Fleabag and its Success

I rewatched Fleabag again today.

When I first watched it, I really liked it. But I was confused by its popularity, given Fleabag’s self-described sexually deviant nature. I guess I also didn’t realize people would enjoy being in someone’s head so much.

My experience has been a lot like Orange is the New Black in that, when I find people watching the show and mention I’d watched it once, they go “The full thing?” because it’s intense. Quite intense. It’s a good thing people often find they tolerate, even enjoy much more intense things than they knew they were capable of, or had the appetite for.

I found Fleabag during a broken-heart period of my life (read: present), but also at a time when I’m not moping in self-pity. And I think what people like in her really comes down to her authenticity. How she’s refreshingly raw and doesn’t shy away from her sexuality, but suppresses all of her guilt deep within. How she plays the role of the less cold yet awkward sibling that’s relentlessly trying to connect with her affectionate, stern sister. It’s endearing how she yearns for connection yet doesn’t quite go looking for it, how so much of her behavior is a cry for help (as we find it is in life), and how she begs to confess her sins because that’s what’s really eating her up.

It’s this that I think makes Fleabag so likeable. That she’s got her own stash, is unabashed in her shortcomings, of which there seems to be ample (and exaggerated) supply, but tries her best to go about life. Of course her sense of humor and her ongoing dialogue with us help, and I am happy with its success because it means people can deal with real people on screen.


#1 Postcard – New chapter

My brother sends home postcards when he travels to new places.

This is the first piece from the series Postcards from Texas. The target is 200 words a day, for a month.

My brother sends home postcards when he travels to new places. He’s great at developing habits and spreading joy among loved ones in his own ways. The few postcards I read were addressed to Amma, he would have scribbled a line or two on the front followed by a Take care that had accumulated warmth during its journey to our local post office.

The content would be something like it was raining heavily while he was at the mailing office, or that the place had more mosquitoes than our garden in summer.

He asked me to send one home from Arlington, I googled how to send a postcard via USPS and my enthusiasm was quelled by the options and my perennial inability to choose.

My postcards are going to be in the form of blogposts. I don’t think I’m sending them home, I’m sending them in the way of whoever happens to read them, and whoever thinks they want to follow this series.

200 words a day for a month. I’ve been better positioned to begin than now, but one has to start somewhere, sometime.

Maybe I’ll write about the book I’m reading or the Vietnamese eatery that serves grilled pork sandwiches, or the old people at Arlington music hall or just about what I ate.

I’ll try to make it less self-indulgent than my reality, but these things have a way of spilling onto my writing.

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