Nov 12, 2019
Can You Please Say Something in Khelobedu?
For me, Khelobedu is a language, a culture, home. For most South Africans, it doesn’t exist.
For me, Khelobedu is a language, a culture, home. For most South Africans, it doesn’t exist.
When I first meet a client, I usually remove whatever wig I happen to be wearing, and the tension settles.
When palm trees swing in the soft breeze, I remind myself that my body is not an orchestra, and the trees are not dancing for me.
She is the page on which the story is written. Her body is a crime scene, and the victim of the crime, and the perpetrator of a crime, all at once.
A mastery of mushrooms and their uses could help me survive in a post-apocalyptic world—a world that didn’t feel all that far away.
How a small bakery in the Midwest gave me the Asian community I'd been searching for
Living with mental illness is a constant cycle of wellness and illness, and each recovery is impermanent.
I learned that kind of hard-won glamour; that we should have beauty, however much the world wants to keep it from us.
There’s a part of me that is overwhelmed by the possibilities, by the fact that I finally look the way I used to only imagine I might.
“It was this Islam, the Islam of authenticity, community, justice, and love, that showed me how to be a truer version of myself.”
Gramsie wasn’t being a snob. Or, she wasn’t just being a snob. She was trying to school me.
I didn’t know—or think I knew—any visibly queer women, and watching these fictional women half-existing seemed both comforting and lonely.
We fall prey to letting writing become a passion, cooking a hobby, teaching a service. We must rethink how we value labor.
And then there were the wigs: exercises in risk-taking, rejections of my boring and shame-consumed past self.
Kurt Cobain would not approve, but privately I wondered if there wasn’t space for a beloved burnished thing in my new and improved pop pantheon.
I think now, what is life if not a rather ridiculous, fumbling, histrionic, financially ruinous, unwieldy thing?
Vin closes his eyes and bares his soul, meaning each word of the song, and isn’t that the point? Vin never claimed to be a good singer.
This film is an opportunity to help rescue Fanny Mendelssohn from near-obscurity; and to do the same for me.
I imagine she wrote it for women like me. Women who wear their hearts on their sleeves but hold their hands over their mouths.
Guy Fieri allowed me to ask: who do I fear noise and brightness for? Who do I fear food for? And he gave me the answer: I fear it for myself.
