Zoloft & Chai

With willful and foolish certainty, these are my promises. 

To feel the sky in my mouth.

To catch my reflection in every ripple of a pond; to bear no grievance and to accord sincere attention to how my skin folds, creases, swims, and wrinkles in its duration of conversing with the water. 

                                                             I want everyone to find a dancing mirror, for time is not stagnant; our 

                                      understanding of the vessels that carry us through it, shouldn’t be either. 

To remind;

Myself to remember

You to forget   

-

-

-

-

Cleaning a slate is laborious, honest work. Some stubborn germs may remain stuck to the underbelly. 

To never, ever, ever, let my sister eat the last Cheeto. Endurance is strength. Unrelated - I am a pig. 

To orgasm

To claw chipped nails into the arching backs of familiar flesh; to embed impenetrable memories of melodic moans so distinct they shall ring in the psyches of lovers past and present; to find poetry in sex, and to leave when poetry sounds more like a Migos ‘rap’ song; to instruct - 

Without shame -  

Without hesitation - 

Here’s what I like

Here’s what I don’t

Try not to engage in much of the latter so as to avoid finding metaphors of your genitals in any angsty feminist blogs on tumblr (to encourage women to be louder - gaudier - unabashed)

- to never equate banality with sexuality; to disinfect my skin post cactus-splinters; to resist century-long traditions of pushing the splinter back into an arm - a cheek - a heart - making homemade rouge from the blood that oozes from the wound.

My wounds will remain held open by my teeth if necessary. If a fly happens to make an incubator of my septic contusion for her daughters, I will not cry -  these younglings will swallow some part of my grandmothers’ ancestral trauma gliding through my veins. They will have known what it takes to survive. They will carry these lessons forward.

An email-thread interview with the tranquil and endearing Lorraine! Much like the pictures she makes, there's nothing purely black and white about our person of interest. 

Born in a small city in China, Lorraine remained somewhat ambivalent (in her words, "indifferent") towards art practices through most of her childhood. Things changed when she joined a photojournalism club in high school, wherein she grew comfortable with a camera and with writing photo-based content; gradually falling in love with the medium. She learned not to reduce photographs to "pictures" representing a stagnant moment in time. Instead, she thinks of photos as media that reveal meaningful underpinnings of  our dynamic, ever-changing lives. This passion ultimately finds her pursuing a photography major in New York City. 

"I want my photos to contain their own meanings while being relatable to a plethora of narratives. I want the audiences viewing my work to want to know what went behind making the picture." 

Knowing what we know about Lorraine's passions and career-goals,  here are a few of her interview responses to provide further insight - 

What is your greatest fear? 

Losing my passion for photography, and in a larger sense, my passion for life.  In a dystopian reality, I wouldn't desire anything new - I'd be leading a banal life in a small city wherein every day is *literally* the same.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

I think TOO MUCH. I overcomplicate thinking about things that could be processed easily. I just keep thinking and thinking, eventually falling into a bottomless cave I can't make my way out of. I despise this habit, but I just can't control myself! Overthinking lands me in trouble in my personal relationships quite often. 

What is your current state of mind?

To be honest, my current state of mind is - could I find someone else to do my homework for me? Homework from all my classes makes me feel overwhelmed and stressed. It seems like school stuff exclusively comprises my life at the moment; leaving me time for nothing else. 

Which talent would you most like to have? 

 I want to learn how to play the bass well.  The goal here is to form a band with individuals  who love rock music, and to go on to eventually perform live shows around the country. I wanna do a lot of crazy things. 

If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be? 

I would like to be a pet - loved and cared for by her lovely master. I'd be free of all worries and concerns. I Imagine the world I'd see from this perspective would be very bright and wonderful. 

Where would you most like to live?

 If possible, I would like to live in a castle akin to the ones Disney princesses live in. I'd want my castle to rest atop a high mountain with extremely scenic views. Every day, I'd wake up and open the curtains to see a bright blue sky and endless mountain ranges.

What do you most value in your friends?

Their genuineness. As I grow up, I find it increasingly difficult to find and keep genuine friends. In trying to impress strangers, many people embody inauthentic personalities and conceal their real characteristics. Personally, I reject that - I want every relationship I garner to be simple and pure; to contain some real value. 

If you were a hypochondriac, what undiagnosed illness/condition/disease would you believe you had?

I would believe that I had delusional disorder. I'd distort my dreams and my reality, blurring the lines between both.

Kylie or Kendall? Why?

Definitely Kendall Jenner, 'cause I love her body shape and the way she dresses, hahaha!

You have one do-over (in terms of relationships/circumstances/decisions). What is it you're willing to erase and redo? 

What would I want to erase? This is a tough question to answer, and I don't think I know the answer yet.

(the editing process is rough on the best of us)

sticky sweaty flesh what is it about bodies? - cellulite and bones

cellulite and wombs find true feminine mystique - on the MTA.

sticky sweaty flesh

what is it about bodies? -

cellulite and bones

in gag reflexes

find true feminine mystique -

reeking of dinner;

of dessert; flushed down

to refill stomachs with guilt

and dysmorphia.

snort lines of pasta!

make bathroom-stall-vomit-stench

more palatable./

learn to swallow your

measuring tape - make weight gain

less regrettable.

of bodies, i say;

your memories hold weight, - they

take up ample space.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

i’m never alone

i am so very lonely

fuck the MTA

let me draw in peace -

subway girls, alien species

equally lonely.

of body language -

(what is it about bodies?)

they give theirs away.

Svetlana, retro-

chique; ain’t nobody got time

or money, honey.

Babooshka, somber;

meek; late for her shift at Starbucks

on Bleecker street.

which train? S? M? D?

can i bum a cigarette?

i need nicotine.

on the nine-a.m. -

my muses, sick subway girls

sticky, sweaty, flesh.

all have mass appeal.

one event described three ways

- Inside a thrift store called “Upcycle Haven” in southern Pondicherry. A caramel skinned girl, presumably in her early twenties - rummaging through piles of linen tropical prints with one hand, wiping pearly beads of sweat off her forehead with the other. Few steps to her right, another girl, skin lighter in shade but gait of heavier intonation. A 1970s edition Ilford Sprite 35-II Camera hanging with a lanyard around her neck. The former calls out the latter’s name - “come get a look at this!”. Caramel skin girl grins and pulls out a seemingly bare t-shirt from a rack. On its front, said t-shirt reads ‘Daddy’s Girl’. Camera-girl instinctively snaps a shot of her friend posing intently. A shopkeeper comes up from behind, disgruntled. “Why are you girls out here alone? Don’t take such pictures”. The girls look at each other and smile. They hang the t-shirt on the nearest clothes-rack and walk out the store, giggling.

- Don’t ask me about this upcycling nonsense - it’s hard to keep up with a new fad everyday. Do I care about the environment? Yes, obviously, but never enough to deal with these clueless wannabe-hipster-gen-z-kids plaguing every gentrified corner of this city. I saw one - maybe two? - in one of these godforsaken “ethical shopping” boutiques the other day. Personally, I couldn’t care less about where the materials for my khakis are sourced from. But the merchandise looked good - I think I saw a Hendrix tee in the store window? I can’t recall now. I went inside, did the little ritualistic walkabout, yada yada. Didn’t end up buying anything, of course; I can’t tell you I know the prices by heart but those damn t-shirts must’ve cost worth a trip to Mar-A-Lago. Where is that anyway? Yeah so, ah, there’s not much else I could tell you. Not my business shopping at a place where twenty somethings sample clothes off the rack for their Instagram shoots or whatever.

- To

The esteemed Chair Minister

Local Ministry of Cultural Affairs,

Pondicherry

Sir, I write to you as a concerned mother and state citizen. This complaint pertains to certain ongoing occurrences around the city these days; specifically with regard to what I witnessed recently.

I am sure you are aware of the rising “LGBTQ Rights Movement” gaining traction amongst our youth owing to corrupt american television and media. While these uncultured ideas have been mostly propagated by university students in northern India, we can now see their harrowing presence in our southern communities and/or public spaces as well. My husband has deemed it almost impossible for our family to step out, even into the local galleria, without having to endure shameless, unnatural displays of homosexual activity amidst young teenagers! Just yesterday, I was walking my son to a new clothing store and had to cover his eyes after we saw two scantily clad young women holding hands and kissing each others’ cheeks. These girls seemed like the loud, gaudy tourists from Delhi or Mumbai who land up in Pondicherry every winter, and weren’t accompanied by an adult. After wandering around the market hand-in-hand, these girls stepped inside a store after us, asked if the stereo volume could be turned up, and alas, started dancing and clicking pictures! I would usually let parents handle their respective children’s irresponsible demeanor, but considering that my son was enamored by such ridiculous behaviour, I figured it was time to take action. I nodded to the shopkeeper - who, in turn, rolled his eyes at me, and timidly asked these women to stop prancing about.

I would be most obliged if you could incorporate ideas about conservative home-values in your campaign rallies commencing next week. It is crucial for a young generation of Indians to understand the severity of the dangers that these western-indulgences present. Our culture and sanctity of religion are at stake.

The Suffering of Light (Alex Webb)

for the suffering of light

to be caught in a moment in time

it must first be chased through the passage of time.

(I have been running

searching, seeking

now that I have found you, I must

immortalize you; i must

romanticize you -

I must hold you captive

I swallowed your golden ambrosia -

Pray tell me, where’s your light?

wasn’t it here a second ago?-)

only once my diaphragm tightens

and my lungs struggle to swell

should my fingers find the shutter

to bid haram farewell.

(nothing is forbidden, my muse - I must fetishize you)

Bombay,

with your lingering cyan hues

mineral scented embroidery

caramel-sweat fisheries

you are over-saturated with colour in all its post-colonial blues.

light itself cannot fathom which

element of your palette

it should rest itself on -

and so it bounces and bounces

(searching, seeking)

and so i chase after it

trying to compose your character

Luiza Jesus Prado (stagename: Hifa Cybe) is a transdisciplinary artist born in Guaratingueta, Brazil, in 1988. Although her experiments in employing a plethora of mediums are impressive for onlookers and critics alike, it is the chilling narratives behind her work that make her an artist of interest.

Since 2016, Prado has enlisted her alter-ego - 'Hifa Cybe' - to animate love, loss, angst, and grief in her work. A photoseries called 'Sinto Muito (I'm so sorry)' depicts the process of writing letters to a dead lover. The conspicuous presence of blood and meaty, sculptural elements resembling human flesh have successfully stirred conversations surrounding intent amidst art critics - has Hifa's (or rather, Prado's) lover been murdered? Are there more ominous realities concealed under what the viewer can digest?

Prado plays with these reviews and reactions all the same. She employs subliminal messaging via her 'sordid' imagery and somber titles to breathe a somewhat dangerous and unstable persona into Hifa. In I Miss You (2017), she wholly embodies Hifa to ritualistically burn her love letters in what appears to be an anti-demonic prayer ring. The viewers are left to ponder on whether this translates to Hifa gaining closure for the mistakes of a past lover, or if they've conversely witnessed Hifa begging for redemption/forgiveness after committing an unspeakable crime of passion.

what to do when you're bored:

I.

- update your tinder profile with a picture of yourself eating a banana horizontally.

- dye your armpit hair with holographic motor-shine tire-spray. proceed to offer to lift things from high shelves for the remainder of your day.

- purchase all the boba from a local boba tea store. package each tapioca bubble individually. stand outside said boba store and ask incoming customers if they'd like to foster a tadpole for free.

- text your ex a picture of yourself eating a banana horizontally, captioned "u wanna foster tadpole for free?" your metallic armpits are ideally visible.

II.

- comment "hotel? trivago." (zero context) under each of the kardashian's recent social-media posts endorsing laxatives for weight loss. hate yourself a little.

- stare at the mirror long enough for your body dysmorphia to draw out shrek the ogre in your reflection. squeeze your stomach rolls. pat your bum. shimmy a little (this is not a tiktok dance - you think you are better than that).

- make the ambitious decision of mastering *each* of adobe's photo-editing software. undergo small existential crisis midway. insert shrek's images and edit him to look like your favourite kardashian. when you find yourself jealous of his curves; cry a little.

III.

- leave notes on your nightstand for your sleep paralysis demon. prospective conversations are not limited to, but include:

i lied about knowing how to hula hoop and now they expect me to go all out on friday - can i somehow wake up adept at hula hooping or will you disappoint me again

-

fuck not again the bathroom is right there give me five minutes to get out from under the covers and wear a tampon ma'am

-

please don't activate my acid reflux tonight

i love working with my hands. i got it from my dad.

blue veins popping out in a hideous way,

crooked arthritic fingers.

they leak, until the bones ache.

tell him, for god's sake, but i say nothing --

after all, i got it from him.

i look up at the television

fox news on media bias: then and now -

ALL GLORY TO THE HYPNOTOAD!

"just get me a knife, you paranoid nut."

his degeneracy will eventually lead to perpetual damnation.

poetry montage/cut-ups

starbucks lady w/ her starbucks babies