journal
Thursday, July 18
I am always waiting. For what? you want to ask. And I don’t blame you—I have the same question.
When I’ve a book in hand, I slip my finger over to the next page before I’ve even gotten three sentences down on the current one. I am ever eager to turn to the next page before even allowing myself the chance to exist within the present. When playing music, I anticipate the next song almost concurrently with the beginning of a new one. Watching a film, no matter the level of admiration I have for it, is always fueled by my excitement for what I’ll be able to watch next. I catch myself living in this cycle of anticipation, some cruel antsy desire instilled in me that my life’s meaning is to check off boxes so I can have more to say, and then maybe get closer to becoming the person I want to be.
I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting to see more, know more, do more… whatever other verb more, you get the idea. But this lack of undivided attention, this headspace of endlessly subconsciously asking and then what?, is where one falters.
Simone Weil—who sadly passed very young but fortunately had an awesome French haircut—wrote, “Attention, taken to the highest degree, is the same thing as prayer.” I think there’s this awful mistake young people make, myself included, in which they expect one day for it to click; for one day their trial run to end, for practice to be over, and to finally be the individual they see themselves becoming. Which, when written on paper, you and I both know is not the case. There’s nothing profound here. No new conclusions drawn. So why do Simone's words feel so heavy? This idea of insurmountable power over one's world that comes from the mere amount of attention one chooses to declare on a day-to-day basis is simply too much strength to possess. Comfortably, anyway.
I don’t know what I’m waiting for, and I definitely don’t know what you’re waiting for, what either of us are hoping to find in the next page or film or song. Maybe to be redeemed or to be kinder or softer or just better. But there is no train coming—is that daunting? That there's simply nothing to wait for? What does one do with this idea that life comes from you and not at you? The growth you're on your knees praying to find is within reach—is that daunting? There are parts of you still undiscovered, still buried inside of you deep from the time you were grown. Further, you can choose what bits of yourself get to stay and which must go. I had a teacher last semester ask me why I use so many em-dashes, and, if I know there’s other forms of punctuation, right? (I’ve now made the grave mistake of forcing you to notice the amount of em-dashes I’ve used in this essay if you hadn’t already, but whatever, ok? It’s my piece). Anyway, that was who I chose to be the day I wrote that essay. The girl with all of the em-dashes! If I had written it a day before, maybe there would have been more variation in punctuation (I say maybe very loosely). Regardless, it was my choice. Which, again, I ask, is that more daunting and freeing?
I digress. Get outside and try new hobbies and walk barefoot in the grass and figure out what pieces of yourself to pull out today.
Love you.
Only at my school could I be reading Sylvia Plath in the grass and be passed by a car blaring what I think has to be classified as the most vulgar song of all time. A rather striking contradiction.
I’m watching two girls throw a football back and forth and friends set up a hammock between thick oaks and — I think they’re old friends, they exhibit some sort of excessive comfort in each other’s company. From thirty yards away they do, anyway. The grass is cold on my legs and the air is still but it feels like November and for that I decide to be immensely grateful. I’m skipping class to be out here. To be surrounded by people who will unwillingly become a muse of mine is one offer I refuse to pass up on. I didn’t do this intentionally, I wasn’t planning on writing, I was actually, as mentioned in the first line, continuing my reading of The Bell Jar. But it’s hard to not be filled with this indescribable nostalgia so deep in my heart or in my soul as I watch groups of newly eighteen year olds who are unsure of one another (but so evidently pine to be sure).
I watch them subconsciously pair off, I watch a baby-faced boy (when did freshmen start to look so young to me?) laugh at something his frisbee opponent says, and though I don’t catch what it was she says I feel relatively confident it cannot be as funny as he makes it out to be. This sentence sounds like I don’t think women are capable of being funny, which in and of itself makes me laugh at the irony of it. I don’t mean that. I mean this adoringly and I am only basing this off of his otherwise anxious body language. It’s endearing.
Am I creepy? And is that guy yawning or vaping? The answer reveals itself to me now but I will not share. I catch the end of a conversation. I don’t hear anything but “… back to the dorm.” Four words, otherwise powerless, have filled me with a yearning for an opportunity that will never again present itself to me. I am struck with a grief for my eighteen year old self. I offer her a moment of silence. She passes (she’s a bitch). I’m trying to make up for lost time now. I think I’m doing a good job. I have to be.
I hear the bell toll loudly across the lawn and this is the first time I’ve ever heard such a hymn. Does it ring at every hour on the hour or only at five p.m. like it is right now? I love it so much initially I think I want it to be every hour, but I also wish for something rarer so when I am lucky enough to be in this place in time, I will be in on some sort of special secret. One only this clock and I share. A five o clock delicacy. Yet, I will sit here until six p.m. out of pure curiosity. As well as a bit of laziness and dread to make the walk back home. I see someone wearing a backwards peony-colored hat the same way you do. A bigger part of me than I care to admit wanted to think it was you. But I’m glad it’s not.
No, of course this field of grass isn’t really the only place this string of events could happen, I’m sure. But it is one of them. And for that I rejoice.
Also, I didn’t read any of The Bell Jar. My brain is aflame.
-- Mon. November 5
-- Mon. November 13
Friday, Oct. 13
This is my best friend Molly. For whatever reason, I have this underlying feeling in my bones that no matter how close of friendships I build, no one ever really gets me. Yes, I promise you I know how dramatic this sounds. I've never confessed this pen-to-paper, and it is truly taking everything in me not to backspace these very words I'm typing, but it feels detrimental to the core of this story, so in the spirit of transparency, I will persist. But it is something I have genuinely felt all of my life, and like I said, argue whatever feeling you'd like: superiority complex, only child syndrome... whatever suits you. Regardless, it's there; Molly, however, comes scarily close to being the person to prove this weird theory I uphold to be incorrect. Tonight, I had very serious plans of doing absolutely nothing. But, much to my surprise, my Molly and I ended up spending the evening together. We watched Hereditary (which, by the way, is by absolutely no means important to this story, but neither one of us had ever seen it and today is Friday the 13th, so everything was quite literally best case scenario... I guess I just feel like gloating). Anyway, after I took Molly home, I drove back to my college apartment in silence; something I more recently do relatively often in my life, but most certainly not something that comes natural to me.
There was a time in my life – well, times, I guess… it comes and goes… but, anyway, yes, there have been waves throughout my life where I cannot stand to spend a moment in silence.
I have always believed myself to have felt music deeper than anyone around me, something every True Music Listener experiences (plenty of people reading this right now are saying to themselves “caroline, you may feel music deeper than almost everyone around you, but not me, you definitely do not understand music more than I do…”). This is completely rational; more than rational, it’s likely true, and even more than that, it's really beautiful, actually. It is an indescribable blessing to love something so deeply you genuinely believe you are one of a handful out of billions of people on this earth who truly understands it.
Anyway, this is how I feel about a few things in my life (I told you, I am an overwhelmingly passionate individual, or, rather, a gatekeeper at my very core), but at the highest of the list is music. There are moments of my life where I genuinely cannot be without song. This is not hyperbolic speech; I go through months of this cycle where I'll wake up, grab my phone, and open my spotify to whatever hyper-fixation album is currently at the forefront of my mind. During these months, I will sleep with my comfort playlist (Re: Sad superiority complex) buzzing through my phone speaker, and I'll also walk around whole foods with my airpods in, listening to john mulaney's episode of smartless, which I can virtually recite word for word at this point.
In the moment, I tend to convince myself these are my deepest days -- the days I view the world most elegantly… an individual with the utmost inspiration, a walking page of prose, I believe myself to be.
Each time this cycle completes itself, I am able to see with a mentally sound brain that these are my most difficult days. Turns out, the days I cannot stand to be alone with a single thought of my own do not result in me feeling creative and producing strong work, but rather, quite the opposite. I know, right, yes, it seems obvious now that I am spelling it out for you: College-Aged Girl Will Have Panic Attack Should Music Not Be Playing in Her Ears at Every Moment. What!? That girl isn’t doing well?! Tell me more, you case study!
Well, you see, what I am trying to tell you here is that in these moments, I believe myself to be doing nothing more than submersing myself into the world of music. And whatever, I am doing that, but dude, it goes a lot deeper than that. Anyway, in the recent months, I’ve been teaching myself how to be alone with my thoughts. I spent a few months alone in New York, got really sad for a little, and thought, hm, maybe you shouldn’t be playing the world’s literal saddest songs in your ears faithfully twenty-four-seven? Maybe? Thus, leading me to make an active effort to control what I consumed.
I really hate ending on “And then, it was all okay!” So please, note that this is not what I’m saying. Today, I listened to the entirety of Phoebe’s sophomore album Punisher (it’s October and it was super grey and cloudy out, so like… obviously?) and made myself feel preeeeetty melancholic. It makes me feel human. I enjoy occasionally remembering that I’m a breathing being with the capability of feeling immensely strong emotion. I just have found it to be equally important to keep the ratio of the aforementioned "Sad superiority complex" playlist to literal human thoughts more in check than I have in my years’ past. Anyway… I don’t know what you’ll take from this brain dump o’ mine. Go make yourself sad, maybe? Or, like, don’t? Whatever you want to do; this is written by someone whose therapist is season, like, 31 of Saturday Night Live… so, do with that information what you will.
--- Fri. October 13
chatting about what it looks like as i find my footing ...
mundanities ...
This morning I woke with my bottom retainer on the pillow next to me and my top retainer at the foot of my bed. Truthfully, I have zero recollection of hastily throwing said retainers out of my sleeping mouth in the middle of the night (rather aggressively, apparently), but I'm afraid it may be the only logical conclusion that can be drawn here. I must've been in pain.
Today I sent my mom donuts for her birthday. And today, for her birthday, she picked me up on my way to class so I wouldn't have to walk—even though it's only a ten minute walk and one I take every day, at that—just because she was nearby. She is simply the best.
Right now I sit on my bed, the juice of an orange spraying onto my sheets while I peel her, conjuring up the next coupling of words to write. The orange juice stains don't bother me for some reason. I think I like to be reminded of this habit I have that for whatever reason feels luxurious to me—capping my night with a clementine or two in my bed. Anyway, tonight I decide to rejoice in the repetition of mundanities.
— Wed. September 27
gatsby fringe is back!!!!! AND it's grungier...
With coats and knits going into storage bins, it's time for a new season refresh in all of our closets. (Really... it's probably not, but let me indulge my addiction in peace). After taking to Vogue's 2023 Spring/Summer Fashion Week recap, I've collected all of my favorite pieces from each show featured. As someone who thrives in fall/winter fashion, I was thrilled to see some deeper colors and more masculine hemlines take ownership on the runway this season. Let's look into some of my favorite trends found fresh off of the runway: 1920s silhouettes and the return of grunge.
In the age of the rockstar girlfriend infatuation, it's no surprise the grunge, gothic aesthetic ruled many of the season's shows. 2014 Tumblr users everywhere are rejoicing (or turning their cheek...) as this years' ready-to-wear brought back the era of fishnets and leather overload. Some collections took a more delicate approach while still maintaining the grunge undertones. In Chanel's production, we saw a white lace tight paired with a leather knee-high boot -- what could easily be an extremely edgy look was broken up with the femininity of white lace and dainty design on the boot.
Equally interesting trend seen throughout these shows is the return of anything wonderful found in 1920s fashion. Staples from the 20s have returned and are thriving as ever. Feathers flocked down the runway, paired with lace corsets and ballgown silhouettes. Colors were still pretty muted here, but this was where the color of the season was revealed: RED! Red, red, red galore. The obvious standout of this color reminded me of the signature red lip worn by women in the time period.
My personal favorite look is a combination of the two aforementioned trends; a gothic 1920s look is undeniably interesting to study. There's nothing like a black lace slip under a feather mini dress... I kind of feel like I was put on this earth to try that for myself. There are so many incredible trends we're seeing as the weather warms, soooo we'll chat soon.
Xx