Notes

I write everything down. I spent part of my evening yesterday sifting through the memos on my phone, little bits of things I observe each day. Maybe some quote that I found or a description of a person I saw on the bus. Funnily enough, I'm writing this post as I'm supposed to be working on next issue's article. I can never seem to focus enough.

Here's a really interesting thing I found written in a memo:

We all have the potential to fall in love a thousand times in our lifetime. It's easy. The first girl I ever loved was someone I knew in sixth grade. Her name was Missy; we talked about horses. The last girl I love will be someone I haven't even met yet, probably. They all count. But there are certain people you love who do something else; they define how you classify what love is supposed to feel like. These are the most important people in your life, and you’ll meet maybe four or five of these people over the span of 80 years. But there’s still one more tier to all this; there is always one person you love who becomes that definition. It usually happens retrospectively, but it happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of these loveable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable. The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different than anyone else, and they’re often just the person you happen to meet the first time you really, really, want to love someone. But that person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else.

- Chuck Klosterman, Killing Yourself to Live: 85% of a True Story

I first read Chuck Klosterman's book Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs in my first year of university. I remember being really pleased with myself because, not only was I reading a book that was not a novel for the first time in forever, but it seemed to impress this boy that I liked at the time. I bought the thing from Urban Outfitters, though, so I don't know if that makes me more or less of a scumbag. Probably more.

Anyways, here's a nice photo of Fry by the waterfront. We went for a long walk yesterday and he had a staredown with a Schnoodle. It was adorable. 

Also, this picture encompasses a lot of the reasons why I love living where I live.

The Wall

My darling one, you are young and inexperienced, and though you think the world is at your feet, it can rise up and tread on you.

The above quote is from Atonement, one of my all-time favourites. It's one of those films that allows me to centre myself - as in, any time I'm feeling a little too trapped in my own head, it's the first thing to play. That, or Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I have a melancholic taste in movies.

It's less than two weeks into school and I already feel drained. I want to keep going though. It's difficult to maintain a certain momentum while keeping yourself grounded, I've come to learn. It's hard to balance your frantic and ambitious self with your calm and collected self. Can they exist in the same being? Still figuring that one out.

This is the first time I've been able to sit at my bedroom desk in a long time. Nothing like lighting a candle, eating some chocolate and finding new music. Here's the latest to occupy that hole in my heart.

The Messy Top Bun

I have a strange relationship with fashion trends. I'm sure I can talk enough fashion (and, on that note, cosmetics) to last an unnaturally-long lifetime, but I'm never sure if what I'm following is simply trendy fashion, or style. As I observe the sea of messy buns, loose knit sweaters, and cuffed boyfriend jeans descend upon campus, I can't help but wonder if I'm simply a victim of trendiness, or something better. To that end, is it even that much better to go against the grain? (I may say this because I'm in love with loose knit sweaters and all the food babies they afford me)

Also. Do I even care that much? I've been partially blind when it comes to picking things out of my closet. Plus, my penchant for avoiding the gym has been determining my fashion choices as of late.

Coco Chanel once said this: "Fashion fades, only style remains the same."

Thanks Coco, but how am I supposed to figure out what defines style when I'm sitting in the monoculture of this university campus?

Here's an evening read - Fiona Duncan's article in Bullett, titled How to Write About Dressing Well: The Truth About Fashion Criticism. I wish I knew how to be as extensive and elaborate with my interviews and my writing.

The past two weeks have been a flurry of everything Journal-centric. My sixth article for Postscript is in the works but, in the meantime, read last issue's piece titled Books breed wonder.

It's a profile of Kingston's Wayfarer Books, a bookstore haunt known to us who, you know, like to haunt used bookstores. Take a look and see if you can catch any sign of my love for what some call a dying industry. I'm still not sure if it's a doomed romance or not. How tragic if it will be.

Hello September

Casimir Pulaski Day is celebrated on the first Monday of every March in Illinois. I'm five months early and in an entirely different country, but this song sounds like September to me anyway. Enjoy.