What the Flack?

On the art of rebuilding something broken into something beautiful

ICYMI: I’m now nine ketamine sessions into my new life. Let’s call it Amelia 2.0.

If you haven’t heard of the Insta-famous street artist, Ememem, he is an anonymous artistic genius behind the idea of “flacking.” What the flack? You may be thinking, but it’s essentially the word for filling cracks, potholes, and other imperfections with beautiful mosaic art.

Not dissimilar is the idea of “kintsugi”— the art of fixing broken ceramics with gold, which makes them even more beautiful and precious (and expensive!)

I am, of course, making a metaphor to myself. In January 2024, I was left shattered. Ever since then, I’ve slowly been flacking holes— in my heart, my brain, my body— with beauty, forgiveness, and self-love.

First it took some cleaning up. It included saying goodbye to the smithereens that were left in the wake of everything that happened. It included getting out a bristle brush, some bleach, and getting down on my hands and knees to scrub away all of the dust, dirt, graffiti, and grime that had settled in the nooks and crannies.

But then, I got to the fun part: rebuilding myself back into an even more beautiful masterpiece than I was before.

I started searching for the perfect spackle. It turns out that ketamine is an incredible glue, which has held me together in even the darkest moments.

It’s essential to be able to flack in the darkness, both literally, for Ememem, and metaphorically for me, as it is considered a form of vandalism.

A big “fuck the patriarchy” moment, in a society that would rather me be broken and churned into the history of Girls Who Used To Be, than Girls Who Are Killing It.

Next, it was time to pick out the new, glittering tile pieces with which I would fill the holes. I cut my fingers a few times; relapsed on old pieces and trying my hardest to make them fit because they were comfortable. But the old pieces were too fragile for my new project, and they quickly fell away each time, leaving me licking the blood from my fingers.

I sought inspiration everywhere and in everything. Every person became a case study in How to Hold It Together; and How to Make It Through the Hard Shit. I looked up in the cathedrals of my friends’ lives; I studied how they shimmered like stained glass on the church floor, how their ceilings were decorated with beautiful paintings and tapestries.

I was determined that whatever I flacked my metaphorical potholes with would be reminiscent of what I feel when I am on ketamine: holy, worthy, imperfectly perfect.

Finally, I found it: it was hidden in my best friend’s laugh, the rolling of cookie dough with my Nana, and the secret addition of a pinch of sugar to my favorite spaghetti sauce. I found it in the sound of the river by our cabin in the woods, in the sound of the train throttling by my apartment in the middle of the night, and in the cup of cold-brew coffee my dad leaves out for me each morning.

I found it in the eyes of the kind stranger in the museum, her mouth curling into a smile as mine met hers, and in the wildflowers scattered on the traffic median, wildly and passionately in bloom this time of year. It was in my skin: glowing from the sun that’s been drenching it lately, and from the skincare routine that I’ve turned into a ritual.

I decided that I wasn't seeking new pieces to fill the Void of my heart but was trying to collect the moments of happiness and joy that have filled the past year and a half. I decided to modge podge together the pieces of a million different, beautiful interactions and make the tiles myself out of a mood board of the billion different feelings and people I have been since last year.

That, along with a couple of disco tiles, just to keep myself on brand.