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Pétala

Thrilled to be part of Pétala Magazine, now available at Studio Saudari

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In Development

Currently working on my first short film as a writer!

Parrot is a surreal dramedy about obsession, loneliness and the uncomfortable lessons that teach us how to reach for connection.

After being ghosted by her girlfriend Jess and kicked out of her flat, Maja decides to move into a depressing studio with only her parrot Billie to keep her company.There’s something not quite kosher about this new abode. Strange noises are coming from the attic, taps are magically turning on and an ownerless phone appears out of nowhere. But Maja is too busy obsessing over Jess to register any of it. She just can’t accept that Jess would have left her. So when Billie suddenly starts talking to Maja as if possessed by Jess’s spirit, Maja doesn’t question the absurdity of the situation. Instead she throws herself into this parrot romance, preparing lavish dinners and celebrating the life she thought she had lost. That is until an unexpected message forces Maja to snap out of her defensive mania and to realise that the answer to her isolation lies in the studio’s other clandestine inhabitant. 

[anabeo]

Friday Night

Micro Fiction for Seed

On Friday nights, he goes out to get ice cream for his mom. He should have better plans, but a six-mile bike ride on the deserted highway is as good as it gets. Usually, the store is equally empty, but last time he spotted two boys leaning against the newspaper racks, wearing jeans too tight for the humid heat.⁣ ⁣ “Cool bike”, they shouted, as he was leaving. They had just moved here. “Do you know someplace cool to hang”, they had asked. “Let’s meet again next week”, they later decided, casually. ⁣ ⁣ Tonight, with hands as sticky as melting ice cream, he waits.

[anabeo]

The importance of being native

Here’s a fun fact about me: Until the age of five, I only spoke one language, the same language my parents grew up speaking: Bulgarian. According to the definition, this makes me a native speaker, Bulgarian is officially my mother tongue. Being a native speaker is the holy grail for writers. You’re immediately catapulted to the top of the application pile. Nobody wants to risk hiring someone who poured over grammar books in 6th grade instead of someone who one day woke up with an innate talent for language.  

The only problem is: I don’t actually speak Bulgarian. 

When I started pre-school in my birth country of Germany, I quickly learned that speaking in a different language will get you weird stares on a good day and beatings on a bad one. In an effort to fit in, I abandoned my mother tongue entirely. I flat-out refused to utter a single Bulgarian syllable. Nearly 30 years later, I still understand every single word my relatives in Varna and Sofia say, but whenever I open my mouth I suddenly can’t remember how to reply. Elif Batuman, the Turkish-American writer, describes this phenomenon perfectly in her novel The Idiot. For her speaking Turkish is like trying to rummage through an endless archive of pre-arranged sentences instead of naturally together stringing words until they fit. 

On top of that, there's the matter of the Cyrillic alphabet. I can read about as fast as an eight-year-old, and the only three words I can write are my name. 

My experience is that of many first-generation children. I don’t remember learning German, but once I started school, German was all I spoke. All my classes were taught in German, all my friends were Germans, even the programmes on TV were dubbed accordingly. This story could’ve ended here, and nobody would challenge the fact that I’m a native German speaker. But when I was 18, I left my birthplace and haven’t lived there since. By now, I’ve spent nearly as much time out of the country than inside it. In this time, I learned Italian and earned a degree in Spanish (both languages I’m much more comfortable in than Bulgarian). 

Do I still confidently speak, write, and read in German? Absolutely. Is German my strongest language? Definitely not. Bar a couple of copy projects, the last thing I wrote in German was my A-level exam fifteen years ago, a five-hour creative writing exercise on Joseph Roth’s Job. 

In contrast, I spent a total of six years studying in England, earning three degrees, one of which involved an 80-page dissertation for which I received a first (you can still find it at the Goldsmiths Library). Not to mention the website copy, social media posts, online articles, treatments, and scripts I’ve written since graduating ten years ago. As someone who has spent more time dissecting English grammar than the average native speaker, I can tell you all about the value of the Oxford comma. As a writer, I also know why Gertrude Stein couldn’t care less about punctuation. The only thing that distinguishes me from someone who was born speaking English is a slight accent, a physiological phenomenon based on the fact that I moved to the UK at an age when the muscles in my mouth had already fully formed. 

Language is fluid. It adapts to different times, purposes, social circles, and geographic regions. A good writer is someone who understands and effectively manipulates the characteristics of their chosen language. They are someone who can use their unique voice to clearly communicate the most complex concept. At what point in their lives, they acquired said skill does not matter.

[anabeo]

Thoughts on the role of content

Last week several millennial institutions came under fire. 

There are more pressing pieces in the systemic racism jigsaw (like defunding the police) but I still believe that media, and who it represents and how, plays a bigger role within racial dynamics than we might want to admit. It’s all just fun and pretty clothes, or is it?

From the endless stream of angry comments under Leandra Medine’s hollow apology for Manrepeller to the horrifying stories under the #blackatr29 twitter hashtag, white, female founders have been facing a reckoning. 

The systemic racism black media workers have faced will have to be rectifying by restructuring the media landscape at the hand of those in power. But on the other side of this issue, there is the audience, myself included. 

I can’t help but feel a déjà vu to the height of the #metoo movement, only this time the figures held accountable for grave misconduct were people like me. Educated, seemingly progressive, liberal young women. As I purged my Instagram and Feedly feeds of influencers and publications I once visited daily (and, in some cases, was obsessed with) I noticed that it wasn’t like it had never noticed that the lack of black voices or the recurring mystery that caused Black writer to disappeared shortly after they’d been hired, never to be seen again. I had also certainly noticed how oddly apolitical these publications were in a time when it seemed harder to avoid political discourse. But for reasons that are only becoming clear to me now, I was holding on to the privileges, and now nostalgic feeling, that everything was ok.

In the specific case of Manrepeller, I had pretty much stopped reading the site last year because I felt the content had gone stale; too fashion-focused, too repetitive. I finally pulled the plug when I got sick of their writers’ whining about quarantining in their parent’s Rhode Island country house. But I had never truly questioned the unashamed privilege of the writers or the lack of intersectionality on a site that claims to want to create an inclusive space for women. 

It seems odd now that not long ago the content I turned to, the media I thought of as zeitgeisty, like Girls or Normal People, was a particular brand of escapism. One that was so self-centered on a certain type of white woman that it allowed me, and many other white Millenials, to feel like our own personal problems were central to a whole generation. Of course, I ignored the lack of diverse writers in the publications I loved because it was easier. The few moments every morning, right after waking up, when you get to forget that there’s a pandemic is what every day used to feel like. For white people that is. I was always aware of my white privilege but there just wasn’t an immediate impetus to engage with it. The collective awakening we are currently experiencing makes me feel deeply ashamed. I should have known better.

Consumption in a capitalist society is not a passive act. That’s not only true for the products we buy but also for the videos and images we spend so much time looking at. The influencers with the most followers and the highest engagement get the most lucrative deals, at least if they’re white, and for that their voices get to take up more space and algorithmically enforced echo chamber we inhabit makes sure it stays that way. The beautiful thing about media, however, is how fast it can change. While signing petitions, writing to government officials, donating to causes we believe in, and marching for the change that is long overdue, let’s make sure to amplify the voices that have been silenced, one click at a time. 

Image Phoebe Hyles

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My Brooklyn bedroom has no windows

Read of the month - April 

What happens when your world is reduced to four walls  

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Fundamentals of Design Thinking

Academic Writing - Sample Essay

Write a 600-750 word reflection on your learning through the Fundamentals of Design Thinking course. In particular, focus on the before and after states of your mindset changes. Then, expand that mindset to include the toolset you learned and reflect on how you might use this in your personal life and career. What surprised you? What do you feel conflicted or unconvinced about? 

Design Thinking is a process rooted in creativity and curiosity. It encourages us to empathize without judgment and to produce solutions that encourage innovation through positive collaboration. It strives to first understand the needs and desires of the user before identifying the issue at hand, hereby departing from the rigidity of traditional problem-solving. 

Used to working with quantitative data that allows for objective decision making, switching to handling qualitative information without judgment has been a new experience for me. Instead of letting my own (unavoidable) biases guide my decision-making process, Design Thinking has allowed me to immerse myself in the life of another person and see the world entirely from their perspective. When directly interviewing essential workers about their experiences, for example, it was eye-opening to learn how my assumptions about their realities differed from their actual day to day life. 

I believe this method can be helpful for me professionally when trying to identify hidden customer needs that cannot be captured by existing data or in personal situations where an empathetic response is more important than a swift solution. 

Design Thinking follows a clearly outlined process, from immersive research and extracting insights to developing and testing new solutions, but instead of sticking to strict protocols, it encourages different people, or teams, to contribute to finding a solution. I’ve found this aspect of Design Thinking especially exciting. Through divergent thinking, ideas can emerge from different perspectives. I realized that this allowed me to focus on developing ideas from my findings and stick to my field of expertise and learn from others, instead of trying to guess what I might have missed. 

Although different voices offer more diverse insights, they might also have a hard time finding common ground. Getting locked into an unproductive and divisive discussion could be an issue in a working environment. It is therefore important to lead the subsequent converging process in a way that champions individual voices and allows us to build upon each other's ideas, coming collectively to an indisputable decision of what is going to work. 

Despite good intentions, I wonder if the equal weighting of voices can truly be achieved, especially if the Design Thinking process is carried out internally rather than by an independent third party (such as a design consultancy). Who makes the final decisions? Implementing a solution that truly reflects the findings and conclusions of different individuals or teams would require exceptional leadership.  

Once insights have been gained and an idea has been settled on, Design Thinking encourages us to experiment and learn from failure. This process required me to step outside of my comfort zone. It is a lot easier to come up with a strategy, and stick to it, instead of having to realize that all our hard work might not have actually solved the user’s problem. When working on the app for our final assignment, for example, I thought about all the new insights that would have to be gathered and evaluated after rolling out a trial version and how we might have to go back to the drawing board.  

While I believe this flexible approach would ultimately result in effective and long-lasting solutions, a trial-based method might encounter problems in fast-changing, highly variable situations that depend on robust, long-lasting answers. In areas like housing, for example, users change quickly, while properties do not, and social and environmental circumstances are hard to predict. It would be difficult, in my opinion, to avoid trials becoming too costly and drawn out. 

Design Thinking has helped me develop a deeper understanding of how to uncover the true, sometimes even hidden, needs of consumers and how bringing together different experts and real-life trials can lead to more innovative and user-centric solutions. I believe these methods can be applied in a wide range of businesses as well as personal situations. Successful implementation of these tools, however, depends on strong leadership that can bring together different collaborators in a positive way and oversees the process so that it remains cost-effective and long-lasting. 

[anabeo]

Out of Touch - What Happens When You No Longer Speak the Language of Love

During a recent sad desk lunch, a Buzzfeed article informed me that there are  218 different German words for the end piece of a bread loaf, the heel you might call it. Did that surprise me? No. My mother tongue is known for its linguistic oddities and regional quirks. But it got me thinking about the nuances of speech. Fluency in a foreign language is one thing but mastering a dialect propels you to a whole other level, one that allows you into conversations few are privy to. This is not only true for the words that come out of our mouths but for the many ways we talk to each other. 

We learn to understand the world through touch long before we develop any linguistic abilities. Our affinity with hugs and cuddles as a way of relating to others runs so deep that ‘skin hunger’, as the prolonged longing for physical touch is aptly named, is proving to become the next smoking, at least partially because our many screen-based interactions lack human contact. 

But just like I chew on a Renftl whereas Bavarians eat Scherzl, touch comes in a plethora of dialects. From a respectful handshake to a warm embrace, each of these gestures has its own place and purpose. But what happens if you find yourself excluded from certain tactile talk? 

If you haven’t been single for a long time you might have not experienced the ceaseless craving that lives deep inside the crevices of your heart. The nagging pain that keeps you up at night with obsessive thoughts about spooning. In the years I’ve spent without a romantic sidekick I embraced solo-dining and proudly deflected intrusive comments about dying alone with tales of the inevitable demise of mankind. But amidst all the successes scored, I had to admit that I cannot replicate the unparalleled sensation of romantic touch. 

Professionals advised me to seek out intimacy workshops, coupled-up friends offered perplexed hugs that felt like a band-aid when I would have needed stitches. Every relationship-free person I met became part of an ongoing focus group and while we all agreed that hugging your mum was different than embracing a romantic interest, nobody knew why exactly feeling the weight of your partner’s arm on your body could be more satisfying than an orgasm. The true meaning of this type of touch, beyond the five love languages, remained unclear. Trying to pinpoint what is so special about romantic touch is like explaining love itself. It’s deeply personal and, well, impossible. But indulge me nevertheless as I unveil the findings of this highly unscientific study. 

Romantic touch adds a level of intimacy to a relationship that cannot be achieved without the balanced interplay of physical and mental connection. While one-night stands lack the emotional proximity to form such a bond, platonic friendships have too much of it. The thought of caressing my BFF’s earlobe gives me as much pleasure as sharing body-insecurities with a guy I met at happy-hour. Romantic partners, however, occupy the tiny territory where emotional and physical intimacy are called for in equal measures. Romance gives us license to discover other people through a rose-tinted magnifying glass. 

It is because of this innate intimacy that romantic touch develops a vernacular of its own. It can tell the story of a relationship - from knees skimming on a first date whispering ‘I like you’, to palms interlacing exclaiming ‘I’m with you’, to a heavy head resting on a shoulder exhaling ‘I’m finally home’ - without the need of clunky clichés. Words seem too forceful, too loud to preserve the tenderness of these moments, so we resort to our most visceral sense instead. 

In any language, the more words you can speak the more you can contribute. As we get to know a person, we learn which of their gestures signal safety or excitement as well as which try to indicate worry and withdrawal. Often it isn’t the sex that stops when a relationship is coming to an end. It’s the sudden disappearance of spontaneous embraces and tender kisses that tells us, long before words can, things are about to be over. 

Romantic touch favours feeling over thinking and without the need to search for the right words in fear of being misunderstood, it allows for a presence our digital reality often prohibits. Touch isn’t audible, it can’t be screenshotted to later be brought up as evidence in an argument. It isn’t anonymous; it invites us to reveal our most vulnerable selves by divulging feelings that are too subtle for semiotics. If you know you've found somebody really special, when you can comfortably share a silence, then romantic touch elevates this stillness to a shared experience.  

Romantic touch might not be necessary for survival. You can probably get your recommended dose of oxytocin by hugging a friend or, if no such person is available, a professional cuddler. Yet, I value someone’s loving touch not only for the immediate physical sensation but for the way it allows me to communicate on a more intimate level. Not being able to do so feels like being excluded from a conversation I’m dying to have. Wouldn’t it be nice to turn the selflove monologue into a romantic dialogue?

[anabeo]

Malfunctioning Sex Robot

Read of the month - November

https://www.lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v41/n19/patricia-lockwood/malfunctioning-sex-robot

I’m late to the party but I cried (laughing) reading this. Write what you hate, gracefully. 

[anabeo]

Read of the month - September 

[anabeo]

BEAST

Short Fiction

I don’t remember what I noticed first: the large herd of sheep about a hundred yards ahead of us or Birdie suddenly leaving my side. Strange, isn’t it, how such a seemingly banal detail can change the course of an afternoon.

What I do remember is the five of us - my boyfriend Paul, Julian, his current conquest Kat and Birdie the dog - leisurely walking along a National Trust endorsed trail through a nondescript forest. It was one of those unusually hot spring Bank Holidays, where every self-respecting Londoner boards a train out of the city to get drunk in some sleepy home county village, as if the smog-free air could counteract the inevitable hangover the following day.  

I was absentmindedly kicking a pebble when Paul gripped my arm. He pointed towards the undergrowth right beside us where a pheasant’s colourful head was poking through. The bird stood frozen in shock, pretending he wasn’t there. Nothing to see here. “Remember when ...” Paul began with childlike excitement, reminiscing about a trip to France we took years ago but I wasn’t listening. Distracted, I looked behind us and saw that Julian and Kat had fallen behind. He had put his lanky arm around her, her body half pressed against his slender frame so that she was almost walking sideways. Like her open-toed boots, which I had secretly deemed countryside-inappropriate, this position favoured romance over stability. It was only a matter of time until she stumbled on one of the roots protruding from the path. Julian instinctively bent down to catch her fall and as she came back to her feet, giggling faux-embarrassed but revelling in being saved, he looked up in my direction and flashed me an unabashed grin. I could feel hot blood rising in my cheeks. I tried to rub it away with my hands and forced my attention back to the pheasant who had already disappeared.

Julian, Paul and I used to go on these little getaways a lot. Paul’s parents owned property in the Devonshire countryside. Three Georgian farm houses with ridiculously scenic wisteria running up their walls. We had spent endless summers there, living out the timeless cliché of going from carefree kids to angsty teenagers. It was where Paul and I had first kissed almost ten years ago, the same year Julian had decided not to come along. In the years that followed, Julian got caught up in his burgeoning artist career and the resulting increase in female (and male) attention while Paul devoted his time to becoming a model employee and boyfriend. We started to grow apart, as they say, and only got together when Paul was overcome by an infrequent yet powerful burst of sentimentality.

Paul and I had almost missed the train in the morning. My attempt at seducing him had turned into a very much not stimulating argument about complying with schedules and how this ‘wasn’t the time’. He accused me of being irresponsible and impulsive, all things he used to consider charming. Maybe he could sense that I was trying to cover up the incessant guilt that had taken up permanent residence in the back of my mind since a major lapse in judgement had led me to go home with Julian a couple of weeks ago. I had been trying to convince myself that it didn’t matter. One time didn’t matter. I decided that if Paul didn’t know and I could forget about it, it basically didn’t happen. Now I just had to figure out how to forget.

Julian’s call about three months ago came unexpected. He was restoring sculptures somewhere in New Cross and remembered I lived close by. If I wanted to get a private tour, he wondered. Since I left my full-time office job to ‘write’, I had been spending most days watching re-runs of Friends, reciting my favourite lines to Birdie for added comedic effect. Needless to say, I welcomed any distraction. Looking at some art was bound to re-ignite my creativity, I had assured myself.

Julian was working on one of a dozen or so adult-sized statues when Birdie and I stepped into the sculpture workshop. He looked up at me and smiled, his face a divine concoction of Basquiat and Michelangelo’s David. He hardly stood out in the sea of white marble males.

Over coffee he told me elaborated stories about the eccentric customers he had to deal with, while Birdie rested her head on his dusty lap. Our meeting turned into a weekly ritual which quickly became the highlight of my week. I drank up his juvenile energy and uncompromising idealism. I rode the wave of his excitement out of my own dull routine.

A couple of months into our still innocuous get-togethers, Paul suggested one evening we should plan a trip with Julian, ‘like the good old times’. I nearly chocked on my microwave raviolis. ‘God, I haven’t seen that crazy guy in ages’ he exclaimed leaning back theatrically in his chair ‘I wonder what he’s up to!’ ‘Uh-huh’ I nodded vaguely as if trying to remember when I had last seen Julian ‘Yeah. Me too.’ I was briefly overcome by the ugly relieve of not having been found out, but the looming reunion didn’t make me give up on my meetings with Julian. If anything, it reassured me that I didn’t tell Paul because I felt ashamed about having a good time while he was at work making the money that paid our rent. Other than that, I was just meeting a mutual friend. There was nothing wrong with enjoying another person’s company, I reasoned, unaware that I wouldn’t be able to hold onto this flimsy lie for much longer.

I spent the bus ride to the train station coming up with highly unlikely excuses to explain the questionable familiarity between Julian and I, Paul was inevitably about to witness. ’Oh yes, we ran into each other at the Brexit march! How could I have forgotten, silly me!’ but I needn’t have worried. Julian wasn’t alone. Kat, arrestingly beautiful yet not without a certain whiff of intellectuality, stood beside him on the platform clasping his hand. I knew then that he would have better things to do than talk to Paul about a series of platonic lunch dates and an ordinary one-night-stand.

As we continued along shady forest paths and sleepy village lanes, I could hear Kat and Julian enthusiastically discussing her laudable involvement in a feminist charity, every now and then taking a break to kiss. Their sickening display of affection didn’t allow me to join their conversation but the thought of talking to the victim of my transgression made me feel equally nauseous. With no one other than Birdie to take my mind off my current situation, I was at the mercy of my own thoughts.  

By the time we reached the field, my inner monologue had turned into a thick cloud of obsession. All I could think of were Julian’s delicate fingers violently gripping my hair, Julian’s hot breath brushing my ear, Julian’s teeth sinking into my skin.

It was as if I couldn’t escape the dimly lit pub where I had run into him. Or maybe I had known he was going to be there. Maybe I had been hoping he would gently stroke the side of my hand as he whispered into my ear. But his words where now echoing in my head like a contemptuous Greek chorus: “Let’s get out of here…Let’s get out of here…Let’s…”.

I hadn’t resisted when he interlaced his fingers with mine and let me out the door. I hadn’t objected when he pushed me against his kitchen wall and impatiently unbuttoned my shirt. I could have blamed the wine that had made my head hazy but when I unbuckled his belt, I knew what I was doing, and I didn’t care. The electrifying sensation I had felt when he ran his tongue across the inside of my thigh, was now reverberating through every inch of my body in a punishing loop. I desperately tried to redirect my mind to the present, but the unwanted daydream was impairing my perception of the surroundings.

When I finally noticed Birdie wasn’t by my side anymore, chaos had already erupted. I could hear Paul shouting: “Birdie! Stop! Come here! Fuck!” and running towards her faster than I had ever seen him move before. Birdie had singled out one of the dozen new born lambs that had been grazing peacefully just seconds before. I felt an inappropriate sense of calm because I knew my dry-food-fed, belly-rub-loving dog who was scared of balloons. She would come back any moment. But Birdie was caught in a trance. With alarming precision, she started mounting the lamb, digging her teeth into its fluffy coat. The lamb baa-ed in agony as it fought for its life until it managed to wrangle free. But its fragile legs still weren’t ready for the demands of pursuit. As it tried to stumble to safety, Birdie grabbed hold of its front leg and started to shake the tiny body until it tangled limply from the predator’s fangs. Then, just as quickly as her instinct had overcome her, it left her body like an exorcised demon. Suddenly she dropped the lamb and stood around baffled, unsure of what to do next. Centuries of targeted breeding had taken away her ability to kill.

Only now did she run back to me, hoping her master would provide her with direction. Her familiar eyes looked at me, desperate for approval. She could sense something was wrong, but she wasn’t equipped to figure out what. Didn’t she do what she was supposed to? “It’s ok” I told her, gently stroking her soft ears as small drops of blood dripped from her lip “It’s not your fault, good girl”. With trembling hands, I took Birdie’s lead from around my neck, attached it to her collar and started walking towards the rest of the group who had formed a circle around the victim.

When I finally reached the lamb, I wasn’t quite sure what I was looking at. Two red holes oozed a thick, maroon liquid from its neck. The blood was seeping into the white, coarse coat turning it a red-hot pink. Its front leg was almost completely detached, bone exposed, dangling on a thin piece of skin like a stuffed animal after a fight between siblings. Its tongue had pushed out between its tiny teeth fighting desperately for air. Paul was kneeling next to it and awkwardly petted the fine gashes on its back. “It’s still alive” he whispered to no one in particular. I stood there frozen watching the other sheep who had already gone back to their normal lives. Somewhere admits this unanimous herd was the lamb’s mother, oblivious to the fact that her child lay dying right in front of us. I couldn’t help but envy her inability to form long lasting memories. Kat had positioned herself in a safe distance, eyeing Birdie as if she had just devoured a baby. She was hyperventilating. Every now and then she cried out hysterically: “How could she do that? Oh God, how could she do that?” I could feel Julian move towards me and take Birdie’s lead gently from my hand. “I’ve got her, sit down, you look like death.” There it was again, the familiar feeling of his skin against mine. I realised our hands were still touching. I could sense Paul looking up at us but I as much as I didn’t want to let go off Julian’s hand, I couldn’t return Paul’s stare. Instead I focused on the lamb. Its visible pain made my stomach tie up in knots. I had done this. It was hurting because of me. I had to make it better. “We need to kill it” I finally heard myself say.

“What are you talking about?!” Paul’s look turned from confusion into resentment. “We can’t just kill it! We need to call a vet! We can’t just go around killing lambs!” I felt angry at Paul for pretending this wasn’t happening. As if we could save it by simply holding onto some fictitious moral high ground. With sudden resolve, I pushed him out of the way and knelled beside the lamb. My heart was beating so fast that was secretly thankful for the opportunity to sit down. I took out a paring knife I had brought to cut the brie for a picnic that was now unlikely to happen. With trembling hands, I picked up the lamb’s head. Its breath had become audible laboured and its eyes were almost shut close. It was smaller and lighter than I had anticipated and made no effort to resist my hold. Its apparent willingness to participate in its own euthanasia caused an empty feeling to rise in my chest. I wanted it to keep fighting to give me a reason to stop what I was about to do.  

I gripped the knife has hard as my clammy hands would allow.

When I ran the blade across its throat, it didn’t so much as twitch. Its tiny body simply relaxed as it let out its final breath. I let go and looked down at my hands, covered in blood. Hot tears started running down my cheek. I tried to suppress the loud sobs that were escaping my mouth. Instinctively I waited for Paul to put his arm around me, but I couldn’t feel his body next to mine. I looked up to see Julian softly stroking Kat’s back who had buried her face in his chest, unwilling to witness the bloody crime I had just committed. He stared blankly at the lamb with a mix of curiosity and shock. Birdie was sitting next to him panting, savouring the smell of fresh blood. When I finally caught Paul’s eye, his face was twisted into a grimace of utter disgust. He slowly shook his head in disbelieve, horrified by the stranger suddenly in front of him. Through clenched teeth he muttered: “I can’t believe you just did that.”

Paul didn’t say anything else for the rest of the day. Not when we hurriedly buried the lamb under some shrubs, not when we walked back to the train station. In fact, he never really spoke to me again. But I didn’t know that yet.

When we got on the train, we dispersed like repelling atoms. Birdie stretched out underneath the table of the four-seater I had chosen to collapse on and fell sleep instantly. Paul walked decidedly past us and sat down at the other end of the carriage, facing away. Eddie Vedder was shouting from his headphones, as if he wanted to make sure none of his senses would have to engage with me. I could see Kat and Julian diagonally in front of me. Kat rested her head on Julian’s shoulder, her eyes closed. Although she was probably counting down the minutes until this day was finally over, her expression was peaceful. Her sun-kissed cheeks evoked memories of serene summer holidays past. I noticed how her breath had synced with Julian’s, their chests rising and falling in unison. The stillness that permeated the almost empty carriage, was only interrupted by the reassuring humming sound of the wheels against the tracks. As the train rolled forward through the dusky countryside, I looked silently out the window, my mind finally blank.

[anabeo]

Read of the month - July

[anabeo]

Read of the Month - May 

Wil S. Hylton unpicks modern masculinity with stunning vulnerability.   

[anabeo]

Are Crushes the New Meditating?

The first time I felt the now familiar tingle of an impending crush was on a school trip to the seaside when a boy in my third grade class suddenly grabbed my hand. Even though he was simply following our teacher’s instructions to get into rows of twos, feeling his palm in mine transformed the harsh sea wind into a gentle breeze that seductively swept back his blonde curtains. From then on, my mind was forever tuned into the love station and crushes became the narrative of my inner monologue. Kopfkino (German for ‘head cinema’) in the most literal sense of the word.

Crushes originate in the limbic system, the dopamine craving part of our brains we share with most animals, but leave it to us self-absorbed humans to spend endless hours on crowded commuter trains and meetings-that-should-have-been-emails crafting elaborate narratives starring our hormone induced infatuations. It is no surprise then, that in the age of hyper-productivity the internet is flooded with advice on how not to have a crush, from writing down your irrational thoughts to asking your friends if you're acting crazy. Since they distract us from being efficient members of society, crushes are often dismissed as childish diversions that must be nipped in the bud asap. But if you took a moment to listen to your heart’s sweet whispers, you might find an opportunity for self-reflection, regardless if you’re single or not.  

Initially, I could never pinpoint when or why a certain crush would materialise only to later fade and be replaced by yet another. The resulting rollercoaster of emotions was exciting and exhausting at the same time. Eventually, however, I realised that my crushes corresponded with what was currently happening in my life. Unlike relationships, where we try to get closer to another person to learn more about them, crushes happen in a safe distance. They say more about our own values and expectations than about the object of our sudden desires. I found myself ogling a co-worker who always remembered how I liked my tea in times I felt mistreated and neglected by the men I was actually dating. When that guy from Tinder takes a whole week to reply to a message, it makes sense that I would gush over Gordon Joseph Levitt listing all the things he did for Bianca in 10 Things I Hate About You. These PG13 crushes not only put a smile on my face when the dating reality was getting me down, they also made me see what I was really looking for in a relationship and helped me set healthy boundaries. They reminded me of my own worth. If I could dream up a person that treated me with respect than why shouldn’t they exist irl?  

On the other end of the crush spectrum are the more explicit fantasies. These purely physical obsessions link back to that animal instinct lying dormant within all of us. These crushes can be surprisingly unexpected: a sudden glimpse of a sliver of perfectly formed lower abs, the exploding laugh of a friend, a subtle foreign accent. In theory, anything can make you want to rip someone’s clothes off there and then. While these types of daydreams can serve as inspirations for sleepless nights alone, they can equally spice up things in existing relationships. On a recent wine date with the girls, a friend confided in us that she had the mother of all crushes on a guy in her painting class despite being in a long-term relationship. Concerned we asked: is everything going ok with your partner? Are you going to act on it? She surprised us by explaining how this crush had reignited the desire for her own boyfriend. The nights after the class would lead to the best sex they had had in years and not because she was thinking of her crush. Instead, it had helped her remember the things she had found irresistible about her boyfriend in the early days of their relationship. Even if you are single; erotic crushes tend to fade the moment they say or do something annoying, like mansplaining how to exercise correctly, reminding us that physical attraction means nothing long-term if it isn’t backed up by matching intellect. Are you forgiving your date’s questionable politics because he looks great naked? Is this a good enough foundation for a relationship? Your crush might be able to answer that.  

The next time a new crush is distracting you from your overflowing inbox, allow yourself to enjoy this free dose of dopamine. Give yourself a moment to turn inward and understand why you are projecting these feelings onto a certain stranger. Mindful crushing could just lead the way to real-life fulfilment.  

[anabeo]

The Only Vice I Will Never Quit

‘Shorty let me tell you about my only vice / It has to do with lots of loving and it ain't nothing nice’ - Q-Tip’s line from A Tribe Called Quest’s 1993 song Electric Relaxation evidently refers to a specific kind of vice, but my personal indulgence of choice sure isn’t nice either and it’s got to do with a Q-tip. Not the legendary Queens emcee but Chicagoan Leo Gerstenzang’s 1920s humble invention, the cotton swab (or ‘cotton bud’ for us Brits).

Leo might have had the foresight to escape anti-Semitism in his native Poland, but he probably didn’t anticipate that disagreements about the use of his bathroom staple would eventually make their way into 21st century popular culture. Girls Hannah Horvath lands herself in the ER after accidentally jamming a cotton swab right into her eardrum and in noughties rom-com Prime Uma Thurman's character even berates Meryl Streep’s for not letting her son use Q-tips to clean his ears. Clearly, there are two types of people in this world: the Meryls, who follow the rules shouting at you from every.single.package (WARNING: DO NOT INSERT INTO THE EAR CANAL) and the Umas, who choose pleasure over safety. With a general penchant for risk-taking, I am, unapologetically, an Uma. Despite knowing the risks, there are few things I indulge in with as much fervour as cleaning my ears. Can you blame me? In a world where most pleasurable experiences either clog your arteries or empty your pockets (I’m looking at you January sales) I can’t help but revel in this complimentary act of rebellion. What better way to scratch an insatiable itch ... literally?

Most high-schoolers can already vouch for the fact that ears are a sure-fire gateway to the more advanced erogenous zones. The vagus nerve, which runs from your brain to your gut, can be stimulated via the ear creating a pleasurable sensation in a number of places including, you guessed it, your reproductive organs. Could cotton swabs hold the secret to solo satisfaction?

In a reddit thread I once stumbled upon, the internet community debated what sex is like for men vs. women. The male congregation argued it kind of feels like somebody sucking on your big toe whereas the women compared the experience to putting a Q-Tip where it doesn’t belong. I felt seen. As someone who has often lamented the lack of physical touch in long-term singledom, the removed sensation of scratching, no, caressing, the tender skin of my ears is strangely close to the electrifying sensation of being touched by another person. There is something truly intimate about using a cotton bud as manufacturers had never intended. It’s an act best enjoyed in the sacred privacy of your own bathroom, wrapped in nothing but a towel after a hot shower. Doesn’t that make it the ultimate form of #selfcare?

[anabeo]

Fiction - Lobster Claws

A set of circumstances, mine domestic, yours geographical, had led to us to cook a Christmas Lobster together. We had had to buy a new pot from the Pakistani commercial cooking store down the road because none of the pots I owned were big enough to house a live crustacean. As we were walking down the street, you almost started skipping in excitement. The dark, depressing cold and our thick down parkers that would normally only allow for michelin-man-style movements were briefly forgotten and you started telling me about your family in Australia. How every Christmas your dad would cook lobster on the bbq and your sisters would fight over who got the tail. But you prefered the claws. You would break them open carefully so that you could pull out the white, tender flesh in one go.

Inside my tiny basement kitchen, the combination of sub-zero degrees on the outside and hot cooking steam on the inside had completely covered the windows in meandering ice flower collages. It was as if we were in our own private iglo, entirely cut off from the world. I lowered the lobster into the salty water that was boiling inside the comically oversized pot. I didn’t want to do it. The lobster looked helpless, his imposing claws incapacitated by two absurd rubber bands. Sad and defeated, he reminded me of Free Willy. But you stood behind me rubbing my shoulders as if I were Adonis Creed convincing me that nobody could cook this lobster better than me. You had never actually made boiled lobster before and you admitted you were kind of scared of it. When I picked up the lobster, his legs dangled lifelessly from his body. I wondered whether he had just accepted his faith or if he was hoping I might carry him to freedom. Once immersed, his subdued blue colour turned an unnatural tomato red and the air escaping his shell let out a bone chilling scream. I wretched inaudibly. All the while you were tapping your Doc Martens in an eager dance, rubbing your delicate palms together, like a shaman conjuring a monsoon during dry season. As we were both gazing into the pot my glasses steamed over and all I could discern were your ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaahhhs’ gently brushing my ear and your velvety perfume penetrating the smell of boiling seafood.

Shoulder to shoulder, we waited in complete silence for 12 minutes. I felt grateful the lobster had given his life for this moment. Suddenly my phone alarm snapped us out of our trance. You clapped your hands, picked up the plastic tongs lying on the kitchen counter and waved them at me, your eyes big with anticipation. It was time for me to retrieve the lobster carcass. In death, it turned out, the lobster had regained his fighting spirit and magically freed himself from my grip each time I managed to lift him just an inch from his scorching bath. I twisted my arms like an extortionist with impaired mobility in order to maneuver the lobster out of the pot but before I could even reach my  grandma’s porcelain plate, he once again wriggled himself free and landed on the kitchen tiles with an inelegant plonking sound. I froze. I stared at you, my cheeks as red as the christmas dinner on the floor. I could feel hot tears forming at the edges of my eyes. I didn’t want to ruin the evening. I didn’t want to disappoint the lobster.

That’s when you started laughing so hard I could see your teeth. Usually, you would cover your mouth whenever something made you smile, a video of fat raccoon trying to desperately jump up a fence or a sarcastic punchline in a New Yorker comic. But in this moment you forgot your inhibitions. Your eyes were reduced to tiny slits, pushed out of view by your bulging cheeks. You hunched over with painful delight nearly spilling the red wine in your hand. A laugh so honest and visceral it gave me no choice but to join in. As we both stood in my kitchen crying with laughter, the lobster sprawled out between us, I knew he had not died in vain. ’Come on’ you said ‘I show you how to crack the claws.’

[anabeo]

Most listened 2018