I Wear: The Girl In Transparent Boots

In keeping with the video bug that’s bitten me, here’s another I Wear post.Β Aditya Bidikar shot this video tooΒ . We’d met for lunch earlier and I got a haircut (same one, crisper finish) at Mad O’Wot. I also ran into the indomitable Sapna Bhavnani there working on a very important head with a couple of her other stylists. When I was leaving, she quipped, “The two of you are wearing the same shade ofΒ lip colour!” and lifted her hands off to display the very important client’s face. Guess who that turned out to be? A certain Ms.Kapoor nee Khan. πŸ˜€

We shot a video of my look, in the bylanes of Bandra. I’m not sure what I’m going to do for future posts, now that Adi’s gone back. But being able to talk and show what I’m talking about, in addition to writing, is really fun. So expect more videos and tell me what you think of this, in the comments.

My second look this monsoon:

I Wear:

  • Pale pink tank top: ONLY
  • Denim miniskirt: Push & Shove
  • Orange soled transparent rainboots: Paean
  • KyaniteΒ necklace & rose quartz bracelet: Magick, Bandra
  • Lipstick: Winged, Faces Canada
  • Blue eyeliner: Persian Blue, Faces Canada gel pencil
  • Haircut: Mad O’Wot, Bandra

* This videoΒ was shot by Aditya Bidikar.
If you enjoyed this style post in video, check out the other I Wear posts.

β€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”

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Performing To The Gallery: Alcohols & Men – Tuning Fork

I went to an Open Mic after nearly three weeks and I’m glad I picked that MondayΒ to do it. It was an evening rife with unusual performances, from a poem-turned-song to a monologue to a haiku battle to a truly moving piece that made everyone’s eyes well up.

I had a piece I wrote awhile ago and have never performed. But something about the weekend that went by made me want to retain my good mood (that piece is, in keeping with my monsoon temperament, melancholy). So I switched at the last minute to one of the lightest pieces I’ve written and performed just once before at a comedy routine. It made a lot of people laugh and it made me sparkle just as though I’d had that much of my favorite alcohol (I’ve been on the wagon for months now).

There will be an I Wear post in video coming up sometime later. And in the meantime, here’s ‘If Alcohols Were Men

The blogpost that this was based on was written nearly 7 years ago and is here.

β€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

A Retro Generation

Burnt Out Firecrackers & Faded Flowers

I was watching The Wonder Years. In 1968, a generation battled the one before it for identity, for a different set of values and for a new future. Just like every other generation before and after it. They walked protest marches, slipped flowers into their hair and into guns, wrote about love, peace, sex and freedom. They raged against a system and predicted doom. They opposed war with music, authority with searing stories. They challenged authority for lives other than their own.

IΒ had a conversation with dad last month. We were on our way to watch a play and we had to park a few streets away. As we crossed the road,Β heΒ brushed my shoulder and he winced. The metal studs on my faux leather vest had scraped his arm.

“What is this nonsense you’re wearing?”

“Don’t blame me. Your generation is the one that brought metal rivets, leather jackets and angry music into vogue. I’m just doing retro.”

He grinned and then,Β on a note of whimsy, he said,

“It was protest against things that were wrong. Against war, genocide, dirty politics.”

“It was rebellion. Just like every other generation.”

Then Prithvi loomed into sight and the conversation changed. But I’m not sure I believe my own words. What does my generation protest against? Theirs got it right, didn’t they? Yes, it’s true they succumbed. But they were young. What did mine do other than assert its differentness by parodying the same thing?

I think our differences hit home with the conversation we had over dinner after the play too. The play wasΒ Chinese Coffee (two actors only, both friends of mine –Β Danish Husain, Vrajesh Hirjee).

Quick to put a label on things the minute we walked out, I said,

“Well, that was a bit heavy. It’s the writerly angst thing, how we let ourselves get eaten by paranoia, how we feed off each other, how we cannot let it go and be normal human beings, how we must relish the drama of torment and be parasites on each other.”

The pater was uncharacteristically full of praise, not gushing (he never does that). He pointed out that the audience had been kept spellbound by just two actors, a simple set, no major action, only conversation and an extremely abstract idea. That’s real finesse, he said, genuine admiration for both actors.

What he said made me realise how much I’m a part of that extremely cynical analysis I offered up. Look at how hardbitten I am about aΒ story that’s basically about me, created and delivered by people just like me, my friends. And I’m supposed to one of the sensitive ones.

It’s not a healthy life, being a writer today and I don’t mean in terms of calories, blood pressure and inches (though it’s that too). It’s the relentless cutting of self and others that we euphemistically call editing life. It’sΒ insecurity that is supposed to fuel us instead of crippling us like it would any normal human being. It’s paranoia and shame over not doing something either valuable like our peers or meaningful like the writers before us. But with my generation, it’s also watching readership stats, subscriber counts, follower counts and hashtag campaigns. It’s dealing with trolling and being a troll and telling both sides of a story and yelling both of them out. It’s sneering at every single label while being nothing more than a paste album for labels. TheΒ branded products we use, the branded causes we support, the branded groups we align with, the branded disdain we profess for brands not our own.Β It’s bullshit.

1984 is here and so’s the Big Brother, only he’s called Google. Well, The Hitchhiker’s Guide is here too and it’s called Wikipedia and just as predicted, no one takes it seriously. Need I say any more? What can I possibly say that would even have a chance of being fresh as well as hopeful for the future? As a writer, all that’s left for me to do is to fashion old ideas into flashy forms that dazzle the current audience and dress it up with a label called ‘retro’.

Where are our values? Our hopes, our dreams, our unique ideal that guides humanity forward, the way a new generation should for humanity? No. I think we’re the anticlimaxΒ after humanity’s last gasp of the flower power generation. Come millenium and we’re just riding the downturn of a burnt out firecracker crashing to ground.

Look at how melodramatic and verbose all that is. Look at me editing myself. Look at us burn. Perhaps self-loathing is the only lesson my generation holds for humanity. What else is left to do after the flowers are gone?

[Note – I’m sorry I’m not kinder, Vrajesh and Dan, but I wonder if ourΒ generation has the capacity to thinkΒ beyond recycled opinion to things as original as kindness. Your play and my father’s words made me think of all of this.]

β€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter andInstagram.

I Wear: The Girl With A Cameraphone

I haven’t been writing as much lately but I have been shooting a lot of videos. Call it the techno-greek in me but it’s taken me the better part of a year to really start using all the features that my very high end phone gives me. I’ve been shooting (and even editing some!) videos of my spoken word performances. It gave me an idea to capture my daily reflections on camera as well. Of course, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing with my writing on my blog all these years. And the world has been kind with my amateur’s mistakes and lack of polish in words. Perhaps it will be so with my videos as well.

Recently Reema suggested I bring back my I Wear posts to video as well. That seeme like a logical conclusion given that I moved from text-heavy posts to Instagram collages on those. It’s a big tricky doing this on video though since most of my content is self-created (self-shot in this case). But well, I’ll muddle along.

For my first attempts, I had my best buddy Aditya Bidikar on his trip down here for my birthday. He had the good grace to shoot two videos for me. The second one will come up shortly.

Adi and I were relaxing after the mid-week excitement of my birthday not-party. We decided to take a walk near the beach. It was a completely drenched day as it has been for most of this season. But I had Adi for company to spur me out of the monsoon ennui I usually slump into. Plus, a new pair of rainboots had arrived earlier in the week.

And now, here’s the video, shot by Aditya Bidikar.

I Wear:

  • Purple tunic: Cotton World
  • Handwoven sash: Guatamalan crafts exhibition, Dad’s US trip
  • Black leggings: United Colors of Benneton
  • Orange soled transparent rainboots: Paean, Amazon.in
  • Pink raincoat with belt: Lokhandwala market
  • Pink waterproof tote with purple piping: Marie Claire

β€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Tiny Tales: The Apple Lion

I realised during the Alphabet Sambar meet yesterday that I wrote this story but never put it up. So here it is for your childhood-scented reading pleasure. Don’t forget to play!

~O~O~O~O~O~O~

The Apple Lion

It started with a spelling test. Ma’am had threatened the class with one later in the week.

β€œIf you have all been studying like good children, you will have no problem. All the bad children who think they can learn everything in one day, they will all FAIL!! And they will be made to stand outside Father Philip’s office! And their parents will be called. And they will also have to sit outside Father Philip’s office. When they see their parents sitting outside Father Philip’s office, then they will think…Oh, I should have studied when ma’am told me to. Otherwise my whole family would not be sitting outside the principal’s office!!”

And she swept out of the class with a menacing clack of heels. Anusuya turned to Minnal, worry pushing the corners of her lips down. She looked just like Ronald MacDonald but with his face upside down. Then Rahil shot a paper pellet at her and she turned to him, frown gone. Fahim was picking his nose, so they started teasing him.

Manu watched them all from under his elbows, his head down on the table. He tried to think of all the big words that they had come across, in the chapters so far. He didn’t want Anusuya to fail. He liked her even though she looked like Ronald MacDonald with her curly, short hair. He lifted his head. Immediately Minnal turned in his direction so he looked away and right into his book. A word swum into focus, just as a paper pellet hit him on the back.

APHELION.

Affy-leen. Apay-le-yon.Β  Appa-lion. He tried the word on his tongue several times. It didn’t work. Then the chemistry sir slippered into class. Manu always thought of it that way, even though his father had told him that there was no such a thing as β€˜slippering’. But sir made a terrific sound with his rubber slippers slapping on the floor. Manu had tried it at home but he couldn’t get the same effect, till he went into the bathroom and slapped his feet around on the wet tiles. Maushi had complained to his mother and she had come and yanked him out of the bathroom, telling him to let the maid do her work. Slipper-slipper-slipper, sir’s feet made that sound announcing his arrival. Everyone straightened in their seats and opened their chemistry textbooks.

That evening, Manu walked to tuition class. He tried slippering but it wouldn’t work with his canvas shoes. Then he passed the empty ground next to tuition didi’s house. Somebody had thrown a half-eaten apple into the compound. He kicked it as he passed. It reminded him of that word he had seen earlier in class. What was it?

Apple-lion.

Idea! He sat down on the staircase and took out his dictionary.

Aphelion

  1. the point farthest from the sun in the orbit of a planet or comet.
  2. the point in the orbit of any orbiting body farthest from the body about which it revolves.

There was a diagram below it showing earth and moon. He looked up, hearing a chatter of voices. Minnal, Fahim and Anusuya entered the building. They paused when they saw him, then they continued. Anusuya asked him,

β€œWhat are you doing?”

Manu told her,

β€œI’m making a game.”

β€œWhat game?”,

she bent next to him, looking at the open dictionary.

β€œIt’s to help me remember the spellings,”

said Manu, shutting the books and stuffing them back into his bag.

They had an hour of sums to do. Manu was pulled up once for drawing in his workbook.

β€œWhat are these??”

tuition didi demanded, looking at the blobs he had scribbled that morning in class.

β€œApples”

said Manu. He didn’t want to reveal his game yet.

β€œAnd what about these?”

she asked, pointing to three stick figures with squiggly lines on their tops.

β€œLions”

Manu replied in a small voice.

Minnal giggled again, while Fahim tried to laugh and pick his nose at the same time.

When the class was over though, Anusuya sidled upto Manu and asked him,

β€œSo what’s the game?”

Manu looked up from putting away his books, smiling.

β€œTomorrow”, he told her, “Come for tuition half an hour early tomorrow. But meet me in the ground.”

Then he looked over her shoulder and gestured with his chin.

β€œBring them also.”

The next day Manu told his mother that tuition didi had called them early to prepare for the test. As he reached the ground, he realized they had all come, even Rahil, though he was not in their tuition class.

β€œWell, what’s the game?”

Rahil demanded as Manu approached them.

Manu took out a sheet of paper on which he had written out all the hard words from the chapter. Then he explained the rules.

β€œThis is the Earth”,

he said, drawing a circle around where they stood, in the dust with his shoe. Then he ran backwards, till he reached the compound wall. From there he began drawing a line in the dust around the Earth circle, till he reached the same point again. The kids watched him curiously.

β€œAnd this is the road the moon goes on, around the Earth.”

β€œNo, no, the sun goes around the Earth,”

Minnal insisted.

β€œStupid, Earth goes around sun,”

Rahil corrected her.

β€œAnd moon also goes around Earth.”

Anusuya added.

Minnal looked crestfallen but they all fell silent, turning to him.

β€œYou will all be satellites. I will stand over here,”

said Manu, pointing to the ground, where he stood next to the compound wall.

β€œI will call out one word. If it is Minnal’s turn, she must spell out the word. Each letter in the word means, she takes one step to the moon road. Like if I say β€˜Sun’, she takes a step for S, then U and then N. If you don’t know the spelling of the word, you pass. The next person takes that turn.”

Fahim scratched his nose. Manu rushed on before the finger went into the nose.

β€œIf everyone passes, everybody has to go back to Planet Earth. Then I will spell the word correctly and we will take a new word.”

Minnal screwed up her forehead.

β€œWhat happens when we reach the moon road?”

Rahil asked.

Manu hadn’t thought about it but noticing Anusuya’s smile gave him a new idea.

β€œThen you become a satellite. If Minnal doesn’t know the word I give, then she can ask you for a new word.”

β€œMinnal doesn’t know any words!”

said Fahim, gravely studying a grey blob on his finger as he spoke.

Minnal opened her mouth but when she saw Fahim’s hand, she shut up.

β€œHow do you spell satelli..”

Anusuya began.

Manu drowned her out speaking as loudly as he could. He didn’t want Fahim to say Anusuya didn’t know any words.

β€œThe satellite people will try to reach me as fast as they can by spelling the words I give. If you make a mistake, the satellite explodes and you fall back onto Planet Earth.”

β€œSatellites are not explosive, stupid!”

said Minnal.

β€œIn this game, they are. They are bomb-satellites. They have to reach the finish without exploding.”

Fahim had dropped to his knees to tie his sneakers.

β€œFirst one to reach where I am standing is the winner. That person takes this list and gets to call out new words for the others.”

β€œWhat is this game called?”

Anusuya wanted to know.

β€œApple Lion”, Manu replied. β€œThat’s where I’m standing. It’s the apple lion of this game. It means the point furthest on the moon road from Earth.”

They liked the name. They began to play. Surprisingly Minnal won the first game and became the Apple Lion. And the first word she gave Manu was β€˜Aphelion’. He pretended he didn’t know its spelling though he had recited it twenty times the previous day. Anusuya was next and she got it right. He wanted her to be the next Apple Lion.

The next day they played it, walking around on tin cans tied under their feet. Everyone got the spelling of β€˜Stilts’ right. By Day 3, everyone knew all the answers and they made him promise he’d bring a fresh Apple Lion list from another chapter, the next day.

Manu went home and ate his dinner without complaint. He didn’t even notice that there was tindli in the sabzi. The Apple Lion was going to pass the spelling test with full marks.

β€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

The Room Speaks

I seem to have fallen into a pit again, the kind of pit where I can’t remember that I have friends and good things in my life or worst of all – how to write. I’ve called it many names before, stress, fatigue, ODing, PMS, a bad mood. But it is all that and more.

I don’t have anything to say and all I can feel is a stillness inside myself. It’s not a peaceful stillness, not a happy stillness, not even a mournful stillness. It’s just a nothing stillness. It’s dark but not in the horror scene way. Those are loud and pulsing with life. This feels like a closed room that has lain shut for many years.

Yet, there are faint wisps of things that are neither echoes nor memories. I’ve been here before. And it’s always like having forgotten how to walk and teaching myself the first steps one…two….three again before I’m suddenly one with knowledge and integrated with the world again.

So I’m writing this. Recalling from muscle memory how to grasp ideas and how to clothe them in words. In the default instinctual actions, somewhere active living will come again.

Someone called my blog honest. Someone else called it courageous and raw. I met some new people. All those times, I had to struggle for reactions, for responses and for words. It’s not hurt or fatigue. It’s as if I don’t remember how to be me anymore.

I am getting back into a health regime. I gave up tea about two and a half weeks ago. I’ve been reasonably regular at the gym, even during my period. And while I haven’t always managed to sleep on time, I’ve been getting up more or less on schedule. The body feels a bit less battered. And in equal measure, a small deviance shows up brighter and hotter. But this is all on the outside.

Does the world know the body is just a cloth coat hung on air?

β€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

 

Lightwalker

That silver wire-thread that I walk on,
feeling as weightless as light,
as formless and unburdened by identity
as light
where love, pain and people
touch me no more
than light waves bouncing off

I’m there
I’m that
Now. Now. Now.

I almost wish I could walk this forever
But in the falling
In the sudden knowledge of weight
In the splitsecond realisation of life

Is everything.

β€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

Challenge Poetry: Wrong Time & Muse

I haven’t done a lot of Challenge Poetry. I used to enjoy writing prompts. But I was learning how I wrote and I needed triggers, little guiding arrows to how I could think and prompts serve as that. But since I started doing Performance Poetry/Spoken Word, I’ve approached the form with specific ideas that I want to express. So to pick up a prompt and write to it, has felt a bit…artificial?

Still, I thought it might be interesting to give it a shot. Try everything, should be any artist’s mantra and keep trying it. I went to the Great Indian Poetry Challenge earlier in the month and came up with Wrong Time, based on the same prompt.

And yesterday, I took on Tuning Fork’s first ever Poetry Challenge and received the prompt of β€˜Makes me feel alive’. I wrote and performed a piece I called Muse (or StoryMaker) and it ended up getting voted the runner-up in English performances. The winner, a seventeen year old was eons ahead in quality but I think a teenager has the purity, the intensity of emotion that the rest of us can only remember.

I’m finding it interesting that I’m turning out Performance Poetry rather than Spoken Word at these challenges. Spoken Word feels like it has used less effort in crafting the writing. But my Spoken Word pieces have taken far longer to write, rewrite, edit and perfect over time.

For instance, I performed Feminist Poetry at the concluding Open Mic segment yesterday. Many of the people there have heard it before, more than once. It got a good reaction though. Manisha said, β€œIt’s complete now.” and I know what she means. The piece fits like a beautifully tailored garment that sits comfortably and precisely on me. This has taken time, several rewrites, rethinkings, performances and iterations (with and without music, changes of order, removing and adding key ideas). Performance Poetry on the other hand, seems to get completed in a couple of iterations and then I recant from memory, just like I would a song.

Perhaps my next foray should be Improv, a field I have absolutely zero confidence in. Keep watching and thank you for listening.

β€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”β€Šβ€”

If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

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