center, so you don’t have to lug your gym stuff back and forth from your apartment.” i gestured back to the center. 

“i know,” he said, placing the bag down. my heart started racing to keep up with the thoughts rushing to my head, that something bad was about to happen to me. i noticed him staring at my chest, and if i retreated back into the water, he’d know he scared me. if i got out and ran, that only said it louder. he reached into his bag. 

“what are you -” i began to ask, but felt too paralyzed to finish because did i even want to know? was he actually going to tell me, “i’m just gonna reach into my bag and grab the thing i’m going to kill you with. i mean, look at me, i’m obviously too sad to care about the consequences. and your death might make me feel like i had control over something in my life.” no, he wasn’t going to say that.

i sat up abruptly, as he held a type of flashlight at me and pointed it at my chest. i flinched, blinded by the brightness and looked down, squinting at whatever he was pointing at.

there was a massive hole in my sternum. i looked up, horrified and confused. i began breathing heavily, scooting back into my corner of the jacuzzi and scrambling up and out of it. 

“what the fuck is that?! what did you do?!”

Frank turned the light off, placed it back in his bag, and pulled out a small cylindrical container i can only describe as something you’d see in Ghostbusters. it looked like the vacuum cartridge to suck ghosts into, which was fitting, because as Frank rotated the container, i saw a gaseous, flailing, inaudibly screaming Garnet inside. 

i looked up at Frank, reaching for my towel and my grip on reality, which was already a bit fuzzy, considering Garnet had been a part of it. and now, Ghost Hunter Frank was, too. he placed the container back in his bag and stood up. i did, too. this lighting really didn’t help his whole dark eye circles, pale skin and freckles combination situation. he looked, quite literally, like he had just seen a ghost.

“i can explain everything to you tomorrow. meet me at the cafe at 10,” he said, before walking away, with both a calmness and an exhaustion i have never seen.

i stood in my towel, calling after him, angry that he got to see me in two of the most vulnerable states i could be found in, “what the fuck am i supposed to do now?” 

he stopped and turned around. i tried to hold my anger, but i was definitely intimidated. 

“get some sleep. i imagine you haven’t been able to do that for awhile now.” 

Garnet orchestrated some intense dreams and messed with the thermostat in the middle of the night enough times for me to easily agree that Frank’s statement was true. i haven’t slept properly in ages. but it was the first time in awhile that i was going to go to bed without her presence. 

and ironically, the thought of her absence and what i just saw and questions about Frank had kept me up all night. i rolled over in bed all night, occasionally glancing at the solarium, seeing more lights turn off in the apartment buildings across the street. i watched the sun come up. 

when 10am rolled around, so did i, turning the corner to the cafe when and where we said we would meet. Garnet still apparently haunted me because i walked right into the chest of that blonde woman’s boyfriend. 

“hey!” he said, annoyed at first and then adjusting his facial expression when he noticed it was me. “hey...” he said again, and then once more when he asked if we could talk. 

“i can’t, i’m actually meeting someone,” i said, conveniently being able to gesture at Frank, who was watching us from the same table the matching tennis outfit couple had been at just yesterday. 

he looked back at Frank and chuckled resentfully when he turned to face me again. “yeah? and you’re gonna fuck around with him, too?” he asked, his demeanor suddenly shifting back to irritation. i paused.

what the fuck. he was just as guilty as, if not more than, me, Garnet for cheating on his girlfriend. i didn’t know who he was, much less that he had an uppity, classist, racist girlfriend who thinks every person of colour at the promenade is “the help” and treats the actual staff at the complex even worse. 

from what i’ve seen, she was a bad emotional investment to begin with and if he wanted to be with someone else (or just not her), he should have had the decency to break up with her. Garnet might’ve known he wasn’t single, but i wasn’t responsible for his relationship. or Garnet. and that was especially true because she was locked away in a goddamn vacuum sealed container and i was still processing that. 

so, “fuck you, man”, i said, and walked over to Frank. 

annoyed by the double standards of my previous male encounter, my hostile energy translated to my interaction with Frank. “where’s Garnet?” i asked with tautness, suddenly feeling protective of her. so what if she was selfish, reckless, and mean? she was still a person. or at least, she was once. right? what are the laws or ethics around holding captive someone who disobeys the laws of physics...

“she’s still where she was the last time you saw her,” he said. “do you want coffee?”

he was speaking so calmly. like, this was casual conversation had between endearing neighbours. “i need answers,” i said, growing agitated. “what was that last night?” 

the boyfriend walked past as i asked that and i felt his rays of slut-shaming shooting at me. and speaking of rays, there was that light Frank had shined on me that looked like i got vaporized. “and now, there’s a giant fucking hole in my chest?”

“that’s what happens when you fuck around with people who are taken,” muttered the blonde woman, who had apparently been meeting up with her man just one table over. no matching outfits this time. 

“eavesdropping? really? are either of you capable of actually focusing on your own relationship?” i snapped.

“hey,” Frank whispered, trying to lasso my attention and temper. 

“what was your plan just two minutes ago?” i asked the boyfriend. “to chat with me real quick about how you can’t stop thinking about that night before patching things up with your girlfriend who, by the way, has a lot of misdirected rage?” they didn’t say anything, and i turned back to face Frank, who was looking down, either embarrassed for me or by me. 

“oh, shut up,” i told him. he shook his head. 

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you’re not saying anything helpful at all,” i argued.

“that’s because you barely let me get a word in,” he said, sternly. i exhaled. 

“i didn’t do anything. all of the bad shit that gets associated with me, the guy and his girlfriend and the whole fucking around thing. that wasn’t me. it was Garnet, and -” 

“i know. i know it’s not you, but it’s...kind of you.” he cleared his throat, lowering his voice. “i know you might think Garnet is just some ghost who picked you for some reason to be the subject or vehicle of all of her mayhem, but she’s more than that.”

“what do you mean?” 

“she’s a manifestation of every negative thought you’ve had, every impulse you wanted to act on. it’s really rare for them to have real-life consequences of this magnitude, much less actually appear in tangible or intangible form whenever they want. but that’s where i come in.”  

“...as a ghostbuster?” 

“as an exterminator. think of Garnet as an infestation of bad thoughts. she’s a part of you, but a part of you that has gotten stronger with your built up resentment or anger. you have to remove her, like a tumor before she eventually kills the host and takes over completely. like, when termites start weakening the foundation of a home -”

“i get the metaphor,” i interrupted, taken aback by the information and how quickly and how much Frank suddenly started talking. 

“but that’s what the hole is; the stronger she gets, the closer she becomes to having a permanent physical form, while you start dissolving.” 

i sat back, exhaling deeply. after a moment, i asked, “so, you really moved in next to me just to to catch her? how did you know she was here?” 

“actually, that was a wild coincidence. i retired and moved out here as a getaway, maybe do freelance engineering work, but i forgot i didn’t uninstall the software on my watch that detects paranormal energy. when you got in the elevator, i had gotten an alert. and then i got another one when Theresa was in my apartment.”

“i think the most unbelievable part of that story is that anyone could possibly retire in their 30′s...” 

“i’m 47,” he corrected me. “but thank you.”  

“being able to retire at 47 is still unrealistic,” i said, diverting my own attention from his appearance and accidentally flattering it.

“i was the only one doing this work in my area for a long time, so the demand got kind of crazy and when you’re the best bet to call every single time -”

 "you must be so proud,” i teased at his humble-brag, attempting to stifle my own heightening panic. Frank sighed as well, sounding a different kind of exhausted. “so, why didn’t you think Theresa was the source of the paranormal whatever, if your watch beeped whenever you were around her?” i asked. 

“if it was Theresa, then she’s the physical manifestation of kindness and hospitality. i mean, if there’s a ghost running around helping people...i don’t feel the need to intervene. Garnet’s energy was volatile...dangerous. if you let her get any worse, she could do some serious damage.”

i wanted to defend myself and say i wasn’t “letting” her do anything, but she had shoved a man off a cliff this past summer and when the local news station reported it as a whitewater rafting accident, she was laughing at the tv screen. like she was proud of herself for getting away with it and mocking the reporters for not being as smart as her. and i didn’t even scold her. i wanted to believe that maybe the guy was awful in his own way, so the scales were balanced. and maybe that reaction made me just as horrible as Garnet. Garnet had been an out-of-control beast of a child that i didn’t even try to discipline because a part of me felt like everything she did was sort of justified. if she came from me, from the worst parts of me, that were angry and hurt, i understood her. and in a way, i was grieving the loss of her. i had even been a little jealous of her for getting to exist on her own terms. she got to act on everything that she felt in ways i couldn’t and didn’t. 

i wanted to see her as a robin hood, but maybe i was idealizing a monster because it was easier than actually growing up and being accountable for my own responses to all the pain in my life. 

Frank caught me deep in thought, puncturing the space between us with a “are you going to be okay?” 

“i don’t know,” i said after a moment. and it might have been the most honest thing i had said in years. 

TEN YEARS LATER

Faith’s kindergarten teacher opens the door at dismissal, and kids shuffle over to their parents and/or guardians. mine toddles over with her unicorn backpack, face full of freckles, and bouncy curls. she’s the most precious thing i’ve ever seen in my entire life, and i feel this way every time i look at her. just before i hold my hand out to grab hers, her teacher turns to me. 

“oh, Mrs. Gennaro!” she chirps, and i match her energy. 

“hiiiii,” i respond. 

“i just wanted to say you know, that Faith was such a great helper today! i really appreciate how eager she is to make sure the classroom is organized.”

“oh, well, that’s great to hear,” i laugh. “she’s really meticulous about things being in order at home, too, actually. makes life a lot easier for me.” her teacher’s smile dissolved slightly.

“oh, you must be so proud. and well, i actually wanted to discuss that a little more with you if you ever have time.” 

“what do you mean? is something wrong?” i asked. the teacher was intermittently saying goodbye to other students and the people picking them up while trying to pacify my increasing impatience. finally, when they all left (and by now, Faith was waiting for me at the swings), the teacher looked at me with the concern only an educator who is about to suggest counseling possesses. 

“Faith’s attention to detail is definitely a strong suit, but she is exhibiting behaviour that can be symptomatic of obsessive compulsive disorder,” she told me.

“you’re saying my kid has OCD?” i asked, crossing my arms at her bold suggestion. “just because a five year old is more organized than most adults does not mean something’s going on with her head and we can start throwing around psychological evaluations.” 

“i’m not diagnosing her by any means, but i do double as the school’s therapist and i do know the signs. she is very particular about the way she wants things placed or the order art materials and books are in. she counts the steps from the playground to her carpet square. and if it’s not to her liking, she lashes out or repeats things and moves things around. and if someone gets in her way or rushes her, she has started screaming at them. i’m worried it will impact her ability to be around other students and focus in class.” 

most kids want things done their way and will throw a fit every now and then, nobody’s perfect. i didn’t spoil her and nobody yelled in our household, so wherever she picked it up was either A. from some other child at the school who figured out screaming equals appeasement served up by weak and/or tired adults or B. it was normal childlike behaviour that shouldn’t be read into so much.

as i was thinking this, i looked again at Faith while she swung on the swingset, kicking her feet up in the air and giggling, alongside another girl. i hadn’t noticed the other student before, but she looked remarkably familiar. Faith waved at me, and i waved back smiling. the other girl joined, continuing to wave even after Faith put her hand down. 

“well, she seems to be getting along just fine with her friend,” i noted. the teacher looked over to the playground and back at me, puzzled by my statement. i followed her eyes and saw Faith swinging alone. 

“nevertheless, call me if you’d ever like to discuss how we can both best support her in class,” her teacher offered, probably deciding i needed counseling, too, or something more intensive. i called Faith over, and as we headed to the car, my heart dropped. 

“i call shotgun,” spoke Garnet, already sitting in the front passenger seat. behind her, in a levitating booster seat was the girl i had seen swinging next to Faith just moments ago. 

i pulled out my phone to call Frank, but my hands were trembling. i dropped my phone because i was shaking so hard. Faith picked it up.

“there’s lots of calls from Daddy,” she told me. i looked at my phone and saw four missed calls and about a bunch of text messages. 

“Call me back, EMERGENCY”

“Storage unit got broken into, someone has the container” 

“CALL ME BACK”

“DO NOT COME HOME, MEET ME AT MY OFFICE WHEN YOU PICK UP FAITH”

“ARE YOU OKAY? DO YOU HAVE FAITH?”

“COME TO MY OFFICE ASAP”

Garnet smirked at me as i read Frank’s texts. “well? do you have faith?” she asked, and i could see her holding her in her corny laughter. time (and the vacuum sealed container) hadn’t been kind to her. her makeup was smudged, her lips were chapped, and she had lost a lot of (metaphysical) weight. 

“Mommy?” Faith asked, as i stared into the backseat of the car. the other girl had started inaudibly screaming from inside, bashing her head against the window and swinging her hands around violently, her tiny fists thudding against the glass. i gasped, stepping back and felt Faith tugging on my shirt, getting scared as well. “who is that?”

“you can see them?” i asked. 

“that girl’s in my class. and that’s her mom. she said she was your old friend.” i swallowed the knot in my throat. “are we giving them a ride?” 

“no,” i answered. 

“why is she acting like that?” Faith asked, as the other girl only got more violent, rabid almost. 

“i don’t know. we need to get to your father.” 

Garnet appeared next to me, holding the hand of her own daughter, who had suddenly calmed down. 

“race you there,” she challenged. “your kid seems smart.” i looked down at Faith, gripping her hand tighter and making sure she was still there, still mine, still safe. “you must be so proud,” Garnet whispered before disappearing. 

[sincerelybillie]

the Scary Thing(s)

every kid seems to grow up scared of the monsters under our beds. we tuck our feet in, never letting it dangle off the side. i wish that made sense to me. when did we all collectively decide something would crawl up from underneath or out of the closet or through the window and devour us? and a blanket or night light would effectively ward the Scary Thing off?

i remember seeing a semi-luminescent figure in my closet when i was really young. they were watching me with a blurry face, but they clearly looked hesitant to be the Scary Thing. to actually float towards me and kill me.

sometimes, in my apartment or even coming upstairs in my childhood home, after turning off all the lights, i fear a distorted voice of a more assertive Scary Thing that’s got me all alone saying “finally” before it lunges at me. i hear a screechy violin in my head, like a mental jump scare.

but those fears don’t feel as real as the Scary Thing i spot in shop windows as i walk down the street at night, or in the mirror when i enter my room when i finally get home.

my shadow seems to move faster than me. sometimes, her limbs are longer and she’s taller, looming over me. and if i accidentally make eye contact with her, i feel like she’s pretending to appear normal. but secretly mocking me for having spent the day trying to be Good, convincing myself we are not the same person.

any moment now, she will crack her own bones, spikes will come out of her skin, her eyes will change colours and she will spit out her fake teeth and show me the Scary Stuff inside.

i lose my teeth a lot in my nightmares. i know that symbolizes anxiety or intense changes or transitions. i’ve experienced a lifetime of that. and in my nightmares, it’s always just me, spitting out my teeth and tasting blood that feels so real sometimes. but i’m too paralyzed to wake up.

sometimes, i wonder if the other Scary Things - the imagined ones and the human ones i sometimes see - were trying to kill me because they think i’ll become the Scary Thing one day. and i’ve actually got it all wrong.

and every waking moment is spent trying to prove to my nightmares and the thing that was in my closet that i’m not as bad as they might think i am. i’ll keep my spikes under control.

when people tell me that i “scare” them, i used to think my hard-earned confidence and solid sense of self was intimidating and that’s why they said that. that could still be true. but i get offended and worried that people might see me as a Scary, Bad Thing.

i didn’t know if i was supposed to relate to the robot or the connors in terminator, to the monsters or the kids in monsters, inc., to adelaide or her tethered in us.

when i get called Scary, i feel four years old again, staring at a ghost in my closet that’s too nervous to properly haunt me but sticks around for years, monitoring what i’ll become, counting how many times i have proved to be the worst of what i am. too many times.

it’s hard to forgive yourself when you’ve become the Scary Thing born from other Scary Things.

sometimes, i feel spikes ripping out when a specific type of man speaks to me. men have always been the Scariest and made me the Spikiest. i usually poke the spike back in, though. usually. it’s a painful process to let them rip out and even worse to shove them back in.

the idea of what i could be if i didn’t do that makes me curious. the human ability to self regulate keeps us all safe, though. and if we can’t, well, that’s what laws and culture is for. or so i’ve been told.

i wonder if the ghost could be some other past version of me, hoping i don’t mess anything up in this lifetime. hoping i might find peace and chill the fuck out. i don’t have those answers. and i’m not particularly chill.

i move around, change my name, and i don’t have those answers. i have half a jaw of missing baby teeth that didn’t grow in, fall out, or make room for adult teeth. maybe that’s the nightmare.

that i’ll never become a Real Person, just this collection of tissues and ligaments in a clown costume. the semi-luminescent figure looked at me with too much familiarity to let me think otherwise. like, “how did you end up in that girl’s body and what are you going to do with her?”

this was 20 years ago, in 1999. this is what i’ve done with her. this morning, in real life, i spit out part of a tooth.

[muzinabu]

[1jps]

[simplythebestmp3]

[sincerelybillie]

raveena aurora’s “lucid” feels like a dream sequence

appropriately named, “lucid” is new york-based r&b singer raveena aurora’s debut album. i usually find it hard to listen to an entire album of slower tempo music, but something about raveena’s music encapsulates you and you melt into a warm glowing mixture of heartache, solace, and strength. 

the love, pain and resilience of queer south asian women is something i usually only find in my own journal entries, and raveena taps into something special, whether you can directly relate to it or not. 

below are some interpretations of this dreamy debut album.

“hypnosis”

it sounds (and feels) like a harp transition to a dreamland, as you float in a river of feelings you will have to face if you take the journey through her album. but you’re not scared. a minute and a half passes, and you’re ready. centered and ready. 

“nectar”

depending on how sexual or sentimental you wanna get with it, i think what raveena is trying to say is to recognize the sweetness and security you possess within yourself before seeking something complementary externally. nectar has a distinct taste that (if you’re indian and drank anywhere near the amount of mango or guava nectar i did as a kid) doesn’t quench your thirst for it, but demands more. the song can serve as a gentle reminder not to get addicted to the notion of finding that satisfaction in someone else. 

“stronger”

sounds like she’s cradling and scolding her heart for being silly enough to fall for and expect something from who ultimately was a disappointing man. we’ve all been there, and raveena, as a songwriter, knows how to hold herself up but also accountable, without sounding self-pitying or self-righteous. 

“salt water” 

if you could slow dance in your living room or a shower big enough for two, with the version of you that needed some healing and compassion, this song would be playing, and i am sure of that. 

and the real world version of that for raveena and many of us women is the community and open arms of other women, whom we love and trust to support us the way we need it. 

“stone” 

long, dreary and demanding relationships probably come to a close to this tune, if the timeline of love had a soundtrack. and you should listen if you can own being partially responsible for their demise. the romantic strums and beats of the song narrate the attempt to salvage something you care about so deeply. and this, like all of lucid, demands you sway and feel the feeling. and try to have some perspective. 

“stone (reprise)” 

seriously, it’s okay to sway sometimes. feel the feeling. sink into it a little.

“mama”

this is my absolute favourite track because my mom is my absolute hero. raveena tells the story of her own mother, which is very representative of so many south asian immigrant mothers’ sacrifices and strengths that allows the best people and art to exist. going through photos from the 1980s and wondering what kind of life she could’ve been living if she wasn’t responsible for the sanctity of the universe...how do you thank someone that special? we can start with our own passions. i feel connected to this so deeply on an ethnic heritage level but also because i employ my writing to share my gratitude for my mother, as does raveena. a magical, appreciative love song from a beti to her mama. 

“bloom” 

if people only see the beauty in a flower in bloom and didn’t care for it or contribute to its growth, it can speak to possibly raveena’s experiences as a small, independent artist. we often see the final product or the glamorous photo shoots, but what those represent is a culmination of a lot of grind to prove you’re worthy of thriving in visible gardens. blooming is a time to be proud of yourself and who you’ve become, but it can be hard to tell who would’ve noticed you when you were just a bud and who only sees beauty now. you can look, but you can’t touch. you can’t love me now. reclaiming that and calling out the people who only care about your come up, yes, yes, yes. 

“floating”

i listened to this on my fire escape and felt connected to the whole world. i didn’t even have to get high to feel this, if that tells you anything about the ambience this song creates for even a rusty makeshift balcony in new york city. 

“still dreaming”

despite its name, i think this song pulls me back to reality. if i walk around listening to it, it’s like i’m more aware of the feeling of wind against my skin and of uncomfortable truths i usually only have to face when i’m by myself. it’s like the harsh truth with a soft delivery. it makes you address the dangers of nostalgia and fantasy, even if other times, it is what brings us joy and solace. 

“nani’s interlude”

i wasn’t expecting to hear such a familiar accent and voice. i’ve had these conversations with my mother and nani as well. and there was something that struck my heart and made me want to soak this up a little longer, like i should be with the moments i get with these two women in my life. raveena’s grandmother’s advice needs to be taken; it’s probably one of the most important parts of the album. 

“petal”

hypnotic fairy choirs is what i think of. i have to close my eyes when it comes to this song specifically. it’s like she’s putting you to bed intentionally with this one due to the metronome vocals. as she’s wrapping up the track and the album, she’s bringing you peace. like a children’s storybook closes.