So, I spent practically the whole of Christmas eve in bed and I expected that this would be the case for the rest of Christmas. When I mentioned this on Facebook, some friends thought it was a great idea. I guess it could be a restful and even luxurious way to spend the holidays, but, really, only if it’s how you choose to spend the time. I was in bed because I couldn’t quite face the world. I felt sad and lonely and isolated. Read More »
So last night I watched the final episode of HBO’s Insecure, more than a month after it aired. It took me that long because I was avoiding how sad I knew it would make me. Funny that I chose to watch it just as I was sinking into my latest bout of depression . Hmm …
I guess I just wanted some distraction, and I’d already read so many episode recaps that I was ready for what was coming.
And, actually, it turned out OK. Sure, I cried, but I didn’t take it personally, the way I did Season 1’s final scene, blearghh.
What will happen in Season 3? Will Issa, Lawrence and Molly continue being the complete idiots they’ve always been? To be honest, their messy lives are why I love the series so much. Another nine months to go, but the most alarming thing is just how quickly they will pass.
(P.S. I hope I never see Aparna again. Nope. Do. Not. Like. The. Woman.)
It Was Not Death
It was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down—
It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon.
It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
I felt Siroccos—crawl—
Nor Fire—for just my Marble feet
Could keep a Chancel, cool—
And yet, it tasted, like them all,
The Figures I have seen
Set orderly, for Burial,
Reminded me, of mine—
As if my life were shaven,
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key,
And ’twas like Midnight, some –
When everything that ticked—has stopped—
And Space stares—all around—
Or Grisly frosts—first Autumn morns,
Repeal the Beating Ground—
But, most, like Chaos—Stopless—cool—
Without a Chance, or Spar—
Or even a Report of Land—
~ Emily Dickinson
Song of a Manhattan Suicide Addict
By Yayoi Kusama
Swallow antidepressants and it will be all gone
Tear down the gate of hallucination.
Amidst the agony of flowers, the present never ends
At the stairs of heaven my heart expires in their tenderness.
Calling from the sky, doubtless, transparent in its shade of blue
Embraced with the shadow of illusion
Sounds of tears
Shed upon eating the colour of cotton rose
I become a stone
Not in time eternal
But in the present that transpires.
(A video installation at the Yayoi Kusama exhibition, National Gallery, Singapore.)
This review was first published in The Star on 9th July, 2017
Sad Girls: A Novel
Author: Lang Leav
Publisher: Andrews McMeel Publishing, 362 pages
‘Your first love isn’t the first person you give your heart to – it’s the first one who breaks it.’
That line, on the cover flap of Lang Leav’s debut novel Sad Girls, is a quote from the book, but also a prose poem (from Leav’s collection Lullabies).Read More »