At My Indian Table
(10/07/22 12:00pm)
at my indian table
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at my indian table
The first time I’m scared of myself, I’m twelve in a bathroom in Virginia.
They say, “you can dream beyond the sky”, but what is the limit?
And there was the old man who lived with his children in the middle of town, over his bakery that always sold fresh cookies and was always open to someone needing respite from a cold, windy day. There was the baker’s son who spent his time trying to capture the town’s beauty in pictures and paintings, and the baker's daughter who spent every night looking at the stars.
The overall idea of this style shoot was to highlight the idea of Black Barbies or Bratz. Growing up there was always limited access to dolls and Barbies that had darker skin. The typical blonde hair and blue eyes Barbie was the one everyone always got because that was considered to be the prettier one. Consequently, that was the doll that would get advertised to little girls the most. Black Barbies were never seen on shirts, in Barbie movies, or even advertised on TV. Which then causes little girls who have darker complexions to feel left out and think that they're not pretty, when in reality the lack of representation from early on causes such ideas to get created in little girls' heads. With this shoot, I wanted to dismiss this idea of the “perfect Barbie” having blonde hair and blue eyes. Instead, focusing on the importance of having the correct representation and showing that Black Barbie is just as beautiful. Along with the lack of darker complexion Barbies, there is a big lack of representation in male Barbie Dolls and on top of that darker, male Barbie dolls.
Not a calm but a
Grief sucks. Yes, it's terrible. It's heart-wrenching. When you lose a loved one, it doesn’t seem real. Everything seems like a fantasy. Everything seems like a nightmare. Yet, it's not a nightmare. It's not a vision. It's not made up in our heads. It's real. Grief is a hole in your heart and it only gets bigger the more loved ones you lose.
My mother used to tell me that I lived my life in closed energy.
Am I every poet?
For you, I would have given my whole life.
The graveyard was nothing remarkable. Birds flew above, singing the songs of early morning as they started their journey across the skies. Tombstones scattered themselves across the fields, decorated with bouquets of many shapes and sizes. The grass had gone for the winter and was replaced with a thin layer of snow that blanketed the ground in an icy chill. And sitting there, still as the air around him, was a rider atop a modest white carriage. His passenger stood opposite him, shivering in the cold. He held out his hand to her, offering a ride. She accepted and climbed aboard the carriage. The rider offered her a blanket to stay warm and she took it, wrapping herself in its warmth. And no sooner than the rider had appeared, he left.
I dwell in the past so often.
The swing set in the clearing had rusted with time, ivy climbing up the poles and growing over the seats. The trees made a large ring around the area, their leaves bright red and yellow in the early fall weather and just beginning to shed. Dew had settled on the dandelions and grass, and they glistened in the early morning sun. A crisp breeze flew over Nyx’s wings as she stood in the middle of the clearing. She shivered, bringing her arms around herself.
She tells me,
It was the night before November, and Lila was getting ready for a Halloween costume party. As she braided a section of her hair on either side of her face, she looked over the makeup she had done.
A room may look emptier without its furniture,
Two mirrors face each other
For the love of R&B,
Clocks are strange, they don’t have agendas but move promptly.