Brands

June 06, 2024 · Original source

I’m drinking Green Tea Peach Celsius at the gym and my days are starting to feel so much longer in a way that is so good. I’m getting so giddy thinking about how much a day can hold. I’m working on things that excite me and then I’m reading Toulouse-Lautrec: The Art of Cuisine in Washington Square Park and then I’m getting gelato in Little Italy and I’m getting the minestrone soup at De Gennaro in the rain and then I can sort of see the moon even through the light pollution and storm on my walk home and then I sleep early again.

Inline links: Toulouse-Lautrec: The Art of Cuisine, De Gennaro

June 24, 2024 · Original source

My day is quiet, and so after work I’m walking to dinner the roundabout way. All I want to do every morning and every dusk is walk for miles and miles and miles, which I hope is a sign of a state of contemplation and not of boredom. Drinking: 2 celsius on walk, 2 martinis at dinner. Eating: many things at AMA Raw Bar - don’t remember.

Inline links: AMA Raw Bar

Inline links: 1, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!WqgA!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F222d6d61-af1b-420c-815d-f55ad052cdc1_1600x1098.jpeg, Natasha, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!s_qb!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F1cf40838-57f9-4c68-a834-ad4a65ecf108_1600x834.png, Hauser & Wirth

January 23, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, January 19 Wet hair in the lobby at the gym. I am criticized only very slightly, and I am struck with nearly physical rage. I can’t walk anymore today. When I walk, I am compelled to think - then write - about myself. I have this huge body of work. I’ve written 364,133 unpublished words since my birthday in June, but they are all about myself, and the ugliest parts of myself at that. “You must be able to convert some of your journals into work you can use,” some of my friends say, but I don’t think anyone realizes just how bad they are. Any problem, the smallest problem, I can twist and chew and solve, often through written and rotating self deprecation and self congratulation that renders said problem irrelevant. I can do this over and over and over again, for hours daily, if I'm being honest. It’s not necessarily bad as a limited practice - churn out sludge so that it doesn’t live in your mind - but it becomes more and more excessive, nauseatingly so. I meet Madelyn at Shosh for dinner. The snowstorm has started. I texted David at the gym earlier: "big snowstorm coming." "Link me an article or you're full of shit," David said, but I wasn't, because it's here, and it's falling in big fat clumps. Shosh is lovely. It’s a new vegan wine bar in the West Village, which I would roll my eyes at as a concept, but Madelyn’s friends work there and I walk there in the blizzard - enter to a silver bar, an open kitchen, cream walls with a perfect archway cut into them that frames shades of glass wine bottles and assembled rows of thin wine glasses. We don’t get wine, but we do get gem salad, celeriac shawarma with fluffy bread, mushrooms, by which they mean every variety of mushroom you can imagine and a perfect green sauce to accompany. “Hummus is one of those things you think is all the same, but then you have good hummus…,” Madelyn’s friend who works there says, and he’s right, because the hummus here is determinately different. Better. Madelyn tells me she likes showing me good food, and I like this, too. Left to my own devices it’s all instant pistachio pudding and cold mashed potatoes eaten while standing up. This isn’t how one should live - slogging through the essential details of survival and routine like it’s something to get over with, not something to enjoy. At the very least, it’s something to be appreciated. I like meals like this. There’s the Casual Encounters reading later, the fundraiser for Los Angeles reading at that gallery in Tribeca, although all the galleries seem like they are suddenly in Tribeca these days. We’re there early. I can’t find the building, can’t get out of the snow. You do get out of the snow, eventually. You pick a few GoFundMe’s from the options laid out on the table, so many options on the table. You sit on the couch so you’re removed from the room, you have a birds eye view in that sense even though technically, you’re beneath, not above, it all. “You can see the social dynamics from here,” your friend says, kind of kidding, kind of not. You can see how the room clusters itself, at least. I stay for the readings, but not for long after. Walk home in the sleet and ice. It's a blizzard, but nothing is really sticking. Streets are mostly quiet - people in the windows of Lucia and Cipriani but otherwise it’s all empty. My reflection surprises me in the mirror when I get home. I only wear dresses, but today I’m wearing jeans. Mundanity, mundanity, mundanity. David says he wants to go to KGB, and at first I want to go too, but then I decide that I don’t. He leaves, walking into the storm as I’m coming out of it. I start to feel sick around eleven pm. I feel strange, falling asleep. Being sick really scares me. I hope it goes away. Monday, January 20 I expected to wake up sad this morning but I didn't. The snow didn't stick, but a thin layer of it did freeze. I'm sliding down the streets, and they aren't empty anymore. Bright, bright, icy light today. Coca Cola and muffin at the bodega for David. Celsius for me. Green tea mango and Cyanocobalamin. I need black coffee. Inauguration today. I walk and write for ninety minutes. I tried to join the David Lynch Meditation Live Stream at noon, but I got the time zones wrong and I was meant to join at three. It’s five now. Too late. Sitting in a steam room in a cloud of eucalyptus smog. The semester begins tomorrow, and other things, too. An end to my life of leisure, or more generously, an end to responsibility only as self directed. I feel like I was starting to figure it out. Non-fiction in the morning, fiction at night - my friend Grazie advised me of this schedule this summer. Being honest, though, I need more intensive direction. Natasha goes to take snow photos in Washington Square Park, but she says that Jill Stein is there and the park is so so so loud. The theme is: anti imperialism.. She sends me a photo of the birds in the snow. In an ironic twist, David is sick, but I am not. He orders sushi from Soho Sushi. He gives me five pieces from a california roll. I make cinnamon chai tea in the mug my dad got me from the ceramics shop near Mishaum. Every mug there is different. Mine has coarse leaves all over it, and a special rivet where your hand fits. “This apartment is pretty magical when it’s icy,” David admitted earlier, because it’s a greenhouse roof and so when you look up today it’s all like a snow globe. Icicles swirl in soft formations overhead, melting in morning light and then refreezing slightly differently as the sky turns hazy. I have my head under the cover. I’m reading other people’s diaries. Kafka, Anais Nin, I like the diaries I find online, too. I like the diaries I am sent. This isn’t my diary. I cannot stress that enough. My real diary is often quite ugly. This is one of the things I feel most guilty for. It’s strange, though. I wake up, I write in my secret diary, I walk for many miles, I write in my diary that I share online. It is good I will have less time, soon. Anya is staying with me tonight. David, in a friend's spare bedroom because I cannot, cannot, cannot get sick right now, too. It's so nice tonight. Anya and I have been friends since we were two weeks old. I used to tell people that as a child - "this is my best friend since I was two weeks old." Dimes in the snow. Clandestino in the snow. I really like sitting in the corner of a bar until the night reaches its bitter end. Not tonight, though. It's only ten. Tuesday, January 21 My first real responsibility in a month, and it's canceled - a whim of the weather. The snow has melted overnight and in its place is chalky salt stained pavement as far as you can see. It looks like marble. They turned Soho into marble in the night. I try to run outside, but it's too cold. Bitter cold, not pleasant cold. I'm coughing up the chalky air. It's the coldest day of the year. There's a man on the street and he's running towards the train, sloshing coffee all over his suit but he doesn't seem to even notice, certainly he doesn't care. The drops are freezing to the sleeves of his camel hair jacket before they reach the ground. He's covered in little coffee icicles. I doubt it will stain. I had nightmares last night. Everyone knew I was Actually Bad. I woke up saying "help me", but I used to wake up talking about rituals in rural places, so this is not a negative progression in the storyline of my possible possession. The chalky pavement has turned to ice in the afternoon. Walking under the Washington Square arch on the way to Tibet House and its icier than ever. The ground is all glazed over. It’s the latest installment of the Arden Wohl’s reading series at Tibet House; Inauguration Edition this time. Madelyn is wearing a pink sweatshirt when I get there. Madelyn is telling me about knowing your own mind. Alex Auder reads about cock sucking and brings up a friend to read with her who enjoys the act, because she doesn't "I feel demeaned when I suck dick. I feel demeaned when I teach yoga," she says. She reads a story about a life in servitude to someone famous who reminds her of Donald Trump. Tonight is a night where as soon as I have one glass of wine, I wish I didn’t. The haze sets in, and I want it to clear. Beckett arrives. The readings are mostly good, but I’m jittery. I sit in the lobby and I eat some grapes and cheese, replace the wine with water. “Over the years I noticed from my overlord that peasants were increasingly behaving like they were nobles,” Alex Auder is saying, when I return. “There are more cameras than there are people in the world,” Gideon Jacobs is reading, later. I can’t stop drifting in and out of the room. I’m worried about some things, about some people. I get like this sometimes, and I wish I could get it to stop. I go to the bathroom and I return again, to a reading about Courtney Love. “She used to do water ballet and she was getting into the grateful dead.” “She lied a lot and never listened directly but she was a sponge - she takes a word from an incidental periphery and works it into her trope in real time. She’s that fast.” “She said she was born on my birthday; July 1st, but she was born a week later; July 8th” This is my type of lie, I’m thinking. A lie to please. False enchantment. It’s a juvenile compulsion, you mostly outgrow it, and if it was Courtney Love partaking then perhaps it was charming, but my visceral reaction is one of repulsion. Lizzi Bougatsos reads about Gary Indiana. She sits on the floor and she clips her toenails. “We shall mark memory with reverence,” Arden is saying. Beckett is telling me that it’s cool to be at a reading that’s an older crowd, and it is, it’s wine and cheese, there’s no disco party to follow. Beckett introduces me to his acquaintance from Paris. They are talking about Godot and prison sentences. Samuel Beckett gave his Nobel Prize money to a jail org, or was it prisone.org One time, there was a prison break after a performance of Godot. Madelyn is making tape formations on her phone with the other Lacanians. Lacan as separated from psychoanalysis. Lacan as applicable to real life. I’m just gleaning sentences. These ideas aren’t mine. Cigarette outside and then a burger at the orthodox Jewish establishment nearby. We forgot they can only do vegan cheese on burgers here. A lychee martini instead. They’re playing pop music so loud Wednesday, January 23 I hear my neighbors door shut as I’m poised to leave this morning. Decide, instead, to hover in the kitchen. We don't really like each other, my neighbor and I. Nothing was ever said, but there’s an underlying hostility. I have friends over too late, too often. The walls are thin. I'm glad to be waking up at the same time as the rest of the world, though. Sometimes - up all night, becoming manic around five am, this can be nice, but it's usually not. Normal hours. Normal cycles of day and night. The ice has come and smoothed everything over. Too cold to listen to music on my walk to school. I'm peeling off layers in an office, at the gym, the hallway of our apartment is becoming salty and dusted with the chalky snowstorm residue that first coated the surface of everything, and that now is starting to settle. Nothing is volatile. Such placidity, suddenly, but I’m not bored. All the calm in the world. Thank god. It really was about time. And so, you eat two chalky protein pop tarts on the bench at the gym. There are two girls with thick french accents in the locker room parallel to you. "He's a fucking retard, he only calls me at three am and it's only because he wants to sleep with my friends," says one of the girls. She's wearing a sherpa jacket. KHRISJOY, it says, in big red dripping letters. Spray paint imitation. You look it up - $2145 online. It's so ugly, but you're vaguely impressed. Of course you are. You're wearing a Versace sports bra that you bought for a music festival in high school. Absurd. The people watching here is good. The girl is still talking. She's so furious. "And he would be calling to sleep with me, but he knows he can't, fucking retard," she is saying. This version of the narration makes more sense - her rage rooted in something adjacent to jealousy. You gather your things. You gather your tote bags. It's too cold for so many bags. Your hands get numb out there. You're in a humid basement now, but you can't stay here forever. There's an artists talk tonight, but do you have it in you to attend? Cheese and sausage for dinner at home. I forgot about the dishes and I left the sink running for an hour. I’ve never known how to dress for the weather, but that doesn’t mean I mind the extremes. Today - my mother’s gloves, a borrowed Urbit hat from David, a beanie really, it looks insane but it’s too freezing for me to mind. More isn’t always more. More is often so, intolerably, annoying. I don’t want to wear a coat. My books arrive today. Mostly for school, plus one Ruby recommended. I’ll read them all - I’m glad that I have reason to. Salvador - Joan Didion The Company She Keeps - Mary McCarthy The Fire Next Time - James Baldwin Confessions - Saint Augustine The Situation and the Story - Vivian Gornic A Room of One’s Own - Virginia Woolf A Silent Woman - Janet Malcom Are You My Mother - Alison Bechdel The Argonauts - Maggie Nelson The Atrocity Exhibition - J. G. Ballard WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, January 23 From 6pm - 8pm at 61 Lispenard — Canada NY and Eighth House present Rest and Reprieve: A Window into Creative Solitude. Eighth House is “an interdisciplinary residency for artists and curators located in Central Vermont.” The exhibition serves as a benefit for this very special residency.

My Glass House

February 25, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, February 16 The rain continues turning everything muted and gray, but I am bursting with energy, and I am bursting with the feeling like myself again. Early afternoon - the morning gentle sleet turns to a downpour. David bought a basil plant and he put it by my flowers. Do you notice what is by the flowers, he asks. There are firehook crackers with dill and double cream for lunch. Then, a few more of the same with sliced turkey for dinner. You could be a rock climber, if you wanted. You could be an artist in a really useless and abrasive sense, too. You could spend all your time making art and it could all just pertain to yourself. Only make the most incoherent shit imaginable, and then write some really fire press releases and float on by with that, with obfuscation and with stylish sentiments that conceal your vacancy and lack of meaning. I read an interview that snaps me out of it so quickly. The author is talking about how monks are maybe missing something. If you’re meditating all the time, then you’ve kind of lost a grip on reality. It’s enlightened, maybe, but you lose something if you go so deep into interiority that you turn off exterior reflection altogether. If spiritual leaders have lost the plot, then so too, certainly, have I. I’m going monk mode but it’s just Playing On My Phone. I’m going monk mode but it’s just Publishing My Diaries.1 I walk to Le Dive in the evening. I talk for many hours with my brilliant friend who has much clarity in what she is actually saying when she writes. We talk about how to withhold or not withhold pieces of yourself, and she asks me something about how I reveal so much of myself without worrying about things like people who hate you, or worse, people who stalk you. It’s easy to reveal a lot of your thoughts on things like ice on the window when you have no convictions, I think. I do have some convictions, but I won’t reveal myself here. “It’s a scary wind outside,” David says when I get home. “And we’re in this scary apartment in the sky.” “It’s not too scary,” I say. Monday, February 17 In my dreams last night, they take me to Spring Street Dermatology and they give me a chemical peel, microneedling, they shake me up with electrical currents and I leave feeling burned and new. In real life, the wind is whistling even more in the morning. Bright sun, howling wind. David is starting to think about going to bed for the night just as I am waking up for the morning. David spreads orange marmalade and double cream on toast. “What a wonderful thing,” David says. At the party at Jeans, I get a lychee martini, a cosmopolitan, a vodka soda... it's kind of gross sloshing around a nightclub on a monday night, but after I decided to stop doing things like this, I decided again, to stop hindering all my own fun. They’ve packed us like sardines in this basement tonight, and so I don’t linger long. There is a song, a show, and it’s a good lineup of performers and I’m sorry that I didn’t really pay attention, but I was quite busy and I was sloshing around. I was talking about publishing with a famous Twitter Anon friend of a friend who I ran into at the bar, I was looking for service, I was looking for wifi, I was sitting by coat check because I hate standing at these things, I become extremely untethered standing at these, so I was sitting in the hallway, and I was missing the show. Tuesday, February 18 Asleep by eleven, awake by six, this is all very new for me. There is such hazy blue gray sky lighting up the room through the panes of my glass roof. There is David on the terrace with a cigarette. I have a busy day today, and thank god for that. I've been waiting for momentum, and now it is here. Erin tells me about dinner with the most beautiful girl you know. She lives only off of sponge cake, and she was nicer this time. I’m going to read an Irish gothic novella,” I tell David. “Wait one second,” David says. “I just want to reassure you about the plane crashes.” The reassurance is something all about the role of the dice. The gothic novella is all about the moon and untempered desire. I wasn’t too worried about the plane crashes, really, but it is nice nonetheless to be reminded of Rationalism and Randomness. The gothic novella is supposed to be interesting because it was reinterpreted into a Lesbian Dorm Room Drama in a 2014 Web Series. The gothic novel is interesting to me, because it reads like a fairytale. I like the insularity. I, too, have been possessed by demons in my sleep. I am going to write out my Food Diary now, because I am trying to take stock of these things: celsius, apple, peanut gomacro bar, almond gomacro bar, salmon sushi roll, some bites of David's steak with the crust piece of the baguette and then mint tea and then the dandelion tea too, before I go to sleep. You can talk yourself in circles, but of course the only solution is to consistently live well and to consistently live in a way that you can stand behind. Such a life does not require all this talk talk talk on the topic. Carmilla by Sheridan La Fenu. Illustration from The Dark Blue by D. H. Friston, 1872 Wednesday, February 19 I do not want to write you an essay about what happened. I want instead, to write you a story about the parts I made up. After class and then after lunch, and then after a few other things, because there were a few other things, it is not like I did nothing, but the momentum didn’t really last. After just these few things, there is the space heater and the protein bar and the playing on my godforsaken phone and the rereading of all the fairytales, Carmella, The Wind Boy, I have all these hazy spring stories on my mind. I like the photographs Natasha took of me. In these photographs, I am in my room, and I feel like myself. I think I look like myself, too, and this has never happened before, not really at least, never in a photograph, or at least not since I was very young. It is only seven in the evening. It's not too late to run outside in crystal dusk. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, February 25 From 6pm - 8pm at Hauser & Wirth 18th Street: ‘Dieter Roth. Islandscapes’ opens. I like the looks of this - “Featuring a selection of graphic works, monoprints, multiples and unique pieces spanning from the early 1960s to 1975, ‘Islandscapes’ focuses on Dieter Roth’s printmaking, which accompanied every phase of his life and practice.”

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!d8Mb!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F7e326f20-1685-4e59-8b0e-e29ce386a22e_950x406.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!Yntp!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F160f61ba-48c8-4c23-92f8-600a970e8eb0_708x484.png

April 04, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Thursday, March 27 Midnight in New York, I'm taking stock of my glass apartment in the sky. I brought back nine dresses from El Salvador - eight old ones, one black tennis dress from El Tunco. All to be washed. Open the window. There is spring breeze now, all of a sudden, really, but I've been growing accustomed to real heat. These things I used to hate - dense hot air, beating sun, a day that stretches on under direct natural light, no end, no plans.... I would suddenly like to return to this, actually, over frigid and clipped stories about foggy northern coastlines and other things in that vein. Over stories about New York, and other things in that vein. David has stayed in San Salvador, and then, Santa Teresa, Costa Rica. It would have been basically free for me to come and yes I have commitments here but not too many if we're being really honest. I would have become kind of a freak after three whole weeks in airbnbs that are calling themselves "hacker houses," though, is the main issue. And, I wanted to do laundry and stretch in the spring breeze, open the window, set an alarm. It would be so easy for me to untether the physical circumstances of my whole life, these days. It would be easy to have distance from New York, as the main thing, but distance from physicality more generally, too. I've done it before. Honestly, I'm not eighteen anymore, I don't think it makes sense for me to do it again. I will probably stop being so strange and vague once I have even one conversation with my friends back in New York. For now, it is very strange to be alone. Very strange to walk around even a small space, that even only temporarily, is belonging just to me. The past few weeks have been about eclipsing interiority with observation. Floating in realms that are foreign. Not El Salvador, even. The hacker house stuff more. The dialogue of it all, more. The other reason I am here, home, abandoned visions of a hologram of Santa Teresa and also I already really miss my boyfriend - well there was responsibility and laundry and the reading and the stories to finish but also, the lunar eclipse played a role for sure. Something about the Earthquakes and Volcanoes. The floods and the fights. Seek less direct attention from that vivid piercing beaming beating sky. Seek solid ground, I saw someone say online. So, I did. I'm back in stupid dumb New York. Window open. You can barely feel all that fresh air. Friday, March 28 I do go for a walk in the morning, and I do still love New York, I decide. I want to have very delicate arms and boundless energy. I want to have tremendous discipline in a way so as to elicit joie de vivre, and also paths of clarity. The brain fog is so bad today. In the middle of the night, the jet lag woke me up, and I hate sleeping alone in this apartment. I'm sorry, I know I’m being a child but I hate it, the emptiness, when I wake up from paralysis, there are often moments of brief delusion. Alone, glass house, I have to talk myself down. I’ve tried to bring myself to life, today - long walk, two protein bars, slice of papaya, sushi roll for dinner, diet coke and cigarette, make a Vlog, make a Call. David had sleep paralysis, too, last night, he tells me on the phone. This is weird, because usually, this is a plight that is just for me. In real life, there was a creepy elderly woman occupying the hacker house in El Salvador, too. “I started a magazine last year,” she told me, when I told her I was a writer. “Oh, cool, about what?,” I asked her. “I don’t remember,” she told me. Blank gaze. Empty eyes. She would sometimes walk through our room while I slept, and one time I woke up to her passing by, vacant glance, I was obviously shocked, she looked obviously pleased. “How are ya, Love?” she said. The word “love” here, carrying a lot of the weight in making the indecent violation of space a lot creepier. “It’s fun, isn’t it?,” she told David’s friend, while he was doing the dishes. “Turning the water on and off is fun, it’s all fun, isn’t it?” She had referred to herself as a refugee, in El Salvador. From where, I had asked her. From Canada, she had said. A real eccentric freak, and in David’s dream, he wakes up to her sneaking up behind him, looming over him, it’s all fun isn’t it. She says sinisterly: “do you know what I think?” Then, in his dream, he felt her weight bend the bed springs and begin to smother him. Lunar eclipse. New moon. I find this dream ominous enough that I begin to become very concerned. You have to get out of there, I tell David. I'm leaving tomorrow anyways, he reminds me. Saturday, March 29 I spent the night last night reading at Tense and it was really lovely. Kansas Bowling reading and Valley Latini doing a hip hop show and Beckett Rosset on the Providence Hotel and me on half formed thoughts on the half complete piece I am writing on Techno Spirituality and El Salvador. I’m back in Real Life, and I don't regret it. I spent the morning by myself working on my edits. David is still traveling, and I am being more normal about it this time. In jet lagged fugue state, I burned the kettle down to a lump of molten plastic, not on purpose, obviously. I called my dad who's moral judgment I trust in full, so this clarifies a lot of things. I forgot how much I like running really really really fast. Whenever I am craving the extremes, I should access them through lots of sprints. The wind is crazy today. The wind has everyone whooping and hollering through the streets. I'm making TikToks again. I don't care. There are worse evils or, rather, you can leverage anything for evil if you really want and honestly, I am just trying to have lots of fun. Some of you are awfully pretentious for being addicted to things like Ketamine and Feeld. Not me. I don’t like drugs, and I have a soulmate. It is just as bad if not worse to be addicted to your phone as it is to anything else, but I’m regulating my time, and I’m microdosing my slop - or so I tell myself. Sunday, March 30 I order uber eats groceries at midnight, and then it's like celsius and chicken just washes up at my door. I don't like this. Chemicals, aspartame, the dissolution of the social fabric, really. How these things just materialize when you want to actualize some gross borderline animalistic whim. Craving. Diet Blackberry Pepsi. I would not like to live anywhere but New York City, or really anytime but now when I think it through on a very personal and very literal level. But there is something here that I increasingly am wary of as mere hallucination. There is much to consider. I am trying to be very energetic which, really, is the feeling that I increasingly cast as synonymous with Health. We went to Bacaro for dinner last night, then to Clockwork, later. “Do you know about how to get dinner for free,” some girl sitting next to my friend and me said. Then, she explained the concept of Club Promoters. Yeah I know, I said. I didn’t say it in a rude way. I just told her that I already knew, which I already did. My energy feels back in a way that feels very True today. Before I left for El Salvador, I was getting in the habit of killing time. Looking at an hour and wishing it over. I don’t want to quantify anything. What would happen if I never rushed a second again? This is what I’m trying to figure out. What would happen if I never rushed a second again? This is what I’m trying to figure out. Monday, April 1 My mind was reeling so fast in my Irish Literature class this evening. I started flicking through Internet Web Applications at warpspeed. I made some calls. I didn’t go crazy. “Saying no is a far more reliable path to avoiding sin than saying yes”, I heard someone say, through my fog, through the haze - that snapped me out of it quite quickly. “What if you literalize that, and just say no to everything?” a quiet girl across from me asked. I wrote this part down - “JUST SAY NO TO EVERYTHING!!!!” It was humid, heavy, soon-to-be-hot spring, today, in New York. I lost my head. Truly. I became very braindead very quickly, today. I recovered as best I could. It’s the way these things always go. Unmoored from the interactions you’ve been taking for granted, you’ve been alone with your thoughts and suddenly, you’ve found yourself thinking Nothing At All, and Saying A Lot Out Loud And Saying A Lot Online. You realize, suddenly, how wrong this all is, and then you become briefly concerned that maybe, suddenly, it is already too late for you. Or maybe it isn’t too late after all.. Water on the windowsill. I remember spring two years ago, a taxi cab from Chelsea down to where the East River runs near the Lower East Side. I wore a yellow dress and I ran like the wind from the river to the hotel bar. The fires. The maggots. It was that day in New York when it felt like cosmically, biblically, something bad was probably about to happen. The Seven Plagues. The air was thicker and hotter, then. I am thinking about that day because I was braindead on the Internet then, too. Celsius, protein bar, things had begun all thick and ugly and then I’d been whisked away into a big black car, shuttled to the bar at Nine Orchard, my friends convincing me to stick around and then I did, I stuck around for a while, I never really left after that, come to think of it. “It’s Deep Tech Week in New York,” Shannon tells me, today - whatever that means. She sends me an event as such, and I investigate the schedule for the rest of this week from there. Deep Tech Week is a week of events about Tech, and they added the word Deep in front of it to make it seem more cool, I realize quickly. “Turning Science Fiction into Reality,” the text on the website says, and I don’t really like the sound of that. I find that premise, as strictly a premise, material reality aside, even, to be nearly cartoonishly evil. But, I suppose I’ll try to be less pedantic. I eat a sugar cookie (gluten free). Two protein bars from that new brand DAVID. A brand activation crispy sandwich from Joe And The Juice. The packaging is orange instead of that usual nice pastel pink. KEVIN DURANT, the packing says. It is nine pm, and I am suddenly ravenous. Good. Looks like I got my corporeality back. I really was planning to go to the Deep Tech Party tonight, but the rain started in an instant, in the exact instant I was set to leave, really. Like it’s trying to communicate some form of serendipity, reason, warning, whatever. Monday is the day where I let myself get every last thing done on my phone. My eyes burn. It rots the soul. My week continues and I become much more particular with myself. Tuesday, April 2 It’s not that I mind being kind of exhibitionist, even, but I can’t control the feedback loop and I start to drive myself mad. Taking stock of the state of the union like THINGS THAT ARE "IN": Swimming

Monday, April 1 My mind was reeling so fast in my Irish Literature class this evening. I started flicking through Internet Web Applications at warpspeed. I made some calls. I didn’t go crazy. “Saying no is a far more reliable path to avoiding sin than saying yes”, I heard someone say, through my fog, through the haze - that snapped me out of it quite quickly. “What if you literalize that, and just say no to everything?” a quiet girl across from me asked. I wrote this part down - “JUST SAY NO TO EVERYTHING!!!!” It was humid, heavy, soon-to-be-hot spring, today, in New York. I lost my head. Truly. I became very braindead very quickly, today. I recovered as best I could. It’s the way these things always go. Unmoored from the interactions you’ve been taking for granted, you’ve been alone with your thoughts and suddenly, you’ve found yourself thinking Nothing At All, and Saying A Lot Out Loud And Saying A Lot Online. You realize, suddenly, how wrong this all is, and then you become briefly concerned that maybe, suddenly, it is already too late for you. Or maybe it isn’t too late after all.. Water on the windowsill. I remember spring two years ago, a taxi cab from Chelsea down to where the East River runs near the Lower East Side. I wore a yellow dress and I ran like the wind from the river to the hotel bar. The fires. The maggots. It was that day in New York when it felt like cosmically, biblically, something bad was probably about to happen. The Seven Plagues. The air was thicker and hotter, then. I am thinking about that day because I was braindead on the Internet then, too. Celsius, protein bar, things had begun all thick and ugly and then I’d been whisked away into a big black car, shuttled to the bar at Nine Orchard, my friends convincing me to stick around and then I did, I stuck around for a while, I never really left after that, come to think of it. “It’s Deep Tech Week in New York,” Shannon tells me, today - whatever that means. She sends me an event as such, and I investigate the schedule for the rest of this week from there. Deep Tech Week is a week of events about Tech, and they added the word Deep in front of it to make it seem more cool, I realize quickly. “Turning Science Fiction into Reality,” the text on the website says, and I don’t really like the sound of that. I find that premise, as strictly a premise, material reality aside, even, to be nearly cartoonishly evil. But, I suppose I’ll try to be less pedantic. I eat a sugar cookie (gluten free). Two protein bars from that new brand DAVID. A brand activation crispy sandwich from Joe And The Juice. The packaging is orange instead of that usual nice pastel pink. KEVIN DURANT, the packing says. It is nine pm, and I am suddenly ravenous. Good. Looks like I got my corporeality back. I really was planning to go to the Deep Tech Party tonight, but the rain started in an instant, in the exact instant I was set to leave, really. Like it’s trying to communicate some form of serendipity, reason, warning, whatever. Monday is the day where I let myself get every last thing done on my phone. My eyes burn. It rots the soul. My week continues and I become much more particular with myself. Tuesday, April 2 It’s not that I mind being kind of exhibitionist, even, but I can’t control the feedback loop and I start to drive myself mad. Taking stock of the state of the union like THINGS THAT ARE "IN": Swimming

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!Yntp!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F160f61ba-48c8-4c23-92f8-600a970e8eb0_708x484.png

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!rmSM!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fe8f3b744-fe77-4a40-b032-304d78f13ff1_428x548.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!zRlU!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F5106c642-5b7c-4f8f-a799-c60b10039a5d_488x486.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!QlxV!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fb9c5eb95-81d2-4503-852b-4bdc513730dd_698x434.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!0g1m!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F3da24e28-0d39-4802-abf2-53116dd83b00_308x392.png, Baby’s All Right, Palehound, The Ophelias, Grumpy, WeTakeManhattan

May 27, 2025 · Original source

Monday, May 19 I will take the rest of my youth as it is. He turns on the air conditioner for me and leaves to drink Non Alcoholic Beers while I stay put and read the Diaries of Girls Online. I walk ten miles and I do not really believe his friends who say there are worms at the Russian Spa. This is how rumors spread, I tell him. You are Married To The Truth, I tell myself. In the morning, there is light through my greenhouse roof and to start; I am the only one awake. It feels like this; I had one of the best weeks ever last week, where everything came rushing back into being as it should be and I was certain it would stay like this forever. Then there was sudden chaos on the phone, chaos on the train, serenity at Spa88 and then I was calling my mom muttering sentiments I knew she would find vaguely offensive, stomping around the financial district saying bad words like a child intent on proving herself lovable even if insufferable. He said it wasn't that I was so uninteresting, more that my story was bizarre, not really a story at all, full of vitriol. Everyone was running along the Hudson River and I had two or three diet cokes with dinner and I was up not all night but close. It goes like this: in the morning there is energy and a package thief filling a suitcase up with my boxes of celsius and fiber powder and whitening strips and dental floss. I crouch above him on the stairway and I scream HEY. He screams back HEY and so I let him have it. I turn on my heels and I run up the stairs. My favorite things are leaving the house in the morning and not coming back till late night, cool mint zyns, blackberry dr. pepper, turkey cold cuts with truffle mustard eaten in a kind of self-punishing way. I lie on the roof in my boyfriend's Adidas track shorts and a black tank top that I stole from the gymnastics locker room in highschool. The thing about New York is there is immense competition to be skinny, beautiful, successful, rich all in circumstances that are entirely unconducive to all these things, my friend is telling me on the phone. Circumstances like the package thief and your metabolism doesn’t even get a boost from the sun and also there are hard drugs and alcohol. I don’t feel above all of that, but I do feel distant from it now and so I suppose, with some plausible humility, this adds up to kind of the same thing. I wish I was a gentle person. I feel lazy today, but this is not the same thing. Tuesday, May 20 Last night, we went to Lucky's for dinner and I had something with tequila and Saint Germaine straight up and he had more non-alcoholic beer. Then, they brought us mountains of shoestring onion rings and a big wedge salad and it was good for a while, until I started to feel sick. I went to the bathroom to play on my phone while the scent of grease dissipated. The drinks were crisp and they brought the shaker right to our table. Lucky's was like a steakhouse, but with a smaller interior than your average We went to Matthew's house after, to sit in his barren family room while he hacked up a lung. I rolled up my Zara blazer that I stole from Paul's Casablanca lost and found after someone stole my blazer first and also back when I was an alcoholic. I curled up under my blazer on Matthew's tiny couch while Matthew and my boyfriend talked in code and made rankings of all their friends. Matthew's apartment was pretty empty except for a whiteboard with a list of girls he likes and a Chinese new year banner and a huge pile of hats that said I'M IMMUNE TO PROPAGANDA. “Jesus, she is combative. you're right, she's so combative,” Matthew told my boyfriend, talking about me. "It's possible that Canne after dark was something that happened in the daytime," he said. "she'll get mad if I ask her why she won't play anagrams," he said. "The activation triggers a chain of events leading to increased dopamine release," he said. Sometimes, when I am with my boyfriend's friends I feel like I am in a video game, or maybe in an orphanage. You don't want to be someone who is contorting your face and yelling. It is morning now. I don't really know what happened there. Being at these parties more sober is strange, because there is nothing else but me and yet I still don't really understand. I am listening to sweet and gentle music, and I feel a total surrender. S - i do feel bad i was not so gentle and kind about this. i get myself trip wired and lose it. but it is always better to be gentle and kind and i understand new york can kill the soul and there is something beautiful in a peaceful house alone and that is why you left which is innocent and pure and it's not fair to be rageful to you for that. Wednesday, May 21 There were two cigarettes and two glasses of wine at Voile de Nuit. This becomes some sort of Diary of Consumption. I met Ellie at a tall house on a wooded street in the West Village where she works on things pertaining to design and then we spent the hours in the courtyard of Voile de Nuit, which I adore because it’s reminiscent of Summer and Reality. I behaved badly the last time I was here. My boyfriend comes by to drop off fries. We run into friends at Caffe Reggio and it's raining by the time we reach home. My boyfriend says: Spreading secrets is entropic Keeping your mouth shut is static Spreading misinformation is generative and godly I do think he is mostly kidding. It's Simone Weil who says about rage - “To be able to hurt others with impunity—for instance to pass our anger on to an inferior who is obliged to be silent—is to spare ourselves from an expenditure of energy, an expenditure which the other person will have to make.” And I wonder which character I am in this story and it's not always the good one. I was thinking about all of that in the novel. That and the self surveillance of it all. Unfortunately, my thought experiments are ruining my life and also, the novel is ending up being All About Me LOL, too. The play tonight (Revolution at Flea Theatre ) is nice, because I walk through the rain to get there and smoke cigarettes outside The Odeon after, and because its depiction is of genuine weirdos, not like Quirked Up, not like the girls my friend texts me about after the party, “have you met them? so spacey!” not like, becoming strange because of course there is some desire to conjure up some personality and if you’re pretty then it’s fine and even appealing to be off-putting. The play is like grocery store clerk alcoholic, gun in the purse grocery store clerk alcoholic, therapy speak coping mechanisms like count up then down then up and it’s employed in the play as the coping mechanism not as an ironic tactic. Drinking beers on a birthday in the back alley and the play is disaffected from glamor in a way that I’m realizing not many things are. Like even most depictions of poverty in a lot of media, at least media coming out of New York at least certainly media surrounding youth culture and a narrative surrounding a party, goes like; we have nothing but we’re slippery adjacent to everything as a result of our charm and good looks and happenstance. The play is like, leftover charcuterie from her husband’s weird mega church and splurging at the liquor store and old cocaine shoved into a bowling ball but there’s an innocence and almost childlike wonderment to the way they tackle the expired drug situation, and the play is not about drugs. There’s a genuine kind of earnest stiltedness to the conversation that lends itself to sincerity. Thursday, May 22 May is quivering right before me; I'm not letting it lapse like April did but there are still smokescreens, silkscreens, my fingers are sleeping right through it. The Club, last night. The Play then The Club. It was smokey and sweet. My lungs felt coated in something sour by the end. The smoking patio was wet with dew and I was kind of floating, not in a bad way. Not hungover, it's something way more visceral but still hazy. I could feel it all start to slip, and so I held onto myself quite tightly. My boyfriend's screen time is 102 hours a day across devices. My face is encased in sheaths of plastic that keep you young, but they're not the temu kind that's weird and freaky. The light I use is Science Backed. I'm thinking of getting into vintage workout wear. I'm thinking of getting into Vlogging. I'm thinking of getting into filling out paid surveys online for luxury perfume sellers that require you to swear your spending habits are High and you like perfume from MiuMiu and you Hate Balenciaga and what perfume means to me is; I think sometimes scents can bring up... nostalgia? I say. Do you own a Prada dress? they ask. We leave the party early - I'm sick and he buys me chicken caesar salad pizza. Aren't you glad we left early so we could dance a little at home, he says. In the living room, the windows are all a little frosted from the rain. There are lights in the neighbors windows across the courtyard but it's thursday night, the rain has stopped. You couldn't have expected everyone to just stay home, really. I notice the people in the windows if he is spinning me across the room. Exhibitionism. I catch myself in the peripheries. The windows. The back of my mind. And I never shut the blinds but that is just no Executive Function or Detail Orientation. I am not some sort of voyeur. Friday, May 23 10:45am, and they are playing some kind of staticy electric classical mashup of music from the Fedex truck outside. "Even as a grad student, I felt they were looking down on chaos," one young man at the Yemeni coffee shop is telling another. Buying: coffee and chicken quiche but none of that is for me. Buying: peanut butter perfect bar and celsius and my boyfriend's screen time is up to 316 hours since midnight since he's doing things indiscernible to me but which he clarifies are Not Fraudulent. I am trying not to write so much in the google doc diaries. It is like I have learned these diaries as a trick, and now I am addicted to it. Now, I can’t do anything else. I must release all thoughts, but to release one thought I must go through, again and again, everything else. And so I go through it all, again and again and again. The thought, and then everything else. We were going to talk more about Spirituality today, but the tripwire keeps happening - stuck on: Vanity and Careerism. I make subheadings to keep myself in check. VANITY. CAREERISM. CAREERISM: Here is where I am: I have the substack for now which is nice this is something that I suppose in some ways is a defining thing I have done but it does not feel like so much it does not feel like it culminates to anything just proof of existence, yes, but everyone has some sort of proof of existence and it is nice to write the story behind something. The story itself cannot just be the story of writing about yourself. And for a minute I was very very very sad and so that plotline became dependable, but that is no sort of thing to rely on. And this is why it cannot all just be the writing of the self. It hasn’t been. [redacted] felt like something different, investigation, beginning middle end, it was not just here I am, it was like a puzzle it was like being very precise with it and it was the biggest thing I have done so far and I sat with it for such a long time. And perhaps I am being dramatic because there are other projects I could start in the meantime but I can’t sit down and make myself think oh what would be an interesting and pithy thing to talk about for somewhere glossy, I cannot do it. I think about doing it and my stomach rises into my throat with how little I care. And so it has to be a story that bursts out of me. There was one, and I can tell there is almost something else too but it’s like David said yes, it’s difficult while you are in the waiting room. Since beginning writing this, my fever got higher, and we are hanging the Bacchus masks around the apartment plus yellow golden softlight and, now I feel more peaceful about it. I wasn’t having so much humility. Nevermind. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 27 From 6pm (show at 7pm) at Baby’s All Right — Baby’s Presents a benefit concert for the Immigrant Defense Project with Palehound, The Ophelias, and Grumpy. Dj set by WeTakeManhattan. - “All proceeds from the show will go towards supporting the IDP’s 20+ year mission of fighting for the rights of immigrants targeted for imprisonment and mass deportation via advocacy, litigation, legal advice and training, community defense, grassroots alliances, and strategic communications.” | GA (18+) $38.86, Ticket and Bonus Donation $49.69

Friday, May 23 10:45am, and they are playing some kind of staticy electric classical mashup of music from the Fedex truck outside. "Even as a grad student, I felt they were looking down on chaos," one young man at the Yemeni coffee shop is telling another. Buying: coffee and chicken quiche but none of that is for me. Buying: peanut butter perfect bar and celsius and my boyfriend's screen time is up to 316 hours since midnight since he's doing things indiscernible to me but which he clarifies are Not Fraudulent. I am trying not to write so much in the google doc diaries. It is like I have learned these diaries as a trick, and now I am addicted to it. Now, I can’t do anything else. I must release all thoughts, but to release one thought I must go through, again and again, everything else. And so I go through it all, again and again and again. The thought, and then everything else. We were going to talk more about Spirituality today, but the tripwire keeps happening - stuck on: Vanity and Careerism. I make subheadings to keep myself in check. VANITY. CAREERISM. CAREERISM: Here is where I am: I have the substack for now which is nice this is something that I suppose in some ways is a defining thing I have done but it does not feel like so much it does not feel like it culminates to anything just proof of existence, yes, but everyone has some sort of proof of existence and it is nice to write the story behind something. The story itself cannot just be the story of writing about yourself. And for a minute I was very very very sad and so that plotline became dependable, but that is no sort of thing to rely on. And this is why it cannot all just be the writing of the self. It hasn’t been. [redacted] felt like something different, investigation, beginning middle end, it was not just here I am, it was like a puzzle it was like being very precise with it and it was the biggest thing I have done so far and I sat with it for such a long time. And perhaps I am being dramatic because there are other projects I could start in the meantime but I can’t sit down and make myself think oh what would be an interesting and pithy thing to talk about for somewhere glossy, I cannot do it. I think about doing it and my stomach rises into my throat with how little I care. And so it has to be a story that bursts out of me. There was one, and I can tell there is almost something else too but it’s like David said yes, it’s difficult while you are in the waiting room. Since beginning writing this, my fever got higher, and we are hanging the Bacchus masks around the apartment plus yellow golden softlight and, now I feel more peaceful about it. I wasn’t having so much humility. Nevermind. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 27 From 6pm (show at 7pm) at Baby’s All Right — Baby’s Presents a benefit concert for the Immigrant Defense Project with Palehound, The Ophelias, and Grumpy. Dj set by WeTakeManhattan. - “All proceeds from the show will go towards supporting the IDP’s 20+ year mission of fighting for the rights of immigrants targeted for imprisonment and mass deportation via advocacy, litigation, legal advice and training, community defense, grassroots alliances, and strategic communications.” | GA (18+) $38.86, Ticket and Bonus Donation $49.69

Inline links: Baby’s All Right, Palehound, The Ophelias, Grumpy, WeTakeManhattan

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!nfdI!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F733585c5-650f-432a-99da-25b0daa4b84a_856x938.png, EARTH, I Feel Like Seth Price in 2012

September 17, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Saturday, September 13 8:01am Driving over the Williamsburg Bridge where the skyline of New York City (the place where the Energies have been swirling back to life but all kinds of evil ones) is now tinged kind of light blue. The gallery last night was orange and swirling with smoke which made me gag. I couldn't really hear the readings. Something about grilled chicken. Do you think we got second hand high, my friend asked me. Do you think anything artistically interesting happens anymore? We found other friends, then, which is a good thing about New York City; insofar as it always feels quite small. We meandered further downtown for a while which was nice despite everywhere feeling a bit like a crime scene and sleep deprivation due to current events in my personal life and also on a more global and national scale. 8:27am There's a cemetery that is green green green in Middle Village and the graves are all topped with angels. There are bumper stickers that say TEACH SOMEONE HOW TO PRAY THE ROSARY on a gray car and MAKE NAZI’S AFRAID AGAIN on a blue car. 8:39am Listening to La Bás by Huysmans on tape in the car. "He could not stay in one place long and kept on inventing reasons to leave the house," the recording says. 11:29am It is sunny in Delaware and the billboards in New Jersey are amazing. Staring at my kind of puffy reflection in a streaked mirror at a rest stop feeling kind of weightless to be outside Manhattan which is kind of how it always goes these days. I do the things I need to do, but I’m not sure if that makes them right. I try to be precise and honest. I have not been acting very Selfless, but there are other things to consider besides Nobility and Sacrifice. Purchase: uncrustables and celsius. Interrogate the mundane because there is only so much one can glean from The Bigger Picture. A dress from Zara is kind of Washington-DC-Chic. This, or a side-zip sale-rack dress from DVF. I pumped my veins full of microplastics and bought an ill-fitting wardrobe. I drank iodine until my thyroid exploded. I got a tick-born illness and now steak tartar triggers anaphylactic shock. It is good that nothing bad has ever happened. 1:00pm Washington DC is Butterworth’s bone marrow for lunch and then the bookstore nearby to purchase a new copy of Paradise Lost and then The National Gallery where I like the Italian Renaissance section best because all the images are very well preserved and reverent. The most special works to me are Frau Angelico’s Adoration of the Magi and David with the Head of Goliath ceremonial shield because it’s satisying to imagine someone going into battle with something so bejewled and decedant despite the cermemonial nature of the shield that renders this idea irrelevant and a painting that I note as just Big Baby which is wonderful because the angel wings depicted are transparent like the light is just starting to rise. There is Cupid With The Wheel of Time and Bachuus floor tiles. Bachuus being; God of wine revelry and fertility. I grew up in a home peppered with masks of Bacchus and, in my old apartment we adorned the walls in masks of Bachuus, too. I tell my friends how I bought one ceramic Bachuus mask in April and then other masks kept on arriving in the mail after that. It was a colorful kind of Venetian mask to start, and then the ones that came after were darker and smaller. Like something out of a horror movie, my friends say. And this is kind of true yes, except like all reverent images or omens one can seek either good or evil or one can also choose to accept that; the most simple explanation is always the true one. And things used to be so much more interesting because everyone was much more reverent, I am thinking. Except then we walk over to the French area where the art is less reverent but more like a fairy tale. Hubert Robert’s The Ponte Salario and Francois Boucher’s Allegory of Painting and Fragonard’s Blindman’s Bluff, which makes me feel full of light Jean Honoré Fragonard’s Blindman's Buff (1775-85) - Photo via The National Gallery WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, September 17 From 7pm at EARTH — I Feel Like Seth Price in 2012 commences with BEFORE AND AFTER WRITING book launch and reading and record launch.

December 22, 2025 · Original source

One life all at once Friday, December 19 The West Side Highway is cold and clear and empty driving home, like everyone is already gone and this night will be the last dredges of things as they were. The taxi driver is playing soft rock and the barges on the Hudson look like little houses from a distance. New York in December is like a fairytale, because most everyone leaves for real life and then you are reminded, in the lost week of the year, that none of this was ever exactly real life. There’s a red sports car doing donuts in the empty lot of Pier 76. There are three American flags blowing in the wind. Every December feels almost inconceivably distant from the one before. It’s been this way for a few years, at least, now. Mostly, this makes me feel self satisfied, and sometimes, this makes me feel sick. The wind has been crazy the past few days. It’s like a wind tunnel, specifically, driving through midtown. The river is churning. The wind is making everyone insane. I wake up to yellow overhead lights left on overnight, and they look particularly warm cast against the winter sun that filters through my windows. No curtains. In my dream, I was sitting in a Starbucks somewhere foreign, waiting on a bench next to two girls whom I did not know. The coffees were taking a while, and so the baristas kept on offering up shared bread. Something to compensate. The loaves of bread were huge and warm. The barista was throwing them overhand over the counter. The bread was soaring through the air and then landing on the floor. The other girls around me were scooping up the loaves and devouring them with their hands. They were breaking the bread in half and then tearing off a morsel for me. That landed on the floor, I was saying. Everyone shrugging. Looks of disgust. I always dream in mundanities. Wearing athleisure and mixing potions this morning, like matrixyl and Argireline and Evian water full of bubbles and microplastics and wind through the open window blowing all the dust around. I watched all the energy come roaring back for each and every false start these past few months, but it’s been a pause in the ebb and flow, now. I like when things are fascinating. Three books from the party are lying on my glass table in the center of my floor. The Champ is Here and Season of the Rat and a book called Alligator, all bought from some place called CASH 4 GOLD. Because the glass table is so big, and the room is so small, the table creates a disproportionate presence. I wonder what will change, once the glass table is gone. Bundled up and then drifted outside to procure a celsius at the bodega and now I am home, again. Listening to Kali Uchis play off my tinny computer speakers from my playlist that reminds me of hot dry desert air and CRYSTALS. Making plans that fifty-percent chance I will then cancel. Trying to finish my Florida, Massachusetts story but the tone requires a kind of gothic and spooky vibe that I am entirely unable to access right now. Everything at Los Angeles Apparel is five dollars, and so I spend the afternoon being gluttonous online. Purchasing a white tube top and a black fine jersey long sleeve and two a-line skirts and some shimmering silver earrings. Purchasing a red circle scarf for Iris, too, because she left her brand new red circle scarf in the basement at my brand new job, and I said I would find it for her but couldn’t. Unsure if I will tell her I have found the scarf, or admit to procuring a new one online. I think I will just hand it over and say nothing. Celia calls, and I tell her about cleaning my windows and live blogging my day. Careful, Celia says. It’s a good idea to talk about things like architecture, or strange observations. It is probably not a good idea to start live blogging your days. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO It’s the most program-less week of the year, and so I’m taking a week off the event call. Watch The Shop Around The Corner and make Sabayon

Inline links: The Shop Around The Corner, Sabayon

January 14, 2026 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, January 5 Start the year at Cassandra’s apartment, and then a few days pass kind of breathless and stranded in this way. Her bedroom looks over St Vincent’s Ferrer, and it is light filled and sweet. Cards and paper star cut outs hung on red ribbon stream down the edges of the cream walls. A seashell necklace, Mary Magdalene portrait, books of Adorno and Mary Gaitskill. The bible. When my friends leave for the day, I do not. Rush of opening doors and boots on wood and winter air, and then they are gone. Cassandra’s apartment is very clean. It strikes me, somewhat uneasily, that everything I touch appears slightly less precise when I’m the one returning it to its proper place. Face oil left off kilter and kind of dripping. A little bit bad at treading gently in this place where I am a guest and everything is delicate and gorgeous. Wearing my friend’s Adidas pajamas and drinking water and taking Advil in thick blue translucent pill form. Writing down the things I no longer care to reflect on. A lot can happen in a year, I tell Cassandra, but then again, a lot can happen in one day or one hour or one minute, even, so best to be kind of chill about it. We go to Heidelberg for herring and brown bread and hot raspberries in ice cream and apple strudel at night. We go to CVS for baby food and tooth brushes and nicotine gum. The evenings uptown are more sparkling and quiet. Back at the apartment, and I can’t stop talking about all the things I want to do or places I want to move. California, Switzerland, El Salvador. Uptown, to a four bedroom apartment with my four best friends. Lying on Cassandra’s couch wearing a blue sweater under a gray blanket and drinking flower power kombucha this morning. Cassandra gets ready for work and offers general hospitality. Eat any fruits and vegetables you want, Cassandra tells me. She lists them like a game. Ad libs. She was teaching me how to type cast a person as “Lego” or “Dust Bowl” or “Victorian Orphan,” last night. Blueberries, shallots, pickles, seeded mustard from the Amish farm stand. I tell Cassandra that she’ll come home to find I have devoured all of her arugula with my bare hands. Later, I wear Cassandra’s blue sweater and black ballet flats and take my own belongings clutched in my arms in a cab downtown. Am I crazy, or did you take my black ballet flats, Cassandra texts, that evening. We discuss an exchange. Tomorrow’s plans. My polyester black gown bartered for Cassandra’s blue sweater and black ballet flats. We’ll meet at mass, lunch, The Frick, The Met, the play, the party. The light is blue gray in my apartment, and all the windows steam over when the hot water is on. All the windows steam over because my apartment is very small, and because the bathroom has no doors. A New Year should feel psychedelic, not sluggish, one of my friends said, a few days back. Psychedelic??? I said. What about crisp and clear???? After my dream where there is No Air Left, I come to consciousness with concerns about redemption. Something about bad habits and something omnipresent left unsaid. Sun and light and real sort of detox incoming and yes this has all happened or is happening or needs to happen soon. Sirens outside the foggy window. Gentle winter sunrise. Watching Darling (1965) on my computer as it gets light outside. The Schlesinger film where Julie Christie whirls about all thrilled to find it’s not too late, even though, of course, it is. Back on my phone, I’m checking prediction markets and trackers and fortune tellers and all the things I’m trying to avoid for religious and also paranoid reasons. My fears are all confirmed. Reading the stars. That voice in your head telling you everything will work out fine is wrong, they say. Sound of shattering glass crystallizing outside my open window this morning. I can sense, therefore, more than see, bright morning light starting to seep through. Thank God. It was a few days of gluttony last week. Last days of bohemia, but it was different from the bohemia of before. Different from the times that we were all manic from the wind and cold and early January where everything or nothing happens all at once. Everything used to be reeling. I miss Butterfly Club. Ex-best friends are forever. I’ve been talking about being ascetic for reasons of necessity, and also because simulated intensity can only do so much when it comes to keeping a life pure. Morning, now, and I don’t remember my dreams but I jolted awake ready to chase the same thoughts in circles. Washington Square Park is bright and feeling like spring today, because the snow is melting and the trees and lights are coming down. Pine piles looking a little lonely under the park archway. Something a bit melancholy about it. Dead and gone. Nothing to overthink. Cassandra comes downtown for mass and black ballet flat retrieval, and then she goes uptown to clean her apartment and do good things so she can be a good person. Your apartment is already so clean, I want to tell Cassandra. Cassandra is telling me about the only girl in the world who are funny. I went to tell Cassandra about someone who said me and one other girl and one specific nun are only girls who are funny, but the conversation moves on before I can assert my piece. And I think I’m mostly funny when I’m being mimetic, anyway. Better at knowing funny than at being funny myself. Cassandra is telling me about childlike wonder. Washed my face with La Rouche Possay cleanser and Japanese milk toner and did Big 6 Lymphatic drainage which is supposed to do things like give you the whites of your eyes back and also cleanse your insides through and through, this morning. Procured a Celsius and cool minty zyn from the fridge. Procured green juice and cliff bar and sat in Prada boots, for a while, on the edge of my bed. I do feel confident things will work out in the end, Cassandra texts me. Only if no spiritual blockage with vice or isolation, I text her in response. What if we had seven more hours of daylight, my friend said tonight, but I like it when it is four pm and I’ve completed my day of obligations and the fading daylight matches a sense of completion. I wore a tan skirt with no tights because they all keep running and a black long sleeve tee and sneakers to do venue tours and other obligations. I thought you were coming from the gym when I saw you wearing shorts, my friend said, after I ran into him on the street. I’m not wearing shorts, but I am wearing sneakers because I keep on procuring mysterious injuries, I said in response. It was a strange December and then a good January, incoming. Good, because it is quiet. Good, because I think I sense things picking up. Can I see a menu, I asked the bartender, at a dive bar, later that night. There is no menu, because this is a dive bar, the bartender told me. Can I get something warm, I asked. The bartender fired up the kettle. Imagine seeking out attention to get only the negative aspects of fame like stalkers and rage, my friends were saying, at the dive bar. Imagine selling out your friends to cloy for low hanging fruit. Imagine turning twenty-six. Imagine playing pool. Imagine moving to Los Angeles, California, or San Salvador, El Salvador, or Geneva, or even Austin I would move anywhere, I was saying to my friends. I would move across the country or even the world and become very sweet or even very bored. My friends were talking about people for whom spectacle is just real life. You assume that everyone is excited to go back to real life, and then you realize that they have no real life. So these are the people that you’re supposed to avoid. And then after that, everyone was talking about religion again. Which is sort of crystallizing to be the topic these days, or even this year. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, January 14 A few good downtown art openings tonight (6pm - 9pm) — At 56 Henry; works by Yifan Jiang and Sareh Imani. At Entrance; Seth Cameron’s first New York exhibition in six years. At Post Times; Elberto Muller solo show.

Inline links: 56 Henry, Yifan Jiang, Sareh Imani, Entrance;, Seth Cameron’s, Post Times, Elberto Muller

January 27, 2026 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, January 12 I’m in my room and I’m feeling normal. Outside, the streets are winter-warm. Foggy and sweet. Different from El Salvador, which was humid-sweet. Tropics sweet. El Salvador was learning to understand things and also learning to let the wind blow in interesting directions and also learning to stand on my own two feet. On the flight home, I mapped out every day as a container. At JFK, I decided to treat the city like Vacation. Big Bar every Monday. Museums of Illusions. FDR themed social club. Procure activities on Partiful or Instagram or Yelp or through Word of Mouth. I call Amelia to announce my return and my vacation-forever plans. Is this vacation for the sake of transgression or fun? Amelia asks me. New York is over, Matthew was saying, in El Salvador. New York is over, and Los Angeles is it. I suppose we’ll see, I was saying in response. I suppose we’ll see but for now I’ll take all the energy-whirling-back. The flight home was quiet and late. I sat in the very back row of the plane with lots of water and ambient dread. I dreamt of a rocky landing where Avianca (Boeing 787) (Flight 267) touches ground and then immediately takes back off. I dreamt of being robbed. I dreamt of turning around. Dreamt of being scammed. Dreamt of busy days and busy nights in N.Y.C Back home, tonight, and it’s dinner at Lanterna di Vittoria with my friend whom I like because he offers me generosity kind of liminally. He presents a dangling sort of kindness that I did not have to accept or deny. I could accept his kindness later. I could pluck it from thin air, long after he has walked away. Maybe he is just generally cautious like that, or perhaps he intuits my inherent distaste towards drawing definitive conclusions. He is extremely helpful, but I never say thank you for the advice even though I am thankful. I never acknowledge I agree and I think it is better this way. I’m particularly grateful for the ease of it. He’s happy to know he’s right and also to feel useful without any of the misery that accompanies reliance. The grid is blinking in and out today, and so we are all feeling anxious about nuclear war. You too?? my friend says, when I bring up the topic of nuclear war at dinner. Everyone is becoming so much stupider. Small grid means big problems. I am feeling uneasy, sitting in my apartment tonight, knowing all the best minds in the world are coming up short. Later, cotton candy skies turning dark as we’re walking home. The city is freezing over, and hell along with it. Since I cleared my mind head-empty, I have become so much better at being perfect. Since I became religious, I have become so much faster at driving. Since I started telling all my friends that I want no-trouble, none-of-the-time, everything has started to really spiral out of control. I want to be good, I keep on telling Olivia. We go to the gym together every-other-day. She is the only girl with hair that is longer than mine. You are goodest, Olivia tells me. She says it with a smile, and she is very much not-devious so I believe that she believes this to be true. How many millions of dollars do you think were lost when the grid went down? I ask my friend, walking home in the icy city that I just can’t quit. Trillions, he tells me. What do you mean millions? Jesus Christ. Do you know how the GRID works? He gives me a book. Elephants and economy. Something like that. I already have it. I am smug when I tell him so. They already gave me this book in El Salvador. This book is already mine. The grid has already never-existed. Nothing ever happens. New silk eye mask arrived by mail which means: big sleep incoming. Big sleep in mummy mode. Clean room. Room of a girl who respects herself. Every day is something new. This part has always been obvious. Tuesday, January 13 The air is clear in my apartment, but somehow tinged a little bit blue this morning. Somehow kind of record-stretch hazy, which I suppose is what happens when I am tired and outside, it’s foggy. My friend texted while I slept: I am taking on your mannerisms. Texting back now: I don’t really have mannerisms. I could write a story this morning, but instead, I will write mantras in my mind. It’s good to be quiet It’s important to seize control over myself God gives the world to girls who don’t get in their own way. Black velvet hanger left off kilter. Last night, I purchased a blue dress that reminded me of dreams I already forgot. A blue dress to wear in a glass house in a place like Topanga. Bright blue dress to wear while making spring green soup. Purchased the dress with visions of next summer spinning through my mind. Visions of wearing a blue dress and standing barefoot on the wood floor of my parents’ house and making spring green soup. Sitting on the edge of my bed in dark green lulu lemon leggings and black tank top this morning. Cool minty Zyn in mouth, and Celsius in hand. The apartment is a mess, and it has been for a while. Trees are barren and kind of sweet outside my window. I hate this apartment. I want my old apartment back. I want to get everything I’ve ever wanted. I want to get sober and mean it. I want two hours of dedicated time-writing-fiction per day, and two hours of dedicated time walking outdoors writing notes. I want to let no more hours drift. I was not happy to come back to New York, but I do like the parts of the city that just are-what-they-are. Green turtle pond and freezing hands. Big buildings and tour groups. Windy streets. Bustling with people. When I’m at pilates I don’t feel like I need to move to LA, I tell Saorise, in the studio. The toned and old gay man that owns Pilates People runs warm. He cracked the window to let in the frigid winter fog. All the girls are upset about this. The light is silver and bright like a beam. It is a foggy day. We have LA at home, Saiorse says. We have life-like-California, but it’s real-life and it’s right-here. We can stay right here. We can invent different schools of movement. We can even go to Sugarfish Girls mass-exodus a friend group or even a whole entire life because of totally superficial reasons that are totally fake, Saoirse is saying, at Sugarfish. We acquire Saki. I pull my hair into a tight ponytail and I revel in my perfect day. I document my material reality meticulously. I have been training myself to become totally head empty. I have been training myself to gently accept gluttony, and also to be less subject to my whims. Sugar Fish has the sort of generic-upscale interior that reminds you of nothing, and thus reminds you of personal recollections of positive experiences in similar generic upscale interior restaurants. This is how they keep you coming back, I say. Girls couldn’t find a backbone if it hit them over the head, Saiorse says. Girls want to drown their enemies in buckets like kittens. Girls want to pray for you and ask to kiss you and pretend to be your friends. I am starting to feel some animosity, I tell Saorsie. Our meal is light but comes out in many courses. Saiorse is happy to hear about my budding proclivity for negativity. I’ve been telling you these things for years and knowing that it wasn’t yet time for you to listen, Sairse responds. You can pick something really good, or you can pick something that you really really want. Saiorse plays with her salmon sashimi and she doesn’t like soy sauce. Saoirse doesn’t ask me to tell her which one I pick: really good versus really wanted, that is. Do you remember Michael the explorer, Saoirse asks me. I have known Saoirse for a million billion years. We share a million billion strange friends. It’s nice to pour over these things. Internet friends. Federal agent friends. Friend who snuck over the Canadian border a few years ago and then washed up outside a fire pit in The Hamptons. Her explorer friend who we took to Round Swamp market for blueberry muffins after he got back from some place like Antarctica or maybe North Korea. He was not very risk-adverse. He was so worried about you, Saoirse says. Did you know that at the time? He said you seemed so nice. Walking home in the crisp and cold afternoon feeling so nice. Walking through the farmers market. Curling up in bed half asleep half dressed half under covers. Half lonely and half at peace because I love when my apartment is so cold. Cassandra texts that she is going to the museum. Why, I ask? It is our duty to seek out all the latent beauty in the world. Cassandra responds. At night, In Brooklyn, I can listen to Jeff Buckley Forget Her on repeat and think about what I actually want. Purification. Indulging my addictions. Freedom from vice. Sweet music and soft cover of winter fog and little green glass wind chimes hanging from the trees. I like wearing natural fibers and clothing I move easily in and having a uniform and following an obsession to its logical conclusion. I like knowing immediately and totally what it is that I could or could not love. Little dried leaves shivering across the pavement. They look like little rats except for the part where they are very beautiful. I run into one friend smoking on the street in a velvet black jacket when I arrive at the reading. I like your suit, I say. It’s my only suit, he responds. I don’t want to drink but I do want a cigarette and I only like cigarettes when I’m drinking. There’s a glowing strawberry on the wall, and there are a lot of people I have never seen before or at least do not see often. Like the cool theater kids’ basement in college, the girl next to me is saying. Soft snow flurries outside, which serves as a nice reminder that it is still winter. Reading out loud about Florida, Massachusetts and feeling reclusive. Wednesday, January 14 Sweet Wednesday morning, but I’m going to treat it like a Monday. Still listening to Jeff Bukley Forget Her, which makes me want to be somewhere else. Somewhere very cold or very foggy or even, very sunny. Perhaps I should stop hedging and just commit to something. Last night, a boy was ordering a drink and talking about how he was so glad no one was doing dry January this year. He asked his friend what he was drinking. Soda water and cranberry, the friend said. Oh, he said. You’re doing dry January? I’ve been dry for six months, his friend said. I felt so jealous of his friend. So, I know what has to give. Need to take pleasure in denying myself the things I want, etc etc etc. Listening to Forget Her over and over and over again, and turning my head all the way upside down so I can get a look at the snow behind me, but the snow has mostly stopped. Just silver skies all the way, now. Silver skies all the way up and all the way down. Jeff Buckley died at thirty-years-old. Someone who destroyed himself early but at least he had something to show for it. The desire to toss out everything I own becomes pervasive in the snow. The desire to get rid of all these things I wish were not mine. Gathering up all these clothes and throwing them in a big white trash bag. Thinking about the big smile on my face when my mother gave me a blue and shiny dress and then thinking about throwing it in a donation bin which pipelines to landfills, obviously. Hours can pass, percolating in guilt over what to do with this blue dress among other items. There are many more wasteful things than throwing out a dress. Buying and drinking alcohol for example. Buying and eating protein bars just to feel full by which I mean full of trash. Scrolling on my phone. Being cruel. The snow is both coming down and melting outside. Smells like ski racing. Nothing I am getting rid of is special. If the people whom I don’t want to see show up at a party, then I will leave. My friends are in the basement of the party when I arrive. Another friend’s new bar. The wood has been stained dark brown and the place is starting to look formal and nice. My friends are vacuuming and putting away books. We all look like little elves putting the books away, Quinn says. Many interesting books. Esoterics of Health and something about Aliens, for example. Thursday, January 15 Rinse and repeat. Blueish silver light in my apartment, where the sun barely penetrates, but at least nothing is artificial. Outside, everything is melting, melting, melting. White and chipped paint on the fire escape, and I can see the drops of water growing from the metal edges and then… drop! Leafless trees shimmering like they’re coated in gum drops. Each silver water droplet crystallized as its own little form, and then together, they are turning the whole tree silver. Since they turned down the central heating and then I turned off my air conditioner, a few days ago, everything has begun to feel quite quiet. Should we do a dress exchange? I ask Cassandra. Should I bring you your bible and a book called The Elephant in the Brain and also your blue cashmere sweater in exchange for my polyester Aritzia slip? Yes! says Cassandra. The West Village is wet and cold and the church is white and the doors are blue. The dining room of The Marlton Hotel is full of red velvet booths and gold lined mirrors and star shaped yellow lights. The mirrors and the lights make me feel a little bit like I am in a room full of sun, but I am not in a room full of sun. I am in a windowless hotel lobby full of mirrors. Cassandra takes out her Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls at table over are taking out their Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls everywhere are just the same. Olivia has her Rapunzel hair bundled up in her scarf like a baboushka. Cassandra is wearing a beautiful red scarf tied around her neck and wearing beautiful gold jewelry. The girls at the table over are talking about how we were created to have gentle souls. Why would anybody make it their mission in life to seek out… chaos? Cassandra interjects. To seek to degrade others, Olivia says. Cassandra teaches me a new word: Odoriferous. Cassandra tells me about her friend who lives in Northern California off the grid, farming salmon or maybe saving them, researching them, I can’t remember. A girl stumbles into the dining room to greet her friends at the table over. I can feel how cold you are, her friends say. I can’t wait to see the ocean again, Cassandra says. It feels really weird going so long without seeing the ocean. I guess I won’t see the ocean again for a while. Thinking about feeling manic. Thinking about every other timeline. Thinking about pouring big glass of water and black coffee with five splenda because I am still glutenous. Getting right to the cusp of something means that in at least a few other timelines, you probably figured it out. Nice to assume you’re capable of that, at least. Nice to know that in another timeline, my diaries are probably anonymous and I can be less vague. Nice to know that in another timeline I can probably lie. I can probably say what I actually mean. Spraying perfume over green sweater and imagining myself as someone who moves more slowly. Ordered a glass of wine because I love relapsing on an empty stomach. Telling Olivia about when my life was hot and cold and up and down and crazy all the time, because for the first time, I am realizing that she did not know me then. It’s hard to describe to someone who wasn’t there. Feeling a little bit nauseous and like I wish I hadn’t spoken. We could be living in the Midwest driving golf carts, Olivia says. Indiana is just corn and soy but not even produced for human production just animal feed or corn syrup, she says. I have a fondness for cornfields, Cassandra says. We could belong to country clubs, Olivia said. I wonder what that is like. Friday, January 16 In my dreams, I am surrounded by water on all sides, Somewhere in El Salvador. Somewhere in Costa Rica. Somewhere with all my friends-from-the-internet, and they do not like my new boyfriend. It’s ok, because I don’t like my new boyfriend too much either. I am scheming with my internet-friends. We are scheming ways to get rid of new boyfriend. Everyone is happy about my plots to get him gone, and no one seems to clock that I am the one who invited him in the first place. We are deep sea fishing. I am hanging by my arms from the edge of the boat and my feet are running through the water while a girl I know to be my best friend fires up the boat faster and faster and faster. I am a little scared. I am having so much fun. Salt water. Earth water. Angel water. I wake up. One light left on, back in New York. Yellow glowing floor lamp, so at least there’s nothing shining overhead. Last night, I was walking through the winter snow sliding on ice and filled with energy and adoration and also two illicit drinks. Listening to music and wind and stopping for gum and diet coke and then washing up in a restaurant that was bustling and warm and dimly lit. Telling my friends not to wait outside. For a while, I wanted to show others the places that had always been mine. It had never been like that before. It had always been more of a self protective sort of thing. Back to letting myself be dragged to kind of nice places to which I have no attachment, now. Talking about myself like I am playing SIMS at dinner. Ordering one diet coke and one piece of fish. Dinner passing kind of assembly line cool. Chill and smooth. In the snow and the ice, everything is seamless and then I’m in a car home so that I do not slip. Things could be quiet and end early but I still just can’t stay put. I become more full of energy, later on. I have become very sick of interiority. I went to a small Italian cafe to pass the later night because when I don’t, I always wish I did. It was a snowy and beautiful night. The cafe was made for families and locals and tour groups and dark and lovely. My new friends were talking about things like art-of-business, so it felt kind of far from myself but I could bear it for some hours. A beautiful life. Trying to be more tender and less neurotic. This does not have to mean everything. A person can just be cautious and nice-for-now. Walked home in the snow. Woke up warm. Still can’t stay away from places that have always been mine. Yellow light emanates from the yellow lamp. Nothing fluorescent. A million things to write over a million times. A million things to consider. A million topics on which the thing to do now is to wait and see. Waiting and seeing. Text about finding a DJ for a party in San Francisco. Email about a party at The Mount Washington Hotel. All these very random things that feel so close to being in reach. Kind of want to go. Kind of want to languish in old and beautiful rooms at the Mount Washington Hotel and in the majestic magic pool and imagine that money flows like water by which I mean spend money like it is water. Opening the window, now. Letting it be morning, now. Have to be clear, now. Sober minded and clear. Time passes like water, too, so that is something else to be wary of. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, January 27 From 8pm at The River — Theme Trivia returns with Medieval Trivia.

Inline links: The River, Theme Trivia

March 06, 2026 · Original source

Before the once-in one-hundred-years snow-storm, the air was soft and warm and not even that still, and so no one could believe what was about to come. I spent all day thinking about winter cleaning, but I did not spring into action until late. Then, I pulled on a black Gil Rodriguez dress, and I walked to buy Celsius, get on the train, drift over to downtown for a book launch, whilst feeling tired yet optimistic. Sam was sitting behind the bar next to a huge bison head and a lot of Olympic memorabilia, and he told me that Ellie was there and New-York-University girls were there and not Saiorse, yet, who is terminally late. Downstairs, the lounge was open and dark and I mixed myself a drink full of Campari syrup and ginger and gin. I went upstairs and I sat at the bar and Sam made me a Roy Rogers which is a Shirley Temple but for boys. Saiorse arrived in a gray dress and boots, and she made me a glass of melon juice. Lily arrived, and she told Sam that she only drinks diet coke. After that, we walked over through the still warm enough night to a penthouse party full of people who make robots. This, or a dive-bar. This, or Soho House. This or homeward bound. Choose your own adventure. Humanoid robots are designed to do physical things that humans do like serve food at restaurants, and to potentially also have superior intellect and perhaps become agentic-not-mimetic, Saiorse explained. She explained something of a sort of space-race to get this show-on-the-road. Cold War. I was thinking more in hypotheticals. I hadn’t really been invited. I have not had existential dread since summer, when I moved out of a glass apartment where I was always staring up at terminally blinking skies. I only ever said I was a nihilist when I didn’t know what that word meant. At the party, there were trays and trays of sushi and a spiral staircase and men carrying around platters of dumplings. Everyone from the Stanford class of twenty-two is here, Sam said. A lot of people flew in for this party, he explained. Saiorse and I maneuvered our way to the bar, and then towards a long counter top that appeared to be a buffet, but was totally untouched. Lily and Saoirse and I began to eat everything on display. Grabbing plates of salmon and being greedy. A girl standing in the center of the room was saying she felt dizzy. Does anyone else feel dizzy, she was asking. Yes, I decided. Yes indeed I do, and so I went to the bathroom but the door was just one big plywood sheath with no lock, and the music that was fired up throughout the whole huge vast apartment was pumping out from two small speakers that were located here. Blaring Ye so loudly from out of the bathroom ceiling and from under the sink. It felt kind of like a strange and architectural dream. Not like a bad dream, but like I had to go. The girl in the center of the room had reminded me that I was feeling dizzy. She disappeared by the time I came back to the party, and I tried to tell my friends about the strange and blaring bathroom music but they were absorbed in things that seemed hyper and happy and totally present. Nobody seemed too future-oriented despite the product at hand, but they never do at these sorts of things. The books on display all had colorful spines and recognizable titles. I did say goodbye, and outside, the snow had still not started.

Prada10 mentions across 10 issues

Prada is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 10 times across 10 issues between February 14, 2025 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "the Prada boots my mother found for me cheap at a vintage store in Vermont"; "Do you own a Prada dress? they ask"; "Do you own a Prada dress?". It most often appears alongside Night Club 101, Los Angeles, New York.

Article page: Prada
Mention count: 10
Issue count: 10
First seen: February 14, 2025
Last seen: March 06, 2026
Instagram handle: @prada_horse_shoe

Outbound links

Issue trail

Meditations February 14, 2025
generative and godly secrets May 27, 2025
Summer Break July 15, 2025
Fever Dreams November 05, 2025
Winter (03) November 19, 2025
The social experiment is now over December 22, 2025
How To Break Paralysis January 14, 2026
Yellow-all-around February 15, 2026
Life-in-a-lab February 25, 2026
Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

Night Club 101 8 shared issues
Los Angeles 6 shared issues
New York 5 shared issues
Washington Square Park 5 shared issues
Brandy Melville 4 shared issues

Source context

February 14, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, February 10 I woke up in a storm today. Stormed around the apartment a bit, all mad about who knows what, stormed to the gym for self actualization, skipped all the fashion week stuff last night, the show I was so excited for, the after parties too. I was sick, after all, though I didn’t realize it then. You only realize it now, sunroof windows, all this energy, the contrast visible now that you’re flooded with Being Well. “It’s funny how you live off the provisions David and the world throw at you,” Lara texts me. “Having a hard time articulating a reason/framework to start taking care of yourself more sometimes that isn’t cheesy,” Lara says. “It will be good for your writing because you’ll get more information from the environment and have more energy,” Lara determines. “I actually do care about health, vanity skin etc, I just have cognitive dissonance," I say. And I do. I ordered collagen, after all. This is not so bad. None of it is so bad, really. I am thinking of joining David in Paris. It's a bit of an act of fleeing, though, and it's no good to leave out of some desire for escapism. I am treading very cautiously this morning. A matcha with almond milk and the oatmeal with apples and cinnamon and raisins. The bright sun is melting all the bright snow. They are talking about Aristotle's Ethos Pathos Logos in class today. The only one that matters to me is the Ethos of it all. I believe everything I’m told if I trust the authority of the person telling it to me. I’m all swallowed up in the undiscerning masses. It would be nice to leave New York, yes, but it will be nice to stay here, too. It'll be nice to come back to life right where I've been sleeping. In the evening, my friends arrive. They sit at my kitchen table, and they tell me crazy stories about staying up late and everything that happened in between. I was lonely for a moment, or really, I was just struck by the the being alone of it while he is still away, but then my friends arrived, and the stories were all sparkling and shocking. I know secrets again, now. It's more fun when I have things to hold. Wrapping my hair twice in towels by the open window before bed. It's too cold to keep the window open, but the space heater was drying everything out. Lara left some cocktail shrimp in the fridge, and I drop the tails into the empty Sephora box on the floor. I'll still take out the trash, I am not more disgusting than average. Tuesday, February 11 Coconut oil, beef bone broth, muscovado sugar on a silver spoon for breakfast. There is reason to think this kind of thing will make me become better. I would be very easily indoctrinated into a cult based on the certain determining factors, I forget the exact formula of each trait but I know my balance of each fits the bill; agreeability, desire to belong, etc. I have to stay vigilant. Left to my own devices and I’m half asleep and I’m making potions. I wrote a story in the night. Hologram Girls, I called it. Stupid title but I think this one, yes particularly this one, I imagine I could turn this into a book with just some discipline and a little joie de vivre. Natasha comes over just as I am starting to lose my mind. Just as the snow is starting, too. Snow in the evening, and Natasha is taking photos of me on film. Usually, I wouldn’t like this. Me, at home, on film. Madelyn would have something to say about Lacan and the image of it all. I would have something to say about; I’ve been addicted to deciphering the angles of my face in my mind until they become shapes and forms and pieces beyond recognition. Vanity is so obviously self indulgent, so blatant in its gluttony that it avoids interpretation, becomes silly to give voice to, turns omnipresent. Out Of Your Mind And Into Your Body. You will walk on the treadmill and you will write this sentence until it becomes true. I don’t function well in my own company. That’s the truth of it. Even the most basic things. On film, I wear a dress from Brandy Melville, black tights, barefoot or, the Prada boots my mother found for me cheap at a vintage store in Vermont. The snow hasn’t started yet. I like taking photos at home, and I trust Natasha with the camera. I can’t see my own reflection. It’s fading to blue hour in the greenhouse windows. We will see how this turns out. At drinks, later, with old friends, their Colleague came, and he's talking about how if you are not early you are late. He works in Revenue Recovery, he explains. Like if someone ordered a burger and fries but they forgot to pay for the fries, he would recover that, but for bigger things. For things like a scalpel when they’re doing surgery. “If they lose the scalpel?” I ask. “If they lose the revenue,” he says. I’ve felt very defensive lately. I’ve felt an annoying need to emphasize things like I know what Deloitte is, but barely. I’ve felt an intolerable need to explain things like where a Reading ends and a Party begins. This is the greatest bar in the world, I am told. You can tell, because my vodka soda is actually full of clarified juice. I say something insufferable about how I prefer hotel lobby bars and martinis. We could all go to DCP (Double Chicken Please), someone suggests. Because this, in truth, this DCP is actually the greatest bar in New York. Outside, it’s snowing now. Inside, there are big red orbs on the ceiling and the bartenders keep swinging them around in big sweeping circles. I thought they did it on the hour, I thought they did this like a clock, but the time keeps passing and the orbs keep being set in motion, seemingly at random. There is talk of vulgarity in comedy at our table. There is talk of a probiotic soda brands marketing scandal and the colleague hates influencer marketing, he thinks its immoral, and I’m asking things like the dumbest questions in the whole world like oh but do you think that any marketing really is moral though, and oh but do you think that brands are people, though, and oh my god you can hear your own echos sometimes and you can just want to scream. Outside, the snow is making the street and all its lights become dizzy-like. They pulled the shades down behind me in the window in the restaurant due to the draft, and I wished they hadn’t, but I like it better coming out into this quiet night covered in snow like a quiet surprise. Yellow cab fringed with ice. This will always be lovely. I’ve felt a little more lyrical in my writing lately, and there is nothing wrong with this at times, only at times. Except, the repetition I think, feigns a kind of spirituality I don’t actually have when I am doing things like being on my phone and eating protein heavy processed snacks. Later, returning home, reading more of Augustine’s Confessions to penetrate these skin deep musings. I put the space heater on the floor and I do feel sad now, overwhelmingly so, when I think about how terrible things could come to pass so quickly and how I could just be caught off guard, somewhere on a long walk, somewhere being vain. I sleep downstairs tonight, because I do feel very small, and because there are no shades upstairs to cover all that glass. Lying under all that night sky, you begin to think that it might suck you right in. Wednesday, February 12 After I walk outside this morning, where the thin branches of the trees are still coated in these thin smooth layers of snow even in this early morning sun, and after I go to The Standard for the latte with almond milk, after Libra for the small cookie with tahini and chocolate chips, after class and then the walk home and then the dropping off of laundry and the grocery store and the run in the cold sun, after all of this; David returns from Paris bringing a hairbrush and perfume from Officine Universelle Buly. We are going to go out, but then there's ginger beer and vodka on the kitchen table and the caesar salad pizza from La Vera and then, it's nicer to just stay here. Thursday, February 13 I’m back to listening to the interviews today. I’m not sure what these will become, but there’s a lot of wisdom in other people's words, and a lot of hesitation in my own voice when recorded. There is some existential dread these days, but David says it’s all just math I don’t understand at all, and the apocalypse is not imminent. I disagree sometimes, but I am trying to worry more about things like the State Of My Soul. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Friday, February 14 If I was looking for a last minute dinner reservation tonight, here is where I would go… Knickerbocker Bar and Grill is my favorite restaurant in New York and I’ve lauded it many times before. Classic, old school, not too many frills but still feels tasteful and nice, great t-bone, liquor on the grand piano, jazz on the weekends, etc etc etc. I like this description best - Beckett Rosset on his father dining here: “My father went here for lunch for god knows how many years. He probably consumed hundreds of gin martinis and rum and cokes there. When he died, after the memorial at Cooper Union, the family and close friends, a good thirty or forty people, went there. The owner comped everything. I thought it would not survive covid but clearly it has. Glad to know a new generation has taken to it.”

Inline links: Officine Universelle Buly, Knickerbocker Bar and Grill

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!0g1m!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F3da24e28-0d39-4802-abf2-53116dd83b00_308x392.png, Baby’s All Right, Palehound, The Ophelias, Grumpy, WeTakeManhattan

May 27, 2025 · Original source

Thursday, May 22 May is quivering right before me; I'm not letting it lapse like April did but there are still smokescreens, silkscreens, my fingers are sleeping right through it. The Club, last night. The Play then The Club. It was smokey and sweet. My lungs felt coated in something sour by the end. The smoking patio was wet with dew and I was kind of floating, not in a bad way. Not hungover, it's something way more visceral but still hazy. I could feel it all start to slip, and so I held onto myself quite tightly. My boyfriend's screen time is 102 hours a day across devices. My face is encased in sheaths of plastic that keep you young, but they're not the temu kind that's weird and freaky. The light I use is Science Backed. I'm thinking of getting into vintage workout wear. I'm thinking of getting into Vlogging. I'm thinking of getting into filling out paid surveys online for luxury perfume sellers that require you to swear your spending habits are High and you like perfume from MiuMiu and you Hate Balenciaga and what perfume means to me is; I think sometimes scents can bring up... nostalgia? I say. Do you own a Prada dress? they ask. We leave the party early - I'm sick and he buys me chicken caesar salad pizza. Aren't you glad we left early so we could dance a little at home, he says. In the living room, the windows are all a little frosted from the rain. There are lights in the neighbors windows across the courtyard but it's thursday night, the rain has stopped. You couldn't have expected everyone to just stay home, really. I notice the people in the windows if he is spinning me across the room. Exhibitionism. I catch myself in the peripheries. The windows. The back of my mind. And I never shut the blinds but that is just no Executive Function or Detail Orientation. I am not some sort of voyeur. Friday, May 23 10:45am, and they are playing some kind of staticy electric classical mashup of music from the Fedex truck outside. "Even as a grad student, I felt they were looking down on chaos," one young man at the Yemeni coffee shop is telling another. Buying: coffee and chicken quiche but none of that is for me. Buying: peanut butter perfect bar and celsius and my boyfriend's screen time is up to 316 hours since midnight since he's doing things indiscernible to me but which he clarifies are Not Fraudulent. I am trying not to write so much in the google doc diaries. It is like I have learned these diaries as a trick, and now I am addicted to it. Now, I can’t do anything else. I must release all thoughts, but to release one thought I must go through, again and again, everything else. And so I go through it all, again and again and again. The thought, and then everything else. We were going to talk more about Spirituality today, but the tripwire keeps happening - stuck on: Vanity and Careerism. I make subheadings to keep myself in check. VANITY. CAREERISM. CAREERISM: Here is where I am: I have the substack for now which is nice this is something that I suppose in some ways is a defining thing I have done but it does not feel like so much it does not feel like it culminates to anything just proof of existence, yes, but everyone has some sort of proof of existence and it is nice to write the story behind something. The story itself cannot just be the story of writing about yourself. And for a minute I was very very very sad and so that plotline became dependable, but that is no sort of thing to rely on. And this is why it cannot all just be the writing of the self. It hasn’t been. [redacted] felt like something different, investigation, beginning middle end, it was not just here I am, it was like a puzzle it was like being very precise with it and it was the biggest thing I have done so far and I sat with it for such a long time. And perhaps I am being dramatic because there are other projects I could start in the meantime but I can’t sit down and make myself think oh what would be an interesting and pithy thing to talk about for somewhere glossy, I cannot do it. I think about doing it and my stomach rises into my throat with how little I care. And so it has to be a story that bursts out of me. There was one, and I can tell there is almost something else too but it’s like David said yes, it’s difficult while you are in the waiting room. Since beginning writing this, my fever got higher, and we are hanging the Bacchus masks around the apartment plus yellow golden softlight and, now I feel more peaceful about it. I wasn’t having so much humility. Nevermind. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 27 From 6pm (show at 7pm) at Baby’s All Right — Baby’s Presents a benefit concert for the Immigrant Defense Project with Palehound, The Ophelias, and Grumpy. Dj set by WeTakeManhattan. - “All proceeds from the show will go towards supporting the IDP’s 20+ year mission of fighting for the rights of immigrants targeted for imprisonment and mass deportation via advocacy, litigation, legal advice and training, community defense, grassroots alliances, and strategic communications.” | GA (18+) $38.86, Ticket and Bonus Donation $49.69

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!-s02!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fa0eebadf-a2d7-4370-aa2c-ff5b1e6112ba_756x424.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!5VsE!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fa28d040d-b3a0-4770-82bd-6e231622df77_632x410.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!UYwU!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F46ea23c2-0020-4017-9cf8-fb844593afb0_1536x2048.jpeg, The Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research, Error 404: Play Not Found

July 15, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, July 7 On the upper west side there are big french windows. green branches outside and you can’t see the street. There is a gray townhouse across the way, marble framing, air conditioning in the attic. I have crashed here before. I have been to the central park zoo. I have whispered on the whisper bench. I took cigarettes from the apartment before I left. I moved to Berlin once. I came back and I came here. I got a job at a gallery. I was given a life the next winter. There was a life before. I am not vindictive at all. I am waiting for a collapse that has not come. 12.23.24 - Today; a crisp clear morning of ice and snow and dreamy clarity at home. I haven't felt this at peace in the country in so long, I haven't felt able to access this place in forever. Now, something shifts. 12.28.24 - The idea being of course, that once you realize the shortness of the time you have, you become paralyzed of wasting it. 1.17.25 - After I floated through the kitchen for a while I remarked, oh this is a lazy morning. You consider jumping around with your soulmate all day lazy?, I was asked. 1.21.25 - I screamed my lifemylifemylifemylife too and then I put a towel in my mouth in the bathroom and I bit down hard. 1.26.25 - we talk about values — which we mostly share I went to Fanelli Cafe The Roxy Hotel and The Party and then who knows. I took a North Face backpack all about town. I took a Prada purse. I took a call. I took a meeting. I took beet juice at lunch. I took water with dinner. I forgot how to write. Artificial Intelligence remembered how to tell me about psychosis. Artificial Intelligence remembered how to affirm. I remembered my humility. I remembered how to recite advice. It is not that things are good. Where is my spiral? I have been checking my notes. If all adds up, then there should have been some spiral. It’s spiraling all around me. I wrote a letter. I didn’t tell everyone. There is nothing really left to write. The end was not so much the artistic sort of thing. I am still still still. I have heard the news. I have heard the latest. Split screen. Split personality. I used to write it like performance art. It is insane, at a certain point, to insist it is performance art. Queen of the Fairies, the signs say in Bushwick. They're talking on the phone on the street and so they seem schizophrenic, my dad says in Bushwick. Schizophrenic is not always as it seems, I am smirking in Bushwick. No one is laughing. Everyone is graceful. I keep on ruining the vibe. I was told once that I thought that I was something like Mother Theresa. You write like this and so you ruin what is sacred. Some things are sacred. Artificial Intelligence cut me off. Artificial Intelligence caught a whiff of my vibe. Tuesday, July 8 There is a fire by the ocean and gray gray gray dusk and I had wine against my own best interest. I thought I would say, here is what I recall. I recall nothing. There is so much I could distinguish from the wreck of it all. I'm ok but you are not so in this world today, Iris is saying on the beach. I recall we went to The Folly. I closed the door in the bathroom up the stairs. I ate Chicken and Rice, Joe's Pizza, Springbone Kitchen, Two Martinis. Throw the butter from the fridge in the trash because it really smells like rot. I was not always convinced that everything was about to rot, but I was always pretty sure about the butter. It all becomes a bit trite in writing. Not in recollection. I wish I could recall so much of anything at all. What are your favorite furniture items in memory, my dad asks Iris after the beach. Iris says a yellow ottoman. My dad lights a fire. My dad is on StreetEasy. I'm on that artificial intelligence wave in a big way. You can tell I've developed the habit because I sound abruptly so much stupider. You can tell I have little ground to stand on because, absence, no memory, relinquish nostalgia and I have nothing to say. I liked the little wooden chairs by the fire in Massachusetts. I like my map of Buzzards Bay. I liked the wooden table at a house surrounded by all that green. I did first like the Bacchus mask in New York, though I am learning to be cautious with symbolism and the thing of what you may conjure. My dad liked the bed he built into his cabin. There are people who build cabins. There are people whose whims don't dictate their attacks. There are people who are just one person all at once. The dog chased the coyote up the beach and I chased the crab apple path up towards the house and there is a paisley blanket and an oil painting of a woman in a long pleat white dress and a black hat with a black bow and a small child with his hand clutched in hers. Wednesday, July 9 Lying on the speckled blue sheets under a canopy of white veil thinking about how I’m going to get the fuck back to the city. Thinking about where I am going to live. I am going to need to pull a lot of favors. I will not be listless. Wander around my all new neighborhood in a daze of self abandon. Abandon limbo. It will be interesting to see what happens when I abandon limbo. I suspect that it'll be nothing good. Were you so addicted to the chaos? Iris asks me. Will you need to manufacture new situations to respond to? It’s just that, reckless abandon doesn't really bother me, I say. It’s not so much that this is necessarily what I crave. There is a music box and I am noticing my initials on the inside. There are mussels in coconut milk and bluefish on the porch and I was quiet quiet quiet today, though I get the sense that suddenly all around me, it is beginning to happen fast fast fast. Thursday, July 10 I stopped with all the quiet and then I regretted it in an instant. There are gray walls like paper maché and a white wooden canopy bed frame and a toy boat all tan and teal green propped up on the bookshelf. You have been lying in every bed in the house, Iris said. Rotate them like musical chairs. I was not so sure where I should land. I was lying on a yellow bedspread, then. Dusk, then. The curtains were drawn but they were light and sheer and easy to imagine what was just on the other side. Friday, July 11 New York is pulsing pulsing pulsing summer and I am glad to be back even just, to do little with it. Dinner at Lure Fishbar which is lovely and a clarity summit on the terrace which is less rotten in its final days, smog over the railing and the lights are blinking on and off in dusk haze across the river and then, everyone leaves. I leave too. Bring drinks in plastic bottles to the bar. Starting my days earlier and ending them later. There will be other things. I could handwrite it next time. I could use lugger.com or the nice neighbor from May or the generosity from others that I worry I do not return or deserve to move the couch. So, nothing ever happens. Stay up until seven in the morning and then it's taking down the fir wreaths because those are becoming a fire hazard too. Taking down the buoy and the copper pot because those are coming with me. The terrace has become all clogged with cigarettes and I notice it only now, plastic tarnished wood and the cracks are all stuffed with tar and rainwater and dead branches. So, I could do yard work I suppose. Or, I could just leave. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, July 15 From 8pm - 12pm at The Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research — a one night only reading of an AI generated play trained on all Matthew Gasda’s plays. Error 404: Play Not Found. Tickets are free but donations are encouraged. - “This will be done with ample drinking and unseriousness--but the experiment may also be interesting on a philosophical level.”

November 05, 2025 · Original source

A good nights sleep Monday, October 27 I opened the window to let in the eerie and whistling wind after the reading last night and then I stayed up late, fallen leaves and pollen drifting past my headboard. Called Celia to talk about the same things all over again. Called Celia to request that she confirm my fears and delusions and certainties for the million billionth time. I’m getting a really creepy feeling, Celia said. Like a horror movie, Celia said. In my earliest memories, I recall walking around with this very deep self-assuredness. I would wake up everyday feeling so certain and blessed for the absolute pureness of my heart. So when he said he understood me as perfect, it was like oh someone finally understands me the way that I understand myself, Celia said It is important to always have pure intentions, I told Celia. I like when people share my aesthetic sensibilities and are unfazed about the things I worry hedge towards evil, I told Celia I’m starting to feel so creeped out, Celia told me. Tuesday, October 28 Nothing was so creepy. I was not scared of anything anymore. I could still hear the wind through my open window and in the daylight it was nice. The nicest, really. The nicest thing in the world. I slept through the afternoon half aware of this nice and floating wind and then I donned a black skirt, black top, black Ganni boots and I drifted through orange-hour Washington Square Park and a light fall rain towards the lobby of The Marlton Hotel. Where there was a fire and Celia perched by it, waiting for me. Nothing ever happens. I used to be so arrogant, I told Celia, at The Marlton. Arrogance is a good sort of thing to hold onto, sometimes. Celia told me. Celia said something about our friends being cancelled online, something about moral hierarchies, she was done feeling sorry for herself and love thy god with all thy heart and all thy might and acedia is the only truly mortal sin. The Marlton Hotel and God and Self Indulgence. French fries with garlic aioli and dirty martinis and tuna tartar and writers workshop without too much writing. I was sitting there kicking my feet around and feeling like I might die if I couldn’t break-the-pattern-today-so-the-loop-does-not-repeat-tomorrow. Do you remember what life used to feel like? Do you wish to live forever? Do you wish to never suffer? Do you wish to never suffer, forever? I’m sorry to be cryptic about it. Wednesday, October 29 In my fever dream, I was back on the Amtrak heading towards Florida, Massachusetts and everyone around me was screaming. We were traveling to record something regarding Esoteric Health. It was still October, and I knew the omens we were seeking to be somewhat evil. Everyone was furious at me, and this only bothered me because I did not know why. Woke up in New York City yelling, somewhere between a memory and a fugue state. A recurring dream I used to have where I was driving with my parents over the George Washington Bridge in a winter storm and an old woman was lurching at the vehicle, tugging at the door handles, talking about how it was almost too late. A train ride last winter where everyone was screaming at me because my ex-boyfriend was being abrasive and I was kind of in on the bit. A small faux-thatched-roof apartment in Greenwich Village where no one is angry because no one is here. I paid my dues in apologies and reparations in October, and now God has rewarded me with a real life fever and unpleasant news. A lot of things I loved became shrouded in delusion and vicious self-involvement. A lot of clarity and purity of heart became hard to access because my morning was shrouded in a fever. Kind of wanting to scream. Kind of wanting to take my Brown Prada Boots and Black Fry Boots and Grandmas Suede Ballet Flats to the cobbler. My Blue Pearl Necklace to the jeweler. My Sue Wang Dress and Red Vintage Slip to the tailor. Kind of have been like a bull in a china shop with all my beautiful things, and now there is so much to fix. Kind of feeling indignant. I should really focus on believing in something. I believe in hotel lobbies, superficially. I believe in other things, too, but I am trying to have a bit more discretion about it. Thursday, October 30 Here is what has happened: I am sitting at The Marlton hotel now where everything is cast in a kind of olive glow and the fire place is roaring and I ordered a cheese board with camembert, comté, manchego, six grapes, two halfs figs, spoon of truffle honey and spoon of jam by myself. Ordered chamomile tea and sat with Rebecca and Dory in the sunroom with my fever, earlier. Now, I am sitting by the fire with my fever by myself. I am not ready to go home. I am not really ready to think or write about the sort of things that have happened. A small beautiful blond child and her brother a bit older just walked in both wearing sweet striped shirts. Their father just finished the marathon. Their mother is all smiles, pulling apples from her canvas bag and polishing them on the hotel napkins before placing the fruit in the beautiful children’s outstretched hand. I am green with envy. I am so overjoyed to be looking in on their Beautiful Life. An insufferable duo on a first date next to me is talking about how much they hate parades and how their work is industry agnostic. Their flirting is so nauseating. Bad voice physiognomy. They are flirting with each other in the most insufferable and sexless way and you can tell, so clearly, that they met on The Internet. I am starting to consider forgoing The Internet. There is a soulless kind of song and dance these people are doing. He is listing out his favorite types of Pasta Shapes and numbering his rankings on his stubby fingers. She is talking about food poisoning. Neither of them are religious. I am trying to stomach my distaste. If you have ugly thoughts they will seep through your skin and stomach and long black sleeves of your long black Brandy Melville dress and they will seep up through your mind and out of your pours and intermingle with the rancid scent of your fever that will become a deeper sort of illness and start to rot and fester in you forever. Your bitter and ugly thoughts will start to turn your face all ugly and ruined. I am trying to wish them grace and good will. I am trying to sip my tea and choke down fruit truffle honey and crackers. Twist my hair into two very tight braids. I want to find myself a little less repulsed. I want to look at these strangers’ pale forms and imagine them replaced by orbs of light. I want to look inside their rich inner worlds. I want to look into strangers’ eyes and not be afraid of staring or back holes. I want to wish them well. I want to hope they find a beautiful life. I want to hope they buy a beautiful life. Friday, October 31 Here is what has happened. Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage. Once; I lived in a glass apartment in the sky. I am not sure how things can oscillate in extremes, to that degree, with that level of hot and cold and up and down and everything cruel, like it became. I used to lie on the floor to feel close to things. Lie on the floor and dream about it. The past has been orbiting in ways that make me queasy along with the illness in the air, today and yesterday, since the eve of Halloween, really. At the Halloween Party in Chinatown I wore a black hat and milled about amongst red flowers, plum tart, candles and courtyards. Went bolting up the stairs to catch a car. Went walking under the Washington Square Park archway where the air was very crisp and I was very feverish. The park was overwhelming me with street performers and noise and light and stimulation. And then in the shadows and the grass and tucked away beyond the benches there are figures in sweatshirts and denim and long sweeping hair and interlaced hands and fallen leaves and everything sweet all around the edges. I was sitting at the edge of the park in June with my fingers interlaced and the beating sun fading into dusk and the summer stretching kind of hazy and breathless ahead. It is strange to try to remember anything. Strange all the stories I am hearing in the wind and the autumn and the fever dreams and another passing season. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, November 5 From 7pm at Night Club 101 — 99 Minutes or Less returns with Maison du Bonheur (2017, 62 minutes). 99 Minutes or Less is a new free film screening showing films that are (you guessed it) 99 minutes or less. This evening’s screening is guest programmed by Elissa Suh of Movie Pudding. After party to follow with sounds by Dj Kyle and Paradise by Replica

Inline links: Night Club 101, 99 Minutes or Less, Maison du Bonheur, Elissa Suh, Movie Pudding, Dj Kyle, Paradise by Replica

Winter (03)

November 19, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, November 11 The first winter when I started to understand how things work here, I was crazy with momentum. Crazy like I was floating in air or maybe even made of it. It all started because it was too cold to walk slowly outside, and once we started picking up the pace - a quick clip in the night and the snow and it was a particularly windy winter - then everything else started to spiral a bit out of control. I wore velvet dresses to magazine offices for Christmas parties that winter and I was generally very uninhibited. I floated very warm and drunk off hot wine through a basement in Chinatown full of books and Arabian rugs for many nights in a row. In one night alone, I lost my voice and my phone and my sense of time passing all along. Sairose helped me wash up in the back of some night club, in a purple-lit party designed to simulate the void, at home and in love and in Los Angeles for a respite from the cold and all the can’t-stop-motion that came with it. Anyways, I slept on a floor under white arched ceilings pressed against a radiator for a few months after that. And I was certain I was not ready to be old yet and I’m still not, really, but there were other things too. 8am (present) - The first real day of winter, and so everything freezes over and then quiets in the soft start of snow outside. It’s fish and soup season, an old man at Caffe Reggio is saying. It reminds me of The Godfather (1972) in here, the old man is laughing. Stained glass lamps and the replicas of the Carvaggio paintings and white tiled ceilings and, since I gave up vice the goal has become to be a bit more quiet and clean about everything. Amelia wears Dries Van Noten jeans and a Calvin Klein black sweater and prada boots to meet me in the morning snow and read the things I wrote on paper. In the mornings, this time of year, it is good to brew things like bone broth, hot apple cider from the amish market, sardines in tomato sauce, your throat in black seed oil, your face in red light, and your thoughts in memories that resurface and ideas that reconstruct away from the architectures of unhappiness. Your aphorisms don’t make a ton of sense, Amelia tells me. I’m not writing aphorisms, I’m writing optimizations, I tell Amelia. At the bar last night, we ordered Fernets and diet coke and asked our guests if they considered themselves well adjusted and if they had tips to share pertaining to Esoteric Health. Do you know about Ray Peat, our guests asked. Do you know about royal jelly and methalyn blue and red light chicken lamps? Do you know about making good decisions for the benefit of yourself and the people around you? Kind of dizzy from two fernets on an empty stomach, Celia made a joke about her life and how it overlapped with mine. Don’t ever make any comparison to your life as it pertains to mine, I snapped. The bar was loud and so no one heard the vitriol but her. Is this what you want more than anything in the world?, Celia asked. To be able to say and do whatever you want without consequence? Howling wind outside, and we’ve been working on temperance. I wanted a lot of things, but I mostly wanted that. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, November 19 From 7:00 - 8:30pm at Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research — Cabin Pressure opened yesterday, and there’s another performance tonight! A new play by Adi Eshman, directed by Jennesy Herrera. - “Set in a cabin at a ski resort, What begins as a light-hearted getaway spirals into a cocaine-and-beer-fueled disaster, with the groom’s sober brother-in-law as the unwilling witness to the chaos.” | tickets here (additional performances Nov 20, 21, 22)

Inline links: Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research, Adi Eshman, Jennesy Herrera, here

December 22, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, December 15 Woke up to snow feeling self possessed, self determined, and ill, and so I’ll hold onto this for a while, I think. Everyone keeps on telling me what I should do next, to which I say: o.k. Everything is kind of medium levels of certain, these days. Lying on the floor last night at the after party and I could tell that people’s visions were kind of starting to spin but I have needed, personally, to be more solid about it. I have needed, personally, to keep my own vision clear. You can look at her face and see she’s not a good writer, the boys were saying, last night, about someone, can’t remember who. Can we just talk about pretty girls who are good writers?, the boys were asking the group. I wasn’t fishing for compliments. Just kind of sitting there watching everything because my only real goal here is to be observational and not prescriptive. There’s not a role to be filled if you want God to love what you do, someone was saying. If you want the angels to sing you have to eat the script. Angels weren’t really on the mind as I drifted home, more consumed with things like self improvement and hand selecting a new addiction and a caution to the wind sort of impulse. Potions washed up at my doorstep this morning. Sparkling ICEE water and Advil and fever chills which come as blessings when one reads them as signs. Anyways, magical blue hour snowy dusk over Washington Square Park on the way uptown tonight, and since everything changed this summer or really three days ago in a way that is true, I have started to imagine something else. The Christmas party was in an apartment around the corner from Saint Vincent Ferrer Roman Catholic Church off Lexington Ave, last night. The apartment was open-concept with big windows and a pine tree and roaring fire, poached salmon, chocolate chip cookies and a beautiful bed on which everyone lay their beautiful coats. I wanted to stay there forever, as I always do in places that I like. I wore the Cinq-a-Sept holiday dress and the big wool coat I’ve been donning for weeks now, and I wore pearls, too, which is something new. Everything was slippery and bright and better and kind of like a dream, but I don’t want to get complacent. When I moved to New York, I lived in Yorkville where I could not sleep and where the streets were too muted and it made me uneasy. In the Lower East Side, in an apartment I hated, I was given a whole new life, and there, nothing was muted and everything was windy and cold. The wind made me kind of crazy, as wind tends to do. I was airlifted out of that apartment, ultimately, which I suppose is what I’ve kind of been praying for, here, in a space that is my own and good except for; the bed faces a fluorescent hallway and there is no room for a couch or even really a trash can. I’m seeking clarity for kind of selfish but partly religious reasons. And I’m sick of writing about the things I own or once did. On the end of the year; it is kind of pointless to say anything at all when things were fast then slow then impossible to recall, and all of this is just to say that I hope I’ve been sincere. Almost midnight, and so I go to Caffe Reggio, where things are small and precise and decked in holiday cheer, cozier even than the hotel lobby. Resolutions are: everything beautiful. And more stories that flow like water, obviously. The night is crisp and cool and I care to be extremely alert. Tuesday, December 16 Celia left the scene because she was good at noticing when things became embarrassing, and I resonated with the principle but still could not help but to hover. Nothing was embarrassing, anymore, Matthew reminded me, because everything was dead in the water and then it wasn’t and then it was and now, he suspected a new wave. Last year at this time I had to beg girls to come to parties, Matthew sighed. He gestured around the very crowded and warm bar and towards the people standing and sitting in circles and filtering in and out and the elderly Italian birthday party in the backroom. This is nothing like last year, he insisted. In the Financial District, everything was FAKE. Fake little streets and old-timey bars and I only realized the facade of it all because I walked by a Christmas Tree and the sign at its edges sent the whole charade tumbling down. EVEN THE CHRISTMAS TREE IS FAKE, the sign said. In the freezing cold, the most freezing day of the year so far, Celia and I got burgers at a small and new seafood spot. Celia wore three pops of red (bag, tights, gloves), and I wore all black. After the reading, where the stories were good and where more and more people kept materializing as if out of dust by the door, I bought three books and then sat on what seemed to be a bike rack in the back of a van driving towards the Lower East Side. Ducked my head so it wouldn’t slam into the van ceiling on every bump. The views became Real again, driving out of toy-house-town simulation FiDi, and then the bridges were glowing and the streets were full of snow and I was writing on my phone, kind of just humming to myself and mostly just saying the same things in my head over and over and over again; everything clear and everything sweet. Cold and windy winter where the elements make me kind of lose my mind. Sober minded mania. I am drawn to these kinds of things. The thing about this winter is that everyone has been going crazy. Me first, but then I learned how to put a stop to it. Sophia gave me a white rose at the Marlton Hotel in the morning, and then I found it kind of crumpled in the recesses of my bag. Petals floating everywhere and we’d moved to a different bar by then, somewhere kind of velvety and sleek and my friends and I were the only people there. Matthew was talking about people who fabricate enemies out of neutral acquaintances who just didn’t want to be their friends. A sad sort of thing, but you can’t feel too bad about someone who decides to turn evil. Dimes Square was a two year operation to get [redacted] laid, Matthew was saying. The experiment is now over. The social experiment is now over, and now you can all go home. Wednesday, December 17 I have decided to take the rest of the winter floating and soaring. Orange leaves turning brown outside the open window. Little gold watch and swan and cross and green Dartmouth Tercentenary tile and white Lake Neuchatel winter landscape postcard propped against the windowsill. So, if clarity is the thing that is most important above all, then you know what has to give. I will play “Garden Botanum” and “Come Undone” and “When Autumn Leaves” and everything by Dougie Mcclean and watch as things become crisper and more into focus. It’s important to only make a promise once and then keep it. It’s important to not be so vague about all of it going forward. Very precise and very discerning. That can be what a winter is like. I watch the light and shadows shift and shudder off my walls and bad-feng-shua hallway for some hours. I walk to the gym and I feel normal. Water and hyperpop music and images of faces sheathed in light or maybe armor all around. The television is falling off its hinges at the gym, and so the mantras on the walls are all skewed. COMMIT TO SOMETHING. REACT TO NOTHING. I’ve been culling mantras from the internet. I’ve been making lists of all my friends and everything kind I have to say about them. I’ve been making lists of all the ways I’ve maybe wronged others but have never been wronged myself. Sitting in a basement that’s illuminated blue watching films last night. Sitting in a conversation pit all day and all night for most moments of this week. Sitting under holly and cranberry and splintering wood and dried wasps nests and flowers and everything sparkling and snowy outside, soon, next week. There’s a few more dinners before that. The last days of gluttony but everyone seems over it. Sitting around dimly lit tables and everyone keeps talking about the ways we used to be. We used to wake up with crumbling Prada purses at the foot of our beds, overflowing with candy and mascara and all the things we didn’t remember stealing the night before. We used to be at the gym before dawn. I used to get along with people who viewed things as linear. I’ve always known the happiest days of my life to be exactly what they are, even as they are happening. Slipping away. There are other things, too. What do you think your new addiction will be?, Celia asks me. Something unrelated to consumption, I tell Celia. Something kind of manic and empty?, Celia asks me. It’s not so bad to think about what you want in strictly material terms, I tell Celia Thursday, December 18 THINGS I PROCURED THIS YEAR IN STRICTLY MATERIAL TERMS Silk long sleeve Ganni top

Inline links: Silk long sleeve Ganni top

January 14, 2026 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, January 5 Start the year at Cassandra’s apartment, and then a few days pass kind of breathless and stranded in this way. Her bedroom looks over St Vincent’s Ferrer, and it is light filled and sweet. Cards and paper star cut outs hung on red ribbon stream down the edges of the cream walls. A seashell necklace, Mary Magdalene portrait, books of Adorno and Mary Gaitskill. The bible. When my friends leave for the day, I do not. Rush of opening doors and boots on wood and winter air, and then they are gone. Cassandra’s apartment is very clean. It strikes me, somewhat uneasily, that everything I touch appears slightly less precise when I’m the one returning it to its proper place. Face oil left off kilter and kind of dripping. A little bit bad at treading gently in this place where I am a guest and everything is delicate and gorgeous. Wearing my friend’s Adidas pajamas and drinking water and taking Advil in thick blue translucent pill form. Writing down the things I no longer care to reflect on. A lot can happen in a year, I tell Cassandra, but then again, a lot can happen in one day or one hour or one minute, even, so best to be kind of chill about it. We go to Heidelberg for herring and brown bread and hot raspberries in ice cream and apple strudel at night. We go to CVS for baby food and tooth brushes and nicotine gum. The evenings uptown are more sparkling and quiet. Back at the apartment, and I can’t stop talking about all the things I want to do or places I want to move. California, Switzerland, El Salvador. Uptown, to a four bedroom apartment with my four best friends. Lying on Cassandra’s couch wearing a blue sweater under a gray blanket and drinking flower power kombucha this morning. Cassandra gets ready for work and offers general hospitality. Eat any fruits and vegetables you want, Cassandra tells me. She lists them like a game. Ad libs. She was teaching me how to type cast a person as “Lego” or “Dust Bowl” or “Victorian Orphan,” last night. Blueberries, shallots, pickles, seeded mustard from the Amish farm stand. I tell Cassandra that she’ll come home to find I have devoured all of her arugula with my bare hands. Later, I wear Cassandra’s blue sweater and black ballet flats and take my own belongings clutched in my arms in a cab downtown. Am I crazy, or did you take my black ballet flats, Cassandra texts, that evening. We discuss an exchange. Tomorrow’s plans. My polyester black gown bartered for Cassandra’s blue sweater and black ballet flats. We’ll meet at mass, lunch, The Frick, The Met, the play, the party. The light is blue gray in my apartment, and all the windows steam over when the hot water is on. All the windows steam over because my apartment is very small, and because the bathroom has no doors. A New Year should feel psychedelic, not sluggish, one of my friends said, a few days back. Psychedelic??? I said. What about crisp and clear???? After my dream where there is No Air Left, I come to consciousness with concerns about redemption. Something about bad habits and something omnipresent left unsaid. Sun and light and real sort of detox incoming and yes this has all happened or is happening or needs to happen soon. Sirens outside the foggy window. Gentle winter sunrise. Watching Darling (1965) on my computer as it gets light outside. The Schlesinger film where Julie Christie whirls about all thrilled to find it’s not too late, even though, of course, it is. Back on my phone, I’m checking prediction markets and trackers and fortune tellers and all the things I’m trying to avoid for religious and also paranoid reasons. My fears are all confirmed. Reading the stars. That voice in your head telling you everything will work out fine is wrong, they say. Sound of shattering glass crystallizing outside my open window this morning. I can sense, therefore, more than see, bright morning light starting to seep through. Thank God. It was a few days of gluttony last week. Last days of bohemia, but it was different from the bohemia of before. Different from the times that we were all manic from the wind and cold and early January where everything or nothing happens all at once. Everything used to be reeling. I miss Butterfly Club. Ex-best friends are forever. I’ve been talking about being ascetic for reasons of necessity, and also because simulated intensity can only do so much when it comes to keeping a life pure. Morning, now, and I don’t remember my dreams but I jolted awake ready to chase the same thoughts in circles. Washington Square Park is bright and feeling like spring today, because the snow is melting and the trees and lights are coming down. Pine piles looking a little lonely under the park archway. Something a bit melancholy about it. Dead and gone. Nothing to overthink. Cassandra comes downtown for mass and black ballet flat retrieval, and then she goes uptown to clean her apartment and do good things so she can be a good person. Your apartment is already so clean, I want to tell Cassandra. Cassandra is telling me about the only girl in the world who are funny. I went to tell Cassandra about someone who said me and one other girl and one specific nun are only girls who are funny, but the conversation moves on before I can assert my piece. And I think I’m mostly funny when I’m being mimetic, anyway. Better at knowing funny than at being funny myself. Cassandra is telling me about childlike wonder. Washed my face with La Rouche Possay cleanser and Japanese milk toner and did Big 6 Lymphatic drainage which is supposed to do things like give you the whites of your eyes back and also cleanse your insides through and through, this morning. Procured a Celsius and cool minty zyn from the fridge. Procured green juice and cliff bar and sat in Prada boots, for a while, on the edge of my bed. I do feel confident things will work out in the end, Cassandra texts me. Only if no spiritual blockage with vice or isolation, I text her in response. What if we had seven more hours of daylight, my friend said tonight, but I like it when it is four pm and I’ve completed my day of obligations and the fading daylight matches a sense of completion. I wore a tan skirt with no tights because they all keep running and a black long sleeve tee and sneakers to do venue tours and other obligations. I thought you were coming from the gym when I saw you wearing shorts, my friend said, after I ran into him on the street. I’m not wearing shorts, but I am wearing sneakers because I keep on procuring mysterious injuries, I said in response. It was a strange December and then a good January, incoming. Good, because it is quiet. Good, because I think I sense things picking up. Can I see a menu, I asked the bartender, at a dive bar, later that night. There is no menu, because this is a dive bar, the bartender told me. Can I get something warm, I asked. The bartender fired up the kettle. Imagine seeking out attention to get only the negative aspects of fame like stalkers and rage, my friends were saying, at the dive bar. Imagine selling out your friends to cloy for low hanging fruit. Imagine turning twenty-six. Imagine playing pool. Imagine moving to Los Angeles, California, or San Salvador, El Salvador, or Geneva, or even Austin I would move anywhere, I was saying to my friends. I would move across the country or even the world and become very sweet or even very bored. My friends were talking about people for whom spectacle is just real life. You assume that everyone is excited to go back to real life, and then you realize that they have no real life. So these are the people that you’re supposed to avoid. And then after that, everyone was talking about religion again. Which is sort of crystallizing to be the topic these days, or even this year. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, January 14 A few good downtown art openings tonight (6pm - 9pm) — At 56 Henry; works by Yifan Jiang and Sareh Imani. At Entrance; Seth Cameron’s first New York exhibition in six years. At Post Times; Elberto Muller solo show.

Inline links: 56 Henry, Yifan Jiang, Sareh Imani, Entrance;, Seth Cameron’s, Post Times, Elberto Muller

February 15, 2026 · Original source

Feeling like I am kind of on a leash Sunday, February 8 Now, I am in my room and I am feeling ok. I am lying under my big white comforter in a green cashmere sweater, black Amazon tights, tennis skirt, nothing is messy anymore. After today’s reading group, where the discussion was about Virtue and Vice, Cassandra and Olivia and some others and I walked over to Washington Square Diner. I used to frequent Washington Square Diner at night, but in the day everything was brighter and I liked it better this way. I ordered black coffee and lemon tea and was happy with this choice, as no one seemed particularly pleased with the sandwiches that they kept on trotting out. Dry chicken, huge bread. I’m a snob, I’m a snob, Olivia kept saying. Sorry, she was saying. Sorry but I just feel really fucking bored. I added splenda to my water kind of indignantly, and stirred it around feeling strange. Olivia was talking about how it’s fine to eat anything if you’re on a desert island. It’s fine to eat bacon if the desert island is the prison-of-your mind and it’s the-only-food-you-like. Cassandra was talking about how none of her friends were getting married anytime soon, and so perhaps she’d have to conjure up a wedding of her own. Yeah, sorry, I was saying. Why sorry? Cassandra asked. There was way too much food on the table, and I think that this was the part that was throwing off everybody’s vibe. There was a new Cool Sips soda shop where Pepsi is mixed with heavy cream in town, and so after lunch, there was talk of maybe we go. Maybe we go drink heavy cream and diet Pepsi. Maybe we go weightlifting. Maybe we buy cottage cheese which is calories-per-pound-per-protein-per - I never really understood these things - better than chicken. Maybe we all go home. Whilst talking about protein in ground beef and also cottage cheese and also high cholesterol versus heavy metals, Olivia reminded us that the number one health factor is joy. At home, I am sitting on the edge of my bed in a black skirt and Lafayette striped cream sweater and brown snow and salt stained Prada boots. Thinking about self fulfilling prophecies. I will not drink and I will not look particularly pretty and I will not be socially offputting and strange. I don’t need to share every word of my google doc diaries. Twenty-five-thousand words written this week in google doc diaries because I just can’t cut myself off. Real-life-diaries. Real-life-compulsions. Fake-life-blog, maybe. In the afternoon, I walk over to a kind of industrial style Japanese coffee shop to meet Lily for tea. I am wearing a thin spring coat, no gloves, and the wind chill is negative-fifteen. My face is sort of swollen as a product of bad habits, but I am hoping to blame expedited deterioration on wind burn. I run into my priest walking quickly, somewhere around West 4th. Are you crying, my priest shouts in my direction. Just cold, I say in response. I walk for twelve more minutes, and when I reach the Japanese Coffee shop, my hands are burning and there are tears streaming down my face. A product of the cold, no-emotion, I tell Lily. The coffee shop is lined with narrow benches, and Lily lets me occupy the one-free-seat because it is clear that I am feeling fragile. She hovers above me holding silver trays, pistachio milk, black coffee, chocolate chip cookies. I feel like maybe I shouldn’t move to Los Angeles, she sighs, when I finish telling her my week of whirling hotel stories. I feel like in Los Angeles, everyone pretends that they don’t care about nice things. I drink my coffee in a few big sips, and I am feeling better at talking than listening. Did you write anything down about the people my party last week, Lily asks me. I nod, and pull up my notes. Most of my friends call girls ‘girls’ I say, The people at the party called ‘girls’ ‘women.‘ Lily smiles. It’s a posture just the same. At night, at the Superbowl party, in an apartment where the walls were recently washed a sort of deep-cloud blue, and the drinks are made with vodka and coconut water and grapefruit juice and on the side, some champagne, I arrive late. I’ve been making the drinks kind of strong, which I know you like, Savannah says. The advertisements this year are all made by Artificial Intelligence. The only advertisement not visibly made by Artificial Intelligence in an anti-hate ad wherein an antisemitic attack is covered up by a blue square, and two students walk off screen in redeemed solidarity. When this advertisement begins to play, Matt suggests that we all shut up. Everyone watch the ad, he says. The advertisement finishes, and then all the boys’ phones begin to buzz. Did you just see the ad, all the boys’ friends are asking the boys. They are all really into things like hot-ticket-cultural-discourse. What did you do last night? Matt asks me, later after everyone is already all a little drunk, and I am curled up on the couch, eating pistachios, staring at the screen. I hung out with my new friends, I tell Matt. I am feeling triumphant, and a little bit sad. Who are your new friends? Matt asks. Very nice and very promising people, I tell Matt. Don’t tell anyone that I’m making new friends, I tell Matt. I won’t, Matt responds. I won’t, because it doesn’t sound like you are. Later, trying to leave, and everyone is stuck. I think your taxi is blocking mine, Matt texts. I think a cop car is blocking me. Everyone is trying to honk louder than the car before. I was playing tetris in the snow and now we’re playing tetris at the wheel. Tetris on Houston street. My taxi makes a fake-out breakaway left and I speed away. Writing everything down in my apartment, back home. My moods are very predictable. I write about systems. I’m telling my computer that it’s never really about me. Watch how the patterns repeat. Could a human girl be so good at cycles? I’m telling my computer that I’m the best human girl at cycles. I’m the best at downward spirals. I’m the best at it’s happening over and over and over again. I’m not an evil genius. Writing like I’m top-of-class (fifth grade). Writing like I’m queen of staying up late. Window is closed tonight because outside it is just too cold. Drinking Perrier not Evian because I have ambitions of aesthetic cohesion. Dream logic. Magic logic. I am too tired to miss anything, and I am too caught up in self-surveillance to be really running on anything other than vibes. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Sunday, February 15 From 8pm at Night Club 101 — Punisher returns with a post Valentine’s Day debrief. Readings by Megsuperstarprincess, Riley Mac, Nicole Sellew, Francesca D’Alessandro, Dove Ginsburg, and Ava Doorley. Party to follow with The Heaven Forever. Mélange á seven. | RSVP here.

Inline links: Night Club 101, Punisher, The Heaven Forever, here

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!1h49!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fd95f9aef-d112-4dd9-a0fb-1610ba693067_1536x2048.jpeg, The Aleph, chloegpingeon@gmail.com, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!m6hb!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F5452bedc-f504-4cc0-a6f3-349820bdb9a3_1156x1138.png, David Rimanelli, here

February 25, 2026 · Original source

Tuesday Life-in-a-lab In my dream, the house was a lab. I woke up to light not just streaming no, but flooding, absolutely pouring through the long glass windows in front of me. I knew that once the light cleared, I would be staring into the heart of this lab. I knew it was a problem that I was anticipating waking up in a lab, because I knew that I should have been anticipating a morning waking up at home. Instead, I was finding myself totally nonplused about waking up in a lab. The important thing, I knew, as I woke up with a sense of increasing urgency, was to conjure up an image of a home, not a lab. You have been in a lab for so long that you have forgotten about home, a very confident voice inside my head was saying. A picture of my childhood bedroom appeared in a few frames. Different versions. Big white bed and blue wooden floors and presently frosty fields behind the house. Little twin bed yellow walls, carpeted floors, and hot summer cornfields outside. I couldn’t get it straight. If I was in a lab, then I needed to remember. You need to remember a place that actually exists, the lab-attendants were saying in my dream. Saying in my head. Glass apartment in the sky. Room at The Marlton Hotel. I’ve been eating vegetables and collecting things like dried flowers and books on Esoteric Health and buying wash-and-fold laundry service and being swept away to places like nice restaurants with no menus and nice-apartments-with-no-owners. I woke up in Connecticut. Can’t wake up in a lab if you never go to sleep. In the morning, I woke up at close to noon. I shared photos on The Internet of a very aesthetically-cohesive and un-lab-like home. I went to the bathroom to wash my face and collect myself as best I could. The house was beautiful, and I was unsure as to why I was watching things unfold from as if I was somewhere else. I made lists of things that were special, being places like this most of all. I made lists of things that compose self respect, and then I made lists of things that compose a life that is bright and white and full of light. The country is quiet and sometimes difficult for me, though I sleep through the night now and this changes everything. Downstairs, the dogs and Celia and the other were sitting under high lofted ceilings. There was a magical and silvery presence that mediation gives to a person. I asked about coffee and they told me there was coffee in the pot and I could heat it up in a silver bowl on the stove. The stove was green and handmade and you turned it on by flicking little metal burner switches. The bowl was nice and very small. I poured the coffee in the bowl and I waited for everything to begin to boil. I added vital proteins collagen and also oat milk creamer and also lots of white sugar because the esoteric health advice of the age says this is fine. There were homemade mini muffins from The Smith Bakery down the street on the counter (blueberry, morning harvest, strawberry corn, and chocolate chip) and so I cut each muffin in half, and then I had one-half-of-each. Two mini muffins total. I put two of the halves in the toaster, and I had two of the halves cold. Everyone started telling me about gnosticism and buddhism and catholicism. They recommended to me a friend who writes about God and married into a famous band. They recommended I come to meditate in places like New York, too. You look ready, Celia said, as I packed up my north face back-pack and changed out of split-sweatpants and banaa-republic-black-top. I’m not, I snapped, in response. Do you actually want to meditate more, Celia asked. I don’t say I want to do things I don’t actually want to do, I replied. I could not stop with all this harshness. Wednesday Grand Central Station Back in New York City and I am totally covered in dog hair. Shoes untied in Grand Central Station but there is nowhere for me to stop and tie them without risking some sort of stampede or at least massive inconvenience and so onward we go. A man just walked towards me rapidly and I flinched and then felt kind of bad. Then, he shouted; young lady can I ask you a question and so now I do not feel bad. My instincts were correct, and now I do not feel bad at all. Ok, fine, whatever. I used to love arriving back in New York and hearing all the music and the lights and I would twirl through this place nonpulsed. Then, I would twirl home. I used to get drunk-before-christmas at the midtown Cipriani and then giggle when people called my ex-boyfriend and I bad-people-for-cutting on the trains toward Albany, but I’m not allowed to move like that anymore. I used to sink into sixty-dollar taxi-cabs because I found the subway over-stimulating. My Prada purse used to be lined with shiny leather, but I got fidgety somewhere tropical and I ripped it all off so now we’re working with something more flattened and matte. Teenage girls used to fling themselves at the side of the train platforms, and conductors used to lose their whole crew in Boston and train heists used to happen. I used to consider everything to be pretty taken-care-of. I think I never used to notice when sometimes, problems would arise. On the train ride back to New York, tonight, the tracks were icy and slick and it was already kind of blue hour dusk. When I said goodbye, I told Celia I love you I love you I love you a million times over because I felt slightly neurotic about a weekend full of being slightly late and slightly harsh. I am smart enough to know that the only thing complaining makes you better at is complaining, so I decided to stop. In Grand Central Station, they are playing live music, and I watch a man propose, though no one else around the soon-to-be newlyweds reacted. No photos or energy. Sad. I am wearing beat up Ganni knee high boots and Brandy Melville long sleeved dress, and Zara blazer that I stole from Paul’s Baby Grande back when I was in the practice of going lots of places and stealing lots of things. I miss my Max Mara coat that I left at “tech week” and I miss “drinking” and I am suddenly desperate to be out the door. I imagine that when the subway doors fly open and I burst out free and all-in-one piece, I will see the Washington Square Park arch, and it will be glowing silver in mid-winter light. I imagine that the city will feel warm with soon-to-be-spring-humidity. I imagine that since groundhog day has come and gone the tides will change soon, and I imagine I will relinquish my Groundhog Day (1993) fantasies of nothing-ever-happens at some point down the line, when it all becomes a bit too much to take. Tomorrow, I will be taking my shoes to the tailor and then the next day, I will have a totally fresh new crop of things to wear. I imagine that soon, I will have a fresh new crop of things to consider. Thursday Whore Dialectics Greenwich Village’s bitcoin bar sports a libertarian clientele and taxidermy and a podcast studio and beef-tallow-fries. Tonight, it sports a projector screen from my old apartment that looks sad and small propped on stage, and a big audience in metal chairs, and a birthday party in the front room, and plenty of opportunities to make myself feel useful as I tinker with film equipment and fire off texts regarding “promotional material.” I am sitting at Pubkey Bar drinking a diet coke while I wait for the screening of “Whore Dialects” to begin. When I ordered my diet coke at the bar, a strange man made a strange joke about NA beer, and I felt immediately irritated and restrained by my self imposed limits. I am listening to a group of young men discuss the career path of “Internet Pervert” as one of the only viable post-AI jobs. Monetize your self destruction, they are saying. Male prostitution. Buying plushies is to women as buying porn is to men. There’s a strange pseudo-intellectual glare to it all and I am enjoying listening in. They are talking about Brian Kaplan, but they keep on mispronouncing his name. They are talking about scientists, rationalists, and flexible proposals. When they talk about Internet Perverts, there are stars in their eyes, less because of the sex, it seems, and more because the internet perverts are able to get some money and get some attention. The male influencer. That seems to be what they are starry eyed about. They are thrilled to be in the same extended universe as someone who might be able to garner some vague attention. This is a bar that usually makes me feel kind of hazy. This is a bar where I used to make scenes. Enough reminiscing, because I am here to watch a film that is all about auto-documentarians, which is in sharp contrast to the maladjusted forms of auto-diary or auto-fiction. In the film, a beautiful girl is in the back of a car with the wind in her face and she is drinking an Erewhon smoothie and talking about how Hollywood is dead and the monasteries are empty and you can’t be a nun or get a phd because you question what truth is, and these institutions just won’t let you get at it. After that, the film cuts to a scene where the girl is in a white dress being play-drowned in the ocean by a right-wing provocateur. The film crew sent the provocateur to stay with the girl, and it was kind of the perfect setup, a voiceover explains. The provocateur describes how when he arrived, the girl was in a state of almost total abjection. Like how kids who are sexually assaulted don’t shower to make themselves totally disgusting and unappealing, he explains. I find the provocateur slightly less interesting as a character than both the girl, and the disgraced art-advisor (another prominent character in the film) but I like when he argues about politics and then reconciles on a personal level with those around him in places like California. I like the scenes about the professionally fraught yet personally friendly relationship between the art advisor and his not terribly successful clients, ie the clients are disappointed but still use the advisor’s pool for summer swims. The client still dreams of having an eighteen person studio because this means tremendous success, and because this is just how men dream. When the provocateur is described but not depicted as losing control, it is explained that the jig is kind of up, because it’s no triumph of power to reign over somebody who is not even in control of themselves. I only watch the film once and I am not taking notes, really, during the public screening at the Bitcoin Bar, but I like it because it is auto-documentary not auto-fiction or auto-diary and as such, it is very precise. The film says, for someone like me in the conditions like the ones I occupy, here is what life is like. This is more matter of fact and less indulgent than saying; here is what life is like for me. At a party last month that was also all about art whores, the filmmakers wrote a few lines about a few of my friends. The women present were on average quite a bit younger than the men and looked fresh. Perhaps because of their age, or perhaps because of the care they put into their bodies and minds, but the vibe among the women was optimistic and exuberant. I thought this was nice. Nice, too, to catch purity in unexpected places while staying totally true. Friday Upper West Side Later, I am uptown and I am thinking about how I can become more self-disciplined so I can become more interesting. I am watching Pierre Le Fou at Lillian’s apartment on the Upper West Side and all the girls are dressed like characters in the film. Lilian keeps leaning out the window with a long skinny cigarette and I am drinking a glass of Sancerre because I just can’t quit. In this film, a very small man is holding a gun to a very beautiful girl’s head while she cuts her hair. The beautiful girl has a brunette bob, and she is wearing a red dress. The film is full of primary colors and very bright paint. When a man is stabbed, he bleeds red paint. Before a man explodes himself in dynamite at the end of the film, he paints himself blue. I like the film because the colors of the gore are all bright and fake like paint, and the colors of the scenery are all pastel and muted and lovely like real life. Summer in The Riviera. Beautiful people living a simple and crime-filled life. I have not watched very many films this year because I’ve been busy writing thirty-thousand-words-about-myself-per-week. In the last film I watched, a Japanese cat was exploded by a grenade, and when gore and guts spilled everywhere, I flinched and clenched my eyes shut. Do you want to leave, my friend asked, and what I wanted was to be resilient, but what I said was I don’t really care. Now, a girl in the film is sitting on a boat with a man, and she is talking about how the two have only known each other for a few million seconds. She’s such a stupid girl, Lillian says. I would say something like that, I respond. One-million-billion-seconds and one-million-billion-words. I am feeling bubbly when I am not feeling sick or shy. I am feeling like it’s time to be more light about it. When I look to my left, I see beautiful stained glass lamps and a defense surveillance tech-branded throw blanket. When I look to my right, I see an open window and all my friends leaning too far outside smoking skinny vogues. On the Internet, people are talking about how things are only interesting if they are true. Determinative reasoning then says, one should make what is true more interesting. Everything just became crystal clear. By which I mean, everything is operating on material terms now. DIRECTORY The full event calendar is now going to live on The Aleph - an exciting new platform by Noah Kumin of The Mars Review of Books. The Aleph is a marketplace and membership club for the arts, with an emphasis on supporting in-person events, production, and funding for artists. Programming featured will be intentional and curated, and include more opportunities for early-access and invitation-only events. If you would like to submit an event for consideration, please email me at chloegpingeon@gmail.com. Apply to join The Aleph here I will still be featuring select events on the blog, along with more eclectic or personal recommendations, news, and guest features. To start: David Rimanelli is perhaps my favorite person to follow on Instagram, as well as one of my favorite critics. Tonight, from 6:30pm at Tibet House, he will be reading, along with Kiely Sweatt and Sean Fabi. Tickets here.

March 06, 2026 · Original source

Appendix: Things Brandy Melville depop boatneck long sleeve dress, Zalt electrolyte zyn, Davolls tee-shirt, Angelmoon, Imperfaite, Prada boots, Monroe suede penny loafers, Frye leather riding boot Places Thai Diner, Vince’s Cobbler, The Manhattan Club, The Marlton Hotel, Tartinery, Caffe Reggio, Dr. Clark, Swan Room Read GirlInsides, The Masque of the Read Death, Fatherland (Victoria Shorr, 2026) Watch Pi (1988), The Biggest Sabotage in History (weird documentary youtube), A Place in the Sun (1951) Listen Gregarian Chants (via Health Gossip), Tango In The Night (1987), Drasticism (2026).

Zyn7 mentions across 7 issues

Zyn is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 7 times across 7 issues between March 17, 2025 and February 15, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "lying on bitcoin beach, surrounded by red light and zyn and mastic gum of the gods"; "Cool Mint Zyns"; "cool mint zyns". It most often appears alongside Los Angeles, New York, KGB.

Article page: Zyn
Mention count: 7
Issue count: 7
First seen: March 17, 2025
Last seen: February 15, 2026

Outbound links

https://go.shopmy.us/p-45955250

Issue trail

Here, There, Everywhere March 17, 2025
generative and godly secrets May 27, 2025
Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? August 14, 2025
Early August August 21, 2025
How To Break Paralysis January 14, 2026
California-At-Home January 27, 2026
Yellow-all-around February 15, 2026

Los Angeles 6 shared issues
New York 6 shared issues
KGB 4 shared issues
Night Club 101 4 shared issues
Billy Pedlow 3 shared issues

Source context

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!4_QR!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F600419e6-7163-4b25-809e-9aeb40bb7501_1179x658.jpeg, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!v5mw!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F84a58846-8c13-47c2-82bf-a7773d53ae96_1179x653.jpeg, Love For Sale - Tony Bennett, Lady Gaga

March 17, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, March 9 I’ve been here, there, everywhere but there’s been no conviction to it. Yes, yes, take me to the opera now. I don’t pretend to think the things I don’t believe, but you rewire your brain away from nihilism, you spend a few years working on this task, really, and when all is said and done, resuscitation complete, you find in its place… an alarming passivity. That can’t be right. This week, I’ll be drawing new conclusions. Lying in bed and David is saying “I think giving up drinking is the solution and I think I’m ready to do that and, I might also take up eastern meditation.” “We're doing all this shit because we’re insincere swindling motherfuckers, we have no beliefs, our only beliefs are pleasure,” David is also saying. And I’m saying uh uh. And now David is saying, “put that in your substack, put in ‘i think i'm going to take up eastern meditation as well.” And now he shows me all these photos of his strange friends from the strange Decentralized Networking Platform stuff, or maybe these are just friends from parties or maybe, really, there is not much difference. But the friends are wearing big T-Shirts and flipping each other off, and David introduces me to the friends in the images like a cast of characters in a movie, or maybe like you introduce people in Real Life. Here is M. Here is C. and I say I know, I know, I know who these people are but no, I haven’t seen the photos yet, and so I let him scroll. You should also know: the sun returned today. Monday, March 10 In my Dialectics of NightLife piece that the new-ish magazine asked me to write, I am not sure how much of it all to include. "I don't include things like throwing things across the room and screaming," I told the girl at a party last week when she asked me how to be intimate online. "The throwing things and screaming is the most interesting part though," she said, which is what people always say when I share a disturbing detail from my life as an example of something I don't write about. I read something recently that has been making me reconsider my approach. Not to the nightlife piece. The approach to El Salvador, more. The approach in general, really. I am intrigued by things because they are strange. I find myself in a lot of situations as such. I don't want to cast judgments - this is bad or, this is good. But I think too, one can say yes, this part is good and this part is bad but I am not here because of good or bad, I am here because I was intrigued because this is strange. You are pretending that you just woke up and found yourself here one day, lying in the palm grove, lying on bitcoin beach, surrounded by red light and zyn and mastic gum of the gods. And maybe you were just kind of placed here. In another sense, you kind of sought this out. In another sense, you exercised a tremendous amount of agency and borderline being a stalker sometimes to then find yourself where you are now. Once I arrived, I was asked to stay, and then what was there left to say? Yes, ok I suppose I will then. This among other things is why I would be easily indoctrinated into a cult. I am not at present, in a cult. I've tried my luck with a few, but nothing quite has made the cut. Not the cut of Drawing Me In. The cut of Qualifying As A Cult. I'm going to a crypto conference tonight, David tells me and as if by instinct, as if like a child, residual panic at being left behind, at being left all alone in the first spring breeze, knees tucked up to my chest, watching the sunset on the terrace and being struck in a visceral way by how much time I continue to have - as if all of this would be so bad I pipe right up: "can I come??" And David says "are you interested in {technical stuff i don't understand} and I say no but I'm interested in crypto culturally, for the El Salvador piece. The guy giving the lecture is wearing a shirt that says something like "hey nerds" "what's up nerds" something like that, but I forgot to write it down. Sometimes, these conferences are fun because there are lots of characters and drinks and sometimes sparkly little powders though I don't like to really take these but it's fun when others are. This conference is a real conference capital C though. Or, a "meet up”, they say. Soho WeWork location and all. Sugar free red bull and gatorade and pizza and all. There is no fun to be had here. And so we make our way all through shiny Nolita instead. Tuesday, March 11 The things I overhear begin the process of reconsidering all over again. You confess that the knee jerk reaction is one of possession over things you do not even want. You confess that you do not want to tell that story even if this particular story is one that has always been yours. We go to Tiny Bar, and then the Odeon. Earlier, it was like they were doing a character study in the things you overheard. Wednesday, March 12 I went to St Dymphna tonight, but I didn't hear a single reading and I didn't watch Heat (1995) when I got home, even though David had it playing on the projector, even though he kept on playing scenes of significance over and over and over again. This is me and you, he kept saying, when some girl in some house with some glistening pool in Los Angeles calls her husband names like gambling addict and child the years keep passing by, and then the husband screeches off through Hollywood in a nice sleek car. It's not us, really, but this wouldn't be so bad. I want to party beautifully forever, David said a while ago. The key part being: beautifully. Maybe this is how people party in Los Angeles. This isn't really how people party in New York. And I should have gone to Poetry Project, to the after party for the Anne Imhoff show which I am guilty to admit I never saw in the first place and now it's too late, to the club, maybe. It's not that I worry what I missed, it is just that time passes faster when I am not here there everywhere, and I like it best when time slows down. In my dreams, my consciousness can take one second and turn it into one year. Here are the songs tonight. And the shoes are the shearling style cowboy boots my grandmother gave me from her closet last thanksgiving. Love For Sale - Tony Bennett, Lady Gaga

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!RaEX!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F7945ab16-c051-4062-8d64-a0fd574c3968_1106x420.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!rmSM!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fe8f3b744-fe77-4a40-b032-304d78f13ff1_428x548.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!zRlU!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F5106c642-5b7c-4f8f-a799-c60b10039a5d_488x486.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!QlxV!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fb9c5eb95-81d2-4503-852b-4bdc513730dd_698x434.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!0g1m!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F3da24e28-0d39-4802-abf2-53116dd83b00_308x392.png, Baby’s All Right, Palehound, The Ophelias, Grumpy, WeTakeManhattan

May 27, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, May 18 On the first day of My New Life, I walk to the film shop, pour old windowsill tea down the drain, come to consciousness in the Infrared Sauna at Spa88. In the Russian Spa Cafe, you drink carrot juice in a bikini because Rebecca taught you what Fiber is yesterday, and now you are sure to get your fill. There is lox and seaweed and brown bread. There is a Caesar salad later, at Fairfax in The West Village, and they don't actually harvest your personality at the door. I journal a lot, I told my friend. I journaled the whole train ride in my mind, she said. I journal in Google Docs, I said. I don't know why I decided to say it like that. Like manic transcription of thought until it becomes more vibe than writing at all is some sort of one-up over mental assessment and determination. I have not been trying to one-up at all. I've been trying to be so honest about it, and I guess the concern remains that the truth will all surface and the roots will turn topsy turvy and inside out and then you’ll see that untangled, it was all kind of just midwit and ugly. I wrote about nihilism and absurdism and Samuel Beckett, but the piece turned out so simpleton that it makes me kind of queasy to return to. I wrote about the magazine release party on the roof where I felt kind of wobbly in this halter top dress tied way too tight. Then we walked to Casetta and I had wine and fish floating in tin and oil and then I lay here for a while when I got home. I lay very very still and when I twitched then rose again, there were packages at the door, a taxi cab and a friend on foot and his airtrain en route heading towards the apartment. I was standing in socks and hovering in the building's communal mudroom when he got home. Things are nice. I was talking not too quietly about all of it in the Spa 88 Wall Street Russian Baths Hot Tub. The most liminal space in New York with smooth warm aqua water and yellow kind of burnt light and chipped paint no windows. Dorito bags with Hebrew packaging usually stacked in the restaurant, today abandoned half eaten on the table by me. I could tell the fat guys in speedos were lingering sweaty just to listen, but I was doing no sort of performance for them. On the train, the girl on the phone kept glancing around to make sure others were listening. I felt sad for her. At the Spa88, I said my story all matter of fact in the hot tub and my Aunt said well, you really have your hands full and the fat guys looked away kind of bashful, and it was only then that I realized they were listening. You can disassociate away the concept of public space, too. Spilled coffee and voice echoing in this pool room with no windows so it becomes like time isn’t passing at all. I wasn’t talking to myself, but communication reverberates, and I was drifting all unaware of perception. Then I was in the cold plunge, in the infrared sauna which really does something nice to the fascia (the part that matters when it comes to things like Wim Hof and Heating Up and Cooling Down.) After the infrared, I began to gain awareness of my surroundings and movements and recollections of the sound of my own voice and things like the coffee my stray limbs sent flying off the shelf at Mille Feuille this morning and then I was there saying OMG Sorry and floating napkins towards the ground but also kind of just standing and blinking like some kind of dud. You wake up alone but there are people on the way. People already late. Keys and company and you are texting with an intensity that borders vitriol. The vitriol is what he’ll point out later. Before that, he is at the door and you are so happy to greet and be greeted. There is spilled coffee and Equinox Gym and Spa88 and Iced Tea, Sparkling Ice Soda, Cool Mint Zyns. I woke up and I waited around and I trapezed over to Equinox Gym and when I got upset later because told me he did not care about my story; it was then that he clarified he did not so much mean he did not care but more so that the story was full of vitriol. And so perhaps he was just feeling full of love and life. You can't get all rageful over something like that. I'm sorry I forget sometimes that you are not resilient, he said. My blood didn't boil. I went for a walk. You forget that all of this exists all the time, Natasha and I were saying by the Hudson River. In my glass apartment in the sky, I was alone for a while but now I am not. There is an Arabian rug and a Marble table that I hope someone will take off my hands for free. There is a CurrentBody LED mask and cocoa nibs and nothing in the fridge but the butter that I replaced with the wrong brand. I feel uncomfortable when I speak like this - about these little things that compose a life. Like I'm painting a picture in the details of routine, but there has been no routine. There have been a few false starts, and then now, a real one. I am conjuring an image of a morning with an empty fridge and an Arabian rug and the kind of person who reaches for different serums at different hours. If anything, we’ve been dealing more in potion than serums. But every potion certainly has its godforsaken limit, and so now - there is something else. Monday, May 19 I will take the rest of my youth as it is. He turns on the air conditioner for me and leaves to drink Non Alcoholic Beers while I stay put and read the Diaries of Girls Online. I walk ten miles and I do not really believe his friends who say there are worms at the Russian Spa. This is how rumors spread, I tell him. You are Married To The Truth, I tell myself. In the morning, there is light through my greenhouse roof and to start; I am the only one awake. It feels like this; I had one of the best weeks ever last week, where everything came rushing back into being as it should be and I was certain it would stay like this forever. Then there was sudden chaos on the phone, chaos on the train, serenity at Spa88 and then I was calling my mom muttering sentiments I knew she would find vaguely offensive, stomping around the financial district saying bad words like a child intent on proving herself lovable even if insufferable. He said it wasn't that I was so uninteresting, more that my story was bizarre, not really a story at all, full of vitriol. Everyone was running along the Hudson River and I had two or three diet cokes with dinner and I was up not all night but close. It goes like this: in the morning there is energy and a package thief filling a suitcase up with my boxes of celsius and fiber powder and whitening strips and dental floss. I crouch above him on the stairway and I scream HEY. He screams back HEY and so I let him have it. I turn on my heels and I run up the stairs. My favorite things are leaving the house in the morning and not coming back till late night, cool mint zyns, blackberry dr. pepper, turkey cold cuts with truffle mustard eaten in a kind of self-punishing way. I lie on the roof in my boyfriend's Adidas track shorts and a black tank top that I stole from the gymnastics locker room in highschool. The thing about New York is there is immense competition to be skinny, beautiful, successful, rich all in circumstances that are entirely unconducive to all these things, my friend is telling me on the phone. Circumstances like the package thief and your metabolism doesn’t even get a boost from the sun and also there are hard drugs and alcohol. I don’t feel above all of that, but I do feel distant from it now and so I suppose, with some plausible humility, this adds up to kind of the same thing. I wish I was a gentle person. I feel lazy today, but this is not the same thing. Tuesday, May 20 Last night, we went to Lucky's for dinner and I had something with tequila and Saint Germaine straight up and he had more non-alcoholic beer. Then, they brought us mountains of shoestring onion rings and a big wedge salad and it was good for a while, until I started to feel sick. I went to the bathroom to play on my phone while the scent of grease dissipated. The drinks were crisp and they brought the shaker right to our table. Lucky's was like a steakhouse, but with a smaller interior than your average We went to Matthew's house after, to sit in his barren family room while he hacked up a lung. I rolled up my Zara blazer that I stole from Paul's Casablanca lost and found after someone stole my blazer first and also back when I was an alcoholic. I curled up under my blazer on Matthew's tiny couch while Matthew and my boyfriend talked in code and made rankings of all their friends. Matthew's apartment was pretty empty except for a whiteboard with a list of girls he likes and a Chinese new year banner and a huge pile of hats that said I'M IMMUNE TO PROPAGANDA. “Jesus, she is combative. you're right, she's so combative,” Matthew told my boyfriend, talking about me. "It's possible that Canne after dark was something that happened in the daytime," he said. "she'll get mad if I ask her why she won't play anagrams," he said. "The activation triggers a chain of events leading to increased dopamine release," he said. Sometimes, when I am with my boyfriend's friends I feel like I am in a video game, or maybe in an orphanage. You don't want to be someone who is contorting your face and yelling. It is morning now. I don't really know what happened there. Being at these parties more sober is strange, because there is nothing else but me and yet I still don't really understand. I am listening to sweet and gentle music, and I feel a total surrender. S - i do feel bad i was not so gentle and kind about this. i get myself trip wired and lose it. but it is always better to be gentle and kind and i understand new york can kill the soul and there is something beautiful in a peaceful house alone and that is why you left which is innocent and pure and it's not fair to be rageful to you for that. Wednesday, May 21 There were two cigarettes and two glasses of wine at Voile de Nuit. This becomes some sort of Diary of Consumption. I met Ellie at a tall house on a wooded street in the West Village where she works on things pertaining to design and then we spent the hours in the courtyard of Voile de Nuit, which I adore because it’s reminiscent of Summer and Reality. I behaved badly the last time I was here. My boyfriend comes by to drop off fries. We run into friends at Caffe Reggio and it's raining by the time we reach home. My boyfriend says: Spreading secrets is entropic Keeping your mouth shut is static Spreading misinformation is generative and godly I do think he is mostly kidding. It's Simone Weil who says about rage - “To be able to hurt others with impunity—for instance to pass our anger on to an inferior who is obliged to be silent—is to spare ourselves from an expenditure of energy, an expenditure which the other person will have to make.” And I wonder which character I am in this story and it's not always the good one. I was thinking about all of that in the novel. That and the self surveillance of it all. Unfortunately, my thought experiments are ruining my life and also, the novel is ending up being All About Me LOL, too. The play tonight (Revolution at Flea Theatre ) is nice, because I walk through the rain to get there and smoke cigarettes outside The Odeon after, and because its depiction is of genuine weirdos, not like Quirked Up, not like the girls my friend texts me about after the party, “have you met them? so spacey!” not like, becoming strange because of course there is some desire to conjure up some personality and if you’re pretty then it’s fine and even appealing to be off-putting. The play is like grocery store clerk alcoholic, gun in the purse grocery store clerk alcoholic, therapy speak coping mechanisms like count up then down then up and it’s employed in the play as the coping mechanism not as an ironic tactic. Drinking beers on a birthday in the back alley and the play is disaffected from glamor in a way that I’m realizing not many things are. Like even most depictions of poverty in a lot of media, at least media coming out of New York at least certainly media surrounding youth culture and a narrative surrounding a party, goes like; we have nothing but we’re slippery adjacent to everything as a result of our charm and good looks and happenstance. The play is like, leftover charcuterie from her husband’s weird mega church and splurging at the liquor store and old cocaine shoved into a bowling ball but there’s an innocence and almost childlike wonderment to the way they tackle the expired drug situation, and the play is not about drugs. There’s a genuine kind of earnest stiltedness to the conversation that lends itself to sincerity. Thursday, May 22 May is quivering right before me; I'm not letting it lapse like April did but there are still smokescreens, silkscreens, my fingers are sleeping right through it. The Club, last night. The Play then The Club. It was smokey and sweet. My lungs felt coated in something sour by the end. The smoking patio was wet with dew and I was kind of floating, not in a bad way. Not hungover, it's something way more visceral but still hazy. I could feel it all start to slip, and so I held onto myself quite tightly. My boyfriend's screen time is 102 hours a day across devices. My face is encased in sheaths of plastic that keep you young, but they're not the temu kind that's weird and freaky. The light I use is Science Backed. I'm thinking of getting into vintage workout wear. I'm thinking of getting into Vlogging. I'm thinking of getting into filling out paid surveys online for luxury perfume sellers that require you to swear your spending habits are High and you like perfume from MiuMiu and you Hate Balenciaga and what perfume means to me is; I think sometimes scents can bring up... nostalgia? I say. Do you own a Prada dress? they ask. We leave the party early - I'm sick and he buys me chicken caesar salad pizza. Aren't you glad we left early so we could dance a little at home, he says. In the living room, the windows are all a little frosted from the rain. There are lights in the neighbors windows across the courtyard but it's thursday night, the rain has stopped. You couldn't have expected everyone to just stay home, really. I notice the people in the windows if he is spinning me across the room. Exhibitionism. I catch myself in the peripheries. The windows. The back of my mind. And I never shut the blinds but that is just no Executive Function or Detail Orientation. I am not some sort of voyeur. Friday, May 23 10:45am, and they are playing some kind of staticy electric classical mashup of music from the Fedex truck outside. "Even as a grad student, I felt they were looking down on chaos," one young man at the Yemeni coffee shop is telling another. Buying: coffee and chicken quiche but none of that is for me. Buying: peanut butter perfect bar and celsius and my boyfriend's screen time is up to 316 hours since midnight since he's doing things indiscernible to me but which he clarifies are Not Fraudulent. I am trying not to write so much in the google doc diaries. It is like I have learned these diaries as a trick, and now I am addicted to it. Now, I can’t do anything else. I must release all thoughts, but to release one thought I must go through, again and again, everything else. And so I go through it all, again and again and again. The thought, and then everything else. We were going to talk more about Spirituality today, but the tripwire keeps happening - stuck on: Vanity and Careerism. I make subheadings to keep myself in check. VANITY. CAREERISM. CAREERISM: Here is where I am: I have the substack for now which is nice this is something that I suppose in some ways is a defining thing I have done but it does not feel like so much it does not feel like it culminates to anything just proof of existence, yes, but everyone has some sort of proof of existence and it is nice to write the story behind something. The story itself cannot just be the story of writing about yourself. And for a minute I was very very very sad and so that plotline became dependable, but that is no sort of thing to rely on. And this is why it cannot all just be the writing of the self. It hasn’t been. [redacted] felt like something different, investigation, beginning middle end, it was not just here I am, it was like a puzzle it was like being very precise with it and it was the biggest thing I have done so far and I sat with it for such a long time. And perhaps I am being dramatic because there are other projects I could start in the meantime but I can’t sit down and make myself think oh what would be an interesting and pithy thing to talk about for somewhere glossy, I cannot do it. I think about doing it and my stomach rises into my throat with how little I care. And so it has to be a story that bursts out of me. There was one, and I can tell there is almost something else too but it’s like David said yes, it’s difficult while you are in the waiting room. Since beginning writing this, my fever got higher, and we are hanging the Bacchus masks around the apartment plus yellow golden softlight and, now I feel more peaceful about it. I wasn’t having so much humility. Nevermind. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 27 From 6pm (show at 7pm) at Baby’s All Right — Baby’s Presents a benefit concert for the Immigrant Defense Project with Palehound, The Ophelias, and Grumpy. Dj set by WeTakeManhattan. - “All proceeds from the show will go towards supporting the IDP’s 20+ year mission of fighting for the rights of immigrants targeted for imprisonment and mass deportation via advocacy, litigation, legal advice and training, community defense, grassroots alliances, and strategic communications.” | GA (18+) $38.86, Ticket and Bonus Donation $49.69

Monday, May 19 I will take the rest of my youth as it is. He turns on the air conditioner for me and leaves to drink Non Alcoholic Beers while I stay put and read the Diaries of Girls Online. I walk ten miles and I do not really believe his friends who say there are worms at the Russian Spa. This is how rumors spread, I tell him. You are Married To The Truth, I tell myself. In the morning, there is light through my greenhouse roof and to start; I am the only one awake. It feels like this; I had one of the best weeks ever last week, where everything came rushing back into being as it should be and I was certain it would stay like this forever. Then there was sudden chaos on the phone, chaos on the train, serenity at Spa88 and then I was calling my mom muttering sentiments I knew she would find vaguely offensive, stomping around the financial district saying bad words like a child intent on proving herself lovable even if insufferable. He said it wasn't that I was so uninteresting, more that my story was bizarre, not really a story at all, full of vitriol. Everyone was running along the Hudson River and I had two or three diet cokes with dinner and I was up not all night but close. It goes like this: in the morning there is energy and a package thief filling a suitcase up with my boxes of celsius and fiber powder and whitening strips and dental floss. I crouch above him on the stairway and I scream HEY. He screams back HEY and so I let him have it. I turn on my heels and I run up the stairs. My favorite things are leaving the house in the morning and not coming back till late night, cool mint zyns, blackberry dr. pepper, turkey cold cuts with truffle mustard eaten in a kind of self-punishing way. I lie on the roof in my boyfriend's Adidas track shorts and a black tank top that I stole from the gymnastics locker room in highschool. The thing about New York is there is immense competition to be skinny, beautiful, successful, rich all in circumstances that are entirely unconducive to all these things, my friend is telling me on the phone. Circumstances like the package thief and your metabolism doesn’t even get a boost from the sun and also there are hard drugs and alcohol. I don’t feel above all of that, but I do feel distant from it now and so I suppose, with some plausible humility, this adds up to kind of the same thing. I wish I was a gentle person. I feel lazy today, but this is not the same thing. Tuesday, May 20 Last night, we went to Lucky's for dinner and I had something with tequila and Saint Germaine straight up and he had more non-alcoholic beer. Then, they brought us mountains of shoestring onion rings and a big wedge salad and it was good for a while, until I started to feel sick. I went to the bathroom to play on my phone while the scent of grease dissipated. The drinks were crisp and they brought the shaker right to our table. Lucky's was like a steakhouse, but with a smaller interior than your average We went to Matthew's house after, to sit in his barren family room while he hacked up a lung. I rolled up my Zara blazer that I stole from Paul's Casablanca lost and found after someone stole my blazer first and also back when I was an alcoholic. I curled up under my blazer on Matthew's tiny couch while Matthew and my boyfriend talked in code and made rankings of all their friends. Matthew's apartment was pretty empty except for a whiteboard with a list of girls he likes and a Chinese new year banner and a huge pile of hats that said I'M IMMUNE TO PROPAGANDA. “Jesus, she is combative. you're right, she's so combative,” Matthew told my boyfriend, talking about me. "It's possible that Canne after dark was something that happened in the daytime," he said. "she'll get mad if I ask her why she won't play anagrams," he said. "The activation triggers a chain of events leading to increased dopamine release," he said. Sometimes, when I am with my boyfriend's friends I feel like I am in a video game, or maybe in an orphanage. You don't want to be someone who is contorting your face and yelling. It is morning now. I don't really know what happened there. Being at these parties more sober is strange, because there is nothing else but me and yet I still don't really understand. I am listening to sweet and gentle music, and I feel a total surrender. S - i do feel bad i was not so gentle and kind about this. i get myself trip wired and lose it. but it is always better to be gentle and kind and i understand new york can kill the soul and there is something beautiful in a peaceful house alone and that is why you left which is innocent and pure and it's not fair to be rageful to you for that. Wednesday, May 21 There were two cigarettes and two glasses of wine at Voile de Nuit. This becomes some sort of Diary of Consumption. I met Ellie at a tall house on a wooded street in the West Village where she works on things pertaining to design and then we spent the hours in the courtyard of Voile de Nuit, which I adore because it’s reminiscent of Summer and Reality. I behaved badly the last time I was here. My boyfriend comes by to drop off fries. We run into friends at Caffe Reggio and it's raining by the time we reach home. My boyfriend says: Spreading secrets is entropic Keeping your mouth shut is static Spreading misinformation is generative and godly I do think he is mostly kidding. It's Simone Weil who says about rage - “To be able to hurt others with impunity—for instance to pass our anger on to an inferior who is obliged to be silent—is to spare ourselves from an expenditure of energy, an expenditure which the other person will have to make.” And I wonder which character I am in this story and it's not always the good one. I was thinking about all of that in the novel. That and the self surveillance of it all. Unfortunately, my thought experiments are ruining my life and also, the novel is ending up being All About Me LOL, too. The play tonight (Revolution at Flea Theatre ) is nice, because I walk through the rain to get there and smoke cigarettes outside The Odeon after, and because its depiction is of genuine weirdos, not like Quirked Up, not like the girls my friend texts me about after the party, “have you met them? so spacey!” not like, becoming strange because of course there is some desire to conjure up some personality and if you’re pretty then it’s fine and even appealing to be off-putting. The play is like grocery store clerk alcoholic, gun in the purse grocery store clerk alcoholic, therapy speak coping mechanisms like count up then down then up and it’s employed in the play as the coping mechanism not as an ironic tactic. Drinking beers on a birthday in the back alley and the play is disaffected from glamor in a way that I’m realizing not many things are. Like even most depictions of poverty in a lot of media, at least media coming out of New York at least certainly media surrounding youth culture and a narrative surrounding a party, goes like; we have nothing but we’re slippery adjacent to everything as a result of our charm and good looks and happenstance. The play is like, leftover charcuterie from her husband’s weird mega church and splurging at the liquor store and old cocaine shoved into a bowling ball but there’s an innocence and almost childlike wonderment to the way they tackle the expired drug situation, and the play is not about drugs. There’s a genuine kind of earnest stiltedness to the conversation that lends itself to sincerity. Thursday, May 22 May is quivering right before me; I'm not letting it lapse like April did but there are still smokescreens, silkscreens, my fingers are sleeping right through it. The Club, last night. The Play then The Club. It was smokey and sweet. My lungs felt coated in something sour by the end. The smoking patio was wet with dew and I was kind of floating, not in a bad way. Not hungover, it's something way more visceral but still hazy. I could feel it all start to slip, and so I held onto myself quite tightly. My boyfriend's screen time is 102 hours a day across devices. My face is encased in sheaths of plastic that keep you young, but they're not the temu kind that's weird and freaky. The light I use is Science Backed. I'm thinking of getting into vintage workout wear. I'm thinking of getting into Vlogging. I'm thinking of getting into filling out paid surveys online for luxury perfume sellers that require you to swear your spending habits are High and you like perfume from MiuMiu and you Hate Balenciaga and what perfume means to me is; I think sometimes scents can bring up... nostalgia? I say. Do you own a Prada dress? they ask. We leave the party early - I'm sick and he buys me chicken caesar salad pizza. Aren't you glad we left early so we could dance a little at home, he says. In the living room, the windows are all a little frosted from the rain. There are lights in the neighbors windows across the courtyard but it's thursday night, the rain has stopped. You couldn't have expected everyone to just stay home, really. I notice the people in the windows if he is spinning me across the room. Exhibitionism. I catch myself in the peripheries. The windows. The back of my mind. And I never shut the blinds but that is just no Executive Function or Detail Orientation. I am not some sort of voyeur. Friday, May 23 10:45am, and they are playing some kind of staticy electric classical mashup of music from the Fedex truck outside. "Even as a grad student, I felt they were looking down on chaos," one young man at the Yemeni coffee shop is telling another. Buying: coffee and chicken quiche but none of that is for me. Buying: peanut butter perfect bar and celsius and my boyfriend's screen time is up to 316 hours since midnight since he's doing things indiscernible to me but which he clarifies are Not Fraudulent. I am trying not to write so much in the google doc diaries. It is like I have learned these diaries as a trick, and now I am addicted to it. Now, I can’t do anything else. I must release all thoughts, but to release one thought I must go through, again and again, everything else. And so I go through it all, again and again and again. The thought, and then everything else. We were going to talk more about Spirituality today, but the tripwire keeps happening - stuck on: Vanity and Careerism. I make subheadings to keep myself in check. VANITY. CAREERISM. CAREERISM: Here is where I am: I have the substack for now which is nice this is something that I suppose in some ways is a defining thing I have done but it does not feel like so much it does not feel like it culminates to anything just proof of existence, yes, but everyone has some sort of proof of existence and it is nice to write the story behind something. The story itself cannot just be the story of writing about yourself. And for a minute I was very very very sad and so that plotline became dependable, but that is no sort of thing to rely on. And this is why it cannot all just be the writing of the self. It hasn’t been. [redacted] felt like something different, investigation, beginning middle end, it was not just here I am, it was like a puzzle it was like being very precise with it and it was the biggest thing I have done so far and I sat with it for such a long time. And perhaps I am being dramatic because there are other projects I could start in the meantime but I can’t sit down and make myself think oh what would be an interesting and pithy thing to talk about for somewhere glossy, I cannot do it. I think about doing it and my stomach rises into my throat with how little I care. And so it has to be a story that bursts out of me. There was one, and I can tell there is almost something else too but it’s like David said yes, it’s difficult while you are in the waiting room. Since beginning writing this, my fever got higher, and we are hanging the Bacchus masks around the apartment plus yellow golden softlight and, now I feel more peaceful about it. I wasn’t having so much humility. Nevermind. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 27 From 6pm (show at 7pm) at Baby’s All Right — Baby’s Presents a benefit concert for the Immigrant Defense Project with Palehound, The Ophelias, and Grumpy. Dj set by WeTakeManhattan. - “All proceeds from the show will go towards supporting the IDP’s 20+ year mission of fighting for the rights of immigrants targeted for imprisonment and mass deportation via advocacy, litigation, legal advice and training, community defense, grassroots alliances, and strategic communications.” | GA (18+) $38.86, Ticket and Bonus Donation $49.69

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015?

August 14, 2025 · Original source

No direct inline source block was recovered for this mention.

August 21, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, July 29 It was a hot dog and white claw and blue hour over the marshes on the Amtrak last night. I took inventory of things when I arrived by night. The road was dark and it is August. My wrists were swollen from the heat and the city and there were lights around the bend and then only the sound of pebbles and tires and Davey-the-dog at the door and; it’s too late in the season for spring peepers. I haven’t been home in August in a few summers. It’s usually somewhere further down the coast this time of year. There was a pull towards this place sometime around noon on Wednesday. A pull towards cornfields specifically, and the way suburban heat would hit me heavy and hard when I would come back from the ocean as a child. In New York, I dreamt of a small house somewhere in someplace that felt like Topanga and wood floors and glass windows and a blue dress that looked like Leslie Van Houten’s in court, only the implications were less evil. I dreamt of palm trees and ferocious winds and sunrise over a cliff over volcanoes over the mountains over San Salvador. It was a mix of dreams. Some places where I have been before, and some places where I haven’t. I decided to play it safe. So, everything is exactly as I left it. There are farm fresh eggs and strawberries in the fridge. The empty April whisky bottle is still in the drawer where it was left after the eclipse. I am thinking of getting less into gnosticism and more into God. I have not been thinking very much lately at all. 2:09am - eating salted caramel gelato out of a plastic container in bed and vitamin water zero and cool smooth minty menthal zyn. My father stopped at the Cumberland Farms outside the train station so I could restock up on zyns. He is so nice. Everyone is so nice. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, August 21 From 7pm at St Lydia’s — Label NYC and Doxy Mag present SERVICE #2 - the second group chat reading. Featuring Mike Crumps, Dan Mancini, Scott Litts, Maxwell Foley, and more. Photos by Nick Dove. | Free

Inline links: St Lydia’s, Label NYC, Doxy Mag, SERVICE #2

January 14, 2026 · Original source

No direct inline source block was recovered for this mention.

January 27, 2026 · Original source

No direct inline source block was recovered for this mention.

February 15, 2026 · Original source

No direct inline source block was recovered for this mention.

Amtrak6 mentions across 6 issues

Amtrak is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 6 times across 6 issues between February 17, 2025 and January 08, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "took the lame amtrak back to lame lincoln"; "the trees are orange on the amtrak back to the city"; "I got an email regarding Amtrak tickets". It most often appears alongside New York, Night Club 101, Confessions.

Article page: Amtrak
Mention count: 6
Issue count: 6
First seen: February 17, 2025
Last seen: January 08, 2026

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

My lame blog February 17, 2025
The Strangest Hotel in New York April 21, 2025
mutually assured destruction May 06, 2025
Early August August 21, 2025
Florida, Massachusetts (03) December 02, 2025
Lost Week January 08, 2026

New York 6 shared issues
Night Club 101 4 shared issues
Confessions 3 shared issues
David 3 shared issues
Julia Cooke 3 shared issues

Source context

My lame blog

February 17, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Saturday, February 15 The cloud cover is interesting today; a translucent gray that stretches on and on and on. There was very little sleep last night: three hours maybe, but now that you are awake, standing on tiptoes on the edge of the bed sorting trinkets into the high up drawers and basking in this silver flickering light, now it feels like it was just enough. David is on the phone downstairs. I can hear the conversation trickling through the walls. "I haven't slept," he is saying. "I'm staying up just to support you, I'm staying up just to support you, I'm staying up just to support you." He says the last part many times, like he's the manic robot of Staying Up Late, or something. There is a sense of delirium in an early morning that follows a late night, but this is not too bad. I was worried, last night, briefly, about the two cocktails at dinner, the sleeping for an hour in the black dress and the makeup, the waking up suddenly, sitting horrified at the kitchen table with dimmed lamps and bright moon, etching out notes on topics like Discipline is Pleasure and My New Routines. I was concerned that sludge proceeds indulgence, but I see now that things remain precise. "I want to hang out with grasping freaks and take them at their word," David is telling his friend on the phone. "I'm going to auction your keys off to an insane man," he is saying. "This is part of my plan to leave it all behind." You don't remember the falling back to sleep, but you do remember waking up again. The cloud cover makes the day difficult to begin, and you do everything a person should do, yes - you pour serums on your skin and drink water and l-theanine and coffee and you go to the gym and you walk at a rapid pace at a steep incline and you walk on the treadmill closest to the sun, although there is not much sun to speak of today. Eventually, you go to the ocean. On the uptown C - I listen to the sort of music I liked in high school and I imagine a day of twirling in the hot summer light and then this cures me. Now, a day of swimming in the cold fog. another day on my lame blog in my lame life. went to a lame party where i had lame conversations and lame drinks. took the lame amtrak back to lame lincoln where there's a lame pony exhibition and a lame pond called walden. now i'm back in lame manhattan. yup.... today is tuesday and it's just as lame as before. i almost go to a lame party tonight, but instead im feeling tired so i spend my lame night in. have you heard about this lame restaurant called the knickerbocker. you can talk about lame things with your lame boyfriend while waiters serve you dishes. This is what it's like to be you, David tells me. There's that Georgia O'Keefe quote - "I have done nothing all summer but wait for myself to be myself again." It's like this, but I've just been waiting all week. A new week, tomorrow. You will see me tomorrow. I'm looking forward to all of it, then. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, February 17 From 7:15pm at Metrograph — I have evening plans, but if I didn’t, I’d be here watching The Master. One of Philip Seymour Hoffman’s finest.

Inline links: The Master.

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!i2kf!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fe2899bb7-1e22-4a8b-93bc-14bf7e6ffb02_892x444.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!gyqH!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F96641088-5f01-40d2-883f-cf79d91add2c_616x798.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!CQwj!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fa8402160-9491-40d2-95e0-9dee6e25a00a_852x318.png, borderline satanic short film, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!sXNu!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F2692d191-2567-4b52-ab49-e81eacdf528d_730x832.png, Night Club 101, Domino Reading Series

April 21, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Saturday, April 12 I am back on the train to New York - I had to come and go and come and go again. It feels a little like wading through the muck, all this coming and going, particularly when there was this period of being all twitchy and discontent here, and particularly because now, this time, returning to the city this time unlike on some other occasions, I can suddenly remember all that there is here to miss here. It feels like Fall in New York. This is really throwing me for a loop - knowing that it is Spring but it could not feel more like Fall. Flying back into the city on Wednesday evening, the trees looked all orange and glowing as we circled in on them from above. My dad pulled over the car last night in Vermont to enjoy the snow. Do you appreciate things like when you’re lying on a porch and the air is so hot you can’t really move and you drink a beer with your friends and you feel drunk from it but you might just be drunk from the heat,” I ask my dad. “Or would you prefer to just always be in snow?” “You’re making that sound nice, but I would find the heat suffocating,” my dad says. Just like it was from the plane, the trees are orange on the amtrak back to the city, too. I’ve never noticed spring as orange like this before. I’m noticing it now because I’ve been surrounded by all green in the tropics. It’s just that there are still no leaves on these empty branches, and the air is getting brighter, the air is getting twinged with budding flowers and evening haze. It’s not autumn. There are optical illusions. Everything here will be coming to life, soon. This week, there is a lot to do. I realized that suddenly. The conclusion was to zoom on back towards the city. That is where I am now. The story is almost there. I haven’t worked on something to completion like this, before. It’s not a matter of length or time or even attention it’s more so, just, I’ll be breaking the habit of being all loose and touch and go about it. Sunday, April 13 After a day spent on your phone, you do wake up and it feels all gray. Sun, water, in my dreams I was swinging on a rope swing into a swimming hole in the jungle over and over and over again - a little ominous in energy but it was certainly very beautiful there. Anyways, you can bring things back into sharp focus if you latch onto momentum and if you view inertia with disdain and disregard. It's not too complicated. You go in circles sometimes, but this does not have to continue. A return to the pace of things: an hour of walking briskly on the treadmill at an upscale corporate gym. Walk faster; and then thoughts move faster. Edit and publish the diaries I culled from the Internet this week. Gem Home for trout toast. They had to get rid of the open seating plan because it was starting to feel like a WeWork, the waiter tells Natasha. Now it feels like Vermont in Nolita. Nice and sweet. I am not too cynical even if it is candlelit at noon, which feels like some sort of cosplay in the context of Nolita. I take the F to the 7 to the Whitney Claflin show at Moma Ps1 in the evening. I've never been here before, and I like that the museum feels all cavernous. Someone tries to spit on me on the subway - avoided with ease. Darby is looking at the New York Review of Books shelf in the gift shop. Is there anything you think David would like, I ask. Renaissance poetry, she suggests but she’s kind of half hearted with it. Nothing really speaking to me on the shelves. I’ll invent my own polemic. I just have to conjure some convictions, first. After the exhibitions, which are a little bit of Rookie Mag and Things Culled From Tumblr and Darby is telling me about the theory of The Internet where it all originated from Tumblr - after the Whitney Claflin and James Turrell (my favorite James Turrell) and Sol Lewitt in the basement boiler room and Yto Barrado in the lawn - we take the train home. Lavender and vodka. I meet David at a strange hotel. Cop cars are swarming the building. I wonder if it’s because of the helicopter that went down, David says, but the helicopter was days ago and I am getting the creeps and, I want to go inside, I say. My grandmother gave me some of her collection of Samuel Beckett books this weekend. In the books, all they do is wait and wait and wait. Missed happenstances. Restless. I’m not good at all this waiting. The books are in my bag and I fall asleep with a few back covers folded over on my lap. It’s a friend of a friend's hotel room. David’s been Co-Working. I’ve been sleeping. The windows are tall and glass and the room gets dark naturally. Fades with the sun. David doesn’t want renaissance poetry from Moma Ps1 for his birthday. David wants a mask of Bacchus like the one at my parents house and an 88 dollar overnight stay at the 88 Allen Street Hotel. Monday, April 14 The issue is, I am so disconnected from nature here. The wilderness, yes, but my own sense of instinct too. Yeah, intellectualize it. Drag it out step by step by step and then there are logical conclusions I can live with. Though, if removed from cold hard fact I would know very little here at all. I know nothing viscerally here. Sometimes, elsewhere, I can know things intrinsically from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. New York is good, though, and there is nowhere else for me, anyways. I woke up this morning and my whole body popped. It’s hard to explain it. Like my muscles all revolted and then I couldn’t really move. It’s not the worst thing in the world except I know this would not have happened if I was somewhere else. I am rock solid certain that this would only have happened here. So someone put a hex on me. And then I almost forgot that desperation reeks. I spend all day acting boxy and square and off-putting in my many Academic Classes on account of not being able to really move. Every time I start to feel nauseous about the future considering this sort of bodily degradation beginning at Age Twenty Four Years Old, I try to remind myself that I have probably just been hexed. My friend in Witch School sends me some guides for lying down realignment. She calls me. You can join my cult, she says. Too many cults, and none of seem very all immersive. If I am going to do this, I would like to go all in. David is back to coworking at his friends hotel and so I march my way through the Lower East Side for some company after school. One cannot wallow alone. They have a heating pad at the hotel. They have a Lush Ice Vape. David’s friend says that he’s been fasting and praying a lot. There’s a permanently skewed gold framed painting of a gold chalice of flowers and some thick tan curtains at the hotel. The curtains are pulled open so we can all see outside. David brought opera binoculars. I brought swedish candy. David goes to get some chinese food so I settle in to write, but he returns with his friend sooner than I would have liked. “Bro,” David says, “I might go get the Penthouse Balcony King Suite Deluxe.” “Hotel employees are better friends than 99% of people’s friends,” David’s friend says. David does get the suite, and so we decamp upstairs. The curtains are more ornate in this room, and the aura is more creepy. Everything is funnier when you’re sober, David’s friend is saying. Something about coming face to face with your own absurdity. Something about how when you’re drunk, you think your’ madness makes sense. Two bathrooms and the shared patio and the love seat and the dog bed and David is saying that instead of dinner, instead of ever wasting money on a dumb dinner again, we should splurge on staycations instead. I brush my teeth with the hotel provided tooth brush and I sit on the floor of the erratically tiled shower. I don’t totally get the bit and I feel bad because it’s frivolous but, I do love hotels. Suspended circumstance The safest and most secure sleep. Float me out somewhere I’ve never been before. It’s good for girls with night terrors like me. Tuesday, April 15 David stayed up all night making a borderline satanic short film. I think I’m manic, he says, which is probably why he got us the stay in the strange hotel in the first place. You’re not manic, I say. Not manic, like I need lithium, David says. Last night I was compulsively reading these decentralized networking protocol white papers, David says. David starts telling me about an opera he wants to see. Something about The Only Monotheistic Pharaoh. I walk home and I stop at Whole Foods to buy some Clear Headed Kombucha and Chicken Sausage and Cymbiotika Vitamin C. I feel really terrible. I make a list of affirming statements. I FEEL AMAZING. I HAVE NEVER FELT BETTER. I take a nap. Wakeup and, David and his friend are on the phone downstairs talking about a startup. Eavesdropping and, it sounds like they’re about to independently invent the concept of the Male Influencer. “Imagine believing yourself to be cunning and self-serving, and you're doing so by working for [redacted],” David is saying. “Anyone can learn to code,” David is saying. Tune out, tune in, and now they’re inventing the Vending Machine. They’re talking about Jon Raffman and Petra Cortright. They’re talking about LA. Evil Women. Tax Day. “Girls already invented being an influencer eons ago,” I tell David, when he gets off the phone. David pauses for a moment. “I think girls and guys invented being influencers at about the same time.” Friday, April 18 I haven't been able to fill in the blanks of the past few days. Becoming: utterly consumed. It was deeply unpleasant, honestly. I feel bad for me on Monday, thinking it would be easy to wrap up this thing I was working on and then almost losing my whole head instead. I stayed up all week. All through the very peaks of the night and then past that, even. At first it was all disjointed, but now it is making more sense. And the good news is, good for art and life - I can intuit things again! WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, April 21 From 8pm - late at Night Club 101 — I will be reading in the Domino Reading Series, alongside Jess Wolfe, Dani Narins, Ruby Hoffman, Gordon Glasgow, Jade Wootton, and Matthew Gasda. Gallipony x Solar System DJ set after the reading.

Sunday, April 13 After a day spent on your phone, you do wake up and it feels all gray. Sun, water, in my dreams I was swinging on a rope swing into a swimming hole in the jungle over and over and over again - a little ominous in energy but it was certainly very beautiful there. Anyways, you can bring things back into sharp focus if you latch onto momentum and if you view inertia with disdain and disregard. It's not too complicated. You go in circles sometimes, but this does not have to continue. A return to the pace of things: an hour of walking briskly on the treadmill at an upscale corporate gym. Walk faster; and then thoughts move faster. Edit and publish the diaries I culled from the Internet this week. Gem Home for trout toast. They had to get rid of the open seating plan because it was starting to feel like a WeWork, the waiter tells Natasha. Now it feels like Vermont in Nolita. Nice and sweet. I am not too cynical even if it is candlelit at noon, which feels like some sort of cosplay in the context of Nolita. I take the F to the 7 to the Whitney Claflin show at Moma Ps1 in the evening. I've never been here before, and I like that the museum feels all cavernous. Someone tries to spit on me on the subway - avoided with ease. Darby is looking at the New York Review of Books shelf in the gift shop. Is there anything you think David would like, I ask. Renaissance poetry, she suggests but she’s kind of half hearted with it. Nothing really speaking to me on the shelves. I’ll invent my own polemic. I just have to conjure some convictions, first. After the exhibitions, which are a little bit of Rookie Mag and Things Culled From Tumblr and Darby is telling me about the theory of The Internet where it all originated from Tumblr - after the Whitney Claflin and James Turrell (my favorite James Turrell) and Sol Lewitt in the basement boiler room and Yto Barrado in the lawn - we take the train home. Lavender and vodka. I meet David at a strange hotel. Cop cars are swarming the building. I wonder if it’s because of the helicopter that went down, David says, but the helicopter was days ago and I am getting the creeps and, I want to go inside, I say. My grandmother gave me some of her collection of Samuel Beckett books this weekend. In the books, all they do is wait and wait and wait. Missed happenstances. Restless. I’m not good at all this waiting. The books are in my bag and I fall asleep with a few back covers folded over on my lap. It’s a friend of a friend's hotel room. David’s been Co-Working. I’ve been sleeping. The windows are tall and glass and the room gets dark naturally. Fades with the sun. David doesn’t want renaissance poetry from Moma Ps1 for his birthday. David wants a mask of Bacchus like the one at my parents house and an 88 dollar overnight stay at the 88 Allen Street Hotel. Monday, April 14 The issue is, I am so disconnected from nature here. The wilderness, yes, but my own sense of instinct too. Yeah, intellectualize it. Drag it out step by step by step and then there are logical conclusions I can live with. Though, if removed from cold hard fact I would know very little here at all. I know nothing viscerally here. Sometimes, elsewhere, I can know things intrinsically from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. New York is good, though, and there is nowhere else for me, anyways. I woke up this morning and my whole body popped. It’s hard to explain it. Like my muscles all revolted and then I couldn’t really move. It’s not the worst thing in the world except I know this would not have happened if I was somewhere else. I am rock solid certain that this would only have happened here. So someone put a hex on me. And then I almost forgot that desperation reeks. I spend all day acting boxy and square and off-putting in my many Academic Classes on account of not being able to really move. Every time I start to feel nauseous about the future considering this sort of bodily degradation beginning at Age Twenty Four Years Old, I try to remind myself that I have probably just been hexed. My friend in Witch School sends me some guides for lying down realignment. She calls me. You can join my cult, she says. Too many cults, and none of seem very all immersive. If I am going to do this, I would like to go all in. David is back to coworking at his friends hotel and so I march my way through the Lower East Side for some company after school. One cannot wallow alone. They have a heating pad at the hotel. They have a Lush Ice Vape. David’s friend says that he’s been fasting and praying a lot. There’s a permanently skewed gold framed painting of a gold chalice of flowers and some thick tan curtains at the hotel. The curtains are pulled open so we can all see outside. David brought opera binoculars. I brought swedish candy. David goes to get some chinese food so I settle in to write, but he returns with his friend sooner than I would have liked. “Bro,” David says, “I might go get the Penthouse Balcony King Suite Deluxe.” “Hotel employees are better friends than 99% of people’s friends,” David’s friend says. David does get the suite, and so we decamp upstairs. The curtains are more ornate in this room, and the aura is more creepy. Everything is funnier when you’re sober, David’s friend is saying. Something about coming face to face with your own absurdity. Something about how when you’re drunk, you think your’ madness makes sense. Two bathrooms and the shared patio and the love seat and the dog bed and David is saying that instead of dinner, instead of ever wasting money on a dumb dinner again, we should splurge on staycations instead. I brush my teeth with the hotel provided tooth brush and I sit on the floor of the erratically tiled shower. I don’t totally get the bit and I feel bad because it’s frivolous but, I do love hotels. Suspended circumstance The safest and most secure sleep. Float me out somewhere I’ve never been before. It’s good for girls with night terrors like me. Tuesday, April 15 David stayed up all night making a borderline satanic short film. I think I’m manic, he says, which is probably why he got us the stay in the strange hotel in the first place. You’re not manic, I say. Not manic, like I need lithium, David says. Last night I was compulsively reading these decentralized networking protocol white papers, David says. David starts telling me about an opera he wants to see. Something about The Only Monotheistic Pharaoh. I walk home and I stop at Whole Foods to buy some Clear Headed Kombucha and Chicken Sausage and Cymbiotika Vitamin C. I feel really terrible. I make a list of affirming statements. I FEEL AMAZING. I HAVE NEVER FELT BETTER. I take a nap. Wakeup and, David and his friend are on the phone downstairs talking about a startup. Eavesdropping and, it sounds like they’re about to independently invent the concept of the Male Influencer. “Imagine believing yourself to be cunning and self-serving, and you're doing so by working for [redacted],” David is saying. “Anyone can learn to code,” David is saying. Tune out, tune in, and now they’re inventing the Vending Machine. They’re talking about Jon Raffman and Petra Cortright. They’re talking about LA. Evil Women. Tax Day. “Girls already invented being an influencer eons ago,” I tell David, when he gets off the phone. David pauses for a moment. “I think girls and guys invented being influencers at about the same time.” Friday, April 18 I haven't been able to fill in the blanks of the past few days. Becoming: utterly consumed. It was deeply unpleasant, honestly. I feel bad for me on Monday, thinking it would be easy to wrap up this thing I was working on and then almost losing my whole head instead. I stayed up all week. All through the very peaks of the night and then past that, even. At first it was all disjointed, but now it is making more sense. And the good news is, good for art and life - I can intuit things again! WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, April 21 From 8pm - late at Night Club 101 — I will be reading in the Domino Reading Series, alongside Jess Wolfe, Dani Narins, Ruby Hoffman, Gordon Glasgow, Jade Wootton, and Matthew Gasda. Gallipony x Solar System DJ set after the reading.

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!gyqH!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F96641088-5f01-40d2-883f-cf79d91add2c_616x798.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!CQwj!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fa8402160-9491-40d2-95e0-9dee6e25a00a_852x318.png, borderline satanic short film, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!sXNu!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F2692d191-2567-4b52-ab49-e81eacdf528d_730x832.png, Night Club 101, Domino Reading Series

May 06, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, April 27 Sitting up in the middle of the night and saying things I don't mean and, it's not that I'm talking in my sleep exactly. More so, I've been trying to figure out if this harshness comes from being evil or if maybe it's more of a vindictive thing instead. Being vindictive implies, at least, that you are seeking some sort of equilibrium. Wrong and be wronged. You aren't just a gratuitous little freak about it. Causality is irrelevant, and I'm nauseous at the gym, playing high vibration Youtube videos in my headphones, standing on an electric plate that can jostle my insides, lymph nodes, drain me like a detox, and yes, there needs to be one of those soon. Making calls and making complaints, and then I'm like, oh sorry, I didn't mean it, I was drunk. And then I'm saying that I feel crazy instead. I feel insane. You don't understand. I have lost complete touch with my judgment. Costa Rica, in the rain I was kicking around mud with my feet and drinking too much and his friends were like oh you think you're in a teen movie or something because I was saying kind of nasty things, too. It's way worse in New York. That is the definitive thing and, also the fact that there is nowhere else. Something can be confusing and still not impossible to regulate. Sorry to be all obfuscated about it. I can control my consciousness. It's my consciousness after all. I go to church in the evening, which feels unbelievably affected - would a girl that is evil redeem herself on her knees before God? - though, that isn't really the question. You believe in good and evil, yet you have found yourself entirely incapable of distinguishing the difference between the two. Yes, then, prognosis, logical conclusion, you have lost your mind. I eat a cookie for breakfast and then the leftovers of the quiche for dinner that I fugue state ordered for my boyfriend at six am, which was a disaster in and of itself. I decided to do something nice, and then the delivery guy couldn't figure out the buzzer and so I stumbled down in my socks and Brandy Melville, I wasn't even very polite about it when he handed me my bag. I pointed to the buzzer and said that's the buzzer and then I called my boyfriend over and over because I realized, also, I'd forgotten to bring down keys. It's the type of day where I spend almost no time eating, but I still feel kind of full in a bad way. Everything I did eat is so calorically dense that it creates some kind of cognizant dissonance. I shouldn't feel this bogged down from just some stupid scraps. I don't want to say terrible things, I said. And yet you constantly are saying terrible things, he said. I wish we didn't do these things, I said. That's like saying you wish spiders weren't real, he said. People are vicious and awful. Then, I do pilates from the pilates app that they sent me for free on Instagram. I'm enough of an influencer these days that brands will send me spam mail disguised as PR. Like 20% off coupon codes to their clothing line personalized just for me, but I still have to pay them 80% if I want the clothes. This means, basically, that I am not an influencer at all, but I have just made things like my email address and my diary psychosis way too public. The pilates studio said - "share if you can!" but I'm sorry, I can't, I'm not really talking about me, I'm talking about something else. First name, last name, coupon codes, face to the name, you're ruining all my plausible deniability. I started sobbing by the window, and he said don't worry, you're sweet. I started thinking he was dead, and he said don't worry, I'm ok. I'm blurring the timelines a bit. He told me I could meet him on the steps of a Chinatown apartment a little bit after sunset. Inside, his friend took calls and let the bathtub-in-the-kitchen Chinatown apartment become a kind of neutral territory. I sat in the guest room and held my breath. Say the same things over and over, and because you mean it, they eventually stick. Viewing everything in black and white. They've told me that's my problem. That and being too suggestible, and also out of control. I started being all dramatic about it and yeah there's been too much partying, but I come to learn I'm pretty much like this sober, too. Things were really really really pure and sweet, and I keep on thinking in ninety days, ninety days of being pure again, and everything bad can be problems that belonged to someone else. I am trying to become like a Monk about it. It's not so much that my impulse towards reaction is wrong, but rather that I act purely on impulse, and impulse alone never did anything other than make a situation that much worse. Spring and Redemption, I say, on my dumb fucking TikTok. Spring and redemption, my boyfriend says. Yeah, that's cute, this one is cute. Did you spell synchronicity wrong for engagement or to be insane? my boyfriend asked. Insane, I said. He stopped to think about it. So stupid, he said. You aren't that insane. Order diet pepsi bean and cheese burrito nicotine gum and we're lying in the sun. So much sun through the windows that we have to keep the blinds shut or the light goes too crazy, the air conditioning fires up but not much can be done in the face of UV like this. Lucky, luck,y lucky. I spent the week talking to myself. Lying on the floor and I'm trying to seek cognizance in repetition. The same word three times. First, you remember what it means. Second, you determine what you think is true. You don't take it for granted. If you don't take it for granted, then you won't lose your mind. Monday, April 28 Eiverything gets better overnight. No more crying in my sleep. 2:22am and I’m not yelling. I see things more with precision than as if through angels and mystics. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be so transcendental about it. It’s really evil to try to mythologize something that is neither beautiful nor true. I stayed at Hudson Square until late last night. Black socks and black shoes and a tennis skirt that doesn’t match to be late to class today. The sun has rushed back and it’s iced tea no breakfast no lunch. David meets me at Cafe Reggio, where to our left, an awful woman is berating her husband to levels of borderline abuse, and to our right a lovely couple is talking about the difference between mere activity, and real fulfillment. You gain fulfillment from things like C-suite and making tv shows and real estate, the man is saying. Activity is something like going to Europe, he is telling his wife. These are the things that fulfill us, for others it might be different, the woman is saying. I am surprised to hear, that in referencing C-Suite, they are suggesting real fulfillment.. Materially, things are working themselves out. The rot has been first, material, and then secondly, spiritual. We go to Lupa for a lovely spring dinner. Sweet then sour then sweet. I am endlessly interested in reiterations, but that just makes things worse and worse. Homemade focaccia and olive oil and arugula salad and lobster corn ravioli and lamb chops and tartufo which is like a shell of hazelnut, ice cream, paper plane to drink and the restaurant is closing by the time we leave. Tuesday, April 29 You stop a night terror like this: creep down the ladder and say to your boyfriend, you need to turn off the projector right this second. The light was emitting vibes that were very off putting and I was concerned about scentless and odorless gas. My boyfriend makes me pasta and gives me a beer. You kind of briefly entered a state of psychosis, he tells me. I get super offended by that one. A bad dream doesn’t mean I need lithium or something, I say. I didn’t say you have schizophrenia, he says. I said you seemed to be under the impression that the projector light was toxic, poison, and evil, which is the very definition of a state of psychosis - the merging of reality with hallucination. No, I say, that’s the very definition of a bad dream. Anyways, I’ve been having sleep paralysis because I’ve been having insomnia. I’ve been much more normal about it. Run, coffee, iced tea, the world's worst sandwich back at Cafe Reggio in the afternoon. Do you have any favorite spots in New York, the tall man next to me is asking the short man across the table. “Well, it’s far from here,” the short man tells the tall man. "it's really far from here. it's called Coney Island." I pick out all the healthy bits of my dinner and eat just the bread instead. I’ve been feeling tempted to get really fucking skinny again. Being weird and off putting with my sandwich and then leaving my scraps with abandon. Feeling pretty sane today, I don't really want to get out of here anymore. Wednesday, April 30 Up all night just like last week, and I'm in class reading from my story like oh I'm probably not going to freak out but it's still a possibility. David turns older today. He's still asleep when I get home in the afternoon. Macarons and iced coffee on the table. We go to Vol de Nuit and I get promptly drunk on cider. It's bright and nice and I'm writing tipsy. This week won’t eb and flow in the way that I hate. Make yourself head empty and then see what happens. We go next door to Dear Stranger for dinner. Red snapper and jalapeno sauce and wedge salad and shrimp tostadas. Two martinis. David makes a scene in a scuffle with one of those guys on the streets who shill comedy shows on the way home. Then, I wake up and it feels like morning but it’s only just past midnight. I used to miss the things I have right now so much. I’d miss it through abstraction, really. All through hypotheticals because it had never really been mine in the first place. It shocks me when I see my life emerge unscathed from fits of self destruction. Playing fast and loose when it comes to the thing of redemption. I am trying not to be that way. First it is sour and then it is sweet. This is one of two directions that any progression of events can take. Obviously, I know the direction that I would like to pursue. Thursday, May 1 Everything has come alive again, though I'm not quite sure if it's solid yet. I almost step in a pool of blood on Rivington Street, and then we're talking about the uptick in dead bodies that people keep finding around town these days. I'm going to stop being so morbid. You can be thinking about one thing, and then you can decide to be thinking about something else. Yesterday evening felt sparkly and nice. David and I stayed at Vol de Nuit for a while, drinking cider, which makes me feel full but not that drunk, lots of sunshine and we bring in our own food. Peanut mayonnaise garlic sauce on french fries. I'm less disgusted by these things than I used to be. Yesterday's dinner felt nice but a little too drunk. I was drinking iced tea at two in the morning and then my boyfriend was throwing bottles across the room in a way that was funny, not crazy. I got an email asking me if I'd like to talk about Dimes Square for a German newspaper but I wouldn't like to do this and so I didn't respond. I got an email regarding Amtrak tickets. Things have been too whiplash lately. I got an email from my friend. I owe edits on some projects, and I like when big things happen quickly, though we are not quite there yet. The nature of how I am creatively always edges on narcissism - reflection and observation being more natural than imagination to me, I suppose. although the night terrors suggest some kind of imagination. People like to tell me that. I’m close to the mystics. On a literal level - clinical - the night terrors suggest nothing other than a flirting with psychosis, though my paranoia does not extend to fear over my mind. Nobody actually thinks I’m losing my mind Physically, a parasite cleanse can be dangerous because the heavy metals your parasites held will be dumped right back into your body. I do have paranoia surrounding being poisoned, though this is more a concern of the mind. April - I wrote 40,000 words in my secret diary that I do not share here. This is surely excessive. There are worse things. What I meant to say is: the narcissism has felt less like filtering observation and reflection through the self these days, and more like actually just kind of sloppy-like, thinking about Myself. The sun is nice, because it heats my greenhouse apartment so quickly - downstairs becomes for the daytime, and upstairs becomes so bright and burnt to a crisp that it has to only be for sleep. Sleeping in the day here is nice. It’s like somebody cast a spell on me. I am not someone to sleep in the day, but a greenhouse apartment is something like a potion this time of year. Friday, May 2 When I think about how to synthesize an idea into a quote or a meme, something pithy really, then the idea is immediately ruined. Even it was a good idea at the start. This makes me want to distance myself from the quote, meme, thing of posting more generally I suppose though, I’m still having fun. I’m so sure about things, now. I was feeling really really really unsure about things and I’m so sure now. I feel so bad for acting all ambivalent about it. I’m so certain. I have never been more certain and I have never been more sincere. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 6 From 7pm at Pete’s Candy Store — Mind Palace Poetry presents The Girls Room, with special guest host Sophie Appel. Featuring Sascha Cohen, Siena Foster-Soltis, Jude Lavelle, and Montana James Thomas.

Inline links: Pete’s Candy Store

August 21, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, July 29 It was a hot dog and white claw and blue hour over the marshes on the Amtrak last night. I took inventory of things when I arrived by night. The road was dark and it is August. My wrists were swollen from the heat and the city and there were lights around the bend and then only the sound of pebbles and tires and Davey-the-dog at the door and; it’s too late in the season for spring peepers. I haven’t been home in August in a few summers. It’s usually somewhere further down the coast this time of year. There was a pull towards this place sometime around noon on Wednesday. A pull towards cornfields specifically, and the way suburban heat would hit me heavy and hard when I would come back from the ocean as a child. In New York, I dreamt of a small house somewhere in someplace that felt like Topanga and wood floors and glass windows and a blue dress that looked like Leslie Van Houten’s in court, only the implications were less evil. I dreamt of palm trees and ferocious winds and sunrise over a cliff over volcanoes over the mountains over San Salvador. It was a mix of dreams. Some places where I have been before, and some places where I haven’t. I decided to play it safe. So, everything is exactly as I left it. There are farm fresh eggs and strawberries in the fridge. The empty April whisky bottle is still in the drawer where it was left after the eclipse. I am thinking of getting less into gnosticism and more into God. I have not been thinking very much lately at all. 2:09am - eating salted caramel gelato out of a plastic container in bed and vitamin water zero and cool smooth minty menthal zyn. My father stopped at the Cumberland Farms outside the train station so I could restock up on zyns. He is so nice. Everyone is so nice. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, August 21 From 7pm at St Lydia’s — Label NYC and Doxy Mag present SERVICE #2 - the second group chat reading. Featuring Mike Crumps, Dan Mancini, Scott Litts, Maxwell Foley, and more. Photos by Nick Dove. | Free

Inline links: St Lydia’s, Label NYC, Doxy Mag, SERVICE #2

December 02, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday 7:45am and I am lying very still in my clean crisp bed like it’s a haven or a ship that will float me above and away from the clutter around me. Lying with my head pulled under white bamboo sheets, so I don’t have to see anything other than white noise and whatever I decide to fire up on my phone all around me. Reading Girl Insides live blogging her breakup on my phone this morning, and I do feel envious of the corporeal and anonymous ways in which her brand of compulsive documentation flows. Feeling kind of vague and emotionless after a weekend that was here there everywhere, and I let myself really be sucked into it which is always how it goes but one needs to be careful. I wore Cinq-a-Sept Christmas dress for a few days in a row, and there was dinner in a dark wood uptown apartment and there was a sunrise over the Hudson River and I kind of don’t want to write it like a sequence of events. I kind of hope to talk about the architectures of things and why they happen as they do. On my phone, Girl Insides is in Hollywood and breathing in jasmine and perfect fog and smog and panzanella crackers. All of a sudden everything that happens in my life is up to me, Girl Insides says. Well, me too for the first-time-ever, but it becomes more difficult this way. Perhaps I’ll go to surf in San Diego with Emma. Perhaps I’ll go to Kazakhstan or Tbilisi, Georgia or at least commit myself to no more losing days following wherever the wind blows me. I’ll be in Florida, Massachusetts, anyways this week. A spooky little town. They cursed the Amtrak towards Western, Massachusetts last year. Strangers yelling at me as we sat in dark seats hurdling through the night with train snacks of hot dog and coca cola and chips that came in perfect little packages that one unboxes in the dining car. A girl threw herself at the walls of the train on the platform as it pulled out of Moynihan Station. She bounced off the train and was removed unscathed. The conductor announced that they’d lost the crew somewhere around Albany. I walked into a doctors office and I recognized the dermatologist’s twisted and frozen face as the woman who’d been screaming on a night train heading out of New York. And all of this is just to say that everything was kind of cursed and still is sometimes, but I am trying to find omens in the more beautiful and serendipitous sorts of patterns and symbols and signs. In the hotel lobby, Celia told me to be less vague about it. Either say what you mean or don’t. So I do believe everything that I have ever been told. Which is mostly just to say that before I believed everything bad, I believed everything good. Tuesday We drove from New York to The Berkshires this morning. I stopped at Broadway Bagels and then at a farmstand and now we are here. So, these are the things that have happened. No curses and no omens. The house we can see outside the long glass window got painted green and now it totally fades into the woods. That’s nice, everyone says. That’s so much nicer, now. It’s brilliant blue-gray outside the long glass windows now that the snow has stopped and it is settling into very early afternoon dusk. I am lying by the fire that is crackling louder when the furnace is on and quieter when it isn’t. The Eames chair is empty behind me and the lamps overhead are big yellow orbs, hanging from the slanted wooden ceilings. There are things I could do here. Mass MoCA museum and my favorite James Turrell works there that change with morning and evening light. Or, The Clarke Art Museum and I can hear whispers of a textile show that others are bundling up to go see downstairs, but I think I would prefer to just stay put. There is a Tourists Hotel by the North Adams airport, which is a motel that turned fancy, with individual bungalows looking out at the river and a restaurant that looks like a home inside, all fireplaces and craft drinks and lots of little rooms. There is the alpaca farm up the road and there is Hopkins Forest and Pine Cobble and the Appalachian Trail and the sauna room by the river and trees like skeletons waving in the fading daylight just past my peripheral vision. I drove to Graylock Works when we got here to do ballet and yoga in an old mill and then I drove to the gas station and then to the local hotel lobby where I sat incognito for a moment watching families in autumn dresses and long jackets filter in and out and in and out and then I drove home. I’ve been here for a while. It’s nice to find a house that I can float through. It’s nice that when I look around I see something aside from four small walls. A blizzard just began. It is strange, because the snow is flying horizontally in the Southbound wind, but the trees suddenly appear to be standing perfectly still. Wednesday Field Notes from Florida, Massachusetts and my Google Docs Diary: I woke up this morning and I cleansed my face and put on toner and then guasha with rose oil and then red light therapy while stretching.

Inline links: Girl Insides

January 08, 2026 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, December 22 Where do your turtles go in the winter, Zoe asked me, a few nights ago. The pond is made of running water, I said. It doesn’t freeze over, and the turtles just stay put. Zoe leaned forward, then, and told me, in a low voice, not to be affected by the temper tantrums of others. I nodded. I said something about the wind. There’s just been something manic in the wind is all, I said. Zoe nodded. Bright winter light reflecting off the turtle pond like a beam this morning. No natural light in the apartment, and no one really left in the city at this point in the winter, but the courtyard is shimmering shimmering shimmering. Longest night of the year. Early morning. Packing up my bags and then I’ll leave for a while, or at least for one week. The other girls at dinner a few nights ago were talking about the things that necessitate passivity, and the things that necessitate action. I’m thinking of moving to LA and getting super into my career, one of the girls was saying. What sort of career? Creative director. I’ve been getting super into my career right here, one of the other girls chirped. A career is a really important thing for a woman to have, her friend deadpanned. The first girl looked surprised. That was so backhanded. She said. You know I don’t actually want one of those. That was so mean. I think that was the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me. After dinner, I went back to my apartment and I stayed there for a while. For a few days actually, which I have never done before and never will again but the stories were flowing like water and I was drifting in and out of dreams where everyone was yelling around me. The apartment was empty and pale and I could see small objects fluttering slightly from the wind through the open windows every time I opened my eyes. The time passed quickly, like nothing at all, and now it is dusk and a full Winter Solstice cycle later. It’s not that I’ve ever been truly manic, or really even bored. It’s just that I found it easy to stay put, for once. There’s no snow on the walk to Caffe Reggio, but the streets are still white with cold. The order here is veggie soup with grilled chicken chopped up and placed at the bottom of a thick white ceramic cup, a neopolitan pastry, coffee with milk. The cafe is warm and full of cheer even though we are at the top of the Lost Week Of The Year. The goal now is to practice being quiet more. The goal is to distinguish between miracles and curses. There are no curses on the Amtrak to Boston this year, though the light is kind of melancholy and the station is less full than I remember it. I get on the wrong train first, and then it’s eerie and first class all the way down. On the right train, pulling out of New York, there are flames like eternal torches burning outside the factories. and underneath the bridges. Listening to Morrissey and George Martin to remind myself of things that are beautiful. The ride is quick and quiet. No strange women throwing themselves at the side of the carriage. No thieves in New Haven, though I’m pretty sure train heists don’t happen anymore and haven’t for a while. Nobody yells or seems particularly cognizant of their surroundings, least of all of me. Last Christmas, it was chaos all the way to Massachusetts. In the dining car, a man is talking about Snow Days. He can’t help but like snow days, because he likes the way they make his daughter’s face light up. Train snacks come in little packages like secrets. Tinfoil and cardboard and many layers to unwrap. It’s just a hebrew-all-beef hotdog and a white claw inside, but the ordeal of it is nice all the same. “Winter” by Johann Wofgang von Goethe is playing off the radio when I arrive. The drive from the train is dark and silent, except for Davey-the-dog jumping at the window. The old magicians were poets,” the radio is saying. “Their art was not to turn one thing into another, but to seek the hidden form of a thing and put it into words. The essence of the thought is that true creative power lies in revealing the inherent, often unseen, nature of the world through art and language,” a woman is reciting on the radio. Her voice is soft and she speaks in a thick British accent. It’s still dark outside, and pine bows are strung over the wooden rafters, along with baby lights that flicker slowly, on and off. The fields are gray and hazy and soft and sheathed in a light fog so you can still see through the window, but not very clearly. “Everyone who saw her looked away quickly,” the reader is saying, on the radio. “as if what she had could be caught by being close. For her it was only winter. Inside and out. She would carry it with her, wherever she went.” Welcome to Night Tracks, the radio says. Where the land is covered in a blanket of snow. Tuesday, December 23 It did snow overnight. Three glass mason jars of water on the kitchen table, along with orange juice, cups of black coffee, and a lemon tart from the Concord Cheese Shop. The whole set up is glimmering in diamond and crystalline light. Everyone else is gone, for the day, and I know because I could hear them talking on their way out. Something about elevators and broken door knobs and all the horrible ways one can get trapped and then die. Someone my sister knew in a small apartment in Berlin sent the bathroom door knob tumbling out into the living room and thus sealed herself inside. Some friend of a friend got stuck in a careening elevator for hours on end, dropping up and down and lurching faster and faster between the twentieth floor and ground. She was about to make contact with the earth and splinter herself. Really, she was. It was about to happen when the elevator stopped. A fireman emerged with a master key. The friend was fine. One is aware, I could hear everyone saying as they all bundled up in winter coats, that when one dies of claustrophobia, the causation of one’s demise is directly correlated to one’s solitude. The doors slammed and in a rush of cold and morbid conversation and bright morning, everyone was gone. I’m in the woods again, after all that energy. It’s just one week all at once. It’s just ten am and there are still small snow flurries blowing off the evergreen forest. Wednesday, December 24 Christmas Eve - accounting for beautiful hours I went to the salon in the car park by the laundromat, where I used to make snow angels in the dead grass, while I waited as a child.

REDACTED resolutions for the benefit of oneself and others Friday, December 26 I woke up to it like a snow globe outside. The type of storm that is hard to describe unless you are me, waking up surrounded on all sides by everything soft and quiet and shimmering in a room that has always been yours. Everything coated white and sweet and branches out my window still heavy from the fresh cover of the storm. Looking at the snow through the sheen of sheer white curtains in my window. Looking at dried wild flowers rising out of fields and the pine forest past the farm shivering kind of silver and the green of the shed and the barn creating pops of color against all that bright white. And all of this is just to say that I slept peacefully through the night and waking up this morning I do feel like I can access this place and this holiday and a sense of rootedness in myself, physical form, physical home, in a way that in the past few months I have not felt capable of understanding. Last year I spent every morning at home writing: cold crisp clear morning and everything it is better than I possibly could have imagined. Last year, I took the train back to a glass apartment in the sky and floated in infinite life for a few more weeks, and then I began to scream. Laundry and writing in my google docs diary at the soapstone counter this morning. I can’t tell if the storm is silent, or if it sounds like ice and little bells. Amelia called last night to tell a different version of the usual story. I am getting so creeped out again, Amelia said. My room here is pale and quiet and blue. it is the only bedroom above which there is no attic, so I can really hear the wind. I’m not creeped out, I told Amelia. Everything about your story just feels kind of distant and strange. Driving to get coffee in the old town center and I’m not hitting anyone’s bumper as I wheel around into Cumberland Farms. Toes cold in my Bean Boots. Extremities always cold from Raynod’s Disease and avoidance of contact with rough fabrics like “wool” out of delusional distaste for “overstimulation.” The town is kind of story book snowy, too, though less so than in the fields by the house, where everything is encased and total and like a picture and a dream and one scene all at once. The scene is less all encompassing here, by noon, in town, where the heaviest parts of the snow have already started to drip down and melt. It is strange to be alone here. Wind moving quickly outside my car and I did imagine something else. I’ve imagined everything a million times over, and so I guess it’s hard to pinpoint any one scenario. Things change very quickly. It used to take my breath away and now it doesn’t. I watch a woman running in place in a phone booth like a treadmill. I watch a young dad placing pennies on the train track with his kids where the commuter rail comes through. Sitting in my car watching the trains and mostly just holding my hands up to the heat. Everything is covered in a blanket of snow. In the car, I have; almond milk latte with peppermint and sugar free vanilla, vitamin D3, vitamin C, Inositol, fish oil, black seed oil. Taking it all in big huge gulps. Taking it all and then stuffing the wrappings in my bag and resuming watching everything around me. Later, I am reading Alain de Botton Architecture of Happiness in blue hour dusk and I am in the passenger seat driving on the highway when I look up to find: it is dark. Crescent moon. The George Washington Bridge looks so beautiful, my aunt says. I’ve never seen it glow like that. It’s never been this dark, this early, on this drive, before. There’s never been a drive that was as fast and smooth and calm, as this one. Back in New York City, it smells like caution to the wind and the mania of a week that exists in a void. Rushed back from dusty fields and Winter Break to find that no one else is here. You can tell that no one else is here, because the sidewalks on the Upper West Side are piled high with snow banks, no foot prints, yellow glow from the townhouses I pass in a yellow taxi cab on my way downtown, but perhaps the lights are simulated or at the very least on a timer, because there are no shadowy figures or even moving silhouettes visible past the windows. Central Park is pitch black, covered in snow that I can’t see but it makes the outlines of things kind of rough and cartoonish. It’s not that I actually believe nothing to be real. I’m just watching the shape of things kind of morph all around me. On the last night of the Lost Week of the Year, I walk to Dr Clark for the sake of fresh air and doing the things I say I will. My apartment was quiet and clean, because I left it quiet and clean. I returned to everything totally unchanged. The quiet part was shocking, and then it was ok. The city was kind of like a winter wonderland, too, except for the snow that had already turned kind of black. On the Houston Street median strip, I was stranded amidst blurry traffic with a man in a blanket, rocking back and forth and drinking whisky from the bottle. HEY, he said. Hey, I responded. He seemed surprised, and I became immediately afraid. Whatever. Everything was normal. Cannot become cynical. Dr Clark’s is quiet, my friends texted, on my walk. I’m sorry we lied and said that Dr. Clark’s was lively, my friends said, when I arrived. You didn’t say it was lively, you said it was quiet, I responded. The bar was full of dried flowers and almost no people. Emilia brings everyone rounds of cheesecake and superba beers. Dried flowers everywhere I turn, these days. Dried flowers everywhere for those with eyes to see. Here are the things that are making me feel suspicious, I told my friends.. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, January 8 From 12:15pm and 4:15pm at Film Forum — Last chance to see Peter Hujar’s Day - “The best film in Sundance is just two people talking.” - Vulture. | Tickets here

Inline links: Film Forum, here

Brandy Melville6 mentions across 6 issues

Brandy Melville is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 6 times across 6 issues between February 14, 2025 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "On film, I wear a dress from Brandy Melville"; "stumbled down in my socks and Brandy Melville"; "long black Brandy Melville dress". It most often appears alongside New York City, Night Club 101, Prada.

Article page: Brandy Melville
Mention count: 6
Issue count: 6
First seen: February 14, 2025
Last seen: March 06, 2026
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Meditations February 14, 2025
mutually assured destruction May 06, 2025
Fever Dreams November 05, 2025
Hotel Lobby Gossip December 09, 2025
Life-in-a-lab February 25, 2026
Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

New York City 4 shared issues
Night Club 101 4 shared issues
Prada 4 shared issues
Washington Square Park 4 shared issues
Celia 3 shared issues

Source context

February 14, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, February 10 I woke up in a storm today. Stormed around the apartment a bit, all mad about who knows what, stormed to the gym for self actualization, skipped all the fashion week stuff last night, the show I was so excited for, the after parties too. I was sick, after all, though I didn’t realize it then. You only realize it now, sunroof windows, all this energy, the contrast visible now that you’re flooded with Being Well. “It’s funny how you live off the provisions David and the world throw at you,” Lara texts me. “Having a hard time articulating a reason/framework to start taking care of yourself more sometimes that isn’t cheesy,” Lara says. “It will be good for your writing because you’ll get more information from the environment and have more energy,” Lara determines. “I actually do care about health, vanity skin etc, I just have cognitive dissonance," I say. And I do. I ordered collagen, after all. This is not so bad. None of it is so bad, really. I am thinking of joining David in Paris. It's a bit of an act of fleeing, though, and it's no good to leave out of some desire for escapism. I am treading very cautiously this morning. A matcha with almond milk and the oatmeal with apples and cinnamon and raisins. The bright sun is melting all the bright snow. They are talking about Aristotle's Ethos Pathos Logos in class today. The only one that matters to me is the Ethos of it all. I believe everything I’m told if I trust the authority of the person telling it to me. I’m all swallowed up in the undiscerning masses. It would be nice to leave New York, yes, but it will be nice to stay here, too. It'll be nice to come back to life right where I've been sleeping. In the evening, my friends arrive. They sit at my kitchen table, and they tell me crazy stories about staying up late and everything that happened in between. I was lonely for a moment, or really, I was just struck by the the being alone of it while he is still away, but then my friends arrived, and the stories were all sparkling and shocking. I know secrets again, now. It's more fun when I have things to hold. Wrapping my hair twice in towels by the open window before bed. It's too cold to keep the window open, but the space heater was drying everything out. Lara left some cocktail shrimp in the fridge, and I drop the tails into the empty Sephora box on the floor. I'll still take out the trash, I am not more disgusting than average. Tuesday, February 11 Coconut oil, beef bone broth, muscovado sugar on a silver spoon for breakfast. There is reason to think this kind of thing will make me become better. I would be very easily indoctrinated into a cult based on the certain determining factors, I forget the exact formula of each trait but I know my balance of each fits the bill; agreeability, desire to belong, etc. I have to stay vigilant. Left to my own devices and I’m half asleep and I’m making potions. I wrote a story in the night. Hologram Girls, I called it. Stupid title but I think this one, yes particularly this one, I imagine I could turn this into a book with just some discipline and a little joie de vivre. Natasha comes over just as I am starting to lose my mind. Just as the snow is starting, too. Snow in the evening, and Natasha is taking photos of me on film. Usually, I wouldn’t like this. Me, at home, on film. Madelyn would have something to say about Lacan and the image of it all. I would have something to say about; I’ve been addicted to deciphering the angles of my face in my mind until they become shapes and forms and pieces beyond recognition. Vanity is so obviously self indulgent, so blatant in its gluttony that it avoids interpretation, becomes silly to give voice to, turns omnipresent. Out Of Your Mind And Into Your Body. You will walk on the treadmill and you will write this sentence until it becomes true. I don’t function well in my own company. That’s the truth of it. Even the most basic things. On film, I wear a dress from Brandy Melville, black tights, barefoot or, the Prada boots my mother found for me cheap at a vintage store in Vermont. The snow hasn’t started yet. I like taking photos at home, and I trust Natasha with the camera. I can’t see my own reflection. It’s fading to blue hour in the greenhouse windows. We will see how this turns out. At drinks, later, with old friends, their Colleague came, and he's talking about how if you are not early you are late. He works in Revenue Recovery, he explains. Like if someone ordered a burger and fries but they forgot to pay for the fries, he would recover that, but for bigger things. For things like a scalpel when they’re doing surgery. “If they lose the scalpel?” I ask. “If they lose the revenue,” he says. I’ve felt very defensive lately. I’ve felt an annoying need to emphasize things like I know what Deloitte is, but barely. I’ve felt an intolerable need to explain things like where a Reading ends and a Party begins. This is the greatest bar in the world, I am told. You can tell, because my vodka soda is actually full of clarified juice. I say something insufferable about how I prefer hotel lobby bars and martinis. We could all go to DCP (Double Chicken Please), someone suggests. Because this, in truth, this DCP is actually the greatest bar in New York. Outside, it’s snowing now. Inside, there are big red orbs on the ceiling and the bartenders keep swinging them around in big sweeping circles. I thought they did it on the hour, I thought they did this like a clock, but the time keeps passing and the orbs keep being set in motion, seemingly at random. There is talk of vulgarity in comedy at our table. There is talk of a probiotic soda brands marketing scandal and the colleague hates influencer marketing, he thinks its immoral, and I’m asking things like the dumbest questions in the whole world like oh but do you think that any marketing really is moral though, and oh but do you think that brands are people, though, and oh my god you can hear your own echos sometimes and you can just want to scream. Outside, the snow is making the street and all its lights become dizzy-like. They pulled the shades down behind me in the window in the restaurant due to the draft, and I wished they hadn’t, but I like it better coming out into this quiet night covered in snow like a quiet surprise. Yellow cab fringed with ice. This will always be lovely. I’ve felt a little more lyrical in my writing lately, and there is nothing wrong with this at times, only at times. Except, the repetition I think, feigns a kind of spirituality I don’t actually have when I am doing things like being on my phone and eating protein heavy processed snacks. Later, returning home, reading more of Augustine’s Confessions to penetrate these skin deep musings. I put the space heater on the floor and I do feel sad now, overwhelmingly so, when I think about how terrible things could come to pass so quickly and how I could just be caught off guard, somewhere on a long walk, somewhere being vain. I sleep downstairs tonight, because I do feel very small, and because there are no shades upstairs to cover all that glass. Lying under all that night sky, you begin to think that it might suck you right in. Wednesday, February 12 After I walk outside this morning, where the thin branches of the trees are still coated in these thin smooth layers of snow even in this early morning sun, and after I go to The Standard for the latte with almond milk, after Libra for the small cookie with tahini and chocolate chips, after class and then the walk home and then the dropping off of laundry and the grocery store and the run in the cold sun, after all of this; David returns from Paris bringing a hairbrush and perfume from Officine Universelle Buly. We are going to go out, but then there's ginger beer and vodka on the kitchen table and the caesar salad pizza from La Vera and then, it's nicer to just stay here. Thursday, February 13 I’m back to listening to the interviews today. I’m not sure what these will become, but there’s a lot of wisdom in other people's words, and a lot of hesitation in my own voice when recorded. There is some existential dread these days, but David says it’s all just math I don’t understand at all, and the apocalypse is not imminent. I disagree sometimes, but I am trying to worry more about things like the State Of My Soul. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Friday, February 14 If I was looking for a last minute dinner reservation tonight, here is where I would go… Knickerbocker Bar and Grill is my favorite restaurant in New York and I’ve lauded it many times before. Classic, old school, not too many frills but still feels tasteful and nice, great t-bone, liquor on the grand piano, jazz on the weekends, etc etc etc. I like this description best - Beckett Rosset on his father dining here: “My father went here for lunch for god knows how many years. He probably consumed hundreds of gin martinis and rum and cokes there. When he died, after the memorial at Cooper Union, the family and close friends, a good thirty or forty people, went there. The owner comped everything. I thought it would not survive covid but clearly it has. Glad to know a new generation has taken to it.”

Inline links: Officine Universelle Buly, Knickerbocker Bar and Grill

May 06, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, April 27 Sitting up in the middle of the night and saying things I don't mean and, it's not that I'm talking in my sleep exactly. More so, I've been trying to figure out if this harshness comes from being evil or if maybe it's more of a vindictive thing instead. Being vindictive implies, at least, that you are seeking some sort of equilibrium. Wrong and be wronged. You aren't just a gratuitous little freak about it. Causality is irrelevant, and I'm nauseous at the gym, playing high vibration Youtube videos in my headphones, standing on an electric plate that can jostle my insides, lymph nodes, drain me like a detox, and yes, there needs to be one of those soon. Making calls and making complaints, and then I'm like, oh sorry, I didn't mean it, I was drunk. And then I'm saying that I feel crazy instead. I feel insane. You don't understand. I have lost complete touch with my judgment. Costa Rica, in the rain I was kicking around mud with my feet and drinking too much and his friends were like oh you think you're in a teen movie or something because I was saying kind of nasty things, too. It's way worse in New York. That is the definitive thing and, also the fact that there is nowhere else. Something can be confusing and still not impossible to regulate. Sorry to be all obfuscated about it. I can control my consciousness. It's my consciousness after all. I go to church in the evening, which feels unbelievably affected - would a girl that is evil redeem herself on her knees before God? - though, that isn't really the question. You believe in good and evil, yet you have found yourself entirely incapable of distinguishing the difference between the two. Yes, then, prognosis, logical conclusion, you have lost your mind. I eat a cookie for breakfast and then the leftovers of the quiche for dinner that I fugue state ordered for my boyfriend at six am, which was a disaster in and of itself. I decided to do something nice, and then the delivery guy couldn't figure out the buzzer and so I stumbled down in my socks and Brandy Melville, I wasn't even very polite about it when he handed me my bag. I pointed to the buzzer and said that's the buzzer and then I called my boyfriend over and over because I realized, also, I'd forgotten to bring down keys. It's the type of day where I spend almost no time eating, but I still feel kind of full in a bad way. Everything I did eat is so calorically dense that it creates some kind of cognizant dissonance. I shouldn't feel this bogged down from just some stupid scraps. I don't want to say terrible things, I said. And yet you constantly are saying terrible things, he said. I wish we didn't do these things, I said. That's like saying you wish spiders weren't real, he said. People are vicious and awful. Then, I do pilates from the pilates app that they sent me for free on Instagram. I'm enough of an influencer these days that brands will send me spam mail disguised as PR. Like 20% off coupon codes to their clothing line personalized just for me, but I still have to pay them 80% if I want the clothes. This means, basically, that I am not an influencer at all, but I have just made things like my email address and my diary psychosis way too public. The pilates studio said - "share if you can!" but I'm sorry, I can't, I'm not really talking about me, I'm talking about something else. First name, last name, coupon codes, face to the name, you're ruining all my plausible deniability. I started sobbing by the window, and he said don't worry, you're sweet. I started thinking he was dead, and he said don't worry, I'm ok. I'm blurring the timelines a bit. He told me I could meet him on the steps of a Chinatown apartment a little bit after sunset. Inside, his friend took calls and let the bathtub-in-the-kitchen Chinatown apartment become a kind of neutral territory. I sat in the guest room and held my breath. Say the same things over and over, and because you mean it, they eventually stick. Viewing everything in black and white. They've told me that's my problem. That and being too suggestible, and also out of control. I started being all dramatic about it and yeah there's been too much partying, but I come to learn I'm pretty much like this sober, too. Things were really really really pure and sweet, and I keep on thinking in ninety days, ninety days of being pure again, and everything bad can be problems that belonged to someone else. I am trying to become like a Monk about it. It's not so much that my impulse towards reaction is wrong, but rather that I act purely on impulse, and impulse alone never did anything other than make a situation that much worse. Spring and Redemption, I say, on my dumb fucking TikTok. Spring and redemption, my boyfriend says. Yeah, that's cute, this one is cute. Did you spell synchronicity wrong for engagement or to be insane? my boyfriend asked. Insane, I said. He stopped to think about it. So stupid, he said. You aren't that insane. Order diet pepsi bean and cheese burrito nicotine gum and we're lying in the sun. So much sun through the windows that we have to keep the blinds shut or the light goes too crazy, the air conditioning fires up but not much can be done in the face of UV like this. Lucky, luck,y lucky. I spent the week talking to myself. Lying on the floor and I'm trying to seek cognizance in repetition. The same word three times. First, you remember what it means. Second, you determine what you think is true. You don't take it for granted. If you don't take it for granted, then you won't lose your mind. Monday, April 28 Eiverything gets better overnight. No more crying in my sleep. 2:22am and I’m not yelling. I see things more with precision than as if through angels and mystics. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be so transcendental about it. It’s really evil to try to mythologize something that is neither beautiful nor true. I stayed at Hudson Square until late last night. Black socks and black shoes and a tennis skirt that doesn’t match to be late to class today. The sun has rushed back and it’s iced tea no breakfast no lunch. David meets me at Cafe Reggio, where to our left, an awful woman is berating her husband to levels of borderline abuse, and to our right a lovely couple is talking about the difference between mere activity, and real fulfillment. You gain fulfillment from things like C-suite and making tv shows and real estate, the man is saying. Activity is something like going to Europe, he is telling his wife. These are the things that fulfill us, for others it might be different, the woman is saying. I am surprised to hear, that in referencing C-Suite, they are suggesting real fulfillment.. Materially, things are working themselves out. The rot has been first, material, and then secondly, spiritual. We go to Lupa for a lovely spring dinner. Sweet then sour then sweet. I am endlessly interested in reiterations, but that just makes things worse and worse. Homemade focaccia and olive oil and arugula salad and lobster corn ravioli and lamb chops and tartufo which is like a shell of hazelnut, ice cream, paper plane to drink and the restaurant is closing by the time we leave. Tuesday, April 29 You stop a night terror like this: creep down the ladder and say to your boyfriend, you need to turn off the projector right this second. The light was emitting vibes that were very off putting and I was concerned about scentless and odorless gas. My boyfriend makes me pasta and gives me a beer. You kind of briefly entered a state of psychosis, he tells me. I get super offended by that one. A bad dream doesn’t mean I need lithium or something, I say. I didn’t say you have schizophrenia, he says. I said you seemed to be under the impression that the projector light was toxic, poison, and evil, which is the very definition of a state of psychosis - the merging of reality with hallucination. No, I say, that’s the very definition of a bad dream. Anyways, I’ve been having sleep paralysis because I’ve been having insomnia. I’ve been much more normal about it. Run, coffee, iced tea, the world's worst sandwich back at Cafe Reggio in the afternoon. Do you have any favorite spots in New York, the tall man next to me is asking the short man across the table. “Well, it’s far from here,” the short man tells the tall man. "it's really far from here. it's called Coney Island." I pick out all the healthy bits of my dinner and eat just the bread instead. I’ve been feeling tempted to get really fucking skinny again. Being weird and off putting with my sandwich and then leaving my scraps with abandon. Feeling pretty sane today, I don't really want to get out of here anymore. Wednesday, April 30 Up all night just like last week, and I'm in class reading from my story like oh I'm probably not going to freak out but it's still a possibility. David turns older today. He's still asleep when I get home in the afternoon. Macarons and iced coffee on the table. We go to Vol de Nuit and I get promptly drunk on cider. It's bright and nice and I'm writing tipsy. This week won’t eb and flow in the way that I hate. Make yourself head empty and then see what happens. We go next door to Dear Stranger for dinner. Red snapper and jalapeno sauce and wedge salad and shrimp tostadas. Two martinis. David makes a scene in a scuffle with one of those guys on the streets who shill comedy shows on the way home. Then, I wake up and it feels like morning but it’s only just past midnight. I used to miss the things I have right now so much. I’d miss it through abstraction, really. All through hypotheticals because it had never really been mine in the first place. It shocks me when I see my life emerge unscathed from fits of self destruction. Playing fast and loose when it comes to the thing of redemption. I am trying not to be that way. First it is sour and then it is sweet. This is one of two directions that any progression of events can take. Obviously, I know the direction that I would like to pursue. Thursday, May 1 Everything has come alive again, though I'm not quite sure if it's solid yet. I almost step in a pool of blood on Rivington Street, and then we're talking about the uptick in dead bodies that people keep finding around town these days. I'm going to stop being so morbid. You can be thinking about one thing, and then you can decide to be thinking about something else. Yesterday evening felt sparkly and nice. David and I stayed at Vol de Nuit for a while, drinking cider, which makes me feel full but not that drunk, lots of sunshine and we bring in our own food. Peanut mayonnaise garlic sauce on french fries. I'm less disgusted by these things than I used to be. Yesterday's dinner felt nice but a little too drunk. I was drinking iced tea at two in the morning and then my boyfriend was throwing bottles across the room in a way that was funny, not crazy. I got an email asking me if I'd like to talk about Dimes Square for a German newspaper but I wouldn't like to do this and so I didn't respond. I got an email regarding Amtrak tickets. Things have been too whiplash lately. I got an email from my friend. I owe edits on some projects, and I like when big things happen quickly, though we are not quite there yet. The nature of how I am creatively always edges on narcissism - reflection and observation being more natural than imagination to me, I suppose. although the night terrors suggest some kind of imagination. People like to tell me that. I’m close to the mystics. On a literal level - clinical - the night terrors suggest nothing other than a flirting with psychosis, though my paranoia does not extend to fear over my mind. Nobody actually thinks I’m losing my mind Physically, a parasite cleanse can be dangerous because the heavy metals your parasites held will be dumped right back into your body. I do have paranoia surrounding being poisoned, though this is more a concern of the mind. April - I wrote 40,000 words in my secret diary that I do not share here. This is surely excessive. There are worse things. What I meant to say is: the narcissism has felt less like filtering observation and reflection through the self these days, and more like actually just kind of sloppy-like, thinking about Myself. The sun is nice, because it heats my greenhouse apartment so quickly - downstairs becomes for the daytime, and upstairs becomes so bright and burnt to a crisp that it has to only be for sleep. Sleeping in the day here is nice. It’s like somebody cast a spell on me. I am not someone to sleep in the day, but a greenhouse apartment is something like a potion this time of year. Friday, May 2 When I think about how to synthesize an idea into a quote or a meme, something pithy really, then the idea is immediately ruined. Even it was a good idea at the start. This makes me want to distance myself from the quote, meme, thing of posting more generally I suppose though, I’m still having fun. I’m so sure about things, now. I was feeling really really really unsure about things and I’m so sure now. I feel so bad for acting all ambivalent about it. I’m so certain. I have never been more certain and I have never been more sincere. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 6 From 7pm at Pete’s Candy Store — Mind Palace Poetry presents The Girls Room, with special guest host Sophie Appel. Featuring Sascha Cohen, Siena Foster-Soltis, Jude Lavelle, and Montana James Thomas.

Inline links: Pete’s Candy Store

November 05, 2025 · Original source

A good nights sleep Monday, October 27 I opened the window to let in the eerie and whistling wind after the reading last night and then I stayed up late, fallen leaves and pollen drifting past my headboard. Called Celia to talk about the same things all over again. Called Celia to request that she confirm my fears and delusions and certainties for the million billionth time. I’m getting a really creepy feeling, Celia said. Like a horror movie, Celia said. In my earliest memories, I recall walking around with this very deep self-assuredness. I would wake up everyday feeling so certain and blessed for the absolute pureness of my heart. So when he said he understood me as perfect, it was like oh someone finally understands me the way that I understand myself, Celia said It is important to always have pure intentions, I told Celia. I like when people share my aesthetic sensibilities and are unfazed about the things I worry hedge towards evil, I told Celia I’m starting to feel so creeped out, Celia told me. Tuesday, October 28 Nothing was so creepy. I was not scared of anything anymore. I could still hear the wind through my open window and in the daylight it was nice. The nicest, really. The nicest thing in the world. I slept through the afternoon half aware of this nice and floating wind and then I donned a black skirt, black top, black Ganni boots and I drifted through orange-hour Washington Square Park and a light fall rain towards the lobby of The Marlton Hotel. Where there was a fire and Celia perched by it, waiting for me. Nothing ever happens. I used to be so arrogant, I told Celia, at The Marlton. Arrogance is a good sort of thing to hold onto, sometimes. Celia told me. Celia said something about our friends being cancelled online, something about moral hierarchies, she was done feeling sorry for herself and love thy god with all thy heart and all thy might and acedia is the only truly mortal sin. The Marlton Hotel and God and Self Indulgence. French fries with garlic aioli and dirty martinis and tuna tartar and writers workshop without too much writing. I was sitting there kicking my feet around and feeling like I might die if I couldn’t break-the-pattern-today-so-the-loop-does-not-repeat-tomorrow. Do you remember what life used to feel like? Do you wish to live forever? Do you wish to never suffer? Do you wish to never suffer, forever? I’m sorry to be cryptic about it. Wednesday, October 29 In my fever dream, I was back on the Amtrak heading towards Florida, Massachusetts and everyone around me was screaming. We were traveling to record something regarding Esoteric Health. It was still October, and I knew the omens we were seeking to be somewhat evil. Everyone was furious at me, and this only bothered me because I did not know why. Woke up in New York City yelling, somewhere between a memory and a fugue state. A recurring dream I used to have where I was driving with my parents over the George Washington Bridge in a winter storm and an old woman was lurching at the vehicle, tugging at the door handles, talking about how it was almost too late. A train ride last winter where everyone was screaming at me because my ex-boyfriend was being abrasive and I was kind of in on the bit. A small faux-thatched-roof apartment in Greenwich Village where no one is angry because no one is here. I paid my dues in apologies and reparations in October, and now God has rewarded me with a real life fever and unpleasant news. A lot of things I loved became shrouded in delusion and vicious self-involvement. A lot of clarity and purity of heart became hard to access because my morning was shrouded in a fever. Kind of wanting to scream. Kind of wanting to take my Brown Prada Boots and Black Fry Boots and Grandmas Suede Ballet Flats to the cobbler. My Blue Pearl Necklace to the jeweler. My Sue Wang Dress and Red Vintage Slip to the tailor. Kind of have been like a bull in a china shop with all my beautiful things, and now there is so much to fix. Kind of feeling indignant. I should really focus on believing in something. I believe in hotel lobbies, superficially. I believe in other things, too, but I am trying to have a bit more discretion about it. Thursday, October 30 Here is what has happened: I am sitting at The Marlton hotel now where everything is cast in a kind of olive glow and the fire place is roaring and I ordered a cheese board with camembert, comté, manchego, six grapes, two halfs figs, spoon of truffle honey and spoon of jam by myself. Ordered chamomile tea and sat with Rebecca and Dory in the sunroom with my fever, earlier. Now, I am sitting by the fire with my fever by myself. I am not ready to go home. I am not really ready to think or write about the sort of things that have happened. A small beautiful blond child and her brother a bit older just walked in both wearing sweet striped shirts. Their father just finished the marathon. Their mother is all smiles, pulling apples from her canvas bag and polishing them on the hotel napkins before placing the fruit in the beautiful children’s outstretched hand. I am green with envy. I am so overjoyed to be looking in on their Beautiful Life. An insufferable duo on a first date next to me is talking about how much they hate parades and how their work is industry agnostic. Their flirting is so nauseating. Bad voice physiognomy. They are flirting with each other in the most insufferable and sexless way and you can tell, so clearly, that they met on The Internet. I am starting to consider forgoing The Internet. There is a soulless kind of song and dance these people are doing. He is listing out his favorite types of Pasta Shapes and numbering his rankings on his stubby fingers. She is talking about food poisoning. Neither of them are religious. I am trying to stomach my distaste. If you have ugly thoughts they will seep through your skin and stomach and long black sleeves of your long black Brandy Melville dress and they will seep up through your mind and out of your pours and intermingle with the rancid scent of your fever that will become a deeper sort of illness and start to rot and fester in you forever. Your bitter and ugly thoughts will start to turn your face all ugly and ruined. I am trying to wish them grace and good will. I am trying to sip my tea and choke down fruit truffle honey and crackers. Twist my hair into two very tight braids. I want to find myself a little less repulsed. I want to look at these strangers’ pale forms and imagine them replaced by orbs of light. I want to look inside their rich inner worlds. I want to look into strangers’ eyes and not be afraid of staring or back holes. I want to wish them well. I want to hope they find a beautiful life. I want to hope they buy a beautiful life. Friday, October 31 Here is what has happened. Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage. Once; I lived in a glass apartment in the sky. I am not sure how things can oscillate in extremes, to that degree, with that level of hot and cold and up and down and everything cruel, like it became. I used to lie on the floor to feel close to things. Lie on the floor and dream about it. The past has been orbiting in ways that make me queasy along with the illness in the air, today and yesterday, since the eve of Halloween, really. At the Halloween Party in Chinatown I wore a black hat and milled about amongst red flowers, plum tart, candles and courtyards. Went bolting up the stairs to catch a car. Went walking under the Washington Square Park archway where the air was very crisp and I was very feverish. The park was overwhelming me with street performers and noise and light and stimulation. And then in the shadows and the grass and tucked away beyond the benches there are figures in sweatshirts and denim and long sweeping hair and interlaced hands and fallen leaves and everything sweet all around the edges. I was sitting at the edge of the park in June with my fingers interlaced and the beating sun fading into dusk and the summer stretching kind of hazy and breathless ahead. It is strange to try to remember anything. Strange all the stories I am hearing in the wind and the autumn and the fever dreams and another passing season. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, November 5 From 7pm at Night Club 101 — 99 Minutes or Less returns with Maison du Bonheur (2017, 62 minutes). 99 Minutes or Less is a new free film screening showing films that are (you guessed it) 99 minutes or less. This evening’s screening is guest programmed by Elissa Suh of Movie Pudding. After party to follow with sounds by Dj Kyle and Paradise by Replica

Inline links: Night Club 101, 99 Minutes or Less, Maison du Bonheur, Elissa Suh, Movie Pudding, Dj Kyle, Paradise by Replica

Hotel Lobby Gossip

December 09, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, December 1 Everyone is sick and dropping like flies but not me. I’m at a rooftop hot tub in Williamsburg tracing my hands through the water and watching the sun come up as I stare blankly ahead. I’m driving back to New York City squinting into the skeleton trees and the blue hour dusk that fills the space between them on the side of the road off the Mohawk Trail. Do you shop at Uniglo, my family members are asking? I am muttering something about Brandy Melville in response and then I am feeling vaguely nauseous. I am break the pattern today or the loop repeats tomorrow. I am imagining everything magical all the time. I am washing up on the Upper West Side where the streets are wide and quiet and sweet and winter rain has frozen everything shining. I am washing up in the Marlton Hotel Lobby, where I am telling Celia about my dream. In my dream, a composite of every person I’ve ever met was calling me on my phone, I tell Celia. They kept on asking me to turn the call to Facetime instead. They kept on saying it was time to see each other’s faces. They were warm and not scary and I was crying and pleading a lot, though I don’t know what for. Was it everyone you ever met, or just everyone you’ve ever cared for? Celia asks me. Same thing, I say. That is unequivocally untrue, Celia tells me. Tuesday, December 2 In The Marlton Hotel lobby, I order black coffee, avocado, smoked salmon and sourdough toast with the perfect type of butter. The butter with salt water mixed in, and then a tall bottle of sparkling water on the side, too. Eavesdropping at The Marlton Hotel, where the bar room is decked in Christmas cheer and the fire, per usual, is roaring. The conversations on either side of me are increasingly hallucinogenic. Two chirpy and pretty girls to the right, and two middle-aged Jewish ladies to the left This is how I feel with a lot of my relationships, one of the girls says. The first was not a provider, but I thought that I could fix that. The second was a psycho libertarian who got me health insurance as his sick way of trying to lock it down The last man I dated told me I was full of shit, her friend responds. I said something in earnest, and he said that I was full of shit. I could never see past that. Me saying something in sincerity, and him saying I was full of shit. On the other side, the middle-aged Jewish women are talking about pizza night. It’s pizza night and then it’s pepper night. They have no plans this week. These are the only plans they have made. I’m getting dinner with a man who thought his whole family was dead, but then they weren’t, one of the women tells the other. He is so amazing. He taught me about exercise. I get the zoomies, says her friend. We don’t work, and so we have to exercise. I hate people who don’t. Exercise? Exercise. When were things the best with him? The first girl is asking her friend. I think, before we met, the friend responds. Who was that coocoo-for-coco puffs lady that you got friendly with, the middle aged woman asks her friend. She is wearing a red amulet. We will call her Celine. Oh, she was crazy. and the sister was out of her mind. she was very beautiful You introduced her to me one week and we loved her. And then the next week you said; She Cannot. Come. Back. Here. We pick up interesting people. Everyone’s interesting It is so weird when we think about relationships as two full selves coming together, one girl is telling the other. They liked coats! Whole family of coat owners, Celine is telling her friend. I mean the father was GAY. The whole family was gay. My first kiss was gay. Well… his brothers were gay. All his brothers were gay…” Celine’s friend says. So he HAD to be! They’re all gay! As long as they’re happy…. Amongst the girls to the right, the conversation has turned to heaven and earth. Death and other realms. They are talking about Neurolink and how they were at a neurolink conference and they met a man who died for twenty minutes because he slipped and fell and chipped a tooth and affixated in his own blood. Do you want to hear what happened when he died?, one girl asks another Yes, the other responds. He was floating in light. He was disembodied. He could hear sounds but they weren’t sounds he could describe in human terms. There was a God-like presence, and God asked the man if he would like to stay. The man started to feel a pull towards earth. It was like when you wake up from a dream. God said you have a choice. God said everyone has a choice. The man made the decision to go back to Earth. The man woke up in the hospital bed. Her friend responds: I spoke with a psychiatry professor at Harvard who briefly died as part of a death-study, but he couldn’t tell me about it because he signed an NDA. He said he can’t say very much, but it’s going to be ok. Girl 1: So what do you think about that? Girl 2: I mean I definitely don’t believe in heaven or hell Girl 1: The reason I never killed myself is because I want to see what happens Girl 2: I mean I definetly do believe that consciousness is eternal… Wednesday, December 3 What do I care about now? Write and read. Wait with pulsing anticipation but not too much anticipation, mostly just a sense that some things are at their tail end and others at their precipices. Something in Saturn, maybe, but I am trying not to play with fire in this way. After I played Kali Uchis off the tinny computer speakers and I read books by healers who possessed demons and I drank sparkling water and cleaned everything top to bottom and flirted with danger a bit, Celia came over to sit on my floor. I think I’m having a bit of a panic attack, Celia texted me. Would you like to come sit on the floor of my apartment, I texted Celia. She arrived in a gray sweater and a blue wool scarf and bearing a suitcase that belonged to me. Do you like the window open? I asked Celia. I am feeling a bit cold, Celia told me. I am feeling very excited and ambitious, I told Celia. I have always had boundless energy and this is the only thing I know to be true. There are magazines on the way to the apartment and I am realizing how nice it is when things are very clean. I am going to go to The Marlton hotel now, Celia told me. Thursday, December 4 Writing, like a list, the things I have that I can quantify, now. A blog

February 25, 2026 · Original source

Tuesday Life-in-a-lab In my dream, the house was a lab. I woke up to light not just streaming no, but flooding, absolutely pouring through the long glass windows in front of me. I knew that once the light cleared, I would be staring into the heart of this lab. I knew it was a problem that I was anticipating waking up in a lab, because I knew that I should have been anticipating a morning waking up at home. Instead, I was finding myself totally nonplused about waking up in a lab. The important thing, I knew, as I woke up with a sense of increasing urgency, was to conjure up an image of a home, not a lab. You have been in a lab for so long that you have forgotten about home, a very confident voice inside my head was saying. A picture of my childhood bedroom appeared in a few frames. Different versions. Big white bed and blue wooden floors and presently frosty fields behind the house. Little twin bed yellow walls, carpeted floors, and hot summer cornfields outside. I couldn’t get it straight. If I was in a lab, then I needed to remember. You need to remember a place that actually exists, the lab-attendants were saying in my dream. Saying in my head. Glass apartment in the sky. Room at The Marlton Hotel. I’ve been eating vegetables and collecting things like dried flowers and books on Esoteric Health and buying wash-and-fold laundry service and being swept away to places like nice restaurants with no menus and nice-apartments-with-no-owners. I woke up in Connecticut. Can’t wake up in a lab if you never go to sleep. In the morning, I woke up at close to noon. I shared photos on The Internet of a very aesthetically-cohesive and un-lab-like home. I went to the bathroom to wash my face and collect myself as best I could. The house was beautiful, and I was unsure as to why I was watching things unfold from as if I was somewhere else. I made lists of things that were special, being places like this most of all. I made lists of things that compose self respect, and then I made lists of things that compose a life that is bright and white and full of light. The country is quiet and sometimes difficult for me, though I sleep through the night now and this changes everything. Downstairs, the dogs and Celia and the other were sitting under high lofted ceilings. There was a magical and silvery presence that mediation gives to a person. I asked about coffee and they told me there was coffee in the pot and I could heat it up in a silver bowl on the stove. The stove was green and handmade and you turned it on by flicking little metal burner switches. The bowl was nice and very small. I poured the coffee in the bowl and I waited for everything to begin to boil. I added vital proteins collagen and also oat milk creamer and also lots of white sugar because the esoteric health advice of the age says this is fine. There were homemade mini muffins from The Smith Bakery down the street on the counter (blueberry, morning harvest, strawberry corn, and chocolate chip) and so I cut each muffin in half, and then I had one-half-of-each. Two mini muffins total. I put two of the halves in the toaster, and I had two of the halves cold. Everyone started telling me about gnosticism and buddhism and catholicism. They recommended to me a friend who writes about God and married into a famous band. They recommended I come to meditate in places like New York, too. You look ready, Celia said, as I packed up my north face back-pack and changed out of split-sweatpants and banaa-republic-black-top. I’m not, I snapped, in response. Do you actually want to meditate more, Celia asked. I don’t say I want to do things I don’t actually want to do, I replied. I could not stop with all this harshness. Wednesday Grand Central Station Back in New York City and I am totally covered in dog hair. Shoes untied in Grand Central Station but there is nowhere for me to stop and tie them without risking some sort of stampede or at least massive inconvenience and so onward we go. A man just walked towards me rapidly and I flinched and then felt kind of bad. Then, he shouted; young lady can I ask you a question and so now I do not feel bad. My instincts were correct, and now I do not feel bad at all. Ok, fine, whatever. I used to love arriving back in New York and hearing all the music and the lights and I would twirl through this place nonpulsed. Then, I would twirl home. I used to get drunk-before-christmas at the midtown Cipriani and then giggle when people called my ex-boyfriend and I bad-people-for-cutting on the trains toward Albany, but I’m not allowed to move like that anymore. I used to sink into sixty-dollar taxi-cabs because I found the subway over-stimulating. My Prada purse used to be lined with shiny leather, but I got fidgety somewhere tropical and I ripped it all off so now we’re working with something more flattened and matte. Teenage girls used to fling themselves at the side of the train platforms, and conductors used to lose their whole crew in Boston and train heists used to happen. I used to consider everything to be pretty taken-care-of. I think I never used to notice when sometimes, problems would arise. On the train ride back to New York, tonight, the tracks were icy and slick and it was already kind of blue hour dusk. When I said goodbye, I told Celia I love you I love you I love you a million times over because I felt slightly neurotic about a weekend full of being slightly late and slightly harsh. I am smart enough to know that the only thing complaining makes you better at is complaining, so I decided to stop. In Grand Central Station, they are playing live music, and I watch a man propose, though no one else around the soon-to-be newlyweds reacted. No photos or energy. Sad. I am wearing beat up Ganni knee high boots and Brandy Melville long sleeved dress, and Zara blazer that I stole from Paul’s Baby Grande back when I was in the practice of going lots of places and stealing lots of things. I miss my Max Mara coat that I left at “tech week” and I miss “drinking” and I am suddenly desperate to be out the door. I imagine that when the subway doors fly open and I burst out free and all-in-one piece, I will see the Washington Square Park arch, and it will be glowing silver in mid-winter light. I imagine that the city will feel warm with soon-to-be-spring-humidity. I imagine that since groundhog day has come and gone the tides will change soon, and I imagine I will relinquish my Groundhog Day (1993) fantasies of nothing-ever-happens at some point down the line, when it all becomes a bit too much to take. Tomorrow, I will be taking my shoes to the tailor and then the next day, I will have a totally fresh new crop of things to wear. I imagine that soon, I will have a fresh new crop of things to consider. Thursday Whore Dialectics Greenwich Village’s bitcoin bar sports a libertarian clientele and taxidermy and a podcast studio and beef-tallow-fries. Tonight, it sports a projector screen from my old apartment that looks sad and small propped on stage, and a big audience in metal chairs, and a birthday party in the front room, and plenty of opportunities to make myself feel useful as I tinker with film equipment and fire off texts regarding “promotional material.” I am sitting at Pubkey Bar drinking a diet coke while I wait for the screening of “Whore Dialects” to begin. When I ordered my diet coke at the bar, a strange man made a strange joke about NA beer, and I felt immediately irritated and restrained by my self imposed limits. I am listening to a group of young men discuss the career path of “Internet Pervert” as one of the only viable post-AI jobs. Monetize your self destruction, they are saying. Male prostitution. Buying plushies is to women as buying porn is to men. There’s a strange pseudo-intellectual glare to it all and I am enjoying listening in. They are talking about Brian Kaplan, but they keep on mispronouncing his name. They are talking about scientists, rationalists, and flexible proposals. When they talk about Internet Perverts, there are stars in their eyes, less because of the sex, it seems, and more because the internet perverts are able to get some money and get some attention. The male influencer. That seems to be what they are starry eyed about. They are thrilled to be in the same extended universe as someone who might be able to garner some vague attention. This is a bar that usually makes me feel kind of hazy. This is a bar where I used to make scenes. Enough reminiscing, because I am here to watch a film that is all about auto-documentarians, which is in sharp contrast to the maladjusted forms of auto-diary or auto-fiction. In the film, a beautiful girl is in the back of a car with the wind in her face and she is drinking an Erewhon smoothie and talking about how Hollywood is dead and the monasteries are empty and you can’t be a nun or get a phd because you question what truth is, and these institutions just won’t let you get at it. After that, the film cuts to a scene where the girl is in a white dress being play-drowned in the ocean by a right-wing provocateur. The film crew sent the provocateur to stay with the girl, and it was kind of the perfect setup, a voiceover explains. The provocateur describes how when he arrived, the girl was in a state of almost total abjection. Like how kids who are sexually assaulted don’t shower to make themselves totally disgusting and unappealing, he explains. I find the provocateur slightly less interesting as a character than both the girl, and the disgraced art-advisor (another prominent character in the film) but I like when he argues about politics and then reconciles on a personal level with those around him in places like California. I like the scenes about the professionally fraught yet personally friendly relationship between the art advisor and his not terribly successful clients, ie the clients are disappointed but still use the advisor’s pool for summer swims. The client still dreams of having an eighteen person studio because this means tremendous success, and because this is just how men dream. When the provocateur is described but not depicted as losing control, it is explained that the jig is kind of up, because it’s no triumph of power to reign over somebody who is not even in control of themselves. I only watch the film once and I am not taking notes, really, during the public screening at the Bitcoin Bar, but I like it because it is auto-documentary not auto-fiction or auto-diary and as such, it is very precise. The film says, for someone like me in the conditions like the ones I occupy, here is what life is like. This is more matter of fact and less indulgent than saying; here is what life is like for me. At a party last month that was also all about art whores, the filmmakers wrote a few lines about a few of my friends. The women present were on average quite a bit younger than the men and looked fresh. Perhaps because of their age, or perhaps because of the care they put into their bodies and minds, but the vibe among the women was optimistic and exuberant. I thought this was nice. Nice, too, to catch purity in unexpected places while staying totally true. Friday Upper West Side Later, I am uptown and I am thinking about how I can become more self-disciplined so I can become more interesting. I am watching Pierre Le Fou at Lillian’s apartment on the Upper West Side and all the girls are dressed like characters in the film. Lilian keeps leaning out the window with a long skinny cigarette and I am drinking a glass of Sancerre because I just can’t quit. In this film, a very small man is holding a gun to a very beautiful girl’s head while she cuts her hair. The beautiful girl has a brunette bob, and she is wearing a red dress. The film is full of primary colors and very bright paint. When a man is stabbed, he bleeds red paint. Before a man explodes himself in dynamite at the end of the film, he paints himself blue. I like the film because the colors of the gore are all bright and fake like paint, and the colors of the scenery are all pastel and muted and lovely like real life. Summer in The Riviera. Beautiful people living a simple and crime-filled life. I have not watched very many films this year because I’ve been busy writing thirty-thousand-words-about-myself-per-week. In the last film I watched, a Japanese cat was exploded by a grenade, and when gore and guts spilled everywhere, I flinched and clenched my eyes shut. Do you want to leave, my friend asked, and what I wanted was to be resilient, but what I said was I don’t really care. Now, a girl in the film is sitting on a boat with a man, and she is talking about how the two have only known each other for a few million seconds. She’s such a stupid girl, Lillian says. I would say something like that, I respond. One-million-billion-seconds and one-million-billion-words. I am feeling bubbly when I am not feeling sick or shy. I am feeling like it’s time to be more light about it. When I look to my left, I see beautiful stained glass lamps and a defense surveillance tech-branded throw blanket. When I look to my right, I see an open window and all my friends leaning too far outside smoking skinny vogues. On the Internet, people are talking about how things are only interesting if they are true. Determinative reasoning then says, one should make what is true more interesting. Everything just became crystal clear. By which I mean, everything is operating on material terms now. DIRECTORY The full event calendar is now going to live on The Aleph - an exciting new platform by Noah Kumin of The Mars Review of Books. The Aleph is a marketplace and membership club for the arts, with an emphasis on supporting in-person events, production, and funding for artists. Programming featured will be intentional and curated, and include more opportunities for early-access and invitation-only events. If you would like to submit an event for consideration, please email me at chloegpingeon@gmail.com. Apply to join The Aleph here I will still be featuring select events on the blog, along with more eclectic or personal recommendations, news, and guest features. To start: David Rimanelli is perhaps my favorite person to follow on Instagram, as well as one of my favorite critics. Tonight, from 6:30pm at Tibet House, he will be reading, along with Kiely Sweatt and Sean Fabi. Tickets here.

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015?

March 06, 2026 · Original source

Appendix: Things Brandy Melville depop boatneck long sleeve dress, Zalt electrolyte zyn, Davolls tee-shirt, Angelmoon, Imperfaite, Prada boots, Monroe suede penny loafers, Frye leather riding boot Places Thai Diner, Vince’s Cobbler, The Manhattan Club, The Marlton Hotel, Tartinery, Caffe Reggio, Dr. Clark, Swan Room Read GirlInsides, The Masque of the Read Death, Fatherland (Victoria Shorr, 2026) Watch Pi (1988), The Biggest Sabotage in History (weird documentary youtube), A Place in the Sun (1951) Listen Gregarian Chants (via Health Gossip), Tango In The Night (1987), Drasticism (2026).

Los Angeles Apparel6 mentions across 6 issues

Los Angeles Apparel is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 6 times across 6 issues between August 14, 2025 and December 22, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "too-short Los Angeles apparel shorts"; "free Los Angeles Apparel clothing"; "Los Angeles Apparel throws a NYFW party celebrating the launch of the Soho Flagship Store". It most often appears alongside New York, Confessions, Night Club 101.

Article page: Los Angeles Apparel
Mention count: 6
Issue count: 6
First seen: August 14, 2025
Last seen: December 22, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? August 14, 2025
Early August August 21, 2025
City Built on Crystals September 09, 2025
Perfect Little Life September 12, 2025
Fever Dreams November 05, 2025
The social experiment is now over December 22, 2025

New York 5 shared issues
Confessions 4 shared issues
Night Club 101 4 shared issues
Amelia 3 shared issues
Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research 3 shared issues

Source context

August 14, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, July 28 Amelia is at the apartment when I arrive, bearing cloned keys and summer dresses. It is not a relief to return, I am afraid. Tiptoe across dusty slanted floors and this sense of oddity and dread creeps back no matter how quiet I am about it. There are planes overhead and I have loved all this glass before, but I am clenching my eyes shut now; wishing for drapes that close. Earlier, the flight from London was delayed hours upon hours and things went awry the moment I was left alone. Comparing notes of past present and future and then I laid my roller suitcase horizontal on the bathroom floor to take a seat and think about it. Left my passport in the airport bar where the woman beside me was making friends with every single customer cycling through aside from myself and then I sprinted over to security, where the lights were flashing all schizophrenic and neon and no one would speak. You'll miss your flight, dear, the airport attendant smiled. They opened a small door with a large electric key. They sent me to the Back Rooms. They sent me through endless identical silver doors and a mirror maze and down a long gray magic carpet. I emerged on the other side to find another magic carpet just like the first. I imagined infinite magic carpets extending in every direction. Motion activated so the feedback loop would reveal itself every time I thought I reached solid ground. I was not moving horizontal anymore. It was a vertical descent into the underbelly of Heathrow. I forgot the status of Boeing VS0137. I forgot to ever leave. I woke up in the Kids Play Center. We've lifted your curse, the airport attendant beamed. Most slides can also be used as rafts, they tell me on the plane. Cartoon villain voice playing on Virgin-Atlantic-TV and they're blasting it through the cabin speakers, too. You were an A+ travel companion, they told me in the airport. I wake up to take stock of these things: safety guidelines and praise. I fall back asleep. Tuesday, July 29 After things fell apart in June, I did not eat or sleep for four days and three nights. On the fourth night, I called the NYPD informational line quite dizzy and more out of curiosity regarding physical resilience and atrophy than out of any sincere safety concern. If you cannot sleep tonight, then you can call me in the morning, the operator said. And so I was unconscious in an instant. Put some limits on one's own neurosis. I decided to stay up late last night. It was muggy and hot outside JFK, and I missed the moors and the fog for just an instant. Then, the glass doors slid open into hot sweaty americana summer and all else was forgotten. Felt a bittersweet sort of close to home. Sat on the curb. The airtrain to the car park turned onto the highway. Felt like a road trip. Felt like team sports, two-in-the-morning, intermission. I'd been so quiet that day. I had not spoken one word since Heathrow. Everybody understood that the apartment was rotting. Great place but full of mold. Great place but full of memories both good and bad. Somebody should have thrown out the milk. Somebody should have done something about the feng shui. The dead trees. The slant of the floors. The roof, which nearly caved in last winter. Three in the morning arrival but I asked Amelia if I could come over instead, and Amelia understood it would be best to sit on her floor. Amelia had been leaning into performance art. How was your vacation, Amelia asked. Not transgressive and weird, I sighed. But rejuvenating, pleasant, precious in the sort of way I'd like to hang onto. And I am feeling physically fit from all the walking and running that went on and on and on. The heat wave has not passed in New York despite one more week dwindling into summer, and I sleep until midday around when I open my eyes and begin to feel uneasy. The lines out the stores are down the block and everyone is becoming very thin. The summer foods are things like GREENS 01 Juice and maca-powder-peanut-butter-protein-bites and very rubbery cocktail shrimp at The Smith. It is Julia who suggests The Smith for dinner and I am not picky with those sorts of things. It is me who suggests the party, despite my increasing hopes, generally, to avoid these sorts of things. Wednesday, July 30 Sitting at Banter with the Big Breakfast and hot green tea reading fairytales. It was a nice night last night. Whirling sort of thing. Nightclub101 to KGB to following a group to Ludlow House to Ripple Room. The sort of thing I like as often as possible, but really must limit to now and then. Sitting at the Australian Cafe now, using my Moldavite to mark my place in my book. The fairytales are describing relentless compassion as a form of some sort of psychological warfare. Psychosexual manipulation. Relentless compassion so as to provide one with a moral advantage, knowing it is impossible for the recipient of such compassion to reciprocate. Relentless compassion so as to cast a desperate, selfish, striving plea for reciprocation. The second option is probably more common, but it would be nice to be kind of on a high horse. August will be like oysters at The Knickerbocker with the cocktail sauce in the martini glass and we're sitting by the cracked glass window and Drew says don't cut your hair not yet and so it'll be like humid heavy hair almost down to my waist now, sparkling water in plastic cups with lime and diet coke in a bikini and I will stay put for a while. I will sit at KGB sober in the evening like I do most every evening. They're tearing chocolate chip cookies apart with their hands at the table over and Amelia says she thinks a bit too much about herself to give too much thought to the existence of God but she remembers, as a child, crying tears of joy because she couldn't believe her luck. She just realized she had somehow made it into a human body on Earth, and she couldn't believe her luck. I don't wish the evenings went on too much longer. The timing is starting to feel just right. I want to fill a Desani water bottle with white claw and catch a cab to a pool party but the evening might start to feel too late. I'll read Fanny Howe, Thomas Hardy, Dawn Powell on the floor - big cracked hard cover dog eared copies of all my books. Then, I will pack up my books into Ikea plastic storage trunks. I will pack up all my books and dresses and then the movers will come. The movers will haul my things out the door. They will haul the place bare. I will turn off the air conditioning in this glass apartment in the sky, and then I will leave. August will be somewhere else. Thursday, July 31 Rebecca and I are making plans. Involving - The Chakras by C.W. Leadbeater and Esoteric Healing by Alice Bailey. I don’t want to work harder than I ever have before, but I do wish to be a bit more intuitive about it. Rebecca is telling me about Energy Hygiene in a Chaotic City. Rebecca is telling me about Seven Rays & Soul Typing. Taking Thomas Pynchon, guasha, monastery sage oil, yoga mat, mineral sunscreen up to the roof for Abundance Meditation and Contemplation. I receive good news. The best, really. I am sorry to be opaque, but something shifted in the winds in England. So far, I have managed to hold onto it here. Careful! Open up the blinds because it's foggy this morning which means we get to let some light in. No bright sunlight baking things alive. No leftover drinks or snacks from the Last Party Ever that was thrown last night. So - it’s a very strange day. I’d like to take a different approach to Caution. Generate me a definition. They generate me this definition: The deeper awareness of human limitations, the deceptive nature of false certainties, and the dangers of unchecked power. This will do. Friday, August 1 It’s an unusual sort of incoherence in my dreams today. The shelf above the bed is lined with wine glasses full of water, and there's an in between of sleep and something else - nyquil at six in the morning, cinnamon zyn at six in the morning, the friends went home around six in the morning and now it is sometime around noon, sunlight streaming in. I wake up gagging. In my dreams, the wine glass water was mostly poisoned. In the space between half awake, not all was poisoned but it was a Russian Roulette sort of thing. I take my chances. Chug water out of my safest bet. Wake up screaming. Fall asleep screaming. The Ikea boxes for the move are starting to fill up and I know it's me stuffing the plastic to the brim but I don't really remember. It's been recollection that's lacking, really. It's been a birthday dinner tonight. The sweetest kind in the Lower East Side. Dimes Square but it's just us, I said. Because it was in the general vicinity but the streets were all empty. A stupid joke, but everyone humored me. Everyone was beautiful and lovely and happy and I didn't drink a regrettable amount. A nice sort of night. Got stuck on Thomas Pynchon and now I can't read anything else. Got stuck on esoteric health and now the water is poison. Got stuck at karaoke and now my self proclaimed sulfate allergy is acting up. Wine and hypochondria. It becomes a bit self indulgent then, doesn't it? Saturday, August 2 If the movers weren't late, I'd be gone by now. But they are late, and so I am lying on the couch that’s being left behind in an Everlane striped tee and too-short Los Angeles apparel shorts feeling kind of sorry for myself. I'm not sure why I decided to scrounge up this sort millennial slop getup for the day of my very unceremonious departure. Feeling older than my years. Feeling like I was raised on Madewell and Ann Taylor or, whatever else it is that would feel nostalgic if I'd been born before 2000. Something other than Patagonia shorts and my sister's sweaters, anyways. Feeling culturally un-attuned. Feeling mostly sorry for myself because I am surrounded by grime. I've been flouncing around this place for a while, now. The clutter is so repulsive, and so much of it is new. There was never a day of really moving in, here. It was just step by step, one thing after another, little parcels that were easy to bring up and down and in and out and now; you wake up in the middle of the morning in a glass apartment in the sky to the sense that there is no space left. I would love to toss and toss and toss. I would love to close my eyes on this island of this couch amidst a swamp of Ikea boxes and tell the movers never mind. I would never open the boxes again. I would never do the dishes. I would wear polyester and sleep on the previous owners teak Scandinavian couch. I would sleep surrounded by trash. It would all become trash, because I would decide to throw it all out. What do we need to know?, the movers will ask, when they arrive. Do you find everything interesting? I will ask. Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? YAY, the movers will say. I am picking things up and putting them down. The movers will give me high fives. Me and three Serbian teens high-fiving in a glass apartment in the sky that I am soon to leave and never return. They will pick things up and put them down and haul them out and I will never return. Sunday, August 3 I have taken my things and never returned. All is well except, the lights here are a bit too fluorescent. The courtyard is nice for the turtle pond, but the brick blocks the sun. And, once there was a top lock but now there is not. There is a hole in my door and I can't get it out of my head. There is a hole in my door and now everything is all wrong. Sitting at GMT Tavern with a not very nice martini and the Thomas Pynchon book I just can’t finish or quit. Slow Learner. Slow Learner, just like me. Make it all about me me me. Life is like: another day in my dumb life on my dumb blog talking about me me me. Life does not have to be like this. Life could be like: the hovering curious dominant of their separate lives should resolve into a tonic of darkness and the final absence of all motion (Pynchon). I keep getting stuck on that quote. I keep getting stuck on entropy, which I do not hope to believe in. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, August 14 From 9pm at Silver Lining Lounge — Matt Weinberger and Scott Lipps present The Downtown Prom. Hosts include Sid Simons, Anika Jade Levy, Nicole Naloy, and more. Music by Sexy Damion, Blog Analog, Loose Buttons, and Boxxer. DJ sets and more.

Inline links: Matt Weinberger, Scott Lipps, The Downtown Prom

August 21, 2025 · Original source

From 3pm at West 4th St Courts — Loser’s x 7th Street Burger hosts pick-up basketball games with cigars from civilpleasures, and free Los Angeles Apparel clothing.

Inline links: Loser’s x 7th Street Burger

City Built on Crystals

September 09, 2025 · Original source

From 10pm - 4am at Soho Grand Hotel — Los Angeles Apparel throws a NYFW party celebrating the launch of the Soho Flagship Store. | RSVP required - rsvpnyfw@losangelesapparel.net

Inline links: Soho Flagship Store, rsvpnyfw@losangelesapparel.net

September 12, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, September 7 Woke up to something amazing happening. More rain outside and also, a message from Emma. How are you? Emma asks. Like no time has passed at all, though of course, years have. There are other things to think about first. Octopus and shrimp salad and some cicen cheese at Tashkent Market. Interrogate one’s own sincerity. I am certain that Emma lives a very full and rich life now. I am not sure where in the world she is. I will know this soon. The first time I met Emma, her mom drove her to my house as a friend of a friend on her sixteenth birthday. I made signs to welcome my new acquaintance. Strung up HAPPY BIRTHDAY EMMA and WE HEART EMMA on poster board in neon sharpie above the wooden porch to greet her when she arrived. Nice to meet you Emma, I remember saying. The formality was awkward because I really wanted Emma to already be my friend. Later, I posted a photo of Emma and I hugging on the beach. Happy birthday Emma, I posted. Like plastering our pseudo-friendship online would make it real. After Emma and I became friends, and after Emma got her learner’s permit a few months after that, she would drive around Natick, Massachusetts with me hidden in the back of her trunk looking for parties that we’d find posted on YikYak. We would come home disappointed, usually, drinking a few warm beers in her parents’ basement or sitting with people we didn’t really know on the outer edges of my parents back yard. A few years had passed that way, and then another year hitchhiking around the Balkans after high school. Emma had convinced me to come bartend in Budapest and so I’d lost or maybe gained another life, here, drinking liquor and taking pills from strange cups in hostel hallways. Hitching rides from strange women across the Montenegro border. We’d bought loaves of bread and tomato sauce and bottles of wine to drink in the backseat and we'd driven for quite some time along coastlines and corn fields. They burned brush to prevent forest fires in this part of the world, and so often the sides of the highway would be almost totally ablaze. Emma and I were always half asleep, half drunk, half larping as destitute and disassociated and developing an early onset case of Peter Pan syndrome as mostly mine but kind of our cerebral ambitions paled in comparison to the magical ephemerality of our alcoholic, older, nomadic, wandering compatriots. My best friend Emma was more solid than I was. She had traveled for a while longer while I washed up in a hotel room in Albania and then, a flight back to Boston. Emma sold coffee in Morocco and then attended Georgetown. Emma calls mid afternoon. Are you still in New York? Emma asks me. She’s in the car in San Diego and she’s driving home from the beach with her boyfriend. Emma and her boyfriend are laughing. The perfect little life. Sitting on the edge of my bed in my New York studio apartment and I’m feeling kind of giddy because here I am, suddenly, with this perfect little window into the perfect little life. It’s exactly as I suspected. I talk quickly at Emma for about twenty minutes when I pick up the phone, mostly recounting the events of the spring and summer, but there are other things, too. Sorry, I say when I finish my story. Sorry sorry sorry. Emma sighs, though she remains cheerful. I always thought you’d marry young, Emma says. Are you ok? Emma asks. You should talk about yourself now, I tell Emma. And so Emma tells me that she is in San Diego with her boyfriend. They have been there since the spring now, and they have started to make some friends. They are driving home from the beach. They are stopping for food. Emma is in a city on the Pacific coast of California known for its beaches, parks and warm climate. Emma is on the edge of a deep harbor that is home to a large active naval fleet. I imagine that it is misty there sometimes and sunny at other times and the houses are bright colored beach bungalows and they are always filled up with a little bit of sand. All my dreams this summer have been about California, I tell Emma. There is an OctoberFest party in San Diego, Emma tells me. Come to San Diego, Emma urges me. Do you surf a lot?, I ask Emma. Where are you getting food? Is everything made of wood and is everyone barefoot all the time and do you buy blue dresses at second-hand shops and wear them as you wander down the coast? Do you feed seagulls scraps of fish as they fly over your perfect white wooden balcony and do you go to the carnival and get massages at open air studios on the pier and is everything kind of pastel and creaky and at what pace does time pass? So, I will go to San Diego. Not in October but sometime soon. Sometime in the spring. Emma and Arthur will drive me around in their perfect little car and I will sleep on their perfect little couch and I will drink Corona with lime and wear a bikini in March and everything will be kind of pastel and creaky and I imagine I won’t be too aware of time passing at all. I will be embraced and absorbed by a life that does not belong to me. Maybe it’ll be like Never Land. Maybe I’ll stay forever. Monday, September 8 In New York City, people feed birds scraps of food and then grab them by their bare hands, too. In Washington Square Park, the tourists from Prague are doing this today. Washington Square Park, which is peppered with falling leaves and fountain mist and Bad Luck Spots, which I will never make the mistake of stepping on again. The park is still green but becoming less so. I’ve been praying for the cold, and now it is almost here. It is September 8th. It is Day One of being Cerebral and Ascetic and I am feeling very horrified that I ever thought it might be good to opt for any other alternative path. I am feeling regretful for my experimentations in self-abandonment and trying-on-new-personalities though, I suppose, this is where God comes in. And it was a God filled day yesterday, which is something I still hope to be somewhat watchful with and let things happen to me rather than intellectualize it all. The greatest thing is to Love and Know and Be Loved And Known, strangers kept on telling me yesterday. I already knew this, but I wrote it down anyway. Write it down and filter it through new contexts. Begin the day. It is Monday now. It is September 8th. I run into Emilia at Caffe Reggio, where I always sit and where she always finds me. You seem kind of volatile, she tells me. You should write about God if you are sick of writing about yourself. You should write about art. You should not write about politics. You should come to Slovenia. I was sitting in a church last night and someone was laughing outside. The laughter was reverberating inside. The laughter was distorting sound waves off the walls and causing interference with the incense and the air and with the silence. Because it was, otherwise, silent. Felt very frozen. Felt like fall. Felt like it was all beautiful even here in stupid NYC. Felt like I slowly noticed myself, shaking. What's your favorite book, a stranger asked me at the bar, later. V by Thomas Pynchon I said, because that's the book I read last and my mind was moving kind of slowly. What's your favorite film, the stranger asked. Diva by Jean-Jacques Beineix because that is the film I watched and liked last or also; Manhattan and Match Point, I said. What's your favorite book, I asked the stranger. The stranger smiled. I always say The Bible when people ask me that. Tuesday, September 9 In the criss-crossed wood-roofed apartment, the lights start to flicker around eight pm which is a good reminder, then, that one is never supposed to linger in the sort of place like this. One is supposed to live in a city like this so that one might pace around and wait for omens. It is Fashion Week which means even less to me this year than Art Week did the week before. It is energies and after parties and humiliation rituals when I'm wearing my cotton non-synthetic workout wear all around Soho at a time like this and; all of this of course, means nothing at all and so this week is just like any other. This summer passed kind of dusty and endless and I do not feel sorry for myself anymore because first of all there is no need for that it is just one life all at once and second of all, Accidie is the only truly mortal sin and so one must proceed with caution. I sat with Amelia in bars with sparkling water in June for a while because I just could not go home. I sat with other sorts of substances for a while after that and I took it too far. Day One (trying again) of being Ascetic and Cerebral tonight. September 9. 999. People on the Internet say that means something and I'm good at taking people at their word. Sitting in the basement of Night Club 101 at the AltCitizen show with Joe and Darby and a cup of Suju waiting for the after party to start. The basement of Night Club 101 feels kind of like a high school music room classroom particularly now, particularly empty. Joe and Darby and I are talking about the gap between self possession and self awareness and a Kinsey Scale sort of method of categorizing people this way. Self possessed people often lacking self awareness and vice versa. The lowest form of discourse being discourse on discourse. Smart people talking about ideas average people talking about events stupid people talking about other people; though, I sort of disagree with this concept. Other people are the root of all loftier things like "Ideas", I am saying. It's like The Backrooms down here, Darby is saying. It's like a kind of weird vibe but we don't want to leave. We're near the bathrooms and so others keep drifting by but they don't want to stay. Fabulous outfits. Rockstar Girlfriends. Los Angeles apparel unitard and big black boots lining up for the restroom or to buy socks that say I CAN DO ANYTHING ON DRUGS. Patchwork style neon dress and small gray loafers, silver ballet flats leather pants light green linen v neck top. Lots of girls with long and flowy and jet black hair here. Lace black dresses that look like spiderwebs paired with emerald necklaces. Lots of guys in jeans with long and curly hair or long and greasy hair and they all are carrying guitars. I'm perched in the bleachers in the basement with my one kind of SEC-school-style-tattoo and an A-line dress watching everyone kind of wistfully. So, there were a few different lives and now there is something else. Maybe in the next one, I will pick a life like the club kids. Micro-bangs and rock music. Fall asleep in Bushwick or in the back of a bus. Buy a bus and drive across the country with a lust for Music above all. Drive past things like diners in Wyoming or sacred hot springs in New Mexico or the haunted Mount Washington Hotel in New Hampshire or Motel 6s and 8s somewhere along the way. Drive to California wearing True Religion low rise jeans and shredded tees. Drive all the way to the Pacific Ocean. Can't stop thinking about the Pacific Ocean. Drive to San Diego. Wash up on Emma and Arthur's door. I would do fewer things each day in this life, but maybe each of them would matter more. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Friday, September 12 From 7:30pm - 9:00pm at Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research — It’s your last week to see ARDOR - a very special play following a group of nine artists and friends on an annual retreat to their aging patrons Vermont farmhouse. Nothing and everything has changed and will change.

Inline links: Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research, ARDOR

November 05, 2025 · Original source

Los Angeles Apparel blue tights

December 22, 2025 · Original source

One life all at once Friday, December 19 The West Side Highway is cold and clear and empty driving home, like everyone is already gone and this night will be the last dredges of things as they were. The taxi driver is playing soft rock and the barges on the Hudson look like little houses from a distance. New York in December is like a fairytale, because most everyone leaves for real life and then you are reminded, in the lost week of the year, that none of this was ever exactly real life. There’s a red sports car doing donuts in the empty lot of Pier 76. There are three American flags blowing in the wind. Every December feels almost inconceivably distant from the one before. It’s been this way for a few years, at least, now. Mostly, this makes me feel self satisfied, and sometimes, this makes me feel sick. The wind has been crazy the past few days. It’s like a wind tunnel, specifically, driving through midtown. The river is churning. The wind is making everyone insane. I wake up to yellow overhead lights left on overnight, and they look particularly warm cast against the winter sun that filters through my windows. No curtains. In my dream, I was sitting in a Starbucks somewhere foreign, waiting on a bench next to two girls whom I did not know. The coffees were taking a while, and so the baristas kept on offering up shared bread. Something to compensate. The loaves of bread were huge and warm. The barista was throwing them overhand over the counter. The bread was soaring through the air and then landing on the floor. The other girls around me were scooping up the loaves and devouring them with their hands. They were breaking the bread in half and then tearing off a morsel for me. That landed on the floor, I was saying. Everyone shrugging. Looks of disgust. I always dream in mundanities. Wearing athleisure and mixing potions this morning, like matrixyl and Argireline and Evian water full of bubbles and microplastics and wind through the open window blowing all the dust around. I watched all the energy come roaring back for each and every false start these past few months, but it’s been a pause in the ebb and flow, now. I like when things are fascinating. Three books from the party are lying on my glass table in the center of my floor. The Champ is Here and Season of the Rat and a book called Alligator, all bought from some place called CASH 4 GOLD. Because the glass table is so big, and the room is so small, the table creates a disproportionate presence. I wonder what will change, once the glass table is gone. Bundled up and then drifted outside to procure a celsius at the bodega and now I am home, again. Listening to Kali Uchis play off my tinny computer speakers from my playlist that reminds me of hot dry desert air and CRYSTALS. Making plans that fifty-percent chance I will then cancel. Trying to finish my Florida, Massachusetts story but the tone requires a kind of gothic and spooky vibe that I am entirely unable to access right now. Everything at Los Angeles Apparel is five dollars, and so I spend the afternoon being gluttonous online. Purchasing a white tube top and a black fine jersey long sleeve and two a-line skirts and some shimmering silver earrings. Purchasing a red circle scarf for Iris, too, because she left her brand new red circle scarf in the basement at my brand new job, and I said I would find it for her but couldn’t. Unsure if I will tell her I have found the scarf, or admit to procuring a new one online. I think I will just hand it over and say nothing. Celia calls, and I tell her about cleaning my windows and live blogging my day. Careful, Celia says. It’s a good idea to talk about things like architecture, or strange observations. It is probably not a good idea to start live blogging your days. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO It’s the most program-less week of the year, and so I’m taking a week off the event call. Watch The Shop Around The Corner and make Sabayon

Inline links: The Shop Around The Corner, Sabayon

Ganni5 mentions across 5 issues

Ganni is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 5 times across 5 issues between April 04, 2025 and February 25, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "I was wearing my Ganni Boots"; "black Ganni boots"; "donned a black skirt, black top, black Ganni boots". It most often appears alongside Night Club 101, Washington Square Park, Celia.

Article page: Ganni
Mention count: 5
Issue count: 5
First seen: April 04, 2025
Last seen: February 25, 2026

Outbound links

Issue trail

Live Diary. April 04, 2025
Fever Dreams November 05, 2025
Things that Happened Once I Gave Up Vice November 12, 2025
The social experiment is now over December 22, 2025
Life-in-a-lab February 25, 2026

Night Club 101 4 shared issues
Washington Square Park 4 shared issues
Celia 3 shared issues
New York 3 shared issues
New York City 3 shared issues

Source context

April 04, 2025 · Original source

Today feels very slow and languid. It's the sun that's starting to boil my greenhouse apartment, maybe. It's the solitude, maybe. Not that there has been that much solitude, even. Just today, really. There’s this, from Virgina Woolfe’s Diary: “what a disgraceful lapse! Nothing added to my disquisition & life allowed to waste like a tap left running. Eleven days unrecorded.” They asked me to contribute to a time capsule. What is the purpose of archiving? When does archiving become hoarding? I skipped over these questions. I answered the questions about Nostalgia instead. You aren’t nostalgic for your phone, I said, or it was something different than that, there was more to it than that. I don’t mean to be so self-effacing. I almost bought a blood thickening potion at The Alchemy Kitchen, but I felt thick blood might bog me down. I felt that this whole potion thing, here, in this situation, was probably a scam. The other girls in the store were carrying Princess Polly Bags. The other potions were things like Build Your Own Concoction: Serenity and Joy. Matthew used to be Enemy Number One, but now he is my friend, and so I make plans to meet him at the April Fools Party tonight. Halfway through the walk to the party I get overwhelmed at the thought of going to a Party. I was wearing my Elene Velez Gray Jacket. I was wearing my Ganni Boots. It was all a bit much, then, wasn’t it? Reroute my walk towards the tip of downtown. That bar that’s way too cavernous, too expensive, full of Internet Superstars and I like it none-the-less. “I went to a party at my friend's house and she's kind of famous so they sent us five million free margaritas,” the girl at the table next to me is saying. It sounds like a quote that is fake, but this is what she actually said. The night turns all sloshy and sparkly. Yeah, it was a lot of fun and then later, the apartment is still a mess and yeah, yes, I have to get out of here. There are certain habits I’ve been struggling to break. I am not bored, I am not thinking that everything that happens here is suddenly stale and stilted and I am not, even, very disappointed in myself. More so, I think I should have left when I had the chance. And then the chance presents itself again and so off I go, then. I didn’t mean to be too self indulgent. It’s not escapism, really. Who said that thing about square pegs and round holes? Anyways, that’s the sort of thing I’m talking about. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Friday, April 3 Two shows opened yesterday. If you missed the openings, you should go today – Parent Company — Stewart Bird Amberweight opened. - “The image machine turns out an indeterminate cloud of images based on its experiences seeing more images than anyone but the image machine could ever see.” Parent Company is one of my favorite galleries around these days, and this looks to be a very special exhibition. | on view through May 24 and Psychic Readings — Stacy Kranitz and Chris Verene “The Safety Net” opened , curated by Ani Cordero. - “' a two-person exhibition that examines life in today's American small towns, through the work of acclaimed documentary photographers.” .

Inline links: Parent Company, Stewart Bird, Psychic Readings, Stacy Kranitz, Chris Verene

Things that Happened Once I Gave Up Vice

November 05, 2025 · Original source

A good nights sleep Monday, October 27 I opened the window to let in the eerie and whistling wind after the reading last night and then I stayed up late, fallen leaves and pollen drifting past my headboard. Called Celia to talk about the same things all over again. Called Celia to request that she confirm my fears and delusions and certainties for the million billionth time. I’m getting a really creepy feeling, Celia said. Like a horror movie, Celia said. In my earliest memories, I recall walking around with this very deep self-assuredness. I would wake up everyday feeling so certain and blessed for the absolute pureness of my heart. So when he said he understood me as perfect, it was like oh someone finally understands me the way that I understand myself, Celia said It is important to always have pure intentions, I told Celia. I like when people share my aesthetic sensibilities and are unfazed about the things I worry hedge towards evil, I told Celia I’m starting to feel so creeped out, Celia told me. Tuesday, October 28 Nothing was so creepy. I was not scared of anything anymore. I could still hear the wind through my open window and in the daylight it was nice. The nicest, really. The nicest thing in the world. I slept through the afternoon half aware of this nice and floating wind and then I donned a black skirt, black top, black Ganni boots and I drifted through orange-hour Washington Square Park and a light fall rain towards the lobby of The Marlton Hotel. Where there was a fire and Celia perched by it, waiting for me. Nothing ever happens. I used to be so arrogant, I told Celia, at The Marlton. Arrogance is a good sort of thing to hold onto, sometimes. Celia told me. Celia said something about our friends being cancelled online, something about moral hierarchies, she was done feeling sorry for herself and love thy god with all thy heart and all thy might and acedia is the only truly mortal sin. The Marlton Hotel and God and Self Indulgence. French fries with garlic aioli and dirty martinis and tuna tartar and writers workshop without too much writing. I was sitting there kicking my feet around and feeling like I might die if I couldn’t break-the-pattern-today-so-the-loop-does-not-repeat-tomorrow. Do you remember what life used to feel like? Do you wish to live forever? Do you wish to never suffer? Do you wish to never suffer, forever? I’m sorry to be cryptic about it. Wednesday, October 29 In my fever dream, I was back on the Amtrak heading towards Florida, Massachusetts and everyone around me was screaming. We were traveling to record something regarding Esoteric Health. It was still October, and I knew the omens we were seeking to be somewhat evil. Everyone was furious at me, and this only bothered me because I did not know why. Woke up in New York City yelling, somewhere between a memory and a fugue state. A recurring dream I used to have where I was driving with my parents over the George Washington Bridge in a winter storm and an old woman was lurching at the vehicle, tugging at the door handles, talking about how it was almost too late. A train ride last winter where everyone was screaming at me because my ex-boyfriend was being abrasive and I was kind of in on the bit. A small faux-thatched-roof apartment in Greenwich Village where no one is angry because no one is here. I paid my dues in apologies and reparations in October, and now God has rewarded me with a real life fever and unpleasant news. A lot of things I loved became shrouded in delusion and vicious self-involvement. A lot of clarity and purity of heart became hard to access because my morning was shrouded in a fever. Kind of wanting to scream. Kind of wanting to take my Brown Prada Boots and Black Fry Boots and Grandmas Suede Ballet Flats to the cobbler. My Blue Pearl Necklace to the jeweler. My Sue Wang Dress and Red Vintage Slip to the tailor. Kind of have been like a bull in a china shop with all my beautiful things, and now there is so much to fix. Kind of feeling indignant. I should really focus on believing in something. I believe in hotel lobbies, superficially. I believe in other things, too, but I am trying to have a bit more discretion about it. Thursday, October 30 Here is what has happened: I am sitting at The Marlton hotel now where everything is cast in a kind of olive glow and the fire place is roaring and I ordered a cheese board with camembert, comté, manchego, six grapes, two halfs figs, spoon of truffle honey and spoon of jam by myself. Ordered chamomile tea and sat with Rebecca and Dory in the sunroom with my fever, earlier. Now, I am sitting by the fire with my fever by myself. I am not ready to go home. I am not really ready to think or write about the sort of things that have happened. A small beautiful blond child and her brother a bit older just walked in both wearing sweet striped shirts. Their father just finished the marathon. Their mother is all smiles, pulling apples from her canvas bag and polishing them on the hotel napkins before placing the fruit in the beautiful children’s outstretched hand. I am green with envy. I am so overjoyed to be looking in on their Beautiful Life. An insufferable duo on a first date next to me is talking about how much they hate parades and how their work is industry agnostic. Their flirting is so nauseating. Bad voice physiognomy. They are flirting with each other in the most insufferable and sexless way and you can tell, so clearly, that they met on The Internet. I am starting to consider forgoing The Internet. There is a soulless kind of song and dance these people are doing. He is listing out his favorite types of Pasta Shapes and numbering his rankings on his stubby fingers. She is talking about food poisoning. Neither of them are religious. I am trying to stomach my distaste. If you have ugly thoughts they will seep through your skin and stomach and long black sleeves of your long black Brandy Melville dress and they will seep up through your mind and out of your pours and intermingle with the rancid scent of your fever that will become a deeper sort of illness and start to rot and fester in you forever. Your bitter and ugly thoughts will start to turn your face all ugly and ruined. I am trying to wish them grace and good will. I am trying to sip my tea and choke down fruit truffle honey and crackers. Twist my hair into two very tight braids. I want to find myself a little less repulsed. I want to look at these strangers’ pale forms and imagine them replaced by orbs of light. I want to look inside their rich inner worlds. I want to look into strangers’ eyes and not be afraid of staring or back holes. I want to wish them well. I want to hope they find a beautiful life. I want to hope they buy a beautiful life. Friday, October 31 Here is what has happened. Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage. Once; I lived in a glass apartment in the sky. I am not sure how things can oscillate in extremes, to that degree, with that level of hot and cold and up and down and everything cruel, like it became. I used to lie on the floor to feel close to things. Lie on the floor and dream about it. The past has been orbiting in ways that make me queasy along with the illness in the air, today and yesterday, since the eve of Halloween, really. At the Halloween Party in Chinatown I wore a black hat and milled about amongst red flowers, plum tart, candles and courtyards. Went bolting up the stairs to catch a car. Went walking under the Washington Square Park archway where the air was very crisp and I was very feverish. The park was overwhelming me with street performers and noise and light and stimulation. And then in the shadows and the grass and tucked away beyond the benches there are figures in sweatshirts and denim and long sweeping hair and interlaced hands and fallen leaves and everything sweet all around the edges. I was sitting at the edge of the park in June with my fingers interlaced and the beating sun fading into dusk and the summer stretching kind of hazy and breathless ahead. It is strange to try to remember anything. Strange all the stories I am hearing in the wind and the autumn and the fever dreams and another passing season. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, November 5 From 7pm at Night Club 101 — 99 Minutes or Less returns with Maison du Bonheur (2017, 62 minutes). 99 Minutes or Less is a new free film screening showing films that are (you guessed it) 99 minutes or less. This evening’s screening is guest programmed by Elissa Suh of Movie Pudding. After party to follow with sounds by Dj Kyle and Paradise by Replica

Inline links: Night Club 101, 99 Minutes or Less, Maison du Bonheur, Elissa Suh, Movie Pudding, Dj Kyle, Paradise by Replica

November 12, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, November 3 And so everything kind of begins to hover as November sweeps in. The in between weeks. One can leave the city and then one can return. I call Amelia and ask if she’d like to go on another vacation for the aim of seeking things that are transgressive and weird, but the heat and the restlessness and the Miami sun of late-may is long gone, we never did visit the falconry like we planned, everyone would probably prefer to just stay put. Boil bone broth, go to a film, seek employment, write at the gym, braid and unbraid my hair three to four times before I decide to give it a rest. Do you really hate staying put that much?, Amelia asks. I go to the West Village Bitcoin Bar past ten pm in response. Still feverish from the last few days, but the wind outside is nice and the walk along Washington Square Park is quiet, tracing the streets along the park’s West edges past the brownstones and the Washington Square Hotel and the Marlton Hotel and then Pubkey Bar. It is not so much a thing of hating to stay put, but more of feng shui, four small walls, wind and water through my open window and I think most people dislike solitude of a certain kind, which can easily be mistaken for stillness. Pubkey Bar is always lit up kind of like an arcade. They sold some sign about crypto for one million dollars here, once. They sold the president’s autograph. They made me pickletinis and diet coke and seed-oil-free nachos and I used to be kind of manic here, drunk and yelling in the wind and on the street. It is such a desperately quiet night tonight. My friends are seated in the back rooms talking softly about the most valuable parts of a whole whale, their most favorite things about the people close to them, the best sound to elicit tears, the best cherry liqueur, the best ideas for how a person should be. It all comes at me kind of underwater, anyways. It’s all felt kind of shadowy as this year writes over the year before. Tuesday, November 4 And so all the energy came swirling back in an instant. They are playing sweet music like some of the My Fair Lady and the Mad Men soundtrack and J’ai 18 Ans and Zou Bisou Bisou at the hotel lobby with the roaring fireplace and the Cecily Brown mural and the young couples wearing cream slacks and red sweaters and holding newspapers and crinkled baskets of pastries. I have loved winter in New York the most of anything these past few years, and I’d been worried this one would not hold quite the same magic. Walk through the park while it is still early. Wear mostly skirts and tights and thin strapped tops and ballet flats, all black. Order ginger turmeric tea and almond milk cappuccino and write stories by the fire. Disavow hedonism. Disavow becoming the sort of person who does the certain types of things. There’s an order to these things. I tell Amelia; it is good to be mostly quiet. It is good to go to mostly the same places a million times over if the places one chooses are good. Wednesday, November 5 Did you notice everyone became very pleased that you were becoming exactly who you were meant to be when they first put you on Adderall?“ Ellie asked me at the party last night. The night was very warm and the party was very quiet and I was pleased with myself for my relative self possession that evening, which was the goal of the fall and the winter and the days that stretched out kind of breathless. Secret-keepers and Promise-Keepers and finding equilibrium between Self-Possession and Self-Awareness. These were the vaguely worded goals of the winter. No I didn’t really find that, I told Ellie. But I never got the chance to live out my potential on stimulants because I took it too far right away. Ellie nodded with sincere interest. My friends these days were very sincere. And the party was strange because the seating was in bleachers instead of tables and the music was jazz and my friends were very well dressed, decked in corsets and ballet flats and beaded belts and hair with ribbons and holding sparkling drinks with lime and aperol and smiling very broadly. I noticed that time had been passing all along sometime in early November. and so the following fervor came spurred by the sense that something might finally happen. The air got barely perceptively colder and ghosts washed up in dreams or in my courtyard or in signs and symbols like the strange numbers I’d been seeing on the sidewalk. It had been five months to the day since the start of summer and the lurching of my life in unexpected and nefarious though perhaps ultimately necessary ways, which I suppose just goes to show that some sort of momentum was required for time to do anything aside from idly tick on. I remembered that it is just one or two or three promises I make myself and others, though it becomes one million promises if you break one promise a million times. Thursday, November 6 I did nothing in the day yesterday besides watch the clouds make shadows out of various shades of light and dusk across my walls and then I pulled on a small black dress and black Ganni crumbling boots and walked through the quiet night towards Chinatown. The air was too stale and tight inside the sports bar where my friends were all smiles and drinking water and vodka and asking me about fun and faith and so then I walked further downtown to the new wine bar on Henry Street. Here, everyone was very drunk and cast in red light and our table was set in a hallway that resembled a kindergarten classroom and an eclectic group of acquaintances I knew from the Internet or Birthday Parties or Religious Magazines were sharing bottles of wine. To sleep very little means a dream state in the gray morning, which is nice because November Ninth marks the first real distance from the summer for me. The cycles repeated. The cycles grinded to a halt. I woke up to gray morning light through my still open window with a spiral bound notebook and an idea for transcription on the blank page: THINGS THAT HAPPENED ONCE I GAVE UP VICE. Friday, November 7 Listening to Chopin Nocturne op.9 no.2 while the sound of rain mixes with the sound of the turtle pond out the window and I swim in all the visions of where I’ve heard this song before. Like twirling around on brown wood floors during summer storms in the dining room at the house by the ocean while my parents cook fish stews in the kitchen and the floors turn yellow linoleum when you approach the stove and the pouring rain outside streams through the windows and all over the counters. The memory of twirling around and the smell of rain is always the most vivid of all. Like I’m always hurdling towards something or lying very still in all my recollections of things. Obsessed with motion. Arrested by motion! So the main thing now is momentum, I suppose. My Computer keeps on queuing up Chopin the The Nutcracker and Philip Glass Mishima based on past listening habits, but these two scores are both a bit too much to bear right now and so I’m hitting Skip Skip Skip. Not too much has happened since I gave up vice yesterday. Just; Rebecca told me that I look well rested, and the story about El Salvador and network states and techno-spirituality is off to print so I will soon be able to hold it in my hands and then relinquish any narrativization of past events and, it would be nice for energy drinks and nicotine to be coursing through my veins right now but there is something more beautiful and languid in self-induced timeout over microplastics and mind altering substances. Moonless night. Moon hidden behind the rainstorm. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, November 12 From 6:30pm at Night Club 101 — Free reading series Reading 101 launches, ft Swati Sudarsan, Adrienne Raphel, Jessica Lynne, Aurora Huiza, and James Barickman. Music by Solex Yoghurt.

Inline links: Night Club 101, Reading 101

December 22, 2025 · Original source

Silk long sleeve Ganni top

Inline links: Silk long sleeve Ganni top

Already dated Ganni shoes (stupid. should have purchased years ago and never did. should not have purchased now)

Inline links: Already dated Ganni shoes

February 25, 2026 · Original source

Tuesday Life-in-a-lab In my dream, the house was a lab. I woke up to light not just streaming no, but flooding, absolutely pouring through the long glass windows in front of me. I knew that once the light cleared, I would be staring into the heart of this lab. I knew it was a problem that I was anticipating waking up in a lab, because I knew that I should have been anticipating a morning waking up at home. Instead, I was finding myself totally nonplused about waking up in a lab. The important thing, I knew, as I woke up with a sense of increasing urgency, was to conjure up an image of a home, not a lab. You have been in a lab for so long that you have forgotten about home, a very confident voice inside my head was saying. A picture of my childhood bedroom appeared in a few frames. Different versions. Big white bed and blue wooden floors and presently frosty fields behind the house. Little twin bed yellow walls, carpeted floors, and hot summer cornfields outside. I couldn’t get it straight. If I was in a lab, then I needed to remember. You need to remember a place that actually exists, the lab-attendants were saying in my dream. Saying in my head. Glass apartment in the sky. Room at The Marlton Hotel. I’ve been eating vegetables and collecting things like dried flowers and books on Esoteric Health and buying wash-and-fold laundry service and being swept away to places like nice restaurants with no menus and nice-apartments-with-no-owners. I woke up in Connecticut. Can’t wake up in a lab if you never go to sleep. In the morning, I woke up at close to noon. I shared photos on The Internet of a very aesthetically-cohesive and un-lab-like home. I went to the bathroom to wash my face and collect myself as best I could. The house was beautiful, and I was unsure as to why I was watching things unfold from as if I was somewhere else. I made lists of things that were special, being places like this most of all. I made lists of things that compose self respect, and then I made lists of things that compose a life that is bright and white and full of light. The country is quiet and sometimes difficult for me, though I sleep through the night now and this changes everything. Downstairs, the dogs and Celia and the other were sitting under high lofted ceilings. There was a magical and silvery presence that mediation gives to a person. I asked about coffee and they told me there was coffee in the pot and I could heat it up in a silver bowl on the stove. The stove was green and handmade and you turned it on by flicking little metal burner switches. The bowl was nice and very small. I poured the coffee in the bowl and I waited for everything to begin to boil. I added vital proteins collagen and also oat milk creamer and also lots of white sugar because the esoteric health advice of the age says this is fine. There were homemade mini muffins from The Smith Bakery down the street on the counter (blueberry, morning harvest, strawberry corn, and chocolate chip) and so I cut each muffin in half, and then I had one-half-of-each. Two mini muffins total. I put two of the halves in the toaster, and I had two of the halves cold. Everyone started telling me about gnosticism and buddhism and catholicism. They recommended to me a friend who writes about God and married into a famous band. They recommended I come to meditate in places like New York, too. You look ready, Celia said, as I packed up my north face back-pack and changed out of split-sweatpants and banaa-republic-black-top. I’m not, I snapped, in response. Do you actually want to meditate more, Celia asked. I don’t say I want to do things I don’t actually want to do, I replied. I could not stop with all this harshness. Wednesday Grand Central Station Back in New York City and I am totally covered in dog hair. Shoes untied in Grand Central Station but there is nowhere for me to stop and tie them without risking some sort of stampede or at least massive inconvenience and so onward we go. A man just walked towards me rapidly and I flinched and then felt kind of bad. Then, he shouted; young lady can I ask you a question and so now I do not feel bad. My instincts were correct, and now I do not feel bad at all. Ok, fine, whatever. I used to love arriving back in New York and hearing all the music and the lights and I would twirl through this place nonpulsed. Then, I would twirl home. I used to get drunk-before-christmas at the midtown Cipriani and then giggle when people called my ex-boyfriend and I bad-people-for-cutting on the trains toward Albany, but I’m not allowed to move like that anymore. I used to sink into sixty-dollar taxi-cabs because I found the subway over-stimulating. My Prada purse used to be lined with shiny leather, but I got fidgety somewhere tropical and I ripped it all off so now we’re working with something more flattened and matte. Teenage girls used to fling themselves at the side of the train platforms, and conductors used to lose their whole crew in Boston and train heists used to happen. I used to consider everything to be pretty taken-care-of. I think I never used to notice when sometimes, problems would arise. On the train ride back to New York, tonight, the tracks were icy and slick and it was already kind of blue hour dusk. When I said goodbye, I told Celia I love you I love you I love you a million times over because I felt slightly neurotic about a weekend full of being slightly late and slightly harsh. I am smart enough to know that the only thing complaining makes you better at is complaining, so I decided to stop. In Grand Central Station, they are playing live music, and I watch a man propose, though no one else around the soon-to-be newlyweds reacted. No photos or energy. Sad. I am wearing beat up Ganni knee high boots and Brandy Melville long sleeved dress, and Zara blazer that I stole from Paul’s Baby Grande back when I was in the practice of going lots of places and stealing lots of things. I miss my Max Mara coat that I left at “tech week” and I miss “drinking” and I am suddenly desperate to be out the door. I imagine that when the subway doors fly open and I burst out free and all-in-one piece, I will see the Washington Square Park arch, and it will be glowing silver in mid-winter light. I imagine that the city will feel warm with soon-to-be-spring-humidity. I imagine that since groundhog day has come and gone the tides will change soon, and I imagine I will relinquish my Groundhog Day (1993) fantasies of nothing-ever-happens at some point down the line, when it all becomes a bit too much to take. Tomorrow, I will be taking my shoes to the tailor and then the next day, I will have a totally fresh new crop of things to wear. I imagine that soon, I will have a fresh new crop of things to consider. Thursday Whore Dialectics Greenwich Village’s bitcoin bar sports a libertarian clientele and taxidermy and a podcast studio and beef-tallow-fries. Tonight, it sports a projector screen from my old apartment that looks sad and small propped on stage, and a big audience in metal chairs, and a birthday party in the front room, and plenty of opportunities to make myself feel useful as I tinker with film equipment and fire off texts regarding “promotional material.” I am sitting at Pubkey Bar drinking a diet coke while I wait for the screening of “Whore Dialects” to begin. When I ordered my diet coke at the bar, a strange man made a strange joke about NA beer, and I felt immediately irritated and restrained by my self imposed limits. I am listening to a group of young men discuss the career path of “Internet Pervert” as one of the only viable post-AI jobs. Monetize your self destruction, they are saying. Male prostitution. Buying plushies is to women as buying porn is to men. There’s a strange pseudo-intellectual glare to it all and I am enjoying listening in. They are talking about Brian Kaplan, but they keep on mispronouncing his name. They are talking about scientists, rationalists, and flexible proposals. When they talk about Internet Perverts, there are stars in their eyes, less because of the sex, it seems, and more because the internet perverts are able to get some money and get some attention. The male influencer. That seems to be what they are starry eyed about. They are thrilled to be in the same extended universe as someone who might be able to garner some vague attention. This is a bar that usually makes me feel kind of hazy. This is a bar where I used to make scenes. Enough reminiscing, because I am here to watch a film that is all about auto-documentarians, which is in sharp contrast to the maladjusted forms of auto-diary or auto-fiction. In the film, a beautiful girl is in the back of a car with the wind in her face and she is drinking an Erewhon smoothie and talking about how Hollywood is dead and the monasteries are empty and you can’t be a nun or get a phd because you question what truth is, and these institutions just won’t let you get at it. After that, the film cuts to a scene where the girl is in a white dress being play-drowned in the ocean by a right-wing provocateur. The film crew sent the provocateur to stay with the girl, and it was kind of the perfect setup, a voiceover explains. The provocateur describes how when he arrived, the girl was in a state of almost total abjection. Like how kids who are sexually assaulted don’t shower to make themselves totally disgusting and unappealing, he explains. I find the provocateur slightly less interesting as a character than both the girl, and the disgraced art-advisor (another prominent character in the film) but I like when he argues about politics and then reconciles on a personal level with those around him in places like California. I like the scenes about the professionally fraught yet personally friendly relationship between the art advisor and his not terribly successful clients, ie the clients are disappointed but still use the advisor’s pool for summer swims. The client still dreams of having an eighteen person studio because this means tremendous success, and because this is just how men dream. When the provocateur is described but not depicted as losing control, it is explained that the jig is kind of up, because it’s no triumph of power to reign over somebody who is not even in control of themselves. I only watch the film once and I am not taking notes, really, during the public screening at the Bitcoin Bar, but I like it because it is auto-documentary not auto-fiction or auto-diary and as such, it is very precise. The film says, for someone like me in the conditions like the ones I occupy, here is what life is like. This is more matter of fact and less indulgent than saying; here is what life is like for me. At a party last month that was also all about art whores, the filmmakers wrote a few lines about a few of my friends. The women present were on average quite a bit younger than the men and looked fresh. Perhaps because of their age, or perhaps because of the care they put into their bodies and minds, but the vibe among the women was optimistic and exuberant. I thought this was nice. Nice, too, to catch purity in unexpected places while staying totally true. Friday Upper West Side Later, I am uptown and I am thinking about how I can become more self-disciplined so I can become more interesting. I am watching Pierre Le Fou at Lillian’s apartment on the Upper West Side and all the girls are dressed like characters in the film. Lilian keeps leaning out the window with a long skinny cigarette and I am drinking a glass of Sancerre because I just can’t quit. In this film, a very small man is holding a gun to a very beautiful girl’s head while she cuts her hair. The beautiful girl has a brunette bob, and she is wearing a red dress. The film is full of primary colors and very bright paint. When a man is stabbed, he bleeds red paint. Before a man explodes himself in dynamite at the end of the film, he paints himself blue. I like the film because the colors of the gore are all bright and fake like paint, and the colors of the scenery are all pastel and muted and lovely like real life. Summer in The Riviera. Beautiful people living a simple and crime-filled life. I have not watched very many films this year because I’ve been busy writing thirty-thousand-words-about-myself-per-week. In the last film I watched, a Japanese cat was exploded by a grenade, and when gore and guts spilled everywhere, I flinched and clenched my eyes shut. Do you want to leave, my friend asked, and what I wanted was to be resilient, but what I said was I don’t really care. Now, a girl in the film is sitting on a boat with a man, and she is talking about how the two have only known each other for a few million seconds. She’s such a stupid girl, Lillian says. I would say something like that, I respond. One-million-billion-seconds and one-million-billion-words. I am feeling bubbly when I am not feeling sick or shy. I am feeling like it’s time to be more light about it. When I look to my left, I see beautiful stained glass lamps and a defense surveillance tech-branded throw blanket. When I look to my right, I see an open window and all my friends leaning too far outside smoking skinny vogues. On the Internet, people are talking about how things are only interesting if they are true. Determinative reasoning then says, one should make what is true more interesting. Everything just became crystal clear. By which I mean, everything is operating on material terms now. DIRECTORY The full event calendar is now going to live on The Aleph - an exciting new platform by Noah Kumin of The Mars Review of Books. The Aleph is a marketplace and membership club for the arts, with an emphasis on supporting in-person events, production, and funding for artists. Programming featured will be intentional and curated, and include more opportunities for early-access and invitation-only events. If you would like to submit an event for consideration, please email me at chloegpingeon@gmail.com. Apply to join The Aleph here I will still be featuring select events on the blog, along with more eclectic or personal recommendations, news, and guest features. To start: David Rimanelli is perhaps my favorite person to follow on Instagram, as well as one of my favorite critics. Tonight, from 6:30pm at Tibet House, he will be reading, along with Kiely Sweatt and Sean Fabi. Tickets here.

Google Docs5 mentions across 5 issues

Google Docs is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 5 times across 5 issues between May 13, 2025 and December 02, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Time stamp it in Google Docs and you know I meant this before I even knew"; "I was so addicted to writing in my google docs journal this weekend"; "I journal in Google Docs". It most often appears alongside Los Angeles, New York, KGB.

Article page: Google Docs
Mention count: 5
Issue count: 5
First seen: May 13, 2025
Last seen: December 02, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Panopticon-ing Everyone May 13, 2025
Total Nightmare Policy May 21, 2025
generative and godly secrets May 27, 2025
A supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again June 09, 2025
Florida, Massachusetts (03) December 02, 2025

Los Angeles 5 shared issues
New York 5 shared issues
KGB 3 shared issues
Paul's Baby Grand 3 shared issues
Peter Vack 3 shared issues

Source context

May 13, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Thursday, May 8 I've been panopticon-ing everyone here, and you have asked me to stop. Ok. I'm sorry I have already told about what happened on Wednesday. Not here. Imagine it's all fantasy. I mean it when I say that I am really not talking about myself. Being all confessional and then I feel kind of gross about it. Being kind of glib about the parts I thought were most sincere. I've been neglectful, most of all. Right now, I am most sorry about that. In the end, you'll be lying on a Japanese floor mattress and you'll be thinking about the parts that are still the same. Tonight, I went to the party that I usually avoid. I went home before the parts that come next. Another flight tomorrow, and I wish there wasn't more travel though, I am glad for where we are going. An old school hotel, Sue Wong beaded dress, borrowed shoes and sharing the different details of my life like oh it's been all grad school and true love and self surveillance - this part will be nice. My friend suggests at dinner - I don't have insomnia, I live in an environment of psychological torture sleep depravation. I could latch onto this. Psychological torture. My friend says - New York vs LA; you can find nuance in uglier things here and she cites me as the example of nuance as if I am something like resilient or tough. I have never been described as either of these things before, and I hope I haven't been plying myself in victimhood too heavily, because really - my circumstances are wonderful. It is a sweet description, though. I'm glad I'm not a fraud, at least. Lots of parties this week and those were nice while they lasted. You can't be indignant without clarity, which - I am working on having more of. I set up the summer so as to have the days stretching endlessly in front of me. This concerns me a bit. I will need to read for two hours every morning. There is a novel forming mostly beneath my writing here, and I will need to finish that. All at once it's like everyone has drawn the same conclusions about good and evil. Everyone was all like this is so good, and then everyone snapped at once and it was like: this is evil. I have briefly wondered where this change would map out cosmically, though, I have tried to be a mystic about it, and my basic impulses revolt. I was culling chapters from my Secret Diary a while back. Here, I was saying. Time stamp it in Google Docs and you know I meant this before I even knew I would need to show you it was true someday. None of it was really so long ago. So, I wonder, for example - what July will be like? I wonder about June. You could be a bartender or a DJ. Sounds like something someone who has lost their intuition would say. I'm talking in hypotheticals because I mean it when I say that I am not, really, talking about myself. Friday, May 9 Rebecca and I sat at Bar Belly in the rain for a while last night. Shannon made me cauliflower rice and avocado for lunch. I did circle around to my boyfriend's culty and evil type hang later in the night. There was chicken from the street, there. Rebecca will stay at our place while we're gone. She stayed at ours for a while last night. Everyone went to KGB, later, but I am being more regulated about it. Making pasta at nine am because I was up all night in spite of new efforts. Pouring rain and then we're driving towards Laguardia. In retrospect, I still do not think I was being dramatic about things, but it feels distant and small now. Short term memory maybe, or, the present is often quite extreme and so; wherever I am, it absorbs me. I like his brown leather bag, cufflinks, it's been to and fro this airport all spring which serves to dividend the chaos a bit. Anyways, everything is fine. I have a life in New York that I will still feel so lucky to return to. "You guys are in love!" a girl in micro-shorts told us at the party last night. "How long have you been in love for?" "Almost two years," he said. This is the pragmatic answer and also this is true. The girl beamed. "I've been in love for ten days," she said. I need to hold things closer to my chest. Not here - I am obfuscated enough about it here, so it's hard to do much damage. It's different in the real world. I say things that I know to be true, but I say them before I really understand what they mean. I am more protective of the things that are good, and I am quick to give away all that is bad. This is not how a person should be. Happy Mother's Day, the light and water show at the airport is saying. Elderly couple to my left devouring fried chicken. I feel incredibly ill, come to think of it, but some of this stays sweet. Darling darling darling, he keeps telling me. Are you ready to fly in a plane in the sky? Artificial Intelligence will come to destroy the earth and you will be like twenty-five years old and on your phone and talking badly about your friends behind their back and forgetting to call your family and drinking to disgust. Artificial Intelligence will come to destroy the world and you will call your sister, call your mom, lie under the open window with your boyfriend. You will be making up stories and praying over a glass of sparkling water. You will be listening to music and sound and language from real life. You will picture a relic of yourself still human, and you will be pleased. Saturday, May 10 I have decided to return to Photos. It is funny how these things work. I felt quite repulsed by images for a moment, but even just a few days of speaking out loud how much the equilibrium has been missing and how much now, it is time to get it back - I said this out loud along with other things, and now I can face the physical form again. And so much of the physical form is so pretty. I do like when things are ethereal and kind of between realms - it is why I have always liked to be very thin, although I’m pretty Normal in Body these days - and this is the most boring of boring things to discuss, anyways. My tendency is to archive and hoard. It is comically wrong to suggest that I seek to leave behind no trace. My point is, for a while now, I could not bear the traces. Something has shifted. There is a gold framed photo of a palm tree across from the bed in this hotel, and it’s the kind that is old school not tacky. Everything is art deco here. The ceilings at the bar are ten stories high, he told me, before dinner. There was salad and a cosmopolitan and such nice conversation and, I do always get whisked away when the time is right. I’m feeling pretty even keeled. If April happened again, it wouldn’t happen like this. The day has been so good so far. The hotel is old, classic, and art deco. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 13 Doors at 7pm, reading at 8pm at TJ Byrnes — Bronwen Lam & David Dufour present Patio, an evening of reading. This rendition features Martina Mendoza, Mark Iosifescu, Myles Zavelo, Stephanie Wambugu, Babak Lakghomi, and Steve Anwyll.

Inline links: TJ Byrnes, Bronwen Lam, David Dufour, Patio

May 21, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, May 12 At the Holiday Inn, there are Yakisoda noodles and banana cream pie snack pack jellos and krabby patties gummy candies and lances cream cheese and onion dip crackers. All the most disgusting snacks imaginable, and kind of perverted, too. I’m so particular and annoying with my sleeping issues that I always find myself at depressing hotels, even when there is a wonderful home down the road where I am welcome. I need a Big Bed and Isolation. I need Temperature Control. As a child, I liked things such as camping in birch forests and cramped little stone cottages in some village where my parents would find someone on the Internet to swap houses with. Unfortunately, I grew up into someone with severe and undiagnosable sleep disorders, and a taste for adventure that is rooted more in hedonism and less in fresh air. I feel really full and sleepy heading back to New York. Well, things are better than they were. Total nightmare policy. Total, blow up your life brother, policy. I was so addicted to writing in my google docs journal this weekend and now I have a lot of annoying slop to show for it. I call my dad in the sun outside the Starbucks in a Strip Mall. Stop thinking about things in such eternal terms, they tell me. You wouldn’t get in a car crash and say When Can I Go 100 Again, they remind me. Fiction, again - they are talking about somebody else. The idea of compromise no longer makes your blood boil. It’s an unsavory trait that it ever did in the first place. "The other alternative is that I just become a nightmare and you become perfect," I told him. "That is certainly an alternative," he told me. It is 11:30pm, and I am thinking about getting a job. I am thinking about the Current Body Red Light Mask and the Ayede heels from ssense.com. "What if I hadn’t simply crashed out," he said. "There would have been pros and cons to that," I said. There is a fire alarm and mauve curtains and two weird arched doorways because we booked a suite and so the architecture suggests some simulacra of something vaguely Roman. Marble. Plaster cut to look like marble. I go to buy water and they have turned off the creepy lights at the creepy pool. Tuesday, May 13 I was feeling really terrified, if I’m being honest about it. I was sitting on the sidewalk picking at my nails and drinking hot coffee in the hot sun, eight splenda, curdled almond milk. I was voicing concerns in a high pitched voice and I was losing track of the distinguishment between ideas imagined and conversations regurgitated. God forbid I have an original thought of my own - that part wasn't even on the table. It isn’t so dark and depressing anymore. Walk in the rain and everything is so green here. I’ll be back in the city tonight and there are better omens in the astrology these days around things like planes, the return, glass apartments in the sky. He leaves my keys on the bedside table at the hotel, and he’s still asleep when I pack up my things and leave to eat black coffee, turkey deli meat, garlic aioli, marcona almonds. We drive to his parent’s house and he gives me drumstick vanilla ice cream. Working on this laptop, surrounded by all this green. You know that every time you hit this vape it coats your lungs in sweet thick paste, I am telling him, as I hit his vape. The last time I wrote about hitting a vape I received an infuriating pseudo intellectual email about the verbiage "hit" as suggesting a sado-masochistic impulse in our digital age. "I wonder if soon, you'll be saying you 'Beat' or 'Pummeled' your vape?" the idiot email writer wrote. The email made me so mad. You're so stupid, I wanted to write back. We go for a walk in the bright green forest. There is a sweetness here. A coming-back-into-control that makes the out-of-control-ness feel so distant. Escape from Evil and two days later you mistake reprieve for salvation. Unless, you are not mistaken. It really could be that simple. What was it they were saying on The Internet? Break The Pattern Today Or The Loop Will Repeat Tomorrow. What was it I've been saying online? Edit Artificial Intelligence robot voice over text to speech words - "Taking My Party Boy Boyfriend On A Walking Tour Of The Cotswolds." I clarify that I've been defending his honor. We're crushing up the plastic water cups, and the hill is steep up the road. I clarify that there are people of extremes. It was very bad, but now it is very good, I am texting my mother. Honestly, I'm so sick of clarifying anything at all. You're a little more sober with it. You're a little more gentle about it. It transformed in two days. Imagine two weeks. Imagine a year. Imagine rushing even one second. I can control my consciousness. Though, it isn't my consciousness, really, that I've been concerned about. I'm glad we share a frame of mind. This plane is basically empty. Wednesday, May 14 We went to KGB late last night. Thursday, May 15 The woman who does yoga on her fire escape is out there with a cigarette, today. I’m not in a bad mood today. The apartment is a mess and I am concerned about my past. Things become steady, and then even bright. Friday, May 16 Well, I didn't write because I have been busy in real life. I've been imagining an identity rooted in delusions in the secret diary that stays offline. It is not so delusional. I am feeling so sincere. Rebecca is here. My sister is here. We went to KGB Bar and Fanelli Cafe and Funny Bar where we met a Gagosian guy turned AI guy, which I guess has kind of been my career arch too though I am not so pleased about that direction. We went to the party at Bowery where the waiter from Fanelli Cafe was the DJ and I had two vodka sodas then soda water with lime which might be all I do soon, though I keep on having all these cyclical conversations with myself about these things - consumption and gluttony - and there is little that more dull, so I will not bring it up again. I went to the sleep specialist and she giggled when I said I don't scream in my sleep if I am in the company of strangers. That's different but great, she said. Do I control my subconscious, I said. Stupid idiot, she said. I did actually go to all these parties, and I did call him from the bathroom. He'll be back in New York soon, making film and code and learning banjo. It's way better than the alternative, and I do feel very proud this week which is something I have not been able to say in a good long while. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, May 21 From 7pm - 8:30pm at The Flea Theater (20 Thomas St) — I’ll be seeing Revolution: The Play. Sophia Englesberg is associate producer, and everything she touches is wonderful. Written and produced by Brett Neveu, directed by Rebecca Harris. The theater is next to The Odeon, so you can get my favorite martini before or after the show. - “Who celebrates their 26th birthday in the alley outside of her hairdressing place o’ work? Revolution interrogates and celebrates the very nature of creating community and building friendships in our ever-evolving, ever disconnecting world.”

Inline links: Revolution: The Play, Sophia Englesberg, The Odeon

May 27, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, May 18 On the first day of My New Life, I walk to the film shop, pour old windowsill tea down the drain, come to consciousness in the Infrared Sauna at Spa88. In the Russian Spa Cafe, you drink carrot juice in a bikini because Rebecca taught you what Fiber is yesterday, and now you are sure to get your fill. There is lox and seaweed and brown bread. There is a Caesar salad later, at Fairfax in The West Village, and they don't actually harvest your personality at the door. I journal a lot, I told my friend. I journaled the whole train ride in my mind, she said. I journal in Google Docs, I said. I don't know why I decided to say it like that. Like manic transcription of thought until it becomes more vibe than writing at all is some sort of one-up over mental assessment and determination. I have not been trying to one-up at all. I've been trying to be so honest about it, and I guess the concern remains that the truth will all surface and the roots will turn topsy turvy and inside out and then you’ll see that untangled, it was all kind of just midwit and ugly. I wrote about nihilism and absurdism and Samuel Beckett, but the piece turned out so simpleton that it makes me kind of queasy to return to. I wrote about the magazine release party on the roof where I felt kind of wobbly in this halter top dress tied way too tight. Then we walked to Casetta and I had wine and fish floating in tin and oil and then I lay here for a while when I got home. I lay very very still and when I twitched then rose again, there were packages at the door, a taxi cab and a friend on foot and his airtrain en route heading towards the apartment. I was standing in socks and hovering in the building's communal mudroom when he got home. Things are nice. I was talking not too quietly about all of it in the Spa 88 Wall Street Russian Baths Hot Tub. The most liminal space in New York with smooth warm aqua water and yellow kind of burnt light and chipped paint no windows. Dorito bags with Hebrew packaging usually stacked in the restaurant, today abandoned half eaten on the table by me. I could tell the fat guys in speedos were lingering sweaty just to listen, but I was doing no sort of performance for them. On the train, the girl on the phone kept glancing around to make sure others were listening. I felt sad for her. At the Spa88, I said my story all matter of fact in the hot tub and my Aunt said well, you really have your hands full and the fat guys looked away kind of bashful, and it was only then that I realized they were listening. You can disassociate away the concept of public space, too. Spilled coffee and voice echoing in this pool room with no windows so it becomes like time isn’t passing at all. I wasn’t talking to myself, but communication reverberates, and I was drifting all unaware of perception. Then I was in the cold plunge, in the infrared sauna which really does something nice to the fascia (the part that matters when it comes to things like Wim Hof and Heating Up and Cooling Down.) After the infrared, I began to gain awareness of my surroundings and movements and recollections of the sound of my own voice and things like the coffee my stray limbs sent flying off the shelf at Mille Feuille this morning and then I was there saying OMG Sorry and floating napkins towards the ground but also kind of just standing and blinking like some kind of dud. You wake up alone but there are people on the way. People already late. Keys and company and you are texting with an intensity that borders vitriol. The vitriol is what he’ll point out later. Before that, he is at the door and you are so happy to greet and be greeted. There is spilled coffee and Equinox Gym and Spa88 and Iced Tea, Sparkling Ice Soda, Cool Mint Zyns. I woke up and I waited around and I trapezed over to Equinox Gym and when I got upset later because told me he did not care about my story; it was then that he clarified he did not so much mean he did not care but more so that the story was full of vitriol. And so perhaps he was just feeling full of love and life. You can't get all rageful over something like that. I'm sorry I forget sometimes that you are not resilient, he said. My blood didn't boil. I went for a walk. You forget that all of this exists all the time, Natasha and I were saying by the Hudson River. In my glass apartment in the sky, I was alone for a while but now I am not. There is an Arabian rug and a Marble table that I hope someone will take off my hands for free. There is a CurrentBody LED mask and cocoa nibs and nothing in the fridge but the butter that I replaced with the wrong brand. I feel uncomfortable when I speak like this - about these little things that compose a life. Like I'm painting a picture in the details of routine, but there has been no routine. There have been a few false starts, and then now, a real one. I am conjuring an image of a morning with an empty fridge and an Arabian rug and the kind of person who reaches for different serums at different hours. If anything, we’ve been dealing more in potion than serums. But every potion certainly has its godforsaken limit, and so now - there is something else. Monday, May 19 I will take the rest of my youth as it is. He turns on the air conditioner for me and leaves to drink Non Alcoholic Beers while I stay put and read the Diaries of Girls Online. I walk ten miles and I do not really believe his friends who say there are worms at the Russian Spa. This is how rumors spread, I tell him. You are Married To The Truth, I tell myself. In the morning, there is light through my greenhouse roof and to start; I am the only one awake. It feels like this; I had one of the best weeks ever last week, where everything came rushing back into being as it should be and I was certain it would stay like this forever. Then there was sudden chaos on the phone, chaos on the train, serenity at Spa88 and then I was calling my mom muttering sentiments I knew she would find vaguely offensive, stomping around the financial district saying bad words like a child intent on proving herself lovable even if insufferable. He said it wasn't that I was so uninteresting, more that my story was bizarre, not really a story at all, full of vitriol. Everyone was running along the Hudson River and I had two or three diet cokes with dinner and I was up not all night but close. It goes like this: in the morning there is energy and a package thief filling a suitcase up with my boxes of celsius and fiber powder and whitening strips and dental floss. I crouch above him on the stairway and I scream HEY. He screams back HEY and so I let him have it. I turn on my heels and I run up the stairs. My favorite things are leaving the house in the morning and not coming back till late night, cool mint zyns, blackberry dr. pepper, turkey cold cuts with truffle mustard eaten in a kind of self-punishing way. I lie on the roof in my boyfriend's Adidas track shorts and a black tank top that I stole from the gymnastics locker room in highschool. The thing about New York is there is immense competition to be skinny, beautiful, successful, rich all in circumstances that are entirely unconducive to all these things, my friend is telling me on the phone. Circumstances like the package thief and your metabolism doesn’t even get a boost from the sun and also there are hard drugs and alcohol. I don’t feel above all of that, but I do feel distant from it now and so I suppose, with some plausible humility, this adds up to kind of the same thing. I wish I was a gentle person. I feel lazy today, but this is not the same thing. Tuesday, May 20 Last night, we went to Lucky's for dinner and I had something with tequila and Saint Germaine straight up and he had more non-alcoholic beer. Then, they brought us mountains of shoestring onion rings and a big wedge salad and it was good for a while, until I started to feel sick. I went to the bathroom to play on my phone while the scent of grease dissipated. The drinks were crisp and they brought the shaker right to our table. Lucky's was like a steakhouse, but with a smaller interior than your average We went to Matthew's house after, to sit in his barren family room while he hacked up a lung. I rolled up my Zara blazer that I stole from Paul's Casablanca lost and found after someone stole my blazer first and also back when I was an alcoholic. I curled up under my blazer on Matthew's tiny couch while Matthew and my boyfriend talked in code and made rankings of all their friends. Matthew's apartment was pretty empty except for a whiteboard with a list of girls he likes and a Chinese new year banner and a huge pile of hats that said I'M IMMUNE TO PROPAGANDA. “Jesus, she is combative. you're right, she's so combative,” Matthew told my boyfriend, talking about me. "It's possible that Canne after dark was something that happened in the daytime," he said. "she'll get mad if I ask her why she won't play anagrams," he said. "The activation triggers a chain of events leading to increased dopamine release," he said. Sometimes, when I am with my boyfriend's friends I feel like I am in a video game, or maybe in an orphanage. You don't want to be someone who is contorting your face and yelling. It is morning now. I don't really know what happened there. Being at these parties more sober is strange, because there is nothing else but me and yet I still don't really understand. I am listening to sweet and gentle music, and I feel a total surrender. S - i do feel bad i was not so gentle and kind about this. i get myself trip wired and lose it. but it is always better to be gentle and kind and i understand new york can kill the soul and there is something beautiful in a peaceful house alone and that is why you left which is innocent and pure and it's not fair to be rageful to you for that. Wednesday, May 21 There were two cigarettes and two glasses of wine at Voile de Nuit. This becomes some sort of Diary of Consumption. I met Ellie at a tall house on a wooded street in the West Village where she works on things pertaining to design and then we spent the hours in the courtyard of Voile de Nuit, which I adore because it’s reminiscent of Summer and Reality. I behaved badly the last time I was here. My boyfriend comes by to drop off fries. We run into friends at Caffe Reggio and it's raining by the time we reach home. My boyfriend says: Spreading secrets is entropic Keeping your mouth shut is static Spreading misinformation is generative and godly I do think he is mostly kidding. It's Simone Weil who says about rage - “To be able to hurt others with impunity—for instance to pass our anger on to an inferior who is obliged to be silent—is to spare ourselves from an expenditure of energy, an expenditure which the other person will have to make.” And I wonder which character I am in this story and it's not always the good one. I was thinking about all of that in the novel. That and the self surveillance of it all. Unfortunately, my thought experiments are ruining my life and also, the novel is ending up being All About Me LOL, too. The play tonight (Revolution at Flea Theatre ) is nice, because I walk through the rain to get there and smoke cigarettes outside The Odeon after, and because its depiction is of genuine weirdos, not like Quirked Up, not like the girls my friend texts me about after the party, “have you met them? so spacey!” not like, becoming strange because of course there is some desire to conjure up some personality and if you’re pretty then it’s fine and even appealing to be off-putting. The play is like grocery store clerk alcoholic, gun in the purse grocery store clerk alcoholic, therapy speak coping mechanisms like count up then down then up and it’s employed in the play as the coping mechanism not as an ironic tactic. Drinking beers on a birthday in the back alley and the play is disaffected from glamor in a way that I’m realizing not many things are. Like even most depictions of poverty in a lot of media, at least media coming out of New York at least certainly media surrounding youth culture and a narrative surrounding a party, goes like; we have nothing but we’re slippery adjacent to everything as a result of our charm and good looks and happenstance. The play is like, leftover charcuterie from her husband’s weird mega church and splurging at the liquor store and old cocaine shoved into a bowling ball but there’s an innocence and almost childlike wonderment to the way they tackle the expired drug situation, and the play is not about drugs. There’s a genuine kind of earnest stiltedness to the conversation that lends itself to sincerity. Thursday, May 22 May is quivering right before me; I'm not letting it lapse like April did but there are still smokescreens, silkscreens, my fingers are sleeping right through it. The Club, last night. The Play then The Club. It was smokey and sweet. My lungs felt coated in something sour by the end. The smoking patio was wet with dew and I was kind of floating, not in a bad way. Not hungover, it's something way more visceral but still hazy. I could feel it all start to slip, and so I held onto myself quite tightly. My boyfriend's screen time is 102 hours a day across devices. My face is encased in sheaths of plastic that keep you young, but they're not the temu kind that's weird and freaky. The light I use is Science Backed. I'm thinking of getting into vintage workout wear. I'm thinking of getting into Vlogging. I'm thinking of getting into filling out paid surveys online for luxury perfume sellers that require you to swear your spending habits are High and you like perfume from MiuMiu and you Hate Balenciaga and what perfume means to me is; I think sometimes scents can bring up... nostalgia? I say. Do you own a Prada dress? they ask. We leave the party early - I'm sick and he buys me chicken caesar salad pizza. Aren't you glad we left early so we could dance a little at home, he says. In the living room, the windows are all a little frosted from the rain. There are lights in the neighbors windows across the courtyard but it's thursday night, the rain has stopped. You couldn't have expected everyone to just stay home, really. I notice the people in the windows if he is spinning me across the room. Exhibitionism. I catch myself in the peripheries. The windows. The back of my mind. And I never shut the blinds but that is just no Executive Function or Detail Orientation. I am not some sort of voyeur. Friday, May 23 10:45am, and they are playing some kind of staticy electric classical mashup of music from the Fedex truck outside. "Even as a grad student, I felt they were looking down on chaos," one young man at the Yemeni coffee shop is telling another. Buying: coffee and chicken quiche but none of that is for me. Buying: peanut butter perfect bar and celsius and my boyfriend's screen time is up to 316 hours since midnight since he's doing things indiscernible to me but which he clarifies are Not Fraudulent. I am trying not to write so much in the google doc diaries. It is like I have learned these diaries as a trick, and now I am addicted to it. Now, I can’t do anything else. I must release all thoughts, but to release one thought I must go through, again and again, everything else. And so I go through it all, again and again and again. The thought, and then everything else. We were going to talk more about Spirituality today, but the tripwire keeps happening - stuck on: Vanity and Careerism. I make subheadings to keep myself in check. VANITY. CAREERISM. CAREERISM: Here is where I am: I have the substack for now which is nice this is something that I suppose in some ways is a defining thing I have done but it does not feel like so much it does not feel like it culminates to anything just proof of existence, yes, but everyone has some sort of proof of existence and it is nice to write the story behind something. The story itself cannot just be the story of writing about yourself. And for a minute I was very very very sad and so that plotline became dependable, but that is no sort of thing to rely on. And this is why it cannot all just be the writing of the self. It hasn’t been. [redacted] felt like something different, investigation, beginning middle end, it was not just here I am, it was like a puzzle it was like being very precise with it and it was the biggest thing I have done so far and I sat with it for such a long time. And perhaps I am being dramatic because there are other projects I could start in the meantime but I can’t sit down and make myself think oh what would be an interesting and pithy thing to talk about for somewhere glossy, I cannot do it. I think about doing it and my stomach rises into my throat with how little I care. And so it has to be a story that bursts out of me. There was one, and I can tell there is almost something else too but it’s like David said yes, it’s difficult while you are in the waiting room. Since beginning writing this, my fever got higher, and we are hanging the Bacchus masks around the apartment plus yellow golden softlight and, now I feel more peaceful about it. I wasn’t having so much humility. Nevermind. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 27 From 6pm (show at 7pm) at Baby’s All Right — Baby’s Presents a benefit concert for the Immigrant Defense Project with Palehound, The Ophelias, and Grumpy. Dj set by WeTakeManhattan. - “All proceeds from the show will go towards supporting the IDP’s 20+ year mission of fighting for the rights of immigrants targeted for imprisonment and mass deportation via advocacy, litigation, legal advice and training, community defense, grassroots alliances, and strategic communications.” | GA (18+) $38.86, Ticket and Bonus Donation $49.69

Friday, May 23 10:45am, and they are playing some kind of staticy electric classical mashup of music from the Fedex truck outside. "Even as a grad student, I felt they were looking down on chaos," one young man at the Yemeni coffee shop is telling another. Buying: coffee and chicken quiche but none of that is for me. Buying: peanut butter perfect bar and celsius and my boyfriend's screen time is up to 316 hours since midnight since he's doing things indiscernible to me but which he clarifies are Not Fraudulent. I am trying not to write so much in the google doc diaries. It is like I have learned these diaries as a trick, and now I am addicted to it. Now, I can’t do anything else. I must release all thoughts, but to release one thought I must go through, again and again, everything else. And so I go through it all, again and again and again. The thought, and then everything else. We were going to talk more about Spirituality today, but the tripwire keeps happening - stuck on: Vanity and Careerism. I make subheadings to keep myself in check. VANITY. CAREERISM. CAREERISM: Here is where I am: I have the substack for now which is nice this is something that I suppose in some ways is a defining thing I have done but it does not feel like so much it does not feel like it culminates to anything just proof of existence, yes, but everyone has some sort of proof of existence and it is nice to write the story behind something. The story itself cannot just be the story of writing about yourself. And for a minute I was very very very sad and so that plotline became dependable, but that is no sort of thing to rely on. And this is why it cannot all just be the writing of the self. It hasn’t been. [redacted] felt like something different, investigation, beginning middle end, it was not just here I am, it was like a puzzle it was like being very precise with it and it was the biggest thing I have done so far and I sat with it for such a long time. And perhaps I am being dramatic because there are other projects I could start in the meantime but I can’t sit down and make myself think oh what would be an interesting and pithy thing to talk about for somewhere glossy, I cannot do it. I think about doing it and my stomach rises into my throat with how little I care. And so it has to be a story that bursts out of me. There was one, and I can tell there is almost something else too but it’s like David said yes, it’s difficult while you are in the waiting room. Since beginning writing this, my fever got higher, and we are hanging the Bacchus masks around the apartment plus yellow golden softlight and, now I feel more peaceful about it. I wasn’t having so much humility. Nevermind. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 27 From 6pm (show at 7pm) at Baby’s All Right — Baby’s Presents a benefit concert for the Immigrant Defense Project with Palehound, The Ophelias, and Grumpy. Dj set by WeTakeManhattan. - “All proceeds from the show will go towards supporting the IDP’s 20+ year mission of fighting for the rights of immigrants targeted for imprisonment and mass deportation via advocacy, litigation, legal advice and training, community defense, grassroots alliances, and strategic communications.” | GA (18+) $38.86, Ticket and Bonus Donation $49.69

Inline links: Baby’s All Right, Palehound, The Ophelias, Grumpy, WeTakeManhattan

Inline links: GirlInsides, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!grTj!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F0d8950da-492c-4aea-8f52-bfae799e190d_968x440.png, Chez Nous, https://metrograph.com/film/?vista_film_id=9999002294, recently refurbished Chez Nous, 1pm on a Friday

June 09, 2025 · Original source

Monday, June 2 I read some GirlInsides on the airtrain back from JFK who I think is just like me if I were more honest and precise about it, or maybe whom my stories would echo more precisely if I did not have this sick need to put my face all over everything. Anyways, GirlInsides was talking about how summer would bring things like long long long hair and farmers market plums eaten over the sink in underwear and writing and reading all over the place, and her ideas made me feel like I was melting and going to cry. Then I wrote what I wanted summer to bring, all - getting off the subway because it's too hot and walking in sandals sticking to my feet until i find somewhere that glows right and then its morning and we're sitting first then lying down on the terrace in sun that becomes unbearable drinking sparkling water out of glass bottles dripping it over my chest opening the door for the blast of air conditioning and to let the friends that come by in and out people floating by in and out and come and go and then at dusk i put on something green and i drink cold cider cold diet coke or spicy watermelon margarita outside at kikis in swan room away from the heat at vol de nuit with fries and garlic sauce on the roof, on my roof, in the backyards and basements and i walk out and walk everywhere when it is time to leave i leave and sometimes it is time to leave and so then I take the train and there’s the coast and then I’m putting laundry on the line in a black bikini and drinking diet coke with lemon in my black bikini and driving to the ocean down the driveway at night headlights breaking through june gloom fog and jumping off the dock where the sharks don't eat us but any summer now they could, or then it's morning and i'm sober writing in my google docs journal walking outside, writing in my greenhouse apartment in new york, writing along the overgrown pond and field and it always smells thicker there outside of boston, writing by foggy shores and rocky shores and sometimes the air becomes thick too and my dad plays dougie mclain and we make pesto pasta mozzarella chicken sausage in yellow china bowls on yellow placemats the meal gets kind of hazy through the sheen of blue hour rain coming through the window and then i'm pacing and writing down ocean drive in Miami because I can't decide where i want to be anymore and i like flashing lights i like coming back to the very nice very cold hotel that we're staying in because he's Sorry but I don't want any more apologies i want this summer to be Being very very very in love because i really have been anticipating extinction events or at least things become robotic sterile i used to think id be pretty good at both being in love like this and at not being robotic and sterile and i have become slightly above average at both these things in practice i guess though, it's nice to have the most human thing in the world, it's nice for me all the time, even then, even when it isn't for him i think it's nicer for me then it would be to not have this all the time and I don't know why i keep sabotaging the only thing i know to be true and human and so i am hoping for a summer of all that, hands pressed against the plane window greenhouse window train window glass mirror glassy water plunging my face underwater no more eb and flow. Anyways, none of that made any sense and then shock of all shocks it did eb and flow again last night. Everyone was so nice to me about my story and I wore the Nasseau, Bahamas shirt he bought for me all Life Is Better In FlipFlops and he wanted me to wear the sunglasses too, to exacerbate the bit but I thought that would be a little bit too far. He said “you know why I’m mad at you” when we got home, and I didn’t know, I had no idea actually, and so then I got sad, but the story was fiction. This is fiction too. I’m not being facetious when I say that. This isn’t even autofiction. This is literally all made up. “they seem lost and completely clueless,” he is saying now, downstairs, on the phone, he is talking about some forty year old woman and an awful charleton and some guy who does RedPill posting online and some guy he personally has a strong dislike for who has a lot of medical malpractice suits against him. Maybe he’s a genius, he is saying. I don’t know, he is saying. These people are so strange, he is saying. Tuesday, June 3 His friend rubs my head like i'm a dog or something when i walk into his stupid fake exclusive evil party that i'm not invited to and then my heart swells with rage. I'm so mad, I was telling everyone. I'm so sorry I didn't mean to say that I guess I had one too many, I was saying. I didn't have one too many, I had just right, I was telling him. I like The Sweet East, he is telling me. I like Yeats and social norms. Yes and, I say; I hope that you get everything you have ever wanted. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, June 9 A quiet night in the realm of events. Consider; dinner at The Marlton’s new restaurant Chez Nous followed by a screening of Buffalo 66 at Metrograph (10pm). I have historically liked The Marlton because it is vaguely past its prime and also a five minute walk from my apartment, and a place where no one ever tells you that you’ve stayed too long. The food at the old restaurant was terrible (so I’ve heard) (I only went for tea), but the recently refurbished Chez Nous is chic and fun and has maintained all of the hotel's original charm. The shrimp salad is very good, as is the martini. I’ll report back after my second visit (possibly tonight). Otherwise - 10pm on a Monday evening is the perfect time to see a film bar none, besides, possibly 1pm on a Friday.

December 02, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday 7:45am and I am lying very still in my clean crisp bed like it’s a haven or a ship that will float me above and away from the clutter around me. Lying with my head pulled under white bamboo sheets, so I don’t have to see anything other than white noise and whatever I decide to fire up on my phone all around me. Reading Girl Insides live blogging her breakup on my phone this morning, and I do feel envious of the corporeal and anonymous ways in which her brand of compulsive documentation flows. Feeling kind of vague and emotionless after a weekend that was here there everywhere, and I let myself really be sucked into it which is always how it goes but one needs to be careful. I wore Cinq-a-Sept Christmas dress for a few days in a row, and there was dinner in a dark wood uptown apartment and there was a sunrise over the Hudson River and I kind of don’t want to write it like a sequence of events. I kind of hope to talk about the architectures of things and why they happen as they do. On my phone, Girl Insides is in Hollywood and breathing in jasmine and perfect fog and smog and panzanella crackers. All of a sudden everything that happens in my life is up to me, Girl Insides says. Well, me too for the first-time-ever, but it becomes more difficult this way. Perhaps I’ll go to surf in San Diego with Emma. Perhaps I’ll go to Kazakhstan or Tbilisi, Georgia or at least commit myself to no more losing days following wherever the wind blows me. I’ll be in Florida, Massachusetts, anyways this week. A spooky little town. They cursed the Amtrak towards Western, Massachusetts last year. Strangers yelling at me as we sat in dark seats hurdling through the night with train snacks of hot dog and coca cola and chips that came in perfect little packages that one unboxes in the dining car. A girl threw herself at the walls of the train on the platform as it pulled out of Moynihan Station. She bounced off the train and was removed unscathed. The conductor announced that they’d lost the crew somewhere around Albany. I walked into a doctors office and I recognized the dermatologist’s twisted and frozen face as the woman who’d been screaming on a night train heading out of New York. And all of this is just to say that everything was kind of cursed and still is sometimes, but I am trying to find omens in the more beautiful and serendipitous sorts of patterns and symbols and signs. In the hotel lobby, Celia told me to be less vague about it. Either say what you mean or don’t. So I do believe everything that I have ever been told. Which is mostly just to say that before I believed everything bad, I believed everything good. Tuesday We drove from New York to The Berkshires this morning. I stopped at Broadway Bagels and then at a farmstand and now we are here. So, these are the things that have happened. No curses and no omens. The house we can see outside the long glass window got painted green and now it totally fades into the woods. That’s nice, everyone says. That’s so much nicer, now. It’s brilliant blue-gray outside the long glass windows now that the snow has stopped and it is settling into very early afternoon dusk. I am lying by the fire that is crackling louder when the furnace is on and quieter when it isn’t. The Eames chair is empty behind me and the lamps overhead are big yellow orbs, hanging from the slanted wooden ceilings. There are things I could do here. Mass MoCA museum and my favorite James Turrell works there that change with morning and evening light. Or, The Clarke Art Museum and I can hear whispers of a textile show that others are bundling up to go see downstairs, but I think I would prefer to just stay put. There is a Tourists Hotel by the North Adams airport, which is a motel that turned fancy, with individual bungalows looking out at the river and a restaurant that looks like a home inside, all fireplaces and craft drinks and lots of little rooms. There is the alpaca farm up the road and there is Hopkins Forest and Pine Cobble and the Appalachian Trail and the sauna room by the river and trees like skeletons waving in the fading daylight just past my peripheral vision. I drove to Graylock Works when we got here to do ballet and yoga in an old mill and then I drove to the gas station and then to the local hotel lobby where I sat incognito for a moment watching families in autumn dresses and long jackets filter in and out and in and out and then I drove home. I’ve been here for a while. It’s nice to find a house that I can float through. It’s nice that when I look around I see something aside from four small walls. A blizzard just began. It is strange, because the snow is flying horizontally in the Southbound wind, but the trees suddenly appear to be standing perfectly still. Wednesday Field Notes from Florida, Massachusetts and my Google Docs Diary: I woke up this morning and I cleansed my face and put on toner and then guasha with rose oil and then red light therapy while stretching.

Inline links: Girl Insides

Starbucks5 mentions across 5 issues

Starbucks is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 5 times across 5 issues between May 19, 2024 and January 27, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "I'm in the Starbucks line thinking it's like a movie set"; "I spend nineteen dollars on some coffee and electrolytes and macaroons from Starbucks"; "It's about Starbucks, baseball, and her dark past". It most often appears alongside New York, EARTH, Night Club 101.

Article page: Starbucks
Mention count: 5
Issue count: 5
First seen: May 19, 2024
Last seen: January 27, 2026
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #1 May 19, 2024
[REDACTED] is awful April 15, 2025
COLLECTED AGENDA December 22, 2025
The social experiment is now over December 22, 2025
California-At-Home January 27, 2026

New York 4 shared issues
EARTH 3 shared issues
Night Club 101 3 shared issues
The River 3 shared issues
3 2 shared issues

Source context

May 19, 2024 · Original source

Plane to Texas, which actually makes me very happy. The new LGA reminding me of someone’s liminal idea of America — big fountain with light show and pop music, smells like Auntie Annie’s pretzels (I don’t even see store but the smell is so precise), everything bright but not too fluorescent and everything pretty fast and crisp and clean and seamless because this isn’t a mall after all, this is an airport, this is a well oiled machine. I’m in the Starbucks line thinking it’s like a movie set. I’m in the Starbucks line thinking it’s like I’m sixteen. I’m so nostalgic for an idea of childhood that isn’t even really reminiscent of mine. I’m hoping no turbulence today.

[REDACTED] is awful

April 15, 2025 · Original source

Tuesday, April 8 I had too many yuca fries before the beef stew dinner last night and so I wasn’t too hungry, went to bed early, didn't sleep a wink and now it's dawn. We eat dinner at Ritual most nights in Malpais. Ritual is the cafe that David’s friend's girlfriend owns. It is full of wonderful things like a tart made of avocados and cashews and coconut oil, or espresso mixed with orange juice, or, last night was stew from the meat we grilled over the weekend, and last night the restaurant was closed, just accessible for us, I went to bed too early. Fog at sunrise today. I pack up and I tiptoe out of the hotel. David finds me by the horses in the morning dew making scratch marks on paper. I tell him that I don't take any of it for granted, and I mean it when I say it. I get in a taxi, and then I am by myself again. At the airport, I am too tired to even be on edge. I text Sylvie and Rebecca about the project idea that is sure to be a hit. Do you want to be a part of [new hit project] I say. Yes, they both say. At the airport, I kind of want to go slump over in a booth, and so I go and sit inside an awful place called GastroPub and I order one of those awful salads with the canned black olives and the dried mushrooms and cranberries and shaved almonds and some generic seed oil filled dressing, you know the type. I order a black coffee, too. The seed oil dressing on the side comes dangerously close to sloshing all over my coffee. I pick the chicken out of my salad with some care and eat only that, while the rest of the whole soggy heap of food kind of collapses in on itself. I spend twenty one dollars. Then, I spend nineteen dollars on some coffee and electrolytes and macaroons from Starbucks. I make sure to time my macaron consumption to end at twelve noon exactly, and then I set a timer for 36 Hours. A Monk Fast. This is the sort of thing that can be done when one is at the airport feeling bogged down. Obviously, I am not actually going to join a cult. It's mostly just aesthetic fixation. Style over substance. The real issue intellectually is if you can't truly distinguish yourself from something like the plastic tray on the plane in front of you. I haven't even really tried too hard to find a God. I'm sorry. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, April 15 From 8pm - late at (RSVP for location) — Terms Eccles is throwing another tax day party!! - “talking broadly about money and art and downtown and midtown, all at once. the only thing that will make tax day worth celebrating.”

Inline links: Terms Eccles

COLLECTED AGENDA

December 22, 2025 · Original source

From 8pm at Night Club 101 — Kathy Joyce and Chica Mob are throwing a Very Interesting Party (and book launch). Kathy will be reading from her debut book; 3 (Ristretto Books). It’s about Starbucks, baseball, and her dark past. DJ set by Maisy Swords. After party upstairs.

Inline links: Night Club 101, Kathy Joyce, Chica Mob, 3, Maisy Swords

December 22, 2025 · Original source

One life all at once Friday, December 19 The West Side Highway is cold and clear and empty driving home, like everyone is already gone and this night will be the last dredges of things as they were. The taxi driver is playing soft rock and the barges on the Hudson look like little houses from a distance. New York in December is like a fairytale, because most everyone leaves for real life and then you are reminded, in the lost week of the year, that none of this was ever exactly real life. There’s a red sports car doing donuts in the empty lot of Pier 76. There are three American flags blowing in the wind. Every December feels almost inconceivably distant from the one before. It’s been this way for a few years, at least, now. Mostly, this makes me feel self satisfied, and sometimes, this makes me feel sick. The wind has been crazy the past few days. It’s like a wind tunnel, specifically, driving through midtown. The river is churning. The wind is making everyone insane. I wake up to yellow overhead lights left on overnight, and they look particularly warm cast against the winter sun that filters through my windows. No curtains. In my dream, I was sitting in a Starbucks somewhere foreign, waiting on a bench next to two girls whom I did not know. The coffees were taking a while, and so the baristas kept on offering up shared bread. Something to compensate. The loaves of bread were huge and warm. The barista was throwing them overhand over the counter. The bread was soaring through the air and then landing on the floor. The other girls around me were scooping up the loaves and devouring them with their hands. They were breaking the bread in half and then tearing off a morsel for me. That landed on the floor, I was saying. Everyone shrugging. Looks of disgust. I always dream in mundanities. Wearing athleisure and mixing potions this morning, like matrixyl and Argireline and Evian water full of bubbles and microplastics and wind through the open window blowing all the dust around. I watched all the energy come roaring back for each and every false start these past few months, but it’s been a pause in the ebb and flow, now. I like when things are fascinating. Three books from the party are lying on my glass table in the center of my floor. The Champ is Here and Season of the Rat and a book called Alligator, all bought from some place called CASH 4 GOLD. Because the glass table is so big, and the room is so small, the table creates a disproportionate presence. I wonder what will change, once the glass table is gone. Bundled up and then drifted outside to procure a celsius at the bodega and now I am home, again. Listening to Kali Uchis play off my tinny computer speakers from my playlist that reminds me of hot dry desert air and CRYSTALS. Making plans that fifty-percent chance I will then cancel. Trying to finish my Florida, Massachusetts story but the tone requires a kind of gothic and spooky vibe that I am entirely unable to access right now. Everything at Los Angeles Apparel is five dollars, and so I spend the afternoon being gluttonous online. Purchasing a white tube top and a black fine jersey long sleeve and two a-line skirts and some shimmering silver earrings. Purchasing a red circle scarf for Iris, too, because she left her brand new red circle scarf in the basement at my brand new job, and I said I would find it for her but couldn’t. Unsure if I will tell her I have found the scarf, or admit to procuring a new one online. I think I will just hand it over and say nothing. Celia calls, and I tell her about cleaning my windows and live blogging my day. Careful, Celia says. It’s a good idea to talk about things like architecture, or strange observations. It is probably not a good idea to start live blogging your days. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO It’s the most program-less week of the year, and so I’m taking a week off the event call. Watch The Shop Around The Corner and make Sabayon

Inline links: The Shop Around The Corner, Sabayon

January 27, 2026 · Original source

From 8pm at Night Club 101 — Kathy Joyce and Chica Mob are throwing a Very Interesting Party (and book launch). Kathy will be reading from her debut book; 3 (Ristretto Books). It’s about Starbucks, baseball, and her dark past. DJ set by Maisy Swords. After party upstairs.

Inline links: Night Club 101, Kathy Joyce, Chica Mob, 3, Maisy Swords

White Claw5 mentions across 5 issues

White Claw is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 5 times across 5 issues between October 02, 2024 and January 08, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "drinking a white claw"; "someone peaks over the edge of the bar, presumably looking for fallen white claws"; "corona extra and white claw and paloma in a can". It most often appears alongside Confessions, KGB, New York.

Article page: White Claw
Mention count: 5
Issue count: 5
First seen: October 02, 2024
Last seen: January 08, 2026

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

Ways to be sincere. October 02, 2024
October in America October 14, 2024
Santa Teresa April 10, 2025
Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? August 14, 2025
Lost Week January 08, 2026

Confessions 3 shared issues
KGB 3 shared issues
New York 3 shared issues
Amelia 2 shared issues
Anika Jade Levy 2 shared issues

Source context

October 02, 2024 · Original source

I go to a philosophy meetup where the evening then bleeds quickly into a reading at Sovereign House. I’m told the two are separate events, but I can’t say I engage enough with either to really tell the difference. Mostly, I am sitting outside on the stoop eating North Dumpling, drinking a white claw. It’s a little gross, but there was a year during which I lived on chicken dumplings and green tea alone. I won’t feign repulsion.

October in America

October 14, 2024 · Original source

At Sovereign House, someone peaks over the edge of the bar, presumably looking for fallen white claws or more bottles of wine. They startle when they see me.

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!yrdc!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F78d590ff-7675-437a-bec3-6777487c94e1_916x372.png, Blade Study, Clare Koury, Scaling Laws For An Open EnTrainment Structure

April 10, 2025 · Original source

Friday, April 4 It's been such a haze since arriving in Costa Rica and at first I felt strange about it, like this isn't Good Behavior, treating a Big Trip kind of glibly, feeling a bit pouty and out of sorts and letting myself just be whisked away like it's nothing, when really it's never nothing, when really it's always touch and go and particularly something like this should make me feel ecstatic. Though, I kind of do feel ecstatic. I never really do become jaded. I quantify and calculate it all far too much to take anything for granted. You do kind of feel like you're floating, though. Cold beer to clutch between my knees on the sea plane that starts up all shaky and then scares me less even than a commercial plane because I can see into the cockpit and I can get the sense of how these pilots are navigating this thing. A cloud is just a cloud. I've been using too many words to inadequately explain myself. Send some bizarre texts upon landing that I hope will be encoded with… what, exactly? But, you’re in the jungle when you land. The sea plane slipped over the rainforest and then slipped out to sea, into the clouds. This part made me a bit nervous because there was nothing to spot except the horizon ahead. The scary part didn't last too long. Peninsula de Nicoya. Thick brambled forest by a single black tarmac. David sent me a video when he got here last week. The Jungle, he said, and now it’s like a hologram seeing it here myself. I really wasn’t going to come here. Two A.M. last night and the flights were so cheap that it felt like a glitch or something and then all I had to do was decide, ok, and then everything else was taken care of. There’s a driver at the gate for me. CHLOE, the sign says. That’s me, I say, and I point to the sign. I don’t know why I said it like that. It's a different vibe at the house here than in El Salvador. Surfer spiritualism over techno spiritualism. The aura here makes me feel significantly calmer. Because I am someone who accounts for danger at every turn (neurotic) I can remember being twelve or thirteen somewhere around here, handed a stick to ward off snakes at night, warned that don't you dare touch the frogs, the ants, they told me, fall screeching from the trees and it feels like a bullet wound when they bite you. But, “there is nothing actually scary here,” David’s friend tells me. “The main thing you have to worry about are these.” He shows me a picture of a scorpion. He tells me that the sting hurts a little, but after that the main thing is it makes your body feel all electric. “People sting themselves on purpose to get high,” David’s friends tell me. “They make you high???” I ask. One of the only things that scares me more than getting hurt is getting high. “No, not really,” David’s friend says. When I got here it felt kind of like I’d been teleported. David was there with an ATV where the car dropped me off, up a dirt road, by some stables and then he said - this might scare you but no backseat driving and then we roared up a mountain, nighttime already, I was left in a room in the hills in the jungle alone while the others offroad up and down and up and down until everyone was here for dinner. You can see the stars in a way that is so special here. I’d been told about this part, but it’s better to see for yourself. You couldn’t make out what parts were ocean and what parts were horizon but you could see that the darkness was placid and lovely and it stretched out quite some ways. You could see where there were villages, because lights close to the ground edged up against the stars in the sky but lacking any visual markers to ground them, these villages appeared to be hovering, unmoored. “You’ll be able to see the ocean in the morning,” David told me. So, in the morning, I thought, I will be able to distinguish which parts are ocean, and which parts are sky. Saturday, April 5 In the morning, there is a gecko on the ceiling and a dog outside my door. Chat GPT got way better overnight, I am told. It’s harder for me to suss out the vibe here. They are bullish on AI, but they are hesitant about some of the other stuff. We’re not really doing much of the hacker house stuff anyways, this time, though. Back down the mountain, and we’re in a hotel, and there’s surfer girls with pretty hair in pretty dresses dancing barefoot in all the nightclubs here. The heat makes a run in the morning unbearable. Even the walk to the shop is heavy and thick but I don't mind this. The only thing I do every single morning is walk for an hour and write while I walk, but the heat makes this hard. It's ok, because I can float instead. Yerba mate and corona extra and white claw and paloma in a can and redbull green and coconut water all stacked side by side in the shop, but I leave empty handed. Before, we got cold brew mixed with orange juice and a cashew avocado tart at a cafe run by the girlfriend of one of David’s friends. Since I tried it out and basically just became an alcoholic bartending my way around Eastern Europe at eighteen, I have kind of found the whole nomad thing to be spiritually ugly. Like it's something for mid thirties men that look older from the partying who stop you in back alleys in Croatia and tell you things like the key to it all is to never buy a couch. And they would say it like you were supposed to really get it. And you did get it, you got what they meant by it at least, but the thought was just a bit half baked and unconvincing. Ok, so, I wouldn't buy a couch but then what? Then what would I do? What should I do? I didn't want to stay listless and skimming the surface forever. New York is kind of empty too when you aren't living at least a little bit gently, and so these are the different pieces I am trying to parse out. I would stay here for a while with a project. David drops a chip on the beach lined with hermit crabs and he creates this huge commotion. Anarchy, really. All the little crabs begin to rip each other to shreds. "I hope the big one comes in and destroys them all," David says, regarding the hermit crab pile-on situation. There's not really any metaphor here, he’s just being vaguely sadistic. It does happen as you would expect. One big hermit crab sees its opportunity, identifies his leg up in this whole situation or perhaps, they aren't the brightest creatures, perhaps it just wants to try its lot at the prize like all the others and is surprised to find itself emerge victorious. He makes a clean break with the chip down the beach. The crabs kind of look like spiders from my vantage point. A mass of little tendrils for legs chasing after someone six times their size. They all have the death drive, because when they do catch up, it's not good news for any animal involved. An underdog swoops in and gets the chip. I don't know, I lose sight of it all. You have a target on your back when carrying the bounty though. If I was a hermit crab, I wouldn’t risk it. I put my head underwater in the ocean to get myself sorted. I walk back through a little bit of jungle and then past the fishermen in Malpaís while David turns around the ATV. Soles of my shoes are all sticky on the pavement. Herd of goats in the road. The heat makes all my thoughts become all slippery and smooth. If I spent a month here, I could learn how to become all tan and bendy and strong. Sometimes, I become slippery and smooth. I could spend the first part of my month learning how to notice when my mind becomes like this, and I could spend the second part learning how to make the feeling last. I would stay here for a while with a project… WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, April 10 From 6pm - 8pm at Blade Study — Clare Koury presents the opening of solo exhibition Scaling Laws For An Open EnTrainment Structure. With this installation, Clare Koury is addressing the part of the color spectrum that eyes don’t see.

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015?

August 14, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, July 28 Amelia is at the apartment when I arrive, bearing cloned keys and summer dresses. It is not a relief to return, I am afraid. Tiptoe across dusty slanted floors and this sense of oddity and dread creeps back no matter how quiet I am about it. There are planes overhead and I have loved all this glass before, but I am clenching my eyes shut now; wishing for drapes that close. Earlier, the flight from London was delayed hours upon hours and things went awry the moment I was left alone. Comparing notes of past present and future and then I laid my roller suitcase horizontal on the bathroom floor to take a seat and think about it. Left my passport in the airport bar where the woman beside me was making friends with every single customer cycling through aside from myself and then I sprinted over to security, where the lights were flashing all schizophrenic and neon and no one would speak. You'll miss your flight, dear, the airport attendant smiled. They opened a small door with a large electric key. They sent me to the Back Rooms. They sent me through endless identical silver doors and a mirror maze and down a long gray magic carpet. I emerged on the other side to find another magic carpet just like the first. I imagined infinite magic carpets extending in every direction. Motion activated so the feedback loop would reveal itself every time I thought I reached solid ground. I was not moving horizontal anymore. It was a vertical descent into the underbelly of Heathrow. I forgot the status of Boeing VS0137. I forgot to ever leave. I woke up in the Kids Play Center. We've lifted your curse, the airport attendant beamed. Most slides can also be used as rafts, they tell me on the plane. Cartoon villain voice playing on Virgin-Atlantic-TV and they're blasting it through the cabin speakers, too. You were an A+ travel companion, they told me in the airport. I wake up to take stock of these things: safety guidelines and praise. I fall back asleep. Tuesday, July 29 After things fell apart in June, I did not eat or sleep for four days and three nights. On the fourth night, I called the NYPD informational line quite dizzy and more out of curiosity regarding physical resilience and atrophy than out of any sincere safety concern. If you cannot sleep tonight, then you can call me in the morning, the operator said. And so I was unconscious in an instant. Put some limits on one's own neurosis. I decided to stay up late last night. It was muggy and hot outside JFK, and I missed the moors and the fog for just an instant. Then, the glass doors slid open into hot sweaty americana summer and all else was forgotten. Felt a bittersweet sort of close to home. Sat on the curb. The airtrain to the car park turned onto the highway. Felt like a road trip. Felt like team sports, two-in-the-morning, intermission. I'd been so quiet that day. I had not spoken one word since Heathrow. Everybody understood that the apartment was rotting. Great place but full of mold. Great place but full of memories both good and bad. Somebody should have thrown out the milk. Somebody should have done something about the feng shui. The dead trees. The slant of the floors. The roof, which nearly caved in last winter. Three in the morning arrival but I asked Amelia if I could come over instead, and Amelia understood it would be best to sit on her floor. Amelia had been leaning into performance art. How was your vacation, Amelia asked. Not transgressive and weird, I sighed. But rejuvenating, pleasant, precious in the sort of way I'd like to hang onto. And I am feeling physically fit from all the walking and running that went on and on and on. The heat wave has not passed in New York despite one more week dwindling into summer, and I sleep until midday around when I open my eyes and begin to feel uneasy. The lines out the stores are down the block and everyone is becoming very thin. The summer foods are things like GREENS 01 Juice and maca-powder-peanut-butter-protein-bites and very rubbery cocktail shrimp at The Smith. It is Julia who suggests The Smith for dinner and I am not picky with those sorts of things. It is me who suggests the party, despite my increasing hopes, generally, to avoid these sorts of things. Wednesday, July 30 Sitting at Banter with the Big Breakfast and hot green tea reading fairytales. It was a nice night last night. Whirling sort of thing. Nightclub101 to KGB to following a group to Ludlow House to Ripple Room. The sort of thing I like as often as possible, but really must limit to now and then. Sitting at the Australian Cafe now, using my Moldavite to mark my place in my book. The fairytales are describing relentless compassion as a form of some sort of psychological warfare. Psychosexual manipulation. Relentless compassion so as to provide one with a moral advantage, knowing it is impossible for the recipient of such compassion to reciprocate. Relentless compassion so as to cast a desperate, selfish, striving plea for reciprocation. The second option is probably more common, but it would be nice to be kind of on a high horse. August will be like oysters at The Knickerbocker with the cocktail sauce in the martini glass and we're sitting by the cracked glass window and Drew says don't cut your hair not yet and so it'll be like humid heavy hair almost down to my waist now, sparkling water in plastic cups with lime and diet coke in a bikini and I will stay put for a while. I will sit at KGB sober in the evening like I do most every evening. They're tearing chocolate chip cookies apart with their hands at the table over and Amelia says she thinks a bit too much about herself to give too much thought to the existence of God but she remembers, as a child, crying tears of joy because she couldn't believe her luck. She just realized she had somehow made it into a human body on Earth, and she couldn't believe her luck. I don't wish the evenings went on too much longer. The timing is starting to feel just right. I want to fill a Desani water bottle with white claw and catch a cab to a pool party but the evening might start to feel too late. I'll read Fanny Howe, Thomas Hardy, Dawn Powell on the floor - big cracked hard cover dog eared copies of all my books. Then, I will pack up my books into Ikea plastic storage trunks. I will pack up all my books and dresses and then the movers will come. The movers will haul my things out the door. They will haul the place bare. I will turn off the air conditioning in this glass apartment in the sky, and then I will leave. August will be somewhere else. Thursday, July 31 Rebecca and I are making plans. Involving - The Chakras by C.W. Leadbeater and Esoteric Healing by Alice Bailey. I don’t want to work harder than I ever have before, but I do wish to be a bit more intuitive about it. Rebecca is telling me about Energy Hygiene in a Chaotic City. Rebecca is telling me about Seven Rays & Soul Typing. Taking Thomas Pynchon, guasha, monastery sage oil, yoga mat, mineral sunscreen up to the roof for Abundance Meditation and Contemplation. I receive good news. The best, really. I am sorry to be opaque, but something shifted in the winds in England. So far, I have managed to hold onto it here. Careful! Open up the blinds because it's foggy this morning which means we get to let some light in. No bright sunlight baking things alive. No leftover drinks or snacks from the Last Party Ever that was thrown last night. So - it’s a very strange day. I’d like to take a different approach to Caution. Generate me a definition. They generate me this definition: The deeper awareness of human limitations, the deceptive nature of false certainties, and the dangers of unchecked power. This will do. Friday, August 1 It’s an unusual sort of incoherence in my dreams today. The shelf above the bed is lined with wine glasses full of water, and there's an in between of sleep and something else - nyquil at six in the morning, cinnamon zyn at six in the morning, the friends went home around six in the morning and now it is sometime around noon, sunlight streaming in. I wake up gagging. In my dreams, the wine glass water was mostly poisoned. In the space between half awake, not all was poisoned but it was a Russian Roulette sort of thing. I take my chances. Chug water out of my safest bet. Wake up screaming. Fall asleep screaming. The Ikea boxes for the move are starting to fill up and I know it's me stuffing the plastic to the brim but I don't really remember. It's been recollection that's lacking, really. It's been a birthday dinner tonight. The sweetest kind in the Lower East Side. Dimes Square but it's just us, I said. Because it was in the general vicinity but the streets were all empty. A stupid joke, but everyone humored me. Everyone was beautiful and lovely and happy and I didn't drink a regrettable amount. A nice sort of night. Got stuck on Thomas Pynchon and now I can't read anything else. Got stuck on esoteric health and now the water is poison. Got stuck at karaoke and now my self proclaimed sulfate allergy is acting up. Wine and hypochondria. It becomes a bit self indulgent then, doesn't it? Saturday, August 2 If the movers weren't late, I'd be gone by now. But they are late, and so I am lying on the couch that’s being left behind in an Everlane striped tee and too-short Los Angeles apparel shorts feeling kind of sorry for myself. I'm not sure why I decided to scrounge up this sort millennial slop getup for the day of my very unceremonious departure. Feeling older than my years. Feeling like I was raised on Madewell and Ann Taylor or, whatever else it is that would feel nostalgic if I'd been born before 2000. Something other than Patagonia shorts and my sister's sweaters, anyways. Feeling culturally un-attuned. Feeling mostly sorry for myself because I am surrounded by grime. I've been flouncing around this place for a while, now. The clutter is so repulsive, and so much of it is new. There was never a day of really moving in, here. It was just step by step, one thing after another, little parcels that were easy to bring up and down and in and out and now; you wake up in the middle of the morning in a glass apartment in the sky to the sense that there is no space left. I would love to toss and toss and toss. I would love to close my eyes on this island of this couch amidst a swamp of Ikea boxes and tell the movers never mind. I would never open the boxes again. I would never do the dishes. I would wear polyester and sleep on the previous owners teak Scandinavian couch. I would sleep surrounded by trash. It would all become trash, because I would decide to throw it all out. What do we need to know?, the movers will ask, when they arrive. Do you find everything interesting? I will ask. Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? YAY, the movers will say. I am picking things up and putting them down. The movers will give me high fives. Me and three Serbian teens high-fiving in a glass apartment in the sky that I am soon to leave and never return. They will pick things up and put them down and haul them out and I will never return. Sunday, August 3 I have taken my things and never returned. All is well except, the lights here are a bit too fluorescent. The courtyard is nice for the turtle pond, but the brick blocks the sun. And, once there was a top lock but now there is not. There is a hole in my door and I can't get it out of my head. There is a hole in my door and now everything is all wrong. Sitting at GMT Tavern with a not very nice martini and the Thomas Pynchon book I just can’t finish or quit. Slow Learner. Slow Learner, just like me. Make it all about me me me. Life is like: another day in my dumb life on my dumb blog talking about me me me. Life does not have to be like this. Life could be like: the hovering curious dominant of their separate lives should resolve into a tonic of darkness and the final absence of all motion (Pynchon). I keep getting stuck on that quote. I keep getting stuck on entropy, which I do not hope to believe in. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, August 14 From 9pm at Silver Lining Lounge — Matt Weinberger and Scott Lipps present The Downtown Prom. Hosts include Sid Simons, Anika Jade Levy, Nicole Naloy, and more. Music by Sexy Damion, Blog Analog, Loose Buttons, and Boxxer. DJ sets and more.

Inline links: Matt Weinberger, Scott Lipps, The Downtown Prom

What Are You Doing In The Fall?

January 08, 2026 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, December 22 Where do your turtles go in the winter, Zoe asked me, a few nights ago. The pond is made of running water, I said. It doesn’t freeze over, and the turtles just stay put. Zoe leaned forward, then, and told me, in a low voice, not to be affected by the temper tantrums of others. I nodded. I said something about the wind. There’s just been something manic in the wind is all, I said. Zoe nodded. Bright winter light reflecting off the turtle pond like a beam this morning. No natural light in the apartment, and no one really left in the city at this point in the winter, but the courtyard is shimmering shimmering shimmering. Longest night of the year. Early morning. Packing up my bags and then I’ll leave for a while, or at least for one week. The other girls at dinner a few nights ago were talking about the things that necessitate passivity, and the things that necessitate action. I’m thinking of moving to LA and getting super into my career, one of the girls was saying. What sort of career? Creative director. I’ve been getting super into my career right here, one of the other girls chirped. A career is a really important thing for a woman to have, her friend deadpanned. The first girl looked surprised. That was so backhanded. She said. You know I don’t actually want one of those. That was so mean. I think that was the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me. After dinner, I went back to my apartment and I stayed there for a while. For a few days actually, which I have never done before and never will again but the stories were flowing like water and I was drifting in and out of dreams where everyone was yelling around me. The apartment was empty and pale and I could see small objects fluttering slightly from the wind through the open windows every time I opened my eyes. The time passed quickly, like nothing at all, and now it is dusk and a full Winter Solstice cycle later. It’s not that I’ve ever been truly manic, or really even bored. It’s just that I found it easy to stay put, for once. There’s no snow on the walk to Caffe Reggio, but the streets are still white with cold. The order here is veggie soup with grilled chicken chopped up and placed at the bottom of a thick white ceramic cup, a neopolitan pastry, coffee with milk. The cafe is warm and full of cheer even though we are at the top of the Lost Week Of The Year. The goal now is to practice being quiet more. The goal is to distinguish between miracles and curses. There are no curses on the Amtrak to Boston this year, though the light is kind of melancholy and the station is less full than I remember it. I get on the wrong train first, and then it’s eerie and first class all the way down. On the right train, pulling out of New York, there are flames like eternal torches burning outside the factories. and underneath the bridges. Listening to Morrissey and George Martin to remind myself of things that are beautiful. The ride is quick and quiet. No strange women throwing themselves at the side of the carriage. No thieves in New Haven, though I’m pretty sure train heists don’t happen anymore and haven’t for a while. Nobody yells or seems particularly cognizant of their surroundings, least of all of me. Last Christmas, it was chaos all the way to Massachusetts. In the dining car, a man is talking about Snow Days. He can’t help but like snow days, because he likes the way they make his daughter’s face light up. Train snacks come in little packages like secrets. Tinfoil and cardboard and many layers to unwrap. It’s just a hebrew-all-beef hotdog and a white claw inside, but the ordeal of it is nice all the same. “Winter” by Johann Wofgang von Goethe is playing off the radio when I arrive. The drive from the train is dark and silent, except for Davey-the-dog jumping at the window. The old magicians were poets,” the radio is saying. “Their art was not to turn one thing into another, but to seek the hidden form of a thing and put it into words. The essence of the thought is that true creative power lies in revealing the inherent, often unseen, nature of the world through art and language,” a woman is reciting on the radio. Her voice is soft and she speaks in a thick British accent. It’s still dark outside, and pine bows are strung over the wooden rafters, along with baby lights that flicker slowly, on and off. The fields are gray and hazy and soft and sheathed in a light fog so you can still see through the window, but not very clearly. “Everyone who saw her looked away quickly,” the reader is saying, on the radio. “as if what she had could be caught by being close. For her it was only winter. Inside and out. She would carry it with her, wherever she went.” Welcome to Night Tracks, the radio says. Where the land is covered in a blanket of snow. Tuesday, December 23 It did snow overnight. Three glass mason jars of water on the kitchen table, along with orange juice, cups of black coffee, and a lemon tart from the Concord Cheese Shop. The whole set up is glimmering in diamond and crystalline light. Everyone else is gone, for the day, and I know because I could hear them talking on their way out. Something about elevators and broken door knobs and all the horrible ways one can get trapped and then die. Someone my sister knew in a small apartment in Berlin sent the bathroom door knob tumbling out into the living room and thus sealed herself inside. Some friend of a friend got stuck in a careening elevator for hours on end, dropping up and down and lurching faster and faster between the twentieth floor and ground. She was about to make contact with the earth and splinter herself. Really, she was. It was about to happen when the elevator stopped. A fireman emerged with a master key. The friend was fine. One is aware, I could hear everyone saying as they all bundled up in winter coats, that when one dies of claustrophobia, the causation of one’s demise is directly correlated to one’s solitude. The doors slammed and in a rush of cold and morbid conversation and bright morning, everyone was gone. I’m in the woods again, after all that energy. It’s just one week all at once. It’s just ten am and there are still small snow flurries blowing off the evergreen forest. Wednesday, December 24 Christmas Eve - accounting for beautiful hours I went to the salon in the car park by the laundromat, where I used to make snow angels in the dead grass, while I waited as a child.

Adidas3 mentions across 3 issues

Adidas is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 3 times across 3 issues between September 03, 2024 and January 14, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "The Dare hosts an album release party and 'activation' with Adidas"; "boyfriend's Adidas track shorts"; "Wearing my friend's Adidas pajamas". It most often appears alongside 56 Henry, Billy Pedlow, Blade Study.

Article page: Adidas
Mention count: 3
Issue count: 3
First seen: September 03, 2024
Last seen: January 14, 2026
Instagram handle: @adidasoriginals

Outbound links

Issue trail

What Are You Doing In The Fall? September 03, 2024
generative and godly secrets May 27, 2025
How To Break Paralysis January 14, 2026

56 Henry 2 shared issues
Billy Pedlow 2 shared issues
Blade Study 2 shared issues
Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research 2 shared issues
Celsius 2 shared issues

Source context

September 03, 2024 · Original source

The Dare hosts an album release party and ‘activation’ with Adidas. The afternoon (12pm - 6pm) is open to the public, ft delz dogs and album listening. Evening (8pm - late) features Forever Magazine, Test Subjects, Malice K, and The Dare. Text 332-241-5071 for address.

Inline links: The Dare, Adidas, Forever Magazine, Test Subjects

May 27, 2025 · Original source

Monday, May 19 I will take the rest of my youth as it is. He turns on the air conditioner for me and leaves to drink Non Alcoholic Beers while I stay put and read the Diaries of Girls Online. I walk ten miles and I do not really believe his friends who say there are worms at the Russian Spa. This is how rumors spread, I tell him. You are Married To The Truth, I tell myself. In the morning, there is light through my greenhouse roof and to start; I am the only one awake. It feels like this; I had one of the best weeks ever last week, where everything came rushing back into being as it should be and I was certain it would stay like this forever. Then there was sudden chaos on the phone, chaos on the train, serenity at Spa88 and then I was calling my mom muttering sentiments I knew she would find vaguely offensive, stomping around the financial district saying bad words like a child intent on proving herself lovable even if insufferable. He said it wasn't that I was so uninteresting, more that my story was bizarre, not really a story at all, full of vitriol. Everyone was running along the Hudson River and I had two or three diet cokes with dinner and I was up not all night but close. It goes like this: in the morning there is energy and a package thief filling a suitcase up with my boxes of celsius and fiber powder and whitening strips and dental floss. I crouch above him on the stairway and I scream HEY. He screams back HEY and so I let him have it. I turn on my heels and I run up the stairs. My favorite things are leaving the house in the morning and not coming back till late night, cool mint zyns, blackberry dr. pepper, turkey cold cuts with truffle mustard eaten in a kind of self-punishing way. I lie on the roof in my boyfriend's Adidas track shorts and a black tank top that I stole from the gymnastics locker room in highschool. The thing about New York is there is immense competition to be skinny, beautiful, successful, rich all in circumstances that are entirely unconducive to all these things, my friend is telling me on the phone. Circumstances like the package thief and your metabolism doesn’t even get a boost from the sun and also there are hard drugs and alcohol. I don’t feel above all of that, but I do feel distant from it now and so I suppose, with some plausible humility, this adds up to kind of the same thing. I wish I was a gentle person. I feel lazy today, but this is not the same thing. Tuesday, May 20 Last night, we went to Lucky's for dinner and I had something with tequila and Saint Germaine straight up and he had more non-alcoholic beer. Then, they brought us mountains of shoestring onion rings and a big wedge salad and it was good for a while, until I started to feel sick. I went to the bathroom to play on my phone while the scent of grease dissipated. The drinks were crisp and they brought the shaker right to our table. Lucky's was like a steakhouse, but with a smaller interior than your average We went to Matthew's house after, to sit in his barren family room while he hacked up a lung. I rolled up my Zara blazer that I stole from Paul's Casablanca lost and found after someone stole my blazer first and also back when I was an alcoholic. I curled up under my blazer on Matthew's tiny couch while Matthew and my boyfriend talked in code and made rankings of all their friends. Matthew's apartment was pretty empty except for a whiteboard with a list of girls he likes and a Chinese new year banner and a huge pile of hats that said I'M IMMUNE TO PROPAGANDA. “Jesus, she is combative. you're right, she's so combative,” Matthew told my boyfriend, talking about me. "It's possible that Canne after dark was something that happened in the daytime," he said. "she'll get mad if I ask her why she won't play anagrams," he said. "The activation triggers a chain of events leading to increased dopamine release," he said. Sometimes, when I am with my boyfriend's friends I feel like I am in a video game, or maybe in an orphanage. You don't want to be someone who is contorting your face and yelling. It is morning now. I don't really know what happened there. Being at these parties more sober is strange, because there is nothing else but me and yet I still don't really understand. I am listening to sweet and gentle music, and I feel a total surrender. S - i do feel bad i was not so gentle and kind about this. i get myself trip wired and lose it. but it is always better to be gentle and kind and i understand new york can kill the soul and there is something beautiful in a peaceful house alone and that is why you left which is innocent and pure and it's not fair to be rageful to you for that. Wednesday, May 21 There were two cigarettes and two glasses of wine at Voile de Nuit. This becomes some sort of Diary of Consumption. I met Ellie at a tall house on a wooded street in the West Village where she works on things pertaining to design and then we spent the hours in the courtyard of Voile de Nuit, which I adore because it’s reminiscent of Summer and Reality. I behaved badly the last time I was here. My boyfriend comes by to drop off fries. We run into friends at Caffe Reggio and it's raining by the time we reach home. My boyfriend says: Spreading secrets is entropic Keeping your mouth shut is static Spreading misinformation is generative and godly I do think he is mostly kidding. It's Simone Weil who says about rage - “To be able to hurt others with impunity—for instance to pass our anger on to an inferior who is obliged to be silent—is to spare ourselves from an expenditure of energy, an expenditure which the other person will have to make.” And I wonder which character I am in this story and it's not always the good one. I was thinking about all of that in the novel. That and the self surveillance of it all. Unfortunately, my thought experiments are ruining my life and also, the novel is ending up being All About Me LOL, too. The play tonight (Revolution at Flea Theatre ) is nice, because I walk through the rain to get there and smoke cigarettes outside The Odeon after, and because its depiction is of genuine weirdos, not like Quirked Up, not like the girls my friend texts me about after the party, “have you met them? so spacey!” not like, becoming strange because of course there is some desire to conjure up some personality and if you’re pretty then it’s fine and even appealing to be off-putting. The play is like grocery store clerk alcoholic, gun in the purse grocery store clerk alcoholic, therapy speak coping mechanisms like count up then down then up and it’s employed in the play as the coping mechanism not as an ironic tactic. Drinking beers on a birthday in the back alley and the play is disaffected from glamor in a way that I’m realizing not many things are. Like even most depictions of poverty in a lot of media, at least media coming out of New York at least certainly media surrounding youth culture and a narrative surrounding a party, goes like; we have nothing but we’re slippery adjacent to everything as a result of our charm and good looks and happenstance. The play is like, leftover charcuterie from her husband’s weird mega church and splurging at the liquor store and old cocaine shoved into a bowling ball but there’s an innocence and almost childlike wonderment to the way they tackle the expired drug situation, and the play is not about drugs. There’s a genuine kind of earnest stiltedness to the conversation that lends itself to sincerity. Thursday, May 22 May is quivering right before me; I'm not letting it lapse like April did but there are still smokescreens, silkscreens, my fingers are sleeping right through it. The Club, last night. The Play then The Club. It was smokey and sweet. My lungs felt coated in something sour by the end. The smoking patio was wet with dew and I was kind of floating, not in a bad way. Not hungover, it's something way more visceral but still hazy. I could feel it all start to slip, and so I held onto myself quite tightly. My boyfriend's screen time is 102 hours a day across devices. My face is encased in sheaths of plastic that keep you young, but they're not the temu kind that's weird and freaky. The light I use is Science Backed. I'm thinking of getting into vintage workout wear. I'm thinking of getting into Vlogging. I'm thinking of getting into filling out paid surveys online for luxury perfume sellers that require you to swear your spending habits are High and you like perfume from MiuMiu and you Hate Balenciaga and what perfume means to me is; I think sometimes scents can bring up... nostalgia? I say. Do you own a Prada dress? they ask. We leave the party early - I'm sick and he buys me chicken caesar salad pizza. Aren't you glad we left early so we could dance a little at home, he says. In the living room, the windows are all a little frosted from the rain. There are lights in the neighbors windows across the courtyard but it's thursday night, the rain has stopped. You couldn't have expected everyone to just stay home, really. I notice the people in the windows if he is spinning me across the room. Exhibitionism. I catch myself in the peripheries. The windows. The back of my mind. And I never shut the blinds but that is just no Executive Function or Detail Orientation. I am not some sort of voyeur. Friday, May 23 10:45am, and they are playing some kind of staticy electric classical mashup of music from the Fedex truck outside. "Even as a grad student, I felt they were looking down on chaos," one young man at the Yemeni coffee shop is telling another. Buying: coffee and chicken quiche but none of that is for me. Buying: peanut butter perfect bar and celsius and my boyfriend's screen time is up to 316 hours since midnight since he's doing things indiscernible to me but which he clarifies are Not Fraudulent. I am trying not to write so much in the google doc diaries. It is like I have learned these diaries as a trick, and now I am addicted to it. Now, I can’t do anything else. I must release all thoughts, but to release one thought I must go through, again and again, everything else. And so I go through it all, again and again and again. The thought, and then everything else. We were going to talk more about Spirituality today, but the tripwire keeps happening - stuck on: Vanity and Careerism. I make subheadings to keep myself in check. VANITY. CAREERISM. CAREERISM: Here is where I am: I have the substack for now which is nice this is something that I suppose in some ways is a defining thing I have done but it does not feel like so much it does not feel like it culminates to anything just proof of existence, yes, but everyone has some sort of proof of existence and it is nice to write the story behind something. The story itself cannot just be the story of writing about yourself. And for a minute I was very very very sad and so that plotline became dependable, but that is no sort of thing to rely on. And this is why it cannot all just be the writing of the self. It hasn’t been. [redacted] felt like something different, investigation, beginning middle end, it was not just here I am, it was like a puzzle it was like being very precise with it and it was the biggest thing I have done so far and I sat with it for such a long time. And perhaps I am being dramatic because there are other projects I could start in the meantime but I can’t sit down and make myself think oh what would be an interesting and pithy thing to talk about for somewhere glossy, I cannot do it. I think about doing it and my stomach rises into my throat with how little I care. And so it has to be a story that bursts out of me. There was one, and I can tell there is almost something else too but it’s like David said yes, it’s difficult while you are in the waiting room. Since beginning writing this, my fever got higher, and we are hanging the Bacchus masks around the apartment plus yellow golden softlight and, now I feel more peaceful about it. I wasn’t having so much humility. Nevermind. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 27 From 6pm (show at 7pm) at Baby’s All Right — Baby’s Presents a benefit concert for the Immigrant Defense Project with Palehound, The Ophelias, and Grumpy. Dj set by WeTakeManhattan. - “All proceeds from the show will go towards supporting the IDP’s 20+ year mission of fighting for the rights of immigrants targeted for imprisonment and mass deportation via advocacy, litigation, legal advice and training, community defense, grassroots alliances, and strategic communications.” | GA (18+) $38.86, Ticket and Bonus Donation $49.69

January 14, 2026 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, January 5 Start the year at Cassandra’s apartment, and then a few days pass kind of breathless and stranded in this way. Her bedroom looks over St Vincent’s Ferrer, and it is light filled and sweet. Cards and paper star cut outs hung on red ribbon stream down the edges of the cream walls. A seashell necklace, Mary Magdalene portrait, books of Adorno and Mary Gaitskill. The bible. When my friends leave for the day, I do not. Rush of opening doors and boots on wood and winter air, and then they are gone. Cassandra’s apartment is very clean. It strikes me, somewhat uneasily, that everything I touch appears slightly less precise when I’m the one returning it to its proper place. Face oil left off kilter and kind of dripping. A little bit bad at treading gently in this place where I am a guest and everything is delicate and gorgeous. Wearing my friend’s Adidas pajamas and drinking water and taking Advil in thick blue translucent pill form. Writing down the things I no longer care to reflect on. A lot can happen in a year, I tell Cassandra, but then again, a lot can happen in one day or one hour or one minute, even, so best to be kind of chill about it. We go to Heidelberg for herring and brown bread and hot raspberries in ice cream and apple strudel at night. We go to CVS for baby food and tooth brushes and nicotine gum. The evenings uptown are more sparkling and quiet. Back at the apartment, and I can’t stop talking about all the things I want to do or places I want to move. California, Switzerland, El Salvador. Uptown, to a four bedroom apartment with my four best friends. Lying on Cassandra’s couch wearing a blue sweater under a gray blanket and drinking flower power kombucha this morning. Cassandra gets ready for work and offers general hospitality. Eat any fruits and vegetables you want, Cassandra tells me. She lists them like a game. Ad libs. She was teaching me how to type cast a person as “Lego” or “Dust Bowl” or “Victorian Orphan,” last night. Blueberries, shallots, pickles, seeded mustard from the Amish farm stand. I tell Cassandra that she’ll come home to find I have devoured all of her arugula with my bare hands. Later, I wear Cassandra’s blue sweater and black ballet flats and take my own belongings clutched in my arms in a cab downtown. Am I crazy, or did you take my black ballet flats, Cassandra texts, that evening. We discuss an exchange. Tomorrow’s plans. My polyester black gown bartered for Cassandra’s blue sweater and black ballet flats. We’ll meet at mass, lunch, The Frick, The Met, the play, the party. The light is blue gray in my apartment, and all the windows steam over when the hot water is on. All the windows steam over because my apartment is very small, and because the bathroom has no doors. A New Year should feel psychedelic, not sluggish, one of my friends said, a few days back. Psychedelic??? I said. What about crisp and clear???? After my dream where there is No Air Left, I come to consciousness with concerns about redemption. Something about bad habits and something omnipresent left unsaid. Sun and light and real sort of detox incoming and yes this has all happened or is happening or needs to happen soon. Sirens outside the foggy window. Gentle winter sunrise. Watching Darling (1965) on my computer as it gets light outside. The Schlesinger film where Julie Christie whirls about all thrilled to find it’s not too late, even though, of course, it is. Back on my phone, I’m checking prediction markets and trackers and fortune tellers and all the things I’m trying to avoid for religious and also paranoid reasons. My fears are all confirmed. Reading the stars. That voice in your head telling you everything will work out fine is wrong, they say. Sound of shattering glass crystallizing outside my open window this morning. I can sense, therefore, more than see, bright morning light starting to seep through. Thank God. It was a few days of gluttony last week. Last days of bohemia, but it was different from the bohemia of before. Different from the times that we were all manic from the wind and cold and early January where everything or nothing happens all at once. Everything used to be reeling. I miss Butterfly Club. Ex-best friends are forever. I’ve been talking about being ascetic for reasons of necessity, and also because simulated intensity can only do so much when it comes to keeping a life pure. Morning, now, and I don’t remember my dreams but I jolted awake ready to chase the same thoughts in circles. Washington Square Park is bright and feeling like spring today, because the snow is melting and the trees and lights are coming down. Pine piles looking a little lonely under the park archway. Something a bit melancholy about it. Dead and gone. Nothing to overthink. Cassandra comes downtown for mass and black ballet flat retrieval, and then she goes uptown to clean her apartment and do good things so she can be a good person. Your apartment is already so clean, I want to tell Cassandra. Cassandra is telling me about the only girl in the world who are funny. I went to tell Cassandra about someone who said me and one other girl and one specific nun are only girls who are funny, but the conversation moves on before I can assert my piece. And I think I’m mostly funny when I’m being mimetic, anyway. Better at knowing funny than at being funny myself. Cassandra is telling me about childlike wonder. Washed my face with La Rouche Possay cleanser and Japanese milk toner and did Big 6 Lymphatic drainage which is supposed to do things like give you the whites of your eyes back and also cleanse your insides through and through, this morning. Procured a Celsius and cool minty zyn from the fridge. Procured green juice and cliff bar and sat in Prada boots, for a while, on the edge of my bed. I do feel confident things will work out in the end, Cassandra texts me. Only if no spiritual blockage with vice or isolation, I text her in response. What if we had seven more hours of daylight, my friend said tonight, but I like it when it is four pm and I’ve completed my day of obligations and the fading daylight matches a sense of completion. I wore a tan skirt with no tights because they all keep running and a black long sleeve tee and sneakers to do venue tours and other obligations. I thought you were coming from the gym when I saw you wearing shorts, my friend said, after I ran into him on the street. I’m not wearing shorts, but I am wearing sneakers because I keep on procuring mysterious injuries, I said in response. It was a strange December and then a good January, incoming. Good, because it is quiet. Good, because I think I sense things picking up. Can I see a menu, I asked the bartender, at a dive bar, later that night. There is no menu, because this is a dive bar, the bartender told me. Can I get something warm, I asked. The bartender fired up the kettle. Imagine seeking out attention to get only the negative aspects of fame like stalkers and rage, my friends were saying, at the dive bar. Imagine selling out your friends to cloy for low hanging fruit. Imagine turning twenty-six. Imagine playing pool. Imagine moving to Los Angeles, California, or San Salvador, El Salvador, or Geneva, or even Austin I would move anywhere, I was saying to my friends. I would move across the country or even the world and become very sweet or even very bored. My friends were talking about people for whom spectacle is just real life. You assume that everyone is excited to go back to real life, and then you realize that they have no real life. So these are the people that you’re supposed to avoid. And then after that, everyone was talking about religion again. Which is sort of crystallizing to be the topic these days, or even this year. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, January 14 A few good downtown art openings tonight (6pm - 9pm) — At 56 Henry; works by Yifan Jiang and Sareh Imani. At Entrance; Seth Cameron’s first New York exhibition in six years. At Post Times; Elberto Muller solo show.

Inline links: 56 Henry, Yifan Jiang, Sareh Imani, Entrance;, Seth Cameron’s, Post Times, Elberto Muller

Advil3 mentions across 3 issues

Advil is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 3 times across 3 issues between February 03, 2025 and January 14, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "I take Advil, very rarely Adderall these days"; "Sparkling ICEE water and Advil and fever chills"; "taking Advil in thick blue translucent pill form". It most often appears alongside Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research, Celsius, El Salvador.

Article page: Advil
Mention count: 3
Issue count: 3
First seen: February 03, 2025
Last seen: January 14, 2026

Issue trail

Dream Logic February 03, 2025
The social experiment is now over December 22, 2025
How To Break Paralysis January 14, 2026

Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research 2 shared issues
Celsius 2 shared issues
El Salvador 2 shared issues
Hudson River 2 shared issues
Los Angeles 2 shared issues

Source context

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!x0cE!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F026ee05a-c657-489d-aa34-250f7bb7d7e5_1144x1394.png, St Augustine's, Simone Weil Food Diary, Aliens and Anorexia, Flower Power, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!_dvK!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Ff3b06e0c-2cb1-4c11-b33e-544c9ef7c39b_1182x1308.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!cTIp!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fe004f5e9-d687-454c-a636-8a531bd50877_1162x1422.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!QvaR!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4e1cff43-2649-4fd5-b2c0-12597c68d64c_1179x639.jpeg, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!SwKw!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fcb9eb097-5814-48e3-9eee-e66c559d15b5_1200x1600.jpeg, Bryan Johnson in, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!EgQz!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F1cb85ea0-de00-4d10-b03e-ae375da5ddef_1179x642.jpeg, something nice on the evening, Heaven Can't Wait, Cynosure

February 03, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, January 26 Lying under red light at Ruby's apartment. The light here is all good - hanging infrared wires, silver orbs, all the lights seem incandescent. It's warmer today - walking through Little Italy there's a man on the fire escape looking down on the street with his dog, a big golden retriever, I like looking into other peoples lives like this. Earlier, lying on the couch in my own apartment, looking in our neighbors windows and at first it's absentminded but then I start to be intrigued. David says stop staring, they can see you staring, but I don't think they can. They can see me, sure, but the distinction between simply looking out the window or looking at them; impossible. You can't perceive eye movements from even a slight distance and anyways, if they see me looking at them, they admit they were looking at me, the gaze goes two ways, and so on... The last conference in El Salvador was all about Light, they told me on the phone on Friday. This year, it will be all about Earth. Ruby orders magnesium, orange juice, she swooshes coconut oil. These are good remedies. I take Advil, very rarely Adderall these days but still sometimes. I should be taking aspirin instead - this is what everyone says online, and what some people say in real life, too. I'm reading St Augustine's Confessions - mostly reading it for school, although I've been invited to discuss it on a Podcast as well. My track record with Podcasts is bleak, scary, and abysmal. My track record with Catholicism is - I never really went through that phase. I struggle to separate vanity from philosophy and prayer. I'm drawn to this part of Confessions most, things like "there is no pleasure in eating or drinking unless it is preceded by the discomfort of hunger and thirst.” Things like "Drunkards eat salty things to make their throats dry and painful, so that they may enjoy the pleasure of quenching their thirst.” Drawn to these, of course, because they elicit reflection on my own actions in the most vain and superficial sense of it all. Simone Weil Food Diary. Aliens and Anorexia. Like Grimes has been tweeting things like she found God to quit vaping. Hypnotize me instead, perhaps - it seems vulgar to attempt contemplation, and to end up here. Ruby and I walk to Flower Power in the East Village for; Wild Oat bromus ramosus (green). It does things like; “work as an expression of inner calling, manifestation of one’s true goals and values, work experiences motivated by a clear life purpose and conviction.” We go to Bar Oliver for vermouth tonic. Ruby makes me steak. David calls. Ruby and I watch Mulholland Drive - the first time for me. Only eleven pm and I usually sleep late, much later, but this red light casts a different glow. I'm closer to the ground in my friend’s apartment, no planes overhead and melting ice. I get homesick easily. In hours, really. But then, you can always go back. Monday, January 27 Perhaps you theme your days. On Health, you say. L-theanine with my coffee. Not really, but I’ll plan for this down the line. Bar Oliver is all lit up in piercing morning sun. I walk outside early this morning. Chinatown fruit market coming alive so quickly. There was a cemetery outside the window where I slept last night. I kept on looking out and seeing icy branches overhead that framed the building like a second roof, the cemetery like a courtyard. It scared me once, I screamed once in my sleep, but I woke up other times too, and it wasn't too bad then. Mostly, the sky outside just looked all pale blue and clear, the same pale blue all night in my memory, although this doesn't make sense in a logical way, what with the night passing and the becoming dark and the me being asleep for it all. Dream Logic. A recollection of slippery silvery vines forming an outline of a roof over a gravestone. You wake up, and there is no roof, the trees were never shaped like that at all. Tahini chocolate cookie because Ruby told me sugar is actually ok. Whole milk cappuccino and I'm adding honey instead of Splenda. Enough is enough. I'm not going to crash out, but days are different now that my hours don't float on and on in pacing and typing that becomes like a trance. I felt like I was floating yesterday. Not today. That's probably ok. Tuesday, January 28 Tea with Madelyn Grace and then hot apple cider and Jameson whiskey at Cafe Reggio last night. David and his friends came by and acted abrasive. I was annoyed, but then I wasn’t. I walked the Williamsburg Bridge this morning - all the way from The West Village to Brooklyn. Delancey street was crazy at that hour, but everything after that was nice. I’d never done this before - walk the bridge, I mean - and it went on for so much longer than I expected. At first it was all windy and it made me scared, how once you got on the bridge you really couldn’t get off, how in the center the only exit was to finish the walk or perhaps to blow over, and I was the only one there, people were biking by so fast but no one else was walking, so then I started to run, and so then it got all warm, the water in the Hudson looked nice and wild and churning and distant from up here. The thing is, this winter was mostly a practice in what I’m recalling like a meditation now, with even the slight perspective - now that it’s late January, that is. Everything was present, so hyper present, and all I did was walk and think and walk and walk and walk and write down what I was thinking about and sometimes I yelled a lot, and I know it’s still the depth of winter, but this time starts to feel like it is passing. I freaked out last week, I thought about what if I couldn’t keep my days like that, but my days still hold all of this, only now, they hold more too. At the gym, I write about how it is ok to just do things like - go for a walk, go to work, lie by the window with David, go to the gym, write a story, and these days can be good and even better than the other ones, the ones that snap you into fierce exteriority. After the gym, Cassidy texts me. “Are you at KGB?,” and I’m not, but I think, well, I would go. Augustine says - “Give me chastity and continence, but not yet.” Etc etc etc. I feel better when almost all my time is spent with people, and I think my mind is better like this, too. At KGB, I am dressed all in Pilates and Going-For-A-Jog type clothing. At KGB, Matthew is telling a girl about how Blade Runner the movie is based on a very antisemitic book. I've heard him tell this story before, and the gist varies each time, but there are a few lines that consistently resurface. I zone out after I hear the first line that I am sure I have heard before. When I zone back in, he's talking about religion more generally. "Really?," the girl he's with is saying. "Yes, YES," Matthew is saying “I looked up the history of the Blade Runner movie, and it said it was made around World War II," the girl is saying. “No, not at all," Matthew says “Oh,” the girl says “How did you like the rape scene?" Matthew asks “What rape scene?" the girl says “Oh that's good," Matthew says. There is new art on the wall of KGB. A rendition of Vermeer’s Girl With Pearl Earring, except in this case, the girl is a dog. “Do you like the new art?,” David asks. “Yes,” I say. “I don’t,” David says. I am picking at the wax on the candle, because everyone is talking and because I don’t have much to say. “Stop playing with fire,” the bartender tells me. “Act like you are at your mothers house.” Except - I mishear her. I think she says you aren’t at your mothers house, because she is right, I am not, but if I was; I would play with the flames as much as I liked. Wednesday, January 29 I would like to put away this phone, I think. Warmer, today. They’ve left the windows open at the coffee shop. I told you it was starting to feel like spring. I told you it would be all spring-like in the depth of winter, soon. Sunlight filtering, filtering, filtering, through the roof at home. The roof and the windows. It’s all one and the same. It’s a new moon tonight. Lunar New Year tonight. You put your head under the covers and filter out the sun. You like it because it is warm but also - the blue light of your phone can absorb your entire vision at any hour, here, in this makeshift tent. I am not of the Escape The Internet train of thought. It’s designed to addict you but then, well, having some fucking discipline. On my phone, I see people saying things like - “there is no ‘on your phone’, just another layer of constant consciousness”. And in real life I think things like - you should separate it if you can, you should know real life if you can but, to leave it all behind - impossible, because it will always be right there, and you could still do things like walk down the street and understand the street as purely physical but then, look around you, look at the other people, look at the surroundings they are absorbing and none of them are real, none of them are there, and so you can’t just stand on this street and get it, understand it, all offline. I don’t really want to get it anymore. My mornings could be real, they could be with just a little discipline and a touch of joie de vivre. They aren’t real, really, because I’m making makeshift Blue Light tents to filter out the sunlight, but then, I’m working on this. Blue, blue, blue sky today. Doomers previews, tonight. Biohacker meetup tonight. Bryan Johnson in Interview Magazine tonight. I like to do things like drink six teas with six Splenda each, and then I like to act very harsh with myself and others regarding the principles of a life well lived. Year of the snake. What do you think about that...? All this talk about discipline, and my afternoon is all drop off a few Depop packages and refresh, refresh, refresh the stats on a piece that I didn’t even write. There’s a hazy little run in the afternoon. There’s some bad news, or, news that is more irritating, really. Ruby spreads the word: "do not take my advice about eating lots of honey," she says. Ok. Ok, it's all protein now, then. David takes me to a strange party tonight. An interloper arrives, and he is chased out at sword point. It is insane how quickly the tides turn. You said the things that you didn’t mean, again. It wasn't supposed to happen like this, but then, it never is. You wrote today, earlier, about how - things were good, better, but you didn't want to get too cocky because remember what you were capable of really not too long ago, it was only a few weeks back, but it felt so distant. And then, tonight, again... Thursday, January 30 And then it's ok. Well, it's not, but it can be. You’ve been taking for granted that it will be ok, if it has to be ok. That if you care about something so, so, so deeply then it cannot possibly be destroyed, but it could, you are capable of this. It feels foreign sometimes, this force, this capacity for destruction, like it can’t belong to you, but it does, it’s no one else’s. It becomes simple, then. You can’t just say I crossed my fingers, you can’t just say I take it back. And so, no more. I'm working the door at Tense tonight, which is my favorite - both TENSE, and working doors, that is. It’s a beautiful night, and this, after everything, is a relief. Christian Lorentzen reads emails with Gary Indiana. “I now believe you can tell if the writer is part of a writing program, by looking at their teeth,” Gary told Christian. "Why does everybody love Downton Abbey?" Gary asked Christian, in another email. "Well, what's not to love? The series construction is so glibly subscribed that you know what will happen before the writers do." In another, he lamented the logistical problems surrounding his writings on Cuba - the travel ban, his lover there, etc etc etc. It's a good format for a reading - the emails thing. Correspondences brought to life. Not quite a diary, but close, more intimate, often, because one isn't writing into the void of one's own neurosis in a correspondence. Madelyn writes me an email, after. I am working on my own correspondence back, still. Mania delays the process. It's good to have a long form conversation to return to. I hope this email finds you well. This email finds me almost incapacitated, but I won't be, soon. Beckett's reading is full of empathy and wit as always. He's lamenting the narcissism of our times in his introductory speech, and his own gut impulses and the stories that follow give him the proper wherewithal to do so. I see Sean Lynch and others outside. Sean writes something nice on the evening. I see Doomers the next day - the dream logic of my thoughts following this production requiring another letter altogether WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, February 4 From 7pm at Heaven Can't Wait — Cynosure presents the first of a two night fundraiser for Los Angeles, featuring Alex Arthur, Precious Human, Truman Flyer, and more.

December 22, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, December 15 Woke up to snow feeling self possessed, self determined, and ill, and so I’ll hold onto this for a while, I think. Everyone keeps on telling me what I should do next, to which I say: o.k. Everything is kind of medium levels of certain, these days. Lying on the floor last night at the after party and I could tell that people’s visions were kind of starting to spin but I have needed, personally, to be more solid about it. I have needed, personally, to keep my own vision clear. You can look at her face and see she’s not a good writer, the boys were saying, last night, about someone, can’t remember who. Can we just talk about pretty girls who are good writers?, the boys were asking the group. I wasn’t fishing for compliments. Just kind of sitting there watching everything because my only real goal here is to be observational and not prescriptive. There’s not a role to be filled if you want God to love what you do, someone was saying. If you want the angels to sing you have to eat the script. Angels weren’t really on the mind as I drifted home, more consumed with things like self improvement and hand selecting a new addiction and a caution to the wind sort of impulse. Potions washed up at my doorstep this morning. Sparkling ICEE water and Advil and fever chills which come as blessings when one reads them as signs. Anyways, magical blue hour snowy dusk over Washington Square Park on the way uptown tonight, and since everything changed this summer or really three days ago in a way that is true, I have started to imagine something else. The Christmas party was in an apartment around the corner from Saint Vincent Ferrer Roman Catholic Church off Lexington Ave, last night. The apartment was open-concept with big windows and a pine tree and roaring fire, poached salmon, chocolate chip cookies and a beautiful bed on which everyone lay their beautiful coats. I wanted to stay there forever, as I always do in places that I like. I wore the Cinq-a-Sept holiday dress and the big wool coat I’ve been donning for weeks now, and I wore pearls, too, which is something new. Everything was slippery and bright and better and kind of like a dream, but I don’t want to get complacent. When I moved to New York, I lived in Yorkville where I could not sleep and where the streets were too muted and it made me uneasy. In the Lower East Side, in an apartment I hated, I was given a whole new life, and there, nothing was muted and everything was windy and cold. The wind made me kind of crazy, as wind tends to do. I was airlifted out of that apartment, ultimately, which I suppose is what I’ve kind of been praying for, here, in a space that is my own and good except for; the bed faces a fluorescent hallway and there is no room for a couch or even really a trash can. I’m seeking clarity for kind of selfish but partly religious reasons. And I’m sick of writing about the things I own or once did. On the end of the year; it is kind of pointless to say anything at all when things were fast then slow then impossible to recall, and all of this is just to say that I hope I’ve been sincere. Almost midnight, and so I go to Caffe Reggio, where things are small and precise and decked in holiday cheer, cozier even than the hotel lobby. Resolutions are: everything beautiful. And more stories that flow like water, obviously. The night is crisp and cool and I care to be extremely alert. Tuesday, December 16 Celia left the scene because she was good at noticing when things became embarrassing, and I resonated with the principle but still could not help but to hover. Nothing was embarrassing, anymore, Matthew reminded me, because everything was dead in the water and then it wasn’t and then it was and now, he suspected a new wave. Last year at this time I had to beg girls to come to parties, Matthew sighed. He gestured around the very crowded and warm bar and towards the people standing and sitting in circles and filtering in and out and the elderly Italian birthday party in the backroom. This is nothing like last year, he insisted. In the Financial District, everything was FAKE. Fake little streets and old-timey bars and I only realized the facade of it all because I walked by a Christmas Tree and the sign at its edges sent the whole charade tumbling down. EVEN THE CHRISTMAS TREE IS FAKE, the sign said. In the freezing cold, the most freezing day of the year so far, Celia and I got burgers at a small and new seafood spot. Celia wore three pops of red (bag, tights, gloves), and I wore all black. After the reading, where the stories were good and where more and more people kept materializing as if out of dust by the door, I bought three books and then sat on what seemed to be a bike rack in the back of a van driving towards the Lower East Side. Ducked my head so it wouldn’t slam into the van ceiling on every bump. The views became Real again, driving out of toy-house-town simulation FiDi, and then the bridges were glowing and the streets were full of snow and I was writing on my phone, kind of just humming to myself and mostly just saying the same things in my head over and over and over again; everything clear and everything sweet. Cold and windy winter where the elements make me kind of lose my mind. Sober minded mania. I am drawn to these kinds of things. The thing about this winter is that everyone has been going crazy. Me first, but then I learned how to put a stop to it. Sophia gave me a white rose at the Marlton Hotel in the morning, and then I found it kind of crumpled in the recesses of my bag. Petals floating everywhere and we’d moved to a different bar by then, somewhere kind of velvety and sleek and my friends and I were the only people there. Matthew was talking about people who fabricate enemies out of neutral acquaintances who just didn’t want to be their friends. A sad sort of thing, but you can’t feel too bad about someone who decides to turn evil. Dimes Square was a two year operation to get [redacted] laid, Matthew was saying. The experiment is now over. The social experiment is now over, and now you can all go home. Wednesday, December 17 I have decided to take the rest of the winter floating and soaring. Orange leaves turning brown outside the open window. Little gold watch and swan and cross and green Dartmouth Tercentenary tile and white Lake Neuchatel winter landscape postcard propped against the windowsill. So, if clarity is the thing that is most important above all, then you know what has to give. I will play “Garden Botanum” and “Come Undone” and “When Autumn Leaves” and everything by Dougie Mcclean and watch as things become crisper and more into focus. It’s important to only make a promise once and then keep it. It’s important to not be so vague about all of it going forward. Very precise and very discerning. That can be what a winter is like. I watch the light and shadows shift and shudder off my walls and bad-feng-shua hallway for some hours. I walk to the gym and I feel normal. Water and hyperpop music and images of faces sheathed in light or maybe armor all around. The television is falling off its hinges at the gym, and so the mantras on the walls are all skewed. COMMIT TO SOMETHING. REACT TO NOTHING. I’ve been culling mantras from the internet. I’ve been making lists of all my friends and everything kind I have to say about them. I’ve been making lists of all the ways I’ve maybe wronged others but have never been wronged myself. Sitting in a basement that’s illuminated blue watching films last night. Sitting in a conversation pit all day and all night for most moments of this week. Sitting under holly and cranberry and splintering wood and dried wasps nests and flowers and everything sparkling and snowy outside, soon, next week. There’s a few more dinners before that. The last days of gluttony but everyone seems over it. Sitting around dimly lit tables and everyone keeps talking about the ways we used to be. We used to wake up with crumbling Prada purses at the foot of our beds, overflowing with candy and mascara and all the things we didn’t remember stealing the night before. We used to be at the gym before dawn. I used to get along with people who viewed things as linear. I’ve always known the happiest days of my life to be exactly what they are, even as they are happening. Slipping away. There are other things, too. What do you think your new addiction will be?, Celia asks me. Something unrelated to consumption, I tell Celia. Something kind of manic and empty?, Celia asks me. It’s not so bad to think about what you want in strictly material terms, I tell Celia Thursday, December 18 THINGS I PROCURED THIS YEAR IN STRICTLY MATERIAL TERMS Silk long sleeve Ganni top

Inline links: Silk long sleeve Ganni top

January 14, 2026 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, January 5 Start the year at Cassandra’s apartment, and then a few days pass kind of breathless and stranded in this way. Her bedroom looks over St Vincent’s Ferrer, and it is light filled and sweet. Cards and paper star cut outs hung on red ribbon stream down the edges of the cream walls. A seashell necklace, Mary Magdalene portrait, books of Adorno and Mary Gaitskill. The bible. When my friends leave for the day, I do not. Rush of opening doors and boots on wood and winter air, and then they are gone. Cassandra’s apartment is very clean. It strikes me, somewhat uneasily, that everything I touch appears slightly less precise when I’m the one returning it to its proper place. Face oil left off kilter and kind of dripping. A little bit bad at treading gently in this place where I am a guest and everything is delicate and gorgeous. Wearing my friend’s Adidas pajamas and drinking water and taking Advil in thick blue translucent pill form. Writing down the things I no longer care to reflect on. A lot can happen in a year, I tell Cassandra, but then again, a lot can happen in one day or one hour or one minute, even, so best to be kind of chill about it. We go to Heidelberg for herring and brown bread and hot raspberries in ice cream and apple strudel at night. We go to CVS for baby food and tooth brushes and nicotine gum. The evenings uptown are more sparkling and quiet. Back at the apartment, and I can’t stop talking about all the things I want to do or places I want to move. California, Switzerland, El Salvador. Uptown, to a four bedroom apartment with my four best friends. Lying on Cassandra’s couch wearing a blue sweater under a gray blanket and drinking flower power kombucha this morning. Cassandra gets ready for work and offers general hospitality. Eat any fruits and vegetables you want, Cassandra tells me. She lists them like a game. Ad libs. She was teaching me how to type cast a person as “Lego” or “Dust Bowl” or “Victorian Orphan,” last night. Blueberries, shallots, pickles, seeded mustard from the Amish farm stand. I tell Cassandra that she’ll come home to find I have devoured all of her arugula with my bare hands. Later, I wear Cassandra’s blue sweater and black ballet flats and take my own belongings clutched in my arms in a cab downtown. Am I crazy, or did you take my black ballet flats, Cassandra texts, that evening. We discuss an exchange. Tomorrow’s plans. My polyester black gown bartered for Cassandra’s blue sweater and black ballet flats. We’ll meet at mass, lunch, The Frick, The Met, the play, the party. The light is blue gray in my apartment, and all the windows steam over when the hot water is on. All the windows steam over because my apartment is very small, and because the bathroom has no doors. A New Year should feel psychedelic, not sluggish, one of my friends said, a few days back. Psychedelic??? I said. What about crisp and clear???? After my dream where there is No Air Left, I come to consciousness with concerns about redemption. Something about bad habits and something omnipresent left unsaid. Sun and light and real sort of detox incoming and yes this has all happened or is happening or needs to happen soon. Sirens outside the foggy window. Gentle winter sunrise. Watching Darling (1965) on my computer as it gets light outside. The Schlesinger film where Julie Christie whirls about all thrilled to find it’s not too late, even though, of course, it is. Back on my phone, I’m checking prediction markets and trackers and fortune tellers and all the things I’m trying to avoid for religious and also paranoid reasons. My fears are all confirmed. Reading the stars. That voice in your head telling you everything will work out fine is wrong, they say. Sound of shattering glass crystallizing outside my open window this morning. I can sense, therefore, more than see, bright morning light starting to seep through. Thank God. It was a few days of gluttony last week. Last days of bohemia, but it was different from the bohemia of before. Different from the times that we were all manic from the wind and cold and early January where everything or nothing happens all at once. Everything used to be reeling. I miss Butterfly Club. Ex-best friends are forever. I’ve been talking about being ascetic for reasons of necessity, and also because simulated intensity can only do so much when it comes to keeping a life pure. Morning, now, and I don’t remember my dreams but I jolted awake ready to chase the same thoughts in circles. Washington Square Park is bright and feeling like spring today, because the snow is melting and the trees and lights are coming down. Pine piles looking a little lonely under the park archway. Something a bit melancholy about it. Dead and gone. Nothing to overthink. Cassandra comes downtown for mass and black ballet flat retrieval, and then she goes uptown to clean her apartment and do good things so she can be a good person. Your apartment is already so clean, I want to tell Cassandra. Cassandra is telling me about the only girl in the world who are funny. I went to tell Cassandra about someone who said me and one other girl and one specific nun are only girls who are funny, but the conversation moves on before I can assert my piece. And I think I’m mostly funny when I’m being mimetic, anyway. Better at knowing funny than at being funny myself. Cassandra is telling me about childlike wonder. Washed my face with La Rouche Possay cleanser and Japanese milk toner and did Big 6 Lymphatic drainage which is supposed to do things like give you the whites of your eyes back and also cleanse your insides through and through, this morning. Procured a Celsius and cool minty zyn from the fridge. Procured green juice and cliff bar and sat in Prada boots, for a while, on the edge of my bed. I do feel confident things will work out in the end, Cassandra texts me. Only if no spiritual blockage with vice or isolation, I text her in response. What if we had seven more hours of daylight, my friend said tonight, but I like it when it is four pm and I’ve completed my day of obligations and the fading daylight matches a sense of completion. I wore a tan skirt with no tights because they all keep running and a black long sleeve tee and sneakers to do venue tours and other obligations. I thought you were coming from the gym when I saw you wearing shorts, my friend said, after I ran into him on the street. I’m not wearing shorts, but I am wearing sneakers because I keep on procuring mysterious injuries, I said in response. It was a strange December and then a good January, incoming. Good, because it is quiet. Good, because I think I sense things picking up. Can I see a menu, I asked the bartender, at a dive bar, later that night. There is no menu, because this is a dive bar, the bartender told me. Can I get something warm, I asked. The bartender fired up the kettle. Imagine seeking out attention to get only the negative aspects of fame like stalkers and rage, my friends were saying, at the dive bar. Imagine selling out your friends to cloy for low hanging fruit. Imagine turning twenty-six. Imagine playing pool. Imagine moving to Los Angeles, California, or San Salvador, El Salvador, or Geneva, or even Austin I would move anywhere, I was saying to my friends. I would move across the country or even the world and become very sweet or even very bored. My friends were talking about people for whom spectacle is just real life. You assume that everyone is excited to go back to real life, and then you realize that they have no real life. So these are the people that you’re supposed to avoid. And then after that, everyone was talking about religion again. Which is sort of crystallizing to be the topic these days, or even this year. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, January 14 A few good downtown art openings tonight (6pm - 9pm) — At 56 Henry; works by Yifan Jiang and Sareh Imani. At Entrance; Seth Cameron’s first New York exhibition in six years. At Post Times; Elberto Muller solo show.

Inline links: 56 Henry, Yifan Jiang, Sareh Imani, Entrance;, Seth Cameron’s, Post Times, Elberto Muller

CurrentBody3 mentions across 3 issues

CurrentBody is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 3 times across 3 issues between May 21, 2025 and December 22, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "thinking about the Current Body Red Light Mask"; "There is a CurrentBody LED mask and cocoa nibs"; "Current Body LED Face Mask". It most often appears alongside New York, Caffe Reggio, Celsius.

Article page: CurrentBody
Mention count: 3
Issue count: 3
First seen: May 21, 2025
Last seen: December 22, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Total Nightmare Policy May 21, 2025
generative and godly secrets May 27, 2025
The social experiment is now over December 22, 2025

New York 3 shared issues
Caffe Reggio 2 shared issues
Celsius 2 shared issues
Confessions 2 shared issues
Financial District 2 shared issues

Source context

May 21, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, May 12 At the Holiday Inn, there are Yakisoda noodles and banana cream pie snack pack jellos and krabby patties gummy candies and lances cream cheese and onion dip crackers. All the most disgusting snacks imaginable, and kind of perverted, too. I’m so particular and annoying with my sleeping issues that I always find myself at depressing hotels, even when there is a wonderful home down the road where I am welcome. I need a Big Bed and Isolation. I need Temperature Control. As a child, I liked things such as camping in birch forests and cramped little stone cottages in some village where my parents would find someone on the Internet to swap houses with. Unfortunately, I grew up into someone with severe and undiagnosable sleep disorders, and a taste for adventure that is rooted more in hedonism and less in fresh air. I feel really full and sleepy heading back to New York. Well, things are better than they were. Total nightmare policy. Total, blow up your life brother, policy. I was so addicted to writing in my google docs journal this weekend and now I have a lot of annoying slop to show for it. I call my dad in the sun outside the Starbucks in a Strip Mall. Stop thinking about things in such eternal terms, they tell me. You wouldn’t get in a car crash and say When Can I Go 100 Again, they remind me. Fiction, again - they are talking about somebody else. The idea of compromise no longer makes your blood boil. It’s an unsavory trait that it ever did in the first place. "The other alternative is that I just become a nightmare and you become perfect," I told him. "That is certainly an alternative," he told me. It is 11:30pm, and I am thinking about getting a job. I am thinking about the Current Body Red Light Mask and the Ayede heels from ssense.com. "What if I hadn’t simply crashed out," he said. "There would have been pros and cons to that," I said. There is a fire alarm and mauve curtains and two weird arched doorways because we booked a suite and so the architecture suggests some simulacra of something vaguely Roman. Marble. Plaster cut to look like marble. I go to buy water and they have turned off the creepy lights at the creepy pool. Tuesday, May 13 I was feeling really terrified, if I’m being honest about it. I was sitting on the sidewalk picking at my nails and drinking hot coffee in the hot sun, eight splenda, curdled almond milk. I was voicing concerns in a high pitched voice and I was losing track of the distinguishment between ideas imagined and conversations regurgitated. God forbid I have an original thought of my own - that part wasn't even on the table. It isn’t so dark and depressing anymore. Walk in the rain and everything is so green here. I’ll be back in the city tonight and there are better omens in the astrology these days around things like planes, the return, glass apartments in the sky. He leaves my keys on the bedside table at the hotel, and he’s still asleep when I pack up my things and leave to eat black coffee, turkey deli meat, garlic aioli, marcona almonds. We drive to his parent’s house and he gives me drumstick vanilla ice cream. Working on this laptop, surrounded by all this green. You know that every time you hit this vape it coats your lungs in sweet thick paste, I am telling him, as I hit his vape. The last time I wrote about hitting a vape I received an infuriating pseudo intellectual email about the verbiage "hit" as suggesting a sado-masochistic impulse in our digital age. "I wonder if soon, you'll be saying you 'Beat' or 'Pummeled' your vape?" the idiot email writer wrote. The email made me so mad. You're so stupid, I wanted to write back. We go for a walk in the bright green forest. There is a sweetness here. A coming-back-into-control that makes the out-of-control-ness feel so distant. Escape from Evil and two days later you mistake reprieve for salvation. Unless, you are not mistaken. It really could be that simple. What was it they were saying on The Internet? Break The Pattern Today Or The Loop Will Repeat Tomorrow. What was it I've been saying online? Edit Artificial Intelligence robot voice over text to speech words - "Taking My Party Boy Boyfriend On A Walking Tour Of The Cotswolds." I clarify that I've been defending his honor. We're crushing up the plastic water cups, and the hill is steep up the road. I clarify that there are people of extremes. It was very bad, but now it is very good, I am texting my mother. Honestly, I'm so sick of clarifying anything at all. You're a little more sober with it. You're a little more gentle about it. It transformed in two days. Imagine two weeks. Imagine a year. Imagine rushing even one second. I can control my consciousness. Though, it isn't my consciousness, really, that I've been concerned about. I'm glad we share a frame of mind. This plane is basically empty. Wednesday, May 14 We went to KGB late last night. Thursday, May 15 The woman who does yoga on her fire escape is out there with a cigarette, today. I’m not in a bad mood today. The apartment is a mess and I am concerned about my past. Things become steady, and then even bright. Friday, May 16 Well, I didn't write because I have been busy in real life. I've been imagining an identity rooted in delusions in the secret diary that stays offline. It is not so delusional. I am feeling so sincere. Rebecca is here. My sister is here. We went to KGB Bar and Fanelli Cafe and Funny Bar where we met a Gagosian guy turned AI guy, which I guess has kind of been my career arch too though I am not so pleased about that direction. We went to the party at Bowery where the waiter from Fanelli Cafe was the DJ and I had two vodka sodas then soda water with lime which might be all I do soon, though I keep on having all these cyclical conversations with myself about these things - consumption and gluttony - and there is little that more dull, so I will not bring it up again. I went to the sleep specialist and she giggled when I said I don't scream in my sleep if I am in the company of strangers. That's different but great, she said. Do I control my subconscious, I said. Stupid idiot, she said. I did actually go to all these parties, and I did call him from the bathroom. He'll be back in New York soon, making film and code and learning banjo. It's way better than the alternative, and I do feel very proud this week which is something I have not been able to say in a good long while. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, May 21 From 7pm - 8:30pm at The Flea Theater (20 Thomas St) — I’ll be seeing Revolution: The Play. Sophia Englesberg is associate producer, and everything she touches is wonderful. Written and produced by Brett Neveu, directed by Rebecca Harris. The theater is next to The Odeon, so you can get my favorite martini before or after the show. - “Who celebrates their 26th birthday in the alley outside of her hairdressing place o’ work? Revolution interrogates and celebrates the very nature of creating community and building friendships in our ever-evolving, ever disconnecting world.”

Inline links: Revolution: The Play, Sophia Englesberg, The Odeon

May 27, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, May 18 On the first day of My New Life, I walk to the film shop, pour old windowsill tea down the drain, come to consciousness in the Infrared Sauna at Spa88. In the Russian Spa Cafe, you drink carrot juice in a bikini because Rebecca taught you what Fiber is yesterday, and now you are sure to get your fill. There is lox and seaweed and brown bread. There is a Caesar salad later, at Fairfax in The West Village, and they don't actually harvest your personality at the door. I journal a lot, I told my friend. I journaled the whole train ride in my mind, she said. I journal in Google Docs, I said. I don't know why I decided to say it like that. Like manic transcription of thought until it becomes more vibe than writing at all is some sort of one-up over mental assessment and determination. I have not been trying to one-up at all. I've been trying to be so honest about it, and I guess the concern remains that the truth will all surface and the roots will turn topsy turvy and inside out and then you’ll see that untangled, it was all kind of just midwit and ugly. I wrote about nihilism and absurdism and Samuel Beckett, but the piece turned out so simpleton that it makes me kind of queasy to return to. I wrote about the magazine release party on the roof where I felt kind of wobbly in this halter top dress tied way too tight. Then we walked to Casetta and I had wine and fish floating in tin and oil and then I lay here for a while when I got home. I lay very very still and when I twitched then rose again, there were packages at the door, a taxi cab and a friend on foot and his airtrain en route heading towards the apartment. I was standing in socks and hovering in the building's communal mudroom when he got home. Things are nice. I was talking not too quietly about all of it in the Spa 88 Wall Street Russian Baths Hot Tub. The most liminal space in New York with smooth warm aqua water and yellow kind of burnt light and chipped paint no windows. Dorito bags with Hebrew packaging usually stacked in the restaurant, today abandoned half eaten on the table by me. I could tell the fat guys in speedos were lingering sweaty just to listen, but I was doing no sort of performance for them. On the train, the girl on the phone kept glancing around to make sure others were listening. I felt sad for her. At the Spa88, I said my story all matter of fact in the hot tub and my Aunt said well, you really have your hands full and the fat guys looked away kind of bashful, and it was only then that I realized they were listening. You can disassociate away the concept of public space, too. Spilled coffee and voice echoing in this pool room with no windows so it becomes like time isn’t passing at all. I wasn’t talking to myself, but communication reverberates, and I was drifting all unaware of perception. Then I was in the cold plunge, in the infrared sauna which really does something nice to the fascia (the part that matters when it comes to things like Wim Hof and Heating Up and Cooling Down.) After the infrared, I began to gain awareness of my surroundings and movements and recollections of the sound of my own voice and things like the coffee my stray limbs sent flying off the shelf at Mille Feuille this morning and then I was there saying OMG Sorry and floating napkins towards the ground but also kind of just standing and blinking like some kind of dud. You wake up alone but there are people on the way. People already late. Keys and company and you are texting with an intensity that borders vitriol. The vitriol is what he’ll point out later. Before that, he is at the door and you are so happy to greet and be greeted. There is spilled coffee and Equinox Gym and Spa88 and Iced Tea, Sparkling Ice Soda, Cool Mint Zyns. I woke up and I waited around and I trapezed over to Equinox Gym and when I got upset later because told me he did not care about my story; it was then that he clarified he did not so much mean he did not care but more so that the story was full of vitriol. And so perhaps he was just feeling full of love and life. You can't get all rageful over something like that. I'm sorry I forget sometimes that you are not resilient, he said. My blood didn't boil. I went for a walk. You forget that all of this exists all the time, Natasha and I were saying by the Hudson River. In my glass apartment in the sky, I was alone for a while but now I am not. There is an Arabian rug and a Marble table that I hope someone will take off my hands for free. There is a CurrentBody LED mask and cocoa nibs and nothing in the fridge but the butter that I replaced with the wrong brand. I feel uncomfortable when I speak like this - about these little things that compose a life. Like I'm painting a picture in the details of routine, but there has been no routine. There have been a few false starts, and then now, a real one. I am conjuring an image of a morning with an empty fridge and an Arabian rug and the kind of person who reaches for different serums at different hours. If anything, we’ve been dealing more in potion than serums. But every potion certainly has its godforsaken limit, and so now - there is something else. Monday, May 19 I will take the rest of my youth as it is. He turns on the air conditioner for me and leaves to drink Non Alcoholic Beers while I stay put and read the Diaries of Girls Online. I walk ten miles and I do not really believe his friends who say there are worms at the Russian Spa. This is how rumors spread, I tell him. You are Married To The Truth, I tell myself. In the morning, there is light through my greenhouse roof and to start; I am the only one awake. It feels like this; I had one of the best weeks ever last week, where everything came rushing back into being as it should be and I was certain it would stay like this forever. Then there was sudden chaos on the phone, chaos on the train, serenity at Spa88 and then I was calling my mom muttering sentiments I knew she would find vaguely offensive, stomping around the financial district saying bad words like a child intent on proving herself lovable even if insufferable. He said it wasn't that I was so uninteresting, more that my story was bizarre, not really a story at all, full of vitriol. Everyone was running along the Hudson River and I had two or three diet cokes with dinner and I was up not all night but close. It goes like this: in the morning there is energy and a package thief filling a suitcase up with my boxes of celsius and fiber powder and whitening strips and dental floss. I crouch above him on the stairway and I scream HEY. He screams back HEY and so I let him have it. I turn on my heels and I run up the stairs. My favorite things are leaving the house in the morning and not coming back till late night, cool mint zyns, blackberry dr. pepper, turkey cold cuts with truffle mustard eaten in a kind of self-punishing way. I lie on the roof in my boyfriend's Adidas track shorts and a black tank top that I stole from the gymnastics locker room in highschool. The thing about New York is there is immense competition to be skinny, beautiful, successful, rich all in circumstances that are entirely unconducive to all these things, my friend is telling me on the phone. Circumstances like the package thief and your metabolism doesn’t even get a boost from the sun and also there are hard drugs and alcohol. I don’t feel above all of that, but I do feel distant from it now and so I suppose, with some plausible humility, this adds up to kind of the same thing. I wish I was a gentle person. I feel lazy today, but this is not the same thing. Tuesday, May 20 Last night, we went to Lucky's for dinner and I had something with tequila and Saint Germaine straight up and he had more non-alcoholic beer. Then, they brought us mountains of shoestring onion rings and a big wedge salad and it was good for a while, until I started to feel sick. I went to the bathroom to play on my phone while the scent of grease dissipated. The drinks were crisp and they brought the shaker right to our table. Lucky's was like a steakhouse, but with a smaller interior than your average We went to Matthew's house after, to sit in his barren family room while he hacked up a lung. I rolled up my Zara blazer that I stole from Paul's Casablanca lost and found after someone stole my blazer first and also back when I was an alcoholic. I curled up under my blazer on Matthew's tiny couch while Matthew and my boyfriend talked in code and made rankings of all their friends. Matthew's apartment was pretty empty except for a whiteboard with a list of girls he likes and a Chinese new year banner and a huge pile of hats that said I'M IMMUNE TO PROPAGANDA. “Jesus, she is combative. you're right, she's so combative,” Matthew told my boyfriend, talking about me. "It's possible that Canne after dark was something that happened in the daytime," he said. "she'll get mad if I ask her why she won't play anagrams," he said. "The activation triggers a chain of events leading to increased dopamine release," he said. Sometimes, when I am with my boyfriend's friends I feel like I am in a video game, or maybe in an orphanage. You don't want to be someone who is contorting your face and yelling. It is morning now. I don't really know what happened there. Being at these parties more sober is strange, because there is nothing else but me and yet I still don't really understand. I am listening to sweet and gentle music, and I feel a total surrender. S - i do feel bad i was not so gentle and kind about this. i get myself trip wired and lose it. but it is always better to be gentle and kind and i understand new york can kill the soul and there is something beautiful in a peaceful house alone and that is why you left which is innocent and pure and it's not fair to be rageful to you for that. Wednesday, May 21 There were two cigarettes and two glasses of wine at Voile de Nuit. This becomes some sort of Diary of Consumption. I met Ellie at a tall house on a wooded street in the West Village where she works on things pertaining to design and then we spent the hours in the courtyard of Voile de Nuit, which I adore because it’s reminiscent of Summer and Reality. I behaved badly the last time I was here. My boyfriend comes by to drop off fries. We run into friends at Caffe Reggio and it's raining by the time we reach home. My boyfriend says: Spreading secrets is entropic Keeping your mouth shut is static Spreading misinformation is generative and godly I do think he is mostly kidding. It's Simone Weil who says about rage - “To be able to hurt others with impunity—for instance to pass our anger on to an inferior who is obliged to be silent—is to spare ourselves from an expenditure of energy, an expenditure which the other person will have to make.” And I wonder which character I am in this story and it's not always the good one. I was thinking about all of that in the novel. That and the self surveillance of it all. Unfortunately, my thought experiments are ruining my life and also, the novel is ending up being All About Me LOL, too. The play tonight (Revolution at Flea Theatre ) is nice, because I walk through the rain to get there and smoke cigarettes outside The Odeon after, and because its depiction is of genuine weirdos, not like Quirked Up, not like the girls my friend texts me about after the party, “have you met them? so spacey!” not like, becoming strange because of course there is some desire to conjure up some personality and if you’re pretty then it’s fine and even appealing to be off-putting. The play is like grocery store clerk alcoholic, gun in the purse grocery store clerk alcoholic, therapy speak coping mechanisms like count up then down then up and it’s employed in the play as the coping mechanism not as an ironic tactic. Drinking beers on a birthday in the back alley and the play is disaffected from glamor in a way that I’m realizing not many things are. Like even most depictions of poverty in a lot of media, at least media coming out of New York at least certainly media surrounding youth culture and a narrative surrounding a party, goes like; we have nothing but we’re slippery adjacent to everything as a result of our charm and good looks and happenstance. The play is like, leftover charcuterie from her husband’s weird mega church and splurging at the liquor store and old cocaine shoved into a bowling ball but there’s an innocence and almost childlike wonderment to the way they tackle the expired drug situation, and the play is not about drugs. There’s a genuine kind of earnest stiltedness to the conversation that lends itself to sincerity. Thursday, May 22 May is quivering right before me; I'm not letting it lapse like April did but there are still smokescreens, silkscreens, my fingers are sleeping right through it. The Club, last night. The Play then The Club. It was smokey and sweet. My lungs felt coated in something sour by the end. The smoking patio was wet with dew and I was kind of floating, not in a bad way. Not hungover, it's something way more visceral but still hazy. I could feel it all start to slip, and so I held onto myself quite tightly. My boyfriend's screen time is 102 hours a day across devices. My face is encased in sheaths of plastic that keep you young, but they're not the temu kind that's weird and freaky. The light I use is Science Backed. I'm thinking of getting into vintage workout wear. I'm thinking of getting into Vlogging. I'm thinking of getting into filling out paid surveys online for luxury perfume sellers that require you to swear your spending habits are High and you like perfume from MiuMiu and you Hate Balenciaga and what perfume means to me is; I think sometimes scents can bring up... nostalgia? I say. Do you own a Prada dress? they ask. We leave the party early - I'm sick and he buys me chicken caesar salad pizza. Aren't you glad we left early so we could dance a little at home, he says. In the living room, the windows are all a little frosted from the rain. There are lights in the neighbors windows across the courtyard but it's thursday night, the rain has stopped. You couldn't have expected everyone to just stay home, really. I notice the people in the windows if he is spinning me across the room. Exhibitionism. I catch myself in the peripheries. The windows. The back of my mind. And I never shut the blinds but that is just no Executive Function or Detail Orientation. I am not some sort of voyeur. Friday, May 23 10:45am, and they are playing some kind of staticy electric classical mashup of music from the Fedex truck outside. "Even as a grad student, I felt they were looking down on chaos," one young man at the Yemeni coffee shop is telling another. Buying: coffee and chicken quiche but none of that is for me. Buying: peanut butter perfect bar and celsius and my boyfriend's screen time is up to 316 hours since midnight since he's doing things indiscernible to me but which he clarifies are Not Fraudulent. I am trying not to write so much in the google doc diaries. It is like I have learned these diaries as a trick, and now I am addicted to it. Now, I can’t do anything else. I must release all thoughts, but to release one thought I must go through, again and again, everything else. And so I go through it all, again and again and again. The thought, and then everything else. We were going to talk more about Spirituality today, but the tripwire keeps happening - stuck on: Vanity and Careerism. I make subheadings to keep myself in check. VANITY. CAREERISM. CAREERISM: Here is where I am: I have the substack for now which is nice this is something that I suppose in some ways is a defining thing I have done but it does not feel like so much it does not feel like it culminates to anything just proof of existence, yes, but everyone has some sort of proof of existence and it is nice to write the story behind something. The story itself cannot just be the story of writing about yourself. And for a minute I was very very very sad and so that plotline became dependable, but that is no sort of thing to rely on. And this is why it cannot all just be the writing of the self. It hasn’t been. [redacted] felt like something different, investigation, beginning middle end, it was not just here I am, it was like a puzzle it was like being very precise with it and it was the biggest thing I have done so far and I sat with it for such a long time. And perhaps I am being dramatic because there are other projects I could start in the meantime but I can’t sit down and make myself think oh what would be an interesting and pithy thing to talk about for somewhere glossy, I cannot do it. I think about doing it and my stomach rises into my throat with how little I care. And so it has to be a story that bursts out of me. There was one, and I can tell there is almost something else too but it’s like David said yes, it’s difficult while you are in the waiting room. Since beginning writing this, my fever got higher, and we are hanging the Bacchus masks around the apartment plus yellow golden softlight and, now I feel more peaceful about it. I wasn’t having so much humility. Nevermind. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 27 From 6pm (show at 7pm) at Baby’s All Right — Baby’s Presents a benefit concert for the Immigrant Defense Project with Palehound, The Ophelias, and Grumpy. Dj set by WeTakeManhattan. - “All proceeds from the show will go towards supporting the IDP’s 20+ year mission of fighting for the rights of immigrants targeted for imprisonment and mass deportation via advocacy, litigation, legal advice and training, community defense, grassroots alliances, and strategic communications.” | GA (18+) $38.86, Ticket and Bonus Donation $49.69

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December 22, 2025 · Original source

Current Body LED Face Mask

Inline links: Current Body LED Face Mask

Diet Coke3 mentions across 3 issues

Diet Coke is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 3 times across 3 issues between July 27, 2025 and January 27, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "I dozed off with a diet coke in the hotel lobby"; "chocolate chip cookie with blueberry jam and a side of diet coke for breakfast"; "stopping for gum and diet coke". It most often appears alongside Amelia, El Salvador, London.

Article page: Diet Coke
Mention count: 3
Issue count: 3
First seen: July 27, 2025
Last seen: January 27, 2026

Outbound links

Issue trail

Walk The Cotswolds July 27, 2025
Arrowhead expert August 28, 2025
California-At-Home January 27, 2026

Amelia 2 shared issues
El Salvador 2 shared issues
London 2 shared issues
New York 2 shared issues
3 1 shared issues

Source context

Walk The Cotswolds

July 27, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, July 21 There was lots of turbulence on the plane to London and my good mood was effusive. I wrote for all six hours of transit. My seat-mate played hang man on the Virgin Atlantic TV. Next door, I scribbled frantically. On review, every word was about Me Me Me. There was rain that started all at once in the greenhouse apartment, in New York, in the afternoon, before I left. The drops started heavy over my glass house and then the walls turned to waterfalls and a siren howled down the streets towards the left and I did not feel, for the first time in some time, like I would do anything to leave here with sluggish abandon and never return. Choppy and treacherous plane ride. By the way, Iris texts me. A Push For More Organ Transplants Is Putting Donors At Risk. Yes, I text Iris. Though, my aversion to medical generosity in death is not so much due to risk as it is the Purgatory between Oneself and Someone Else. I wake up at cool ten pm sunset in the Redesdale Arms Hotel, Moreton-In-Marsh, Cotswolds, England. The plans were made in different seasons and the summer has pumped things full of gluttony and inconvenience so, it is still nice to get away. I will try to go back to sleep. I will try to read the wall texts in the closet of this hotel, which they have told me once was haunted. We arrived early. My father found an illustrated biography on Shelley and his friendship with Byron at the pub in England. It is gray and chilly here and I do not quite know what to do with myself on measured time. I catch the train on time. Moreton-in-Marsh has one long street, limestone cottages, little gardens. Reading Pynchon stories full of strange winding houses and the dream logic spaces that their basements open into. My room comes with a glass bottle of milk, two oil paintings of deer, a pink ceiling fan, a silver mirror. And I do keep half expecting the floor to open up and swallow me whole, or at least the closet to burst open and reveal something upsetting, delightful, off putting, transgressive and weird. We liked hotels because of anonymity and aesthetic cohesion. Abandon your One-Week-Life. I dozed off with a diet coke in the hotel lobby. Chicken skin orzo risotto and syrup-sweetened lemon lime water at dinner. I tried to articulate, to my father, the types of ways these certain types of people can be - She is bored. She is always looking for some sort of activity to fill the time. She is not bored. She is endlessly entertained by a life sitting very still and thinking about herself. Third option… Tuesday, July 22 I will be hiking from inn to inn here. This is the plan. It is a good plan, all things considered. 8:00am - Follow the river upstream through ancient trees passing the old mill with its waterwheel. 12pm - cut across a field of brambles and sheep towards Sezincote House, where grounds of an Indian estate rise out of the Marsh. It is quite spectacular and seems to be quite abandoned. A caravan decorated on the inside like a love seat sits behind a moat, behind barbed wire. We found a manor for dinner. We found a church before that. It was 1300 years old and it hit me with heavy quiet inside like I have never been so sure to be somewhere before. This is not unusual for people in your circumstances, I was told later. But it was unusual, I said. The door is locked and so you kneel outside. You find a key. You are the only one there and so you stay til almost dusk. You walk miles til almost dark. You are not religious. You have been saying something else. You have been saying a lot of things. You planned a certain type of life in New York. You planned a different type of life first. It looked like wheat fields and wild flowers. You cannot recall one second in which I have ever been bored. Maybe, you have never been bored. Maybe, you lack recollection. Mossy patch under the crabapple tree where I would like to fall asleep. It is kind of just this thing of waiting now. reduce Inflammation, incoming emails, art and life, take a deep breath in and hold it. Wednesday, July 23 8:45 am Because I'm getting sick, when I close my eyes there is no color. Open my eyes, and I told them to leave me behind in Bourton-on-the-Water 12:00pm Pacing three loops around Windrush Public Path and thinking about everything I have ever wanted. It is a bit like a fairytale. Wind in the Willow, Windboy, Back to Oz, I have wanted things like this. The river is nice because the water is clear but the bottom is dirt and fern. So, it's brown a bit but you can still see patterns. Patterns and circles and moss. There are flowers along garden gates. I don't mind when things are a bit precious. 1:13pm I am walking through this little village again now. I am listening to silly music. Writing now. I do need to finish my story. I felt so sick this morning. I thought some little things. I took a little nap. A necklace for me a perfume and a soap for my mother I am kind of glad I skipped the hike today. Dinner was nice last night. It's nice to eat scallops and salmon on spinach shaped toast. It's nice to be sincere in art and life and perhaps to never go to a party again. I put all my cards on the table. It is so good to be busy. I should take the bartending job and remember that is is good to be busy. But, before I even begin to consider these sorts of things, I should sort out my preoccupations. There are worse things. There was a month where I was not so busy. I am pacing through the English countryside now. There was a strange man on the path and it made me jump. I do not believe a life can just fracture and then split into segments, infinite. I do believe that it is just one life all at once. It is desolate but not sad, here. It is very difficult to imagine what the rest of my life will look like. Well, we'll see. I have stories to write. I will walk back to the hotel now and finish my story. That's fine. I quit nicotine and mostly alcohol and anything unhealthy so now it won't feel like my face is melting off. I have red light therapy and a desire to be good. 6:05pm I’m back in the room and I called my best friend, whom I miss. 8:57pm I went to dinner with my mother and my father. I was quite nice and not too much of a vile little bitch full of lots of vitriol and being very unpleasant. 12:56pm open the windows out over thatched hotel roof so the outside air matches in but I am not so lucky with equilibrium and there is still much motion. Thomas Pynchon “Entropy” Thursday, July 24 Winchim is a very ancient town, the taxi driver tells me. I have been here for a few days now and already my lungs feel pumped full of air and spirit and the moments of solitude feel quite still and nice. Being alone is no longer fire alarms immediately and then alert, abort, sitting in a bar with a sparkling water til close. None of this, anyways. None of it here. Sitting in the forest full of contentment. Sitting in the secret garden full of apple elderflower juice, black coffee, rye banana bread. Winchim has been on a downward spiral for the past fifty years, the taxi driver tells me. Something about Henry the 8th, the monasteries, the drought, a tremendous amount of damage. It was all on a selfish note, the taxi driver told me. The walk today was foggy and long and I liked it best. I liked the church on Tuesday best of all, but I liked the walk today. It is kind of plotless, this walking walking walking. I have never wanted chaos. I have wanted pure metabolic function and to stay up late. Friday, July 25 Church, lying under a beach tree, cricket field established by the author of Peter Pan. I went down to the hotel bar to read about Entropy (which I hope to not believe in. Downstairs, the evening festivities were moving into their final hour. I don't know if you're drinking or anything, the bartender said to me. Must I, I said. You can do anything you want, the bartender said. The bar was lined with portraits of polo sport and big yellow orbs. The fields outside were misty and gray and peppered with racing horses. The grass was soft and sweet and so, I'd stopped for a while. You will have to hop a barbed wire fence to avoid a small horned cow and his mates, an old man had said. You will have to learn to wait a while, my father had said. There had been another warplane, only this one over the pasture not the college, and I had not quit believing in signs and symbols just yet. Outside, the pub was bright, lethargic and chilly. The hotel felt something like a sanctuary. Royal green walls and no night terrors in foggy fields and self containment. And it's been nice to be brought back to the things that were mine first. They'll pick up the bags at eight in the morning. We'll loop back around to the marsh where we began. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Travel advice for something quite restorative: I walked The Cotswolds via Mickledore Travel which is nice because I detest tours and organized fun of any kind, but this “tour” requires zero interaction with anyone outside of your travel companions and friendly strangers. Accommodations are booked across a walking route and every morning bags are picked up from a drop spot along the route and deposited at the next destination the following evening. Unburdened by baggage, you then hike to your next inn. There are little towns peppered along the route, as well as sheep fields, castles, horses, and ruins. It really is more of a long walk than a hike, which I find to be more pleasant than hut-to-hut backpacking or other similar adventures I have attempted in the past. You still are walking some ten to sixteen miles a day, so you will not feel bored or lazy.

August 28, 2025 · Original source

Standing in the Doorway, One of Us Must Know (Sooner of Later) - Bob Dylan I wished I was somewhere else. I remembered that one must not rush a second. I sat at the dining room table. I will sit here for a while. Made chocolate chip cookie with blueberry jam and a side of diet coke for breakfast. Walked for a while in hot humid sunlit ocean heat on the road that burned my feet even through J-Crew Flip Flops. Thinking of things in shapes I cannot visualize because I’m kind of stupid in this way - visualization and the like. Can’t rotate a square or a triangle in my mind for example. But thinking of things in swirls more than lines. Voids and repetition and such as opposed to infinity. This is fine. In another life, this probably would have bothered me. Honestly, this is fine. Tuesday, August 19 There is one road here and it runs about one mile long surrounded by crab apples and ocean and I will walk down it, up and down and up and down a few times this morning. This morning, which starts late, more like afternoon, really, because I cannot stop stewing and being up all night. Train back to New York tomorrow morning because I still cannot stay put. And all my energy came bursting back. The restless kind. Energy for projects. I must be more consistent here, write some acquaintances inquiring about being my Guests perhaps, finish the whole El Salvador thing which is really closer than ever and then there is the book club and schools of all sorts of kinds and my new small-box-apartment to sort and clean. And so many things came broken, there, so there are people to call about that. It smells like basil in the living room, and it is strange how quickly everything changes. Everyone besides those in my peripheral vision becomes kind of Faceless, now, which is not great and makes me feel vaguely guilty. Unsure how to repay my gratitudes. Very sure of the sort of person I don’t want to be, but now that we have defined good and evil, what gives? My dad tells me about a man who is an Arrowhead Expert. His dad made him an arrowhead at three years old and from then on he was hooked. Lives in Padanaram Village. Carves arrowheads and bows and arrows like one they found in the walls in a house nearby a while back. A weapon from a couple centuries ago. They killed a man and hid his bow and arrow in the walls and now my father’s friend is carving recreations. I am half listening. We opened a bottle of N/A Wine at dinner on the porch on accident and first everyone was repulsed by the flavor, then a little bit irritable I imagine from lingering inhibition. My dad found a bottle of old port in the drawer of the cabin. Opened for forty years but not yet turned to vinegar or anything sour and so we swapped out the mocktail stuff for this, as well for chenin blanc I think, don’t really remember. I like dinners like this, where I sit on a porch that I have always known and look out at purple skies, once-in-a-lifetime-skies, they wrote an article in the News about the skies, today. What do I like? Well, I like beautiful things. I like blueberries in a big jar and ham with tarragon aioli for lunch and I like botanical gin at dinner and strange characters and the things in myself I am prideful of like; an eye for beauty and generally boundless optimism, though I am trying to be less prideful. Trying to be less slothful. Really got a handle on the whole thing of rage, but that doesn’t mean that other problems don’t remain. I like when it is cold and August is over. I like it here. I like that I cannot quite tell the pace of time here; fast or slow, that is. I wish I could stay here forever. I’m not sure why I can’t. False consciousness, I guess. And; you can have anything you want but you can’t have everything you want. Amelia told me that. Amelia told me that over and over and over again. Wednesday, August 20 What do I like here? That it is finally cold, and I remember almost nothing. That I put warm bulbs in the new apartment and there is not too much glass in the windows and I can take out the trash, wake up early, turn off the air conditioner here in formally-broiling-New-York-City. I like to take a kind of mathematical approach to things. An out of character yet fun sort of game-theory method. Thinking about things like physical form and machine-learning. Niocimanide and Voss Water. A very clean apartment. A very clean studio apartment with criss-crossed white and wood ceilings that are fine to wake up early under. The night terrors totally went away this summer. Like a switch, they are gone. This is a relief, but also; I hope I am still in touch with other realms. Thursday, August 21 Back in reality, where things are about fifty-fifty good and bad. Back at Caffe Reggio where the iced tea and caprese salad are nice even if the rest of the menu items aren’t. And the music is not too loud and the art is old and lovely and autumn is rearing its ugly head with events, events, events. I am here to tell you all about events. I am here to tell you What You Should Do. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, August 28 From 6pm - 9pm at Yve Yang — Art in General Benefit Auction celebrates its return. Bid on works from nearly 50 artists from around the world, including Marin Abramovic x Kreemart, Josh Kline, Isaac Chong Wai, and more.

Inline links: Yve Yang, Art in General Benefit Auction

January 27, 2026 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, January 12 I’m in my room and I’m feeling normal. Outside, the streets are winter-warm. Foggy and sweet. Different from El Salvador, which was humid-sweet. Tropics sweet. El Salvador was learning to understand things and also learning to let the wind blow in interesting directions and also learning to stand on my own two feet. On the flight home, I mapped out every day as a container. At JFK, I decided to treat the city like Vacation. Big Bar every Monday. Museums of Illusions. FDR themed social club. Procure activities on Partiful or Instagram or Yelp or through Word of Mouth. I call Amelia to announce my return and my vacation-forever plans. Is this vacation for the sake of transgression or fun? Amelia asks me. New York is over, Matthew was saying, in El Salvador. New York is over, and Los Angeles is it. I suppose we’ll see, I was saying in response. I suppose we’ll see but for now I’ll take all the energy-whirling-back. The flight home was quiet and late. I sat in the very back row of the plane with lots of water and ambient dread. I dreamt of a rocky landing where Avianca (Boeing 787) (Flight 267) touches ground and then immediately takes back off. I dreamt of being robbed. I dreamt of turning around. Dreamt of being scammed. Dreamt of busy days and busy nights in N.Y.C Back home, tonight, and it’s dinner at Lanterna di Vittoria with my friend whom I like because he offers me generosity kind of liminally. He presents a dangling sort of kindness that I did not have to accept or deny. I could accept his kindness later. I could pluck it from thin air, long after he has walked away. Maybe he is just generally cautious like that, or perhaps he intuits my inherent distaste towards drawing definitive conclusions. He is extremely helpful, but I never say thank you for the advice even though I am thankful. I never acknowledge I agree and I think it is better this way. I’m particularly grateful for the ease of it. He’s happy to know he’s right and also to feel useful without any of the misery that accompanies reliance. The grid is blinking in and out today, and so we are all feeling anxious about nuclear war. You too?? my friend says, when I bring up the topic of nuclear war at dinner. Everyone is becoming so much stupider. Small grid means big problems. I am feeling uneasy, sitting in my apartment tonight, knowing all the best minds in the world are coming up short. Later, cotton candy skies turning dark as we’re walking home. The city is freezing over, and hell along with it. Since I cleared my mind head-empty, I have become so much better at being perfect. Since I became religious, I have become so much faster at driving. Since I started telling all my friends that I want no-trouble, none-of-the-time, everything has started to really spiral out of control. I want to be good, I keep on telling Olivia. We go to the gym together every-other-day. She is the only girl with hair that is longer than mine. You are goodest, Olivia tells me. She says it with a smile, and she is very much not-devious so I believe that she believes this to be true. How many millions of dollars do you think were lost when the grid went down? I ask my friend, walking home in the icy city that I just can’t quit. Trillions, he tells me. What do you mean millions? Jesus Christ. Do you know how the GRID works? He gives me a book. Elephants and economy. Something like that. I already have it. I am smug when I tell him so. They already gave me this book in El Salvador. This book is already mine. The grid has already never-existed. Nothing ever happens. New silk eye mask arrived by mail which means: big sleep incoming. Big sleep in mummy mode. Clean room. Room of a girl who respects herself. Every day is something new. This part has always been obvious. Tuesday, January 13 The air is clear in my apartment, but somehow tinged a little bit blue this morning. Somehow kind of record-stretch hazy, which I suppose is what happens when I am tired and outside, it’s foggy. My friend texted while I slept: I am taking on your mannerisms. Texting back now: I don’t really have mannerisms. I could write a story this morning, but instead, I will write mantras in my mind. It’s good to be quiet It’s important to seize control over myself God gives the world to girls who don’t get in their own way. Black velvet hanger left off kilter. Last night, I purchased a blue dress that reminded me of dreams I already forgot. A blue dress to wear in a glass house in a place like Topanga. Bright blue dress to wear while making spring green soup. Purchased the dress with visions of next summer spinning through my mind. Visions of wearing a blue dress and standing barefoot on the wood floor of my parents’ house and making spring green soup. Sitting on the edge of my bed in dark green lulu lemon leggings and black tank top this morning. Cool minty Zyn in mouth, and Celsius in hand. The apartment is a mess, and it has been for a while. Trees are barren and kind of sweet outside my window. I hate this apartment. I want my old apartment back. I want to get everything I’ve ever wanted. I want to get sober and mean it. I want two hours of dedicated time-writing-fiction per day, and two hours of dedicated time walking outdoors writing notes. I want to let no more hours drift. I was not happy to come back to New York, but I do like the parts of the city that just are-what-they-are. Green turtle pond and freezing hands. Big buildings and tour groups. Windy streets. Bustling with people. When I’m at pilates I don’t feel like I need to move to LA, I tell Saorise, in the studio. The toned and old gay man that owns Pilates People runs warm. He cracked the window to let in the frigid winter fog. All the girls are upset about this. The light is silver and bright like a beam. It is a foggy day. We have LA at home, Saiorse says. We have life-like-California, but it’s real-life and it’s right-here. We can stay right here. We can invent different schools of movement. We can even go to Sugarfish Girls mass-exodus a friend group or even a whole entire life because of totally superficial reasons that are totally fake, Saoirse is saying, at Sugarfish. We acquire Saki. I pull my hair into a tight ponytail and I revel in my perfect day. I document my material reality meticulously. I have been training myself to become totally head empty. I have been training myself to gently accept gluttony, and also to be less subject to my whims. Sugar Fish has the sort of generic-upscale interior that reminds you of nothing, and thus reminds you of personal recollections of positive experiences in similar generic upscale interior restaurants. This is how they keep you coming back, I say. Girls couldn’t find a backbone if it hit them over the head, Saiorse says. Girls want to drown their enemies in buckets like kittens. Girls want to pray for you and ask to kiss you and pretend to be your friends. I am starting to feel some animosity, I tell Saorsie. Our meal is light but comes out in many courses. Saiorse is happy to hear about my budding proclivity for negativity. I’ve been telling you these things for years and knowing that it wasn’t yet time for you to listen, Sairse responds. You can pick something really good, or you can pick something that you really really want. Saiorse plays with her salmon sashimi and she doesn’t like soy sauce. Saoirse doesn’t ask me to tell her which one I pick: really good versus really wanted, that is. Do you remember Michael the explorer, Saoirse asks me. I have known Saoirse for a million billion years. We share a million billion strange friends. It’s nice to pour over these things. Internet friends. Federal agent friends. Friend who snuck over the Canadian border a few years ago and then washed up outside a fire pit in The Hamptons. Her explorer friend who we took to Round Swamp market for blueberry muffins after he got back from some place like Antarctica or maybe North Korea. He was not very risk-adverse. He was so worried about you, Saoirse says. Did you know that at the time? He said you seemed so nice. Walking home in the crisp and cold afternoon feeling so nice. Walking through the farmers market. Curling up in bed half asleep half dressed half under covers. Half lonely and half at peace because I love when my apartment is so cold. Cassandra texts that she is going to the museum. Why, I ask? It is our duty to seek out all the latent beauty in the world. Cassandra responds. At night, In Brooklyn, I can listen to Jeff Buckley Forget Her on repeat and think about what I actually want. Purification. Indulging my addictions. Freedom from vice. Sweet music and soft cover of winter fog and little green glass wind chimes hanging from the trees. I like wearing natural fibers and clothing I move easily in and having a uniform and following an obsession to its logical conclusion. I like knowing immediately and totally what it is that I could or could not love. Little dried leaves shivering across the pavement. They look like little rats except for the part where they are very beautiful. I run into one friend smoking on the street in a velvet black jacket when I arrive at the reading. I like your suit, I say. It’s my only suit, he responds. I don’t want to drink but I do want a cigarette and I only like cigarettes when I’m drinking. There’s a glowing strawberry on the wall, and there are a lot of people I have never seen before or at least do not see often. Like the cool theater kids’ basement in college, the girl next to me is saying. Soft snow flurries outside, which serves as a nice reminder that it is still winter. Reading out loud about Florida, Massachusetts and feeling reclusive. Wednesday, January 14 Sweet Wednesday morning, but I’m going to treat it like a Monday. Still listening to Jeff Bukley Forget Her, which makes me want to be somewhere else. Somewhere very cold or very foggy or even, very sunny. Perhaps I should stop hedging and just commit to something. Last night, a boy was ordering a drink and talking about how he was so glad no one was doing dry January this year. He asked his friend what he was drinking. Soda water and cranberry, the friend said. Oh, he said. You’re doing dry January? I’ve been dry for six months, his friend said. I felt so jealous of his friend. So, I know what has to give. Need to take pleasure in denying myself the things I want, etc etc etc. Listening to Forget Her over and over and over again, and turning my head all the way upside down so I can get a look at the snow behind me, but the snow has mostly stopped. Just silver skies all the way, now. Silver skies all the way up and all the way down. Jeff Buckley died at thirty-years-old. Someone who destroyed himself early but at least he had something to show for it. The desire to toss out everything I own becomes pervasive in the snow. The desire to get rid of all these things I wish were not mine. Gathering up all these clothes and throwing them in a big white trash bag. Thinking about the big smile on my face when my mother gave me a blue and shiny dress and then thinking about throwing it in a donation bin which pipelines to landfills, obviously. Hours can pass, percolating in guilt over what to do with this blue dress among other items. There are many more wasteful things than throwing out a dress. Buying and drinking alcohol for example. Buying and eating protein bars just to feel full by which I mean full of trash. Scrolling on my phone. Being cruel. The snow is both coming down and melting outside. Smells like ski racing. Nothing I am getting rid of is special. If the people whom I don’t want to see show up at a party, then I will leave. My friends are in the basement of the party when I arrive. Another friend’s new bar. The wood has been stained dark brown and the place is starting to look formal and nice. My friends are vacuuming and putting away books. We all look like little elves putting the books away, Quinn says. Many interesting books. Esoterics of Health and something about Aliens, for example. Thursday, January 15 Rinse and repeat. Blueish silver light in my apartment, where the sun barely penetrates, but at least nothing is artificial. Outside, everything is melting, melting, melting. White and chipped paint on the fire escape, and I can see the drops of water growing from the metal edges and then… drop! Leafless trees shimmering like they’re coated in gum drops. Each silver water droplet crystallized as its own little form, and then together, they are turning the whole tree silver. Since they turned down the central heating and then I turned off my air conditioner, a few days ago, everything has begun to feel quite quiet. Should we do a dress exchange? I ask Cassandra. Should I bring you your bible and a book called The Elephant in the Brain and also your blue cashmere sweater in exchange for my polyester Aritzia slip? Yes! says Cassandra. The West Village is wet and cold and the church is white and the doors are blue. The dining room of The Marlton Hotel is full of red velvet booths and gold lined mirrors and star shaped yellow lights. The mirrors and the lights make me feel a little bit like I am in a room full of sun, but I am not in a room full of sun. I am in a windowless hotel lobby full of mirrors. Cassandra takes out her Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls at table over are taking out their Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls everywhere are just the same. Olivia has her Rapunzel hair bundled up in her scarf like a baboushka. Cassandra is wearing a beautiful red scarf tied around her neck and wearing beautiful gold jewelry. The girls at the table over are talking about how we were created to have gentle souls. Why would anybody make it their mission in life to seek out… chaos? Cassandra interjects. To seek to degrade others, Olivia says. Cassandra teaches me a new word: Odoriferous. Cassandra tells me about her friend who lives in Northern California off the grid, farming salmon or maybe saving them, researching them, I can’t remember. A girl stumbles into the dining room to greet her friends at the table over. I can feel how cold you are, her friends say. I can’t wait to see the ocean again, Cassandra says. It feels really weird going so long without seeing the ocean. I guess I won’t see the ocean again for a while. Thinking about feeling manic. Thinking about every other timeline. Thinking about pouring big glass of water and black coffee with five splenda because I am still glutenous. Getting right to the cusp of something means that in at least a few other timelines, you probably figured it out. Nice to assume you’re capable of that, at least. Nice to know that in another timeline, my diaries are probably anonymous and I can be less vague. Nice to know that in another timeline I can probably lie. I can probably say what I actually mean. Spraying perfume over green sweater and imagining myself as someone who moves more slowly. Ordered a glass of wine because I love relapsing on an empty stomach. Telling Olivia about when my life was hot and cold and up and down and crazy all the time, because for the first time, I am realizing that she did not know me then. It’s hard to describe to someone who wasn’t there. Feeling a little bit nauseous and like I wish I hadn’t spoken. We could be living in the Midwest driving golf carts, Olivia says. Indiana is just corn and soy but not even produced for human production just animal feed or corn syrup, she says. I have a fondness for cornfields, Cassandra says. We could belong to country clubs, Olivia said. I wonder what that is like. Friday, January 16 In my dreams, I am surrounded by water on all sides, Somewhere in El Salvador. Somewhere in Costa Rica. Somewhere with all my friends-from-the-internet, and they do not like my new boyfriend. It’s ok, because I don’t like my new boyfriend too much either. I am scheming with my internet-friends. We are scheming ways to get rid of new boyfriend. Everyone is happy about my plots to get him gone, and no one seems to clock that I am the one who invited him in the first place. We are deep sea fishing. I am hanging by my arms from the edge of the boat and my feet are running through the water while a girl I know to be my best friend fires up the boat faster and faster and faster. I am a little scared. I am having so much fun. Salt water. Earth water. Angel water. I wake up. One light left on, back in New York. Yellow glowing floor lamp, so at least there’s nothing shining overhead. Last night, I was walking through the winter snow sliding on ice and filled with energy and adoration and also two illicit drinks. Listening to music and wind and stopping for gum and diet coke and then washing up in a restaurant that was bustling and warm and dimly lit. Telling my friends not to wait outside. For a while, I wanted to show others the places that had always been mine. It had never been like that before. It had always been more of a self protective sort of thing. Back to letting myself be dragged to kind of nice places to which I have no attachment, now. Talking about myself like I am playing SIMS at dinner. Ordering one diet coke and one piece of fish. Dinner passing kind of assembly line cool. Chill and smooth. In the snow and the ice, everything is seamless and then I’m in a car home so that I do not slip. Things could be quiet and end early but I still just can’t stay put. I become more full of energy, later on. I have become very sick of interiority. I went to a small Italian cafe to pass the later night because when I don’t, I always wish I did. It was a snowy and beautiful night. The cafe was made for families and locals and tour groups and dark and lovely. My new friends were talking about things like art-of-business, so it felt kind of far from myself but I could bear it for some hours. A beautiful life. Trying to be more tender and less neurotic. This does not have to mean everything. A person can just be cautious and nice-for-now. Walked home in the snow. Woke up warm. Still can’t stay away from places that have always been mine. Yellow light emanates from the yellow lamp. Nothing fluorescent. A million things to write over a million times. A million things to consider. A million topics on which the thing to do now is to wait and see. Waiting and seeing. Text about finding a DJ for a party in San Francisco. Email about a party at The Mount Washington Hotel. All these very random things that feel so close to being in reach. Kind of want to go. Kind of want to languish in old and beautiful rooms at the Mount Washington Hotel and in the majestic magic pool and imagine that money flows like water by which I mean spend money like it is water. Opening the window, now. Letting it be morning, now. Have to be clear, now. Sober minded and clear. Time passes like water, too, so that is something else to be wary of. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, January 27 From 8pm at The River — Theme Trivia returns with Medieval Trivia.

Inline links: The River, Theme Trivia

Diet Pepsi3 mentions across 3 issues

Diet Pepsi is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 3 times across 3 issues between May 06, 2025 and September 09, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Order diet pepsi bean and cheese burrito nicotine gum"; "reflecting something sort of aqua off my Diet Pepsi on the D-line"; "spilled Diet Pepsi on the baby pink rug in my sleep". It most often appears alongside Coney Island, Le Bain, Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research.

Article page: Diet Pepsi
Mention count: 3
Issue count: 3
First seen: May 06, 2025
Last seen: September 09, 2025

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

mutually assured destruction May 06, 2025
Drinking Dreams September 04, 2025
City Built on Crystals September 09, 2025

Coney Island 3 shared issues
Le Bain 3 shared issues
Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research 2 shared issues
Club Chess 2 shared issues
Curtis Harrington 2 shared issues

Source context

May 06, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, April 27 Sitting up in the middle of the night and saying things I don't mean and, it's not that I'm talking in my sleep exactly. More so, I've been trying to figure out if this harshness comes from being evil or if maybe it's more of a vindictive thing instead. Being vindictive implies, at least, that you are seeking some sort of equilibrium. Wrong and be wronged. You aren't just a gratuitous little freak about it. Causality is irrelevant, and I'm nauseous at the gym, playing high vibration Youtube videos in my headphones, standing on an electric plate that can jostle my insides, lymph nodes, drain me like a detox, and yes, there needs to be one of those soon. Making calls and making complaints, and then I'm like, oh sorry, I didn't mean it, I was drunk. And then I'm saying that I feel crazy instead. I feel insane. You don't understand. I have lost complete touch with my judgment. Costa Rica, in the rain I was kicking around mud with my feet and drinking too much and his friends were like oh you think you're in a teen movie or something because I was saying kind of nasty things, too. It's way worse in New York. That is the definitive thing and, also the fact that there is nowhere else. Something can be confusing and still not impossible to regulate. Sorry to be all obfuscated about it. I can control my consciousness. It's my consciousness after all. I go to church in the evening, which feels unbelievably affected - would a girl that is evil redeem herself on her knees before God? - though, that isn't really the question. You believe in good and evil, yet you have found yourself entirely incapable of distinguishing the difference between the two. Yes, then, prognosis, logical conclusion, you have lost your mind. I eat a cookie for breakfast and then the leftovers of the quiche for dinner that I fugue state ordered for my boyfriend at six am, which was a disaster in and of itself. I decided to do something nice, and then the delivery guy couldn't figure out the buzzer and so I stumbled down in my socks and Brandy Melville, I wasn't even very polite about it when he handed me my bag. I pointed to the buzzer and said that's the buzzer and then I called my boyfriend over and over because I realized, also, I'd forgotten to bring down keys. It's the type of day where I spend almost no time eating, but I still feel kind of full in a bad way. Everything I did eat is so calorically dense that it creates some kind of cognizant dissonance. I shouldn't feel this bogged down from just some stupid scraps. I don't want to say terrible things, I said. And yet you constantly are saying terrible things, he said. I wish we didn't do these things, I said. That's like saying you wish spiders weren't real, he said. People are vicious and awful. Then, I do pilates from the pilates app that they sent me for free on Instagram. I'm enough of an influencer these days that brands will send me spam mail disguised as PR. Like 20% off coupon codes to their clothing line personalized just for me, but I still have to pay them 80% if I want the clothes. This means, basically, that I am not an influencer at all, but I have just made things like my email address and my diary psychosis way too public. The pilates studio said - "share if you can!" but I'm sorry, I can't, I'm not really talking about me, I'm talking about something else. First name, last name, coupon codes, face to the name, you're ruining all my plausible deniability. I started sobbing by the window, and he said don't worry, you're sweet. I started thinking he was dead, and he said don't worry, I'm ok. I'm blurring the timelines a bit. He told me I could meet him on the steps of a Chinatown apartment a little bit after sunset. Inside, his friend took calls and let the bathtub-in-the-kitchen Chinatown apartment become a kind of neutral territory. I sat in the guest room and held my breath. Say the same things over and over, and because you mean it, they eventually stick. Viewing everything in black and white. They've told me that's my problem. That and being too suggestible, and also out of control. I started being all dramatic about it and yeah there's been too much partying, but I come to learn I'm pretty much like this sober, too. Things were really really really pure and sweet, and I keep on thinking in ninety days, ninety days of being pure again, and everything bad can be problems that belonged to someone else. I am trying to become like a Monk about it. It's not so much that my impulse towards reaction is wrong, but rather that I act purely on impulse, and impulse alone never did anything other than make a situation that much worse. Spring and Redemption, I say, on my dumb fucking TikTok. Spring and redemption, my boyfriend says. Yeah, that's cute, this one is cute. Did you spell synchronicity wrong for engagement or to be insane? my boyfriend asked. Insane, I said. He stopped to think about it. So stupid, he said. You aren't that insane. Order diet pepsi bean and cheese burrito nicotine gum and we're lying in the sun. So much sun through the windows that we have to keep the blinds shut or the light goes too crazy, the air conditioning fires up but not much can be done in the face of UV like this. Lucky, luck,y lucky. I spent the week talking to myself. Lying on the floor and I'm trying to seek cognizance in repetition. The same word three times. First, you remember what it means. Second, you determine what you think is true. You don't take it for granted. If you don't take it for granted, then you won't lose your mind. Monday, April 28 Eiverything gets better overnight. No more crying in my sleep. 2:22am and I’m not yelling. I see things more with precision than as if through angels and mystics. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be so transcendental about it. It’s really evil to try to mythologize something that is neither beautiful nor true. I stayed at Hudson Square until late last night. Black socks and black shoes and a tennis skirt that doesn’t match to be late to class today. The sun has rushed back and it’s iced tea no breakfast no lunch. David meets me at Cafe Reggio, where to our left, an awful woman is berating her husband to levels of borderline abuse, and to our right a lovely couple is talking about the difference between mere activity, and real fulfillment. You gain fulfillment from things like C-suite and making tv shows and real estate, the man is saying. Activity is something like going to Europe, he is telling his wife. These are the things that fulfill us, for others it might be different, the woman is saying. I am surprised to hear, that in referencing C-Suite, they are suggesting real fulfillment.. Materially, things are working themselves out. The rot has been first, material, and then secondly, spiritual. We go to Lupa for a lovely spring dinner. Sweet then sour then sweet. I am endlessly interested in reiterations, but that just makes things worse and worse. Homemade focaccia and olive oil and arugula salad and lobster corn ravioli and lamb chops and tartufo which is like a shell of hazelnut, ice cream, paper plane to drink and the restaurant is closing by the time we leave. Tuesday, April 29 You stop a night terror like this: creep down the ladder and say to your boyfriend, you need to turn off the projector right this second. The light was emitting vibes that were very off putting and I was concerned about scentless and odorless gas. My boyfriend makes me pasta and gives me a beer. You kind of briefly entered a state of psychosis, he tells me. I get super offended by that one. A bad dream doesn’t mean I need lithium or something, I say. I didn’t say you have schizophrenia, he says. I said you seemed to be under the impression that the projector light was toxic, poison, and evil, which is the very definition of a state of psychosis - the merging of reality with hallucination. No, I say, that’s the very definition of a bad dream. Anyways, I’ve been having sleep paralysis because I’ve been having insomnia. I’ve been much more normal about it. Run, coffee, iced tea, the world's worst sandwich back at Cafe Reggio in the afternoon. Do you have any favorite spots in New York, the tall man next to me is asking the short man across the table. “Well, it’s far from here,” the short man tells the tall man. "it's really far from here. it's called Coney Island." I pick out all the healthy bits of my dinner and eat just the bread instead. I’ve been feeling tempted to get really fucking skinny again. Being weird and off putting with my sandwich and then leaving my scraps with abandon. Feeling pretty sane today, I don't really want to get out of here anymore. Wednesday, April 30 Up all night just like last week, and I'm in class reading from my story like oh I'm probably not going to freak out but it's still a possibility. David turns older today. He's still asleep when I get home in the afternoon. Macarons and iced coffee on the table. We go to Vol de Nuit and I get promptly drunk on cider. It's bright and nice and I'm writing tipsy. This week won’t eb and flow in the way that I hate. Make yourself head empty and then see what happens. We go next door to Dear Stranger for dinner. Red snapper and jalapeno sauce and wedge salad and shrimp tostadas. Two martinis. David makes a scene in a scuffle with one of those guys on the streets who shill comedy shows on the way home. Then, I wake up and it feels like morning but it’s only just past midnight. I used to miss the things I have right now so much. I’d miss it through abstraction, really. All through hypotheticals because it had never really been mine in the first place. It shocks me when I see my life emerge unscathed from fits of self destruction. Playing fast and loose when it comes to the thing of redemption. I am trying not to be that way. First it is sour and then it is sweet. This is one of two directions that any progression of events can take. Obviously, I know the direction that I would like to pursue. Thursday, May 1 Everything has come alive again, though I'm not quite sure if it's solid yet. I almost step in a pool of blood on Rivington Street, and then we're talking about the uptick in dead bodies that people keep finding around town these days. I'm going to stop being so morbid. You can be thinking about one thing, and then you can decide to be thinking about something else. Yesterday evening felt sparkly and nice. David and I stayed at Vol de Nuit for a while, drinking cider, which makes me feel full but not that drunk, lots of sunshine and we bring in our own food. Peanut mayonnaise garlic sauce on french fries. I'm less disgusted by these things than I used to be. Yesterday's dinner felt nice but a little too drunk. I was drinking iced tea at two in the morning and then my boyfriend was throwing bottles across the room in a way that was funny, not crazy. I got an email asking me if I'd like to talk about Dimes Square for a German newspaper but I wouldn't like to do this and so I didn't respond. I got an email regarding Amtrak tickets. Things have been too whiplash lately. I got an email from my friend. I owe edits on some projects, and I like when big things happen quickly, though we are not quite there yet. The nature of how I am creatively always edges on narcissism - reflection and observation being more natural than imagination to me, I suppose. although the night terrors suggest some kind of imagination. People like to tell me that. I’m close to the mystics. On a literal level - clinical - the night terrors suggest nothing other than a flirting with psychosis, though my paranoia does not extend to fear over my mind. Nobody actually thinks I’m losing my mind Physically, a parasite cleanse can be dangerous because the heavy metals your parasites held will be dumped right back into your body. I do have paranoia surrounding being poisoned, though this is more a concern of the mind. April - I wrote 40,000 words in my secret diary that I do not share here. This is surely excessive. There are worse things. What I meant to say is: the narcissism has felt less like filtering observation and reflection through the self these days, and more like actually just kind of sloppy-like, thinking about Myself. The sun is nice, because it heats my greenhouse apartment so quickly - downstairs becomes for the daytime, and upstairs becomes so bright and burnt to a crisp that it has to only be for sleep. Sleeping in the day here is nice. It’s like somebody cast a spell on me. I am not someone to sleep in the day, but a greenhouse apartment is something like a potion this time of year. Friday, May 2 When I think about how to synthesize an idea into a quote or a meme, something pithy really, then the idea is immediately ruined. Even it was a good idea at the start. This makes me want to distance myself from the quote, meme, thing of posting more generally I suppose though, I’m still having fun. I’m so sure about things, now. I was feeling really really really unsure about things and I’m so sure now. I feel so bad for acting all ambivalent about it. I’m so certain. I have never been more certain and I have never been more sincere. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 6 From 7pm at Pete’s Candy Store — Mind Palace Poetry presents The Girls Room, with special guest host Sophie Appel. Featuring Sascha Cohen, Siena Foster-Soltis, Jude Lavelle, and Montana James Thomas.

Inline links: Pete’s Candy Store

September 04, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, August 24 Lay with filthy tangled hair hanging off the edge of the roof for a while last night, watching the Chase Clock Tower lit up too royal blue and the Empire State Building lit up the nicer sort of baby blue. I've been collecting shades of blue. Kind of navy blue Frankie's Bikini little number reflecting something sort of aqua off my Diet Pepsi on the D-line towards Coney Island. Screaming children on the D-line. Naked man running around trying to steal pedestrians pants on Coney Island. He keeps on saying to the other guy, Darby says - “I like those pants ! Gimme those pants!” And it was all these beautiful friends coming and going last night. Coming and going until it was late, really late, so taxi home and then I ate the toppings off a slice of pizza on the floor with a spoon. I spent the morning alone doing Rituals. Tretinoin before sleep and I did wake up screaming for the first time in a while. Red light therapy and copper multi peptides and avocado eye cream and mineral sunscreen and now I'm on the Subway. Kind of braindead on the subway. It sometimes takes it out of you. This sort of thing can really take it out of you. It's been summer for forever, now. I have a lot more friends now. Connectivity, connected tissue, I walk down Brighton Beach by myself, walk to Tashkent Supermarket for a towel and carrot salad and on the phone I'm saying it is not that I wish for death and even sometimes I fear it but things have become a lot less Risk Averse. I'm a lot less Risk Averse now. It would be better to be dead, someone was saying at the bar last night. She was looking at me eyes all intense and no one was really listening, I could tell no one was really listening but everyone was watching her all the same and I could see them all clenching their bodies and kind of pulling away.. Me particularly, pulling away. Perhaps I'm being self absorbed. It wouldn't be better to be dead, someone else said. He looked at me then, locked eyes which usually makes me kind of uncomfortable but I felt inclined to agree. It's definitely better when nobody is dead, I said. The bar was full of plants and glass. Like a glass jungle, I told my nameless friends at the bar.. That's not very astute, a nameless friend told me. Tonight, the cocktail menu is flavored and priced like a full course meal, and so tonight I order Cold Pizza for dinner. Cold Pizza in a crisp glass bottle, plus greasy fried chicken after that, which comes in thick paper cups. And everyone is so grateful to be alive, tonight. Everyone is so grateful for one more year of life for themselves and for their dear friends particularly. Purple sunrise if I hadn't slept through it. Yellow sunset if I hadn't gritted my teeth and clenched my eyes shut through it. Planted two feet firmly in the ground and screamed through it. First, I made one thousand promises I couldn't keep. Second, I sat on the stoop with an energy drink, water, cool minty menthol gum and the antiseptic kind of sore throat with some bodega spray gripped tight in my hand to heal all my problems. My ailments and the other things. My organs and my mind. Overjoyed to be alive again after leaving my apartment, I told Amelia. It does make things better again, Amelia told me. Tuesday, August 25 Bartending school feels kind of like an alcoholic's vision of a drinking dream. Like holograms of condensation, dim lighting, one takes a sip to the tune of disappointment. Water and food coloring dye. Bowery Park and Whole Foods and JPress nearby and inside; Christmas is coming. Smooth jazz. Everything has felt a bit the same for a time, but my room is clean. Summer is passing. Three months is not so long. Would a functional alcoholic lace up black ankle boots at seven in the morning with a clear mind and bright eyes to catch the train towards midtown towards Bartending School, at the top of the week, at the tail end of August? I am not so good at pretending like anything is changing. Like habits stack towards something greater. It might as well be yesterday, I sigh on the phone. For you, it might as well be yesterday, Amelia agrees. I do the things a person should. Cake for friends' birthdays and the waiter keeps stacking on fees at Union Square Cafe. Cut the cake fee, sit at the table fee, big group of people fee, bring your own food fee. There are other tables next to us all inhabited by people who all appear to be exactly the same, though perhaps I am being uncharitable. Imagine them as skeletons. Imagine them as children. My parents used to tell me this when I was little. Kind of a hack against boredom. I imagine myself as a psychic, looking out on things overpriced and people all exactly the same. You will have a small child and feed her nothing but buttered noodles. You will advance in age but stay exactly the same through invasive surgical facial intervention and stunted social development. You will spend evenings eating french fries with caviar for One Hundred Dollars despite a rich inner world and a childhood pumped full of extracurricular stimulation designed, specifically, to avoid a fate like this. You will fear God more than death and you will understand self destruction to be akin to suicide hence rendering you too, on a trajectory like this, a rather hellish creature. You will wake up in the middle of the night in a small box criss-crossed wood roof apartment in New York City to the sense that there are No Loopholes Left. You will go to bartending school. You will recognize that, while you can be cruel there were other factors at play. There were worse factors at play. Wednesday, August 26 Walking from Greenwich Village to Long Meadow in Prospect Park with a bag filled up with white linen and Thomas Pynchon and a plan to celebrate sweet Sylvie's birthday. A different sort of nostalgia in the air today. Nostalgia of all sorts being kind of a form of mental illness, of course but once - we were woodland fairies. Once, there were fall morning running races and cranberries that crunched under bare feet on Massachusetts roads. Once, there were rounds of Tom Collins in a kind of jazzy jungle garden restaurant in the tropics that my boyfriend who liked gender-roles enjoyed because they wouldn't let girls order their own drinks. Once, I went to the Yankees game in late August, blue and pink hazy skies, the sort of advertisements that blare out notes about Fast Food and Safe Driving in the stadium, and the sort of crowd that is so big it starts inspiring feelings of Life and Spirit rather than Homogoninity and Dread. Once, I walked from bartending school full of Tom Collins, Chambord, a sip of walnut martinini, frangelico liquor. Walked to Caffe Reggio for egg white omelet, toast, a creamy cannoli. Walking to Prospect Park a little bit tipsy. Thinking about the sort of things I used to pretend to care about. Writing about the sorts of things I used to pretend to care about. Writing it all down. Writing and walking. Writing it everywhere. Writing it on the walls. Though, I'm not so bad at keeping secrets anymore. Thursday, August 27 Amelia and I sat at Caffe Reggio until close last night, and now I have returned. Tomato soup and side grilled chicken and creamy cannoli and mint tea because things feel decadent again. Limited consumption. I haven’t really been limiting consumption. The waitress is complimenting the gray sweatpants on the boys at the table over from me, and the waitress seems to be vaguely annoyed with me, though I am trying to be pleasant. Thanks the sweatpants cost enough, the boys are saying, at the table over. Thanks we didn't realize we couldn't split the bill, Amelia and I were saying, last night, our tea was four dollars total and everything was starting to feel a little bit hazy. Sitting on the floor at sunrise, this morning, Amelia and I were watching videos from Miami. Videos from Bahamas. Videos from New York City, 2022, we'd been at all the same parties, but I hadn't known a soul. BAHAMAS, we are beaming, in one video, in the back of a taxi cab, streaking over MacArthur Causeway, Miami-Dade County, Florida, and so, as I recall, the driver was confused. I'm putting on makeup in the photo booth webcam on the floor of a hotel room and Amelia is talking in the background. It's Opposite Day in the background. Who had a mental breakdown, someone is saying in the background. From an outsider's perspective, who was it who had a mental breakdown? Friday, August 28 6:30pm, and I am back at IFC for my third viewing of Diva (1981) in twenty-four hours. I came to view Diva (1981) for the third time in twenty-four hours, because I became very sick of thinking about myself. This is a desirable alternative. The film is beautiful, and I wish to live in places like the apartments pictured. A large and wrecked studio in a car park with painted walls and recording equipment or, a hotel in Paris or, a castle by the sea or, the best one of all is a large blue flat full of puzzles and high ceilings and echoing sea sounds and an aqua glow and a man who wants to learn to stop the waves. They are fighting crime in the film. They are entrapping the criminals and they are doing it kind of like performance art. I don’t wish to spoil the ending. It really is the perfect little film. So; I will send out the recipe for zucchini (courgette) soup, and I will explain away the things I did in breathless optimism as things I did while bored. I will go to The Scratcher, Killarney Rose, Funny Bar, then Gospel then Caffe Reggio again - these are the decadent places to which I continue to return. I will draw my name with Riley on the table in crayon writing Best Friends Forever and listen to Feryquitous ft Sennzai and Sigur Rós and John Maus and think about Switzerland, Iceland, having a lot of dreams about places that are lush, lush, lush. Thinking about places that are quiet quiet quiet. Thinking about places that are green green green. Feels like Fall, outside, after church. Amelia woke me up in a living room that looked like a library and she was screaming that the air was poison. I was difficult to awaken, because it is my own delusions of poison air that wake me up screaming on other nights. Different from tonight. I was reminding myself of reality. I was reminding myself of delusions and keeping my eyes clenched shut while Amelia screamed. Well, the air wasn’t poison after all, just late night and late august and heavy with mosquitos and dust from renovations and revelations and; we walked back to the cafe. I walked through Washington Square Park at dawn. The doorman wished me good night at seven in the morning and the cycles repeated. It isn’t opposite day and we aren’t in hell, just working on things like bed time and emotional regulation. Working on archiving the things that happen outside of my head. It becomes good to have been an archivist all along. It becomes good to become sick of dealing with things mainly in repetition. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, September 4 From 6pm at Carinito — Saloon is throwing a party. Drinks from Dio. Dancing, DJ, tacos, etc

Inline links: Carinito, Saloon, throwing a party

City Built on Crystals

September 09, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, September 1 On the train to Coney Island, my friends are talking about the motifs that keep occurring. It's the sort of thing that happens to you when you have a pure heart, one of my friends is explaining. It's the sort of thing that people try to do to Real Life Angels, my other friend is explaining. Real life angels aren't real, I am saying, though I understand her point. The train is streaking through open air with towns on both sides. Housing projects rising up beyond that. Fallen green leaves and gray pebbles on the edges of the tracks. I have had these concepts of destruction explained to me before, only then it was by my mother or my friends in Miami and they called it Evil Eye. Here, they call it Devils and Angels. Real life Demons. I have been spending a lot of time this summer, trying to parse out the difference. Later, we emerge onto the boardwalk to find Curtis Sliwa in his red barret at the edge of the Atlantic. Police officers and children and men with snake tattoos in the ocean. There is live music at Salt and Sizzle and a ferris wheel that is one-hundred-years-old-and-never-any-accidents and the sky turns blue and purple and they cancelled the fireworks last year on account of someone drowning and due respect. We miss them this year of our own accord. When I was in love I spent a lot of time thinking about the apocalypse and feeling kind of giddy and aloof in this anticipation, convinced that the best way to die was euphoria and so end times while the center held would be a relief above all. When I smoked cigarettes and was a teen I would spend a lot of time pondering pop-psychology notions of optimistic nihilism and watching reddit atheists evangelize online. Now, I'm on the F-train back towards block-party-bars and my friends are shooting photos of their merch line, standing in front of the train doors as they open and close and I prefer to stay seated. Mostly aware of how dehydrated I am, which is a relief insofar as it diminishes all less corporeal thoughts. At Time Again, we make new friends with rare and inquisitive souls, which is really what the end of summer is all about. Writing on my phone on the walk home. Scribbling with kind of blurry eyes like an ipad baby on Delancey Street about the things that one has left to lose. Scribbling kind of incoherently about Health and Strong and Pervasive Senses. Scribbling Mother Teresa’s Rules For Humility. Speak as little as possible of oneself and Yield in discussion even though one is right and; well - what else am I supposed to do besides accept and embrace a Strong and Pervasive sense that things are as they are? Things were one way and now they are another. Things are harsher now in some ways, and more gentle in others. Tuesday, September 2 Woke up feeling very concerned about the decay of my physical form as a result of my bad habits and also by my newfound sense of passivity which I hope is driven by surrender and not by cynicism but one can really not be too sure. Woke up to a brand new delusion. In my dreams, someone was knocking on the door. They woke me up screaming. I stayed very quiet in response. Sunlight through my windows that I cannot bring myself to drape with curtains. Looked through the peephole. No one was there. Here are things I need to do: email the priests at Saint Joseph's to join OCIA and consider becoming Catholic despite my generally waspy sensibility. Finish and publish my substack. Create publicity materials for the play, go to class tomorrow, go to screening at Anthology Film tomorrow, write write write. Conjure up some sort of novel-like plot out of my hundreds of thousands of words of musings I keep in secret online documents. Make final edits on El Salvador piece and hope for the best. Conjure up some sort of plausible plot for my novel about gnosticism and also schizophrenia in people who seek to approximate the feeling of being famous by having friends online. Drop off laundry. Workout a lot. Maybe go sober. Certainly be sober-for-today. Today I am Cleansing. Today I am proud of myself in some ways and disappointed in others. Over plates of octopus and shrimp in lemon mustard sauce and pita and eggplant dip, Iris asks if she can treat me. Treat me to what, I asked. Do treatments for you, Iris explains. Treat me with iodine and thyroid and hypnosis. Treat me with methods opposite to my own. My own being mostly, a hysterical dipping in and out of notions of asceticism. Ok to some treatment, I say. Iris and I walk to the shops. The sky is still light but it is getting colder now. Iris buys dish soap and I slip sea kelp spray into my pocket. I have become quite destabilized by my afternoon visit to the glass apartment in the sky with the revolving doors. Not my apartment. No one's apartment. I am less like an orphan now. Iris and I walk back outside and down towards Seward Park. Iris says Sam knows a good aura cleanser. Not that I think the aura in the glass apartment in the sky is necessarily dark or doomed, Iris clarifies. I’d been telling Iris about some theories on the aura of things as dark and doomed. An invisible string but it was most of all bad. Ultimatums of gnosticism but they were delivered with nefarious intent.. Narcissistic to assume spiritual implications in the everyday, obviously. But how does one explain why they feel like they are floating by the time they are drifting up the stairs? On the Internet, they are making up real life retreats to enter the void. On the internet, they will take you to the Real Life House where you can Understand Real Life Consciousness. On the Internet, you can't live forever. Everyone realized that a few years back and I realized too, a few years after that. In Real Life you can maybe live forever, though. Everyone hopes so. I have been worrying, lately, that I hope so too. Wednesday, September 3 It’s Art Week in New York, which means less to me than it used to, besides for a pleasant rise in energies and things whirling back to life. I go to the first installment of the Marjorie Cameron series at Anthology Film Archive on account of Emillia’s recommendation and a slightly uneasy interest in the occult, tonight. An interest in witches who used to dance in a ring of rocking horses by my childhood home and a drive through Lily Dale with Riley in other lives, a few lives before this one. All that greenery and a long road alongside a lake towards the Psychic Capital Of The World. Hub of Mediums. Salmon Rushdie had been stabbed nearby a few years back. A psychic in Rhode Island had told me things would happen as I wanted them too but it would be first a thing of waiting, and secondly a thing of new architectures and spaces given that I’d been dealing in impossible conditions for awhile. Trying to make something stick in an Architecture of Unhappiness for a while. I stayed up til dawn over the weekend. Awoken to a Providence necklace placed around my neck and a burning desire to remove myself from the organ donor registry just in case. I worried about the morality of seeking loopholes as it pertained to the Providence Necklace, but a few days have passed and now it is Wednesday, early evening, tuck the tag under the collar of my shirt and began my hovering walk towards things that happen. The screening shows a Curtis Harrington film called Night Tide (1961), and it is about a girl who is a siren or perhaps it is just about Psychological Warfare, the ending leaves things a bit unclear. I've been nostalgic for the kind of California where I've never really been before. Nostalgic for things that never happened which I think is less a thing of clairvoyance and more a sense of how it all slips away but regardless; the shots are all of witchy Venice Beach and an apartment over the carousel that overlooks the sea and there is a bonfire on the rocks and some dancing that becomes a bit possessed due to dark forces - pulling my hair over my eyes like a blindfold for these parts - but I am thinking I could live in a place like this in spite of perhaps some evil. I have always thought I could float around it. I have always been arrogant in this way Thursday, September 4 Last night, I turned off the air conditioning and spilled Diet Pepsi on the baby pink rug in my sleep. Mom has shipped out baby blue curtains with white stripes and New York (the place where all my problems are) is starting to become a place that oscillates into something more calm. Sophie suggested baby pink curtains, and so I am making compromises in my mind. Compromising my own opinions and the opinions of others. Putting a lot of stock in the opinions of others. Putting a lot of stock in things improving drastically through the help of water in glass bottles and red light therapy and self hypnosis and religious conversion and swapping out the Cool White Linear Fluorescent Light Bulbs for something warmer. Everything becomes warm and still and the air is kind of heavy. I can lie very still for a while. Not forever, but definitely for now. You should just become one of those sociopathic writers who does insane things for the sake of writing, Iris advised me a few days ago. Yeah, I said. Like go to consciousness school in Argentina or conduct strange experiments with materiality on myself and others. Adopt a regiment of strange injections or move to Venice Beach to become Catholic and fight the occult there, too. Sitting on the edge of my bed in my New World in New York City. Closing my eyes and imagining Venice Beach as a magical little enclave with a witchy apartment over the carousel by the sea and arched doorways and conch shells and a jazz club and massage parlors and psychics on the piers. If I became a ruthless psychopath, what could I do in a place like this? In New York City (the city built on crystals). I am not feeling so ruthless. Self-experimentation without self-possession mostly leading towards destruction of a pretty boring variety. At least we don't live boring lives, I used to be told. There is nothing more boring than this, I used to say in response. Friday, September 5 Come in, come in, three psychics beckon on Sullivan Street, but I am pretty clear about how things have been and where they are going, and I would prefer to look for motifs in patterns and symbols and psychosomatic symptoms which reach a peak and then; abandon your whole entire life. That is one thing the psychics could tell me to do. Abandon your whole entire life. They could tell me to buy a whole new personality. I could buy a good fortune swimming in tea leaves and an aura cleansing from the psychics on Sullivan Street. I could buy a membership to witchcraft school and a flat in Venice Beach and a conflicted conscience when it comes to forces of good and evil and certainly, to things like health, sobriety, longevity. It's enticing to create pseudo intellectual or pseudo spiritual explanations for bad behavior when in reality things are obviously much more simple. Most actions are much too plain to qualify as any sort of performance or definitely any art. I'm working on becoming stupider, I told Iris. Will I become stupider? I asked the psychics. Will the apocalypse come sooner or later if the collective consciousness ideates on it or tries to stave it off? Is it better to be witchy but self protective, or ascetic but operating with self abandon. Where can one buy self possession? Taking the C-Train to Fort Greene Summer Fairyland where my dad and Sylvie wait for me at Aita and so everything is better. Plums and peaches and ricotta and octopus which the girls behind us are saying they don't eat after watching My Octopus Teacher (2020). Girls love to say they don't eat octopus after watching My Octopus Teacher (2020) but perhaps I am heartless, and I mostly just found the documentarian in that film to be kind of deranged and unreliable. Beef tartar and potato chips and Sylvie is talking about how she's aware of the balance of power in every single conversation and I'm saying I'm literally never aware of that I'm literally always just seeking equilibrium in any interaction that matters because conversation exists to reach understanding and Sylvie is saying no you are just always making sure that you are the one with the power in every conversation. I say no and she says yes and I say can we seek some equilibrium and she says you make sure that won't ever happen. The combat stops. My dad is asking Sylvie's boyfriend why he seeks intellectual inquiry. Sylvie's boyfriend is pointing out the famous people peppered around the bar. Goodbye you power hungry beast, I am telling Sylvie. My dad drives me back towards Manhattan. Animal skulls are scattered around his mini van and he says I can have a deer jaw for my new place if I want. Wrong turn through the Hubert Tunnel. Twenty-two dollar toll. Drop me off at the most Satanic Nightclub in New York to sulk soberly at the edge of an indoor pool and really lean into nihilism insofar as - what if we stayed for a while? I don't stay for a while. Manhattan night is teeming with people and the city is built on crystals. Good or bad ones? I haven't decided yet. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, September 9 From 7pm - 11pm at Night Club 101 — AltCitizen 15 Year Anniversary Show series launches with The Kickoff. Hosted by Brittany Marino. Featuring Lulu Van Trapp, Suo, D. Treuit. From 10pm - late, after party downstairs | Tickets: $15 advance, $20 doors

Inline links: Night Club 101, AltCitizen, The Kickoff

Doritos3 mentions across 3 issues

Doritos is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 3 times across 3 issues between October 02, 2024 and May 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "slipped on a discarded bag of Doritos on the doorstep like it was a banana peel"; "The Doritos are from Israel"; "Dorito bags with Hebrew packaging usually stacked in the restaurant". It most often appears alongside Baby's All Right, Bernard Cohen, Billy Pedlow.

Article page: Doritos
Mention count: 3
Issue count: 3
First seen: October 02, 2024
Last seen: May 27, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

Ways to be sincere. October 02, 2024
Moral Framework December 16, 2024
generative and godly secrets May 27, 2025

Baby's All Right 2 shared issues
Bernard Cohen 2 shared issues
Billy Pedlow 2 shared issues
Cassidy Grady 2 shared issues
Chloe Pingeon 2 shared issues

Source context

October 02, 2024 · Original source

Afternoon, I take the B train to Brooklyn to visit the headquarters of a low-alcohol mindful-drinking brand that has agreed to sponsor an event I’m promoting. The subway is late and hot and I am not being paid for this, which I wish I didn’t care about, but I do. I skinned my knees leaving my building this morning, slipped on a discarded bag of Doritos on the doorstep like it was a banana peel and I was a clown, and went reeling into the street, limbs bloodied, a kindly construction crew patched me up curbside and I was sent on my way. Now, on the subway, the bandages are peeling and I am suddenly aware of the pathetically childish nature of it all, the banged-up legs, my starry-eyed faith in Park Slopes Small Alcohol lowercase a’s ability to save bohemia, the ultimate futility of the task at hand, of my genuine excitement elicited by collaboration with brands and pop-ups and new types of drinks in colorful cans. When I arrive, my box of drinks is of course, too heavy to carry, and so I painstakingly push and drag it down the street, pausing at the subway steps unsure of my next move, waiting for perhaps help, although it’s a quiet area and my mission would not look particularly dire to any bystanders onlooking. I turn on my heels quickly. Call a cab home.

Moral Framework

December 16, 2024 · Original source

Risotto David made for me + prints from Paris Wednesday, December 11 I went to the Russian Baths on Wall Street on my first day in New York. I still go often now. It’s not really of my own volition. It’s a family tradition. It’s still pouring today. It’s been pouring all week. I used to think the Russian Baths were all liminal space and Russian mob, but now it feels less secret. The Doritos are from Israel. Russian Jews and Russian Gentiles, I hear someone explaining in line behind me. The building is huge. The pool area does feel kind of like The Backrooms. I have night terrors every night. In my dreams, I am never stuck in places like this. My aunt likes the cold plunge. She can stay in it for seven minutes, far beyond the recommended time of three. The Wim Hof method recommends rapid bursts of breath coupled with exposure to the extreme cold. I’m in the Infrared Sauna. On Christmas, I will swim outside in Walden Pond. Wim Hof (the man) lost a finger, an ear, something detached in the retina of his eye… I can’t recall the specific injury but something bad happened swimming across an icy lake. He took it too far. When I get back to New York, I will swim off Orchard Beach. There’s a group that goes every morning. My aunt tells me you have to go to Orchard Beach in the winter. It’s like Siberia in the Winter. It’s finally getting cold enough to swim. On my Wednesday at the Russian Baths, I lose my keys. I lose the big rubber slippers that they give you on arrival. I can’t last very long in the extreme heat or the extreme cold. An actor in the infrared sauna is talking about how he can only memorize lines in the cold plunge. I’m thinking about how I’m in an infinite feedback loop where everyone I meet keeps being actors. We go to dinner at the Russian Restaurant at the spa. It’s called Matryoshka like the dolls. I only learn this later David and I split potato pancakes, salad olivier which is the one with mayonnaise and egg and chicken (delicious), beef stroganoff, steamed chicken pelmeni. More stroganoff and borscht and red wine is also passed around the table. I can’t drink red wine, so I drink ginger juice and ginger vodka instead. Afterwards, too full to continue. There are other plans tonight - a film, a party, I promised I would go and I never cancel plans but sometimes I do just neglect to show up. A very bad habit. Inertia ultimately breeds pure evil! Time doesn’t pass at Spa 88. Still pouring but dark now, when we emerge from the underground. Thursday, December 12 My abridged review of Dimes Square (revival) today. I didn’t see it the first time around - I wasn’t here. I was in Boston. I was in a sorority. I arrived in this godforsaken ecosystem after it was already dead. I’m kind of being facetious. I think people try to qualify eras too concretely. Concretely: Dimes Square (the play) is indeed a period piece. In the vein of all Matthew Gasda’s plays, it is emotionally rich, lucid, kind of yearning, which catches me off guard but I think adds depth. The thing I like most about Dimes Square is this: it’s not self serious but also it is not sneering. The best satire is actually quite sincere. This is why most satire is generally and particularly in contemporary culture, bad. Dimes Square (the play) is excellent. I will be publishing a stand alone review of the play here shortly. I already wrote the review but then I realized I was far too stuck on historical accuracy and far too personally tortured. In the meantime (from my notes) -- “The main fault of the characters in the play is that they are cruel, but the main critique of this scene in real life is that it is (was?) (is?) full of people who are pathetic”

May 27, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, May 18 On the first day of My New Life, I walk to the film shop, pour old windowsill tea down the drain, come to consciousness in the Infrared Sauna at Spa88. In the Russian Spa Cafe, you drink carrot juice in a bikini because Rebecca taught you what Fiber is yesterday, and now you are sure to get your fill. There is lox and seaweed and brown bread. There is a Caesar salad later, at Fairfax in The West Village, and they don't actually harvest your personality at the door. I journal a lot, I told my friend. I journaled the whole train ride in my mind, she said. I journal in Google Docs, I said. I don't know why I decided to say it like that. Like manic transcription of thought until it becomes more vibe than writing at all is some sort of one-up over mental assessment and determination. I have not been trying to one-up at all. I've been trying to be so honest about it, and I guess the concern remains that the truth will all surface and the roots will turn topsy turvy and inside out and then you’ll see that untangled, it was all kind of just midwit and ugly. I wrote about nihilism and absurdism and Samuel Beckett, but the piece turned out so simpleton that it makes me kind of queasy to return to. I wrote about the magazine release party on the roof where I felt kind of wobbly in this halter top dress tied way too tight. Then we walked to Casetta and I had wine and fish floating in tin and oil and then I lay here for a while when I got home. I lay very very still and when I twitched then rose again, there were packages at the door, a taxi cab and a friend on foot and his airtrain en route heading towards the apartment. I was standing in socks and hovering in the building's communal mudroom when he got home. Things are nice. I was talking not too quietly about all of it in the Spa 88 Wall Street Russian Baths Hot Tub. The most liminal space in New York with smooth warm aqua water and yellow kind of burnt light and chipped paint no windows. Dorito bags with Hebrew packaging usually stacked in the restaurant, today abandoned half eaten on the table by me. I could tell the fat guys in speedos were lingering sweaty just to listen, but I was doing no sort of performance for them. On the train, the girl on the phone kept glancing around to make sure others were listening. I felt sad for her. At the Spa88, I said my story all matter of fact in the hot tub and my Aunt said well, you really have your hands full and the fat guys looked away kind of bashful, and it was only then that I realized they were listening. You can disassociate away the concept of public space, too. Spilled coffee and voice echoing in this pool room with no windows so it becomes like time isn’t passing at all. I wasn’t talking to myself, but communication reverberates, and I was drifting all unaware of perception. Then I was in the cold plunge, in the infrared sauna which really does something nice to the fascia (the part that matters when it comes to things like Wim Hof and Heating Up and Cooling Down.) After the infrared, I began to gain awareness of my surroundings and movements and recollections of the sound of my own voice and things like the coffee my stray limbs sent flying off the shelf at Mille Feuille this morning and then I was there saying OMG Sorry and floating napkins towards the ground but also kind of just standing and blinking like some kind of dud. You wake up alone but there are people on the way. People already late. Keys and company and you are texting with an intensity that borders vitriol. The vitriol is what he’ll point out later. Before that, he is at the door and you are so happy to greet and be greeted. There is spilled coffee and Equinox Gym and Spa88 and Iced Tea, Sparkling Ice Soda, Cool Mint Zyns. I woke up and I waited around and I trapezed over to Equinox Gym and when I got upset later because told me he did not care about my story; it was then that he clarified he did not so much mean he did not care but more so that the story was full of vitriol. And so perhaps he was just feeling full of love and life. You can't get all rageful over something like that. I'm sorry I forget sometimes that you are not resilient, he said. My blood didn't boil. I went for a walk. You forget that all of this exists all the time, Natasha and I were saying by the Hudson River. In my glass apartment in the sky, I was alone for a while but now I am not. There is an Arabian rug and a Marble table that I hope someone will take off my hands for free. There is a CurrentBody LED mask and cocoa nibs and nothing in the fridge but the butter that I replaced with the wrong brand. I feel uncomfortable when I speak like this - about these little things that compose a life. Like I'm painting a picture in the details of routine, but there has been no routine. There have been a few false starts, and then now, a real one. I am conjuring an image of a morning with an empty fridge and an Arabian rug and the kind of person who reaches for different serums at different hours. If anything, we’ve been dealing more in potion than serums. But every potion certainly has its godforsaken limit, and so now - there is something else. Monday, May 19 I will take the rest of my youth as it is. He turns on the air conditioner for me and leaves to drink Non Alcoholic Beers while I stay put and read the Diaries of Girls Online. I walk ten miles and I do not really believe his friends who say there are worms at the Russian Spa. This is how rumors spread, I tell him. You are Married To The Truth, I tell myself. In the morning, there is light through my greenhouse roof and to start; I am the only one awake. It feels like this; I had one of the best weeks ever last week, where everything came rushing back into being as it should be and I was certain it would stay like this forever. Then there was sudden chaos on the phone, chaos on the train, serenity at Spa88 and then I was calling my mom muttering sentiments I knew she would find vaguely offensive, stomping around the financial district saying bad words like a child intent on proving herself lovable even if insufferable. He said it wasn't that I was so uninteresting, more that my story was bizarre, not really a story at all, full of vitriol. Everyone was running along the Hudson River and I had two or three diet cokes with dinner and I was up not all night but close. It goes like this: in the morning there is energy and a package thief filling a suitcase up with my boxes of celsius and fiber powder and whitening strips and dental floss. I crouch above him on the stairway and I scream HEY. He screams back HEY and so I let him have it. I turn on my heels and I run up the stairs. My favorite things are leaving the house in the morning and not coming back till late night, cool mint zyns, blackberry dr. pepper, turkey cold cuts with truffle mustard eaten in a kind of self-punishing way. I lie on the roof in my boyfriend's Adidas track shorts and a black tank top that I stole from the gymnastics locker room in highschool. The thing about New York is there is immense competition to be skinny, beautiful, successful, rich all in circumstances that are entirely unconducive to all these things, my friend is telling me on the phone. Circumstances like the package thief and your metabolism doesn’t even get a boost from the sun and also there are hard drugs and alcohol. I don’t feel above all of that, but I do feel distant from it now and so I suppose, with some plausible humility, this adds up to kind of the same thing. I wish I was a gentle person. I feel lazy today, but this is not the same thing. Tuesday, May 20 Last night, we went to Lucky's for dinner and I had something with tequila and Saint Germaine straight up and he had more non-alcoholic beer. Then, they brought us mountains of shoestring onion rings and a big wedge salad and it was good for a while, until I started to feel sick. I went to the bathroom to play on my phone while the scent of grease dissipated. The drinks were crisp and they brought the shaker right to our table. Lucky's was like a steakhouse, but with a smaller interior than your average We went to Matthew's house after, to sit in his barren family room while he hacked up a lung. I rolled up my Zara blazer that I stole from Paul's Casablanca lost and found after someone stole my blazer first and also back when I was an alcoholic. I curled up under my blazer on Matthew's tiny couch while Matthew and my boyfriend talked in code and made rankings of all their friends. Matthew's apartment was pretty empty except for a whiteboard with a list of girls he likes and a Chinese new year banner and a huge pile of hats that said I'M IMMUNE TO PROPAGANDA. “Jesus, she is combative. you're right, she's so combative,” Matthew told my boyfriend, talking about me. "It's possible that Canne after dark was something that happened in the daytime," he said. "she'll get mad if I ask her why she won't play anagrams," he said. "The activation triggers a chain of events leading to increased dopamine release," he said. Sometimes, when I am with my boyfriend's friends I feel like I am in a video game, or maybe in an orphanage. You don't want to be someone who is contorting your face and yelling. It is morning now. I don't really know what happened there. Being at these parties more sober is strange, because there is nothing else but me and yet I still don't really understand. I am listening to sweet and gentle music, and I feel a total surrender. S - i do feel bad i was not so gentle and kind about this. i get myself trip wired and lose it. but it is always better to be gentle and kind and i understand new york can kill the soul and there is something beautiful in a peaceful house alone and that is why you left which is innocent and pure and it's not fair to be rageful to you for that. Wednesday, May 21 There were two cigarettes and two glasses of wine at Voile de Nuit. This becomes some sort of Diary of Consumption. I met Ellie at a tall house on a wooded street in the West Village where she works on things pertaining to design and then we spent the hours in the courtyard of Voile de Nuit, which I adore because it’s reminiscent of Summer and Reality. I behaved badly the last time I was here. My boyfriend comes by to drop off fries. We run into friends at Caffe Reggio and it's raining by the time we reach home. My boyfriend says: Spreading secrets is entropic Keeping your mouth shut is static Spreading misinformation is generative and godly I do think he is mostly kidding. It's Simone Weil who says about rage - “To be able to hurt others with impunity—for instance to pass our anger on to an inferior who is obliged to be silent—is to spare ourselves from an expenditure of energy, an expenditure which the other person will have to make.” And I wonder which character I am in this story and it's not always the good one. I was thinking about all of that in the novel. That and the self surveillance of it all. Unfortunately, my thought experiments are ruining my life and also, the novel is ending up being All About Me LOL, too. The play tonight (Revolution at Flea Theatre ) is nice, because I walk through the rain to get there and smoke cigarettes outside The Odeon after, and because its depiction is of genuine weirdos, not like Quirked Up, not like the girls my friend texts me about after the party, “have you met them? so spacey!” not like, becoming strange because of course there is some desire to conjure up some personality and if you’re pretty then it’s fine and even appealing to be off-putting. The play is like grocery store clerk alcoholic, gun in the purse grocery store clerk alcoholic, therapy speak coping mechanisms like count up then down then up and it’s employed in the play as the coping mechanism not as an ironic tactic. Drinking beers on a birthday in the back alley and the play is disaffected from glamor in a way that I’m realizing not many things are. Like even most depictions of poverty in a lot of media, at least media coming out of New York at least certainly media surrounding youth culture and a narrative surrounding a party, goes like; we have nothing but we’re slippery adjacent to everything as a result of our charm and good looks and happenstance. The play is like, leftover charcuterie from her husband’s weird mega church and splurging at the liquor store and old cocaine shoved into a bowling ball but there’s an innocence and almost childlike wonderment to the way they tackle the expired drug situation, and the play is not about drugs. There’s a genuine kind of earnest stiltedness to the conversation that lends itself to sincerity. Thursday, May 22 May is quivering right before me; I'm not letting it lapse like April did but there are still smokescreens, silkscreens, my fingers are sleeping right through it. The Club, last night. The Play then The Club. It was smokey and sweet. My lungs felt coated in something sour by the end. The smoking patio was wet with dew and I was kind of floating, not in a bad way. Not hungover, it's something way more visceral but still hazy. I could feel it all start to slip, and so I held onto myself quite tightly. My boyfriend's screen time is 102 hours a day across devices. My face is encased in sheaths of plastic that keep you young, but they're not the temu kind that's weird and freaky. The light I use is Science Backed. I'm thinking of getting into vintage workout wear. I'm thinking of getting into Vlogging. I'm thinking of getting into filling out paid surveys online for luxury perfume sellers that require you to swear your spending habits are High and you like perfume from MiuMiu and you Hate Balenciaga and what perfume means to me is; I think sometimes scents can bring up... nostalgia? I say. Do you own a Prada dress? they ask. We leave the party early - I'm sick and he buys me chicken caesar salad pizza. Aren't you glad we left early so we could dance a little at home, he says. In the living room, the windows are all a little frosted from the rain. There are lights in the neighbors windows across the courtyard but it's thursday night, the rain has stopped. You couldn't have expected everyone to just stay home, really. I notice the people in the windows if he is spinning me across the room. Exhibitionism. I catch myself in the peripheries. The windows. The back of my mind. And I never shut the blinds but that is just no Executive Function or Detail Orientation. I am not some sort of voyeur. Friday, May 23 10:45am, and they are playing some kind of staticy electric classical mashup of music from the Fedex truck outside. "Even as a grad student, I felt they were looking down on chaos," one young man at the Yemeni coffee shop is telling another. Buying: coffee and chicken quiche but none of that is for me. Buying: peanut butter perfect bar and celsius and my boyfriend's screen time is up to 316 hours since midnight since he's doing things indiscernible to me but which he clarifies are Not Fraudulent. I am trying not to write so much in the google doc diaries. It is like I have learned these diaries as a trick, and now I am addicted to it. Now, I can’t do anything else. I must release all thoughts, but to release one thought I must go through, again and again, everything else. And so I go through it all, again and again and again. The thought, and then everything else. We were going to talk more about Spirituality today, but the tripwire keeps happening - stuck on: Vanity and Careerism. I make subheadings to keep myself in check. VANITY. CAREERISM. CAREERISM: Here is where I am: I have the substack for now which is nice this is something that I suppose in some ways is a defining thing I have done but it does not feel like so much it does not feel like it culminates to anything just proof of existence, yes, but everyone has some sort of proof of existence and it is nice to write the story behind something. The story itself cannot just be the story of writing about yourself. And for a minute I was very very very sad and so that plotline became dependable, but that is no sort of thing to rely on. And this is why it cannot all just be the writing of the self. It hasn’t been. [redacted] felt like something different, investigation, beginning middle end, it was not just here I am, it was like a puzzle it was like being very precise with it and it was the biggest thing I have done so far and I sat with it for such a long time. And perhaps I am being dramatic because there are other projects I could start in the meantime but I can’t sit down and make myself think oh what would be an interesting and pithy thing to talk about for somewhere glossy, I cannot do it. I think about doing it and my stomach rises into my throat with how little I care. And so it has to be a story that bursts out of me. There was one, and I can tell there is almost something else too but it’s like David said yes, it’s difficult while you are in the waiting room. Since beginning writing this, my fever got higher, and we are hanging the Bacchus masks around the apartment plus yellow golden softlight and, now I feel more peaceful about it. I wasn’t having so much humility. Nevermind. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 27 From 6pm (show at 7pm) at Baby’s All Right — Baby’s Presents a benefit concert for the Immigrant Defense Project with Palehound, The Ophelias, and Grumpy. Dj set by WeTakeManhattan. - “All proceeds from the show will go towards supporting the IDP’s 20+ year mission of fighting for the rights of immigrants targeted for imprisonment and mass deportation via advocacy, litigation, legal advice and training, community defense, grassroots alliances, and strategic communications.” | GA (18+) $38.86, Ticket and Bonus Donation $49.69

Hestia3 mentions across 3 issues

Hestia is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 3 times across 3 issues between May 19, 2024 and July 08, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "assorted readings and cigarettes from Hestia"; "Free Hestia cigs and Masa chips". It most often appears alongside August Lamm, Chloe Pingeon, A Doll House.

Article page: Hestia
Mention count: 3
Issue count: 3
First seen: May 19, 2024
Last seen: July 08, 2024

Outbound links

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #1 May 19, 2024
COLLECTED AGENDA #4 June 24, 2024
COLLECTED AGENDA #5 July 08, 2024

August Lamm 3 shared issues
Chloe Pingeon 3 shared issues
A Doll House 2 shared issues
Adam Lehrer 2 shared issues
Beckett Rosset 2 shared issues

Source context

May 19, 2024 · Original source

Wednesday, May 29 - Montana James celebrating launch of book Concerning the Dinner at Bowery Poetry with assorted readings and cigarettes from Hestia.

Inline links: Montana James, Concerning the Dinner

June 24, 2024 · Original source

Thursday, July 11 from 7pm to midnight - Cracks in Pomo launches the zine vol ii with a party at The Rose. Discourse is banned - “only of dancing, drinking, and smoking”. Free Hestia cigs and Masa chips.

Inline links: Cracks in Pomo, the zine vol ii, The Rose, Hestia cigs, Masa chips

Inline links: sea buckthorn, La Roche Posay, Embryolisse, EARTH, Casual Encounters, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!Vpvu!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F8d8030ea-1dab-4e47-8fa8-9689c3704780_1124x1492.png, Home - Kinlaw

July 08, 2024 · Original source

7pm - midnight - Cracks in Pomo launches the zine vol ii with a party at The Rose. Discourse is banned - “only of dancing, drinking, and smoking”. Free Hestia cigs and Masa chips.

Inline links: Cracks in Pomo, the zine vol ii, The Rose, Hestia cigs, Masa chips

La Roche-Posay3 mentions across 3 issues

La Roche-Posay is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 3 times across 3 issues between January 27, 2025 and February 04, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "You put smooth serum on your face - sea buckthorn, La Roche Posay, Embryolisse"; "Washed my face with La Rouche Possay cleanser"; "la Roche Posay cleanser and peptide moisturizer". It most often appears alongside EARTH, El Salvador, Matt Weinberger.

Article page: La Roche-Posay
Mention count: 3
Issue count: 3
First seen: January 27, 2025
Last seen: February 04, 2026

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

End of the Cold Front January 27, 2025
How To Break Paralysis January 14, 2026
Hotel-Life-For-Life February 04, 2026

EARTH 2 shared issues
El Salvador 2 shared issues
Matt Weinberger 2 shared issues
Night Club 101 2 shared issues
Sadie Parker 2 shared issues

Source context

End of the Cold Front

January 27, 2025 · Original source

Friday, January 24 You think you will wake up in a haze, but you don’t. Bright light this morning. It is still morning, not yet early afternoon, although close enough. They turned the water back on in the night - sent the ice fairies flying back through the streets. The faucet lurches and then starts to spew all rust colored. All the drama of the evening becomes silly in the light of day, obviously. You put smooth serum on your face - sea buckthorn, La Roche Posay, Embryolisse. The rusty water has turned all clear again. Warmer today - weaving in and out of sanity, if I'm being honest. I decide to go to Massachusetts and then I decide against it. David brings me a white chocolate bear from Lil Lac. I run into him and the bear on the way back from the gym. "I got you a really stupid present," he says. I call with the people in El Salvador in the afternoon - talking about things like The Art of The State. Red Light Therapy. I need to write my story. I need to start doing things like eating fresh fruit, drinking lots of water with things like added drops of Maldon sea salt. There's the reading everyone is going to at EARTH tonight, but the line is too long. I hear that through the rumblings of people who are there before me. The line is way too long, and there are other things to do too but I stay put which is depressing, and rare for me, and I don't do anything with the solitude except I am asleep the earliest I've been in years. Saturday, January 25 I knew I was going to get sick. It was only a matter of time, and I’m a little relieved that it’s finally here. It’s not too bad. My eyes sting, and I slept twelve hours. I slept peacefully though, no nightmares, a fever dulling whatever tripwires my mind most nights and so in this sense it’s kind of nice - the being sick. Someone asks me to write a story about ANTI REALITY - “I think of your writing as a sense of unreliability of perception,” they say. And so of course, I want to write about my nightmares, but I’ve been having fewer nightmares lately, and now I’m sick. I’ll have to think about this more, later. Honestly, I feel strange about putting these event calendars here, now that the other parts have for real become my public diary. I feel weird about putting up paywalls, but I don’t want SEO to find my Secret Thoughts. I started writing this in May, and I started writing about Everything I Did and Everything You Should Do, but now I kind of want to be doing less, or I want to be going to things because I know no one and not because I know everyone. I still feel so grateful to have places to go where I know everyone, and I do think you should go to these things, too. Creative things. Special things. Isolation is so sad and so lonely and I am so grateful that my life is mostly devoid of it. It’s like a fluke - not being isolated, I mean, but I’m not, and I feel very lucky for this. I go to a reading in Union Square tonight. Something for Casual Encounters and a new newspaper called Ummm. My illness dissipated as quickly as it arrived. I think I made myself sick because I cried a lot, if I’m being honest. But I’m fine now. I’m really relieved this happened, because it was only a matter of time, and because now it’s all fine. The reading is wonderful. I'm so happy all night. It's in a beautiful apartment, dazzling, really, and I'm there early, embarrassingly early, and so be it out of pity or mistaken identity, I am given a tour. Here is the roof. Here is the room where the reading will be. Here is the artist's studio. Here are fifty sculptures above the hallway, each sculpture is by a different artist, interpreting the same person in a different way, can you guess who the person is? Sam arrives during this part. “Hillary Clinton,” he guesses. He's right. I like readings like this. One glass of orange wine and then water. I've been so cynical lately, but this feels lovely. Natasha arrives. Others, too. It's a nice mix of people I know and people I don't. It feels so easy for things to go wrong, but sometimes a night hovers just right. Sitting on the windowsill with David later, surveying the room. Up on a basketball court later, but I'm not smoking cigarettes these days. Sometimes glamor is just glamor and you don't have to feel jaded to it. The theme of the newspaper is good - umm… exercise. And this is really the root of it all, isn't it? You run, you write, there are other things, too, but this has always been the crux of things for me. This, and then hedonism, sometimes. “I'm going to make you a french omelette with parsley and guanciale and three eggs,” David tells me at home. “And it's going to be the best omelette you've ever had.” “Was the omelette pretty decent,” David asks later. Davids’s Decent Omelette Suddenly, all my music is new. The things we’re playing over and over again - they're songs I've never heard before. This means my nostalgia for this time will be different - new emotions recollected when I revisit images of now, as compared to in the months before. I feel silly and cheap reflecting on things like this - future nostalgia, imagining the contemporary as a memory. It's a slightly drunken conversation. There is no feasible counter culture anymore, no zeitgeist to seize in a think piece, interest draws towards the interior. This doesn't have to be narcissistic if done well. It's a little narcissistic, in my case. I keep on listening to these songs, over and over and over again. Home - Kinlaw

January 14, 2026 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, January 5 Start the year at Cassandra’s apartment, and then a few days pass kind of breathless and stranded in this way. Her bedroom looks over St Vincent’s Ferrer, and it is light filled and sweet. Cards and paper star cut outs hung on red ribbon stream down the edges of the cream walls. A seashell necklace, Mary Magdalene portrait, books of Adorno and Mary Gaitskill. The bible. When my friends leave for the day, I do not. Rush of opening doors and boots on wood and winter air, and then they are gone. Cassandra’s apartment is very clean. It strikes me, somewhat uneasily, that everything I touch appears slightly less precise when I’m the one returning it to its proper place. Face oil left off kilter and kind of dripping. A little bit bad at treading gently in this place where I am a guest and everything is delicate and gorgeous. Wearing my friend’s Adidas pajamas and drinking water and taking Advil in thick blue translucent pill form. Writing down the things I no longer care to reflect on. A lot can happen in a year, I tell Cassandra, but then again, a lot can happen in one day or one hour or one minute, even, so best to be kind of chill about it. We go to Heidelberg for herring and brown bread and hot raspberries in ice cream and apple strudel at night. We go to CVS for baby food and tooth brushes and nicotine gum. The evenings uptown are more sparkling and quiet. Back at the apartment, and I can’t stop talking about all the things I want to do or places I want to move. California, Switzerland, El Salvador. Uptown, to a four bedroom apartment with my four best friends. Lying on Cassandra’s couch wearing a blue sweater under a gray blanket and drinking flower power kombucha this morning. Cassandra gets ready for work and offers general hospitality. Eat any fruits and vegetables you want, Cassandra tells me. She lists them like a game. Ad libs. She was teaching me how to type cast a person as “Lego” or “Dust Bowl” or “Victorian Orphan,” last night. Blueberries, shallots, pickles, seeded mustard from the Amish farm stand. I tell Cassandra that she’ll come home to find I have devoured all of her arugula with my bare hands. Later, I wear Cassandra’s blue sweater and black ballet flats and take my own belongings clutched in my arms in a cab downtown. Am I crazy, or did you take my black ballet flats, Cassandra texts, that evening. We discuss an exchange. Tomorrow’s plans. My polyester black gown bartered for Cassandra’s blue sweater and black ballet flats. We’ll meet at mass, lunch, The Frick, The Met, the play, the party. The light is blue gray in my apartment, and all the windows steam over when the hot water is on. All the windows steam over because my apartment is very small, and because the bathroom has no doors. A New Year should feel psychedelic, not sluggish, one of my friends said, a few days back. Psychedelic??? I said. What about crisp and clear???? After my dream where there is No Air Left, I come to consciousness with concerns about redemption. Something about bad habits and something omnipresent left unsaid. Sun and light and real sort of detox incoming and yes this has all happened or is happening or needs to happen soon. Sirens outside the foggy window. Gentle winter sunrise. Watching Darling (1965) on my computer as it gets light outside. The Schlesinger film where Julie Christie whirls about all thrilled to find it’s not too late, even though, of course, it is. Back on my phone, I’m checking prediction markets and trackers and fortune tellers and all the things I’m trying to avoid for religious and also paranoid reasons. My fears are all confirmed. Reading the stars. That voice in your head telling you everything will work out fine is wrong, they say. Sound of shattering glass crystallizing outside my open window this morning. I can sense, therefore, more than see, bright morning light starting to seep through. Thank God. It was a few days of gluttony last week. Last days of bohemia, but it was different from the bohemia of before. Different from the times that we were all manic from the wind and cold and early January where everything or nothing happens all at once. Everything used to be reeling. I miss Butterfly Club. Ex-best friends are forever. I’ve been talking about being ascetic for reasons of necessity, and also because simulated intensity can only do so much when it comes to keeping a life pure. Morning, now, and I don’t remember my dreams but I jolted awake ready to chase the same thoughts in circles. Washington Square Park is bright and feeling like spring today, because the snow is melting and the trees and lights are coming down. Pine piles looking a little lonely under the park archway. Something a bit melancholy about it. Dead and gone. Nothing to overthink. Cassandra comes downtown for mass and black ballet flat retrieval, and then she goes uptown to clean her apartment and do good things so she can be a good person. Your apartment is already so clean, I want to tell Cassandra. Cassandra is telling me about the only girl in the world who are funny. I went to tell Cassandra about someone who said me and one other girl and one specific nun are only girls who are funny, but the conversation moves on before I can assert my piece. And I think I’m mostly funny when I’m being mimetic, anyway. Better at knowing funny than at being funny myself. Cassandra is telling me about childlike wonder. Washed my face with La Rouche Possay cleanser and Japanese milk toner and did Big 6 Lymphatic drainage which is supposed to do things like give you the whites of your eyes back and also cleanse your insides through and through, this morning. Procured a Celsius and cool minty zyn from the fridge. Procured green juice and cliff bar and sat in Prada boots, for a while, on the edge of my bed. I do feel confident things will work out in the end, Cassandra texts me. Only if no spiritual blockage with vice or isolation, I text her in response. What if we had seven more hours of daylight, my friend said tonight, but I like it when it is four pm and I’ve completed my day of obligations and the fading daylight matches a sense of completion. I wore a tan skirt with no tights because they all keep running and a black long sleeve tee and sneakers to do venue tours and other obligations. I thought you were coming from the gym when I saw you wearing shorts, my friend said, after I ran into him on the street. I’m not wearing shorts, but I am wearing sneakers because I keep on procuring mysterious injuries, I said in response. It was a strange December and then a good January, incoming. Good, because it is quiet. Good, because I think I sense things picking up. Can I see a menu, I asked the bartender, at a dive bar, later that night. There is no menu, because this is a dive bar, the bartender told me. Can I get something warm, I asked. The bartender fired up the kettle. Imagine seeking out attention to get only the negative aspects of fame like stalkers and rage, my friends were saying, at the dive bar. Imagine selling out your friends to cloy for low hanging fruit. Imagine turning twenty-six. Imagine playing pool. Imagine moving to Los Angeles, California, or San Salvador, El Salvador, or Geneva, or even Austin I would move anywhere, I was saying to my friends. I would move across the country or even the world and become very sweet or even very bored. My friends were talking about people for whom spectacle is just real life. You assume that everyone is excited to go back to real life, and then you realize that they have no real life. So these are the people that you’re supposed to avoid. And then after that, everyone was talking about religion again. Which is sort of crystallizing to be the topic these days, or even this year. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, January 14 A few good downtown art openings tonight (6pm - 9pm) — At 56 Henry; works by Yifan Jiang and Sareh Imani. At Entrance; Seth Cameron’s first New York exhibition in six years. At Post Times; Elberto Muller solo show.

Inline links: 56 Henry, Yifan Jiang, Sareh Imani, Entrance;, Seth Cameron’s, Post Times, Elberto Muller

Hotel-Life-For-Life

February 04, 2026 · Original source

Monday, January 26 On the first day of the clearest week of the year, I vow to be meticulous about it. As hell and even heaven and all of New York City freezes over in the cold, Olivia keeps on asking if I’m sick of it. Impossible to feel lonely when my opinion on the benchmarks of the weather is demanded at the start of every day. Are you still happy about this? Olivia keeps on asking. It got colder and colder and colder for one week or maybe more. Soon, I expect the cold will break. Soon, there will be something to talk about besides the arctic winds. Although I do find it thrilling and even telling, really, to see how everyone reacts to extremity. I am only being a little bit factious. It is icy and hazy and pale and like playing tetris with myself, finding footholds in the snow banks, this week. Creep past the frozen turtle pond, shut the open window, position my salt stained boots in the divots in ice piles that other passerby’s have left behind. Hidden little trails and maps and loopholes in treacherous places. Exciting places. Game theory in the blizzard. Do you still feel ‘manic’ and ‘energized’ by this, Olivia wants to know. Are you still wearing sheer tights and a-line skirts and enjoying how the wind chill makes everything feel empty? Are you still seeking redemption in the spaces left barren while everyone rushes through tundra streets? Are you still feeling pretentious or maybe just autistic standing stock still and underdressed in courtyards that have never really been yours? This week, I have decided to just say what I really mean. Listening to Dark But Just A Game by Lana del Rey while the sun comes up this morning. Not a new song, but new to me. They are talking about Video Games album anniversary on The Internet this morning. Thank you for my mental illness, girls are saying on the Internet. I tell Olivia that what I remember from this album is before I knew much on the Internet. I remember my mentally ill friend turning on Video Games in a wall to wall carpeted suburban room encased in sunlight and green branches that brushed against wide windows when I was something like thirteen or maybe younger. Turn that stuff off, I remember telling my friend. Turn off those sad and strange songs before we all start to get freaked out. Playing Dark But Just A Game over and over and over again, this morning. Breathing kind of shallow breaths and making calls of confession or maybe complaints. I vowed to be more private about it and then I vowed to make my blog more true. If I cannot speak about something clearly, then I think I will not speak about it at all. In the morning, there is salt stained mirror and la Roche Posay cleanser and peptide moisturizer and mineral sunscreen and amazon tights and a call from Maria saying hotel lobby for lunch, maybe. Rituals like magic. Compulsive documentation. Live-blogging for my live-diary which is mostly just an event calendar plus some but not-so-many lurid life details because I have never been so good at keeping it all so private. The truth of it is, one can return to oneself quite quickly, but this should only have to happen once or maybe twice. In the hotel lobby, a beautiful girl walks in. She is a model, clearly. You are twenty-nine, a horrible man is saying to her, across the table. Good genes, he is saying. He is saying things about a girl like you and you can leave if you want. He is complimenting her grotesquely and it is very understandable why she would feel extremely annoyed. She is very articulate and pretty, though, and seems to know this game. Girls like you have hobbies, the man is saying. Do you have hobbies like art collecting or acoustic music or perhaps even ice skating? The girl is good at modulating her voice, and so my eavesdropping is abruptly cut off. Order: almond milk cappuccino, almond milk matcha, ginger tea, diet coke at Hotel Lobby. Too many beverages . Too many things I want. Discipline is pleasure. Restraint enhances desire. Reading something true on Health Gossip about the things a person must do before they lick the candy wrapper of success and then im thinking o.k perhaps time to cut myself off of this sort of thing for a little bit. Maria wears a red sweater and black pants and orders only two drinks: (1) black coffee and (2) greens juice. I ask Maria to read my diaries and she obliges and then, even highlights the parts she likes best. Too much to say? I ask Maria. No, she says. No and I think your instincts would stop you before you really said anything too uncouth. Too panopticoned? I ask. It’s fine to talk about faux-purity, Maria says. Nightfall in the hotel lobby, where the lights are yellow and glowing and dark and my computer screen is starting to look fluorescent and bright and bad, in contrast to the low-light and well-curated vibe they have fired up in here. A friend group I was eavesdropping on in rather nefarious and uncouth ways have gone silent, now. The man across the couch from me is talking about working on a film pilot in Malaysia and a need-for-speed and also thirty-million-dollars. He could never do what you are doing, two of the girls in the friend group were telling the third, earlier, as she sobbed. Do what you’re doing, being: sobbing in hotel lobby. Radical vulnerability in hotel lobby. I am feeling nefarious and busy body and a little bit mean. We’re your friends so we sure are going to be kind to you, the two girls had been telling the third. Just because our mothers were born in the wrong generation, does not mean they can’t listen-and-learn. Ordered tonic water and avocado and adopted vaguely negative vibe towards; people who did not know they were being panopticoned. Girls whose conversation I could have just let flow around me like water. There’s stagnation in judging harshly, particularly in judging people with whom I am totally uninvolved. No one in the world knows where I am right now, but anyone who wanted to could probably guess. And it’s not that I think it’s particularly good or even beneficial to be cultivating mystique, but once secrets are in the air they swirl around forever, and so one might want to hold some things a bit closer to one’s chest. Pitch black outside, which makes it even more warm or silver in here, depending on where I look. Lily texts me - I would like to spend a day like you did. We can recreate my whole day, I respond. We can recreate the good days. We can eradicate all slush. I can tell you all about what actually happened. Soon, I will walk home in the freezing and sparkling night in my black and soleless ballet flats. I will slip on ice and look at the moon and Washington Square Park archway and the dark and getting even darker sky. I’ve been feeling kind of desperate to chronicle the things that are mine, if I’m being honest about it. Hold onto the things I never lost. This is different from grasping onto things that never were or no longer are, yours. Parties last week, but I don’t really remember. Party last weekend, but full of people I didn’t want to see. Party tonight, and I wear athleisure to the bar and make a friend who shares my name and also my sensibilities. We’re here because of your blog, someone tells me, at the bar. We’re here because we just made a film in Nigeria and now we’re moving to Rome to work for Vatican II. We’re here because of an article that everyone hates. Birthday party. Renaissance themed karaoke. Did you just meet and become best friends, someone asks me and my new friend. We all go outside to smoke a cigarette. Duh, I respond. This is always how it goes with new and fast friends. In my room, tonight, and I’ve been feeling good and normal. The cleaner my room gets, the more I remember. At the bar tonight, I met someone who lives in a hotel-for-life. Is everything perfect-all-the-time? I asked the hotel-inhabitant. Is everything clean and contained and curated and beautiful and taken care of? Do you order room service for dinner? If you develop a problem, is it immediately fixed? In my room, there is a computer and also a wooden music box that plays Silent Night when opened. Inside the box, there are blue little blue pearls and letters and a ballerina that spins. Above my bed, there are lace white curtains newly pinned over courtyard-facing open windows. The curtains are there to keep out ice and possibly fire-escape intruders. The unearthed music box is the reward for cleaning my room. Thinking about rabbit holes I’d like to really delve into next. Getting texts from friends from online who go by names after celestial objects. Thinking about Saorise’s brand new robot that sends her pilates-training-packets. Thinking about Esoteric Health Book Club. Saint Teresa de Ávila. Thinking about no more vice. Everything has frozen over and hovered and smoothed itself thin in the months that came in between. Descents into madness happen very quickly, my new friend was saying, today, at the bar, where everything was more lovely than I could possibly have imagined. We were talking about cults, because the topic does arise even in beautiful places. Talking about posture. Talking about cult leaders. Matchmakers. Scammers. Beautiful lives. The Places To Be.. Hours later, now. Home, now. Still listening to Jeff Buckley “Forget Her” and Lana del Rey “Dark But Just a Game” on repeat because I love pleasure in excess. So addicted to everything. I can get addicted to good things too, I think. Tomorrow, I will fall asleep in a snowy white house in the woods. We will get vanilla milkshakes on the drive down. Many rooms. Plans to cook dinner. Last summer, I wanted very badly to drive to this house in July. I wanted to find secret waterfalls and secret gardens, too. It’s a house just an hour or so from the city where I used to go often, and I remember the surroundings as very green. I remember fighter jets over Celia’s graduation. I remember Rose writing her social security number up and down her arms in sharpie, last summer, because chaos was kind of the objective everyone was seeking, then. Enough reminiscing. Same songs, over and over and over again. Opening my window because it is time for bed. Tell yourself over and over and over, Jeff Buckley keeps saying. He died early with something to show for it. Addicted to repeating myself. Addicted to new beginnings and no more false starts. Working on getting addicted to continuity now, I think. I will become totally obsessed with continuity. What a relief. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, February 4 From 6pm - 8pm at Latitude Gallery — Unbridled: Horsin Around opens; a salon-style group exhibition celebrating the Year of the Horse.

Inline links: Latitude Gallery, Unbridled: Horsin Around

lululemon3 mentions across 3 issues

lululemon is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 3 times across 3 issues between January 13, 2025 and February 15, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "their 'archival lululemon' - hand-me-downs from a closet of a friend of my mothers"; "dark green lulu lemon leggings and black tank top this morning"; "clothed in kind of filthy LuLu Lemon leggings". It most often appears alongside Los Angeles, New York, Big Bar.

Article page: lululemon
Mention count: 3
Issue count: 3
First seen: January 13, 2025
Last seen: February 15, 2026

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Life before inositol January 13, 2025
California-At-Home January 27, 2026
Yellow-all-around February 15, 2026

Los Angeles 3 shared issues
New York 3 shared issues
Big Bar 2 shared issues
Cassandra 2 shared issues
EARTH 2 shared issues

Source context

January 13, 2025 · Original source

Wednesday, January 8 Meeting with Beckett and Jonah this morning at Caffe Reggio to discuss Tense - Reggio is full and so Beckett suggests Dante. It’s not like he remembered it, now. It’s a coffee shop, he says, but it’s a cocktail bar now. Expensive green and red martinis in thin glasses whirling through the room even now, at two pm. They still let us sit for coffee. I have an interview after. Madelyn texts me. At Altro Paradiso at 3pm, they are saying goodbye to the head chef. I’ve gone to Altro Paradiso a few times recently, because Madelyn works there mostly, although even independent of that it’s the best food I’ve had in New York in a while. Today, I was in a rush, the plans were last minute. I'm still wearing my workout clothes and their ‘archival lululemon’ - hand-me-downs from a closet of a friend of my mothers when I was about thirteen years old. The shirt is striped and black and white and a small band bearing slogans like “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” folds up or down at the hem, depending on how flagrantly antisocial you feel like being on that particular day. I’m keeping the band folded under today. I’m wildly underdressed but it’s afternoon, the restaurant isn’t even technically open yet. There’s a toast to the chef and I’m the only outsider in attendance and so I stay at the bar while the group of staff and friends and family assemble. It’s very special, even to bear witness to as someone uninvolved. There’s a heart and soul to food and drink and service that other industries, even creative industries, really don’t have in the same way. I’m a tiny bit tipsy, now. I need to start hostessing again. I make this note on my phone: “NEED TO START HOSTESSING AGAIN!!!!” We stay at Altro Paradiso til dinner starts, and we continue to stay till it feels like dinner is about to end. Everything is magical - the alla prima cocktail, wine, dirty martini, pane e ricotta, salad with figs and dates, octopus, olives, oysters under beds of thinly sliced veggies, malfatti (which is pasta that is like little pillows), linguine al nero (which is pasta with squid ink and cuttlefish and basil), a few deserts - pistachio ice cream and the pear cake. The afternoon turns to a sparkling evening. I walk home. I go elsewhere, after - fun too, but I probably shouldn’t have. I should probably learn when to call an evening. Decadence in excess, turns all that sparkles sour. Thursday, January 9 It's been the same day on repeat so far this year. The same three days, really. Rinse and do it again. The year has only held nine days. I can't view my stagnation with too much harshness. Decadence, in contrast, should be viewed with harshness. Los Angeles is burning up and it feels uncouth to talk about this here as this tragedy is not my life, but I can't stop watching. Most emotions are triggered through all five senses - it's a strange feeling of muted horror to see destruction of places and lives you know on a screen, detached from your physical experience but visible in real time in your cognizant mind - peripheral vision. I accidentally get stuck in the Louis Vuitton x Murakami line in SoHo. I accidentally steal a pair of Split sweatpants from the gym. I accidentally read all the books on the 4chan 2024 Top 100 Lit Board list. I'm on tiktok watching videos of the apocalypse overlaid with Lana del Rey audio. I’m browsing r/lainfluencersnark and they have a lot to say about the way their parasocial relationships are handling the apocalypse. I tried to write something about phones and chaos and end times but it was silly. These are resources / writing from people in LA. The Angel - L.A. Fires — How to Help

Inline links: Tense, Altro Paradiso, The Angel - L.A. Fires — How to Help

January 27, 2026 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, January 12 I’m in my room and I’m feeling normal. Outside, the streets are winter-warm. Foggy and sweet. Different from El Salvador, which was humid-sweet. Tropics sweet. El Salvador was learning to understand things and also learning to let the wind blow in interesting directions and also learning to stand on my own two feet. On the flight home, I mapped out every day as a container. At JFK, I decided to treat the city like Vacation. Big Bar every Monday. Museums of Illusions. FDR themed social club. Procure activities on Partiful or Instagram or Yelp or through Word of Mouth. I call Amelia to announce my return and my vacation-forever plans. Is this vacation for the sake of transgression or fun? Amelia asks me. New York is over, Matthew was saying, in El Salvador. New York is over, and Los Angeles is it. I suppose we’ll see, I was saying in response. I suppose we’ll see but for now I’ll take all the energy-whirling-back. The flight home was quiet and late. I sat in the very back row of the plane with lots of water and ambient dread. I dreamt of a rocky landing where Avianca (Boeing 787) (Flight 267) touches ground and then immediately takes back off. I dreamt of being robbed. I dreamt of turning around. Dreamt of being scammed. Dreamt of busy days and busy nights in N.Y.C Back home, tonight, and it’s dinner at Lanterna di Vittoria with my friend whom I like because he offers me generosity kind of liminally. He presents a dangling sort of kindness that I did not have to accept or deny. I could accept his kindness later. I could pluck it from thin air, long after he has walked away. Maybe he is just generally cautious like that, or perhaps he intuits my inherent distaste towards drawing definitive conclusions. He is extremely helpful, but I never say thank you for the advice even though I am thankful. I never acknowledge I agree and I think it is better this way. I’m particularly grateful for the ease of it. He’s happy to know he’s right and also to feel useful without any of the misery that accompanies reliance. The grid is blinking in and out today, and so we are all feeling anxious about nuclear war. You too?? my friend says, when I bring up the topic of nuclear war at dinner. Everyone is becoming so much stupider. Small grid means big problems. I am feeling uneasy, sitting in my apartment tonight, knowing all the best minds in the world are coming up short. Later, cotton candy skies turning dark as we’re walking home. The city is freezing over, and hell along with it. Since I cleared my mind head-empty, I have become so much better at being perfect. Since I became religious, I have become so much faster at driving. Since I started telling all my friends that I want no-trouble, none-of-the-time, everything has started to really spiral out of control. I want to be good, I keep on telling Olivia. We go to the gym together every-other-day. She is the only girl with hair that is longer than mine. You are goodest, Olivia tells me. She says it with a smile, and she is very much not-devious so I believe that she believes this to be true. How many millions of dollars do you think were lost when the grid went down? I ask my friend, walking home in the icy city that I just can’t quit. Trillions, he tells me. What do you mean millions? Jesus Christ. Do you know how the GRID works? He gives me a book. Elephants and economy. Something like that. I already have it. I am smug when I tell him so. They already gave me this book in El Salvador. This book is already mine. The grid has already never-existed. Nothing ever happens. New silk eye mask arrived by mail which means: big sleep incoming. Big sleep in mummy mode. Clean room. Room of a girl who respects herself. Every day is something new. This part has always been obvious. Tuesday, January 13 The air is clear in my apartment, but somehow tinged a little bit blue this morning. Somehow kind of record-stretch hazy, which I suppose is what happens when I am tired and outside, it’s foggy. My friend texted while I slept: I am taking on your mannerisms. Texting back now: I don’t really have mannerisms. I could write a story this morning, but instead, I will write mantras in my mind. It’s good to be quiet It’s important to seize control over myself God gives the world to girls who don’t get in their own way. Black velvet hanger left off kilter. Last night, I purchased a blue dress that reminded me of dreams I already forgot. A blue dress to wear in a glass house in a place like Topanga. Bright blue dress to wear while making spring green soup. Purchased the dress with visions of next summer spinning through my mind. Visions of wearing a blue dress and standing barefoot on the wood floor of my parents’ house and making spring green soup. Sitting on the edge of my bed in dark green lulu lemon leggings and black tank top this morning. Cool minty Zyn in mouth, and Celsius in hand. The apartment is a mess, and it has been for a while. Trees are barren and kind of sweet outside my window. I hate this apartment. I want my old apartment back. I want to get everything I’ve ever wanted. I want to get sober and mean it. I want two hours of dedicated time-writing-fiction per day, and two hours of dedicated time walking outdoors writing notes. I want to let no more hours drift. I was not happy to come back to New York, but I do like the parts of the city that just are-what-they-are. Green turtle pond and freezing hands. Big buildings and tour groups. Windy streets. Bustling with people. When I’m at pilates I don’t feel like I need to move to LA, I tell Saorise, in the studio. The toned and old gay man that owns Pilates People runs warm. He cracked the window to let in the frigid winter fog. All the girls are upset about this. The light is silver and bright like a beam. It is a foggy day. We have LA at home, Saiorse says. We have life-like-California, but it’s real-life and it’s right-here. We can stay right here. We can invent different schools of movement. We can even go to Sugarfish Girls mass-exodus a friend group or even a whole entire life because of totally superficial reasons that are totally fake, Saoirse is saying, at Sugarfish. We acquire Saki. I pull my hair into a tight ponytail and I revel in my perfect day. I document my material reality meticulously. I have been training myself to become totally head empty. I have been training myself to gently accept gluttony, and also to be less subject to my whims. Sugar Fish has the sort of generic-upscale interior that reminds you of nothing, and thus reminds you of personal recollections of positive experiences in similar generic upscale interior restaurants. This is how they keep you coming back, I say. Girls couldn’t find a backbone if it hit them over the head, Saiorse says. Girls want to drown their enemies in buckets like kittens. Girls want to pray for you and ask to kiss you and pretend to be your friends. I am starting to feel some animosity, I tell Saorsie. Our meal is light but comes out in many courses. Saiorse is happy to hear about my budding proclivity for negativity. I’ve been telling you these things for years and knowing that it wasn’t yet time for you to listen, Sairse responds. You can pick something really good, or you can pick something that you really really want. Saiorse plays with her salmon sashimi and she doesn’t like soy sauce. Saoirse doesn’t ask me to tell her which one I pick: really good versus really wanted, that is. Do you remember Michael the explorer, Saoirse asks me. I have known Saoirse for a million billion years. We share a million billion strange friends. It’s nice to pour over these things. Internet friends. Federal agent friends. Friend who snuck over the Canadian border a few years ago and then washed up outside a fire pit in The Hamptons. Her explorer friend who we took to Round Swamp market for blueberry muffins after he got back from some place like Antarctica or maybe North Korea. He was not very risk-adverse. He was so worried about you, Saoirse says. Did you know that at the time? He said you seemed so nice. Walking home in the crisp and cold afternoon feeling so nice. Walking through the farmers market. Curling up in bed half asleep half dressed half under covers. Half lonely and half at peace because I love when my apartment is so cold. Cassandra texts that she is going to the museum. Why, I ask? It is our duty to seek out all the latent beauty in the world. Cassandra responds. At night, In Brooklyn, I can listen to Jeff Buckley Forget Her on repeat and think about what I actually want. Purification. Indulging my addictions. Freedom from vice. Sweet music and soft cover of winter fog and little green glass wind chimes hanging from the trees. I like wearing natural fibers and clothing I move easily in and having a uniform and following an obsession to its logical conclusion. I like knowing immediately and totally what it is that I could or could not love. Little dried leaves shivering across the pavement. They look like little rats except for the part where they are very beautiful. I run into one friend smoking on the street in a velvet black jacket when I arrive at the reading. I like your suit, I say. It’s my only suit, he responds. I don’t want to drink but I do want a cigarette and I only like cigarettes when I’m drinking. There’s a glowing strawberry on the wall, and there are a lot of people I have never seen before or at least do not see often. Like the cool theater kids’ basement in college, the girl next to me is saying. Soft snow flurries outside, which serves as a nice reminder that it is still winter. Reading out loud about Florida, Massachusetts and feeling reclusive. Wednesday, January 14 Sweet Wednesday morning, but I’m going to treat it like a Monday. Still listening to Jeff Bukley Forget Her, which makes me want to be somewhere else. Somewhere very cold or very foggy or even, very sunny. Perhaps I should stop hedging and just commit to something. Last night, a boy was ordering a drink and talking about how he was so glad no one was doing dry January this year. He asked his friend what he was drinking. Soda water and cranberry, the friend said. Oh, he said. You’re doing dry January? I’ve been dry for six months, his friend said. I felt so jealous of his friend. So, I know what has to give. Need to take pleasure in denying myself the things I want, etc etc etc. Listening to Forget Her over and over and over again, and turning my head all the way upside down so I can get a look at the snow behind me, but the snow has mostly stopped. Just silver skies all the way, now. Silver skies all the way up and all the way down. Jeff Buckley died at thirty-years-old. Someone who destroyed himself early but at least he had something to show for it. The desire to toss out everything I own becomes pervasive in the snow. The desire to get rid of all these things I wish were not mine. Gathering up all these clothes and throwing them in a big white trash bag. Thinking about the big smile on my face when my mother gave me a blue and shiny dress and then thinking about throwing it in a donation bin which pipelines to landfills, obviously. Hours can pass, percolating in guilt over what to do with this blue dress among other items. There are many more wasteful things than throwing out a dress. Buying and drinking alcohol for example. Buying and eating protein bars just to feel full by which I mean full of trash. Scrolling on my phone. Being cruel. The snow is both coming down and melting outside. Smells like ski racing. Nothing I am getting rid of is special. If the people whom I don’t want to see show up at a party, then I will leave. My friends are in the basement of the party when I arrive. Another friend’s new bar. The wood has been stained dark brown and the place is starting to look formal and nice. My friends are vacuuming and putting away books. We all look like little elves putting the books away, Quinn says. Many interesting books. Esoterics of Health and something about Aliens, for example. Thursday, January 15 Rinse and repeat. Blueish silver light in my apartment, where the sun barely penetrates, but at least nothing is artificial. Outside, everything is melting, melting, melting. White and chipped paint on the fire escape, and I can see the drops of water growing from the metal edges and then… drop! Leafless trees shimmering like they’re coated in gum drops. Each silver water droplet crystallized as its own little form, and then together, they are turning the whole tree silver. Since they turned down the central heating and then I turned off my air conditioner, a few days ago, everything has begun to feel quite quiet. Should we do a dress exchange? I ask Cassandra. Should I bring you your bible and a book called The Elephant in the Brain and also your blue cashmere sweater in exchange for my polyester Aritzia slip? Yes! says Cassandra. The West Village is wet and cold and the church is white and the doors are blue. The dining room of The Marlton Hotel is full of red velvet booths and gold lined mirrors and star shaped yellow lights. The mirrors and the lights make me feel a little bit like I am in a room full of sun, but I am not in a room full of sun. I am in a windowless hotel lobby full of mirrors. Cassandra takes out her Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls at table over are taking out their Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls everywhere are just the same. Olivia has her Rapunzel hair bundled up in her scarf like a baboushka. Cassandra is wearing a beautiful red scarf tied around her neck and wearing beautiful gold jewelry. The girls at the table over are talking about how we were created to have gentle souls. Why would anybody make it their mission in life to seek out… chaos? Cassandra interjects. To seek to degrade others, Olivia says. Cassandra teaches me a new word: Odoriferous. Cassandra tells me about her friend who lives in Northern California off the grid, farming salmon or maybe saving them, researching them, I can’t remember. A girl stumbles into the dining room to greet her friends at the table over. I can feel how cold you are, her friends say. I can’t wait to see the ocean again, Cassandra says. It feels really weird going so long without seeing the ocean. I guess I won’t see the ocean again for a while. Thinking about feeling manic. Thinking about every other timeline. Thinking about pouring big glass of water and black coffee with five splenda because I am still glutenous. Getting right to the cusp of something means that in at least a few other timelines, you probably figured it out. Nice to assume you’re capable of that, at least. Nice to know that in another timeline, my diaries are probably anonymous and I can be less vague. Nice to know that in another timeline I can probably lie. I can probably say what I actually mean. Spraying perfume over green sweater and imagining myself as someone who moves more slowly. Ordered a glass of wine because I love relapsing on an empty stomach. Telling Olivia about when my life was hot and cold and up and down and crazy all the time, because for the first time, I am realizing that she did not know me then. It’s hard to describe to someone who wasn’t there. Feeling a little bit nauseous and like I wish I hadn’t spoken. We could be living in the Midwest driving golf carts, Olivia says. Indiana is just corn and soy but not even produced for human production just animal feed or corn syrup, she says. I have a fondness for cornfields, Cassandra says. We could belong to country clubs, Olivia said. I wonder what that is like. Friday, January 16 In my dreams, I am surrounded by water on all sides, Somewhere in El Salvador. Somewhere in Costa Rica. Somewhere with all my friends-from-the-internet, and they do not like my new boyfriend. It’s ok, because I don’t like my new boyfriend too much either. I am scheming with my internet-friends. We are scheming ways to get rid of new boyfriend. Everyone is happy about my plots to get him gone, and no one seems to clock that I am the one who invited him in the first place. We are deep sea fishing. I am hanging by my arms from the edge of the boat and my feet are running through the water while a girl I know to be my best friend fires up the boat faster and faster and faster. I am a little scared. I am having so much fun. Salt water. Earth water. Angel water. I wake up. One light left on, back in New York. Yellow glowing floor lamp, so at least there’s nothing shining overhead. Last night, I was walking through the winter snow sliding on ice and filled with energy and adoration and also two illicit drinks. Listening to music and wind and stopping for gum and diet coke and then washing up in a restaurant that was bustling and warm and dimly lit. Telling my friends not to wait outside. For a while, I wanted to show others the places that had always been mine. It had never been like that before. It had always been more of a self protective sort of thing. Back to letting myself be dragged to kind of nice places to which I have no attachment, now. Talking about myself like I am playing SIMS at dinner. Ordering one diet coke and one piece of fish. Dinner passing kind of assembly line cool. Chill and smooth. In the snow and the ice, everything is seamless and then I’m in a car home so that I do not slip. Things could be quiet and end early but I still just can’t stay put. I become more full of energy, later on. I have become very sick of interiority. I went to a small Italian cafe to pass the later night because when I don’t, I always wish I did. It was a snowy and beautiful night. The cafe was made for families and locals and tour groups and dark and lovely. My new friends were talking about things like art-of-business, so it felt kind of far from myself but I could bear it for some hours. A beautiful life. Trying to be more tender and less neurotic. This does not have to mean everything. A person can just be cautious and nice-for-now. Walked home in the snow. Woke up warm. Still can’t stay away from places that have always been mine. Yellow light emanates from the yellow lamp. Nothing fluorescent. A million things to write over a million times. A million things to consider. A million topics on which the thing to do now is to wait and see. Waiting and seeing. Text about finding a DJ for a party in San Francisco. Email about a party at The Mount Washington Hotel. All these very random things that feel so close to being in reach. Kind of want to go. Kind of want to languish in old and beautiful rooms at the Mount Washington Hotel and in the majestic magic pool and imagine that money flows like water by which I mean spend money like it is water. Opening the window, now. Letting it be morning, now. Have to be clear, now. Sober minded and clear. Time passes like water, too, so that is something else to be wary of. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, January 27 From 8pm at The River — Theme Trivia returns with Medieval Trivia.

Inline links: The River, Theme Trivia

February 15, 2026 · Original source

Friday, February 6 I am awake and I have been for one hour. All around me, everything is pale and still and one small room and one short hallway and one light left on. One of one. One of everything. Everything is just the same. Yesterday, when I woke up, it was yellow all around. I woke up in the country yesterday, and the first thing that I noticed was all that yellow all around. Pale yellow walls. Soft yellow light. Snow reflecting golden yellow rays off a white carriage house roof, but even that part was turned sort of yellow by the early morning sun. The night before yesterday, I stayed up all night. There wasn’t much to do with all those hours, but I knew that in the morning, I’d be whisked away. Good at leaving when I remember all the things I hate. Good at coming back when I decide to get a hold of myself. I’d decided to let the night in my apartment sort of drift. I watched the sky turn dark, stay like that for a while, and then I watched it turn light again. It always kind of happens this way. In the morning, I’d packed a book bag with a suede black mini skirt, black cotton long sleeve top, toothbrush, snow boots, notebook, Off-The-Farm brand caramel protein bar. I took the B-line to the 1-line and towards the Upper West Side. On the Upper West Side, there were big french windows and snowy streets and tree branches that scratch the side of buildings and in the summer coat the whole place green. Not so much this time of year. Empty whisper benches. Powdered sledding hills in Central Park. From the Upper West Side, Laura drove me to New Jersey. A simple enough drive, but we just could not stay on track. The Hudson River was frozen over. Big white ice blocks that solidified and fractured and split. We were trying to spot a bathhouse somewhere in the suburbs of New Jersey. Is this the place to swim? we kept on asking each other, any time we passed a warehouse, or a sign that said something like Pools and Baths and Plumbing. When we got to the country, it was already dark. The driveway was lined with silver lights. I like to return to places where I have not been for years but which stay exactly the same. We lit a fire and we had salad and salmon and white wine and chocolate truffles. I was so excited to be somewhere where there was so much space. I liked the light and the quiet and the fact that there was more snow here than in the city, and I was pleased by how much I remembered. After dinner, I ran a bath in a big white bathroom. Big clear windows looking out at clear dark skies. I liked how everything felt very old, and very big, and very familiar, and very clean. I did not like how I felt a bit like a bull in a China Shop. Everything I touched returned a little less perfect than how I found it. Soap and towels left slightly off kilter. Clothes left in a pile on the floor. I fell asleep in a big white four poster bed, and I made sure to crease the comforter only slightly. I forgot to say goodnight, but no one really minded. I woke up surrounded by yellow all around. Morning, and when I pulled open yellow sheer curtains I could look out at all those skinny barren trees and lots of ice and a long driveway that stretched on and on and on. Laura came into my room and said good morning, and then she told me that she would show me how to make coffee, downstairs, soon. On the landing, there were three bedrooms, and a long hallway with a window seat lined with stuffed animals and a big window that looked out over big snow. The stuffed animals on the landing were all like little lions and zebras and all kinds of pastel and nice faces, nothing creepy. The wallpaper was all mostly white, with little blue or pink or yellow flowers peppered in between but nothing too suffocating. The snow outside the window was silky and icy and pure white and frozen over. There was a sheen over the snow. I could see, even from here, that the snow had been solidified under a layer of crust. My hair was covered in static. When I brushed my hair, I could see it literally spark. This week, I was documenting everything with compulsion. I went downstairs. Laura was working on a puzzle in the living room, where all the windows were long and clear and let the whole space flood with light. I looked out at perfect snow coated verandas. I learned how to make coffee in a chemex glass. Boiled water. Always becoming a bit bewildered in places that are quiet and beautiful and clear. I wouldn’t be friends with someone with bad aesthetic taste, my old friends used to say. My new friends, of late, had developed somewhat of a taste for conspicuous consumption. Later, Laura drove me to the train station through snowy streets and snowy backroads. We pulled away from the house and down the snowy driveway and then we drove through suburbs where everything was all Blue Mercury Skincare and Sweetgreen and farmhouses reminiscent of Boston, Chicago, Connecticut, suburbs everywhere all the same. Ladies everywhere liking Blue Mercury and Pure Barre. Laura gave me white gloves to keep for good on the train platform towards New York. You are so cold, just take and keep these, she said. Are you sure, I said, but I was already slipping the gloves onto my hands. Back in New York, I sat on a bench in Penn Station while I waited for the 1-train. Knees tucked up to chest and clothed in kind of filthy LuLu Lemon leggings. Drinking Dunkin Donuts almond milk latte with sugar free vanilla and almond and one cool-minty-zyn. Watching strangers and all sorts of scents drift by. It is the coldest winter in history or at least in recent memory, but due to sensory issues and the flattering nature of a-line skirts, all I have been wearing is sheer tights and mini dresses. When I got home, everything was very rushed, which is another thing that always tends to happen. Saturday, February 8 Following Cassandra’s confirmation, we went to a bitcoin themed bar and then to a hotel lobby. We went to a cocktail bar after that, where the drinks were made of things like clarified basil and tasted bad. I have one statement, Sam told the waiter, at the bar. Then, he asked a question. Could I have another drink? This one is very not good. In the evening, we went to Bigelow’s to buy the hair bows just like the Kennedys wore, and after that, we went to a dinner in Soho and then a tech-week-party to end the night. At the tech week party all the girls were cute and unemployed. They all made videos on the Internet and all had long-distance boyfriends. We took photos on a digital camera and smoked cigarettes on the edge of the fire escape while the boys all talked about suicidal ideation. When they ran out of liquor, I took the elevator down without saying goodbye. On the street, in the snow, playing tetris with myself in the footholds that other boots had left behind in melting ice as I tried to claw my way into a cab, I ran into an Internet Curator. He appeared out of nowhere, though my vision was already blurry, so perhaps he had been there all along. I’ve never been somewhere with so many people from TikTok in real life, the man said. Usually, I post all these people online, but tonight there were all here in real life. Made three notes in diary in yellow taxi cab home: Freedom of Indifference vs Freedom for Excellence

Ralph Lauren3 mentions across 3 issues

Ralph Lauren is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 3 times across 3 issues between September 21, 2024 and October 13, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Ralph Lauren is in the Hamptons. Everything is boring"; "Ralph Lauren is in the air"; "Unbox Ralph Lauren skirts and decide what to sell and what to keep". It most often appears alongside Chloe Pingeon, Collected Agenda, Los Angeles.

Article page: Ralph Lauren
Mention count: 3
Issue count: 3
First seen: September 21, 2024
Last seen: October 13, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

I wish I had more to say about fashion week. September 21, 2024
Collected Agenda with Vivien Lee October 23, 2024
Void of Course October 13, 2025

Chloe Pingeon 2 shared issues
Collected Agenda 2 shared issues
Los Angeles 2 shared issues
Matthew Gasda 2 shared issues
New York 2 shared issues

Source context

September 21, 2024 · Original source

The reviews that come later are mixed. The Cut says it lacks feeling. Cultured runs an interview that is solidly positive but doesn’t say much that is new. On her Instagram stories, Taylore Scarabelli from Interview is looking for The Inside Scoop on a Rumored Scandal. Her anonymous sourcing lands on the hypothesis that casting and styling pulled out last minute in protest of some right-wing adjacent models slated to walk. I’m not sure about an inside scoop, this was the only show I attended, and I’ve always found the practice of critiquing a collection (physical form) based on a runway show (spectacle?) to be strange. Most of the fashion week criticism I’ve read this year has seemed more like scene reports anyways, and so maybe this paradox is becoming more explicit. Alexa Chung and Madewell put cigarettes on silver trays and now we’re avant-garde. Ralph Lauren is in the Hamptons. Everything is boring, but I’m never bored when I’m included, and I guess it’s hard to find objectivity within that flagrant narcissism.

Inline links: The Cut, Cultured, Taylore Scarabelli, Interview, Alexa Chung and Madewell put cigarettes on silver trays, Ralph Lauren is in the Hamptons

October 23, 2024 · Original source

Saturday, Oct 19 I’d like to contend that today is the last nicest day of the year. I have plans to hit some golf balls at the Chelsea Piers driving range, because I’m feeling a lot of pent up energy from last night’s full moon. On my way over, I walk down 14th and look at what the girls are wearing. Straight black denim over square toe boots. Mini claw clips and messy half pulled ponytails. Sleek shoulder bags. Sporty pullovers and tailored houndstooth pants. Quarter-zip sweaters. Trench coat, trench coat, trench coat. Ralph Lauren is in the air. Next to my favorite burger joint, I have yet to find my favorite Italian restaurant in New York. Coastal elite “European cuisine” is an elusive concept to me. Don’t get me wrong — I love to keep up my inconceivable spending habits on niche and aspirational dining, but I prefer an honest plate of pasta made by someone’s 100-year-old grandmother in their kitchen any day (hello, Pasta Grannies). I do like Bamonte’s, because having angry centenarian waiters throwing plates of mediocre food at you creates the same comforting effect, to a degree. Andrew asks if I want to try Emillio’s Ballato, but I’d remembered my friend Daniel of Alimentari Flaneur told me his favorite Italian spot is Il Buco in NoHo, so we book a reservation. Their menu is technically “Mediterranean” and changes every day. We order the octopus with sweet potato, roasted lamb and broccoli rabe, and the orecchiette with eggplant and sausage. Everything is rich, especially the olive oil. The atmosphere is dark and rustic. Cozy romantic. I need a nap. WHAT VIVIEN LEE THINKS YOU SHOULD DO Visit Family Social activism, by its definition, is the practice of working toward the reform of relations and expectations, however that looks. It doesn’t always have to be about protests or shouting the loudest. Sometimes, it’s more private. One form, for me, has been returning to my family. Our first source of error. As I get older (I need to stop saying that), I find myself craving connections that aren’t so seeded in the economy of validation. Wanting to sit with discomfort and tension without completely losing myself to it. Also, learning to forgive. I mean really forgive. Get a New Scent It’s the next best cure for seasonal depression. These are my current favorites, powerful and sweet with patchouli as their thread-through. YOU KISSED ME IN PARIS by Lazarus

Inline links: Chelsea Piers, Ralph Lauren, Pasta Grannies, Bamonte’s, Emillio’s Ballato, Alimentari Flaneur, Il Buco, YOU KISSED ME IN PARIS by Lazarus

Void of Course

October 13, 2025 · Original source

Unbox Ralph Lauren skirts and decide what to sell and what to keep

Red Bull3 mentions across 3 issues

Red Bull is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 3 times across 3 issues between March 17, 2025 and February 25, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Sugar free red bull and gatorade and pizza and all"; "redbull green and coconut water all stacked side by side in the shop"; "You're drinking red bull but it's one am". It most often appears alongside David, El Salvador, Hollywood.

Article page: Red Bull
Mention count: 3
Issue count: 3
First seen: March 17, 2025
Last seen: February 25, 2026
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Here, There, Everywhere March 17, 2025
Santa Teresa April 10, 2025
Life-in-a-lab February 25, 2026

David 2 shared issues
El Salvador 2 shared issues
Hollywood 2 shared issues
New York 2 shared issues
Night Club 101 2 shared issues

Source context

March 17, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, March 9 I’ve been here, there, everywhere but there’s been no conviction to it. Yes, yes, take me to the opera now. I don’t pretend to think the things I don’t believe, but you rewire your brain away from nihilism, you spend a few years working on this task, really, and when all is said and done, resuscitation complete, you find in its place… an alarming passivity. That can’t be right. This week, I’ll be drawing new conclusions. Lying in bed and David is saying “I think giving up drinking is the solution and I think I’m ready to do that and, I might also take up eastern meditation.” “We're doing all this shit because we’re insincere swindling motherfuckers, we have no beliefs, our only beliefs are pleasure,” David is also saying. And I’m saying uh uh. And now David is saying, “put that in your substack, put in ‘i think i'm going to take up eastern meditation as well.” And now he shows me all these photos of his strange friends from the strange Decentralized Networking Platform stuff, or maybe these are just friends from parties or maybe, really, there is not much difference. But the friends are wearing big T-Shirts and flipping each other off, and David introduces me to the friends in the images like a cast of characters in a movie, or maybe like you introduce people in Real Life. Here is M. Here is C. and I say I know, I know, I know who these people are but no, I haven’t seen the photos yet, and so I let him scroll. You should also know: the sun returned today. Monday, March 10 In my Dialectics of NightLife piece that the new-ish magazine asked me to write, I am not sure how much of it all to include. "I don't include things like throwing things across the room and screaming," I told the girl at a party last week when she asked me how to be intimate online. "The throwing things and screaming is the most interesting part though," she said, which is what people always say when I share a disturbing detail from my life as an example of something I don't write about. I read something recently that has been making me reconsider my approach. Not to the nightlife piece. The approach to El Salvador, more. The approach in general, really. I am intrigued by things because they are strange. I find myself in a lot of situations as such. I don't want to cast judgments - this is bad or, this is good. But I think too, one can say yes, this part is good and this part is bad but I am not here because of good or bad, I am here because I was intrigued because this is strange. You are pretending that you just woke up and found yourself here one day, lying in the palm grove, lying on bitcoin beach, surrounded by red light and zyn and mastic gum of the gods. And maybe you were just kind of placed here. In another sense, you kind of sought this out. In another sense, you exercised a tremendous amount of agency and borderline being a stalker sometimes to then find yourself where you are now. Once I arrived, I was asked to stay, and then what was there left to say? Yes, ok I suppose I will then. This among other things is why I would be easily indoctrinated into a cult. I am not at present, in a cult. I've tried my luck with a few, but nothing quite has made the cut. Not the cut of Drawing Me In. The cut of Qualifying As A Cult. I'm going to a crypto conference tonight, David tells me and as if by instinct, as if like a child, residual panic at being left behind, at being left all alone in the first spring breeze, knees tucked up to my chest, watching the sunset on the terrace and being struck in a visceral way by how much time I continue to have - as if all of this would be so bad I pipe right up: "can I come??" And David says "are you interested in {technical stuff i don't understand} and I say no but I'm interested in crypto culturally, for the El Salvador piece. The guy giving the lecture is wearing a shirt that says something like "hey nerds" "what's up nerds" something like that, but I forgot to write it down. Sometimes, these conferences are fun because there are lots of characters and drinks and sometimes sparkly little powders though I don't like to really take these but it's fun when others are. This conference is a real conference capital C though. Or, a "meet up”, they say. Soho WeWork location and all. Sugar free red bull and gatorade and pizza and all. There is no fun to be had here. And so we make our way all through shiny Nolita instead. Tuesday, March 11 The things I overhear begin the process of reconsidering all over again. You confess that the knee jerk reaction is one of possession over things you do not even want. You confess that you do not want to tell that story even if this particular story is one that has always been yours. We go to Tiny Bar, and then the Odeon. Earlier, it was like they were doing a character study in the things you overheard. Wednesday, March 12 I went to St Dymphna tonight, but I didn't hear a single reading and I didn't watch Heat (1995) when I got home, even though David had it playing on the projector, even though he kept on playing scenes of significance over and over and over again. This is me and you, he kept saying, when some girl in some house with some glistening pool in Los Angeles calls her husband names like gambling addict and child the years keep passing by, and then the husband screeches off through Hollywood in a nice sleek car. It's not us, really, but this wouldn't be so bad. I want to party beautifully forever, David said a while ago. The key part being: beautifully. Maybe this is how people party in Los Angeles. This isn't really how people party in New York. And I should have gone to Poetry Project, to the after party for the Anne Imhoff show which I am guilty to admit I never saw in the first place and now it's too late, to the club, maybe. It's not that I worry what I missed, it is just that time passes faster when I am not here there everywhere, and I like it best when time slows down. In my dreams, my consciousness can take one second and turn it into one year. Here are the songs tonight. And the shoes are the shearling style cowboy boots my grandmother gave me from her closet last thanksgiving. Love For Sale - Tony Bennett, Lady Gaga

April 10, 2025 · Original source

Friday, April 4 It's been such a haze since arriving in Costa Rica and at first I felt strange about it, like this isn't Good Behavior, treating a Big Trip kind of glibly, feeling a bit pouty and out of sorts and letting myself just be whisked away like it's nothing, when really it's never nothing, when really it's always touch and go and particularly something like this should make me feel ecstatic. Though, I kind of do feel ecstatic. I never really do become jaded. I quantify and calculate it all far too much to take anything for granted. You do kind of feel like you're floating, though. Cold beer to clutch between my knees on the sea plane that starts up all shaky and then scares me less even than a commercial plane because I can see into the cockpit and I can get the sense of how these pilots are navigating this thing. A cloud is just a cloud. I've been using too many words to inadequately explain myself. Send some bizarre texts upon landing that I hope will be encoded with… what, exactly? But, you’re in the jungle when you land. The sea plane slipped over the rainforest and then slipped out to sea, into the clouds. This part made me a bit nervous because there was nothing to spot except the horizon ahead. The scary part didn't last too long. Peninsula de Nicoya. Thick brambled forest by a single black tarmac. David sent me a video when he got here last week. The Jungle, he said, and now it’s like a hologram seeing it here myself. I really wasn’t going to come here. Two A.M. last night and the flights were so cheap that it felt like a glitch or something and then all I had to do was decide, ok, and then everything else was taken care of. There’s a driver at the gate for me. CHLOE, the sign says. That’s me, I say, and I point to the sign. I don’t know why I said it like that. It's a different vibe at the house here than in El Salvador. Surfer spiritualism over techno spiritualism. The aura here makes me feel significantly calmer. Because I am someone who accounts for danger at every turn (neurotic) I can remember being twelve or thirteen somewhere around here, handed a stick to ward off snakes at night, warned that don't you dare touch the frogs, the ants, they told me, fall screeching from the trees and it feels like a bullet wound when they bite you. But, “there is nothing actually scary here,” David’s friend tells me. “The main thing you have to worry about are these.” He shows me a picture of a scorpion. He tells me that the sting hurts a little, but after that the main thing is it makes your body feel all electric. “People sting themselves on purpose to get high,” David’s friends tell me. “They make you high???” I ask. One of the only things that scares me more than getting hurt is getting high. “No, not really,” David’s friend says. When I got here it felt kind of like I’d been teleported. David was there with an ATV where the car dropped me off, up a dirt road, by some stables and then he said - this might scare you but no backseat driving and then we roared up a mountain, nighttime already, I was left in a room in the hills in the jungle alone while the others offroad up and down and up and down until everyone was here for dinner. You can see the stars in a way that is so special here. I’d been told about this part, but it’s better to see for yourself. You couldn’t make out what parts were ocean and what parts were horizon but you could see that the darkness was placid and lovely and it stretched out quite some ways. You could see where there were villages, because lights close to the ground edged up against the stars in the sky but lacking any visual markers to ground them, these villages appeared to be hovering, unmoored. “You’ll be able to see the ocean in the morning,” David told me. So, in the morning, I thought, I will be able to distinguish which parts are ocean, and which parts are sky. Saturday, April 5 In the morning, there is a gecko on the ceiling and a dog outside my door. Chat GPT got way better overnight, I am told. It’s harder for me to suss out the vibe here. They are bullish on AI, but they are hesitant about some of the other stuff. We’re not really doing much of the hacker house stuff anyways, this time, though. Back down the mountain, and we’re in a hotel, and there’s surfer girls with pretty hair in pretty dresses dancing barefoot in all the nightclubs here. The heat makes a run in the morning unbearable. Even the walk to the shop is heavy and thick but I don't mind this. The only thing I do every single morning is walk for an hour and write while I walk, but the heat makes this hard. It's ok, because I can float instead. Yerba mate and corona extra and white claw and paloma in a can and redbull green and coconut water all stacked side by side in the shop, but I leave empty handed. Before, we got cold brew mixed with orange juice and a cashew avocado tart at a cafe run by the girlfriend of one of David’s friends. Since I tried it out and basically just became an alcoholic bartending my way around Eastern Europe at eighteen, I have kind of found the whole nomad thing to be spiritually ugly. Like it's something for mid thirties men that look older from the partying who stop you in back alleys in Croatia and tell you things like the key to it all is to never buy a couch. And they would say it like you were supposed to really get it. And you did get it, you got what they meant by it at least, but the thought was just a bit half baked and unconvincing. Ok, so, I wouldn't buy a couch but then what? Then what would I do? What should I do? I didn't want to stay listless and skimming the surface forever. New York is kind of empty too when you aren't living at least a little bit gently, and so these are the different pieces I am trying to parse out. I would stay here for a while with a project. David drops a chip on the beach lined with hermit crabs and he creates this huge commotion. Anarchy, really. All the little crabs begin to rip each other to shreds. "I hope the big one comes in and destroys them all," David says, regarding the hermit crab pile-on situation. There's not really any metaphor here, he’s just being vaguely sadistic. It does happen as you would expect. One big hermit crab sees its opportunity, identifies his leg up in this whole situation or perhaps, they aren't the brightest creatures, perhaps it just wants to try its lot at the prize like all the others and is surprised to find itself emerge victorious. He makes a clean break with the chip down the beach. The crabs kind of look like spiders from my vantage point. A mass of little tendrils for legs chasing after someone six times their size. They all have the death drive, because when they do catch up, it's not good news for any animal involved. An underdog swoops in and gets the chip. I don't know, I lose sight of it all. You have a target on your back when carrying the bounty though. If I was a hermit crab, I wouldn’t risk it. I put my head underwater in the ocean to get myself sorted. I walk back through a little bit of jungle and then past the fishermen in Malpaís while David turns around the ATV. Soles of my shoes are all sticky on the pavement. Herd of goats in the road. The heat makes all my thoughts become all slippery and smooth. If I spent a month here, I could learn how to become all tan and bendy and strong. Sometimes, I become slippery and smooth. I could spend the first part of my month learning how to notice when my mind becomes like this, and I could spend the second part learning how to make the feeling last. I would stay here for a while with a project… WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, April 10 From 6pm - 8pm at Blade Study — Clare Koury presents the opening of solo exhibition Scaling Laws For An Open EnTrainment Structure. With this installation, Clare Koury is addressing the part of the color spectrum that eyes don’t see.

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!G4hM!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F32c19f02-745f-42b8-961f-2b9d53e6e39e_768x508.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!1h49!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fd95f9aef-d112-4dd9-a0fb-1610ba693067_1536x2048.jpeg, The Aleph, chloegpingeon@gmail.com, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!m6hb!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F5452bedc-f504-4cc0-a6f3-349820bdb9a3_1156x1138.png, David Rimanelli, here

February 25, 2026 · Original source

Monday Preston, Connecticut Everything in the woods is still and stone and snow, which is the sort of place that’s nice to be when there is Saturn going into Aries moon and the lent beginning and compulsions-to-be-writing-everything-down and some other omens, too, that I am hoping to believe in. Lots of sounds and smells to float in between, and best to be kind of light about it. Nothing so wrong with seeking purity in pure places. I am sitting by the fire pressed against a warm stone floor, and the clock just struck midnight. I was waiting for the clock to strike midnight, because I was waiting for a new week to begin. Nothing feels too different. A few days ago, when the clock struck midnight and it was Friday-the-thirteenth, I was sitting in a glass apartment in the sky surrounded by things that don’t belong to me. Kind of beige and huge place with stock-image-skyline views and a lot of rumors swirling regarding who the apartment belonged to, but no one famous ever actually shows up. In the huge marble bathroom, I sized myself up in the unnervingly clean mirror and felt fifty-percent-miserable and fifty-percent-fun. I went home after that, and in the morning, it was hazy dawn and the day was not feeling particularly unlucky though I knew better than to get complacent. I waited kind of breathless, and when the clock struck midnight again and the curse was lifted, I donned normal clothes and hailed a cab and arrived at a party full of diet-mountain-dew and magazines about Japan. You’re late, my friends said. You’re superstitious. You’re drinking red bull but it’s one am and you’re wearing normal clothes and listening to a DJ in a normal room and the playlist is normal and everyone keeps introducing themselves by alias like ‘Pretty Girl’ or ‘Whatever.’ I was given gifts and hats and pamphlets and the night was nice because my mind was crystal clear. I spent the next day waiting kind of breathless. I took the six-line to the metro-north to southwest station to harlem-valley where I stood outside on a winter-warm evening. Blue hour dusk. Looked over at an abandoned mental hospital on one side and an Evangelical Center on the other side, across the road. The abandoned mental hospital had a sign in a cracked window etched in bright blue duct tape and the sign said WAIT. The sky was turning dark with streaks of something sort of cotton candy pale, and my father called to say he was late because of house fires along the road. All my annoyance at tardiness and stranded state and train station strips between abandoned institutions dissipated in an instant. WAITING by the cracked windows and duct-tape-text in blue. The Evangelical Center had been meant to open ten years ago, but the buildings were loaded with asbestos and mold, and so it never did. My father arrived on dirt roads out of winter mist with headlights like a beam. I considered my allegiances and decided they align mostly with places like here. You wouldn’t think that in Connecticut you could find places so open road empty with absolutely nothing around, my father and I remarked. We drove under covered bridges and over frozen rivers. When we arrived at the cabin, there were vertical nordic skis jutting out from the snowbanks and the driveway remained totally iced over. We had coq-de-vin for dinner, and I did not have any wine. The town in Connecticut is close enough to New York City, and no one really answers when I fire off some questions about commuter-local-population-ratios. Close to the house, there is a cognitive behavioral therapist who lays patients out on a couch in a hut that is mostly glass and a little bit of wood, and is hovering over the river. Who needs therapy when you have a view like that, everyone says, every time we drive past the hut. Nobody needs therapy if they have access to the outdoors and the capacity for lifestyle interventions, I pipe up, because while I have been trying to be less petulant-for-no-reason, sometimes there is a reason for petulance being; it is nice to say the opposite thing, and sometimes the opposite thing I am saying is true. The hut is not really that close by. There is a long driveway and lots of silent snow. There is a typewriter in the window, and everything is made of soft carved wood. Some of the wood is painted blue, but for the most part, the stain is gentle tan. I am sitting by the fire and I am taking some satisfaction in boxing things up. Tinned salmon and a heart shaped bowl. White socks and pearl earrings and a beautiful hand made card. A candle and a very pretty bookmark. Soon, sunlight will begin to stream through the open windows, and I hope that when this process begins, I will sleep through it totally unaware. The house is very quiet, and I have become very happy. Earlier, Celia came downstairs and she asked me why I was still awake. I don’t go to sleep til six-am, I said, which was an obstinate and kind of juvenile response. Oh really, Celia said, and she shook her head with vague indifference. I’m veiling my diaries in pretension in lieu of anonymity, I explained. Everyone’s been super into only saying things that are true, Celia shrugged. I wish it was still summer so I could say what I mean, I said. Celia looked at me kind of gently. How would it being summer change things regarding saying what you mean?, she asked. Upstairs, I turned on a rainforest stone shower and stood under the water and winter skylight looking up at stretches of dark and stretches of stars. Celia caught me on the landing on the stairway as we circled our way back through this beautiful and strange house. Sun due to come up soon. Navy and white carved clock above me. Handmade wooden cover over the refrigerator so that even the appliances are beautiful. Maybe you’d be happier if you wrote about something other than yourself, Celia said. True, I said. Everyone moving like ghosts in the shadows up all night in a cabin surrounded by snow and full of lofts and quits and beautiful food and drink. Tuesday Life-in-a-lab In my dream, the house was a lab. I woke up to light not just streaming no, but flooding, absolutely pouring through the long glass windows in front of me. I knew that once the light cleared, I would be staring into the heart of this lab. I knew it was a problem that I was anticipating waking up in a lab, because I knew that I should have been anticipating a morning waking up at home. Instead, I was finding myself totally nonplused about waking up in a lab. The important thing, I knew, as I woke up with a sense of increasing urgency, was to conjure up an image of a home, not a lab. You have been in a lab for so long that you have forgotten about home, a very confident voice inside my head was saying. A picture of my childhood bedroom appeared in a few frames. Different versions. Big white bed and blue wooden floors and presently frosty fields behind the house. Little twin bed yellow walls, carpeted floors, and hot summer cornfields outside. I couldn’t get it straight. If I was in a lab, then I needed to remember. You need to remember a place that actually exists, the lab-attendants were saying in my dream. Saying in my head. Glass apartment in the sky. Room at The Marlton Hotel. I’ve been eating vegetables and collecting things like dried flowers and books on Esoteric Health and buying wash-and-fold laundry service and being swept away to places like nice restaurants with no menus and nice-apartments-with-no-owners. I woke up in Connecticut. Can’t wake up in a lab if you never go to sleep. In the morning, I woke up at close to noon. I shared photos on The Internet of a very aesthetically-cohesive and un-lab-like home. I went to the bathroom to wash my face and collect myself as best I could. The house was beautiful, and I was unsure as to why I was watching things unfold from as if I was somewhere else. I made lists of things that were special, being places like this most of all. I made lists of things that compose self respect, and then I made lists of things that compose a life that is bright and white and full of light. The country is quiet and sometimes difficult for me, though I sleep through the night now and this changes everything. Downstairs, the dogs and Celia and the other were sitting under high lofted ceilings. There was a magical and silvery presence that mediation gives to a person. I asked about coffee and they told me there was coffee in the pot and I could heat it up in a silver bowl on the stove. The stove was green and handmade and you turned it on by flicking little metal burner switches. The bowl was nice and very small. I poured the coffee in the bowl and I waited for everything to begin to boil. I added vital proteins collagen and also oat milk creamer and also lots of white sugar because the esoteric health advice of the age says this is fine. There were homemade mini muffins from The Smith Bakery down the street on the counter (blueberry, morning harvest, strawberry corn, and chocolate chip) and so I cut each muffin in half, and then I had one-half-of-each. Two mini muffins total. I put two of the halves in the toaster, and I had two of the halves cold. Everyone started telling me about gnosticism and buddhism and catholicism. They recommended to me a friend who writes about God and married into a famous band. They recommended I come to meditate in places like New York, too. You look ready, Celia said, as I packed up my north face back-pack and changed out of split-sweatpants and banaa-republic-black-top. I’m not, I snapped, in response. Do you actually want to meditate more, Celia asked. I don’t say I want to do things I don’t actually want to do, I replied. I could not stop with all this harshness. Wednesday Grand Central Station Back in New York City and I am totally covered in dog hair. Shoes untied in Grand Central Station but there is nowhere for me to stop and tie them without risking some sort of stampede or at least massive inconvenience and so onward we go. A man just walked towards me rapidly and I flinched and then felt kind of bad. Then, he shouted; young lady can I ask you a question and so now I do not feel bad. My instincts were correct, and now I do not feel bad at all. Ok, fine, whatever. I used to love arriving back in New York and hearing all the music and the lights and I would twirl through this place nonpulsed. Then, I would twirl home. I used to get drunk-before-christmas at the midtown Cipriani and then giggle when people called my ex-boyfriend and I bad-people-for-cutting on the trains toward Albany, but I’m not allowed to move like that anymore. I used to sink into sixty-dollar taxi-cabs because I found the subway over-stimulating. My Prada purse used to be lined with shiny leather, but I got fidgety somewhere tropical and I ripped it all off so now we’re working with something more flattened and matte. Teenage girls used to fling themselves at the side of the train platforms, and conductors used to lose their whole crew in Boston and train heists used to happen. I used to consider everything to be pretty taken-care-of. I think I never used to notice when sometimes, problems would arise. On the train ride back to New York, tonight, the tracks were icy and slick and it was already kind of blue hour dusk. When I said goodbye, I told Celia I love you I love you I love you a million times over because I felt slightly neurotic about a weekend full of being slightly late and slightly harsh. I am smart enough to know that the only thing complaining makes you better at is complaining, so I decided to stop. In Grand Central Station, they are playing live music, and I watch a man propose, though no one else around the soon-to-be newlyweds reacted. No photos or energy. Sad. I am wearing beat up Ganni knee high boots and Brandy Melville long sleeved dress, and Zara blazer that I stole from Paul’s Baby Grande back when I was in the practice of going lots of places and stealing lots of things. I miss my Max Mara coat that I left at “tech week” and I miss “drinking” and I am suddenly desperate to be out the door. I imagine that when the subway doors fly open and I burst out free and all-in-one piece, I will see the Washington Square Park arch, and it will be glowing silver in mid-winter light. I imagine that the city will feel warm with soon-to-be-spring-humidity. I imagine that since groundhog day has come and gone the tides will change soon, and I imagine I will relinquish my Groundhog Day (1993) fantasies of nothing-ever-happens at some point down the line, when it all becomes a bit too much to take. Tomorrow, I will be taking my shoes to the tailor and then the next day, I will have a totally fresh new crop of things to wear. I imagine that soon, I will have a fresh new crop of things to consider. Thursday Whore Dialectics Greenwich Village’s bitcoin bar sports a libertarian clientele and taxidermy and a podcast studio and beef-tallow-fries. Tonight, it sports a projector screen from my old apartment that looks sad and small propped on stage, and a big audience in metal chairs, and a birthday party in the front room, and plenty of opportunities to make myself feel useful as I tinker with film equipment and fire off texts regarding “promotional material.” I am sitting at Pubkey Bar drinking a diet coke while I wait for the screening of “Whore Dialects” to begin. When I ordered my diet coke at the bar, a strange man made a strange joke about NA beer, and I felt immediately irritated and restrained by my self imposed limits. I am listening to a group of young men discuss the career path of “Internet Pervert” as one of the only viable post-AI jobs. Monetize your self destruction, they are saying. Male prostitution. Buying plushies is to women as buying porn is to men. There’s a strange pseudo-intellectual glare to it all and I am enjoying listening in. They are talking about Brian Kaplan, but they keep on mispronouncing his name. They are talking about scientists, rationalists, and flexible proposals. When they talk about Internet Perverts, there are stars in their eyes, less because of the sex, it seems, and more because the internet perverts are able to get some money and get some attention. The male influencer. That seems to be what they are starry eyed about. They are thrilled to be in the same extended universe as someone who might be able to garner some vague attention. This is a bar that usually makes me feel kind of hazy. This is a bar where I used to make scenes. Enough reminiscing, because I am here to watch a film that is all about auto-documentarians, which is in sharp contrast to the maladjusted forms of auto-diary or auto-fiction. In the film, a beautiful girl is in the back of a car with the wind in her face and she is drinking an Erewhon smoothie and talking about how Hollywood is dead and the monasteries are empty and you can’t be a nun or get a phd because you question what truth is, and these institutions just won’t let you get at it. After that, the film cuts to a scene where the girl is in a white dress being play-drowned in the ocean by a right-wing provocateur. The film crew sent the provocateur to stay with the girl, and it was kind of the perfect setup, a voiceover explains. The provocateur describes how when he arrived, the girl was in a state of almost total abjection. Like how kids who are sexually assaulted don’t shower to make themselves totally disgusting and unappealing, he explains. I find the provocateur slightly less interesting as a character than both the girl, and the disgraced art-advisor (another prominent character in the film) but I like when he argues about politics and then reconciles on a personal level with those around him in places like California. I like the scenes about the professionally fraught yet personally friendly relationship between the art advisor and his not terribly successful clients, ie the clients are disappointed but still use the advisor’s pool for summer swims. The client still dreams of having an eighteen person studio because this means tremendous success, and because this is just how men dream. When the provocateur is described but not depicted as losing control, it is explained that the jig is kind of up, because it’s no triumph of power to reign over somebody who is not even in control of themselves. I only watch the film once and I am not taking notes, really, during the public screening at the Bitcoin Bar, but I like it because it is auto-documentary not auto-fiction or auto-diary and as such, it is very precise. The film says, for someone like me in the conditions like the ones I occupy, here is what life is like. This is more matter of fact and less indulgent than saying; here is what life is like for me. At a party last month that was also all about art whores, the filmmakers wrote a few lines about a few of my friends. The women present were on average quite a bit younger than the men and looked fresh. Perhaps because of their age, or perhaps because of the care they put into their bodies and minds, but the vibe among the women was optimistic and exuberant. I thought this was nice. Nice, too, to catch purity in unexpected places while staying totally true. Friday Upper West Side Later, I am uptown and I am thinking about how I can become more self-disciplined so I can become more interesting. I am watching Pierre Le Fou at Lillian’s apartment on the Upper West Side and all the girls are dressed like characters in the film. Lilian keeps leaning out the window with a long skinny cigarette and I am drinking a glass of Sancerre because I just can’t quit. In this film, a very small man is holding a gun to a very beautiful girl’s head while she cuts her hair. The beautiful girl has a brunette bob, and she is wearing a red dress. The film is full of primary colors and very bright paint. When a man is stabbed, he bleeds red paint. Before a man explodes himself in dynamite at the end of the film, he paints himself blue. I like the film because the colors of the gore are all bright and fake like paint, and the colors of the scenery are all pastel and muted and lovely like real life. Summer in The Riviera. Beautiful people living a simple and crime-filled life. I have not watched very many films this year because I’ve been busy writing thirty-thousand-words-about-myself-per-week. In the last film I watched, a Japanese cat was exploded by a grenade, and when gore and guts spilled everywhere, I flinched and clenched my eyes shut. Do you want to leave, my friend asked, and what I wanted was to be resilient, but what I said was I don’t really care. Now, a girl in the film is sitting on a boat with a man, and she is talking about how the two have only known each other for a few million seconds. She’s such a stupid girl, Lillian says. I would say something like that, I respond. One-million-billion-seconds and one-million-billion-words. I am feeling bubbly when I am not feeling sick or shy. I am feeling like it’s time to be more light about it. When I look to my left, I see beautiful stained glass lamps and a defense surveillance tech-branded throw blanket. When I look to my right, I see an open window and all my friends leaning too far outside smoking skinny vogues. On the Internet, people are talking about how things are only interesting if they are true. Determinative reasoning then says, one should make what is true more interesting. Everything just became crystal clear. By which I mean, everything is operating on material terms now. DIRECTORY The full event calendar is now going to live on The Aleph - an exciting new platform by Noah Kumin of The Mars Review of Books. The Aleph is a marketplace and membership club for the arts, with an emphasis on supporting in-person events, production, and funding for artists. Programming featured will be intentional and curated, and include more opportunities for early-access and invitation-only events. If you would like to submit an event for consideration, please email me at chloegpingeon@gmail.com. Apply to join The Aleph here I will still be featuring select events on the blog, along with more eclectic or personal recommendations, news, and guest features. To start: David Rimanelli is perhaps my favorite person to follow on Instagram, as well as one of my favorite critics. Tonight, from 6:30pm at Tibet House, he will be reading, along with Kiely Sweatt and Sean Fabi. Tickets here.

Splenda3 mentions across 3 issues

Splenda is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 3 times across 3 issues between February 03, 2025 and February 15, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "adding honey instead of Splenda"; "drink six teas with six Splenda each"; "eight splenda, curdled almond milk". It most often appears alongside KGB, Los Angeles, Doomers.

Article page: Splenda
Mention count: 3
Issue count: 3
First seen: February 03, 2025
Last seen: February 15, 2026

Issue trail

Dream Logic February 03, 2025
Total Nightmare Policy May 21, 2025
Yellow-all-around February 15, 2026

KGB 3 shared issues
Los Angeles 3 shared issues
Doomers 2 shared issues
East Village 2 shared issues
Home Sweet Home 2 shared issues

Source context

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!QvaR!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4e1cff43-2649-4fd5-b2c0-12597c68d64c_1179x639.jpeg, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!SwKw!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fcb9eb097-5814-48e3-9eee-e66c559d15b5_1200x1600.jpeg, Bryan Johnson in, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!EgQz!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F1cb85ea0-de00-4d10-b03e-ae375da5ddef_1179x642.jpeg, something nice on the evening, Heaven Can't Wait, Cynosure

February 03, 2025 · Original source

Monday, January 27 Perhaps you theme your days. On Health, you say. L-theanine with my coffee. Not really, but I’ll plan for this down the line. Bar Oliver is all lit up in piercing morning sun. I walk outside early this morning. Chinatown fruit market coming alive so quickly. There was a cemetery outside the window where I slept last night. I kept on looking out and seeing icy branches overhead that framed the building like a second roof, the cemetery like a courtyard. It scared me once, I screamed once in my sleep, but I woke up other times too, and it wasn't too bad then. Mostly, the sky outside just looked all pale blue and clear, the same pale blue all night in my memory, although this doesn't make sense in a logical way, what with the night passing and the becoming dark and the me being asleep for it all. Dream Logic. A recollection of slippery silvery vines forming an outline of a roof over a gravestone. You wake up, and there is no roof, the trees were never shaped like that at all. Tahini chocolate cookie because Ruby told me sugar is actually ok. Whole milk cappuccino and I'm adding honey instead of Splenda. Enough is enough. I'm not going to crash out, but days are different now that my hours don't float on and on in pacing and typing that becomes like a trance. I felt like I was floating yesterday. Not today. That's probably ok. Tuesday, January 28 Tea with Madelyn Grace and then hot apple cider and Jameson whiskey at Cafe Reggio last night. David and his friends came by and acted abrasive. I was annoyed, but then I wasn’t. I walked the Williamsburg Bridge this morning - all the way from The West Village to Brooklyn. Delancey street was crazy at that hour, but everything after that was nice. I’d never done this before - walk the bridge, I mean - and it went on for so much longer than I expected. At first it was all windy and it made me scared, how once you got on the bridge you really couldn’t get off, how in the center the only exit was to finish the walk or perhaps to blow over, and I was the only one there, people were biking by so fast but no one else was walking, so then I started to run, and so then it got all warm, the water in the Hudson looked nice and wild and churning and distant from up here. The thing is, this winter was mostly a practice in what I’m recalling like a meditation now, with even the slight perspective - now that it’s late January, that is. Everything was present, so hyper present, and all I did was walk and think and walk and walk and walk and write down what I was thinking about and sometimes I yelled a lot, and I know it’s still the depth of winter, but this time starts to feel like it is passing. I freaked out last week, I thought about what if I couldn’t keep my days like that, but my days still hold all of this, only now, they hold more too. At the gym, I write about how it is ok to just do things like - go for a walk, go to work, lie by the window with David, go to the gym, write a story, and these days can be good and even better than the other ones, the ones that snap you into fierce exteriority. After the gym, Cassidy texts me. “Are you at KGB?,” and I’m not, but I think, well, I would go. Augustine says - “Give me chastity and continence, but not yet.” Etc etc etc. I feel better when almost all my time is spent with people, and I think my mind is better like this, too. At KGB, I am dressed all in Pilates and Going-For-A-Jog type clothing. At KGB, Matthew is telling a girl about how Blade Runner the movie is based on a very antisemitic book. I've heard him tell this story before, and the gist varies each time, but there are a few lines that consistently resurface. I zone out after I hear the first line that I am sure I have heard before. When I zone back in, he's talking about religion more generally. "Really?," the girl he's with is saying. "Yes, YES," Matthew is saying “I looked up the history of the Blade Runner movie, and it said it was made around World War II," the girl is saying. “No, not at all," Matthew says “Oh,” the girl says “How did you like the rape scene?" Matthew asks “What rape scene?" the girl says “Oh that's good," Matthew says. There is new art on the wall of KGB. A rendition of Vermeer’s Girl With Pearl Earring, except in this case, the girl is a dog. “Do you like the new art?,” David asks. “Yes,” I say. “I don’t,” David says. I am picking at the wax on the candle, because everyone is talking and because I don’t have much to say. “Stop playing with fire,” the bartender tells me. “Act like you are at your mothers house.” Except - I mishear her. I think she says you aren’t at your mothers house, because she is right, I am not, but if I was; I would play with the flames as much as I liked. Wednesday, January 29 I would like to put away this phone, I think. Warmer, today. They’ve left the windows open at the coffee shop. I told you it was starting to feel like spring. I told you it would be all spring-like in the depth of winter, soon. Sunlight filtering, filtering, filtering, through the roof at home. The roof and the windows. It’s all one and the same. It’s a new moon tonight. Lunar New Year tonight. You put your head under the covers and filter out the sun. You like it because it is warm but also - the blue light of your phone can absorb your entire vision at any hour, here, in this makeshift tent. I am not of the Escape The Internet train of thought. It’s designed to addict you but then, well, having some fucking discipline. On my phone, I see people saying things like - “there is no ‘on your phone’, just another layer of constant consciousness”. And in real life I think things like - you should separate it if you can, you should know real life if you can but, to leave it all behind - impossible, because it will always be right there, and you could still do things like walk down the street and understand the street as purely physical but then, look around you, look at the other people, look at the surroundings they are absorbing and none of them are real, none of them are there, and so you can’t just stand on this street and get it, understand it, all offline. I don’t really want to get it anymore. My mornings could be real, they could be with just a little discipline and a touch of joie de vivre. They aren’t real, really, because I’m making makeshift Blue Light tents to filter out the sunlight, but then, I’m working on this. Blue, blue, blue sky today. Doomers previews, tonight. Biohacker meetup tonight. Bryan Johnson in Interview Magazine tonight. I like to do things like drink six teas with six Splenda each, and then I like to act very harsh with myself and others regarding the principles of a life well lived. Year of the snake. What do you think about that...? All this talk about discipline, and my afternoon is all drop off a few Depop packages and refresh, refresh, refresh the stats on a piece that I didn’t even write. There’s a hazy little run in the afternoon. There’s some bad news, or, news that is more irritating, really. Ruby spreads the word: "do not take my advice about eating lots of honey," she says. Ok. Ok, it's all protein now, then. David takes me to a strange party tonight. An interloper arrives, and he is chased out at sword point. It is insane how quickly the tides turn. You said the things that you didn’t mean, again. It wasn't supposed to happen like this, but then, it never is. You wrote today, earlier, about how - things were good, better, but you didn't want to get too cocky because remember what you were capable of really not too long ago, it was only a few weeks back, but it felt so distant. And then, tonight, again... Thursday, January 30 And then it's ok. Well, it's not, but it can be. You’ve been taking for granted that it will be ok, if it has to be ok. That if you care about something so, so, so deeply then it cannot possibly be destroyed, but it could, you are capable of this. It feels foreign sometimes, this force, this capacity for destruction, like it can’t belong to you, but it does, it’s no one else’s. It becomes simple, then. You can’t just say I crossed my fingers, you can’t just say I take it back. And so, no more. I'm working the door at Tense tonight, which is my favorite - both TENSE, and working doors, that is. It’s a beautiful night, and this, after everything, is a relief. Christian Lorentzen reads emails with Gary Indiana. “I now believe you can tell if the writer is part of a writing program, by looking at their teeth,” Gary told Christian. "Why does everybody love Downton Abbey?" Gary asked Christian, in another email. "Well, what's not to love? The series construction is so glibly subscribed that you know what will happen before the writers do." In another, he lamented the logistical problems surrounding his writings on Cuba - the travel ban, his lover there, etc etc etc. It's a good format for a reading - the emails thing. Correspondences brought to life. Not quite a diary, but close, more intimate, often, because one isn't writing into the void of one's own neurosis in a correspondence. Madelyn writes me an email, after. I am working on my own correspondence back, still. Mania delays the process. It's good to have a long form conversation to return to. I hope this email finds you well. This email finds me almost incapacitated, but I won't be, soon. Beckett's reading is full of empathy and wit as always. He's lamenting the narcissism of our times in his introductory speech, and his own gut impulses and the stories that follow give him the proper wherewithal to do so. I see Sean Lynch and others outside. Sean writes something nice on the evening. I see Doomers the next day - the dream logic of my thoughts following this production requiring another letter altogether WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, February 4 From 7pm at Heaven Can't Wait — Cynosure presents the first of a two night fundraiser for Los Angeles, featuring Alex Arthur, Precious Human, Truman Flyer, and more.

Wednesday, January 29 I would like to put away this phone, I think. Warmer, today. They’ve left the windows open at the coffee shop. I told you it was starting to feel like spring. I told you it would be all spring-like in the depth of winter, soon. Sunlight filtering, filtering, filtering, through the roof at home. The roof and the windows. It’s all one and the same. It’s a new moon tonight. Lunar New Year tonight. You put your head under the covers and filter out the sun. You like it because it is warm but also - the blue light of your phone can absorb your entire vision at any hour, here, in this makeshift tent. I am not of the Escape The Internet train of thought. It’s designed to addict you but then, well, having some fucking discipline. On my phone, I see people saying things like - “there is no ‘on your phone’, just another layer of constant consciousness”. And in real life I think things like - you should separate it if you can, you should know real life if you can but, to leave it all behind - impossible, because it will always be right there, and you could still do things like walk down the street and understand the street as purely physical but then, look around you, look at the other people, look at the surroundings they are absorbing and none of them are real, none of them are there, and so you can’t just stand on this street and get it, understand it, all offline. I don’t really want to get it anymore. My mornings could be real, they could be with just a little discipline and a touch of joie de vivre. They aren’t real, really, because I’m making makeshift Blue Light tents to filter out the sunlight, but then, I’m working on this. Blue, blue, blue sky today. Doomers previews, tonight. Biohacker meetup tonight. Bryan Johnson in Interview Magazine tonight. I like to do things like drink six teas with six Splenda each, and then I like to act very harsh with myself and others regarding the principles of a life well lived. Year of the snake. What do you think about that...? All this talk about discipline, and my afternoon is all drop off a few Depop packages and refresh, refresh, refresh the stats on a piece that I didn’t even write. There’s a hazy little run in the afternoon. There’s some bad news, or, news that is more irritating, really. Ruby spreads the word: "do not take my advice about eating lots of honey," she says. Ok. Ok, it's all protein now, then. David takes me to a strange party tonight. An interloper arrives, and he is chased out at sword point. It is insane how quickly the tides turn. You said the things that you didn’t mean, again. It wasn't supposed to happen like this, but then, it never is. You wrote today, earlier, about how - things were good, better, but you didn't want to get too cocky because remember what you were capable of really not too long ago, it was only a few weeks back, but it felt so distant. And then, tonight, again... Thursday, January 30 And then it's ok. Well, it's not, but it can be. You’ve been taking for granted that it will be ok, if it has to be ok. That if you care about something so, so, so deeply then it cannot possibly be destroyed, but it could, you are capable of this. It feels foreign sometimes, this force, this capacity for destruction, like it can’t belong to you, but it does, it’s no one else’s. It becomes simple, then. You can’t just say I crossed my fingers, you can’t just say I take it back. And so, no more. I'm working the door at Tense tonight, which is my favorite - both TENSE, and working doors, that is. It’s a beautiful night, and this, after everything, is a relief. Christian Lorentzen reads emails with Gary Indiana. “I now believe you can tell if the writer is part of a writing program, by looking at their teeth,” Gary told Christian. "Why does everybody love Downton Abbey?" Gary asked Christian, in another email. "Well, what's not to love? The series construction is so glibly subscribed that you know what will happen before the writers do." In another, he lamented the logistical problems surrounding his writings on Cuba - the travel ban, his lover there, etc etc etc. It's a good format for a reading - the emails thing. Correspondences brought to life. Not quite a diary, but close, more intimate, often, because one isn't writing into the void of one's own neurosis in a correspondence. Madelyn writes me an email, after. I am working on my own correspondence back, still. Mania delays the process. It's good to have a long form conversation to return to. I hope this email finds you well. This email finds me almost incapacitated, but I won't be, soon. Beckett's reading is full of empathy and wit as always. He's lamenting the narcissism of our times in his introductory speech, and his own gut impulses and the stories that follow give him the proper wherewithal to do so. I see Sean Lynch and others outside. Sean writes something nice on the evening. I see Doomers the next day - the dream logic of my thoughts following this production requiring another letter altogether WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, February 4 From 7pm at Heaven Can't Wait — Cynosure presents the first of a two night fundraiser for Los Angeles, featuring Alex Arthur, Precious Human, Truman Flyer, and more.

Inline links: Bryan Johnson in, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!EgQz!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F1cb85ea0-de00-4d10-b03e-ae375da5ddef_1179x642.jpeg, something nice on the evening, Heaven Can't Wait, Cynosure

May 21, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, May 12 At the Holiday Inn, there are Yakisoda noodles and banana cream pie snack pack jellos and krabby patties gummy candies and lances cream cheese and onion dip crackers. All the most disgusting snacks imaginable, and kind of perverted, too. I’m so particular and annoying with my sleeping issues that I always find myself at depressing hotels, even when there is a wonderful home down the road where I am welcome. I need a Big Bed and Isolation. I need Temperature Control. As a child, I liked things such as camping in birch forests and cramped little stone cottages in some village where my parents would find someone on the Internet to swap houses with. Unfortunately, I grew up into someone with severe and undiagnosable sleep disorders, and a taste for adventure that is rooted more in hedonism and less in fresh air. I feel really full and sleepy heading back to New York. Well, things are better than they were. Total nightmare policy. Total, blow up your life brother, policy. I was so addicted to writing in my google docs journal this weekend and now I have a lot of annoying slop to show for it. I call my dad in the sun outside the Starbucks in a Strip Mall. Stop thinking about things in such eternal terms, they tell me. You wouldn’t get in a car crash and say When Can I Go 100 Again, they remind me. Fiction, again - they are talking about somebody else. The idea of compromise no longer makes your blood boil. It’s an unsavory trait that it ever did in the first place. "The other alternative is that I just become a nightmare and you become perfect," I told him. "That is certainly an alternative," he told me. It is 11:30pm, and I am thinking about getting a job. I am thinking about the Current Body Red Light Mask and the Ayede heels from ssense.com. "What if I hadn’t simply crashed out," he said. "There would have been pros and cons to that," I said. There is a fire alarm and mauve curtains and two weird arched doorways because we booked a suite and so the architecture suggests some simulacra of something vaguely Roman. Marble. Plaster cut to look like marble. I go to buy water and they have turned off the creepy lights at the creepy pool. Tuesday, May 13 I was feeling really terrified, if I’m being honest about it. I was sitting on the sidewalk picking at my nails and drinking hot coffee in the hot sun, eight splenda, curdled almond milk. I was voicing concerns in a high pitched voice and I was losing track of the distinguishment between ideas imagined and conversations regurgitated. God forbid I have an original thought of my own - that part wasn't even on the table. It isn’t so dark and depressing anymore. Walk in the rain and everything is so green here. I’ll be back in the city tonight and there are better omens in the astrology these days around things like planes, the return, glass apartments in the sky. He leaves my keys on the bedside table at the hotel, and he’s still asleep when I pack up my things and leave to eat black coffee, turkey deli meat, garlic aioli, marcona almonds. We drive to his parent’s house and he gives me drumstick vanilla ice cream. Working on this laptop, surrounded by all this green. You know that every time you hit this vape it coats your lungs in sweet thick paste, I am telling him, as I hit his vape. The last time I wrote about hitting a vape I received an infuriating pseudo intellectual email about the verbiage "hit" as suggesting a sado-masochistic impulse in our digital age. "I wonder if soon, you'll be saying you 'Beat' or 'Pummeled' your vape?" the idiot email writer wrote. The email made me so mad. You're so stupid, I wanted to write back. We go for a walk in the bright green forest. There is a sweetness here. A coming-back-into-control that makes the out-of-control-ness feel so distant. Escape from Evil and two days later you mistake reprieve for salvation. Unless, you are not mistaken. It really could be that simple. What was it they were saying on The Internet? Break The Pattern Today Or The Loop Will Repeat Tomorrow. What was it I've been saying online? Edit Artificial Intelligence robot voice over text to speech words - "Taking My Party Boy Boyfriend On A Walking Tour Of The Cotswolds." I clarify that I've been defending his honor. We're crushing up the plastic water cups, and the hill is steep up the road. I clarify that there are people of extremes. It was very bad, but now it is very good, I am texting my mother. Honestly, I'm so sick of clarifying anything at all. You're a little more sober with it. You're a little more gentle about it. It transformed in two days. Imagine two weeks. Imagine a year. Imagine rushing even one second. I can control my consciousness. Though, it isn't my consciousness, really, that I've been concerned about. I'm glad we share a frame of mind. This plane is basically empty. Wednesday, May 14 We went to KGB late last night. Thursday, May 15 The woman who does yoga on her fire escape is out there with a cigarette, today. I’m not in a bad mood today. The apartment is a mess and I am concerned about my past. Things become steady, and then even bright. Friday, May 16 Well, I didn't write because I have been busy in real life. I've been imagining an identity rooted in delusions in the secret diary that stays offline. It is not so delusional. I am feeling so sincere. Rebecca is here. My sister is here. We went to KGB Bar and Fanelli Cafe and Funny Bar where we met a Gagosian guy turned AI guy, which I guess has kind of been my career arch too though I am not so pleased about that direction. We went to the party at Bowery where the waiter from Fanelli Cafe was the DJ and I had two vodka sodas then soda water with lime which might be all I do soon, though I keep on having all these cyclical conversations with myself about these things - consumption and gluttony - and there is little that more dull, so I will not bring it up again. I went to the sleep specialist and she giggled when I said I don't scream in my sleep if I am in the company of strangers. That's different but great, she said. Do I control my subconscious, I said. Stupid idiot, she said. I did actually go to all these parties, and I did call him from the bathroom. He'll be back in New York soon, making film and code and learning banjo. It's way better than the alternative, and I do feel very proud this week which is something I have not been able to say in a good long while. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, May 21 From 7pm - 8:30pm at The Flea Theater (20 Thomas St) — I’ll be seeing Revolution: The Play. Sophia Englesberg is associate producer, and everything she touches is wonderful. Written and produced by Brett Neveu, directed by Rebecca Harris. The theater is next to The Odeon, so you can get my favorite martini before or after the show. - “Who celebrates their 26th birthday in the alley outside of her hairdressing place o’ work? Revolution interrogates and celebrates the very nature of creating community and building friendships in our ever-evolving, ever disconnecting world.”

Inline links: Revolution: The Play, Sophia Englesberg, The Odeon

February 15, 2026 · Original source

Feeling like I am kind of on a leash Sunday, February 8 Now, I am in my room and I am feeling ok. I am lying under my big white comforter in a green cashmere sweater, black Amazon tights, tennis skirt, nothing is messy anymore. After today’s reading group, where the discussion was about Virtue and Vice, Cassandra and Olivia and some others and I walked over to Washington Square Diner. I used to frequent Washington Square Diner at night, but in the day everything was brighter and I liked it better this way. I ordered black coffee and lemon tea and was happy with this choice, as no one seemed particularly pleased with the sandwiches that they kept on trotting out. Dry chicken, huge bread. I’m a snob, I’m a snob, Olivia kept saying. Sorry, she was saying. Sorry but I just feel really fucking bored. I added splenda to my water kind of indignantly, and stirred it around feeling strange. Olivia was talking about how it’s fine to eat anything if you’re on a desert island. It’s fine to eat bacon if the desert island is the prison-of-your mind and it’s the-only-food-you-like. Cassandra was talking about how none of her friends were getting married anytime soon, and so perhaps she’d have to conjure up a wedding of her own. Yeah, sorry, I was saying. Why sorry? Cassandra asked. There was way too much food on the table, and I think that this was the part that was throwing off everybody’s vibe. There was a new Cool Sips soda shop where Pepsi is mixed with heavy cream in town, and so after lunch, there was talk of maybe we go. Maybe we go drink heavy cream and diet Pepsi. Maybe we go weightlifting. Maybe we buy cottage cheese which is calories-per-pound-per-protein-per - I never really understood these things - better than chicken. Maybe we all go home. Whilst talking about protein in ground beef and also cottage cheese and also high cholesterol versus heavy metals, Olivia reminded us that the number one health factor is joy. At home, I am sitting on the edge of my bed in a black skirt and Lafayette striped cream sweater and brown snow and salt stained Prada boots. Thinking about self fulfilling prophecies. I will not drink and I will not look particularly pretty and I will not be socially offputting and strange. I don’t need to share every word of my google doc diaries. Twenty-five-thousand words written this week in google doc diaries because I just can’t cut myself off. Real-life-diaries. Real-life-compulsions. Fake-life-blog, maybe. In the afternoon, I walk over to a kind of industrial style Japanese coffee shop to meet Lily for tea. I am wearing a thin spring coat, no gloves, and the wind chill is negative-fifteen. My face is sort of swollen as a product of bad habits, but I am hoping to blame expedited deterioration on wind burn. I run into my priest walking quickly, somewhere around West 4th. Are you crying, my priest shouts in my direction. Just cold, I say in response. I walk for twelve more minutes, and when I reach the Japanese Coffee shop, my hands are burning and there are tears streaming down my face. A product of the cold, no-emotion, I tell Lily. The coffee shop is lined with narrow benches, and Lily lets me occupy the one-free-seat because it is clear that I am feeling fragile. She hovers above me holding silver trays, pistachio milk, black coffee, chocolate chip cookies. I feel like maybe I shouldn’t move to Los Angeles, she sighs, when I finish telling her my week of whirling hotel stories. I feel like in Los Angeles, everyone pretends that they don’t care about nice things. I drink my coffee in a few big sips, and I am feeling better at talking than listening. Did you write anything down about the people my party last week, Lily asks me. I nod, and pull up my notes. Most of my friends call girls ‘girls’ I say, The people at the party called ‘girls’ ‘women.‘ Lily smiles. It’s a posture just the same. At night, at the Superbowl party, in an apartment where the walls were recently washed a sort of deep-cloud blue, and the drinks are made with vodka and coconut water and grapefruit juice and on the side, some champagne, I arrive late. I’ve been making the drinks kind of strong, which I know you like, Savannah says. The advertisements this year are all made by Artificial Intelligence. The only advertisement not visibly made by Artificial Intelligence in an anti-hate ad wherein an antisemitic attack is covered up by a blue square, and two students walk off screen in redeemed solidarity. When this advertisement begins to play, Matt suggests that we all shut up. Everyone watch the ad, he says. The advertisement finishes, and then all the boys’ phones begin to buzz. Did you just see the ad, all the boys’ friends are asking the boys. They are all really into things like hot-ticket-cultural-discourse. What did you do last night? Matt asks me, later after everyone is already all a little drunk, and I am curled up on the couch, eating pistachios, staring at the screen. I hung out with my new friends, I tell Matt. I am feeling triumphant, and a little bit sad. Who are your new friends? Matt asks. Very nice and very promising people, I tell Matt. Don’t tell anyone that I’m making new friends, I tell Matt. I won’t, Matt responds. I won’t, because it doesn’t sound like you are. Later, trying to leave, and everyone is stuck. I think your taxi is blocking mine, Matt texts. I think a cop car is blocking me. Everyone is trying to honk louder than the car before. I was playing tetris in the snow and now we’re playing tetris at the wheel. Tetris on Houston street. My taxi makes a fake-out breakaway left and I speed away. Writing everything down in my apartment, back home. My moods are very predictable. I write about systems. I’m telling my computer that it’s never really about me. Watch how the patterns repeat. Could a human girl be so good at cycles? I’m telling my computer that I’m the best human girl at cycles. I’m the best at downward spirals. I’m the best at it’s happening over and over and over again. I’m not an evil genius. Writing like I’m top-of-class (fifth grade). Writing like I’m queen of staying up late. Window is closed tonight because outside it is just too cold. Drinking Perrier not Evian because I have ambitions of aesthetic cohesion. Dream logic. Magic logic. I am too tired to miss anything, and I am too caught up in self-surveillance to be really running on anything other than vibes. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Sunday, February 15 From 8pm at Night Club 101 — Punisher returns with a post Valentine’s Day debrief. Readings by Megsuperstarprincess, Riley Mac, Nicole Sellew, Francesca D’Alessandro, Dove Ginsburg, and Ava Doorley. Party to follow with The Heaven Forever. Mélange á seven. | RSVP here.

Inline links: Night Club 101, Punisher, The Heaven Forever, here

Zara3 mentions across 3 issues

Zara is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 3 times across 3 issues between May 27, 2025 and February 25, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "I rolled up my Zara blazer that I stole from Paul's Casablanca lost and found"; "A dress from Zara is kind of Washington-DC-Chic"; "Zara blazer that I stole from Paul's Baby Grande". It most often appears alongside Baby's All Right, Bacchus, Celsius.

Article page: Zara
Mention count: 3
Issue count: 3
First seen: May 27, 2025
Last seen: February 25, 2026

Issue trail

generative and godly secrets May 27, 2025
Aura-Abysmal September 17, 2025
Life-in-a-lab February 25, 2026

Baby's All Right 2 shared issues
Bacchus 2 shared issues
Celsius 2 shared issues
Jean's 2 shared issues
KGB 2 shared issues

Source context

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!zRlU!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F5106c642-5b7c-4f8f-a799-c60b10039a5d_488x486.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!QlxV!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fb9c5eb95-81d2-4503-852b-4bdc513730dd_698x434.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!0g1m!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F3da24e28-0d39-4802-abf2-53116dd83b00_308x392.png, Baby’s All Right, Palehound, The Ophelias, Grumpy, WeTakeManhattan

May 27, 2025 · Original source

Tuesday, May 20 Last night, we went to Lucky's for dinner and I had something with tequila and Saint Germaine straight up and he had more non-alcoholic beer. Then, they brought us mountains of shoestring onion rings and a big wedge salad and it was good for a while, until I started to feel sick. I went to the bathroom to play on my phone while the scent of grease dissipated. The drinks were crisp and they brought the shaker right to our table. Lucky's was like a steakhouse, but with a smaller interior than your average We went to Matthew's house after, to sit in his barren family room while he hacked up a lung. I rolled up my Zara blazer that I stole from Paul's Casablanca lost and found after someone stole my blazer first and also back when I was an alcoholic. I curled up under my blazer on Matthew's tiny couch while Matthew and my boyfriend talked in code and made rankings of all their friends. Matthew's apartment was pretty empty except for a whiteboard with a list of girls he likes and a Chinese new year banner and a huge pile of hats that said I'M IMMUNE TO PROPAGANDA. “Jesus, she is combative. you're right, she's so combative,” Matthew told my boyfriend, talking about me. "It's possible that Canne after dark was something that happened in the daytime," he said. "she'll get mad if I ask her why she won't play anagrams," he said. "The activation triggers a chain of events leading to increased dopamine release," he said. Sometimes, when I am with my boyfriend's friends I feel like I am in a video game, or maybe in an orphanage. You don't want to be someone who is contorting your face and yelling. It is morning now. I don't really know what happened there. Being at these parties more sober is strange, because there is nothing else but me and yet I still don't really understand. I am listening to sweet and gentle music, and I feel a total surrender. S - i do feel bad i was not so gentle and kind about this. i get myself trip wired and lose it. but it is always better to be gentle and kind and i understand new york can kill the soul and there is something beautiful in a peaceful house alone and that is why you left which is innocent and pure and it's not fair to be rageful to you for that. Wednesday, May 21 There were two cigarettes and two glasses of wine at Voile de Nuit. This becomes some sort of Diary of Consumption. I met Ellie at a tall house on a wooded street in the West Village where she works on things pertaining to design and then we spent the hours in the courtyard of Voile de Nuit, which I adore because it’s reminiscent of Summer and Reality. I behaved badly the last time I was here. My boyfriend comes by to drop off fries. We run into friends at Caffe Reggio and it's raining by the time we reach home. My boyfriend says: Spreading secrets is entropic Keeping your mouth shut is static Spreading misinformation is generative and godly I do think he is mostly kidding. It's Simone Weil who says about rage - “To be able to hurt others with impunity—for instance to pass our anger on to an inferior who is obliged to be silent—is to spare ourselves from an expenditure of energy, an expenditure which the other person will have to make.” And I wonder which character I am in this story and it's not always the good one. I was thinking about all of that in the novel. That and the self surveillance of it all. Unfortunately, my thought experiments are ruining my life and also, the novel is ending up being All About Me LOL, too. The play tonight (Revolution at Flea Theatre ) is nice, because I walk through the rain to get there and smoke cigarettes outside The Odeon after, and because its depiction is of genuine weirdos, not like Quirked Up, not like the girls my friend texts me about after the party, “have you met them? so spacey!” not like, becoming strange because of course there is some desire to conjure up some personality and if you’re pretty then it’s fine and even appealing to be off-putting. The play is like grocery store clerk alcoholic, gun in the purse grocery store clerk alcoholic, therapy speak coping mechanisms like count up then down then up and it’s employed in the play as the coping mechanism not as an ironic tactic. Drinking beers on a birthday in the back alley and the play is disaffected from glamor in a way that I’m realizing not many things are. Like even most depictions of poverty in a lot of media, at least media coming out of New York at least certainly media surrounding youth culture and a narrative surrounding a party, goes like; we have nothing but we’re slippery adjacent to everything as a result of our charm and good looks and happenstance. The play is like, leftover charcuterie from her husband’s weird mega church and splurging at the liquor store and old cocaine shoved into a bowling ball but there’s an innocence and almost childlike wonderment to the way they tackle the expired drug situation, and the play is not about drugs. There’s a genuine kind of earnest stiltedness to the conversation that lends itself to sincerity. Thursday, May 22 May is quivering right before me; I'm not letting it lapse like April did but there are still smokescreens, silkscreens, my fingers are sleeping right through it. The Club, last night. The Play then The Club. It was smokey and sweet. My lungs felt coated in something sour by the end. The smoking patio was wet with dew and I was kind of floating, not in a bad way. Not hungover, it's something way more visceral but still hazy. I could feel it all start to slip, and so I held onto myself quite tightly. My boyfriend's screen time is 102 hours a day across devices. My face is encased in sheaths of plastic that keep you young, but they're not the temu kind that's weird and freaky. The light I use is Science Backed. I'm thinking of getting into vintage workout wear. I'm thinking of getting into Vlogging. I'm thinking of getting into filling out paid surveys online for luxury perfume sellers that require you to swear your spending habits are High and you like perfume from MiuMiu and you Hate Balenciaga and what perfume means to me is; I think sometimes scents can bring up... nostalgia? I say. Do you own a Prada dress? they ask. We leave the party early - I'm sick and he buys me chicken caesar salad pizza. Aren't you glad we left early so we could dance a little at home, he says. In the living room, the windows are all a little frosted from the rain. There are lights in the neighbors windows across the courtyard but it's thursday night, the rain has stopped. You couldn't have expected everyone to just stay home, really. I notice the people in the windows if he is spinning me across the room. Exhibitionism. I catch myself in the peripheries. The windows. The back of my mind. And I never shut the blinds but that is just no Executive Function or Detail Orientation. I am not some sort of voyeur. Friday, May 23 10:45am, and they are playing some kind of staticy electric classical mashup of music from the Fedex truck outside. "Even as a grad student, I felt they were looking down on chaos," one young man at the Yemeni coffee shop is telling another. Buying: coffee and chicken quiche but none of that is for me. Buying: peanut butter perfect bar and celsius and my boyfriend's screen time is up to 316 hours since midnight since he's doing things indiscernible to me but which he clarifies are Not Fraudulent. I am trying not to write so much in the google doc diaries. It is like I have learned these diaries as a trick, and now I am addicted to it. Now, I can’t do anything else. I must release all thoughts, but to release one thought I must go through, again and again, everything else. And so I go through it all, again and again and again. The thought, and then everything else. We were going to talk more about Spirituality today, but the tripwire keeps happening - stuck on: Vanity and Careerism. I make subheadings to keep myself in check. VANITY. CAREERISM. CAREERISM: Here is where I am: I have the substack for now which is nice this is something that I suppose in some ways is a defining thing I have done but it does not feel like so much it does not feel like it culminates to anything just proof of existence, yes, but everyone has some sort of proof of existence and it is nice to write the story behind something. The story itself cannot just be the story of writing about yourself. And for a minute I was very very very sad and so that plotline became dependable, but that is no sort of thing to rely on. And this is why it cannot all just be the writing of the self. It hasn’t been. [redacted] felt like something different, investigation, beginning middle end, it was not just here I am, it was like a puzzle it was like being very precise with it and it was the biggest thing I have done so far and I sat with it for such a long time. And perhaps I am being dramatic because there are other projects I could start in the meantime but I can’t sit down and make myself think oh what would be an interesting and pithy thing to talk about for somewhere glossy, I cannot do it. I think about doing it and my stomach rises into my throat with how little I care. And so it has to be a story that bursts out of me. There was one, and I can tell there is almost something else too but it’s like David said yes, it’s difficult while you are in the waiting room. Since beginning writing this, my fever got higher, and we are hanging the Bacchus masks around the apartment plus yellow golden softlight and, now I feel more peaceful about it. I wasn’t having so much humility. Nevermind. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 27 From 6pm (show at 7pm) at Baby’s All Right — Baby’s Presents a benefit concert for the Immigrant Defense Project with Palehound, The Ophelias, and Grumpy. Dj set by WeTakeManhattan. - “All proceeds from the show will go towards supporting the IDP’s 20+ year mission of fighting for the rights of immigrants targeted for imprisonment and mass deportation via advocacy, litigation, legal advice and training, community defense, grassroots alliances, and strategic communications.” | GA (18+) $38.86, Ticket and Bonus Donation $49.69

September 17, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Saturday, September 13 8:01am Driving over the Williamsburg Bridge where the skyline of New York City (the place where the Energies have been swirling back to life but all kinds of evil ones) is now tinged kind of light blue. The gallery last night was orange and swirling with smoke which made me gag. I couldn't really hear the readings. Something about grilled chicken. Do you think we got second hand high, my friend asked me. Do you think anything artistically interesting happens anymore? We found other friends, then, which is a good thing about New York City; insofar as it always feels quite small. We meandered further downtown for a while which was nice despite everywhere feeling a bit like a crime scene and sleep deprivation due to current events in my personal life and also on a more global and national scale. 8:27am There's a cemetery that is green green green in Middle Village and the graves are all topped with angels. There are bumper stickers that say TEACH SOMEONE HOW TO PRAY THE ROSARY on a gray car and MAKE NAZI’S AFRAID AGAIN on a blue car. 8:39am Listening to La Bás by Huysmans on tape in the car. "He could not stay in one place long and kept on inventing reasons to leave the house," the recording says. 11:29am It is sunny in Delaware and the billboards in New Jersey are amazing. Staring at my kind of puffy reflection in a streaked mirror at a rest stop feeling kind of weightless to be outside Manhattan which is kind of how it always goes these days. I do the things I need to do, but I’m not sure if that makes them right. I try to be precise and honest. I have not been acting very Selfless, but there are other things to consider besides Nobility and Sacrifice. Purchase: uncrustables and celsius. Interrogate the mundane because there is only so much one can glean from The Bigger Picture. A dress from Zara is kind of Washington-DC-Chic. This, or a side-zip sale-rack dress from DVF. I pumped my veins full of microplastics and bought an ill-fitting wardrobe. I drank iodine until my thyroid exploded. I got a tick-born illness and now steak tartar triggers anaphylactic shock. It is good that nothing bad has ever happened. 1:00pm Washington DC is Butterworth’s bone marrow for lunch and then the bookstore nearby to purchase a new copy of Paradise Lost and then The National Gallery where I like the Italian Renaissance section best because all the images are very well preserved and reverent. The most special works to me are Frau Angelico’s Adoration of the Magi and David with the Head of Goliath ceremonial shield because it’s satisying to imagine someone going into battle with something so bejewled and decedant despite the cermemonial nature of the shield that renders this idea irrelevant and a painting that I note as just Big Baby which is wonderful because the angel wings depicted are transparent like the light is just starting to rise. There is Cupid With The Wheel of Time and Bachuus floor tiles. Bachuus being; God of wine revelry and fertility. I grew up in a home peppered with masks of Bacchus and, in my old apartment we adorned the walls in masks of Bachuus, too. I tell my friends how I bought one ceramic Bachuus mask in April and then other masks kept on arriving in the mail after that. It was a colorful kind of Venetian mask to start, and then the ones that came after were darker and smaller. Like something out of a horror movie, my friends say. And this is kind of true yes, except like all reverent images or omens one can seek either good or evil or one can also choose to accept that; the most simple explanation is always the true one. And things used to be so much more interesting because everyone was much more reverent, I am thinking. Except then we walk over to the French area where the art is less reverent but more like a fairy tale. Hubert Robert’s The Ponte Salario and Francois Boucher’s Allegory of Painting and Fragonard’s Blindman’s Bluff, which makes me feel full of light Jean Honoré Fragonard’s Blindman's Buff (1775-85) - Photo via The National Gallery WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, September 17 From 7pm at EARTH — I Feel Like Seth Price in 2012 commences with BEFORE AND AFTER WRITING book launch and reading and record launch.

February 25, 2026 · Original source

Tuesday Life-in-a-lab In my dream, the house was a lab. I woke up to light not just streaming no, but flooding, absolutely pouring through the long glass windows in front of me. I knew that once the light cleared, I would be staring into the heart of this lab. I knew it was a problem that I was anticipating waking up in a lab, because I knew that I should have been anticipating a morning waking up at home. Instead, I was finding myself totally nonplused about waking up in a lab. The important thing, I knew, as I woke up with a sense of increasing urgency, was to conjure up an image of a home, not a lab. You have been in a lab for so long that you have forgotten about home, a very confident voice inside my head was saying. A picture of my childhood bedroom appeared in a few frames. Different versions. Big white bed and blue wooden floors and presently frosty fields behind the house. Little twin bed yellow walls, carpeted floors, and hot summer cornfields outside. I couldn’t get it straight. If I was in a lab, then I needed to remember. You need to remember a place that actually exists, the lab-attendants were saying in my dream. Saying in my head. Glass apartment in the sky. Room at The Marlton Hotel. I’ve been eating vegetables and collecting things like dried flowers and books on Esoteric Health and buying wash-and-fold laundry service and being swept away to places like nice restaurants with no menus and nice-apartments-with-no-owners. I woke up in Connecticut. Can’t wake up in a lab if you never go to sleep. In the morning, I woke up at close to noon. I shared photos on The Internet of a very aesthetically-cohesive and un-lab-like home. I went to the bathroom to wash my face and collect myself as best I could. The house was beautiful, and I was unsure as to why I was watching things unfold from as if I was somewhere else. I made lists of things that were special, being places like this most of all. I made lists of things that compose self respect, and then I made lists of things that compose a life that is bright and white and full of light. The country is quiet and sometimes difficult for me, though I sleep through the night now and this changes everything. Downstairs, the dogs and Celia and the other were sitting under high lofted ceilings. There was a magical and silvery presence that mediation gives to a person. I asked about coffee and they told me there was coffee in the pot and I could heat it up in a silver bowl on the stove. The stove was green and handmade and you turned it on by flicking little metal burner switches. The bowl was nice and very small. I poured the coffee in the bowl and I waited for everything to begin to boil. I added vital proteins collagen and also oat milk creamer and also lots of white sugar because the esoteric health advice of the age says this is fine. There were homemade mini muffins from The Smith Bakery down the street on the counter (blueberry, morning harvest, strawberry corn, and chocolate chip) and so I cut each muffin in half, and then I had one-half-of-each. Two mini muffins total. I put two of the halves in the toaster, and I had two of the halves cold. Everyone started telling me about gnosticism and buddhism and catholicism. They recommended to me a friend who writes about God and married into a famous band. They recommended I come to meditate in places like New York, too. You look ready, Celia said, as I packed up my north face back-pack and changed out of split-sweatpants and banaa-republic-black-top. I’m not, I snapped, in response. Do you actually want to meditate more, Celia asked. I don’t say I want to do things I don’t actually want to do, I replied. I could not stop with all this harshness. Wednesday Grand Central Station Back in New York City and I am totally covered in dog hair. Shoes untied in Grand Central Station but there is nowhere for me to stop and tie them without risking some sort of stampede or at least massive inconvenience and so onward we go. A man just walked towards me rapidly and I flinched and then felt kind of bad. Then, he shouted; young lady can I ask you a question and so now I do not feel bad. My instincts were correct, and now I do not feel bad at all. Ok, fine, whatever. I used to love arriving back in New York and hearing all the music and the lights and I would twirl through this place nonpulsed. Then, I would twirl home. I used to get drunk-before-christmas at the midtown Cipriani and then giggle when people called my ex-boyfriend and I bad-people-for-cutting on the trains toward Albany, but I’m not allowed to move like that anymore. I used to sink into sixty-dollar taxi-cabs because I found the subway over-stimulating. My Prada purse used to be lined with shiny leather, but I got fidgety somewhere tropical and I ripped it all off so now we’re working with something more flattened and matte. Teenage girls used to fling themselves at the side of the train platforms, and conductors used to lose their whole crew in Boston and train heists used to happen. I used to consider everything to be pretty taken-care-of. I think I never used to notice when sometimes, problems would arise. On the train ride back to New York, tonight, the tracks were icy and slick and it was already kind of blue hour dusk. When I said goodbye, I told Celia I love you I love you I love you a million times over because I felt slightly neurotic about a weekend full of being slightly late and slightly harsh. I am smart enough to know that the only thing complaining makes you better at is complaining, so I decided to stop. In Grand Central Station, they are playing live music, and I watch a man propose, though no one else around the soon-to-be newlyweds reacted. No photos or energy. Sad. I am wearing beat up Ganni knee high boots and Brandy Melville long sleeved dress, and Zara blazer that I stole from Paul’s Baby Grande back when I was in the practice of going lots of places and stealing lots of things. I miss my Max Mara coat that I left at “tech week” and I miss “drinking” and I am suddenly desperate to be out the door. I imagine that when the subway doors fly open and I burst out free and all-in-one piece, I will see the Washington Square Park arch, and it will be glowing silver in mid-winter light. I imagine that the city will feel warm with soon-to-be-spring-humidity. I imagine that since groundhog day has come and gone the tides will change soon, and I imagine I will relinquish my Groundhog Day (1993) fantasies of nothing-ever-happens at some point down the line, when it all becomes a bit too much to take. Tomorrow, I will be taking my shoes to the tailor and then the next day, I will have a totally fresh new crop of things to wear. I imagine that soon, I will have a fresh new crop of things to consider. Thursday Whore Dialectics Greenwich Village’s bitcoin bar sports a libertarian clientele and taxidermy and a podcast studio and beef-tallow-fries. Tonight, it sports a projector screen from my old apartment that looks sad and small propped on stage, and a big audience in metal chairs, and a birthday party in the front room, and plenty of opportunities to make myself feel useful as I tinker with film equipment and fire off texts regarding “promotional material.” I am sitting at Pubkey Bar drinking a diet coke while I wait for the screening of “Whore Dialects” to begin. When I ordered my diet coke at the bar, a strange man made a strange joke about NA beer, and I felt immediately irritated and restrained by my self imposed limits. I am listening to a group of young men discuss the career path of “Internet Pervert” as one of the only viable post-AI jobs. Monetize your self destruction, they are saying. Male prostitution. Buying plushies is to women as buying porn is to men. There’s a strange pseudo-intellectual glare to it all and I am enjoying listening in. They are talking about Brian Kaplan, but they keep on mispronouncing his name. They are talking about scientists, rationalists, and flexible proposals. When they talk about Internet Perverts, there are stars in their eyes, less because of the sex, it seems, and more because the internet perverts are able to get some money and get some attention. The male influencer. That seems to be what they are starry eyed about. They are thrilled to be in the same extended universe as someone who might be able to garner some vague attention. This is a bar that usually makes me feel kind of hazy. This is a bar where I used to make scenes. Enough reminiscing, because I am here to watch a film that is all about auto-documentarians, which is in sharp contrast to the maladjusted forms of auto-diary or auto-fiction. In the film, a beautiful girl is in the back of a car with the wind in her face and she is drinking an Erewhon smoothie and talking about how Hollywood is dead and the monasteries are empty and you can’t be a nun or get a phd because you question what truth is, and these institutions just won’t let you get at it. After that, the film cuts to a scene where the girl is in a white dress being play-drowned in the ocean by a right-wing provocateur. The film crew sent the provocateur to stay with the girl, and it was kind of the perfect setup, a voiceover explains. The provocateur describes how when he arrived, the girl was in a state of almost total abjection. Like how kids who are sexually assaulted don’t shower to make themselves totally disgusting and unappealing, he explains. I find the provocateur slightly less interesting as a character than both the girl, and the disgraced art-advisor (another prominent character in the film) but I like when he argues about politics and then reconciles on a personal level with those around him in places like California. I like the scenes about the professionally fraught yet personally friendly relationship between the art advisor and his not terribly successful clients, ie the clients are disappointed but still use the advisor’s pool for summer swims. The client still dreams of having an eighteen person studio because this means tremendous success, and because this is just how men dream. When the provocateur is described but not depicted as losing control, it is explained that the jig is kind of up, because it’s no triumph of power to reign over somebody who is not even in control of themselves. I only watch the film once and I am not taking notes, really, during the public screening at the Bitcoin Bar, but I like it because it is auto-documentary not auto-fiction or auto-diary and as such, it is very precise. The film says, for someone like me in the conditions like the ones I occupy, here is what life is like. This is more matter of fact and less indulgent than saying; here is what life is like for me. At a party last month that was also all about art whores, the filmmakers wrote a few lines about a few of my friends. The women present were on average quite a bit younger than the men and looked fresh. Perhaps because of their age, or perhaps because of the care they put into their bodies and minds, but the vibe among the women was optimistic and exuberant. I thought this was nice. Nice, too, to catch purity in unexpected places while staying totally true. Friday Upper West Side Later, I am uptown and I am thinking about how I can become more self-disciplined so I can become more interesting. I am watching Pierre Le Fou at Lillian’s apartment on the Upper West Side and all the girls are dressed like characters in the film. Lilian keeps leaning out the window with a long skinny cigarette and I am drinking a glass of Sancerre because I just can’t quit. In this film, a very small man is holding a gun to a very beautiful girl’s head while she cuts her hair. The beautiful girl has a brunette bob, and she is wearing a red dress. The film is full of primary colors and very bright paint. When a man is stabbed, he bleeds red paint. Before a man explodes himself in dynamite at the end of the film, he paints himself blue. I like the film because the colors of the gore are all bright and fake like paint, and the colors of the scenery are all pastel and muted and lovely like real life. Summer in The Riviera. Beautiful people living a simple and crime-filled life. I have not watched very many films this year because I’ve been busy writing thirty-thousand-words-about-myself-per-week. In the last film I watched, a Japanese cat was exploded by a grenade, and when gore and guts spilled everywhere, I flinched and clenched my eyes shut. Do you want to leave, my friend asked, and what I wanted was to be resilient, but what I said was I don’t really care. Now, a girl in the film is sitting on a boat with a man, and she is talking about how the two have only known each other for a few million seconds. She’s such a stupid girl, Lillian says. I would say something like that, I respond. One-million-billion-seconds and one-million-billion-words. I am feeling bubbly when I am not feeling sick or shy. I am feeling like it’s time to be more light about it. When I look to my left, I see beautiful stained glass lamps and a defense surveillance tech-branded throw blanket. When I look to my right, I see an open window and all my friends leaning too far outside smoking skinny vogues. On the Internet, people are talking about how things are only interesting if they are true. Determinative reasoning then says, one should make what is true more interesting. Everything just became crystal clear. By which I mean, everything is operating on material terms now. DIRECTORY The full event calendar is now going to live on The Aleph - an exciting new platform by Noah Kumin of The Mars Review of Books. The Aleph is a marketplace and membership club for the arts, with an emphasis on supporting in-person events, production, and funding for artists. Programming featured will be intentional and curated, and include more opportunities for early-access and invitation-only events. If you would like to submit an event for consideration, please email me at chloegpingeon@gmail.com. Apply to join The Aleph here I will still be featuring select events on the blog, along with more eclectic or personal recommendations, news, and guest features. To start: David Rimanelli is perhaps my favorite person to follow on Instagram, as well as one of my favorite critics. Tonight, from 6:30pm at Tibet House, he will be reading, along with Kiely Sweatt and Sean Fabi. Tickets here.

Adderall2 mentions across 2 issues

Adderall is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between February 03, 2025 and November 12, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "I take Advil, very rarely Adderall these days but still sometimes"; "they first put you on Adderall". It most often appears alongside Anika Jade Levy, Brooklyn, Chinatown.

Article page: Adderall
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: February 03, 2025
Last seen: November 12, 2025

Issue trail

Dream Logic February 03, 2025
Things that Happened Once I Gave Up Vice November 12, 2025

Anika Jade Levy 2 shared issues
Brooklyn 2 shared issues
Chinatown 2 shared issues
El Salvador 2 shared issues
Matt Weinberger 2 shared issues

Source context

Things that Happened Once I Gave Up Vice

February 03, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, January 26 Lying under red light at Ruby's apartment. The light here is all good - hanging infrared wires, silver orbs, all the lights seem incandescent. It's warmer today - walking through Little Italy there's a man on the fire escape looking down on the street with his dog, a big golden retriever, I like looking into other peoples lives like this. Earlier, lying on the couch in my own apartment, looking in our neighbors windows and at first it's absentminded but then I start to be intrigued. David says stop staring, they can see you staring, but I don't think they can. They can see me, sure, but the distinction between simply looking out the window or looking at them; impossible. You can't perceive eye movements from even a slight distance and anyways, if they see me looking at them, they admit they were looking at me, the gaze goes two ways, and so on... The last conference in El Salvador was all about Light, they told me on the phone on Friday. This year, it will be all about Earth. Ruby orders magnesium, orange juice, she swooshes coconut oil. These are good remedies. I take Advil, very rarely Adderall these days but still sometimes. I should be taking aspirin instead - this is what everyone says online, and what some people say in real life, too. I'm reading St Augustine's Confessions - mostly reading it for school, although I've been invited to discuss it on a Podcast as well. My track record with Podcasts is bleak, scary, and abysmal. My track record with Catholicism is - I never really went through that phase. I struggle to separate vanity from philosophy and prayer. I'm drawn to this part of Confessions most, things like "there is no pleasure in eating or drinking unless it is preceded by the discomfort of hunger and thirst.” Things like "Drunkards eat salty things to make their throats dry and painful, so that they may enjoy the pleasure of quenching their thirst.” Drawn to these, of course, because they elicit reflection on my own actions in the most vain and superficial sense of it all. Simone Weil Food Diary. Aliens and Anorexia. Like Grimes has been tweeting things like she found God to quit vaping. Hypnotize me instead, perhaps - it seems vulgar to attempt contemplation, and to end up here. Ruby and I walk to Flower Power in the East Village for; Wild Oat bromus ramosus (green). It does things like; “work as an expression of inner calling, manifestation of one’s true goals and values, work experiences motivated by a clear life purpose and conviction.” We go to Bar Oliver for vermouth tonic. Ruby makes me steak. David calls. Ruby and I watch Mulholland Drive - the first time for me. Only eleven pm and I usually sleep late, much later, but this red light casts a different glow. I'm closer to the ground in my friend’s apartment, no planes overhead and melting ice. I get homesick easily. In hours, really. But then, you can always go back. Monday, January 27 Perhaps you theme your days. On Health, you say. L-theanine with my coffee. Not really, but I’ll plan for this down the line. Bar Oliver is all lit up in piercing morning sun. I walk outside early this morning. Chinatown fruit market coming alive so quickly. There was a cemetery outside the window where I slept last night. I kept on looking out and seeing icy branches overhead that framed the building like a second roof, the cemetery like a courtyard. It scared me once, I screamed once in my sleep, but I woke up other times too, and it wasn't too bad then. Mostly, the sky outside just looked all pale blue and clear, the same pale blue all night in my memory, although this doesn't make sense in a logical way, what with the night passing and the becoming dark and the me being asleep for it all. Dream Logic. A recollection of slippery silvery vines forming an outline of a roof over a gravestone. You wake up, and there is no roof, the trees were never shaped like that at all. Tahini chocolate cookie because Ruby told me sugar is actually ok. Whole milk cappuccino and I'm adding honey instead of Splenda. Enough is enough. I'm not going to crash out, but days are different now that my hours don't float on and on in pacing and typing that becomes like a trance. I felt like I was floating yesterday. Not today. That's probably ok. Tuesday, January 28 Tea with Madelyn Grace and then hot apple cider and Jameson whiskey at Cafe Reggio last night. David and his friends came by and acted abrasive. I was annoyed, but then I wasn’t. I walked the Williamsburg Bridge this morning - all the way from The West Village to Brooklyn. Delancey street was crazy at that hour, but everything after that was nice. I’d never done this before - walk the bridge, I mean - and it went on for so much longer than I expected. At first it was all windy and it made me scared, how once you got on the bridge you really couldn’t get off, how in the center the only exit was to finish the walk or perhaps to blow over, and I was the only one there, people were biking by so fast but no one else was walking, so then I started to run, and so then it got all warm, the water in the Hudson looked nice and wild and churning and distant from up here. The thing is, this winter was mostly a practice in what I’m recalling like a meditation now, with even the slight perspective - now that it’s late January, that is. Everything was present, so hyper present, and all I did was walk and think and walk and walk and walk and write down what I was thinking about and sometimes I yelled a lot, and I know it’s still the depth of winter, but this time starts to feel like it is passing. I freaked out last week, I thought about what if I couldn’t keep my days like that, but my days still hold all of this, only now, they hold more too. At the gym, I write about how it is ok to just do things like - go for a walk, go to work, lie by the window with David, go to the gym, write a story, and these days can be good and even better than the other ones, the ones that snap you into fierce exteriority. After the gym, Cassidy texts me. “Are you at KGB?,” and I’m not, but I think, well, I would go. Augustine says - “Give me chastity and continence, but not yet.” Etc etc etc. I feel better when almost all my time is spent with people, and I think my mind is better like this, too. At KGB, I am dressed all in Pilates and Going-For-A-Jog type clothing. At KGB, Matthew is telling a girl about how Blade Runner the movie is based on a very antisemitic book. I've heard him tell this story before, and the gist varies each time, but there are a few lines that consistently resurface. I zone out after I hear the first line that I am sure I have heard before. When I zone back in, he's talking about religion more generally. "Really?," the girl he's with is saying. "Yes, YES," Matthew is saying “I looked up the history of the Blade Runner movie, and it said it was made around World War II," the girl is saying. “No, not at all," Matthew says “Oh,” the girl says “How did you like the rape scene?" Matthew asks “What rape scene?" the girl says “Oh that's good," Matthew says. There is new art on the wall of KGB. A rendition of Vermeer’s Girl With Pearl Earring, except in this case, the girl is a dog. “Do you like the new art?,” David asks. “Yes,” I say. “I don’t,” David says. I am picking at the wax on the candle, because everyone is talking and because I don’t have much to say. “Stop playing with fire,” the bartender tells me. “Act like you are at your mothers house.” Except - I mishear her. I think she says you aren’t at your mothers house, because she is right, I am not, but if I was; I would play with the flames as much as I liked. Wednesday, January 29 I would like to put away this phone, I think. Warmer, today. They’ve left the windows open at the coffee shop. I told you it was starting to feel like spring. I told you it would be all spring-like in the depth of winter, soon. Sunlight filtering, filtering, filtering, through the roof at home. The roof and the windows. It’s all one and the same. It’s a new moon tonight. Lunar New Year tonight. You put your head under the covers and filter out the sun. You like it because it is warm but also - the blue light of your phone can absorb your entire vision at any hour, here, in this makeshift tent. I am not of the Escape The Internet train of thought. It’s designed to addict you but then, well, having some fucking discipline. On my phone, I see people saying things like - “there is no ‘on your phone’, just another layer of constant consciousness”. And in real life I think things like - you should separate it if you can, you should know real life if you can but, to leave it all behind - impossible, because it will always be right there, and you could still do things like walk down the street and understand the street as purely physical but then, look around you, look at the other people, look at the surroundings they are absorbing and none of them are real, none of them are there, and so you can’t just stand on this street and get it, understand it, all offline. I don’t really want to get it anymore. My mornings could be real, they could be with just a little discipline and a touch of joie de vivre. They aren’t real, really, because I’m making makeshift Blue Light tents to filter out the sunlight, but then, I’m working on this. Blue, blue, blue sky today. Doomers previews, tonight. Biohacker meetup tonight. Bryan Johnson in Interview Magazine tonight. I like to do things like drink six teas with six Splenda each, and then I like to act very harsh with myself and others regarding the principles of a life well lived. Year of the snake. What do you think about that...? All this talk about discipline, and my afternoon is all drop off a few Depop packages and refresh, refresh, refresh the stats on a piece that I didn’t even write. There’s a hazy little run in the afternoon. There’s some bad news, or, news that is more irritating, really. Ruby spreads the word: "do not take my advice about eating lots of honey," she says. Ok. Ok, it's all protein now, then. David takes me to a strange party tonight. An interloper arrives, and he is chased out at sword point. It is insane how quickly the tides turn. You said the things that you didn’t mean, again. It wasn't supposed to happen like this, but then, it never is. You wrote today, earlier, about how - things were good, better, but you didn't want to get too cocky because remember what you were capable of really not too long ago, it was only a few weeks back, but it felt so distant. And then, tonight, again... Thursday, January 30 And then it's ok. Well, it's not, but it can be. You’ve been taking for granted that it will be ok, if it has to be ok. That if you care about something so, so, so deeply then it cannot possibly be destroyed, but it could, you are capable of this. It feels foreign sometimes, this force, this capacity for destruction, like it can’t belong to you, but it does, it’s no one else’s. It becomes simple, then. You can’t just say I crossed my fingers, you can’t just say I take it back. And so, no more. I'm working the door at Tense tonight, which is my favorite - both TENSE, and working doors, that is. It’s a beautiful night, and this, after everything, is a relief. Christian Lorentzen reads emails with Gary Indiana. “I now believe you can tell if the writer is part of a writing program, by looking at their teeth,” Gary told Christian. "Why does everybody love Downton Abbey?" Gary asked Christian, in another email. "Well, what's not to love? The series construction is so glibly subscribed that you know what will happen before the writers do." In another, he lamented the logistical problems surrounding his writings on Cuba - the travel ban, his lover there, etc etc etc. It's a good format for a reading - the emails thing. Correspondences brought to life. Not quite a diary, but close, more intimate, often, because one isn't writing into the void of one's own neurosis in a correspondence. Madelyn writes me an email, after. I am working on my own correspondence back, still. Mania delays the process. It's good to have a long form conversation to return to. I hope this email finds you well. This email finds me almost incapacitated, but I won't be, soon. Beckett's reading is full of empathy and wit as always. He's lamenting the narcissism of our times in his introductory speech, and his own gut impulses and the stories that follow give him the proper wherewithal to do so. I see Sean Lynch and others outside. Sean writes something nice on the evening. I see Doomers the next day - the dream logic of my thoughts following this production requiring another letter altogether WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, February 4 From 7pm at Heaven Can't Wait — Cynosure presents the first of a two night fundraiser for Los Angeles, featuring Alex Arthur, Precious Human, Truman Flyer, and more.

November 12, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, November 3 And so everything kind of begins to hover as November sweeps in. The in between weeks. One can leave the city and then one can return. I call Amelia and ask if she’d like to go on another vacation for the aim of seeking things that are transgressive and weird, but the heat and the restlessness and the Miami sun of late-may is long gone, we never did visit the falconry like we planned, everyone would probably prefer to just stay put. Boil bone broth, go to a film, seek employment, write at the gym, braid and unbraid my hair three to four times before I decide to give it a rest. Do you really hate staying put that much?, Amelia asks. I go to the West Village Bitcoin Bar past ten pm in response. Still feverish from the last few days, but the wind outside is nice and the walk along Washington Square Park is quiet, tracing the streets along the park’s West edges past the brownstones and the Washington Square Hotel and the Marlton Hotel and then Pubkey Bar. It is not so much a thing of hating to stay put, but more of feng shui, four small walls, wind and water through my open window and I think most people dislike solitude of a certain kind, which can easily be mistaken for stillness. Pubkey Bar is always lit up kind of like an arcade. They sold some sign about crypto for one million dollars here, once. They sold the president’s autograph. They made me pickletinis and diet coke and seed-oil-free nachos and I used to be kind of manic here, drunk and yelling in the wind and on the street. It is such a desperately quiet night tonight. My friends are seated in the back rooms talking softly about the most valuable parts of a whole whale, their most favorite things about the people close to them, the best sound to elicit tears, the best cherry liqueur, the best ideas for how a person should be. It all comes at me kind of underwater, anyways. It’s all felt kind of shadowy as this year writes over the year before. Tuesday, November 4 And so all the energy came swirling back in an instant. They are playing sweet music like some of the My Fair Lady and the Mad Men soundtrack and J’ai 18 Ans and Zou Bisou Bisou at the hotel lobby with the roaring fireplace and the Cecily Brown mural and the young couples wearing cream slacks and red sweaters and holding newspapers and crinkled baskets of pastries. I have loved winter in New York the most of anything these past few years, and I’d been worried this one would not hold quite the same magic. Walk through the park while it is still early. Wear mostly skirts and tights and thin strapped tops and ballet flats, all black. Order ginger turmeric tea and almond milk cappuccino and write stories by the fire. Disavow hedonism. Disavow becoming the sort of person who does the certain types of things. There’s an order to these things. I tell Amelia; it is good to be mostly quiet. It is good to go to mostly the same places a million times over if the places one chooses are good. Wednesday, November 5 Did you notice everyone became very pleased that you were becoming exactly who you were meant to be when they first put you on Adderall?“ Ellie asked me at the party last night. The night was very warm and the party was very quiet and I was pleased with myself for my relative self possession that evening, which was the goal of the fall and the winter and the days that stretched out kind of breathless. Secret-keepers and Promise-Keepers and finding equilibrium between Self-Possession and Self-Awareness. These were the vaguely worded goals of the winter. No I didn’t really find that, I told Ellie. But I never got the chance to live out my potential on stimulants because I took it too far right away. Ellie nodded with sincere interest. My friends these days were very sincere. And the party was strange because the seating was in bleachers instead of tables and the music was jazz and my friends were very well dressed, decked in corsets and ballet flats and beaded belts and hair with ribbons and holding sparkling drinks with lime and aperol and smiling very broadly. I noticed that time had been passing all along sometime in early November. and so the following fervor came spurred by the sense that something might finally happen. The air got barely perceptively colder and ghosts washed up in dreams or in my courtyard or in signs and symbols like the strange numbers I’d been seeing on the sidewalk. It had been five months to the day since the start of summer and the lurching of my life in unexpected and nefarious though perhaps ultimately necessary ways, which I suppose just goes to show that some sort of momentum was required for time to do anything aside from idly tick on. I remembered that it is just one or two or three promises I make myself and others, though it becomes one million promises if you break one promise a million times. Thursday, November 6 I did nothing in the day yesterday besides watch the clouds make shadows out of various shades of light and dusk across my walls and then I pulled on a small black dress and black Ganni crumbling boots and walked through the quiet night towards Chinatown. The air was too stale and tight inside the sports bar where my friends were all smiles and drinking water and vodka and asking me about fun and faith and so then I walked further downtown to the new wine bar on Henry Street. Here, everyone was very drunk and cast in red light and our table was set in a hallway that resembled a kindergarten classroom and an eclectic group of acquaintances I knew from the Internet or Birthday Parties or Religious Magazines were sharing bottles of wine. To sleep very little means a dream state in the gray morning, which is nice because November Ninth marks the first real distance from the summer for me. The cycles repeated. The cycles grinded to a halt. I woke up to gray morning light through my still open window with a spiral bound notebook and an idea for transcription on the blank page: THINGS THAT HAPPENED ONCE I GAVE UP VICE. Friday, November 7 Listening to Chopin Nocturne op.9 no.2 while the sound of rain mixes with the sound of the turtle pond out the window and I swim in all the visions of where I’ve heard this song before. Like twirling around on brown wood floors during summer storms in the dining room at the house by the ocean while my parents cook fish stews in the kitchen and the floors turn yellow linoleum when you approach the stove and the pouring rain outside streams through the windows and all over the counters. The memory of twirling around and the smell of rain is always the most vivid of all. Like I’m always hurdling towards something or lying very still in all my recollections of things. Obsessed with motion. Arrested by motion! So the main thing now is momentum, I suppose. My Computer keeps on queuing up Chopin the The Nutcracker and Philip Glass Mishima based on past listening habits, but these two scores are both a bit too much to bear right now and so I’m hitting Skip Skip Skip. Not too much has happened since I gave up vice yesterday. Just; Rebecca told me that I look well rested, and the story about El Salvador and network states and techno-spirituality is off to print so I will soon be able to hold it in my hands and then relinquish any narrativization of past events and, it would be nice for energy drinks and nicotine to be coursing through my veins right now but there is something more beautiful and languid in self-induced timeout over microplastics and mind altering substances. Moonless night. Moon hidden behind the rainstorm. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, November 12 From 6:30pm at Night Club 101 — Free reading series Reading 101 launches, ft Swati Sudarsan, Adrienne Raphel, Jessica Lynne, Aurora Huiza, and James Barickman. Music by Solex Yoghurt.

Inline links: Night Club 101, Reading 101

Amazon2 mentions across 2 issues

Amazon is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between February 04, 2026 and February 15, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "amazon tights"; "black Amazon tights". It most often appears alongside Lily, Night Club 101, Olivia.

Article page: Amazon
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: February 04, 2026
Last seen: February 15, 2026
Instagram handle: @amazonlaborunion

Outbound links

Issue trail

Hotel-Life-For-Life February 04, 2026
Yellow-all-around February 15, 2026

Lily 2 shared issues
Night Club 101 2 shared issues
Olivia 2 shared issues
1LDK 1 shared issues
@henrymunsonsinstagram 1 shared issues

Source context

Hotel-Life-For-Life

February 04, 2026 · Original source

Monday, January 26

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!_jc_!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F58b04deb-c7dc-4883-aec5-9f7166ee53eb_1648x1124.png

Monday, January 26 On the first day of the clearest week of the year, I vow to be meticulous about it. As hell and even heaven and all of New York City freezes over in the cold, Olivia keeps on asking if I’m sick of it. Impossible to feel lonely when my opinion on the benchmarks of the weather is demanded at the start of every day. Are you still happy about this? Olivia keeps on asking. It got colder and colder and colder for one week or maybe more. Soon, I expect the cold will break. Soon, there will be something to talk about besides the arctic winds. Although I do find it thrilling and even telling, really, to see how everyone reacts to extremity. I am only being a little bit factious. It is icy and hazy and pale and like playing tetris with myself, finding footholds in the snow banks, this week. Creep past the frozen turtle pond, shut the open window, position my salt stained boots in the divots in ice piles that other passerby’s have left behind. Hidden little trails and maps and loopholes in treacherous places. Exciting places. Game theory in the blizzard. Do you still feel ‘manic’ and ‘energized’ by this, Olivia wants to know. Are you still wearing sheer tights and a-line skirts and enjoying how the wind chill makes everything feel empty? Are you still seeking redemption in the spaces left barren while everyone rushes through tundra streets? Are you still feeling pretentious or maybe just autistic standing stock still and underdressed in courtyards that have never really been yours? This week, I have decided to just say what I really mean. Listening to Dark But Just A Game by Lana del Rey while the sun comes up this morning. Not a new song, but new to me. They are talking about Video Games album anniversary on The Internet this morning. Thank you for my mental illness, girls are saying on the Internet. I tell Olivia that what I remember from this album is before I knew much on the Internet. I remember my mentally ill friend turning on Video Games in a wall to wall carpeted suburban room encased in sunlight and green branches that brushed against wide windows when I was something like thirteen or maybe younger. Turn that stuff off, I remember telling my friend. Turn off those sad and strange songs before we all start to get freaked out. Playing Dark But Just A Game over and over and over again, this morning. Breathing kind of shallow breaths and making calls of confession or maybe complaints. I vowed to be more private about it and then I vowed to make my blog more true. If I cannot speak about something clearly, then I think I will not speak about it at all. In the morning, there is salt stained mirror and la Roche Posay cleanser and peptide moisturizer and mineral sunscreen and amazon tights and a call from Maria saying hotel lobby for lunch, maybe. Rituals like magic. Compulsive documentation. Live-blogging for my live-diary which is mostly just an event calendar plus some but not-so-many lurid life details because I have never been so good at keeping it all so private. The truth of it is, one can return to oneself quite quickly, but this should only have to happen once or maybe twice. In the hotel lobby, a beautiful girl walks in. She is a model, clearly. You are twenty-nine, a horrible man is saying to her, across the table. Good genes, he is saying. He is saying things about a girl like you and you can leave if you want. He is complimenting her grotesquely and it is very understandable why she would feel extremely annoyed. She is very articulate and pretty, though, and seems to know this game. Girls like you have hobbies, the man is saying. Do you have hobbies like art collecting or acoustic music or perhaps even ice skating? The girl is good at modulating her voice, and so my eavesdropping is abruptly cut off. Order: almond milk cappuccino, almond milk matcha, ginger tea, diet coke at Hotel Lobby. Too many beverages . Too many things I want. Discipline is pleasure. Restraint enhances desire. Reading something true on Health Gossip about the things a person must do before they lick the candy wrapper of success and then im thinking o.k perhaps time to cut myself off of this sort of thing for a little bit. Maria wears a red sweater and black pants and orders only two drinks: (1) black coffee and (2) greens juice. I ask Maria to read my diaries and she obliges and then, even highlights the parts she likes best. Too much to say? I ask Maria. No, she says. No and I think your instincts would stop you before you really said anything too uncouth. Too panopticoned? I ask. It’s fine to talk about faux-purity, Maria says. Nightfall in the hotel lobby, where the lights are yellow and glowing and dark and my computer screen is starting to look fluorescent and bright and bad, in contrast to the low-light and well-curated vibe they have fired up in here. A friend group I was eavesdropping on in rather nefarious and uncouth ways have gone silent, now. The man across the couch from me is talking about working on a film pilot in Malaysia and a need-for-speed and also thirty-million-dollars. He could never do what you are doing, two of the girls in the friend group were telling the third, earlier, as she sobbed. Do what you’re doing, being: sobbing in hotel lobby. Radical vulnerability in hotel lobby. I am feeling nefarious and busy body and a little bit mean. We’re your friends so we sure are going to be kind to you, the two girls had been telling the third. Just because our mothers were born in the wrong generation, does not mean they can’t listen-and-learn. Ordered tonic water and avocado and adopted vaguely negative vibe towards; people who did not know they were being panopticoned. Girls whose conversation I could have just let flow around me like water. There’s stagnation in judging harshly, particularly in judging people with whom I am totally uninvolved. No one in the world knows where I am right now, but anyone who wanted to could probably guess. And it’s not that I think it’s particularly good or even beneficial to be cultivating mystique, but once secrets are in the air they swirl around forever, and so one might want to hold some things a bit closer to one’s chest. Pitch black outside, which makes it even more warm or silver in here, depending on where I look. Lily texts me - I would like to spend a day like you did. We can recreate my whole day, I respond. We can recreate the good days. We can eradicate all slush. I can tell you all about what actually happened. Soon, I will walk home in the freezing and sparkling night in my black and soleless ballet flats. I will slip on ice and look at the moon and Washington Square Park archway and the dark and getting even darker sky. I’ve been feeling kind of desperate to chronicle the things that are mine, if I’m being honest about it. Hold onto the things I never lost. This is different from grasping onto things that never were or no longer are, yours. Parties last week, but I don’t really remember. Party last weekend, but full of people I didn’t want to see. Party tonight, and I wear athleisure to the bar and make a friend who shares my name and also my sensibilities. We’re here because of your blog, someone tells me, at the bar. We’re here because we just made a film in Nigeria and now we’re moving to Rome to work for Vatican II. We’re here because of an article that everyone hates. Birthday party. Renaissance themed karaoke. Did you just meet and become best friends, someone asks me and my new friend. We all go outside to smoke a cigarette. Duh, I respond. This is always how it goes with new and fast friends. In my room, tonight, and I’ve been feeling good and normal. The cleaner my room gets, the more I remember. At the bar tonight, I met someone who lives in a hotel-for-life. Is everything perfect-all-the-time? I asked the hotel-inhabitant. Is everything clean and contained and curated and beautiful and taken care of? Do you order room service for dinner? If you develop a problem, is it immediately fixed? In my room, there is a computer and also a wooden music box that plays Silent Night when opened. Inside the box, there are blue little blue pearls and letters and a ballerina that spins. Above my bed, there are lace white curtains newly pinned over courtyard-facing open windows. The curtains are there to keep out ice and possibly fire-escape intruders. The unearthed music box is the reward for cleaning my room. Thinking about rabbit holes I’d like to really delve into next. Getting texts from friends from online who go by names after celestial objects. Thinking about Saorise’s brand new robot that sends her pilates-training-packets. Thinking about Esoteric Health Book Club. Saint Teresa de Ávila. Thinking about no more vice. Everything has frozen over and hovered and smoothed itself thin in the months that came in between. Descents into madness happen very quickly, my new friend was saying, today, at the bar, where everything was more lovely than I could possibly have imagined. We were talking about cults, because the topic does arise even in beautiful places. Talking about posture. Talking about cult leaders. Matchmakers. Scammers. Beautiful lives. The Places To Be.. Hours later, now. Home, now. Still listening to Jeff Buckley “Forget Her” and Lana del Rey “Dark But Just a Game” on repeat because I love pleasure in excess. So addicted to everything. I can get addicted to good things too, I think. Tomorrow, I will fall asleep in a snowy white house in the woods. We will get vanilla milkshakes on the drive down. Many rooms. Plans to cook dinner. Last summer, I wanted very badly to drive to this house in July. I wanted to find secret waterfalls and secret gardens, too. It’s a house just an hour or so from the city where I used to go often, and I remember the surroundings as very green. I remember fighter jets over Celia’s graduation. I remember Rose writing her social security number up and down her arms in sharpie, last summer, because chaos was kind of the objective everyone was seeking, then. Enough reminiscing. Same songs, over and over and over again. Opening my window because it is time for bed. Tell yourself over and over and over, Jeff Buckley keeps saying. He died early with something to show for it. Addicted to repeating myself. Addicted to new beginnings and no more false starts. Working on getting addicted to continuity now, I think. I will become totally obsessed with continuity. What a relief. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, February 4 From 6pm - 8pm at Latitude Gallery — Unbridled: Horsin Around opens; a salon-style group exhibition celebrating the Year of the Horse.

Inline links: Latitude Gallery, Unbridled: Horsin Around

From 7:30pm - midnight at Tawny — Lyrical Libations hosts an evening of classical music with Trio Cava; with Yebin Yoo on violin, Elena Ariza on cello, and Lucas Amory on piano. The trio will be performing five pieces - each paired with a selection of natural wines. Thursday, February 5 From 6pm - 8pm at Platform Projects — Relics opens, curated by Show and Tell, ft works by Lauriston Avery, Ever Baldwin, Kat Chamberlin, Gaby Collins-Fernández, Alessandro Keegan, Alison Kudlow, Michael Lee, Jennifer Macdonald, Mitch Patrick, Amy Talluto, and more.

Inline links: Tawny, Lyrical Libations, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!aAan!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Ff90ca7a9-3bbc-4103-a782-999648895617_964x314.png, Platform Projects, Relics, Show and Tell

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!i7q2!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4d6227f6-4de0-4f15-98df-51c818225289_1496x598.png

February 15, 2026 · Original source

Friday, February 6

Feeling like I am kind of on a leash Sunday, February 8 Now, I am in my room and I am feeling ok. I am lying under my big white comforter in a green cashmere sweater, black Amazon tights, tennis skirt, nothing is messy anymore. After today’s reading group, where the discussion was about Virtue and Vice, Cassandra and Olivia and some others and I walked over to Washington Square Diner. I used to frequent Washington Square Diner at night, but in the day everything was brighter and I liked it better this way. I ordered black coffee and lemon tea and was happy with this choice, as no one seemed particularly pleased with the sandwiches that they kept on trotting out. Dry chicken, huge bread. I’m a snob, I’m a snob, Olivia kept saying. Sorry, she was saying. Sorry but I just feel really fucking bored. I added splenda to my water kind of indignantly, and stirred it around feeling strange. Olivia was talking about how it’s fine to eat anything if you’re on a desert island. It’s fine to eat bacon if the desert island is the prison-of-your mind and it’s the-only-food-you-like. Cassandra was talking about how none of her friends were getting married anytime soon, and so perhaps she’d have to conjure up a wedding of her own. Yeah, sorry, I was saying. Why sorry? Cassandra asked. There was way too much food on the table, and I think that this was the part that was throwing off everybody’s vibe. There was a new Cool Sips soda shop where Pepsi is mixed with heavy cream in town, and so after lunch, there was talk of maybe we go. Maybe we go drink heavy cream and diet Pepsi. Maybe we go weightlifting. Maybe we buy cottage cheese which is calories-per-pound-per-protein-per - I never really understood these things - better than chicken. Maybe we all go home. Whilst talking about protein in ground beef and also cottage cheese and also high cholesterol versus heavy metals, Olivia reminded us that the number one health factor is joy. At home, I am sitting on the edge of my bed in a black skirt and Lafayette striped cream sweater and brown snow and salt stained Prada boots. Thinking about self fulfilling prophecies. I will not drink and I will not look particularly pretty and I will not be socially offputting and strange. I don’t need to share every word of my google doc diaries. Twenty-five-thousand words written this week in google doc diaries because I just can’t cut myself off. Real-life-diaries. Real-life-compulsions. Fake-life-blog, maybe. In the afternoon, I walk over to a kind of industrial style Japanese coffee shop to meet Lily for tea. I am wearing a thin spring coat, no gloves, and the wind chill is negative-fifteen. My face is sort of swollen as a product of bad habits, but I am hoping to blame expedited deterioration on wind burn. I run into my priest walking quickly, somewhere around West 4th. Are you crying, my priest shouts in my direction. Just cold, I say in response. I walk for twelve more minutes, and when I reach the Japanese Coffee shop, my hands are burning and there are tears streaming down my face. A product of the cold, no-emotion, I tell Lily. The coffee shop is lined with narrow benches, and Lily lets me occupy the one-free-seat because it is clear that I am feeling fragile. She hovers above me holding silver trays, pistachio milk, black coffee, chocolate chip cookies. I feel like maybe I shouldn’t move to Los Angeles, she sighs, when I finish telling her my week of whirling hotel stories. I feel like in Los Angeles, everyone pretends that they don’t care about nice things. I drink my coffee in a few big sips, and I am feeling better at talking than listening. Did you write anything down about the people my party last week, Lily asks me. I nod, and pull up my notes. Most of my friends call girls ‘girls’ I say, The people at the party called ‘girls’ ‘women.‘ Lily smiles. It’s a posture just the same. At night, at the Superbowl party, in an apartment where the walls were recently washed a sort of deep-cloud blue, and the drinks are made with vodka and coconut water and grapefruit juice and on the side, some champagne, I arrive late. I’ve been making the drinks kind of strong, which I know you like, Savannah says. The advertisements this year are all made by Artificial Intelligence. The only advertisement not visibly made by Artificial Intelligence in an anti-hate ad wherein an antisemitic attack is covered up by a blue square, and two students walk off screen in redeemed solidarity. When this advertisement begins to play, Matt suggests that we all shut up. Everyone watch the ad, he says. The advertisement finishes, and then all the boys’ phones begin to buzz. Did you just see the ad, all the boys’ friends are asking the boys. They are all really into things like hot-ticket-cultural-discourse. What did you do last night? Matt asks me, later after everyone is already all a little drunk, and I am curled up on the couch, eating pistachios, staring at the screen. I hung out with my new friends, I tell Matt. I am feeling triumphant, and a little bit sad. Who are your new friends? Matt asks. Very nice and very promising people, I tell Matt. Don’t tell anyone that I’m making new friends, I tell Matt. I won’t, Matt responds. I won’t, because it doesn’t sound like you are. Later, trying to leave, and everyone is stuck. I think your taxi is blocking mine, Matt texts. I think a cop car is blocking me. Everyone is trying to honk louder than the car before. I was playing tetris in the snow and now we’re playing tetris at the wheel. Tetris on Houston street. My taxi makes a fake-out breakaway left and I speed away. Writing everything down in my apartment, back home. My moods are very predictable. I write about systems. I’m telling my computer that it’s never really about me. Watch how the patterns repeat. Could a human girl be so good at cycles? I’m telling my computer that I’m the best human girl at cycles. I’m the best at downward spirals. I’m the best at it’s happening over and over and over again. I’m not an evil genius. Writing like I’m top-of-class (fifth grade). Writing like I’m queen of staying up late. Window is closed tonight because outside it is just too cold. Drinking Perrier not Evian because I have ambitions of aesthetic cohesion. Dream logic. Magic logic. I am too tired to miss anything, and I am too caught up in self-surveillance to be really running on anything other than vibes. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Sunday, February 15 From 8pm at Night Club 101 — Punisher returns with a post Valentine’s Day debrief. Readings by Megsuperstarprincess, Riley Mac, Nicole Sellew, Francesca D’Alessandro, Dove Ginsburg, and Ava Doorley. Party to follow with The Heaven Forever. Mélange á seven. | RSVP here.

Inline links: Night Club 101, Punisher, The Heaven Forever, here

LOS ANGELES - From 6pm - late at Variety Arts Theater — Hard to Read presents a night of artist-led readings, performances, and activities hosted by author Fiona Duncan. Ft Bunny Rogers, Lexee Smith, Harmony Holiday, Maya Martinez, and more. “Interspersed throughout the vast multi-storied labyrinth of Variety Arts Theater, this event infuses the legacies of California performance art, punk music, activism, and socially-engaged literature.” | Monday, February 16 From 7pm at The Monroe — The Interzone Reading brings a night of international camaraderie to the East Village, ft Jean-Baptiste Chiara, Mike Crumplar, Padrote Drogado, Arielle Gordón, and Ellie Holbrook. Hosted by Nick Dove.

Inline links: Variety Arts Theater, Hard to Read, Fiona Duncan, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!Ssxu!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fc753378b-259b-434a-96ca-8505f67cd6ca_994x294.png, The Monroe, The Interzone Reading

Auntie Anne's2 mentions across 2 issues

Auntie Anne's is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between May 19, 2024 and August 23, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "smells like Auntie Annie's pretzels"; "weird fast food, Auntie Anne's and the like, the type of fast food you don't see a lot anymore". It most often appears alongside Chloe Pingeon, Confessions, New York.

Article page: Auntie Anne's
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: May 19, 2024
Last seen: August 23, 2024

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #1 May 19, 2024
COLLECTED AGENDA #8 August 23, 2024

Chloe Pingeon 2 shared issues
Confessions 2 shared issues
New York 2 shared issues
$Egirl 1 shared issues
Adeline Swartzendruber 1 shared issues

Source context

May 19, 2024 · Original source

No direct inline source block was recovered for this mention.

August 23, 2024 · Original source

No direct inline source block was recovered for this mention.

Banana Republic2 mentions across 2 issues

Banana Republic is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between February 25, 2026 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "changed out of split-sweatpants and banaa-republic-black-top"; "I wore an A-line skirt and Banana-Republic-black-top". It most often appears alongside Brandy Melville, California, Catholicism.

Article page: Banana Republic
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: February 25, 2026
Last seen: March 06, 2026
Instagram handle: @nanabakingco

Outbound links

Issue trail

Life-in-a-lab February 25, 2026
Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

Brandy Melville 2 shared issues
California 2 shared issues
Catholicism 2 shared issues
Eugene Boylan 2 shared issues
Gnosticism 2 shared issues

Source context

February 25, 2026 · Original source

Tuesday Life-in-a-lab In my dream, the house was a lab. I woke up to light not just streaming no, but flooding, absolutely pouring through the long glass windows in front of me. I knew that once the light cleared, I would be staring into the heart of this lab. I knew it was a problem that I was anticipating waking up in a lab, because I knew that I should have been anticipating a morning waking up at home. Instead, I was finding myself totally nonplused about waking up in a lab. The important thing, I knew, as I woke up with a sense of increasing urgency, was to conjure up an image of a home, not a lab. You have been in a lab for so long that you have forgotten about home, a very confident voice inside my head was saying. A picture of my childhood bedroom appeared in a few frames. Different versions. Big white bed and blue wooden floors and presently frosty fields behind the house. Little twin bed yellow walls, carpeted floors, and hot summer cornfields outside. I couldn’t get it straight. If I was in a lab, then I needed to remember. You need to remember a place that actually exists, the lab-attendants were saying in my dream. Saying in my head. Glass apartment in the sky. Room at The Marlton Hotel. I’ve been eating vegetables and collecting things like dried flowers and books on Esoteric Health and buying wash-and-fold laundry service and being swept away to places like nice restaurants with no menus and nice-apartments-with-no-owners. I woke up in Connecticut. Can’t wake up in a lab if you never go to sleep. In the morning, I woke up at close to noon. I shared photos on The Internet of a very aesthetically-cohesive and un-lab-like home. I went to the bathroom to wash my face and collect myself as best I could. The house was beautiful, and I was unsure as to why I was watching things unfold from as if I was somewhere else. I made lists of things that were special, being places like this most of all. I made lists of things that compose self respect, and then I made lists of things that compose a life that is bright and white and full of light. The country is quiet and sometimes difficult for me, though I sleep through the night now and this changes everything. Downstairs, the dogs and Celia and the other were sitting under high lofted ceilings. There was a magical and silvery presence that mediation gives to a person. I asked about coffee and they told me there was coffee in the pot and I could heat it up in a silver bowl on the stove. The stove was green and handmade and you turned it on by flicking little metal burner switches. The bowl was nice and very small. I poured the coffee in the bowl and I waited for everything to begin to boil. I added vital proteins collagen and also oat milk creamer and also lots of white sugar because the esoteric health advice of the age says this is fine. There were homemade mini muffins from The Smith Bakery down the street on the counter (blueberry, morning harvest, strawberry corn, and chocolate chip) and so I cut each muffin in half, and then I had one-half-of-each. Two mini muffins total. I put two of the halves in the toaster, and I had two of the halves cold. Everyone started telling me about gnosticism and buddhism and catholicism. They recommended to me a friend who writes about God and married into a famous band. They recommended I come to meditate in places like New York, too. You look ready, Celia said, as I packed up my north face back-pack and changed out of split-sweatpants and banaa-republic-black-top. I’m not, I snapped, in response. Do you actually want to meditate more, Celia asked. I don’t say I want to do things I don’t actually want to do, I replied. I could not stop with all this harshness. Wednesday Grand Central Station Back in New York City and I am totally covered in dog hair. Shoes untied in Grand Central Station but there is nowhere for me to stop and tie them without risking some sort of stampede or at least massive inconvenience and so onward we go. A man just walked towards me rapidly and I flinched and then felt kind of bad. Then, he shouted; young lady can I ask you a question and so now I do not feel bad. My instincts were correct, and now I do not feel bad at all. Ok, fine, whatever. I used to love arriving back in New York and hearing all the music and the lights and I would twirl through this place nonpulsed. Then, I would twirl home. I used to get drunk-before-christmas at the midtown Cipriani and then giggle when people called my ex-boyfriend and I bad-people-for-cutting on the trains toward Albany, but I’m not allowed to move like that anymore. I used to sink into sixty-dollar taxi-cabs because I found the subway over-stimulating. My Prada purse used to be lined with shiny leather, but I got fidgety somewhere tropical and I ripped it all off so now we’re working with something more flattened and matte. Teenage girls used to fling themselves at the side of the train platforms, and conductors used to lose their whole crew in Boston and train heists used to happen. I used to consider everything to be pretty taken-care-of. I think I never used to notice when sometimes, problems would arise. On the train ride back to New York, tonight, the tracks were icy and slick and it was already kind of blue hour dusk. When I said goodbye, I told Celia I love you I love you I love you a million times over because I felt slightly neurotic about a weekend full of being slightly late and slightly harsh. I am smart enough to know that the only thing complaining makes you better at is complaining, so I decided to stop. In Grand Central Station, they are playing live music, and I watch a man propose, though no one else around the soon-to-be newlyweds reacted. No photos or energy. Sad. I am wearing beat up Ganni knee high boots and Brandy Melville long sleeved dress, and Zara blazer that I stole from Paul’s Baby Grande back when I was in the practice of going lots of places and stealing lots of things. I miss my Max Mara coat that I left at “tech week” and I miss “drinking” and I am suddenly desperate to be out the door. I imagine that when the subway doors fly open and I burst out free and all-in-one piece, I will see the Washington Square Park arch, and it will be glowing silver in mid-winter light. I imagine that the city will feel warm with soon-to-be-spring-humidity. I imagine that since groundhog day has come and gone the tides will change soon, and I imagine I will relinquish my Groundhog Day (1993) fantasies of nothing-ever-happens at some point down the line, when it all becomes a bit too much to take. Tomorrow, I will be taking my shoes to the tailor and then the next day, I will have a totally fresh new crop of things to wear. I imagine that soon, I will have a fresh new crop of things to consider. Thursday Whore Dialectics Greenwich Village’s bitcoin bar sports a libertarian clientele and taxidermy and a podcast studio and beef-tallow-fries. Tonight, it sports a projector screen from my old apartment that looks sad and small propped on stage, and a big audience in metal chairs, and a birthday party in the front room, and plenty of opportunities to make myself feel useful as I tinker with film equipment and fire off texts regarding “promotional material.” I am sitting at Pubkey Bar drinking a diet coke while I wait for the screening of “Whore Dialects” to begin. When I ordered my diet coke at the bar, a strange man made a strange joke about NA beer, and I felt immediately irritated and restrained by my self imposed limits. I am listening to a group of young men discuss the career path of “Internet Pervert” as one of the only viable post-AI jobs. Monetize your self destruction, they are saying. Male prostitution. Buying plushies is to women as buying porn is to men. There’s a strange pseudo-intellectual glare to it all and I am enjoying listening in. They are talking about Brian Kaplan, but they keep on mispronouncing his name. They are talking about scientists, rationalists, and flexible proposals. When they talk about Internet Perverts, there are stars in their eyes, less because of the sex, it seems, and more because the internet perverts are able to get some money and get some attention. The male influencer. That seems to be what they are starry eyed about. They are thrilled to be in the same extended universe as someone who might be able to garner some vague attention. This is a bar that usually makes me feel kind of hazy. This is a bar where I used to make scenes. Enough reminiscing, because I am here to watch a film that is all about auto-documentarians, which is in sharp contrast to the maladjusted forms of auto-diary or auto-fiction. In the film, a beautiful girl is in the back of a car with the wind in her face and she is drinking an Erewhon smoothie and talking about how Hollywood is dead and the monasteries are empty and you can’t be a nun or get a phd because you question what truth is, and these institutions just won’t let you get at it. After that, the film cuts to a scene where the girl is in a white dress being play-drowned in the ocean by a right-wing provocateur. The film crew sent the provocateur to stay with the girl, and it was kind of the perfect setup, a voiceover explains. The provocateur describes how when he arrived, the girl was in a state of almost total abjection. Like how kids who are sexually assaulted don’t shower to make themselves totally disgusting and unappealing, he explains. I find the provocateur slightly less interesting as a character than both the girl, and the disgraced art-advisor (another prominent character in the film) but I like when he argues about politics and then reconciles on a personal level with those around him in places like California. I like the scenes about the professionally fraught yet personally friendly relationship between the art advisor and his not terribly successful clients, ie the clients are disappointed but still use the advisor’s pool for summer swims. The client still dreams of having an eighteen person studio because this means tremendous success, and because this is just how men dream. When the provocateur is described but not depicted as losing control, it is explained that the jig is kind of up, because it’s no triumph of power to reign over somebody who is not even in control of themselves. I only watch the film once and I am not taking notes, really, during the public screening at the Bitcoin Bar, but I like it because it is auto-documentary not auto-fiction or auto-diary and as such, it is very precise. The film says, for someone like me in the conditions like the ones I occupy, here is what life is like. This is more matter of fact and less indulgent than saying; here is what life is like for me. At a party last month that was also all about art whores, the filmmakers wrote a few lines about a few of my friends. The women present were on average quite a bit younger than the men and looked fresh. Perhaps because of their age, or perhaps because of the care they put into their bodies and minds, but the vibe among the women was optimistic and exuberant. I thought this was nice. Nice, too, to catch purity in unexpected places while staying totally true. Friday Upper West Side Later, I am uptown and I am thinking about how I can become more self-disciplined so I can become more interesting. I am watching Pierre Le Fou at Lillian’s apartment on the Upper West Side and all the girls are dressed like characters in the film. Lilian keeps leaning out the window with a long skinny cigarette and I am drinking a glass of Sancerre because I just can’t quit. In this film, a very small man is holding a gun to a very beautiful girl’s head while she cuts her hair. The beautiful girl has a brunette bob, and she is wearing a red dress. The film is full of primary colors and very bright paint. When a man is stabbed, he bleeds red paint. Before a man explodes himself in dynamite at the end of the film, he paints himself blue. I like the film because the colors of the gore are all bright and fake like paint, and the colors of the scenery are all pastel and muted and lovely like real life. Summer in The Riviera. Beautiful people living a simple and crime-filled life. I have not watched very many films this year because I’ve been busy writing thirty-thousand-words-about-myself-per-week. In the last film I watched, a Japanese cat was exploded by a grenade, and when gore and guts spilled everywhere, I flinched and clenched my eyes shut. Do you want to leave, my friend asked, and what I wanted was to be resilient, but what I said was I don’t really care. Now, a girl in the film is sitting on a boat with a man, and she is talking about how the two have only known each other for a few million seconds. She’s such a stupid girl, Lillian says. I would say something like that, I respond. One-million-billion-seconds and one-million-billion-words. I am feeling bubbly when I am not feeling sick or shy. I am feeling like it’s time to be more light about it. When I look to my left, I see beautiful stained glass lamps and a defense surveillance tech-branded throw blanket. When I look to my right, I see an open window and all my friends leaning too far outside smoking skinny vogues. On the Internet, people are talking about how things are only interesting if they are true. Determinative reasoning then says, one should make what is true more interesting. Everything just became crystal clear. By which I mean, everything is operating on material terms now. DIRECTORY The full event calendar is now going to live on The Aleph - an exciting new platform by Noah Kumin of The Mars Review of Books. The Aleph is a marketplace and membership club for the arts, with an emphasis on supporting in-person events, production, and funding for artists. Programming featured will be intentional and curated, and include more opportunities for early-access and invitation-only events. If you would like to submit an event for consideration, please email me at chloegpingeon@gmail.com. Apply to join The Aleph here I will still be featuring select events on the blog, along with more eclectic or personal recommendations, news, and guest features. To start: David Rimanelli is perhaps my favorite person to follow on Instagram, as well as one of my favorite critics. Tonight, from 6:30pm at Tibet House, he will be reading, along with Kiely Sweatt and Sean Fabi. Tickets here.

March 06, 2026 · Original source

I have decided to quit vice because unless I take my self-experimentation seriously, nothing interesting is going to happen. I don’t take so much pleasure in denying myself the things that I want. At The Marlton Hotel lobby, I was two hours late to meet my aunt for lunch and hungover and she called my father and asked if I was maybe in El Salvador again or perhaps just kidnapped. Small box apartment. No greenhouse roof. I wore an A-line skirt and Banana-Republic-black-top and picked my way across sunlight-streaming in Washington Square Park to arrive late and empty handed. I ran into Olivia in the hotel lobby, and she was glowing with discipline-of-lent and the sign of the cross in black ash on her forehead. I can’t become religious because I can’t even deny myself the things I want, I’d told Joe, a few days earlier. I hadn’t been drinking that night. Well you know what they say about failure rendering humility, he had said, in response, with a smile. And he’d admired my sincerity. And I’d admired his generosity. He’d recommended some literature. This Tremendous Lover (Eugene Boylan, 1946). I’d purchased the texts on ThriftBooks.com and then I’d fallen to sleep listless. Things became worse and then better. In The Marlton Hotel lobby, my aunt asked me if I liked when bad things happened because bad things help my writing. I HATE when bad things happen, I said in response. I HATE when I suffer. I do not WANT to be resilient. I cited a few of my favorite authors who-never-suffered. I like early Babitz and Fanny HOWE, I decreed. I like the-architecture-of-happiness and feng shui and feeling observational. Fanny Howe is kind of sad, my aunt shrugged in response. I hate her POETRY, I said. I picked at my avocado and smoked salmon and did not do so well at modulating my voice. Anyways, it’s more fun though sometimes risky to view measures of necessity as measures of languid experimentation. But nothing interesting happens when nothing gets better or nothing gets worse. And as already mentioned, I hate when things get worse.

Blueland2 mentions across 2 issues

Blueland is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between October 13, 2025 and November 05, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Poured Blueland soup and dragged a dishrag across the hard wood floors"; "BlueLand Cleaning Supplies". It most often appears alongside Amelia, Anika Jade Levy, Blade Study.

Article page: Blueland
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: October 13, 2025
Last seen: November 05, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Void of Course October 13, 2025
Fever Dreams November 05, 2025

Amelia 2 shared issues
Anika Jade Levy 2 shared issues
Blade Study 2 shared issues
Celia 2 shared issues
Dory 2 shared issues

Source context

Void of Course

October 13, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, October 6 They are swimming in the water because they hope to never die, the Russian writer is told, in Nostalghia (1983). The Italian villagers are bathing in steaming blue mineral pools and discussing the man who locked his family up for seven years on account of fear of the outside world. It is my favorite Tarkovsky, and Dory suggests we go to Metrograph for the late night viewing tonight. She wants to see the candle scene again. She wants to parse out whether the composer in the film is a product of delusion or reality. She wants to be reminded of dreams and mist and Saint Catherine of Siena, and I want to see foggy long shots and the part where a beautiful little girl in a rock cave tells the drunk man, yes, I am very happy to be alive. It’s a kind of ghostly journey to the theater. Monday night, and so there are not too many people out, though I can tell when a girl is heading to the same place as me because she will be wearing something like a tattered tank top and skirt and lots of gold rings and a few bangles. I spot a few such girls somewhere around Delancey Street, and by the time I reach Ludlow Street, there is a group of us walking in silent quickstep. The theater is surprisingly full. The mood is surprisingly heavy and quiet. By midnight, when the snow falls over the Russian writer and the German Shepard and the Italian countryside and the hologram of the colosseum and the candles have all been placed in quivering gestures of immolation, reverence, or madness, and the lights come on in the theater, I am certain that autumn is here. The last time I saw this film, I stepped outside into bright summer heat, Dory tells me. This is certainly not a summer film, I tell Dory. I step over puddles on the walk home. I mute my own nostalgia. I think about how this isn’t something dull like another movie about aging, but there is something reticent about madness that comes from envisioning eternity. Mystics and schizophrenics. It’s just one life all at once. I stayed up all night last night until the sky turned hazy blue and cotton candy pink, and my Nosferatu metal bedframe turned all washed in pastel color and then, I remembered time had been passing all along. Poured Blueland soup and dragged a dishrag across the hard wood floors. Stood in cream white socks by a small metal stove and fried bacon and eggs in avocado oil. Fried a non-iron-fortified flour tortilla in coconut oil and threw tomato on top. Thought about the sort of person who starts a day in this way. Thought about how a morning like this could almost be something else. Almost like I went to sleep and woke up to this. Cotton candy skies and bacon, eggs, the good sort of oils. Starting a day instead of blurring one into the next. Blurring everything together. Watching fog and music and stone castle villages and Madonnas and Patron Saints all blur together in the most harrowing film in the world at Metrograph. I like Nostalghia, but it is such a harrowing film. BEAUTIFUL AND HARROWING FILM, I text Celia. To My Mother, Tarkovsky dedicated the film. If it wasn’t past midnight, I would call my own family and say sorry. I’ve been thinking about myself a lot. I would mostly say I’m sorry for that. Tuesday, October 7 Here is an idea: clear out your room of everything nice, leave only the decrepit and ugly things behind, lie in filth for a month or a few, and then clear things out even further. Clear out your room of anything aside from blank space and empty floor, and one fitted sheet, and lie there for a little longer. It will be winter or perhaps even spring, now. Bring back your beautiful things. Fill your room with everything nice. Determine how a person should be. Alain de Botton talks about this. He talks about how you can pick a whole new life through exercises in Architectures of Unhappiness like this one. I am springing out of bed this morning with a strong and pervasive desire for a whole new life. It got cold for a minute, and this shift in seasons scrubbed everything clean. I am yet to scrub my room of everything beautiful, everything empty, or everything bad. Today I will build a beautiful life. Today I will buy a beautiful life. This again but this time I mean it: TO DO Finish and edit blog

November 05, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, October 26 Pale light through the small glass windows over which I have not bought curtains. Craving solitude and cleanliness and esoteric healing and then I get it; cocoon myself alone with MoonJuice potions and BlueLand Cleaning Supplies and three purple sweaters and four cream sweaters and all the silence in the world, courtyard facing windows, even the fan and the air conditioner are off and so the circumstances are exactly as I said I wanted. Tucked myself away to think about things here, and now the silence is starting to pool around me. Now, I am starting to feel upset. Chronic discontentment. There is really nothing more irredeemable than this. You wake up in a small room with a faux thatched roof and white sheets and a gold cross and minimal art and a sense that there is no air left. This is all right. The streets are still early morning empty. The shower is sparkling clean. You imagine that on the other side of these walls there are infinite other apartments, all better than this. I’ve been remixing the same story for a while now. I’ve been getting worse at writing and better at being by myself. The stranger and I walked through Washington Square Park where the autumn has come and swept the air muted and clean. Red berries crunch underfoot, and the grass has died and dried hazy and the buildings are brick and brown and the puddles are brown, too, though a brown of a brighter kind. The puddles reflect and remember things, the stranger says. The stranger is very dull like this. Like to observe something is to understand it. I’ve been getting better at clarity and worse at avoiding hedonism without being a bore. I sought forgiveness that I’ll never get. Now, it is time to seek other things: Living in a room that is sparkling clean

Chanel2 mentions across 2 issues

Chanel is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between June 09, 2025 and December 02, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "I found Chanel sunglasses while standing barefoot in the bathroom"; "La WATCHPARTY hosts a viewing of the Chanel show". It most often appears alongside Google Docs, Julia Cooke, Los Angeles.

Article page: Chanel
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: June 09, 2025
Last seen: December 02, 2025
Instagram handle: @chanel_beads

Outbound links

Issue trail

A supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again June 09, 2025
Florida, Massachusetts (03) December 02, 2025

Google Docs 2 shared issues
Julia Cooke 2 shared issues
Los Angeles 2 shared issues
Miami 2 shared issues
New York 2 shared issues

Source context

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!S7lB!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F14d7d73e-4a99-4bc0-ad57-1dae414e4c21_1018x416.png, GirlInsides, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!grTj!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F0d8950da-492c-4aea-8f52-bfae799e190d_968x440.png, Chez Nous, https://metrograph.com/film/?vista_film_id=9999002294, recently refurbished Chez Nous, 1pm on a Friday

June 09, 2025 · Original source

Sunday, June 1 The flight back from Miami is gray and swift. I spent the evening on the rooftop at The Betsy yesterday. Iris asked me for the list of my favorite foods. Octopus, apples, apple pie, lamb chops with mint jelly, creamed spinach, a certain type of barbeque salmon, a whole roast chicken. The concrete by the pool bar was hot and steamy and we didn’t bring identification and we would not be served. David bought us bloody marys and we drank them behind the tarp where the bartenders couldn’t see. I swam laps up and down and up and down the length of this pool that was mostly for drinking. I found Chanel sunglasses while standing barefoot in the bathroom and I returned them to the French girl. It’s like I’ve been immune to the permanence of ramifications of the things that are really bad, these days. I keep forgiving and I keep on being forgiven. They gave me free Pina Colada samples in little plastic cups. Ok Intense Girl, he was saying, because every time I would pop my head out of the water to say the things I thought, it would be with beady eyes and a determined stare. I like ice cream particularly matcha ice cream and I like lamb, Iris told me. Iris taught me about Gnosticism, and I believe this is somewhat aligned with the situation with me and him, though he thinks it's kind of sacrilegious when I equate my nightmares with mysticism, or when I attribute the interest that people who are kind of half of this world and half of another take in me to anything other than high agreeability and openness. Iris and I walked along Ocean Drive to Kalamata way down South Beach, and then we walked back along the water. A writing retreat, a rave, apocalyptic undertones. You can’t choose solitude and practicality at the edge of an extinction event, is one of many roots of it. I walked barefoot along the boardwalk. I met him for a second dinner. The ribeye was bloody and it came with a gross side of pasta alfredo. I woke up screaming. I woke up all smiles. I took photos of our hands on the plane Just In Case. I showed him a song. The Message. Is this a good song, or is this a secret message, he asked. It’s just a good song, I said. The frat guys in front of us on the plane are reading A Court of Thorns and Roses smut novels and buying tickets to Jake Shane's comedy tour. The guy on my boyfriend's phone intercom is stealing all my LA Apparel underwear from our lobby. I'm eating the Worst Sandwich Ever and Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. I am taking pictures of our reflections in the clouded plane window and I am thinking about how impossible it feels right now, flying like this, to imagine that so often, we become something else. Monday, June 2 I read some GirlInsides on the airtrain back from JFK who I think is just like me if I were more honest and precise about it, or maybe whom my stories would echo more precisely if I did not have this sick need to put my face all over everything. Anyways, GirlInsides was talking about how summer would bring things like long long long hair and farmers market plums eaten over the sink in underwear and writing and reading all over the place, and her ideas made me feel like I was melting and going to cry. Then I wrote what I wanted summer to bring, all - getting off the subway because it's too hot and walking in sandals sticking to my feet until i find somewhere that glows right and then its morning and we're sitting first then lying down on the terrace in sun that becomes unbearable drinking sparkling water out of glass bottles dripping it over my chest opening the door for the blast of air conditioning and to let the friends that come by in and out people floating by in and out and come and go and then at dusk i put on something green and i drink cold cider cold diet coke or spicy watermelon margarita outside at kikis in swan room away from the heat at vol de nuit with fries and garlic sauce on the roof, on my roof, in the backyards and basements and i walk out and walk everywhere when it is time to leave i leave and sometimes it is time to leave and so then I take the train and there’s the coast and then I’m putting laundry on the line in a black bikini and drinking diet coke with lemon in my black bikini and driving to the ocean down the driveway at night headlights breaking through june gloom fog and jumping off the dock where the sharks don't eat us but any summer now they could, or then it's morning and i'm sober writing in my google docs journal walking outside, writing in my greenhouse apartment in new york, writing along the overgrown pond and field and it always smells thicker there outside of boston, writing by foggy shores and rocky shores and sometimes the air becomes thick too and my dad plays dougie mclain and we make pesto pasta mozzarella chicken sausage in yellow china bowls on yellow placemats the meal gets kind of hazy through the sheen of blue hour rain coming through the window and then i'm pacing and writing down ocean drive in Miami because I can't decide where i want to be anymore and i like flashing lights i like coming back to the very nice very cold hotel that we're staying in because he's Sorry but I don't want any more apologies i want this summer to be Being very very very in love because i really have been anticipating extinction events or at least things become robotic sterile i used to think id be pretty good at both being in love like this and at not being robotic and sterile and i have become slightly above average at both these things in practice i guess though, it's nice to have the most human thing in the world, it's nice for me all the time, even then, even when it isn't for him i think it's nicer for me then it would be to not have this all the time and I don't know why i keep sabotaging the only thing i know to be true and human and so i am hoping for a summer of all that, hands pressed against the plane window greenhouse window train window glass mirror glassy water plunging my face underwater no more eb and flow. Anyways, none of that made any sense and then shock of all shocks it did eb and flow again last night. Everyone was so nice to me about my story and I wore the Nasseau, Bahamas shirt he bought for me all Life Is Better In FlipFlops and he wanted me to wear the sunglasses too, to exacerbate the bit but I thought that would be a little bit too far. He said “you know why I’m mad at you” when we got home, and I didn’t know, I had no idea actually, and so then I got sad, but the story was fiction. This is fiction too. I’m not being facetious when I say that. This isn’t even autofiction. This is literally all made up. “they seem lost and completely clueless,” he is saying now, downstairs, on the phone, he is talking about some forty year old woman and an awful charleton and some guy who does RedPill posting online and some guy he personally has a strong dislike for who has a lot of medical malpractice suits against him. Maybe he’s a genius, he is saying. I don’t know, he is saying. These people are so strange, he is saying. Tuesday, June 3 His friend rubs my head like i'm a dog or something when i walk into his stupid fake exclusive evil party that i'm not invited to and then my heart swells with rage. I'm so mad, I was telling everyone. I'm so sorry I didn't mean to say that I guess I had one too many, I was saying. I didn't have one too many, I had just right, I was telling him. I like The Sweet East, he is telling me. I like Yeats and social norms. Yes and, I say; I hope that you get everything you have ever wanted. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, June 9 A quiet night in the realm of events. Consider; dinner at The Marlton’s new restaurant Chez Nous followed by a screening of Buffalo 66 at Metrograph (10pm). I have historically liked The Marlton because it is vaguely past its prime and also a five minute walk from my apartment, and a place where no one ever tells you that you’ve stayed too long. The food at the old restaurant was terrible (so I’ve heard) (I only went for tea), but the recently refurbished Chez Nous is chic and fun and has maintained all of the hotel's original charm. The shrimp salad is very good, as is the martini. I’ll report back after my second visit (possibly tonight). Otherwise - 10pm on a Monday evening is the perfect time to see a film bar none, besides, possibly 1pm on a Friday.

December 02, 2025 · Original source

From 6pm - 10pm at Racket NYC — La WATCHPARTY hosts a viewing of the Chanel show. First free cig and free drink. A nice place to be as the snow storm begins.

Inline links: Racket NYC, La WATCHPARTY

ChatGPT2 mentions across 2 issues

ChatGPT is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between April 10, 2025 and June 09, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Chat GPT got way better overnight, I am told"; "I plugged the story into chat gpt like someone evil". It most often appears alongside David, El Salvador, New York.

Article page: ChatGPT
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: April 10, 2025
Last seen: June 09, 2025

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

Santa Teresa April 10, 2025
A supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again June 09, 2025

David 2 shared issues
El Salvador 2 shared issues
New York 2 shared issues
A Bath of Approbation 1 shared issues
A Court of Thorns and Roses 1 shared issues

Source context

April 10, 2025 · Original source

Friday, April 4 It's been such a haze since arriving in Costa Rica and at first I felt strange about it, like this isn't Good Behavior, treating a Big Trip kind of glibly, feeling a bit pouty and out of sorts and letting myself just be whisked away like it's nothing, when really it's never nothing, when really it's always touch and go and particularly something like this should make me feel ecstatic. Though, I kind of do feel ecstatic. I never really do become jaded. I quantify and calculate it all far too much to take anything for granted. You do kind of feel like you're floating, though. Cold beer to clutch between my knees on the sea plane that starts up all shaky and then scares me less even than a commercial plane because I can see into the cockpit and I can get the sense of how these pilots are navigating this thing. A cloud is just a cloud. I've been using too many words to inadequately explain myself. Send some bizarre texts upon landing that I hope will be encoded with… what, exactly? But, you’re in the jungle when you land. The sea plane slipped over the rainforest and then slipped out to sea, into the clouds. This part made me a bit nervous because there was nothing to spot except the horizon ahead. The scary part didn't last too long. Peninsula de Nicoya. Thick brambled forest by a single black tarmac. David sent me a video when he got here last week. The Jungle, he said, and now it’s like a hologram seeing it here myself. I really wasn’t going to come here. Two A.M. last night and the flights were so cheap that it felt like a glitch or something and then all I had to do was decide, ok, and then everything else was taken care of. There’s a driver at the gate for me. CHLOE, the sign says. That’s me, I say, and I point to the sign. I don’t know why I said it like that. It's a different vibe at the house here than in El Salvador. Surfer spiritualism over techno spiritualism. The aura here makes me feel significantly calmer. Because I am someone who accounts for danger at every turn (neurotic) I can remember being twelve or thirteen somewhere around here, handed a stick to ward off snakes at night, warned that don't you dare touch the frogs, the ants, they told me, fall screeching from the trees and it feels like a bullet wound when they bite you. But, “there is nothing actually scary here,” David’s friend tells me. “The main thing you have to worry about are these.” He shows me a picture of a scorpion. He tells me that the sting hurts a little, but after that the main thing is it makes your body feel all electric. “People sting themselves on purpose to get high,” David’s friends tell me. “They make you high???” I ask. One of the only things that scares me more than getting hurt is getting high. “No, not really,” David’s friend says. When I got here it felt kind of like I’d been teleported. David was there with an ATV where the car dropped me off, up a dirt road, by some stables and then he said - this might scare you but no backseat driving and then we roared up a mountain, nighttime already, I was left in a room in the hills in the jungle alone while the others offroad up and down and up and down until everyone was here for dinner. You can see the stars in a way that is so special here. I’d been told about this part, but it’s better to see for yourself. You couldn’t make out what parts were ocean and what parts were horizon but you could see that the darkness was placid and lovely and it stretched out quite some ways. You could see where there were villages, because lights close to the ground edged up against the stars in the sky but lacking any visual markers to ground them, these villages appeared to be hovering, unmoored. “You’ll be able to see the ocean in the morning,” David told me. So, in the morning, I thought, I will be able to distinguish which parts are ocean, and which parts are sky. Saturday, April 5 In the morning, there is a gecko on the ceiling and a dog outside my door. Chat GPT got way better overnight, I am told. It’s harder for me to suss out the vibe here. They are bullish on AI, but they are hesitant about some of the other stuff. We’re not really doing much of the hacker house stuff anyways, this time, though. Back down the mountain, and we’re in a hotel, and there’s surfer girls with pretty hair in pretty dresses dancing barefoot in all the nightclubs here. The heat makes a run in the morning unbearable. Even the walk to the shop is heavy and thick but I don't mind this. The only thing I do every single morning is walk for an hour and write while I walk, but the heat makes this hard. It's ok, because I can float instead. Yerba mate and corona extra and white claw and paloma in a can and redbull green and coconut water all stacked side by side in the shop, but I leave empty handed. Before, we got cold brew mixed with orange juice and a cashew avocado tart at a cafe run by the girlfriend of one of David’s friends. Since I tried it out and basically just became an alcoholic bartending my way around Eastern Europe at eighteen, I have kind of found the whole nomad thing to be spiritually ugly. Like it's something for mid thirties men that look older from the partying who stop you in back alleys in Croatia and tell you things like the key to it all is to never buy a couch. And they would say it like you were supposed to really get it. And you did get it, you got what they meant by it at least, but the thought was just a bit half baked and unconvincing. Ok, so, I wouldn't buy a couch but then what? Then what would I do? What should I do? I didn't want to stay listless and skimming the surface forever. New York is kind of empty too when you aren't living at least a little bit gently, and so these are the different pieces I am trying to parse out. I would stay here for a while with a project. David drops a chip on the beach lined with hermit crabs and he creates this huge commotion. Anarchy, really. All the little crabs begin to rip each other to shreds. "I hope the big one comes in and destroys them all," David says, regarding the hermit crab pile-on situation. There's not really any metaphor here, he’s just being vaguely sadistic. It does happen as you would expect. One big hermit crab sees its opportunity, identifies his leg up in this whole situation or perhaps, they aren't the brightest creatures, perhaps it just wants to try its lot at the prize like all the others and is surprised to find itself emerge victorious. He makes a clean break with the chip down the beach. The crabs kind of look like spiders from my vantage point. A mass of little tendrils for legs chasing after someone six times their size. They all have the death drive, because when they do catch up, it's not good news for any animal involved. An underdog swoops in and gets the chip. I don't know, I lose sight of it all. You have a target on your back when carrying the bounty though. If I was a hermit crab, I wouldn’t risk it. I put my head underwater in the ocean to get myself sorted. I walk back through a little bit of jungle and then past the fishermen in Malpaís while David turns around the ATV. Soles of my shoes are all sticky on the pavement. Herd of goats in the road. The heat makes all my thoughts become all slippery and smooth. If I spent a month here, I could learn how to become all tan and bendy and strong. Sometimes, I become slippery and smooth. I could spend the first part of my month learning how to notice when my mind becomes like this, and I could spend the second part learning how to make the feeling last. I would stay here for a while with a project… WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, April 10 From 6pm - 8pm at Blade Study — Clare Koury presents the opening of solo exhibition Scaling Laws For An Open EnTrainment Structure. With this installation, Clare Koury is addressing the part of the color spectrum that eyes don’t see.

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!ZjW-!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F67ecce3d-02cd-4260-91aa-07adc92be735_1052x484.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!S7lB!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F14d7d73e-4a99-4bc0-ad57-1dae414e4c21_1018x416.png, GirlInsides, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!grTj!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F0d8950da-492c-4aea-8f52-bfae799e190d_968x440.png, Chez Nous, https://metrograph.com/film/?vista_film_id=9999002294, recently refurbished Chez Nous, 1pm on a Friday

June 09, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Saturday, May 31 I wake up at six am to Miami Beach hazy dawn, honey bear full of gummy bears, skinny pop popcorn and torres truffle potato chips and I believe this mini bar isn't motion-censored but if it is, well, is already to late because I am crouched over on the floor playing pharmacy with the sorting of cosmopolitan, candies, pretzels, aperol spritz. The sun is hot and already almost too bright outside. There's a kind of resignation to the physical exhaustion of today. I could pump myself full of junk food and sink into the hotel carpet disassociated, spinning, things have been oscillating in such extremes and I guess there is some solid ground now, but I am still so breathless and uncertain when I try to consider this as real. "What I like about a hotel is the idea that you can just completely change vibes," my boyfriend was saying. "Anonymity. Abandon your two week life.” I came to consciousness in my two week life sobbing in the morning. I came to consciousness with tears pouring down my face in the bluest water you have ever seen. There was cognizance while gasping for air at the coconut stand, warm liquor, a scene at The Standard. I plugged the story into chat gpt like someone evil or something all made up. Is the narrator likable, I asked. Is this genius, I begged. A whirling tale about wearing the wrong linens, said the robot. the narrator is kind of redeemable, unlike, clearly [redacted] I have lost all my vindication. I have promised not to beg. I reread the letter and they told Rose at breakfast at The Social Club that she is getting sick because of Central AC. You know you are in Miami right, they ask us. The servers beam big wide beams and only I beam back. I have been working on fiction a lot, but then I find it difficult to swing back here. I find myself very cold and with a lingering sense of maybe fatalism more than nihilism but regardless there is such removal in my made up language no matter how much I try to bring it down to earth. I am not removed at all, here. I learned quickly. I deleted my transcription of the other days so I could better tell you about the parts that Never Happened. I remember almost nothing but it's like I don't really drink anymore, so this was something else. My Miami Beach: The Standard, The Beachcomber, The Betsey, The Social Club. The coconut stand and the diet coke mini bar and the pleading about what happens now - a sunburn, a whole entire life, there was the mystic who was telling us about Gnosticism that summer. There was the quivering lady at the quaker church who was telling us about angels and destiny and if we became unaligned, then there would be nothing else. I did write a story of fiction and so you're getting the scraps, here. I came to consciousness already half in a dream. My consciousness has never faltered, before. We began in Connecticut. Things were bright and nice that weekend. All the green of Connecticut was very lush and it caught me by surprise. I did not feel much to prove nor a need to get all on the defensive. I wrote stories outside of myself, and I was pleased to find an escape. There was a castle over the river ferry in lush and luminous New England spring and it reminded me of somewhere further South and of a life that stretched out all human and endless. I didn't mean to leave again. I didn't mean to cycle on and on and on. We went further South. Bahamas then Miami. It wasn't so much a thing of irresponsibility or of being in a cult as it was, having lots of friends and being given a gift. Drops of water in a wave don't move with the wave, they simply jostle around in place with the wind. He read this aloud to me from my book like this was news and I was stupid. I'm not stupid, I said. His face became crestfallen like he was surprised to find me harsh. I'm sorry for being careless with the only thing in the world I know to be true, I said. My mind was moving too fast but it might have just been the sterile setting and the dehydration. I left New York and I landed in a place where I should never be. It was a bit of impulsivity and a bit of an exercise in absurdity and camp perhaps, though none of it is ever really my decision with these things and these trips. There Are Casinos Everywhere For Those With Eyes To See. There are golf cart highways and fake black marble lounge tables and a DJ saying Let's Get It Started with no irony. There is plenty of sun, too but the rejuvenative qualities of light become quite negated when filtered off of all this pale concrete. Ancestral memory or something of the sort, but I was really craving foggy pine forests by the gray ocean. What was it they were saying in El Salvador? The teachings on light and life from the Bitcoin Doctor in El Salvador were proven to be true because Las Vegas was so palpably optimized to be terrible. They were saying a lot of things in El Salvador, but I did feel like there is something almost nefarious in the Casino-Desert air, here. We took the plane to Miami after that. I'm obscuring the timelines, a bit, again. I rediscovered Privacy and Fiction at right about the same time. I rediscovered golf course concrete roads and mind numbing sun and privacy and fiction and now I'd like to write what happens next but it all begins to feel a bit stilted. The Beachcomber was kind of party party party and bottomless brunch in the lobby and windows that opened onto all that green jungle Miami swim week bottle service ceviche room service drifting around the paths outdoors taking short sharp breaths. The Betsey was more colonial, like a maze, they considered themselves to be bookish and we moved there for the purpose of manufacturing stability and more cheer. Iris came over in the afternoon. I picked her up in the lobby. I dove for my boyfriend's lost coral in the pool downstairs. The skin off my chest burned easily. I lay on the deck of the pool on the roof with a virgin bloody mary for electrolytes, and a spicy watermelon margarita for a self destructive haze. How are you doing, Iris asked. What are your favorite foods, Iris asked. Octopus, apples, apple pie lamb chops with mint jelly, creamed spinach, a certain type of barbeque salmon, a whole roast chicken. It was funny to say Best Day Of My Life because I cried a million billion tears and now we’re swimming in the moonlight off Miami Beach. I like the club scene pulsing behind all the crescent moon glow and waves. It’s a shame about that night and that day. The resurrection has been unsteady but it’s like Kygo and a palm grove and a cityscape behind me, and all blue dark ocean and saturns return to the front. There was a moment there where I lost every piece of everything good. Gulps of water and air. I pull it all back. Sunday, June 1 The flight back from Miami is gray and swift. I spent the evening on the rooftop at The Betsy yesterday. Iris asked me for the list of my favorite foods. Octopus, apples, apple pie, lamb chops with mint jelly, creamed spinach, a certain type of barbeque salmon, a whole roast chicken. The concrete by the pool bar was hot and steamy and we didn’t bring identification and we would not be served. David bought us bloody marys and we drank them behind the tarp where the bartenders couldn’t see. I swam laps up and down and up and down the length of this pool that was mostly for drinking. I found Chanel sunglasses while standing barefoot in the bathroom and I returned them to the French girl. It’s like I’ve been immune to the permanence of ramifications of the things that are really bad, these days. I keep forgiving and I keep on being forgiven. They gave me free Pina Colada samples in little plastic cups. Ok Intense Girl, he was saying, because every time I would pop my head out of the water to say the things I thought, it would be with beady eyes and a determined stare. I like ice cream particularly matcha ice cream and I like lamb, Iris told me. Iris taught me about Gnosticism, and I believe this is somewhat aligned with the situation with me and him, though he thinks it's kind of sacrilegious when I equate my nightmares with mysticism, or when I attribute the interest that people who are kind of half of this world and half of another take in me to anything other than high agreeability and openness. Iris and I walked along Ocean Drive to Kalamata way down South Beach, and then we walked back along the water. A writing retreat, a rave, apocalyptic undertones. You can’t choose solitude and practicality at the edge of an extinction event, is one of many roots of it. I walked barefoot along the boardwalk. I met him for a second dinner. The ribeye was bloody and it came with a gross side of pasta alfredo. I woke up screaming. I woke up all smiles. I took photos of our hands on the plane Just In Case. I showed him a song. The Message. Is this a good song, or is this a secret message, he asked. It’s just a good song, I said. The frat guys in front of us on the plane are reading A Court of Thorns and Roses smut novels and buying tickets to Jake Shane's comedy tour. The guy on my boyfriend's phone intercom is stealing all my LA Apparel underwear from our lobby. I'm eating the Worst Sandwich Ever and Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. I am taking pictures of our reflections in the clouded plane window and I am thinking about how impossible it feels right now, flying like this, to imagine that so often, we become something else. Monday, June 2 I read some GirlInsides on the airtrain back from JFK who I think is just like me if I were more honest and precise about it, or maybe whom my stories would echo more precisely if I did not have this sick need to put my face all over everything. Anyways, GirlInsides was talking about how summer would bring things like long long long hair and farmers market plums eaten over the sink in underwear and writing and reading all over the place, and her ideas made me feel like I was melting and going to cry. Then I wrote what I wanted summer to bring, all - getting off the subway because it's too hot and walking in sandals sticking to my feet until i find somewhere that glows right and then its morning and we're sitting first then lying down on the terrace in sun that becomes unbearable drinking sparkling water out of glass bottles dripping it over my chest opening the door for the blast of air conditioning and to let the friends that come by in and out people floating by in and out and come and go and then at dusk i put on something green and i drink cold cider cold diet coke or spicy watermelon margarita outside at kikis in swan room away from the heat at vol de nuit with fries and garlic sauce on the roof, on my roof, in the backyards and basements and i walk out and walk everywhere when it is time to leave i leave and sometimes it is time to leave and so then I take the train and there’s the coast and then I’m putting laundry on the line in a black bikini and drinking diet coke with lemon in my black bikini and driving to the ocean down the driveway at night headlights breaking through june gloom fog and jumping off the dock where the sharks don't eat us but any summer now they could, or then it's morning and i'm sober writing in my google docs journal walking outside, writing in my greenhouse apartment in new york, writing along the overgrown pond and field and it always smells thicker there outside of boston, writing by foggy shores and rocky shores and sometimes the air becomes thick too and my dad plays dougie mclain and we make pesto pasta mozzarella chicken sausage in yellow china bowls on yellow placemats the meal gets kind of hazy through the sheen of blue hour rain coming through the window and then i'm pacing and writing down ocean drive in Miami because I can't decide where i want to be anymore and i like flashing lights i like coming back to the very nice very cold hotel that we're staying in because he's Sorry but I don't want any more apologies i want this summer to be Being very very very in love because i really have been anticipating extinction events or at least things become robotic sterile i used to think id be pretty good at both being in love like this and at not being robotic and sterile and i have become slightly above average at both these things in practice i guess though, it's nice to have the most human thing in the world, it's nice for me all the time, even then, even when it isn't for him i think it's nicer for me then it would be to not have this all the time and I don't know why i keep sabotaging the only thing i know to be true and human and so i am hoping for a summer of all that, hands pressed against the plane window greenhouse window train window glass mirror glassy water plunging my face underwater no more eb and flow. Anyways, none of that made any sense and then shock of all shocks it did eb and flow again last night. Everyone was so nice to me about my story and I wore the Nasseau, Bahamas shirt he bought for me all Life Is Better In FlipFlops and he wanted me to wear the sunglasses too, to exacerbate the bit but I thought that would be a little bit too far. He said “you know why I’m mad at you” when we got home, and I didn’t know, I had no idea actually, and so then I got sad, but the story was fiction. This is fiction too. I’m not being facetious when I say that. This isn’t even autofiction. This is literally all made up. “they seem lost and completely clueless,” he is saying now, downstairs, on the phone, he is talking about some forty year old woman and an awful charleton and some guy who does RedPill posting online and some guy he personally has a strong dislike for who has a lot of medical malpractice suits against him. Maybe he’s a genius, he is saying. I don’t know, he is saying. These people are so strange, he is saying. Tuesday, June 3 His friend rubs my head like i'm a dog or something when i walk into his stupid fake exclusive evil party that i'm not invited to and then my heart swells with rage. I'm so mad, I was telling everyone. I'm so sorry I didn't mean to say that I guess I had one too many, I was saying. I didn't have one too many, I had just right, I was telling him. I like The Sweet East, he is telling me. I like Yeats and social norms. Yes and, I say; I hope that you get everything you have ever wanted. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, June 9 A quiet night in the realm of events. Consider; dinner at The Marlton’s new restaurant Chez Nous followed by a screening of Buffalo 66 at Metrograph (10pm). I have historically liked The Marlton because it is vaguely past its prime and also a five minute walk from my apartment, and a place where no one ever tells you that you’ve stayed too long. The food at the old restaurant was terrible (so I’ve heard) (I only went for tea), but the recently refurbished Chez Nous is chic and fun and has maintained all of the hotel's original charm. The shrimp salad is very good, as is the martini. I’ll report back after my second visit (possibly tonight). Otherwise - 10pm on a Monday evening is the perfect time to see a film bar none, besides, possibly 1pm on a Friday.

Ciel Chapman2 mentions across 2 issues

Ciel Chapman is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between October 27, 2025 and December 22, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Gold Ciel Chapman A-line dress"; "Perfect Ciel Chapman little gold dress". It most often appears alongside Celia, New York, Night Club 101.

Article page: Ciel Chapman
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: October 27, 2025
Last seen: December 22, 2025

Issue trail

Autumn Secrets October 27, 2025
The social experiment is now over December 22, 2025

Celia 2 shared issues
New York 2 shared issues
Night Club 101 2 shared issues
424 Broadway 1 shared issues
Advil 1 shared issues

Source context

Autumn Secrets

October 27, 2025 · Original source

Gold Ciel Chapman A-line dress.

December 22, 2025 · Original source

Perfect Ciel Chapman little gold dress (similar: here) (but it’s not that similar because I found the best one)

Inline links: here

Cinq-a-Sept2 mentions across 2 issues

Cinq-a-Sept is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between December 02, 2025 and December 22, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "I wore Cinq-a-Sept Christmas dress for a few days in a row"; "I wore the Cinq-a-Sept holiday dress". It most often appears alongside Celia, Hudson River, New York.

Article page: Cinq-a-Sept
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: December 02, 2025
Last seen: December 22, 2025

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

Florida, Massachusetts (03) December 02, 2025
The social experiment is now over December 22, 2025

Celia 2 shared issues
Hudson River 2 shared issues
New York 2 shared issues
Night Club 101 2 shared issues
98th Academy Awards 1 shared issues

Source context

December 02, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday 7:45am and I am lying very still in my clean crisp bed like it’s a haven or a ship that will float me above and away from the clutter around me. Lying with my head pulled under white bamboo sheets, so I don’t have to see anything other than white noise and whatever I decide to fire up on my phone all around me. Reading Girl Insides live blogging her breakup on my phone this morning, and I do feel envious of the corporeal and anonymous ways in which her brand of compulsive documentation flows. Feeling kind of vague and emotionless after a weekend that was here there everywhere, and I let myself really be sucked into it which is always how it goes but one needs to be careful. I wore Cinq-a-Sept Christmas dress for a few days in a row, and there was dinner in a dark wood uptown apartment and there was a sunrise over the Hudson River and I kind of don’t want to write it like a sequence of events. I kind of hope to talk about the architectures of things and why they happen as they do. On my phone, Girl Insides is in Hollywood and breathing in jasmine and perfect fog and smog and panzanella crackers. All of a sudden everything that happens in my life is up to me, Girl Insides says. Well, me too for the first-time-ever, but it becomes more difficult this way. Perhaps I’ll go to surf in San Diego with Emma. Perhaps I’ll go to Kazakhstan or Tbilisi, Georgia or at least commit myself to no more losing days following wherever the wind blows me. I’ll be in Florida, Massachusetts, anyways this week. A spooky little town. They cursed the Amtrak towards Western, Massachusetts last year. Strangers yelling at me as we sat in dark seats hurdling through the night with train snacks of hot dog and coca cola and chips that came in perfect little packages that one unboxes in the dining car. A girl threw herself at the walls of the train on the platform as it pulled out of Moynihan Station. She bounced off the train and was removed unscathed. The conductor announced that they’d lost the crew somewhere around Albany. I walked into a doctors office and I recognized the dermatologist’s twisted and frozen face as the woman who’d been screaming on a night train heading out of New York. And all of this is just to say that everything was kind of cursed and still is sometimes, but I am trying to find omens in the more beautiful and serendipitous sorts of patterns and symbols and signs. In the hotel lobby, Celia told me to be less vague about it. Either say what you mean or don’t. So I do believe everything that I have ever been told. Which is mostly just to say that before I believed everything bad, I believed everything good. Tuesday We drove from New York to The Berkshires this morning. I stopped at Broadway Bagels and then at a farmstand and now we are here. So, these are the things that have happened. No curses and no omens. The house we can see outside the long glass window got painted green and now it totally fades into the woods. That’s nice, everyone says. That’s so much nicer, now. It’s brilliant blue-gray outside the long glass windows now that the snow has stopped and it is settling into very early afternoon dusk. I am lying by the fire that is crackling louder when the furnace is on and quieter when it isn’t. The Eames chair is empty behind me and the lamps overhead are big yellow orbs, hanging from the slanted wooden ceilings. There are things I could do here. Mass MoCA museum and my favorite James Turrell works there that change with morning and evening light. Or, The Clarke Art Museum and I can hear whispers of a textile show that others are bundling up to go see downstairs, but I think I would prefer to just stay put. There is a Tourists Hotel by the North Adams airport, which is a motel that turned fancy, with individual bungalows looking out at the river and a restaurant that looks like a home inside, all fireplaces and craft drinks and lots of little rooms. There is the alpaca farm up the road and there is Hopkins Forest and Pine Cobble and the Appalachian Trail and the sauna room by the river and trees like skeletons waving in the fading daylight just past my peripheral vision. I drove to Graylock Works when we got here to do ballet and yoga in an old mill and then I drove to the gas station and then to the local hotel lobby where I sat incognito for a moment watching families in autumn dresses and long jackets filter in and out and in and out and then I drove home. I’ve been here for a while. It’s nice to find a house that I can float through. It’s nice that when I look around I see something aside from four small walls. A blizzard just began. It is strange, because the snow is flying horizontally in the Southbound wind, but the trees suddenly appear to be standing perfectly still. Wednesday Field Notes from Florida, Massachusetts and my Google Docs Diary: I woke up this morning and I cleansed my face and put on toner and then guasha with rose oil and then red light therapy while stretching.

Inline links: Girl Insides

December 22, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, December 15 Woke up to snow feeling self possessed, self determined, and ill, and so I’ll hold onto this for a while, I think. Everyone keeps on telling me what I should do next, to which I say: o.k. Everything is kind of medium levels of certain, these days. Lying on the floor last night at the after party and I could tell that people’s visions were kind of starting to spin but I have needed, personally, to be more solid about it. I have needed, personally, to keep my own vision clear. You can look at her face and see she’s not a good writer, the boys were saying, last night, about someone, can’t remember who. Can we just talk about pretty girls who are good writers?, the boys were asking the group. I wasn’t fishing for compliments. Just kind of sitting there watching everything because my only real goal here is to be observational and not prescriptive. There’s not a role to be filled if you want God to love what you do, someone was saying. If you want the angels to sing you have to eat the script. Angels weren’t really on the mind as I drifted home, more consumed with things like self improvement and hand selecting a new addiction and a caution to the wind sort of impulse. Potions washed up at my doorstep this morning. Sparkling ICEE water and Advil and fever chills which come as blessings when one reads them as signs. Anyways, magical blue hour snowy dusk over Washington Square Park on the way uptown tonight, and since everything changed this summer or really three days ago in a way that is true, I have started to imagine something else. The Christmas party was in an apartment around the corner from Saint Vincent Ferrer Roman Catholic Church off Lexington Ave, last night. The apartment was open-concept with big windows and a pine tree and roaring fire, poached salmon, chocolate chip cookies and a beautiful bed on which everyone lay their beautiful coats. I wanted to stay there forever, as I always do in places that I like. I wore the Cinq-a-Sept holiday dress and the big wool coat I’ve been donning for weeks now, and I wore pearls, too, which is something new. Everything was slippery and bright and better and kind of like a dream, but I don’t want to get complacent. When I moved to New York, I lived in Yorkville where I could not sleep and where the streets were too muted and it made me uneasy. In the Lower East Side, in an apartment I hated, I was given a whole new life, and there, nothing was muted and everything was windy and cold. The wind made me kind of crazy, as wind tends to do. I was airlifted out of that apartment, ultimately, which I suppose is what I’ve kind of been praying for, here, in a space that is my own and good except for; the bed faces a fluorescent hallway and there is no room for a couch or even really a trash can. I’m seeking clarity for kind of selfish but partly religious reasons. And I’m sick of writing about the things I own or once did. On the end of the year; it is kind of pointless to say anything at all when things were fast then slow then impossible to recall, and all of this is just to say that I hope I’ve been sincere. Almost midnight, and so I go to Caffe Reggio, where things are small and precise and decked in holiday cheer, cozier even than the hotel lobby. Resolutions are: everything beautiful. And more stories that flow like water, obviously. The night is crisp and cool and I care to be extremely alert. Tuesday, December 16 Celia left the scene because she was good at noticing when things became embarrassing, and I resonated with the principle but still could not help but to hover. Nothing was embarrassing, anymore, Matthew reminded me, because everything was dead in the water and then it wasn’t and then it was and now, he suspected a new wave. Last year at this time I had to beg girls to come to parties, Matthew sighed. He gestured around the very crowded and warm bar and towards the people standing and sitting in circles and filtering in and out and the elderly Italian birthday party in the backroom. This is nothing like last year, he insisted. In the Financial District, everything was FAKE. Fake little streets and old-timey bars and I only realized the facade of it all because I walked by a Christmas Tree and the sign at its edges sent the whole charade tumbling down. EVEN THE CHRISTMAS TREE IS FAKE, the sign said. In the freezing cold, the most freezing day of the year so far, Celia and I got burgers at a small and new seafood spot. Celia wore three pops of red (bag, tights, gloves), and I wore all black. After the reading, where the stories were good and where more and more people kept materializing as if out of dust by the door, I bought three books and then sat on what seemed to be a bike rack in the back of a van driving towards the Lower East Side. Ducked my head so it wouldn’t slam into the van ceiling on every bump. The views became Real again, driving out of toy-house-town simulation FiDi, and then the bridges were glowing and the streets were full of snow and I was writing on my phone, kind of just humming to myself and mostly just saying the same things in my head over and over and over again; everything clear and everything sweet. Cold and windy winter where the elements make me kind of lose my mind. Sober minded mania. I am drawn to these kinds of things. The thing about this winter is that everyone has been going crazy. Me first, but then I learned how to put a stop to it. Sophia gave me a white rose at the Marlton Hotel in the morning, and then I found it kind of crumpled in the recesses of my bag. Petals floating everywhere and we’d moved to a different bar by then, somewhere kind of velvety and sleek and my friends and I were the only people there. Matthew was talking about people who fabricate enemies out of neutral acquaintances who just didn’t want to be their friends. A sad sort of thing, but you can’t feel too bad about someone who decides to turn evil. Dimes Square was a two year operation to get [redacted] laid, Matthew was saying. The experiment is now over. The social experiment is now over, and now you can all go home. Wednesday, December 17 I have decided to take the rest of the winter floating and soaring. Orange leaves turning brown outside the open window. Little gold watch and swan and cross and green Dartmouth Tercentenary tile and white Lake Neuchatel winter landscape postcard propped against the windowsill. So, if clarity is the thing that is most important above all, then you know what has to give. I will play “Garden Botanum” and “Come Undone” and “When Autumn Leaves” and everything by Dougie Mcclean and watch as things become crisper and more into focus. It’s important to only make a promise once and then keep it. It’s important to not be so vague about all of it going forward. Very precise and very discerning. That can be what a winter is like. I watch the light and shadows shift and shudder off my walls and bad-feng-shua hallway for some hours. I walk to the gym and I feel normal. Water and hyperpop music and images of faces sheathed in light or maybe armor all around. The television is falling off its hinges at the gym, and so the mantras on the walls are all skewed. COMMIT TO SOMETHING. REACT TO NOTHING. I’ve been culling mantras from the internet. I’ve been making lists of all my friends and everything kind I have to say about them. I’ve been making lists of all the ways I’ve maybe wronged others but have never been wronged myself. Sitting in a basement that’s illuminated blue watching films last night. Sitting in a conversation pit all day and all night for most moments of this week. Sitting under holly and cranberry and splintering wood and dried wasps nests and flowers and everything sparkling and snowy outside, soon, next week. There’s a few more dinners before that. The last days of gluttony but everyone seems over it. Sitting around dimly lit tables and everyone keeps talking about the ways we used to be. We used to wake up with crumbling Prada purses at the foot of our beds, overflowing with candy and mascara and all the things we didn’t remember stealing the night before. We used to be at the gym before dawn. I used to get along with people who viewed things as linear. I’ve always known the happiest days of my life to be exactly what they are, even as they are happening. Slipping away. There are other things, too. What do you think your new addiction will be?, Celia asks me. Something unrelated to consumption, I tell Celia. Something kind of manic and empty?, Celia asks me. It’s not so bad to think about what you want in strictly material terms, I tell Celia Thursday, December 18 THINGS I PROCURED THIS YEAR IN STRICTLY MATERIAL TERMS Silk long sleeve Ganni top

Inline links: Silk long sleeve Ganni top

CVS2 mentions across 2 issues

CVS is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between January 13, 2025 and January 14, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "from the CVS next door"; "We go to CVS for baby food and tooth brushes and nicotine gum". It most often appears alongside Los Angeles, 169 Bar, 4chan.

Article page: CVS
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: January 13, 2025
Last seen: January 14, 2026

Issue trail

Life before inositol January 13, 2025
How To Break Paralysis January 14, 2026

Los Angeles 2 shared issues
169 Bar 1 shared issues
4chan 1 shared issues
56 Henry 1 shared issues
99 Minutes of 2026 1 shared issues

Source context

Inline links: “Josephine the Singer, or the Mouse Folk”, Big Bar, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!Wp05!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F9a23d264-68fb-4db9-aada-e135b8a1ffb2_1200x1600.jpeg, Tense, Altro Paradiso, The Angel - L.A. Fires — How to Help

January 13, 2025 · Original source

Tuesday, January 7 After briefly losing one's mind, simple tendrils of thought that gesture towards sanity become disproportionately lovely. I’m reading Kafka, still - my godforsaken piece on Kafka coming out next week and then I can abandon these stories for good. It’s been nice to delve deeply into a topic, nice to hate everything I have to say so much that I rephrase it over and over again, nice to consider language with an eye towards cognizance, towards if it actually makes any sense. Most of the time, I write and speak out of necessity, or even, desperation. Clearing the mind. Purging the soul. I am a diarist - self indulgent. Or perhaps, it’s just something else entirely. It’s something different than an artistic practice. Criticism and fiction necessitate at least grasping towards some idealized form of clarity. Writing about writing - awful, boring, should never be done. For now, it’s like I'm in highschool. Reading “Josephine the Singer, or the Mouse Folk” under the comforter with a reading lamp turned all the way up. It’s still early afternoon but it’s too cold, too windy, the draft is vicious through the greenhouse roof. I have my head under the blankets and so it’s like a simulation of evening. David keeps the reading lamp set to soft orange light, and so it’s like a simulation of candlelight, too. I’m exhausted and so I’m stretching reality. I’m stretching a story out of thin air. Now, I’ll go to pilates and stretch on an empty floor. I’ll go get nail polish remover from the boxes on the highest shelf or, if missing, from the CVS next door. Kafka’s Josephine is a wretched character. She possesses a firm belief in her own entitlement to a life of leisure on account of her artistic talents, but of course she lives in a time where wretched conditions have rendered real artistic talents inconceivable. She is not only un-talented, but also a fraud. There are notes that could be made about self-recognition in this spoiled, awful, regrettable character, but I’m sparing myself. We go to Big Bar in the evening. I've never been before, but it seems to be a spot that people know about. I knew it would be these people here, my friend says when we walk in. I don’t really recognize anyone, but that's often how these things go. The bit with Big Bar is that it's actually an extremely small bar. It's all drenched in red light and there’s a tiny DJ booth by the front window and it's cash only, the drinks are not terribly strong, but they are cheap. Someone has a small dog in a carrier in their arms, but no one seems to notice aside from us. This seems like a spot for old heads - of which I am not, but I enjoy the company of. Wednesday, January 8 Meeting with Beckett and Jonah this morning at Caffe Reggio to discuss Tense - Reggio is full and so Beckett suggests Dante. It’s not like he remembered it, now. It’s a coffee shop, he says, but it’s a cocktail bar now. Expensive green and red martinis in thin glasses whirling through the room even now, at two pm. They still let us sit for coffee. I have an interview after. Madelyn texts me. At Altro Paradiso at 3pm, they are saying goodbye to the head chef. I’ve gone to Altro Paradiso a few times recently, because Madelyn works there mostly, although even independent of that it’s the best food I’ve had in New York in a while. Today, I was in a rush, the plans were last minute. I'm still wearing my workout clothes and their ‘archival lululemon’ - hand-me-downs from a closet of a friend of my mothers when I was about thirteen years old. The shirt is striped and black and white and a small band bearing slogans like “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” folds up or down at the hem, depending on how flagrantly antisocial you feel like being on that particular day. I’m keeping the band folded under today. I’m wildly underdressed but it’s afternoon, the restaurant isn’t even technically open yet. There’s a toast to the chef and I’m the only outsider in attendance and so I stay at the bar while the group of staff and friends and family assemble. It’s very special, even to bear witness to as someone uninvolved. There’s a heart and soul to food and drink and service that other industries, even creative industries, really don’t have in the same way. I’m a tiny bit tipsy, now. I need to start hostessing again. I make this note on my phone: “NEED TO START HOSTESSING AGAIN!!!!” We stay at Altro Paradiso til dinner starts, and we continue to stay till it feels like dinner is about to end. Everything is magical - the alla prima cocktail, wine, dirty martini, pane e ricotta, salad with figs and dates, octopus, olives, oysters under beds of thinly sliced veggies, malfatti (which is pasta that is like little pillows), linguine al nero (which is pasta with squid ink and cuttlefish and basil), a few deserts - pistachio ice cream and the pear cake. The afternoon turns to a sparkling evening. I walk home. I go elsewhere, after - fun too, but I probably shouldn’t have. I should probably learn when to call an evening. Decadence in excess, turns all that sparkles sour. Thursday, January 9 It's been the same day on repeat so far this year. The same three days, really. Rinse and do it again. The year has only held nine days. I can't view my stagnation with too much harshness. Decadence, in contrast, should be viewed with harshness. Los Angeles is burning up and it feels uncouth to talk about this here as this tragedy is not my life, but I can't stop watching. Most emotions are triggered through all five senses - it's a strange feeling of muted horror to see destruction of places and lives you know on a screen, detached from your physical experience but visible in real time in your cognizant mind - peripheral vision. I accidentally get stuck in the Louis Vuitton x Murakami line in SoHo. I accidentally steal a pair of Split sweatpants from the gym. I accidentally read all the books on the 4chan 2024 Top 100 Lit Board list. I'm on tiktok watching videos of the apocalypse overlaid with Lana del Rey audio. I’m browsing r/lainfluencersnark and they have a lot to say about the way their parasocial relationships are handling the apocalypse. I tried to write something about phones and chaos and end times but it was silly. These are resources / writing from people in LA. The Angel - L.A. Fires — How to Help

January 14, 2026 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, January 5 Start the year at Cassandra’s apartment, and then a few days pass kind of breathless and stranded in this way. Her bedroom looks over St Vincent’s Ferrer, and it is light filled and sweet. Cards and paper star cut outs hung on red ribbon stream down the edges of the cream walls. A seashell necklace, Mary Magdalene portrait, books of Adorno and Mary Gaitskill. The bible. When my friends leave for the day, I do not. Rush of opening doors and boots on wood and winter air, and then they are gone. Cassandra’s apartment is very clean. It strikes me, somewhat uneasily, that everything I touch appears slightly less precise when I’m the one returning it to its proper place. Face oil left off kilter and kind of dripping. A little bit bad at treading gently in this place where I am a guest and everything is delicate and gorgeous. Wearing my friend’s Adidas pajamas and drinking water and taking Advil in thick blue translucent pill form. Writing down the things I no longer care to reflect on. A lot can happen in a year, I tell Cassandra, but then again, a lot can happen in one day or one hour or one minute, even, so best to be kind of chill about it. We go to Heidelberg for herring and brown bread and hot raspberries in ice cream and apple strudel at night. We go to CVS for baby food and tooth brushes and nicotine gum. The evenings uptown are more sparkling and quiet. Back at the apartment, and I can’t stop talking about all the things I want to do or places I want to move. California, Switzerland, El Salvador. Uptown, to a four bedroom apartment with my four best friends. Lying on Cassandra’s couch wearing a blue sweater under a gray blanket and drinking flower power kombucha this morning. Cassandra gets ready for work and offers general hospitality. Eat any fruits and vegetables you want, Cassandra tells me. She lists them like a game. Ad libs. She was teaching me how to type cast a person as “Lego” or “Dust Bowl” or “Victorian Orphan,” last night. Blueberries, shallots, pickles, seeded mustard from the Amish farm stand. I tell Cassandra that she’ll come home to find I have devoured all of her arugula with my bare hands. Later, I wear Cassandra’s blue sweater and black ballet flats and take my own belongings clutched in my arms in a cab downtown. Am I crazy, or did you take my black ballet flats, Cassandra texts, that evening. We discuss an exchange. Tomorrow’s plans. My polyester black gown bartered for Cassandra’s blue sweater and black ballet flats. We’ll meet at mass, lunch, The Frick, The Met, the play, the party. The light is blue gray in my apartment, and all the windows steam over when the hot water is on. All the windows steam over because my apartment is very small, and because the bathroom has no doors. A New Year should feel psychedelic, not sluggish, one of my friends said, a few days back. Psychedelic??? I said. What about crisp and clear???? After my dream where there is No Air Left, I come to consciousness with concerns about redemption. Something about bad habits and something omnipresent left unsaid. Sun and light and real sort of detox incoming and yes this has all happened or is happening or needs to happen soon. Sirens outside the foggy window. Gentle winter sunrise. Watching Darling (1965) on my computer as it gets light outside. The Schlesinger film where Julie Christie whirls about all thrilled to find it’s not too late, even though, of course, it is. Back on my phone, I’m checking prediction markets and trackers and fortune tellers and all the things I’m trying to avoid for religious and also paranoid reasons. My fears are all confirmed. Reading the stars. That voice in your head telling you everything will work out fine is wrong, they say. Sound of shattering glass crystallizing outside my open window this morning. I can sense, therefore, more than see, bright morning light starting to seep through. Thank God. It was a few days of gluttony last week. Last days of bohemia, but it was different from the bohemia of before. Different from the times that we were all manic from the wind and cold and early January where everything or nothing happens all at once. Everything used to be reeling. I miss Butterfly Club. Ex-best friends are forever. I’ve been talking about being ascetic for reasons of necessity, and also because simulated intensity can only do so much when it comes to keeping a life pure. Morning, now, and I don’t remember my dreams but I jolted awake ready to chase the same thoughts in circles. Washington Square Park is bright and feeling like spring today, because the snow is melting and the trees and lights are coming down. Pine piles looking a little lonely under the park archway. Something a bit melancholy about it. Dead and gone. Nothing to overthink. Cassandra comes downtown for mass and black ballet flat retrieval, and then she goes uptown to clean her apartment and do good things so she can be a good person. Your apartment is already so clean, I want to tell Cassandra. Cassandra is telling me about the only girl in the world who are funny. I went to tell Cassandra about someone who said me and one other girl and one specific nun are only girls who are funny, but the conversation moves on before I can assert my piece. And I think I’m mostly funny when I’m being mimetic, anyway. Better at knowing funny than at being funny myself. Cassandra is telling me about childlike wonder. Washed my face with La Rouche Possay cleanser and Japanese milk toner and did Big 6 Lymphatic drainage which is supposed to do things like give you the whites of your eyes back and also cleanse your insides through and through, this morning. Procured a Celsius and cool minty zyn from the fridge. Procured green juice and cliff bar and sat in Prada boots, for a while, on the edge of my bed. I do feel confident things will work out in the end, Cassandra texts me. Only if no spiritual blockage with vice or isolation, I text her in response. What if we had seven more hours of daylight, my friend said tonight, but I like it when it is four pm and I’ve completed my day of obligations and the fading daylight matches a sense of completion. I wore a tan skirt with no tights because they all keep running and a black long sleeve tee and sneakers to do venue tours and other obligations. I thought you were coming from the gym when I saw you wearing shorts, my friend said, after I ran into him on the street. I’m not wearing shorts, but I am wearing sneakers because I keep on procuring mysterious injuries, I said in response. It was a strange December and then a good January, incoming. Good, because it is quiet. Good, because I think I sense things picking up. Can I see a menu, I asked the bartender, at a dive bar, later that night. There is no menu, because this is a dive bar, the bartender told me. Can I get something warm, I asked. The bartender fired up the kettle. Imagine seeking out attention to get only the negative aspects of fame like stalkers and rage, my friends were saying, at the dive bar. Imagine selling out your friends to cloy for low hanging fruit. Imagine turning twenty-six. Imagine playing pool. Imagine moving to Los Angeles, California, or San Salvador, El Salvador, or Geneva, or even Austin I would move anywhere, I was saying to my friends. I would move across the country or even the world and become very sweet or even very bored. My friends were talking about people for whom spectacle is just real life. You assume that everyone is excited to go back to real life, and then you realize that they have no real life. So these are the people that you’re supposed to avoid. And then after that, everyone was talking about religion again. Which is sort of crystallizing to be the topic these days, or even this year. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, January 14 A few good downtown art openings tonight (6pm - 9pm) — At 56 Henry; works by Yifan Jiang and Sareh Imani. At Entrance; Seth Cameron’s first New York exhibition in six years. At Post Times; Elberto Muller solo show.

Inline links: 56 Henry, Yifan Jiang, Sareh Imani, Entrance;, Seth Cameron’s, Post Times, Elberto Muller

Depop2 mentions across 2 issues

Depop is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between February 03, 2025 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "drop off a few Depop packages and refresh, refresh, refresh the stats"; "a few Depop packages and refresh, refresh, refresh the stats"; "Brandy Melville depop boatneck long sleeve dress". It most often appears alongside Catholicism, Chinatown, El Salvador.

Article page: Depop
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: February 03, 2025
Last seen: March 06, 2026

Outbound links

Issue trail

Dream Logic February 03, 2025
Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

Catholicism 2 shared issues
Chinatown 2 shared issues
El Salvador 2 shared issues
Hudson River 2 shared issues
Los Angeles 2 shared issues

Source context

February 03, 2025 · Original source

Wednesday, January 29 I would like to put away this phone, I think. Warmer, today. They’ve left the windows open at the coffee shop. I told you it was starting to feel like spring. I told you it would be all spring-like in the depth of winter, soon. Sunlight filtering, filtering, filtering, through the roof at home. The roof and the windows. It’s all one and the same. It’s a new moon tonight. Lunar New Year tonight. You put your head under the covers and filter out the sun. You like it because it is warm but also - the blue light of your phone can absorb your entire vision at any hour, here, in this makeshift tent. I am not of the Escape The Internet train of thought. It’s designed to addict you but then, well, having some fucking discipline. On my phone, I see people saying things like - “there is no ‘on your phone’, just another layer of constant consciousness”. And in real life I think things like - you should separate it if you can, you should know real life if you can but, to leave it all behind - impossible, because it will always be right there, and you could still do things like walk down the street and understand the street as purely physical but then, look around you, look at the other people, look at the surroundings they are absorbing and none of them are real, none of them are there, and so you can’t just stand on this street and get it, understand it, all offline. I don’t really want to get it anymore. My mornings could be real, they could be with just a little discipline and a touch of joie de vivre. They aren’t real, really, because I’m making makeshift Blue Light tents to filter out the sunlight, but then, I’m working on this. Blue, blue, blue sky today. Doomers previews, tonight. Biohacker meetup tonight. Bryan Johnson in Interview Magazine tonight. I like to do things like drink six teas with six Splenda each, and then I like to act very harsh with myself and others regarding the principles of a life well lived. Year of the snake. What do you think about that...? All this talk about discipline, and my afternoon is all drop off a few Depop packages and refresh, refresh, refresh the stats on a piece that I didn’t even write. There’s a hazy little run in the afternoon. There’s some bad news, or, news that is more irritating, really. Ruby spreads the word: "do not take my advice about eating lots of honey," she says. Ok. Ok, it's all protein now, then. David takes me to a strange party tonight. An interloper arrives, and he is chased out at sword point. It is insane how quickly the tides turn. You said the things that you didn’t mean, again. It wasn't supposed to happen like this, but then, it never is. You wrote today, earlier, about how - things were good, better, but you didn't want to get too cocky because remember what you were capable of really not too long ago, it was only a few weeks back, but it felt so distant. And then, tonight, again... Thursday, January 30 And then it's ok. Well, it's not, but it can be. You’ve been taking for granted that it will be ok, if it has to be ok. That if you care about something so, so, so deeply then it cannot possibly be destroyed, but it could, you are capable of this. It feels foreign sometimes, this force, this capacity for destruction, like it can’t belong to you, but it does, it’s no one else’s. It becomes simple, then. You can’t just say I crossed my fingers, you can’t just say I take it back. And so, no more. I'm working the door at Tense tonight, which is my favorite - both TENSE, and working doors, that is. It’s a beautiful night, and this, after everything, is a relief. Christian Lorentzen reads emails with Gary Indiana. “I now believe you can tell if the writer is part of a writing program, by looking at their teeth,” Gary told Christian. "Why does everybody love Downton Abbey?" Gary asked Christian, in another email. "Well, what's not to love? The series construction is so glibly subscribed that you know what will happen before the writers do." In another, he lamented the logistical problems surrounding his writings on Cuba - the travel ban, his lover there, etc etc etc. It's a good format for a reading - the emails thing. Correspondences brought to life. Not quite a diary, but close, more intimate, often, because one isn't writing into the void of one's own neurosis in a correspondence. Madelyn writes me an email, after. I am working on my own correspondence back, still. Mania delays the process. It's good to have a long form conversation to return to. I hope this email finds you well. This email finds me almost incapacitated, but I won't be, soon. Beckett's reading is full of empathy and wit as always. He's lamenting the narcissism of our times in his introductory speech, and his own gut impulses and the stories that follow give him the proper wherewithal to do so. I see Sean Lynch and others outside. Sean writes something nice on the evening. I see Doomers the next day - the dream logic of my thoughts following this production requiring another letter altogether WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, February 4 From 7pm at Heaven Can't Wait — Cynosure presents the first of a two night fundraiser for Los Angeles, featuring Alex Arthur, Precious Human, Truman Flyer, and more.

March 06, 2026 · Original source

Appendix: Things Brandy Melville depop boatneck long sleeve dress, Zalt electrolyte zyn, Davolls tee-shirt, Angelmoon, Imperfaite, Prada boots, Monroe suede penny loafers, Frye leather riding boot Places Thai Diner, Vince’s Cobbler, The Manhattan Club, The Marlton Hotel, Tartinery, Caffe Reggio, Dr. Clark, Swan Room Read GirlInsides, The Masque of the Read Death, Fatherland (Victoria Shorr, 2026) Watch Pi (1988), The Biggest Sabotage in History (weird documentary youtube), A Place in the Sun (1951) Listen Gregarian Chants (via Health Gossip), Tango In The Night (1987), Drasticism (2026).

Drink More Water2 mentions across 2 issues

Drink More Water is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between December 09, 2024 and February 03, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Drink More Water has been a downtown staple brand for six years. Their first ever permanent physical space"; "hosted by a plethora of cool brands... including Drink More Water". It most often appears alongside Cassidy, Confessions NYC, David.

Article page: Drink More Water
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: December 09, 2024
Last seen: February 03, 2025
Instagram handle: @nkrchtr

Outbound links

Issue trail

kind of a dud socially December 09, 2024
Dream Logic February 03, 2025

Cassidy 2 shared issues
Confessions NYC 2 shared issues
David 2 shared issues
Elena Velez 2 shared issues
HEART 2 shared issues

Source context

kind of a dud socially

December 09, 2024 · Original source

From 7pm - 10pm at 9 Monroe St — Drink.More.Water celebrates the opening of their first ever brick and mortar store. Drink More Water has been a downtown staple brand for six years. Their first ever permanent physical space is selling from Szn 6 and more. Sounds at the opening by maraschino

Inline links: Drink.More.Water, maraschino

From 10pm at 177 Mulberry — Drink More Water celebrates their End of Year Festival - “featuring indie sleaze queen Uffie live in concert. 2 levels, 3 live acts, 3 DJs, a whole heap of fun.”

Inline links: Drink More Water, End of Year Festival

February 03, 2025 · Original source

From 10pm - 4am at Le Bain — NY Alt celebrates fashion week, too. Matt Weinberger and Orson present The NY Fashion Alt Gala, hosted by a plethora of cool brands, designers, and labels including Drink More Water, and Feels Good To Do Things.

Inline links: The NY Fashion Alt Gala

From 11pm - late at Nightclub 101 (new spot where The Pyramid Club used to be) — Drink.More.Water. presents their official fashion week after party, featuring Suzy Sheer, xJermsx, Dese Escobar, Megsuperstarprincess, and Young Warhol.

Inline links: Nightclub 101, Drink.More.Water.

Evian2 mentions across 2 issues

Evian is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between December 22, 2025 and February 15, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Evian water full of bubbles and microplastics"; "Drinking Perrier not Evian because I have ambitions of aesthetic cohesion". It most often appears alongside Hudson River, New York, Night Club 101.

Article page: Evian
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: December 22, 2025
Last seen: February 15, 2026

Issue trail

The social experiment is now over December 22, 2025
Yellow-all-around February 15, 2026

Hudson River 2 shared issues
New York 2 shared issues
Night Club 101 2 shared issues
Prada 2 shared issues
Abe Shapiro 1 shared issues

Source context

December 22, 2025 · Original source

One life all at once Friday, December 19 The West Side Highway is cold and clear and empty driving home, like everyone is already gone and this night will be the last dredges of things as they were. The taxi driver is playing soft rock and the barges on the Hudson look like little houses from a distance. New York in December is like a fairytale, because most everyone leaves for real life and then you are reminded, in the lost week of the year, that none of this was ever exactly real life. There’s a red sports car doing donuts in the empty lot of Pier 76. There are three American flags blowing in the wind. Every December feels almost inconceivably distant from the one before. It’s been this way for a few years, at least, now. Mostly, this makes me feel self satisfied, and sometimes, this makes me feel sick. The wind has been crazy the past few days. It’s like a wind tunnel, specifically, driving through midtown. The river is churning. The wind is making everyone insane. I wake up to yellow overhead lights left on overnight, and they look particularly warm cast against the winter sun that filters through my windows. No curtains. In my dream, I was sitting in a Starbucks somewhere foreign, waiting on a bench next to two girls whom I did not know. The coffees were taking a while, and so the baristas kept on offering up shared bread. Something to compensate. The loaves of bread were huge and warm. The barista was throwing them overhand over the counter. The bread was soaring through the air and then landing on the floor. The other girls around me were scooping up the loaves and devouring them with their hands. They were breaking the bread in half and then tearing off a morsel for me. That landed on the floor, I was saying. Everyone shrugging. Looks of disgust. I always dream in mundanities. Wearing athleisure and mixing potions this morning, like matrixyl and Argireline and Evian water full of bubbles and microplastics and wind through the open window blowing all the dust around. I watched all the energy come roaring back for each and every false start these past few months, but it’s been a pause in the ebb and flow, now. I like when things are fascinating. Three books from the party are lying on my glass table in the center of my floor. The Champ is Here and Season of the Rat and a book called Alligator, all bought from some place called CASH 4 GOLD. Because the glass table is so big, and the room is so small, the table creates a disproportionate presence. I wonder what will change, once the glass table is gone. Bundled up and then drifted outside to procure a celsius at the bodega and now I am home, again. Listening to Kali Uchis play off my tinny computer speakers from my playlist that reminds me of hot dry desert air and CRYSTALS. Making plans that fifty-percent chance I will then cancel. Trying to finish my Florida, Massachusetts story but the tone requires a kind of gothic and spooky vibe that I am entirely unable to access right now. Everything at Los Angeles Apparel is five dollars, and so I spend the afternoon being gluttonous online. Purchasing a white tube top and a black fine jersey long sleeve and two a-line skirts and some shimmering silver earrings. Purchasing a red circle scarf for Iris, too, because she left her brand new red circle scarf in the basement at my brand new job, and I said I would find it for her but couldn’t. Unsure if I will tell her I have found the scarf, or admit to procuring a new one online. I think I will just hand it over and say nothing. Celia calls, and I tell her about cleaning my windows and live blogging my day. Careful, Celia says. It’s a good idea to talk about things like architecture, or strange observations. It is probably not a good idea to start live blogging your days. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO It’s the most program-less week of the year, and so I’m taking a week off the event call. Watch The Shop Around The Corner and make Sabayon

Inline links: The Shop Around The Corner, Sabayon

February 15, 2026 · Original source

Feeling like I am kind of on a leash Sunday, February 8 Now, I am in my room and I am feeling ok. I am lying under my big white comforter in a green cashmere sweater, black Amazon tights, tennis skirt, nothing is messy anymore. After today’s reading group, where the discussion was about Virtue and Vice, Cassandra and Olivia and some others and I walked over to Washington Square Diner. I used to frequent Washington Square Diner at night, but in the day everything was brighter and I liked it better this way. I ordered black coffee and lemon tea and was happy with this choice, as no one seemed particularly pleased with the sandwiches that they kept on trotting out. Dry chicken, huge bread. I’m a snob, I’m a snob, Olivia kept saying. Sorry, she was saying. Sorry but I just feel really fucking bored. I added splenda to my water kind of indignantly, and stirred it around feeling strange. Olivia was talking about how it’s fine to eat anything if you’re on a desert island. It’s fine to eat bacon if the desert island is the prison-of-your mind and it’s the-only-food-you-like. Cassandra was talking about how none of her friends were getting married anytime soon, and so perhaps she’d have to conjure up a wedding of her own. Yeah, sorry, I was saying. Why sorry? Cassandra asked. There was way too much food on the table, and I think that this was the part that was throwing off everybody’s vibe. There was a new Cool Sips soda shop where Pepsi is mixed with heavy cream in town, and so after lunch, there was talk of maybe we go. Maybe we go drink heavy cream and diet Pepsi. Maybe we go weightlifting. Maybe we buy cottage cheese which is calories-per-pound-per-protein-per - I never really understood these things - better than chicken. Maybe we all go home. Whilst talking about protein in ground beef and also cottage cheese and also high cholesterol versus heavy metals, Olivia reminded us that the number one health factor is joy. At home, I am sitting on the edge of my bed in a black skirt and Lafayette striped cream sweater and brown snow and salt stained Prada boots. Thinking about self fulfilling prophecies. I will not drink and I will not look particularly pretty and I will not be socially offputting and strange. I don’t need to share every word of my google doc diaries. Twenty-five-thousand words written this week in google doc diaries because I just can’t cut myself off. Real-life-diaries. Real-life-compulsions. Fake-life-blog, maybe. In the afternoon, I walk over to a kind of industrial style Japanese coffee shop to meet Lily for tea. I am wearing a thin spring coat, no gloves, and the wind chill is negative-fifteen. My face is sort of swollen as a product of bad habits, but I am hoping to blame expedited deterioration on wind burn. I run into my priest walking quickly, somewhere around West 4th. Are you crying, my priest shouts in my direction. Just cold, I say in response. I walk for twelve more minutes, and when I reach the Japanese Coffee shop, my hands are burning and there are tears streaming down my face. A product of the cold, no-emotion, I tell Lily. The coffee shop is lined with narrow benches, and Lily lets me occupy the one-free-seat because it is clear that I am feeling fragile. She hovers above me holding silver trays, pistachio milk, black coffee, chocolate chip cookies. I feel like maybe I shouldn’t move to Los Angeles, she sighs, when I finish telling her my week of whirling hotel stories. I feel like in Los Angeles, everyone pretends that they don’t care about nice things. I drink my coffee in a few big sips, and I am feeling better at talking than listening. Did you write anything down about the people my party last week, Lily asks me. I nod, and pull up my notes. Most of my friends call girls ‘girls’ I say, The people at the party called ‘girls’ ‘women.‘ Lily smiles. It’s a posture just the same. At night, at the Superbowl party, in an apartment where the walls were recently washed a sort of deep-cloud blue, and the drinks are made with vodka and coconut water and grapefruit juice and on the side, some champagne, I arrive late. I’ve been making the drinks kind of strong, which I know you like, Savannah says. The advertisements this year are all made by Artificial Intelligence. The only advertisement not visibly made by Artificial Intelligence in an anti-hate ad wherein an antisemitic attack is covered up by a blue square, and two students walk off screen in redeemed solidarity. When this advertisement begins to play, Matt suggests that we all shut up. Everyone watch the ad, he says. The advertisement finishes, and then all the boys’ phones begin to buzz. Did you just see the ad, all the boys’ friends are asking the boys. They are all really into things like hot-ticket-cultural-discourse. What did you do last night? Matt asks me, later after everyone is already all a little drunk, and I am curled up on the couch, eating pistachios, staring at the screen. I hung out with my new friends, I tell Matt. I am feeling triumphant, and a little bit sad. Who are your new friends? Matt asks. Very nice and very promising people, I tell Matt. Don’t tell anyone that I’m making new friends, I tell Matt. I won’t, Matt responds. I won’t, because it doesn’t sound like you are. Later, trying to leave, and everyone is stuck. I think your taxi is blocking mine, Matt texts. I think a cop car is blocking me. Everyone is trying to honk louder than the car before. I was playing tetris in the snow and now we’re playing tetris at the wheel. Tetris on Houston street. My taxi makes a fake-out breakaway left and I speed away. Writing everything down in my apartment, back home. My moods are very predictable. I write about systems. I’m telling my computer that it’s never really about me. Watch how the patterns repeat. Could a human girl be so good at cycles? I’m telling my computer that I’m the best human girl at cycles. I’m the best at downward spirals. I’m the best at it’s happening over and over and over again. I’m not an evil genius. Writing like I’m top-of-class (fifth grade). Writing like I’m queen of staying up late. Window is closed tonight because outside it is just too cold. Drinking Perrier not Evian because I have ambitions of aesthetic cohesion. Dream logic. Magic logic. I am too tired to miss anything, and I am too caught up in self-surveillance to be really running on anything other than vibes. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Sunday, February 15 From 8pm at Night Club 101 — Punisher returns with a post Valentine’s Day debrief. Readings by Megsuperstarprincess, Riley Mac, Nicole Sellew, Francesca D’Alessandro, Dove Ginsburg, and Ava Doorley. Party to follow with The Heaven Forever. Mélange á seven. | RSVP here.

Inline links: Night Club 101, Punisher, The Heaven Forever, here

Frye2 mentions across 2 issues

Frye is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between November 05, 2025 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Black Fry Boots — likely Frye, a well-known boot brand"; "Frye leather riding boot". It most often appears alongside Brandy Melville, Chinatown, Los Angeles.

Article page: Frye
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: November 05, 2025
Last seen: March 06, 2026

Outbound links

https://go.shopmy.us/p-45959080

Issue trail

Fever Dreams November 05, 2025
Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

Brandy Melville 2 shared issues
Chinatown 2 shared issues
Los Angeles 2 shared issues
Massachusetts 2 shared issues
New York City 2 shared issues

Source context

November 05, 2025 · Original source

No direct inline source block was recovered for this mention.

March 06, 2026 · Original source

Appendix: Things Brandy Melville depop boatneck long sleeve dress, Zalt electrolyte zyn, Davolls tee-shirt, Angelmoon, Imperfaite, Prada boots, Monroe suede penny loafers, Frye leather riding boot Places Thai Diner, Vince’s Cobbler, The Manhattan Club, The Marlton Hotel, Tartinery, Caffe Reggio, Dr. Clark, Swan Room Read GirlInsides, The Masque of the Read Death, Fatherland (Victoria Shorr, 2026) Watch Pi (1988), The Biggest Sabotage in History (weird documentary youtube), A Place in the Sun (1951) Listen Gregarian Chants (via Health Gossip), Tango In The Night (1987), Drasticism (2026).

Instagram2 mentions across 2 issues

Instagram is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between November 13, 2024 and January 27, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "find myself mindlessly scrolling Instagram or watching Youtube videos"; "find myself mindlessly scrolling Instagram"; "Procure activities on Partiful or Instagram or Yelp". It most often appears alongside California, 3, A Year on Earth with Mr. Hell.

Article page: Instagram
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: November 13, 2024
Last seen: January 27, 2026
Instagram handle: @rot_thought

Outbound links

Issue trail

Collected Agenda with Lydia Sviatoslavsky November 13, 2024
California-At-Home January 27, 2026

California 2 shared issues
3 1 shared issues
A Year on Earth with Mr. Hell 1 shared issues
Alex Katz 1 shared issues
Alex Osman 1 shared issues

Source context

November 13, 2024 · Original source

Introducing Lydia Svlatoslavsky: (Instagram) (VERA PR)

Inline links: Instagram, VERA PR)

VERA PR has represented clients including Uncensored New York, Chris Zeischegg, and Jack Skelley. Lydia also writes and edits the blog Discipline & Anarchy.

Inline links: Uncensored New York, Chris Zeischegg, Jack Skelley, Discipline & Anarchy

Chris, who I haven’t yet met in person, is visiting from LA for the event. The lineup is solid: artist-writer Tess Manhattan, Cursed Images author Reuben Dendinger, and Chris himself. A screening of The Magician short film (inspired by the making of text) will follow the readings. Later, Senegalese experimental hip hop artist iD-SuS will take the stage.

Inline links: Tess Manhattan, Cursed Images, iD-SuS

January 27, 2026 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, January 12 I’m in my room and I’m feeling normal. Outside, the streets are winter-warm. Foggy and sweet. Different from El Salvador, which was humid-sweet. Tropics sweet. El Salvador was learning to understand things and also learning to let the wind blow in interesting directions and also learning to stand on my own two feet. On the flight home, I mapped out every day as a container. At JFK, I decided to treat the city like Vacation. Big Bar every Monday. Museums of Illusions. FDR themed social club. Procure activities on Partiful or Instagram or Yelp or through Word of Mouth. I call Amelia to announce my return and my vacation-forever plans. Is this vacation for the sake of transgression or fun? Amelia asks me. New York is over, Matthew was saying, in El Salvador. New York is over, and Los Angeles is it. I suppose we’ll see, I was saying in response. I suppose we’ll see but for now I’ll take all the energy-whirling-back. The flight home was quiet and late. I sat in the very back row of the plane with lots of water and ambient dread. I dreamt of a rocky landing where Avianca (Boeing 787) (Flight 267) touches ground and then immediately takes back off. I dreamt of being robbed. I dreamt of turning around. Dreamt of being scammed. Dreamt of busy days and busy nights in N.Y.C Back home, tonight, and it’s dinner at Lanterna di Vittoria with my friend whom I like because he offers me generosity kind of liminally. He presents a dangling sort of kindness that I did not have to accept or deny. I could accept his kindness later. I could pluck it from thin air, long after he has walked away. Maybe he is just generally cautious like that, or perhaps he intuits my inherent distaste towards drawing definitive conclusions. He is extremely helpful, but I never say thank you for the advice even though I am thankful. I never acknowledge I agree and I think it is better this way. I’m particularly grateful for the ease of it. He’s happy to know he’s right and also to feel useful without any of the misery that accompanies reliance. The grid is blinking in and out today, and so we are all feeling anxious about nuclear war. You too?? my friend says, when I bring up the topic of nuclear war at dinner. Everyone is becoming so much stupider. Small grid means big problems. I am feeling uneasy, sitting in my apartment tonight, knowing all the best minds in the world are coming up short. Later, cotton candy skies turning dark as we’re walking home. The city is freezing over, and hell along with it. Since I cleared my mind head-empty, I have become so much better at being perfect. Since I became religious, I have become so much faster at driving. Since I started telling all my friends that I want no-trouble, none-of-the-time, everything has started to really spiral out of control. I want to be good, I keep on telling Olivia. We go to the gym together every-other-day. She is the only girl with hair that is longer than mine. You are goodest, Olivia tells me. She says it with a smile, and she is very much not-devious so I believe that she believes this to be true. How many millions of dollars do you think were lost when the grid went down? I ask my friend, walking home in the icy city that I just can’t quit. Trillions, he tells me. What do you mean millions? Jesus Christ. Do you know how the GRID works? He gives me a book. Elephants and economy. Something like that. I already have it. I am smug when I tell him so. They already gave me this book in El Salvador. This book is already mine. The grid has already never-existed. Nothing ever happens. New silk eye mask arrived by mail which means: big sleep incoming. Big sleep in mummy mode. Clean room. Room of a girl who respects herself. Every day is something new. This part has always been obvious. Tuesday, January 13 The air is clear in my apartment, but somehow tinged a little bit blue this morning. Somehow kind of record-stretch hazy, which I suppose is what happens when I am tired and outside, it’s foggy. My friend texted while I slept: I am taking on your mannerisms. Texting back now: I don’t really have mannerisms. I could write a story this morning, but instead, I will write mantras in my mind. It’s good to be quiet It’s important to seize control over myself God gives the world to girls who don’t get in their own way. Black velvet hanger left off kilter. Last night, I purchased a blue dress that reminded me of dreams I already forgot. A blue dress to wear in a glass house in a place like Topanga. Bright blue dress to wear while making spring green soup. Purchased the dress with visions of next summer spinning through my mind. Visions of wearing a blue dress and standing barefoot on the wood floor of my parents’ house and making spring green soup. Sitting on the edge of my bed in dark green lulu lemon leggings and black tank top this morning. Cool minty Zyn in mouth, and Celsius in hand. The apartment is a mess, and it has been for a while. Trees are barren and kind of sweet outside my window. I hate this apartment. I want my old apartment back. I want to get everything I’ve ever wanted. I want to get sober and mean it. I want two hours of dedicated time-writing-fiction per day, and two hours of dedicated time walking outdoors writing notes. I want to let no more hours drift. I was not happy to come back to New York, but I do like the parts of the city that just are-what-they-are. Green turtle pond and freezing hands. Big buildings and tour groups. Windy streets. Bustling with people. When I’m at pilates I don’t feel like I need to move to LA, I tell Saorise, in the studio. The toned and old gay man that owns Pilates People runs warm. He cracked the window to let in the frigid winter fog. All the girls are upset about this. The light is silver and bright like a beam. It is a foggy day. We have LA at home, Saiorse says. We have life-like-California, but it’s real-life and it’s right-here. We can stay right here. We can invent different schools of movement. We can even go to Sugarfish Girls mass-exodus a friend group or even a whole entire life because of totally superficial reasons that are totally fake, Saoirse is saying, at Sugarfish. We acquire Saki. I pull my hair into a tight ponytail and I revel in my perfect day. I document my material reality meticulously. I have been training myself to become totally head empty. I have been training myself to gently accept gluttony, and also to be less subject to my whims. Sugar Fish has the sort of generic-upscale interior that reminds you of nothing, and thus reminds you of personal recollections of positive experiences in similar generic upscale interior restaurants. This is how they keep you coming back, I say. Girls couldn’t find a backbone if it hit them over the head, Saiorse says. Girls want to drown their enemies in buckets like kittens. Girls want to pray for you and ask to kiss you and pretend to be your friends. I am starting to feel some animosity, I tell Saorsie. Our meal is light but comes out in many courses. Saiorse is happy to hear about my budding proclivity for negativity. I’ve been telling you these things for years and knowing that it wasn’t yet time for you to listen, Sairse responds. You can pick something really good, or you can pick something that you really really want. Saiorse plays with her salmon sashimi and she doesn’t like soy sauce. Saoirse doesn’t ask me to tell her which one I pick: really good versus really wanted, that is. Do you remember Michael the explorer, Saoirse asks me. I have known Saoirse for a million billion years. We share a million billion strange friends. It’s nice to pour over these things. Internet friends. Federal agent friends. Friend who snuck over the Canadian border a few years ago and then washed up outside a fire pit in The Hamptons. Her explorer friend who we took to Round Swamp market for blueberry muffins after he got back from some place like Antarctica or maybe North Korea. He was not very risk-adverse. He was so worried about you, Saoirse says. Did you know that at the time? He said you seemed so nice. Walking home in the crisp and cold afternoon feeling so nice. Walking through the farmers market. Curling up in bed half asleep half dressed half under covers. Half lonely and half at peace because I love when my apartment is so cold. Cassandra texts that she is going to the museum. Why, I ask? It is our duty to seek out all the latent beauty in the world. Cassandra responds. At night, In Brooklyn, I can listen to Jeff Buckley Forget Her on repeat and think about what I actually want. Purification. Indulging my addictions. Freedom from vice. Sweet music and soft cover of winter fog and little green glass wind chimes hanging from the trees. I like wearing natural fibers and clothing I move easily in and having a uniform and following an obsession to its logical conclusion. I like knowing immediately and totally what it is that I could or could not love. Little dried leaves shivering across the pavement. They look like little rats except for the part where they are very beautiful. I run into one friend smoking on the street in a velvet black jacket when I arrive at the reading. I like your suit, I say. It’s my only suit, he responds. I don’t want to drink but I do want a cigarette and I only like cigarettes when I’m drinking. There’s a glowing strawberry on the wall, and there are a lot of people I have never seen before or at least do not see often. Like the cool theater kids’ basement in college, the girl next to me is saying. Soft snow flurries outside, which serves as a nice reminder that it is still winter. Reading out loud about Florida, Massachusetts and feeling reclusive. Wednesday, January 14 Sweet Wednesday morning, but I’m going to treat it like a Monday. Still listening to Jeff Bukley Forget Her, which makes me want to be somewhere else. Somewhere very cold or very foggy or even, very sunny. Perhaps I should stop hedging and just commit to something. Last night, a boy was ordering a drink and talking about how he was so glad no one was doing dry January this year. He asked his friend what he was drinking. Soda water and cranberry, the friend said. Oh, he said. You’re doing dry January? I’ve been dry for six months, his friend said. I felt so jealous of his friend. So, I know what has to give. Need to take pleasure in denying myself the things I want, etc etc etc. Listening to Forget Her over and over and over again, and turning my head all the way upside down so I can get a look at the snow behind me, but the snow has mostly stopped. Just silver skies all the way, now. Silver skies all the way up and all the way down. Jeff Buckley died at thirty-years-old. Someone who destroyed himself early but at least he had something to show for it. The desire to toss out everything I own becomes pervasive in the snow. The desire to get rid of all these things I wish were not mine. Gathering up all these clothes and throwing them in a big white trash bag. Thinking about the big smile on my face when my mother gave me a blue and shiny dress and then thinking about throwing it in a donation bin which pipelines to landfills, obviously. Hours can pass, percolating in guilt over what to do with this blue dress among other items. There are many more wasteful things than throwing out a dress. Buying and drinking alcohol for example. Buying and eating protein bars just to feel full by which I mean full of trash. Scrolling on my phone. Being cruel. The snow is both coming down and melting outside. Smells like ski racing. Nothing I am getting rid of is special. If the people whom I don’t want to see show up at a party, then I will leave. My friends are in the basement of the party when I arrive. Another friend’s new bar. The wood has been stained dark brown and the place is starting to look formal and nice. My friends are vacuuming and putting away books. We all look like little elves putting the books away, Quinn says. Many interesting books. Esoterics of Health and something about Aliens, for example. Thursday, January 15 Rinse and repeat. Blueish silver light in my apartment, where the sun barely penetrates, but at least nothing is artificial. Outside, everything is melting, melting, melting. White and chipped paint on the fire escape, and I can see the drops of water growing from the metal edges and then… drop! Leafless trees shimmering like they’re coated in gum drops. Each silver water droplet crystallized as its own little form, and then together, they are turning the whole tree silver. Since they turned down the central heating and then I turned off my air conditioner, a few days ago, everything has begun to feel quite quiet. Should we do a dress exchange? I ask Cassandra. Should I bring you your bible and a book called The Elephant in the Brain and also your blue cashmere sweater in exchange for my polyester Aritzia slip? Yes! says Cassandra. The West Village is wet and cold and the church is white and the doors are blue. The dining room of The Marlton Hotel is full of red velvet booths and gold lined mirrors and star shaped yellow lights. The mirrors and the lights make me feel a little bit like I am in a room full of sun, but I am not in a room full of sun. I am in a windowless hotel lobby full of mirrors. Cassandra takes out her Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls at table over are taking out their Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls everywhere are just the same. Olivia has her Rapunzel hair bundled up in her scarf like a baboushka. Cassandra is wearing a beautiful red scarf tied around her neck and wearing beautiful gold jewelry. The girls at the table over are talking about how we were created to have gentle souls. Why would anybody make it their mission in life to seek out… chaos? Cassandra interjects. To seek to degrade others, Olivia says. Cassandra teaches me a new word: Odoriferous. Cassandra tells me about her friend who lives in Northern California off the grid, farming salmon or maybe saving them, researching them, I can’t remember. A girl stumbles into the dining room to greet her friends at the table over. I can feel how cold you are, her friends say. I can’t wait to see the ocean again, Cassandra says. It feels really weird going so long without seeing the ocean. I guess I won’t see the ocean again for a while. Thinking about feeling manic. Thinking about every other timeline. Thinking about pouring big glass of water and black coffee with five splenda because I am still glutenous. Getting right to the cusp of something means that in at least a few other timelines, you probably figured it out. Nice to assume you’re capable of that, at least. Nice to know that in another timeline, my diaries are probably anonymous and I can be less vague. Nice to know that in another timeline I can probably lie. I can probably say what I actually mean. Spraying perfume over green sweater and imagining myself as someone who moves more slowly. Ordered a glass of wine because I love relapsing on an empty stomach. Telling Olivia about when my life was hot and cold and up and down and crazy all the time, because for the first time, I am realizing that she did not know me then. It’s hard to describe to someone who wasn’t there. Feeling a little bit nauseous and like I wish I hadn’t spoken. We could be living in the Midwest driving golf carts, Olivia says. Indiana is just corn and soy but not even produced for human production just animal feed or corn syrup, she says. I have a fondness for cornfields, Cassandra says. We could belong to country clubs, Olivia said. I wonder what that is like. Friday, January 16 In my dreams, I am surrounded by water on all sides, Somewhere in El Salvador. Somewhere in Costa Rica. Somewhere with all my friends-from-the-internet, and they do not like my new boyfriend. It’s ok, because I don’t like my new boyfriend too much either. I am scheming with my internet-friends. We are scheming ways to get rid of new boyfriend. Everyone is happy about my plots to get him gone, and no one seems to clock that I am the one who invited him in the first place. We are deep sea fishing. I am hanging by my arms from the edge of the boat and my feet are running through the water while a girl I know to be my best friend fires up the boat faster and faster and faster. I am a little scared. I am having so much fun. Salt water. Earth water. Angel water. I wake up. One light left on, back in New York. Yellow glowing floor lamp, so at least there’s nothing shining overhead. Last night, I was walking through the winter snow sliding on ice and filled with energy and adoration and also two illicit drinks. Listening to music and wind and stopping for gum and diet coke and then washing up in a restaurant that was bustling and warm and dimly lit. Telling my friends not to wait outside. For a while, I wanted to show others the places that had always been mine. It had never been like that before. It had always been more of a self protective sort of thing. Back to letting myself be dragged to kind of nice places to which I have no attachment, now. Talking about myself like I am playing SIMS at dinner. Ordering one diet coke and one piece of fish. Dinner passing kind of assembly line cool. Chill and smooth. In the snow and the ice, everything is seamless and then I’m in a car home so that I do not slip. Things could be quiet and end early but I still just can’t stay put. I become more full of energy, later on. I have become very sick of interiority. I went to a small Italian cafe to pass the later night because when I don’t, I always wish I did. It was a snowy and beautiful night. The cafe was made for families and locals and tour groups and dark and lovely. My new friends were talking about things like art-of-business, so it felt kind of far from myself but I could bear it for some hours. A beautiful life. Trying to be more tender and less neurotic. This does not have to mean everything. A person can just be cautious and nice-for-now. Walked home in the snow. Woke up warm. Still can’t stay away from places that have always been mine. Yellow light emanates from the yellow lamp. Nothing fluorescent. A million things to write over a million times. A million things to consider. A million topics on which the thing to do now is to wait and see. Waiting and seeing. Text about finding a DJ for a party in San Francisco. Email about a party at The Mount Washington Hotel. All these very random things that feel so close to being in reach. Kind of want to go. Kind of want to languish in old and beautiful rooms at the Mount Washington Hotel and in the majestic magic pool and imagine that money flows like water by which I mean spend money like it is water. Opening the window, now. Letting it be morning, now. Have to be clear, now. Sober minded and clear. Time passes like water, too, so that is something else to be wary of. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, January 27 From 8pm at The River — Theme Trivia returns with Medieval Trivia.

Inline links: The River, Theme Trivia

From 8pm at The River — Theme Trivia returns with Medieval Trivia.

Inline links: The River, Theme Trivia

From 8:10pm at Metrograph — Another screening of Calendar (Atom Egoyan, 1993) - “It is as if Calendar has no beginning and no end. Structured like a hypnotic ellipse, it obsessively rotates, looping spectral memories that endlessly arrive and depart.”

Inline links: Metrograph, Calendar, Atom Egoyan

iPhone2 mentions across 2 issues

iPhone is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between April 10, 2025 and March 18, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "like with money and alcohol and my iPhone and the type of information I give away"; "iphone photography and whenever my perspective is called into question". It most often appears alongside Manhattan, New York, A Bath of Approbation.

Article page: iPhone
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: April 10, 2025
Last seen: March 18, 2026

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Santa Teresa April 10, 2025
West-side-highway-dog-park March 18, 2026

Manhattan 2 shared issues
New York 2 shared issues
A Bath of Approbation 1 shared issues
Ada Donnelly 1 shared issues
Against Nihilism 1 shared issues

Source context

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!mwvW!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fbadeccc2-ba5f-4081-9d01-e097661693f8_1080x1350.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!yrdc!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F78d590ff-7675-437a-bec3-6777487c94e1_916x372.png, Blade Study, Clare Koury, Scaling Laws For An Open EnTrainment Structure

April 10, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Thursday, April 3 "The good thing about having a boyfriend who's in a cult," I tell my mother on the phone, "is you can always just go anywhere in the world where there will always just be a strange house full of strange people and you can always just stay a while." "but he's not in a cult," my mother says. She sounds very sincere. "He just works in tech with a lot of digital nomads." "right," I say, which is exactly what someone who was being indoctrinated into a cult would say. I decided to leave again. I couldn’t quiet my mind here. That was a lot of it, at least. And yeah I mean, mostly the thing is I just want to walk and run and write and I think I should learn everything there is to learn about the disciplines that strike me the most. I want to really get into the syntax of it all. Get obsessive compulsive with it. There is the Big Thing I am working on, and I put it aside for a while to deal with triviality. A while being a week, really. The week where I performed at the party, took long walks then dinner then bar then I lent sheets to a friend who forgot to pick up her laundry and then I went to another party, the type of party that I usually would have been so resistant to attend but I went and I liked it this week. They read screenplays aloud the next day and I sat on the roof, I sat in the vintage market, I sat in the restaurant with negronis on tap which felt so foreign to me so Brooklyn instead of Manhattan and I felt pretty proud of myself for staying here all alone, actually. Then, I started dealing in triviality and my sense of pride was replaced with a sense of disgust. It wasn’t so bad. The issue was mostly, just - I couldn’t quiet my mind. But, it’s a sleepy rainy early morning nearing Newark Airport and as I leave, everything is becoming clear again. Like I’ve been so gluttonous - like with money and alcohol and my iPhone and the type of information I give away and the types of things I divulge, like sometimes I divulge a secret before I even know if I mean it, and sometimes I’m awfully quick to indulge myself, honestly, which is a pretty bad sin, one of the worst I think. Seeking: shock value, I guess. It’s sometimes difficult to distinguish between Drama and Confession but sometimes you sit in a taxi cab and you draw very clear lines in the sand. I want: bread and water. Very simple things. I want to sit in a quiet room and write a story I am sure is true and if something is only good when diluted by glamor, drinks, you know the sort of things then, well, then I’d like to give it a fucking rest. Friday, April 4 It's been such a haze since arriving in Costa Rica and at first I felt strange about it, like this isn't Good Behavior, treating a Big Trip kind of glibly, feeling a bit pouty and out of sorts and letting myself just be whisked away like it's nothing, when really it's never nothing, when really it's always touch and go and particularly something like this should make me feel ecstatic. Though, I kind of do feel ecstatic. I never really do become jaded. I quantify and calculate it all far too much to take anything for granted. You do kind of feel like you're floating, though. Cold beer to clutch between my knees on the sea plane that starts up all shaky and then scares me less even than a commercial plane because I can see into the cockpit and I can get the sense of how these pilots are navigating this thing. A cloud is just a cloud. I've been using too many words to inadequately explain myself. Send some bizarre texts upon landing that I hope will be encoded with… what, exactly? But, you’re in the jungle when you land. The sea plane slipped over the rainforest and then slipped out to sea, into the clouds. This part made me a bit nervous because there was nothing to spot except the horizon ahead. The scary part didn't last too long. Peninsula de Nicoya. Thick brambled forest by a single black tarmac. David sent me a video when he got here last week. The Jungle, he said, and now it’s like a hologram seeing it here myself. I really wasn’t going to come here. Two A.M. last night and the flights were so cheap that it felt like a glitch or something and then all I had to do was decide, ok, and then everything else was taken care of. There’s a driver at the gate for me. CHLOE, the sign says. That’s me, I say, and I point to the sign. I don’t know why I said it like that. It's a different vibe at the house here than in El Salvador. Surfer spiritualism over techno spiritualism. The aura here makes me feel significantly calmer. Because I am someone who accounts for danger at every turn (neurotic) I can remember being twelve or thirteen somewhere around here, handed a stick to ward off snakes at night, warned that don't you dare touch the frogs, the ants, they told me, fall screeching from the trees and it feels like a bullet wound when they bite you. But, “there is nothing actually scary here,” David’s friend tells me. “The main thing you have to worry about are these.” He shows me a picture of a scorpion. He tells me that the sting hurts a little, but after that the main thing is it makes your body feel all electric. “People sting themselves on purpose to get high,” David’s friends tell me. “They make you high???” I ask. One of the only things that scares me more than getting hurt is getting high. “No, not really,” David’s friend says. When I got here it felt kind of like I’d been teleported. David was there with an ATV where the car dropped me off, up a dirt road, by some stables and then he said - this might scare you but no backseat driving and then we roared up a mountain, nighttime already, I was left in a room in the hills in the jungle alone while the others offroad up and down and up and down until everyone was here for dinner. You can see the stars in a way that is so special here. I’d been told about this part, but it’s better to see for yourself. You couldn’t make out what parts were ocean and what parts were horizon but you could see that the darkness was placid and lovely and it stretched out quite some ways. You could see where there were villages, because lights close to the ground edged up against the stars in the sky but lacking any visual markers to ground them, these villages appeared to be hovering, unmoored. “You’ll be able to see the ocean in the morning,” David told me. So, in the morning, I thought, I will be able to distinguish which parts are ocean, and which parts are sky. Saturday, April 5 In the morning, there is a gecko on the ceiling and a dog outside my door. Chat GPT got way better overnight, I am told. It’s harder for me to suss out the vibe here. They are bullish on AI, but they are hesitant about some of the other stuff. We’re not really doing much of the hacker house stuff anyways, this time, though. Back down the mountain, and we’re in a hotel, and there’s surfer girls with pretty hair in pretty dresses dancing barefoot in all the nightclubs here. The heat makes a run in the morning unbearable. Even the walk to the shop is heavy and thick but I don't mind this. The only thing I do every single morning is walk for an hour and write while I walk, but the heat makes this hard. It's ok, because I can float instead. Yerba mate and corona extra and white claw and paloma in a can and redbull green and coconut water all stacked side by side in the shop, but I leave empty handed. Before, we got cold brew mixed with orange juice and a cashew avocado tart at a cafe run by the girlfriend of one of David’s friends. Since I tried it out and basically just became an alcoholic bartending my way around Eastern Europe at eighteen, I have kind of found the whole nomad thing to be spiritually ugly. Like it's something for mid thirties men that look older from the partying who stop you in back alleys in Croatia and tell you things like the key to it all is to never buy a couch. And they would say it like you were supposed to really get it. And you did get it, you got what they meant by it at least, but the thought was just a bit half baked and unconvincing. Ok, so, I wouldn't buy a couch but then what? Then what would I do? What should I do? I didn't want to stay listless and skimming the surface forever. New York is kind of empty too when you aren't living at least a little bit gently, and so these are the different pieces I am trying to parse out. I would stay here for a while with a project. David drops a chip on the beach lined with hermit crabs and he creates this huge commotion. Anarchy, really. All the little crabs begin to rip each other to shreds. "I hope the big one comes in and destroys them all," David says, regarding the hermit crab pile-on situation. There's not really any metaphor here, he’s just being vaguely sadistic. It does happen as you would expect. One big hermit crab sees its opportunity, identifies his leg up in this whole situation or perhaps, they aren't the brightest creatures, perhaps it just wants to try its lot at the prize like all the others and is surprised to find itself emerge victorious. He makes a clean break with the chip down the beach. The crabs kind of look like spiders from my vantage point. A mass of little tendrils for legs chasing after someone six times their size. They all have the death drive, because when they do catch up, it's not good news for any animal involved. An underdog swoops in and gets the chip. I don't know, I lose sight of it all. You have a target on your back when carrying the bounty though. If I was a hermit crab, I wouldn’t risk it. I put my head underwater in the ocean to get myself sorted. I walk back through a little bit of jungle and then past the fishermen in Malpaís while David turns around the ATV. Soles of my shoes are all sticky on the pavement. Herd of goats in the road. The heat makes all my thoughts become all slippery and smooth. If I spent a month here, I could learn how to become all tan and bendy and strong. Sometimes, I become slippery and smooth. I could spend the first part of my month learning how to notice when my mind becomes like this, and I could spend the second part learning how to make the feeling last. I would stay here for a while with a project… WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, April 10 From 6pm - 8pm at Blade Study — Clare Koury presents the opening of solo exhibition Scaling Laws For An Open EnTrainment Structure. With this installation, Clare Koury is addressing the part of the color spectrum that eyes don’t see.

Inline links: Metrograph, El Sur, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!j-tT!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F0957633a-b82a-41e1-80ef-d921967efdf4_1512x1008.png, Night Club 101, Lubov, here

March 18, 2026 · Original source

Plagiarized images of spring Saturday Everything in my room was quiet in a way that was a little bit like heaven and a little bit like hell. I lay down in bed with a Spring-2024 copy of American Affairs Magazine and I tried to read over an article about Tech Clusters and Stagnation but I ended up in AI psychosis instead. Affirm affirm affirm, my computer said. Your life seems to have solidified, my computer said. The point of it all isn’t really to be that pretty or even that kind, my computer said. The point of life isn’t love or hate, but understanding. The cycles repeat until they flip, and then they rarely return. You shouldn’t really try to understand yourself that well. You should try to resist the compulsion to share the mundanities of your everyday life and certainly of your rich-inner-world. I was supposed to shut my computer around six-pm, but the call came at five-fifty instead. The West Village was like l’heure bleue. The West Village was humid and sweet and warm and lovely. The trees were like silver skeletons, and Washington Square Park was full of teens hosting vigils for deceased foreign leaders and lookalike contests for girls with borderline-personality-disorder and presidential men. You’re in your spring coat, Max said. He had never heard that word before me. Some coats are heavy, and other coats are light, I explained. The outside of Babbo is somewhat unassuming, and the inside of Babbo is burgundy and warm and old school and sweet. The host stand is set back from the entryway and the bar is lively even at six. The whole place is basically windowless, which makes me feel like I am in a cave or on a ship or at a private party or in a nineteen-fifties-film or an architectural-dream. The menus come in small leather binders and a line drawing of a black cartoon jester carrying a bottle of wine is sketched on the first page. I am somewhat unable to typecast the demographic of the clientele here, which is interesting and somewhat rare. Everyone is quite well dressed but unassuming and of various ages though leaning-older. It is impossible to eavesdrop inside Babbo, which goes against my usual sensibilities, and aligns exactly with my dinner-sensibilities. The hostess was an older lady, because all the best restaurants have older-waitstaff-mostly. I’ll let you sit at a table and I won’t make you move, the hostess said. Everybody laughed politely and was very pleased. In the center of Babbo, there is a velvety staircase. This would be a good place for a private party, I said. The hostess led us up the velvet stairs. In the upstairs of Babbo, there is a burgundy room and a big bar and white-table-cloths and the waiter poured city-water out of metal-watering-pails and into glass-cups. The specialty martini is made very-dry. Can you make it very-dirty, I asked. We can do anything you want, the waiter said. The waiter was an old Italian man. He wrote down the martini order and our names on a napkin. MARTINI ORDER, the napkin read. You’ve been here before, the waiter said. Once, I said. You look familiar, he said. I’m not, I said. The waiter told a story about the time that all the old French restaurants closed and never returned. Only the Italian restaurant remained, he explained. You come as a child then perhaps on a date at eighteen then with family then a wedding, he said. Coming back and coming back and coming back over and over again. Anytime the water glass would run low, the waiter would appear with the metal watering pale, and the glass would be filled up. The bread came with ricotta and fresh olive oil and sea salt. Squid ink pasta and branzino and broccoli. Two martinis and a cappuccino after dinner and I melted the sugar cubes on the surface of the coffee and then I ate them with a spoon. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, all the staff said, when we left. The theme of the magazine launch was print revival and kosher pickle martinis. There were girls scout cookies on the counter, and the vibe was one of general mystique, though all I could make out when the editor spoke was something about “fiction” and “Elon Musk.” Saoirse and Olivia were behind the bar, and they were looking like angels wearing white and being kind. The late winter hadn’t really felt like real life, so it was nice and quite affirming to make eye contact with my friends. You’re the best contract employee in the world, the girls assured each other. You’re the best girlfriend ever. You’re the sweetest girl to ever walk this Earth. The magazine was free and so I helped myself and left by midnight. I can psyop myself, and then I can do whatever I want. My process is I write everything that happened and then I filter it into obfuscation one-million-times. My process is to invent my own school of movement and adopt a moral code. My process is totally against religious iconography as vague gestures towards false meaning, but totally pro iconography when one’s belief in something is complete. My self psyop sometimes looks like self experimentation, or bandaid-solution, or destruction and construction and being social-chair. I tread very lightly, and when I act according to things I hate or things I miss, it goes about exactly how you’d expect it to. Here is something: call up my parents and I read my diaries aloud on my phone. Everything seems like the end of the world in dizzy night, and: The boys hands were bloody in the morning, and; I ordered coffee and milkshake and breakfast sandwich in, and: everyone seems so fragile in the sunshine, and: One thing about being here, hazy in the sun is I feel less aggressive. In New York, the sun keeps coming back and going away and I love it when my friends and I talk about the weather. I order green juice and cold brew in the morning, and it’s quiet and cold-again. I order chopped-green-goddess-sandwhich and I seek intellectual-stimulation and I wear a brown-leather-jacket to the west-side-highway-dog-park. My process is everything-beautiful-all-the-time and iphone photography and whenever my perspective is called into question I can call up Amelia who can affirm how happy I really was all the time, there, and sometimes now. She’s totally straight-edge, and she always has a good sense of the way things were and are and are heading. Sunday Sitting on the couch in an empty apartment watching the gray sky turn light in the courtyard and listening to the garbage trucks fire up on the somewhat distant street. It feels like waking up in New York as a child, right now. Awake too early. Jet lagged, almost. At a magazine launch during evening fading night in a white house with framed art and long french windows and yellow trim, a man was telling me that the only good thing about not growing up in New York City is that you get to experience the thing that it is to understand the city for the first time and to let it consume you. If you grow up in New York, then you understand the city all along and this is mostly a great thing, he was saying, but what about that feeling when you arrive and you’re older and you understand a place like this for the very first time. There were daffodils all throughout the apartment, and carpeted floors over wood that stretched back into room after room like a maze. Everyone was calling each other “dear” and there was a sense of things as generally boisterous but not overblown. I like older people who love New York. I like people that are sober-minded, fun, and rarely cynical. The people at the party wore pearls and black and ballet flats and lived uptown and they kept on asking me about New York. Do you love New York, they kept on asking. And I said yes and I meant it and they seemed pleased The air conditioner is running. The sky is gray and sweet. I always am very aware of causation, and I know how to understand what makes something bad and what makes something good. I don’t think it’s narcissistic to try to understand your own intentions but one shouldn’t go too much deeper than that. I would never betray anyone I love. I want ginger beer for breakfast lunch and dinner. I want hydrangeas in the apartment. I want to fall asleep in a room sized bed and be airlifted into daylight and clothed in blue sweaters. I want to be dosed with soylent but not lobotomized. Last night, at the magazine launch, a man was telling me about the story of his life. I lived across from Jeffrey Epstein, he said. I’m a lawyer, he said. I know hundreds of people, he explained. Do you know any secrets, I asked. The girls never looked underage to me, he shrugged. Isabel pulled me away. We walked down the long and wooden hallway and we stood by open windows. The figures across the street looked almost cartoonish, running like shadowy stick figures down the paths in hazy dusk in Central Park. So winter is great until March comes around, and I am not so ready for spring equinox and abandon-interiority and things moving faster and faster and faster. Everything material feels kind of cartoonishly good. Everything on my computer feels kind of cartoonishly evil. Cassandra and I bought big blue books full of curses, and now we are going to open them on the floor of an apartment on the Upper West Side and wear cable-knit sweaters and assume invincibility until proven otherwise. Since Darby gave me a blue heart-shaped bowl and an evil-eye bracelet that I haven’t taken off since, I’ve realized that I need to hold my cards closer to my chest. I put myself to sleep at dusk tonight because there are colors flashing in front of my open eyes like hallucinations and signs of delirium. I wake up on the couch shivering under my spring coat. Little white dried flowers all around me. A new wooden toothbrush propped on one clean shelf in an otherwise crowded cabinet. I wait for midnight so the new day can begin, and then at twelve-oh-one I say thank you to God one million times. I go outside for a walk in humid winter air. I go inside, and I’m alone again. I go to a building that looks “new” in Tribeca, and I go to a building that looks “old”. I interrupted a meeting, and I was given plastic bottles of fireball behind the bar. My friends were all talking about picking up new hobbies. A boy outside told me about adult gymnastics. I told the girls about rock climbing. I considered aerial silks. I considered French lessons and online shopping and recommending books-to-buy-boys-who-are-just-getting-into-reading. I watched a video essay about how not to let the moon affect your moods. I watched a video essay about undersea cables. So, February was fine. Cold and a little bit dreary and Iris keeps on telling me that above all she considers herself to be pragmatic, which seems to be working out for her and so I’m taking notes. I keep on deciding to just become nihilistic about it, but even when I don’t set alarms, I always wake up in time to do the things I should. DIRECTORY Wednesday, March 18 from 4:45pm at Metrograph —El Sur (1983, Victor Erice) screens. I have a special fondness for the landscapes of Northern Spain and the only beer I like is estrella, per, my Galician friend Rebecca. This film is not about spanish beer, but rather a spanish girl by the same name. “it’s half a film that contains a whole world of wonders.” Thursday, March 19 evening plans: MANHATTAN: From 7:30pm at Night Club 101 — Lubov says THE INTERNET MADE ME DO IT. A night of readings and music with Ada Donnelly, Alex Bienstock, Marble Index, Kyle Sullivan Dobbs, Lorry Kikta, Melissa Seward, Angel Money, and Yuri NYC. | RSVP here

J.Crew2 mentions across 2 issues

J.Crew is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between August 28, 2025 and October 06, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "even through J-Crew Flip Flops"; "she gestures a J-Crew sleeve towards me and my own striped shirt as she leaves". It most often appears alongside Baker Falls, Funny Bar, Nick Dove.

Article page: J.Crew
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: August 28, 2025
Last seen: October 06, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.instagram.com/p/C8meUUEuMs4/?img_index=1

Issue trail

Arrowhead expert August 28, 2025
Big Huge World October 06, 2025

Baker Falls 2 shared issues
Funny Bar 2 shared issues
Nick Dove 2 shared issues
720 Strength LES 1 shared issues
92NY 1 shared issues

Source context

August 28, 2025 · Original source

Standing in the Doorway, One of Us Must Know (Sooner of Later) - Bob Dylan I wished I was somewhere else. I remembered that one must not rush a second. I sat at the dining room table. I will sit here for a while. Made chocolate chip cookie with blueberry jam and a side of diet coke for breakfast. Walked for a while in hot humid sunlit ocean heat on the road that burned my feet even through J-Crew Flip Flops. Thinking of things in shapes I cannot visualize because I’m kind of stupid in this way - visualization and the like. Can’t rotate a square or a triangle in my mind for example. But thinking of things in swirls more than lines. Voids and repetition and such as opposed to infinity. This is fine. In another life, this probably would have bothered me. Honestly, this is fine. Tuesday, August 19 There is one road here and it runs about one mile long surrounded by crab apples and ocean and I will walk down it, up and down and up and down a few times this morning. This morning, which starts late, more like afternoon, really, because I cannot stop stewing and being up all night. Train back to New York tomorrow morning because I still cannot stay put. And all my energy came bursting back. The restless kind. Energy for projects. I must be more consistent here, write some acquaintances inquiring about being my Guests perhaps, finish the whole El Salvador thing which is really closer than ever and then there is the book club and schools of all sorts of kinds and my new small-box-apartment to sort and clean. And so many things came broken, there, so there are people to call about that. It smells like basil in the living room, and it is strange how quickly everything changes. Everyone besides those in my peripheral vision becomes kind of Faceless, now, which is not great and makes me feel vaguely guilty. Unsure how to repay my gratitudes. Very sure of the sort of person I don’t want to be, but now that we have defined good and evil, what gives? My dad tells me about a man who is an Arrowhead Expert. His dad made him an arrowhead at three years old and from then on he was hooked. Lives in Padanaram Village. Carves arrowheads and bows and arrows like one they found in the walls in a house nearby a while back. A weapon from a couple centuries ago. They killed a man and hid his bow and arrow in the walls and now my father’s friend is carving recreations. I am half listening. We opened a bottle of N/A Wine at dinner on the porch on accident and first everyone was repulsed by the flavor, then a little bit irritable I imagine from lingering inhibition. My dad found a bottle of old port in the drawer of the cabin. Opened for forty years but not yet turned to vinegar or anything sour and so we swapped out the mocktail stuff for this, as well for chenin blanc I think, don’t really remember. I like dinners like this, where I sit on a porch that I have always known and look out at purple skies, once-in-a-lifetime-skies, they wrote an article in the News about the skies, today. What do I like? Well, I like beautiful things. I like blueberries in a big jar and ham with tarragon aioli for lunch and I like botanical gin at dinner and strange characters and the things in myself I am prideful of like; an eye for beauty and generally boundless optimism, though I am trying to be less prideful. Trying to be less slothful. Really got a handle on the whole thing of rage, but that doesn’t mean that other problems don’t remain. I like when it is cold and August is over. I like it here. I like that I cannot quite tell the pace of time here; fast or slow, that is. I wish I could stay here forever. I’m not sure why I can’t. False consciousness, I guess. And; you can have anything you want but you can’t have everything you want. Amelia told me that. Amelia told me that over and over and over again. Wednesday, August 20 What do I like here? That it is finally cold, and I remember almost nothing. That I put warm bulbs in the new apartment and there is not too much glass in the windows and I can take out the trash, wake up early, turn off the air conditioner here in formally-broiling-New-York-City. I like to take a kind of mathematical approach to things. An out of character yet fun sort of game-theory method. Thinking about things like physical form and machine-learning. Niocimanide and Voss Water. A very clean apartment. A very clean studio apartment with criss-crossed white and wood ceilings that are fine to wake up early under. The night terrors totally went away this summer. Like a switch, they are gone. This is a relief, but also; I hope I am still in touch with other realms. Thursday, August 21 Back in reality, where things are about fifty-fifty good and bad. Back at Caffe Reggio where the iced tea and caprese salad are nice even if the rest of the menu items aren’t. And the music is not too loud and the art is old and lovely and autumn is rearing its ugly head with events, events, events. I am here to tell you all about events. I am here to tell you What You Should Do. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, August 28 From 6pm - 9pm at Yve Yang — Art in General Benefit Auction celebrates its return. Bid on works from nearly 50 artists from around the world, including Marin Abramovic x Kreemart, Josh Kline, Isaac Chong Wai, and more.

Inline links: Yve Yang, Art in General Benefit Auction

Big Huge World

October 06, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, September 22 On the Upper West Side, there are stone townhouses and quiet streets and nice branzino and diet coke with lemon and they bring us baskets of red pesto and baguette and memories both good and bad become holographic quite quickly. New York is not all rotten. There are the last days of summer to take care of. Last days of gluttony. Last days of Reading Series. In a cab downtown to meet Lily with a stomach ache, Lily tells me that she is at a bar meeting boys. I meet her on the street. She’s wearing a white dress and she looks sparkling. There are others, on the steps, out here, and we all do the whole charade of all pretending like we have all never met. Lily met a boy at the bar who wants to take her on a road trip with his dogs, she tells me. You’re too young for me, but it’ll be fun while it lasts, the boy tells Lily. He sends each individual word as a separate message and then shares a video of two pitbulls sparing on a field of plastic turf. Lily lays her phone flat in her hand and we loom over it in the orange September sort of night. The video plays on an infinite loop. The dogs unhinge their massive jaws and aim to swallow a basketball whole. You’ll go upstate and get mauled to death by this guy’s pitbulls, I tell Lily. I’m not going upstate, Lily tells me. We walk further downtown, trace the usual path to a magazine launch in a night club that I thought would be more crowded. We sit in the backroom, and you can hear the readings better here than if you claw your way to the front like everyone else, but we probably appear to be kind of checked out. I’m going to save you, Lily tells me. We walk to Funny Bar where Sam is smoking outside. Am I safe to go inside, I ask Sam. He nods and flicks his hand towards the door. His friends are all from The Internet, and they introduce themselves by alias. Standing by the bar and Sam is saying that Los Angeles is it now. I stand a little halfway outside the conversation circle with my shirt pulled pretty tight around me and contribute a few half hearted sentiments about how Los Angeles can’t be it. The cars, the sprawl, the niceties, the plastic surgery. It’s got to be Austin, Sam’s friend is saying. It’s the same stale conversation topic as usual. How New York is over. Culture is over. Sam is listing a few mid to low tier Los Angeles based Internet personalities around which a new and transgressive art scene could revolve. I am dead sober, and therefore relieved to notice that I do not float out of my body and watch myself say something annoying and off-beat, like I inevitably would if I were drunk. None of those people have a mass fanbase of beautiful women, I point out to Sam. In Los Angeles, you’d find fifteen e-girls and they’d have to take Ubers. Sam agrees that this could potentially be a problem. If it’s uninteresting here, then it’s uninteresting everywhere, but I understand why everyone is seeking renewal. Like The Internet isn’t alive and everyone isn’t talking about the same things everywhere. Like Sam and his crew could wash up on Hollywood Boulevard and say the same things five years later, to a five years younger crop of wonderful young girls, fresh eyed and eager, they’d spawn out of nowhere, they would never have heard all of the things that have already been said before. Tuesday, September 23 Watching the gray light filter through the windows of a studio where everything is tan or cream or pale blue or gold. Watching a waiter at a cafe down the street bring over black coffee, cannoli, and strawberries in a chalice. Start the day with solitude. I have never lived like this before. A smooth and slick kind of woman across from me is talking about her sister who broke up with her boyfriend after meeting a Danish stone carver who believes in hard work and apprenticeship and not necessarily general education. The sister became repulsed by her boyfriend after spending time with the stone carver because she felt her boyfriend had too pragmatic a view on life. The sister left her passport at her ex’s place for one whole week and needs an ego death. She needs a concrete understanding of the next couple years. She wants to continue to go to school for forever, though this part, the whole family agrees is fine. The girl across from me is practically dripping gel from her slicked back bright red bun. She’s cloaked in business casual and a bad attitude. She’s drinking a cappuccino and she’s off to pilates. I am wondering if I would find her smug and didactic demeanor less off putting if she were more beautiful. She is wearing a stripped shirt and she gestures a J-Crew sleeve towards me and my own striped shirt as she leaves. It’s like a movie, she says. My shirt is softer and thinner and I want to coil the sleeves up and climb inside. It’s like mimes, I respond. Mimes? she asks. I do not mime. I hope she knows what that word means. It is not so much a thing of feeling out of place. I have worlds of characters and oddities at my fingertips. I like characters and oddities, which, along with a desire driven by ennui and terror to remain right at the very center of things, is why I am still here. I tend to like when people are abrasive, because it means they are fixated on just one thing. I watch the woman leave and I know for certain that I do not like her but it is not a thought that troubles me too much. It is a thought that passes like a cloud. Wednesday, September 24 Later, the air conditioning is off, and I’m pacing through empty health food aisles, drawing signs of the moon in class; waxing crescent moon, Libra moon, PLS GO FETCH ME THE MOON. Later, someone is talking about bio weapons at another party downtown. The genomes, the rapture, the clarity, the apocalyptic ideation. Please do not stress me out right now, the man on stage at the party is saying. I do not like that question. A different question. Could someone in the audience please ask one precise and better question? I see Iris and her blond hair bobbing up and down across the traffic stop as I stand outside the ice cream shop taking stock of my day and my night. Iris is carrying bright-blue-epson-salt and she is walking back towards a glass apartment in the sky. Do you want to sit, Iris asks? Inside? The rotating apartment in the sky. One rotation used to be mine. I can survive going inside. No, outside. We sit on the benches at the edge of the street as the ice cream shop closes, and I tell Iris all about how much things have improved. I have not been home all day, I tell Iris. I throw up my hands. Performative exhaustion. The whole ordeal is pleasant. Iris is very buoyant today. You should write aphorisms, Iris tells me. Passivity responds to harshness. Lethargy responds to good metabolic function. Have you noticed how all the energy here has come whirling-back-to-life? Iris starts telling me about the state of things. She has figured out where she stands when it comes to her positioning in the state of things. She has surmised who will be left behind. I nod. I clarify my own positions and I mean it. So we agree, Iris says. Good! I tell Iris about how I was at a French Cafe in Chinatown drinking matcha with almond milk which surprised my friends because they would have presumed that someone becoming Catholic would take coffee and drink it with whole milk, preferably raw. I tell Iris about how a lot has changed but I am still not so sure. I tell Iris about how culture isn’t dead but a lot of people have just decided not to be a part of it. I don’t say all of this out loud. I am still not so sure. Every apartment I go to is full of relics. Every party I go to is the same. Thursday, September 25 Sitting at Bar Oliver with Celia and it’s all red leather booths, light jazz music, non alcoholic beer which can be good for estrogen levels in women and black coffee and my eyes keep following the ceiling fans in circles. The rain has come and washed everything clean. I can have anything I want. I hang my purse on the metal arm of the tableside lamp. Incandescent bulbs. Write a note on the top of my planner. I CAN HAVE ANYTHING I WANT BUT I CAN’T HAVE EVERYTHING I WANT. Chinatown in the rain is cinematic and less like the land of leggings and small dogs that is increasingly stretching its grimy tendrils out and expanding all over downtown Manhattan. Celia turns her laptop around to show me a photograph of a light wood living room, checkered yellow table cloth, soft and warm armchair. This looks like your parents house, Celia says. Where did you find that, I ask. I found it on Tumblr, Celia says. We go for a walk along the East River, where the rain and the heat have turned everything kind of the same shade of fairytale gray. Celia tells me stories as we walk. Sylvia was an heiress and her dad was an inventor. Camilla was a tragic figure. Lucy was a ghost. I can imagine there were a lot of inventors coming out of that part of the world, I tell Celia. Why do you imagine that?, Celia asks me. Because there’s little to do but the temperament of the area is less mundane and passive than in neighboring states, I explain. The opioid crisis never hit, Celia agrees. There was no heroin, and so people invented things. We walk past the Governors Island Ferry and a kind of dilapidated and green Casa Cipriani. This is where the art fair was, Celia says. I have brain fog, I say. I go home, cheerful and ill. I go to an album release party where the singer is shaking with tears streaming down his face as the songs play, and then very cheerful and calm as he greets his wife and friends. I go to a Right Wing magazine launch and then to a celebration for a zine about ETHICS. I listen to the same song until I can’t bear it anymore. Take the M to the end of the line. Take photos of the tennis courts here, because they’re glistening in the rain and night. I show the bartender at Gotscheer Hall my passport from Switzerland and he beams. You should work here, he says. I beam back. I should work here, I say. Gotscheer Hall is huge and cavernous and covered with murals of fairytales. It’s like a whole huge world here. The world of Gotscheer Hall, and then the world of the fairytales that line its walls. It’s a Whole Huge World, I say. I say this over and over again. I took the train to the end of the M line, and then I remembered that it’s a whole huge world. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, October 6 From 4:40pm at Film Forum — Bresson’s Four Nights Of A Dreamer (1972) screens. - “Third filming (following Visconti’s) of Dostoevsky’s White Nights, transposed to ’70s Paris.” Worth seeing before it closes.

Inline links: Film Forum, Four Nights Of A Dreamer

Madewell2 mentions across 2 issues

Madewell is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between September 21, 2024 and August 14, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Alexa Chung and Madewell put cigarettes on silver trays"; "Feeling like I was raised on Madewell and Ann Taylor". It most often appears alongside Cassidy, Confessions, KGB.

Article page: Madewell
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: September 21, 2024
Last seen: August 14, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.magasin.ltd/p/270-nyfw-day-1-berghains-door-guy

Issue trail

I wish I had more to say about fashion week. September 21, 2024
Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? August 14, 2025

Cassidy 2 shared issues
Confessions 2 shared issues
KGB 2 shared issues
Los Angeles 2 shared issues
New York 2 shared issues

Source context

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015?

September 21, 2024 · Original source

The reviews that come later are mixed. The Cut says it lacks feeling. Cultured runs an interview that is solidly positive but doesn’t say much that is new. On her Instagram stories, Taylore Scarabelli from Interview is looking for The Inside Scoop on a Rumored Scandal. Her anonymous sourcing lands on the hypothesis that casting and styling pulled out last minute in protest of some right-wing adjacent models slated to walk. I’m not sure about an inside scoop, this was the only show I attended, and I’ve always found the practice of critiquing a collection (physical form) based on a runway show (spectacle?) to be strange. Most of the fashion week criticism I’ve read this year has seemed more like scene reports anyways, and so maybe this paradox is becoming more explicit. Alexa Chung and Madewell put cigarettes on silver trays and now we’re avant-garde. Ralph Lauren is in the Hamptons. Everything is boring, but I’m never bored when I’m included, and I guess it’s hard to find objectivity within that flagrant narcissism.

Inline links: The Cut, Cultured, Taylore Scarabelli, Interview, Alexa Chung and Madewell put cigarettes on silver trays, Ralph Lauren is in the Hamptons

August 14, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, July 28 Amelia is at the apartment when I arrive, bearing cloned keys and summer dresses. It is not a relief to return, I am afraid. Tiptoe across dusty slanted floors and this sense of oddity and dread creeps back no matter how quiet I am about it. There are planes overhead and I have loved all this glass before, but I am clenching my eyes shut now; wishing for drapes that close. Earlier, the flight from London was delayed hours upon hours and things went awry the moment I was left alone. Comparing notes of past present and future and then I laid my roller suitcase horizontal on the bathroom floor to take a seat and think about it. Left my passport in the airport bar where the woman beside me was making friends with every single customer cycling through aside from myself and then I sprinted over to security, where the lights were flashing all schizophrenic and neon and no one would speak. You'll miss your flight, dear, the airport attendant smiled. They opened a small door with a large electric key. They sent me to the Back Rooms. They sent me through endless identical silver doors and a mirror maze and down a long gray magic carpet. I emerged on the other side to find another magic carpet just like the first. I imagined infinite magic carpets extending in every direction. Motion activated so the feedback loop would reveal itself every time I thought I reached solid ground. I was not moving horizontal anymore. It was a vertical descent into the underbelly of Heathrow. I forgot the status of Boeing VS0137. I forgot to ever leave. I woke up in the Kids Play Center. We've lifted your curse, the airport attendant beamed. Most slides can also be used as rafts, they tell me on the plane. Cartoon villain voice playing on Virgin-Atlantic-TV and they're blasting it through the cabin speakers, too. You were an A+ travel companion, they told me in the airport. I wake up to take stock of these things: safety guidelines and praise. I fall back asleep. Tuesday, July 29 After things fell apart in June, I did not eat or sleep for four days and three nights. On the fourth night, I called the NYPD informational line quite dizzy and more out of curiosity regarding physical resilience and atrophy than out of any sincere safety concern. If you cannot sleep tonight, then you can call me in the morning, the operator said. And so I was unconscious in an instant. Put some limits on one's own neurosis. I decided to stay up late last night. It was muggy and hot outside JFK, and I missed the moors and the fog for just an instant. Then, the glass doors slid open into hot sweaty americana summer and all else was forgotten. Felt a bittersweet sort of close to home. Sat on the curb. The airtrain to the car park turned onto the highway. Felt like a road trip. Felt like team sports, two-in-the-morning, intermission. I'd been so quiet that day. I had not spoken one word since Heathrow. Everybody understood that the apartment was rotting. Great place but full of mold. Great place but full of memories both good and bad. Somebody should have thrown out the milk. Somebody should have done something about the feng shui. The dead trees. The slant of the floors. The roof, which nearly caved in last winter. Three in the morning arrival but I asked Amelia if I could come over instead, and Amelia understood it would be best to sit on her floor. Amelia had been leaning into performance art. How was your vacation, Amelia asked. Not transgressive and weird, I sighed. But rejuvenating, pleasant, precious in the sort of way I'd like to hang onto. And I am feeling physically fit from all the walking and running that went on and on and on. The heat wave has not passed in New York despite one more week dwindling into summer, and I sleep until midday around when I open my eyes and begin to feel uneasy. The lines out the stores are down the block and everyone is becoming very thin. The summer foods are things like GREENS 01 Juice and maca-powder-peanut-butter-protein-bites and very rubbery cocktail shrimp at The Smith. It is Julia who suggests The Smith for dinner and I am not picky with those sorts of things. It is me who suggests the party, despite my increasing hopes, generally, to avoid these sorts of things. Wednesday, July 30 Sitting at Banter with the Big Breakfast and hot green tea reading fairytales. It was a nice night last night. Whirling sort of thing. Nightclub101 to KGB to following a group to Ludlow House to Ripple Room. The sort of thing I like as often as possible, but really must limit to now and then. Sitting at the Australian Cafe now, using my Moldavite to mark my place in my book. The fairytales are describing relentless compassion as a form of some sort of psychological warfare. Psychosexual manipulation. Relentless compassion so as to provide one with a moral advantage, knowing it is impossible for the recipient of such compassion to reciprocate. Relentless compassion so as to cast a desperate, selfish, striving plea for reciprocation. The second option is probably more common, but it would be nice to be kind of on a high horse. August will be like oysters at The Knickerbocker with the cocktail sauce in the martini glass and we're sitting by the cracked glass window and Drew says don't cut your hair not yet and so it'll be like humid heavy hair almost down to my waist now, sparkling water in plastic cups with lime and diet coke in a bikini and I will stay put for a while. I will sit at KGB sober in the evening like I do most every evening. They're tearing chocolate chip cookies apart with their hands at the table over and Amelia says she thinks a bit too much about herself to give too much thought to the existence of God but she remembers, as a child, crying tears of joy because she couldn't believe her luck. She just realized she had somehow made it into a human body on Earth, and she couldn't believe her luck. I don't wish the evenings went on too much longer. The timing is starting to feel just right. I want to fill a Desani water bottle with white claw and catch a cab to a pool party but the evening might start to feel too late. I'll read Fanny Howe, Thomas Hardy, Dawn Powell on the floor - big cracked hard cover dog eared copies of all my books. Then, I will pack up my books into Ikea plastic storage trunks. I will pack up all my books and dresses and then the movers will come. The movers will haul my things out the door. They will haul the place bare. I will turn off the air conditioning in this glass apartment in the sky, and then I will leave. August will be somewhere else. Thursday, July 31 Rebecca and I are making plans. Involving - The Chakras by C.W. Leadbeater and Esoteric Healing by Alice Bailey. I don’t want to work harder than I ever have before, but I do wish to be a bit more intuitive about it. Rebecca is telling me about Energy Hygiene in a Chaotic City. Rebecca is telling me about Seven Rays & Soul Typing. Taking Thomas Pynchon, guasha, monastery sage oil, yoga mat, mineral sunscreen up to the roof for Abundance Meditation and Contemplation. I receive good news. The best, really. I am sorry to be opaque, but something shifted in the winds in England. So far, I have managed to hold onto it here. Careful! Open up the blinds because it's foggy this morning which means we get to let some light in. No bright sunlight baking things alive. No leftover drinks or snacks from the Last Party Ever that was thrown last night. So - it’s a very strange day. I’d like to take a different approach to Caution. Generate me a definition. They generate me this definition: The deeper awareness of human limitations, the deceptive nature of false certainties, and the dangers of unchecked power. This will do. Friday, August 1 It’s an unusual sort of incoherence in my dreams today. The shelf above the bed is lined with wine glasses full of water, and there's an in between of sleep and something else - nyquil at six in the morning, cinnamon zyn at six in the morning, the friends went home around six in the morning and now it is sometime around noon, sunlight streaming in. I wake up gagging. In my dreams, the wine glass water was mostly poisoned. In the space between half awake, not all was poisoned but it was a Russian Roulette sort of thing. I take my chances. Chug water out of my safest bet. Wake up screaming. Fall asleep screaming. The Ikea boxes for the move are starting to fill up and I know it's me stuffing the plastic to the brim but I don't really remember. It's been recollection that's lacking, really. It's been a birthday dinner tonight. The sweetest kind in the Lower East Side. Dimes Square but it's just us, I said. Because it was in the general vicinity but the streets were all empty. A stupid joke, but everyone humored me. Everyone was beautiful and lovely and happy and I didn't drink a regrettable amount. A nice sort of night. Got stuck on Thomas Pynchon and now I can't read anything else. Got stuck on esoteric health and now the water is poison. Got stuck at karaoke and now my self proclaimed sulfate allergy is acting up. Wine and hypochondria. It becomes a bit self indulgent then, doesn't it? Saturday, August 2 If the movers weren't late, I'd be gone by now. But they are late, and so I am lying on the couch that’s being left behind in an Everlane striped tee and too-short Los Angeles apparel shorts feeling kind of sorry for myself. I'm not sure why I decided to scrounge up this sort millennial slop getup for the day of my very unceremonious departure. Feeling older than my years. Feeling like I was raised on Madewell and Ann Taylor or, whatever else it is that would feel nostalgic if I'd been born before 2000. Something other than Patagonia shorts and my sister's sweaters, anyways. Feeling culturally un-attuned. Feeling mostly sorry for myself because I am surrounded by grime. I've been flouncing around this place for a while, now. The clutter is so repulsive, and so much of it is new. There was never a day of really moving in, here. It was just step by step, one thing after another, little parcels that were easy to bring up and down and in and out and now; you wake up in the middle of the morning in a glass apartment in the sky to the sense that there is no space left. I would love to toss and toss and toss. I would love to close my eyes on this island of this couch amidst a swamp of Ikea boxes and tell the movers never mind. I would never open the boxes again. I would never do the dishes. I would wear polyester and sleep on the previous owners teak Scandinavian couch. I would sleep surrounded by trash. It would all become trash, because I would decide to throw it all out. What do we need to know?, the movers will ask, when they arrive. Do you find everything interesting? I will ask. Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? YAY, the movers will say. I am picking things up and putting them down. The movers will give me high fives. Me and three Serbian teens high-fiving in a glass apartment in the sky that I am soon to leave and never return. They will pick things up and put them down and haul them out and I will never return. Sunday, August 3 I have taken my things and never returned. All is well except, the lights here are a bit too fluorescent. The courtyard is nice for the turtle pond, but the brick blocks the sun. And, once there was a top lock but now there is not. There is a hole in my door and I can't get it out of my head. There is a hole in my door and now everything is all wrong. Sitting at GMT Tavern with a not very nice martini and the Thomas Pynchon book I just can’t finish or quit. Slow Learner. Slow Learner, just like me. Make it all about me me me. Life is like: another day in my dumb life on my dumb blog talking about me me me. Life does not have to be like this. Life could be like: the hovering curious dominant of their separate lives should resolve into a tonic of darkness and the final absence of all motion (Pynchon). I keep getting stuck on that quote. I keep getting stuck on entropy, which I do not hope to believe in. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, August 14 From 9pm at Silver Lining Lounge — Matt Weinberger and Scott Lipps present The Downtown Prom. Hosts include Sid Simons, Anika Jade Levy, Nicole Naloy, and more. Music by Sexy Damion, Blog Analog, Loose Buttons, and Boxxer. DJ sets and more.

Inline links: Matt Weinberger, Scott Lipps, The Downtown Prom

Masa2 mentions across 2 issues

Masa is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between June 24, 2024 and July 08, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Free Hestia cigs and Masa chips". It most often appears alongside A Doll House, Adam Lehrer, August Lamm.

Article page: Masa
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: June 24, 2024
Last seen: July 08, 2024

Outbound links

https://www.masachips.com/products/masa-chips

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #4 June 24, 2024
COLLECTED AGENDA #5 July 08, 2024

A Doll House 2 shared issues
Adam Lehrer 2 shared issues
August Lamm 2 shared issues
Beckett Rosset 2 shared issues
Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research 2 shared issues

Source context

June 24, 2024 · Original source

Thursday, July 11 from 7pm to midnight - Cracks in Pomo launches the zine vol ii with a party at The Rose. Discourse is banned - “only of dancing, drinking, and smoking”. Free Hestia cigs and Masa chips.

Inline links: Cracks in Pomo, the zine vol ii, The Rose, Hestia cigs, Masa chips

July 08, 2024 · Original source

7pm - midnight - Cracks in Pomo launches the zine vol ii with a party at The Rose. Discourse is banned - “only of dancing, drinking, and smoking”. Free Hestia cigs and Masa chips.

Inline links: Cracks in Pomo, the zine vol ii, The Rose, Hestia cigs, Masa chips

McDonald's2 mentions across 2 issues

McDonald's is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between November 13, 2024 and February 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "He shoveled some fries at McD's once"; "McDonalds were housed in historic old buildings". It most often appears alongside Chloe Pingeon, Collected Agenda, NYC.

Article page: McDonald's
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: November 13, 2024
Last seen: February 27, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Collected Agenda with Lydia Sviatoslavsky November 13, 2024
Your Favorite Grifters Favorite Grifter February 27, 2025

Chloe Pingeon 2 shared issues
Collected Agenda 2 shared issues
NYC 2 shared issues
A Year on Earth with Mr. Hell 1 shared issues
Aesop's Fables 1 shared issues

Source context

November 13, 2024 · Original source

No direct inline source block was recovered for this mention.

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!Yfjy!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fc2217312-7969-4c84-bcb5-e2f349100218_1600x855.png, Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu 1872 novella, Sylvie, Lady Jane Francesca Wilde’s, House Above the Trees, Aesop’s Fables, Angela Carter’s, Margin for Thought, Microculture, Seeking God, or Peter Thiel, in Silicon Valley

February 27, 2025 · Original source

Monday, February 24 When I was eighteen years old, I lived in a hostel in Prague by myself in the springtime, and I was so lonely. I would walk to the park everyday and I would lie in the april grass and I would close my eyes and imagine that when I opened them, I would be surrounded by company. I would imagine that I would laugh and grab someone's hand and we would twirl down the streets towards the old town that reminded me of a fantasy land, a true fantasy land because everything there was all made up. McDonalds were housed in historic old buildings and I didn’t understand why the others I worked with would go on runs every morning just to drink more beer on their returns. Prague was a hologram to me too. I liked the people I met and I liked that they were never going to grow up. I had no friends there. Eventually, I did, but in April I was always alone. These days, I am never alone. I was so sleepy yesterday and not in a nice way. I would like to avoid these things. I will drink green tea on the terrace this morning. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO After reading Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu 1872 novella Carmilla for my Irish Lit class last week, I’ve been feeling big on fairytales and magic. My sister Sylvie is the most magical girl in the world, as well as the most well read. She has offered her list of recommended fairy tales for this letter: Fairy Tales (by Sylvie Pingeon) I try to read a section of Lady Jane Francesca Wilde’s Ancient Legends of Ireland: Music Charms & Superstitions of Ireland with Sketches of the Irish Past every night before I go to bed. It’s a truly magic book that brings fairytales into daily life with spells, remedies, and little bits of fairy advice: “People ought to remember that egg-shells are favorite retreats of the fairies, therefore the judicious eater should always break the shell after use, to prevent the fairy sprite from taking up his lodging therein.” A fairytale self-help book, and I love it. As a child, my favorite book was House Above the Trees by Ethel Cooke Eliot. Everything by Eliot is so special: she writes of wind creatures who look like the wind feels and tree girls who wear skirts made from the leaves of their trees (green in the summer, red in the fall), and the humans who can see these forest people have the clearest eyes around. All her books are like this, but House Above The Trees is my favorite: an eight year old orphan follows a Wind Creature into the forest and is taken in by Tree Mother, who lives in the treetops. A wonderful, fairy adventure ensues. Brothers Grimm is also always great, although Bluebeard gave me nightmares as a child that still sometimes come back. My mom gave me a beautiful copy of Aesop’s Fables for Christmas this year. It’s beautiful but I haven’t read it yet. A lot of second-wave feminists wrote retellings of fairy tales, and I’m a little embarrassed to say this, but I found Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber to be a truly beautiful read. On the topic of AI Grifts, Gabriel Hollis (of Margin for Thought and Microculture) recommends the following articles on Technology and God and Our End Times. All ideas that fall under near debilitatingly large banners, and all topics which Gabriel explores well. To be honest, I need to dive into these pieces with more intensity before I offer any original thoughts, but I will leave you with the links: Seeking God, or Peter Thiel, in Silicon Valley by Emma Goldberg, for NYT

Michelin2 mentions across 2 issues

Michelin is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between March 31, 2025 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "It doesn't have a Michelin star but the food is significantly better than at most of the restaurants that do have Michelin's"; "restaurants that do have Michelin's in places like New York"; "Thai Diner is kind of Michelin-star style". It most often appears alongside El Salvador, Network States, San Salvador.

Article page: Michelin
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: March 31, 2025
Last seen: March 06, 2026

Issue trail

El Salvador March 31, 2025
Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

El Salvador 2 shared issues
Network States 2 shared issues
San Salvador 2 shared issues
A Place in the Sun 1 shared issues
Ali RQ 1 shared issues

Source context

El Salvador

March 31, 2025 · Original source

My favorite restaurant in San Salvador is El Xolo - one of my favorite restaurants in the world, really. It’s hidden behind a car park, listed on the World’s 50 Best Restaurants. It doesn’t have a Michelin star but the food is significantly better than at most of the restaurants that do have Michelin’s in places like New York. Open kitchen and slick but not stuck up interior, inexpensive enough that if you go in a group of eight or so you can order every single thing on the menu, a few drinks each, still spend less than $100 per person. Ingredients are sourced from indigenous communities across different regions of El Salvador. It’s a really special experience. Very magical and rare.

Inline links: El Xolo, World’s 50 Best Restaurants

March 06, 2026 · Original source

In the summer, when the air was sickly sweet and I was feeling ill but knew the day would be ok to pass in the sort of languid-and-waiting-for-it-to-end kind of way, we took a CitiBike over towards Thai Diner. We biked along the Hudson River, first. In Riverside Park, I stopped alongside the dinosaur playground and the firefighter memorial and I touched the shiny metal heads of all these structures left behind. My companions were irritated yet understanding of this divergence. We biked to the George Washington Square Bridge after that, and Jennifer jumped in the dirty water, and Riley vomited off the pier. Back downtown, the air was humid and heavy and the wait outside Thai Diner was long, which made everyone feel kind of claustrophobic if not necessarily physically worse. Not traditional not traditional not traditional, Ian kept on saying. Kicking rocks around Chinatown. He liked this place nonetheless. Thai Diner is cartoonishly bright and the greenhouse heats quickly and it is not the sort of place to visit during summer storms. When the rain started, Ian and I walked to the chocolate factory. At the chocolate factory, he bought me sweets painted like portraits and water colors and little mini worlds. Best chocolates in the world, he kept on saying. I unwrapped the chocolates like little parcels, and we both found them to be quite a delight. Thai Diner is kind of Michelin-star style. Really good food. Mango and coconut sticky rice. Curries and fried cod. Every bite delights, but all I can really remember is we were all too sick or maybe just too hot to eat. I ordered hot toddy because it’s good to drink warm things when warm, and it’s good to drink strong things when hands are shaking at the cedar wood counter of a nice restaurant, and friends are dripping Hudson River water all over the floor. Ian ordered a smoothie that was green and piled high with coconut-flakes. Get me out of here, he kept on saying. I love this place, he said. I feel so goddamn bad. Get me a cab right now. We went home after that, and the greenhouse roof at home made the whole place boil and so I fell asleep easily, even midday. I think I fell asleep for the rest of the year, or at least the afternoon.

Miu Miu2 mentions across 2 issues

Miu Miu is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between October 23, 2024 and May 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "going to the opera in my red miu miu heels during a storm"; "you like perfume from MiuMiu". It most often appears alongside New York, 327 Bowery, Abby Lloyd.

Article page: Miu Miu
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: October 23, 2024
Last seen: May 27, 2025

Outbound links

https://substack.com/@vivienlee/p-143686624

Issue trail

Collected Agenda with Vivien Lee October 23, 2024
generative and godly secrets May 27, 2025

New York 2 shared issues
327 Bowery 1 shared issues
Abby Lloyd 1 shared issues
absurdism 1 shared issues
Adidas 1 shared issues

Source context

Inline links: Lessons for Next Time, going to the opera in my red miu miu heels during a storm, Ani, Pure Qi, Betsey Johnson, Bernie’s, Five Leaves, Karmic Traces, Lauren Oyler’s cover story, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!CX7t!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fee318a9e-fb9d-4df4-a793-2afac060ca87_1600x1200.jpeg, Duals Natural, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!sp4x!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Ff8abf7d2-4d40-43ef-9acf-e33c9c4a382b_1600x1200.jpeg, Eataly, WNYC, recipe, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!KeRg!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Ffcffcd2f-9edd-4695-80a8-81d300b01e87_1600x1200.jpeg, Chelsea Piers, Ralph Lauren, Pasta Grannies, Bamonte’s, Emillio’s Ballato, Alimentari Flaneur, Il Buco, YOU KISSED ME IN PARIS by Lazarus

October 23, 2024 · Original source

Vivien Lee is a writer and copywriter from Northern Virginia. I invited her to Guest Edit immediately upon first reading her work, mostly because I was struck by her voice – unique in its ability to merge cool elegance with visceral, aesthetic, and physical engagement. Vivien writes a substack titled Lessons for Next Time which is loosely tied to the theme of detachment. She describes the Substack as an exercise in exploring her tendency towards aloofness as a person. She does this vividly with essays such as going to the opera in my red miu miu heels during a storm - emotionally untethered, yet sharp and grounded in its aesthetic pinpoints and moments of vulnerability. Vivien has written for The Cut, Architectural Digest, Family Style, and elsewhere, covering art, sex, love, design, music, books, history, film. Last summer, she taught a writing workshop on speculative fiction at the School of Visual Arts. Lately, she has been quietly exploring fiction and screenwriting. She cites Clarice Lispector, Carl Jung, Simone Veil, and June Jordan as voices she finds timeless. She is drawn to symbolism, abstract concepts, psychology, and the metaphysical… topics that transcend the ordinary. If Vivien Lee was not a writer, she probably would have pursued a career in psychoanalysis. WHAT VIVIEN LEE DID Friday, October 11 It’s my day off and I text Ani, who is back in New York. We meet to get lymphatic drainage massages at Pure Qi, which is like a neti pot for your nervous system. I’m addicted, and need one once a month. At the appointment, she surprises me with a gift — a pair of Betsey Johnson stilettos — that look like Beetlejuice and Barbie had a lovechild. After our massage, we try to get a table at Bernie’s. I’ve heard their burgers are good (I am a burger connoisseur, in case you didn't know) but the wait is 3 hours long, so we opt for Five Leaves. Ani orders a salmon and I ask for the shepherd’s pie. We discuss the play we are working on, along with other things, like the mysteries of vigorous bonding and the embarrassments of “being known”. Ani teaches high school and writes fiction. Most of my close friends, now that I think about it, are either teachers, therapists, artists, or writers. Ani and I get along, I think, because we both understand the value of privacy, and the sense of self that stems from solitude, which often feels lonely at times. With Ani, we can each share our loneliness without drowning the other in it. And that is nice. Sunday, October 12 I spend the morning reading Karmic Traces by Eliot Weinberger. I’m one of those people who will delay finishing a book if I am enjoying it too much. I grab the latest issue of Harper’s and skim through Lauren Oyler’s cover story. I don’t know why everyone hates her. My boyfriend takes me to Duals Natural to go spice shopping. I’ve been curious about white pepper, which is apparently earthier, milder, and more umami than black pepper — usually used in Asian dishes. We restock the staples: cumin, coriander, marsala, ceylon, bay leaves, along with basmati rice and various blends of tea. My grandmother warned me not to buy anything grown in China because of the pollution — unconfirmed, but fine — I decide not to get the pu’erh this time. A few years ago for my 30th birthday, my friend Soraya surprised me with the most perfect parcel of spices, tea, perfume, and wine. Sumac with tinned cod in biscayne sauce is a doomsday prepper’s delicacy. That little canned fish was so precious to me that I ended up hauling it around in my suitcase through three different countries “in case of emergencies”. Gift your loved ones non-perishables… a gesture of thoughtful care and preservation, symbolic of a friendship with no shelf life. For dinner, I make a mille-feuille nabe (nappa cabbage and pork hot pot dish) in a clay pot. It’s simple, yet decadent. Just my taste. All you need is cabbage, thinly sliced pork (or beef if you so desire), ginger, soy sauce, water. I use miso paste in lieu of dashi and a splash of fish sauce. The white pepper adds a nice subtle kick. Thursday, Oct 14 I don’t like to talk about my job because I tend to be precious about things, which is why I love NDAs. I enjoy being in an office again though, and dressing up to start your day for who-knows-what-drama! After work, I make a trip to Eataly, and have my mind blown because I’ve discovered kiwi berries. On my way out, I fill a cellophane bag with an assortment of Italian chocolates (Venchi, the best) and grab a box of lemon amaretti cookies for a friend’s mom’s going away party later in the week. I love shopping for gifts because I’ll be walking around the city with nothing but three different types of dessert and exotic fruit in my purse and nobody knows it. PS. I want to befriend everyone’s moms. When Andrew and I started dating, he was working for WNYC, and we talked about the station’s struggle to survive ever since Giuliani cut funding for public media. On the evening of their 100th anniversary, we turned on the radio, and while listening to the analog tradition, enforced a rule that we would eat dinner together as often as we could. That night, I made us a seaweed omelet with rice, mackerel, and fermented pollock roe... a meal I often had with my family back home, when we still ate together. Tonight, we’re celebrating 7 months (which feels like 2 years in New York time) and for dinner he’s making us chicken meatball soup adapted from this NYT recipe. Saturday, Oct 19 I’d like to contend that today is the last nicest day of the year. I have plans to hit some golf balls at the Chelsea Piers driving range, because I’m feeling a lot of pent up energy from last night’s full moon. On my way over, I walk down 14th and look at what the girls are wearing. Straight black denim over square toe boots. Mini claw clips and messy half pulled ponytails. Sleek shoulder bags. Sporty pullovers and tailored houndstooth pants. Quarter-zip sweaters. Trench coat, trench coat, trench coat. Ralph Lauren is in the air. Next to my favorite burger joint, I have yet to find my favorite Italian restaurant in New York. Coastal elite “European cuisine” is an elusive concept to me. Don’t get me wrong — I love to keep up my inconceivable spending habits on niche and aspirational dining, but I prefer an honest plate of pasta made by someone’s 100-year-old grandmother in their kitchen any day (hello, Pasta Grannies). I do like Bamonte’s, because having angry centenarian waiters throwing plates of mediocre food at you creates the same comforting effect, to a degree. Andrew asks if I want to try Emillio’s Ballato, but I’d remembered my friend Daniel of Alimentari Flaneur told me his favorite Italian spot is Il Buco in NoHo, so we book a reservation. Their menu is technically “Mediterranean” and changes every day. We order the octopus with sweet potato, roasted lamb and broccoli rabe, and the orecchiette with eggplant and sausage. Everything is rich, especially the olive oil. The atmosphere is dark and rustic. Cozy romantic. I need a nap. WHAT VIVIEN LEE THINKS YOU SHOULD DO Visit Family Social activism, by its definition, is the practice of working toward the reform of relations and expectations, however that looks. It doesn’t always have to be about protests or shouting the loudest. Sometimes, it’s more private. One form, for me, has been returning to my family. Our first source of error. As I get older (I need to stop saying that), I find myself craving connections that aren’t so seeded in the economy of validation. Wanting to sit with discomfort and tension without completely losing myself to it. Also, learning to forgive. I mean really forgive. Get a New Scent It’s the next best cure for seasonal depression. These are my current favorites, powerful and sweet with patchouli as their thread-through. YOU KISSED ME IN PARIS by Lazarus

May 27, 2025 · Original source

Thursday, May 22 May is quivering right before me; I'm not letting it lapse like April did but there are still smokescreens, silkscreens, my fingers are sleeping right through it. The Club, last night. The Play then The Club. It was smokey and sweet. My lungs felt coated in something sour by the end. The smoking patio was wet with dew and I was kind of floating, not in a bad way. Not hungover, it's something way more visceral but still hazy. I could feel it all start to slip, and so I held onto myself quite tightly. My boyfriend's screen time is 102 hours a day across devices. My face is encased in sheaths of plastic that keep you young, but they're not the temu kind that's weird and freaky. The light I use is Science Backed. I'm thinking of getting into vintage workout wear. I'm thinking of getting into Vlogging. I'm thinking of getting into filling out paid surveys online for luxury perfume sellers that require you to swear your spending habits are High and you like perfume from MiuMiu and you Hate Balenciaga and what perfume means to me is; I think sometimes scents can bring up... nostalgia? I say. Do you own a Prada dress? they ask. We leave the party early - I'm sick and he buys me chicken caesar salad pizza. Aren't you glad we left early so we could dance a little at home, he says. In the living room, the windows are all a little frosted from the rain. There are lights in the neighbors windows across the courtyard but it's thursday night, the rain has stopped. You couldn't have expected everyone to just stay home, really. I notice the people in the windows if he is spinning me across the room. Exhibitionism. I catch myself in the peripheries. The windows. The back of my mind. And I never shut the blinds but that is just no Executive Function or Detail Orientation. I am not some sort of voyeur. Friday, May 23 10:45am, and they are playing some kind of staticy electric classical mashup of music from the Fedex truck outside. "Even as a grad student, I felt they were looking down on chaos," one young man at the Yemeni coffee shop is telling another. Buying: coffee and chicken quiche but none of that is for me. Buying: peanut butter perfect bar and celsius and my boyfriend's screen time is up to 316 hours since midnight since he's doing things indiscernible to me but which he clarifies are Not Fraudulent. I am trying not to write so much in the google doc diaries. It is like I have learned these diaries as a trick, and now I am addicted to it. Now, I can’t do anything else. I must release all thoughts, but to release one thought I must go through, again and again, everything else. And so I go through it all, again and again and again. The thought, and then everything else. We were going to talk more about Spirituality today, but the tripwire keeps happening - stuck on: Vanity and Careerism. I make subheadings to keep myself in check. VANITY. CAREERISM. CAREERISM: Here is where I am: I have the substack for now which is nice this is something that I suppose in some ways is a defining thing I have done but it does not feel like so much it does not feel like it culminates to anything just proof of existence, yes, but everyone has some sort of proof of existence and it is nice to write the story behind something. The story itself cannot just be the story of writing about yourself. And for a minute I was very very very sad and so that plotline became dependable, but that is no sort of thing to rely on. And this is why it cannot all just be the writing of the self. It hasn’t been. [redacted] felt like something different, investigation, beginning middle end, it was not just here I am, it was like a puzzle it was like being very precise with it and it was the biggest thing I have done so far and I sat with it for such a long time. And perhaps I am being dramatic because there are other projects I could start in the meantime but I can’t sit down and make myself think oh what would be an interesting and pithy thing to talk about for somewhere glossy, I cannot do it. I think about doing it and my stomach rises into my throat with how little I care. And so it has to be a story that bursts out of me. There was one, and I can tell there is almost something else too but it’s like David said yes, it’s difficult while you are in the waiting room. Since beginning writing this, my fever got higher, and we are hanging the Bacchus masks around the apartment plus yellow golden softlight and, now I feel more peaceful about it. I wasn’t having so much humility. Nevermind. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 27 From 6pm (show at 7pm) at Baby’s All Right — Baby’s Presents a benefit concert for the Immigrant Defense Project with Palehound, The Ophelias, and Grumpy. Dj set by WeTakeManhattan. - “All proceeds from the show will go towards supporting the IDP’s 20+ year mission of fighting for the rights of immigrants targeted for imprisonment and mass deportation via advocacy, litigation, legal advice and training, community defense, grassroots alliances, and strategic communications.” | GA (18+) $38.86, Ticket and Bonus Donation $49.69

North Face2 mentions across 2 issues

North Face is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between July 15, 2025 and February 25, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "I took a North Face backpack all about town"; "I packed up my north face back-pack". It most often appears alongside Night Club 101, Prada, Upper West Side.

Article page: North Face
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: July 15, 2025
Last seen: February 25, 2026

Outbound links

Issue trail

Summer Break July 15, 2025
Life-in-a-lab February 25, 2026

Night Club 101 2 shared issues
Prada 2 shared issues
Upper West Side 2 shared issues
41 Orchard Street 1 shared issues
AceMo 1 shared issues

Source context

July 15, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, July 7 On the upper west side there are big french windows. green branches outside and you can’t see the street. There is a gray townhouse across the way, marble framing, air conditioning in the attic. I have crashed here before. I have been to the central park zoo. I have whispered on the whisper bench. I took cigarettes from the apartment before I left. I moved to Berlin once. I came back and I came here. I got a job at a gallery. I was given a life the next winter. There was a life before. I am not vindictive at all. I am waiting for a collapse that has not come. 12.23.24 - Today; a crisp clear morning of ice and snow and dreamy clarity at home. I haven't felt this at peace in the country in so long, I haven't felt able to access this place in forever. Now, something shifts. 12.28.24 - The idea being of course, that once you realize the shortness of the time you have, you become paralyzed of wasting it. 1.17.25 - After I floated through the kitchen for a while I remarked, oh this is a lazy morning. You consider jumping around with your soulmate all day lazy?, I was asked. 1.21.25 - I screamed my lifemylifemylifemylife too and then I put a towel in my mouth in the bathroom and I bit down hard. 1.26.25 - we talk about values — which we mostly share I went to Fanelli Cafe The Roxy Hotel and The Party and then who knows. I took a North Face backpack all about town. I took a Prada purse. I took a call. I took a meeting. I took beet juice at lunch. I took water with dinner. I forgot how to write. Artificial Intelligence remembered how to tell me about psychosis. Artificial Intelligence remembered how to affirm. I remembered my humility. I remembered how to recite advice. It is not that things are good. Where is my spiral? I have been checking my notes. If all adds up, then there should have been some spiral. It’s spiraling all around me. I wrote a letter. I didn’t tell everyone. There is nothing really left to write. The end was not so much the artistic sort of thing. I am still still still. I have heard the news. I have heard the latest. Split screen. Split personality. I used to write it like performance art. It is insane, at a certain point, to insist it is performance art. Queen of the Fairies, the signs say in Bushwick. They're talking on the phone on the street and so they seem schizophrenic, my dad says in Bushwick. Schizophrenic is not always as it seems, I am smirking in Bushwick. No one is laughing. Everyone is graceful. I keep on ruining the vibe. I was told once that I thought that I was something like Mother Theresa. You write like this and so you ruin what is sacred. Some things are sacred. Artificial Intelligence cut me off. Artificial Intelligence caught a whiff of my vibe. Tuesday, July 8 There is a fire by the ocean and gray gray gray dusk and I had wine against my own best interest. I thought I would say, here is what I recall. I recall nothing. There is so much I could distinguish from the wreck of it all. I'm ok but you are not so in this world today, Iris is saying on the beach. I recall we went to The Folly. I closed the door in the bathroom up the stairs. I ate Chicken and Rice, Joe's Pizza, Springbone Kitchen, Two Martinis. Throw the butter from the fridge in the trash because it really smells like rot. I was not always convinced that everything was about to rot, but I was always pretty sure about the butter. It all becomes a bit trite in writing. Not in recollection. I wish I could recall so much of anything at all. What are your favorite furniture items in memory, my dad asks Iris after the beach. Iris says a yellow ottoman. My dad lights a fire. My dad is on StreetEasy. I'm on that artificial intelligence wave in a big way. You can tell I've developed the habit because I sound abruptly so much stupider. You can tell I have little ground to stand on because, absence, no memory, relinquish nostalgia and I have nothing to say. I liked the little wooden chairs by the fire in Massachusetts. I like my map of Buzzards Bay. I liked the wooden table at a house surrounded by all that green. I did first like the Bacchus mask in New York, though I am learning to be cautious with symbolism and the thing of what you may conjure. My dad liked the bed he built into his cabin. There are people who build cabins. There are people whose whims don't dictate their attacks. There are people who are just one person all at once. The dog chased the coyote up the beach and I chased the crab apple path up towards the house and there is a paisley blanket and an oil painting of a woman in a long pleat white dress and a black hat with a black bow and a small child with his hand clutched in hers. Wednesday, July 9 Lying on the speckled blue sheets under a canopy of white veil thinking about how I’m going to get the fuck back to the city. Thinking about where I am going to live. I am going to need to pull a lot of favors. I will not be listless. Wander around my all new neighborhood in a daze of self abandon. Abandon limbo. It will be interesting to see what happens when I abandon limbo. I suspect that it'll be nothing good. Were you so addicted to the chaos? Iris asks me. Will you need to manufacture new situations to respond to? It’s just that, reckless abandon doesn't really bother me, I say. It’s not so much that this is necessarily what I crave. There is a music box and I am noticing my initials on the inside. There are mussels in coconut milk and bluefish on the porch and I was quiet quiet quiet today, though I get the sense that suddenly all around me, it is beginning to happen fast fast fast. Thursday, July 10 I stopped with all the quiet and then I regretted it in an instant. There are gray walls like paper maché and a white wooden canopy bed frame and a toy boat all tan and teal green propped up on the bookshelf. You have been lying in every bed in the house, Iris said. Rotate them like musical chairs. I was not so sure where I should land. I was lying on a yellow bedspread, then. Dusk, then. The curtains were drawn but they were light and sheer and easy to imagine what was just on the other side. Friday, July 11 New York is pulsing pulsing pulsing summer and I am glad to be back even just, to do little with it. Dinner at Lure Fishbar which is lovely and a clarity summit on the terrace which is less rotten in its final days, smog over the railing and the lights are blinking on and off in dusk haze across the river and then, everyone leaves. I leave too. Bring drinks in plastic bottles to the bar. Starting my days earlier and ending them later. There will be other things. I could handwrite it next time. I could use lugger.com or the nice neighbor from May or the generosity from others that I worry I do not return or deserve to move the couch. So, nothing ever happens. Stay up until seven in the morning and then it's taking down the fir wreaths because those are becoming a fire hazard too. Taking down the buoy and the copper pot because those are coming with me. The terrace has become all clogged with cigarettes and I notice it only now, plastic tarnished wood and the cracks are all stuffed with tar and rainwater and dead branches. So, I could do yard work I suppose. Or, I could just leave. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, July 15 From 8pm - 12pm at The Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research — a one night only reading of an AI generated play trained on all Matthew Gasda’s plays. Error 404: Play Not Found. Tickets are free but donations are encouraged. - “This will be done with ample drinking and unseriousness--but the experiment may also be interesting on a philosophical level.”

February 25, 2026 · Original source

Tuesday Life-in-a-lab In my dream, the house was a lab. I woke up to light not just streaming no, but flooding, absolutely pouring through the long glass windows in front of me. I knew that once the light cleared, I would be staring into the heart of this lab. I knew it was a problem that I was anticipating waking up in a lab, because I knew that I should have been anticipating a morning waking up at home. Instead, I was finding myself totally nonplused about waking up in a lab. The important thing, I knew, as I woke up with a sense of increasing urgency, was to conjure up an image of a home, not a lab. You have been in a lab for so long that you have forgotten about home, a very confident voice inside my head was saying. A picture of my childhood bedroom appeared in a few frames. Different versions. Big white bed and blue wooden floors and presently frosty fields behind the house. Little twin bed yellow walls, carpeted floors, and hot summer cornfields outside. I couldn’t get it straight. If I was in a lab, then I needed to remember. You need to remember a place that actually exists, the lab-attendants were saying in my dream. Saying in my head. Glass apartment in the sky. Room at The Marlton Hotel. I’ve been eating vegetables and collecting things like dried flowers and books on Esoteric Health and buying wash-and-fold laundry service and being swept away to places like nice restaurants with no menus and nice-apartments-with-no-owners. I woke up in Connecticut. Can’t wake up in a lab if you never go to sleep. In the morning, I woke up at close to noon. I shared photos on The Internet of a very aesthetically-cohesive and un-lab-like home. I went to the bathroom to wash my face and collect myself as best I could. The house was beautiful, and I was unsure as to why I was watching things unfold from as if I was somewhere else. I made lists of things that were special, being places like this most of all. I made lists of things that compose self respect, and then I made lists of things that compose a life that is bright and white and full of light. The country is quiet and sometimes difficult for me, though I sleep through the night now and this changes everything. Downstairs, the dogs and Celia and the other were sitting under high lofted ceilings. There was a magical and silvery presence that mediation gives to a person. I asked about coffee and they told me there was coffee in the pot and I could heat it up in a silver bowl on the stove. The stove was green and handmade and you turned it on by flicking little metal burner switches. The bowl was nice and very small. I poured the coffee in the bowl and I waited for everything to begin to boil. I added vital proteins collagen and also oat milk creamer and also lots of white sugar because the esoteric health advice of the age says this is fine. There were homemade mini muffins from The Smith Bakery down the street on the counter (blueberry, morning harvest, strawberry corn, and chocolate chip) and so I cut each muffin in half, and then I had one-half-of-each. Two mini muffins total. I put two of the halves in the toaster, and I had two of the halves cold. Everyone started telling me about gnosticism and buddhism and catholicism. They recommended to me a friend who writes about God and married into a famous band. They recommended I come to meditate in places like New York, too. You look ready, Celia said, as I packed up my north face back-pack and changed out of split-sweatpants and banaa-republic-black-top. I’m not, I snapped, in response. Do you actually want to meditate more, Celia asked. I don’t say I want to do things I don’t actually want to do, I replied. I could not stop with all this harshness. Wednesday Grand Central Station Back in New York City and I am totally covered in dog hair. Shoes untied in Grand Central Station but there is nowhere for me to stop and tie them without risking some sort of stampede or at least massive inconvenience and so onward we go. A man just walked towards me rapidly and I flinched and then felt kind of bad. Then, he shouted; young lady can I ask you a question and so now I do not feel bad. My instincts were correct, and now I do not feel bad at all. Ok, fine, whatever. I used to love arriving back in New York and hearing all the music and the lights and I would twirl through this place nonpulsed. Then, I would twirl home. I used to get drunk-before-christmas at the midtown Cipriani and then giggle when people called my ex-boyfriend and I bad-people-for-cutting on the trains toward Albany, but I’m not allowed to move like that anymore. I used to sink into sixty-dollar taxi-cabs because I found the subway over-stimulating. My Prada purse used to be lined with shiny leather, but I got fidgety somewhere tropical and I ripped it all off so now we’re working with something more flattened and matte. Teenage girls used to fling themselves at the side of the train platforms, and conductors used to lose their whole crew in Boston and train heists used to happen. I used to consider everything to be pretty taken-care-of. I think I never used to notice when sometimes, problems would arise. On the train ride back to New York, tonight, the tracks were icy and slick and it was already kind of blue hour dusk. When I said goodbye, I told Celia I love you I love you I love you a million times over because I felt slightly neurotic about a weekend full of being slightly late and slightly harsh. I am smart enough to know that the only thing complaining makes you better at is complaining, so I decided to stop. In Grand Central Station, they are playing live music, and I watch a man propose, though no one else around the soon-to-be newlyweds reacted. No photos or energy. Sad. I am wearing beat up Ganni knee high boots and Brandy Melville long sleeved dress, and Zara blazer that I stole from Paul’s Baby Grande back when I was in the practice of going lots of places and stealing lots of things. I miss my Max Mara coat that I left at “tech week” and I miss “drinking” and I am suddenly desperate to be out the door. I imagine that when the subway doors fly open and I burst out free and all-in-one piece, I will see the Washington Square Park arch, and it will be glowing silver in mid-winter light. I imagine that the city will feel warm with soon-to-be-spring-humidity. I imagine that since groundhog day has come and gone the tides will change soon, and I imagine I will relinquish my Groundhog Day (1993) fantasies of nothing-ever-happens at some point down the line, when it all becomes a bit too much to take. Tomorrow, I will be taking my shoes to the tailor and then the next day, I will have a totally fresh new crop of things to wear. I imagine that soon, I will have a fresh new crop of things to consider. Thursday Whore Dialectics Greenwich Village’s bitcoin bar sports a libertarian clientele and taxidermy and a podcast studio and beef-tallow-fries. Tonight, it sports a projector screen from my old apartment that looks sad and small propped on stage, and a big audience in metal chairs, and a birthday party in the front room, and plenty of opportunities to make myself feel useful as I tinker with film equipment and fire off texts regarding “promotional material.” I am sitting at Pubkey Bar drinking a diet coke while I wait for the screening of “Whore Dialects” to begin. When I ordered my diet coke at the bar, a strange man made a strange joke about NA beer, and I felt immediately irritated and restrained by my self imposed limits. I am listening to a group of young men discuss the career path of “Internet Pervert” as one of the only viable post-AI jobs. Monetize your self destruction, they are saying. Male prostitution. Buying plushies is to women as buying porn is to men. There’s a strange pseudo-intellectual glare to it all and I am enjoying listening in. They are talking about Brian Kaplan, but they keep on mispronouncing his name. They are talking about scientists, rationalists, and flexible proposals. When they talk about Internet Perverts, there are stars in their eyes, less because of the sex, it seems, and more because the internet perverts are able to get some money and get some attention. The male influencer. That seems to be what they are starry eyed about. They are thrilled to be in the same extended universe as someone who might be able to garner some vague attention. This is a bar that usually makes me feel kind of hazy. This is a bar where I used to make scenes. Enough reminiscing, because I am here to watch a film that is all about auto-documentarians, which is in sharp contrast to the maladjusted forms of auto-diary or auto-fiction. In the film, a beautiful girl is in the back of a car with the wind in her face and she is drinking an Erewhon smoothie and talking about how Hollywood is dead and the monasteries are empty and you can’t be a nun or get a phd because you question what truth is, and these institutions just won’t let you get at it. After that, the film cuts to a scene where the girl is in a white dress being play-drowned in the ocean by a right-wing provocateur. The film crew sent the provocateur to stay with the girl, and it was kind of the perfect setup, a voiceover explains. The provocateur describes how when he arrived, the girl was in a state of almost total abjection. Like how kids who are sexually assaulted don’t shower to make themselves totally disgusting and unappealing, he explains. I find the provocateur slightly less interesting as a character than both the girl, and the disgraced art-advisor (another prominent character in the film) but I like when he argues about politics and then reconciles on a personal level with those around him in places like California. I like the scenes about the professionally fraught yet personally friendly relationship between the art advisor and his not terribly successful clients, ie the clients are disappointed but still use the advisor’s pool for summer swims. The client still dreams of having an eighteen person studio because this means tremendous success, and because this is just how men dream. When the provocateur is described but not depicted as losing control, it is explained that the jig is kind of up, because it’s no triumph of power to reign over somebody who is not even in control of themselves. I only watch the film once and I am not taking notes, really, during the public screening at the Bitcoin Bar, but I like it because it is auto-documentary not auto-fiction or auto-diary and as such, it is very precise. The film says, for someone like me in the conditions like the ones I occupy, here is what life is like. This is more matter of fact and less indulgent than saying; here is what life is like for me. At a party last month that was also all about art whores, the filmmakers wrote a few lines about a few of my friends. The women present were on average quite a bit younger than the men and looked fresh. Perhaps because of their age, or perhaps because of the care they put into their bodies and minds, but the vibe among the women was optimistic and exuberant. I thought this was nice. Nice, too, to catch purity in unexpected places while staying totally true. Friday Upper West Side Later, I am uptown and I am thinking about how I can become more self-disciplined so I can become more interesting. I am watching Pierre Le Fou at Lillian’s apartment on the Upper West Side and all the girls are dressed like characters in the film. Lilian keeps leaning out the window with a long skinny cigarette and I am drinking a glass of Sancerre because I just can’t quit. In this film, a very small man is holding a gun to a very beautiful girl’s head while she cuts her hair. The beautiful girl has a brunette bob, and she is wearing a red dress. The film is full of primary colors and very bright paint. When a man is stabbed, he bleeds red paint. Before a man explodes himself in dynamite at the end of the film, he paints himself blue. I like the film because the colors of the gore are all bright and fake like paint, and the colors of the scenery are all pastel and muted and lovely like real life. Summer in The Riviera. Beautiful people living a simple and crime-filled life. I have not watched very many films this year because I’ve been busy writing thirty-thousand-words-about-myself-per-week. In the last film I watched, a Japanese cat was exploded by a grenade, and when gore and guts spilled everywhere, I flinched and clenched my eyes shut. Do you want to leave, my friend asked, and what I wanted was to be resilient, but what I said was I don’t really care. Now, a girl in the film is sitting on a boat with a man, and she is talking about how the two have only known each other for a few million seconds. She’s such a stupid girl, Lillian says. I would say something like that, I respond. One-million-billion-seconds and one-million-billion-words. I am feeling bubbly when I am not feeling sick or shy. I am feeling like it’s time to be more light about it. When I look to my left, I see beautiful stained glass lamps and a defense surveillance tech-branded throw blanket. When I look to my right, I see an open window and all my friends leaning too far outside smoking skinny vogues. On the Internet, people are talking about how things are only interesting if they are true. Determinative reasoning then says, one should make what is true more interesting. Everything just became crystal clear. By which I mean, everything is operating on material terms now. DIRECTORY The full event calendar is now going to live on The Aleph - an exciting new platform by Noah Kumin of The Mars Review of Books. The Aleph is a marketplace and membership club for the arts, with an emphasis on supporting in-person events, production, and funding for artists. Programming featured will be intentional and curated, and include more opportunities for early-access and invitation-only events. If you would like to submit an event for consideration, please email me at chloegpingeon@gmail.com. Apply to join The Aleph here I will still be featuring select events on the blog, along with more eclectic or personal recommendations, news, and guest features. To start: David Rimanelli is perhaps my favorite person to follow on Instagram, as well as one of my favorite critics. Tonight, from 6:30pm at Tibet House, he will be reading, along with Kiely Sweatt and Sean Fabi. Tickets here.

Partiful2 mentions across 2 issues

Partiful is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between November 05, 2025 and January 27, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Partiful is throwing a party to celebrate the inaugural launch of new blog 'The Guest List'"; "Procure activities on Partiful or Instagram or Yelp". It most often appears alongside Amelia, EARTH, Florida.

Article page: Partiful
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: November 05, 2025
Last seen: January 27, 2026

Outbound links

Issue trail

Fever Dreams November 05, 2025
California-At-Home January 27, 2026

Amelia 2 shared issues
EARTH 2 shared issues
Florida 2 shared issues
Los Angeles 2 shared issues
Massachusetts 2 shared issues

Source context

November 05, 2025 · Original source

From 7pm - 10pm at The Bench — Partiful is throwing a party to celebrate the inaugural launch of new blog ‘The Guest List.” On principle, I’m opposed to brand-hosted-parties, but this one does admittedly look fun. - “the citizens of New York are hereby called to assemble and address urgent matters of social life.” Opening remarks from Matt Starr and Halle Robbe. Partiful Town Hall dresscode.

Inline links: The Bench, The Guest List, Matt Starr, Halle Robbe, dresscode

From 9:30pm at Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research — Chill Mag hosts their Issue 5 Launch Party with editors Finn DeNeuf and Mira IRL, along with Chill contributors past and present.

Inline links: Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research, Chill Mag, Issue 5 Launch Party

From 10pm - 1:30pm at Gitano NYC — Club Bohemia returns with The Muses. Dress for tropic noir. | RSVP here

Inline links: Gitano NYC, Club Bohemia, The Muses, here

January 27, 2026 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, January 12 I’m in my room and I’m feeling normal. Outside, the streets are winter-warm. Foggy and sweet. Different from El Salvador, which was humid-sweet. Tropics sweet. El Salvador was learning to understand things and also learning to let the wind blow in interesting directions and also learning to stand on my own two feet. On the flight home, I mapped out every day as a container. At JFK, I decided to treat the city like Vacation. Big Bar every Monday. Museums of Illusions. FDR themed social club. Procure activities on Partiful or Instagram or Yelp or through Word of Mouth. I call Amelia to announce my return and my vacation-forever plans. Is this vacation for the sake of transgression or fun? Amelia asks me. New York is over, Matthew was saying, in El Salvador. New York is over, and Los Angeles is it. I suppose we’ll see, I was saying in response. I suppose we’ll see but for now I’ll take all the energy-whirling-back. The flight home was quiet and late. I sat in the very back row of the plane with lots of water and ambient dread. I dreamt of a rocky landing where Avianca (Boeing 787) (Flight 267) touches ground and then immediately takes back off. I dreamt of being robbed. I dreamt of turning around. Dreamt of being scammed. Dreamt of busy days and busy nights in N.Y.C Back home, tonight, and it’s dinner at Lanterna di Vittoria with my friend whom I like because he offers me generosity kind of liminally. He presents a dangling sort of kindness that I did not have to accept or deny. I could accept his kindness later. I could pluck it from thin air, long after he has walked away. Maybe he is just generally cautious like that, or perhaps he intuits my inherent distaste towards drawing definitive conclusions. He is extremely helpful, but I never say thank you for the advice even though I am thankful. I never acknowledge I agree and I think it is better this way. I’m particularly grateful for the ease of it. He’s happy to know he’s right and also to feel useful without any of the misery that accompanies reliance. The grid is blinking in and out today, and so we are all feeling anxious about nuclear war. You too?? my friend says, when I bring up the topic of nuclear war at dinner. Everyone is becoming so much stupider. Small grid means big problems. I am feeling uneasy, sitting in my apartment tonight, knowing all the best minds in the world are coming up short. Later, cotton candy skies turning dark as we’re walking home. The city is freezing over, and hell along with it. Since I cleared my mind head-empty, I have become so much better at being perfect. Since I became religious, I have become so much faster at driving. Since I started telling all my friends that I want no-trouble, none-of-the-time, everything has started to really spiral out of control. I want to be good, I keep on telling Olivia. We go to the gym together every-other-day. She is the only girl with hair that is longer than mine. You are goodest, Olivia tells me. She says it with a smile, and she is very much not-devious so I believe that she believes this to be true. How many millions of dollars do you think were lost when the grid went down? I ask my friend, walking home in the icy city that I just can’t quit. Trillions, he tells me. What do you mean millions? Jesus Christ. Do you know how the GRID works? He gives me a book. Elephants and economy. Something like that. I already have it. I am smug when I tell him so. They already gave me this book in El Salvador. This book is already mine. The grid has already never-existed. Nothing ever happens. New silk eye mask arrived by mail which means: big sleep incoming. Big sleep in mummy mode. Clean room. Room of a girl who respects herself. Every day is something new. This part has always been obvious. Tuesday, January 13 The air is clear in my apartment, but somehow tinged a little bit blue this morning. Somehow kind of record-stretch hazy, which I suppose is what happens when I am tired and outside, it’s foggy. My friend texted while I slept: I am taking on your mannerisms. Texting back now: I don’t really have mannerisms. I could write a story this morning, but instead, I will write mantras in my mind. It’s good to be quiet It’s important to seize control over myself God gives the world to girls who don’t get in their own way. Black velvet hanger left off kilter. Last night, I purchased a blue dress that reminded me of dreams I already forgot. A blue dress to wear in a glass house in a place like Topanga. Bright blue dress to wear while making spring green soup. Purchased the dress with visions of next summer spinning through my mind. Visions of wearing a blue dress and standing barefoot on the wood floor of my parents’ house and making spring green soup. Sitting on the edge of my bed in dark green lulu lemon leggings and black tank top this morning. Cool minty Zyn in mouth, and Celsius in hand. The apartment is a mess, and it has been for a while. Trees are barren and kind of sweet outside my window. I hate this apartment. I want my old apartment back. I want to get everything I’ve ever wanted. I want to get sober and mean it. I want two hours of dedicated time-writing-fiction per day, and two hours of dedicated time walking outdoors writing notes. I want to let no more hours drift. I was not happy to come back to New York, but I do like the parts of the city that just are-what-they-are. Green turtle pond and freezing hands. Big buildings and tour groups. Windy streets. Bustling with people. When I’m at pilates I don’t feel like I need to move to LA, I tell Saorise, in the studio. The toned and old gay man that owns Pilates People runs warm. He cracked the window to let in the frigid winter fog. All the girls are upset about this. The light is silver and bright like a beam. It is a foggy day. We have LA at home, Saiorse says. We have life-like-California, but it’s real-life and it’s right-here. We can stay right here. We can invent different schools of movement. We can even go to Sugarfish Girls mass-exodus a friend group or even a whole entire life because of totally superficial reasons that are totally fake, Saoirse is saying, at Sugarfish. We acquire Saki. I pull my hair into a tight ponytail and I revel in my perfect day. I document my material reality meticulously. I have been training myself to become totally head empty. I have been training myself to gently accept gluttony, and also to be less subject to my whims. Sugar Fish has the sort of generic-upscale interior that reminds you of nothing, and thus reminds you of personal recollections of positive experiences in similar generic upscale interior restaurants. This is how they keep you coming back, I say. Girls couldn’t find a backbone if it hit them over the head, Saiorse says. Girls want to drown their enemies in buckets like kittens. Girls want to pray for you and ask to kiss you and pretend to be your friends. I am starting to feel some animosity, I tell Saorsie. Our meal is light but comes out in many courses. Saiorse is happy to hear about my budding proclivity for negativity. I’ve been telling you these things for years and knowing that it wasn’t yet time for you to listen, Sairse responds. You can pick something really good, or you can pick something that you really really want. Saiorse plays with her salmon sashimi and she doesn’t like soy sauce. Saoirse doesn’t ask me to tell her which one I pick: really good versus really wanted, that is. Do you remember Michael the explorer, Saoirse asks me. I have known Saoirse for a million billion years. We share a million billion strange friends. It’s nice to pour over these things. Internet friends. Federal agent friends. Friend who snuck over the Canadian border a few years ago and then washed up outside a fire pit in The Hamptons. Her explorer friend who we took to Round Swamp market for blueberry muffins after he got back from some place like Antarctica or maybe North Korea. He was not very risk-adverse. He was so worried about you, Saoirse says. Did you know that at the time? He said you seemed so nice. Walking home in the crisp and cold afternoon feeling so nice. Walking through the farmers market. Curling up in bed half asleep half dressed half under covers. Half lonely and half at peace because I love when my apartment is so cold. Cassandra texts that she is going to the museum. Why, I ask? It is our duty to seek out all the latent beauty in the world. Cassandra responds. At night, In Brooklyn, I can listen to Jeff Buckley Forget Her on repeat and think about what I actually want. Purification. Indulging my addictions. Freedom from vice. Sweet music and soft cover of winter fog and little green glass wind chimes hanging from the trees. I like wearing natural fibers and clothing I move easily in and having a uniform and following an obsession to its logical conclusion. I like knowing immediately and totally what it is that I could or could not love. Little dried leaves shivering across the pavement. They look like little rats except for the part where they are very beautiful. I run into one friend smoking on the street in a velvet black jacket when I arrive at the reading. I like your suit, I say. It’s my only suit, he responds. I don’t want to drink but I do want a cigarette and I only like cigarettes when I’m drinking. There’s a glowing strawberry on the wall, and there are a lot of people I have never seen before or at least do not see often. Like the cool theater kids’ basement in college, the girl next to me is saying. Soft snow flurries outside, which serves as a nice reminder that it is still winter. Reading out loud about Florida, Massachusetts and feeling reclusive. Wednesday, January 14 Sweet Wednesday morning, but I’m going to treat it like a Monday. Still listening to Jeff Bukley Forget Her, which makes me want to be somewhere else. Somewhere very cold or very foggy or even, very sunny. Perhaps I should stop hedging and just commit to something. Last night, a boy was ordering a drink and talking about how he was so glad no one was doing dry January this year. He asked his friend what he was drinking. Soda water and cranberry, the friend said. Oh, he said. You’re doing dry January? I’ve been dry for six months, his friend said. I felt so jealous of his friend. So, I know what has to give. Need to take pleasure in denying myself the things I want, etc etc etc. Listening to Forget Her over and over and over again, and turning my head all the way upside down so I can get a look at the snow behind me, but the snow has mostly stopped. Just silver skies all the way, now. Silver skies all the way up and all the way down. Jeff Buckley died at thirty-years-old. Someone who destroyed himself early but at least he had something to show for it. The desire to toss out everything I own becomes pervasive in the snow. The desire to get rid of all these things I wish were not mine. Gathering up all these clothes and throwing them in a big white trash bag. Thinking about the big smile on my face when my mother gave me a blue and shiny dress and then thinking about throwing it in a donation bin which pipelines to landfills, obviously. Hours can pass, percolating in guilt over what to do with this blue dress among other items. There are many more wasteful things than throwing out a dress. Buying and drinking alcohol for example. Buying and eating protein bars just to feel full by which I mean full of trash. Scrolling on my phone. Being cruel. The snow is both coming down and melting outside. Smells like ski racing. Nothing I am getting rid of is special. If the people whom I don’t want to see show up at a party, then I will leave. My friends are in the basement of the party when I arrive. Another friend’s new bar. The wood has been stained dark brown and the place is starting to look formal and nice. My friends are vacuuming and putting away books. We all look like little elves putting the books away, Quinn says. Many interesting books. Esoterics of Health and something about Aliens, for example. Thursday, January 15 Rinse and repeat. Blueish silver light in my apartment, where the sun barely penetrates, but at least nothing is artificial. Outside, everything is melting, melting, melting. White and chipped paint on the fire escape, and I can see the drops of water growing from the metal edges and then… drop! Leafless trees shimmering like they’re coated in gum drops. Each silver water droplet crystallized as its own little form, and then together, they are turning the whole tree silver. Since they turned down the central heating and then I turned off my air conditioner, a few days ago, everything has begun to feel quite quiet. Should we do a dress exchange? I ask Cassandra. Should I bring you your bible and a book called The Elephant in the Brain and also your blue cashmere sweater in exchange for my polyester Aritzia slip? Yes! says Cassandra. The West Village is wet and cold and the church is white and the doors are blue. The dining room of The Marlton Hotel is full of red velvet booths and gold lined mirrors and star shaped yellow lights. The mirrors and the lights make me feel a little bit like I am in a room full of sun, but I am not in a room full of sun. I am in a windowless hotel lobby full of mirrors. Cassandra takes out her Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls at table over are taking out their Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls everywhere are just the same. Olivia has her Rapunzel hair bundled up in her scarf like a baboushka. Cassandra is wearing a beautiful red scarf tied around her neck and wearing beautiful gold jewelry. The girls at the table over are talking about how we were created to have gentle souls. Why would anybody make it their mission in life to seek out… chaos? Cassandra interjects. To seek to degrade others, Olivia says. Cassandra teaches me a new word: Odoriferous. Cassandra tells me about her friend who lives in Northern California off the grid, farming salmon or maybe saving them, researching them, I can’t remember. A girl stumbles into the dining room to greet her friends at the table over. I can feel how cold you are, her friends say. I can’t wait to see the ocean again, Cassandra says. It feels really weird going so long without seeing the ocean. I guess I won’t see the ocean again for a while. Thinking about feeling manic. Thinking about every other timeline. Thinking about pouring big glass of water and black coffee with five splenda because I am still glutenous. Getting right to the cusp of something means that in at least a few other timelines, you probably figured it out. Nice to assume you’re capable of that, at least. Nice to know that in another timeline, my diaries are probably anonymous and I can be less vague. Nice to know that in another timeline I can probably lie. I can probably say what I actually mean. Spraying perfume over green sweater and imagining myself as someone who moves more slowly. Ordered a glass of wine because I love relapsing on an empty stomach. Telling Olivia about when my life was hot and cold and up and down and crazy all the time, because for the first time, I am realizing that she did not know me then. It’s hard to describe to someone who wasn’t there. Feeling a little bit nauseous and like I wish I hadn’t spoken. We could be living in the Midwest driving golf carts, Olivia says. Indiana is just corn and soy but not even produced for human production just animal feed or corn syrup, she says. I have a fondness for cornfields, Cassandra says. We could belong to country clubs, Olivia said. I wonder what that is like. Friday, January 16 In my dreams, I am surrounded by water on all sides, Somewhere in El Salvador. Somewhere in Costa Rica. Somewhere with all my friends-from-the-internet, and they do not like my new boyfriend. It’s ok, because I don’t like my new boyfriend too much either. I am scheming with my internet-friends. We are scheming ways to get rid of new boyfriend. Everyone is happy about my plots to get him gone, and no one seems to clock that I am the one who invited him in the first place. We are deep sea fishing. I am hanging by my arms from the edge of the boat and my feet are running through the water while a girl I know to be my best friend fires up the boat faster and faster and faster. I am a little scared. I am having so much fun. Salt water. Earth water. Angel water. I wake up. One light left on, back in New York. Yellow glowing floor lamp, so at least there’s nothing shining overhead. Last night, I was walking through the winter snow sliding on ice and filled with energy and adoration and also two illicit drinks. Listening to music and wind and stopping for gum and diet coke and then washing up in a restaurant that was bustling and warm and dimly lit. Telling my friends not to wait outside. For a while, I wanted to show others the places that had always been mine. It had never been like that before. It had always been more of a self protective sort of thing. Back to letting myself be dragged to kind of nice places to which I have no attachment, now. Talking about myself like I am playing SIMS at dinner. Ordering one diet coke and one piece of fish. Dinner passing kind of assembly line cool. Chill and smooth. In the snow and the ice, everything is seamless and then I’m in a car home so that I do not slip. Things could be quiet and end early but I still just can’t stay put. I become more full of energy, later on. I have become very sick of interiority. I went to a small Italian cafe to pass the later night because when I don’t, I always wish I did. It was a snowy and beautiful night. The cafe was made for families and locals and tour groups and dark and lovely. My new friends were talking about things like art-of-business, so it felt kind of far from myself but I could bear it for some hours. A beautiful life. Trying to be more tender and less neurotic. This does not have to mean everything. A person can just be cautious and nice-for-now. Walked home in the snow. Woke up warm. Still can’t stay away from places that have always been mine. Yellow light emanates from the yellow lamp. Nothing fluorescent. A million things to write over a million times. A million things to consider. A million topics on which the thing to do now is to wait and see. Waiting and seeing. Text about finding a DJ for a party in San Francisco. Email about a party at The Mount Washington Hotel. All these very random things that feel so close to being in reach. Kind of want to go. Kind of want to languish in old and beautiful rooms at the Mount Washington Hotel and in the majestic magic pool and imagine that money flows like water by which I mean spend money like it is water. Opening the window, now. Letting it be morning, now. Have to be clear, now. Sober minded and clear. Time passes like water, too, so that is something else to be wary of. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, January 27 From 8pm at The River — Theme Trivia returns with Medieval Trivia.

Inline links: The River, Theme Trivia

Pepsi2 mentions across 2 issues

Pepsi is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between April 04, 2025 and February 15, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Diet Blackberry Pepsi"; "Cool Sips soda shop where Pepsi is mixed with heavy cream". It most often appears alongside KGB, New York, 154 Scott Ave.

Article page: Pepsi
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: April 04, 2025
Last seen: February 15, 2026

Issue trail

Live Diary. April 04, 2025
Yellow-all-around February 15, 2026

KGB 2 shared issues
New York 2 shared issues
154 Scott Ave 1 shared issues
247 Varet 1 shared issues
A HAPPENING 1 shared issues

Source context

April 04, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Thursday, March 27 Midnight in New York, I'm taking stock of my glass apartment in the sky. I brought back nine dresses from El Salvador - eight old ones, one black tennis dress from El Tunco. All to be washed. Open the window. There is spring breeze now, all of a sudden, really, but I've been growing accustomed to real heat. These things I used to hate - dense hot air, beating sun, a day that stretches on under direct natural light, no end, no plans.... I would suddenly like to return to this, actually, over frigid and clipped stories about foggy northern coastlines and other things in that vein. Over stories about New York, and other things in that vein. David has stayed in San Salvador, and then, Santa Teresa, Costa Rica. It would have been basically free for me to come and yes I have commitments here but not too many if we're being really honest. I would have become kind of a freak after three whole weeks in airbnbs that are calling themselves "hacker houses," though, is the main issue. And, I wanted to do laundry and stretch in the spring breeze, open the window, set an alarm. It would be so easy for me to untether the physical circumstances of my whole life, these days. It would be easy to have distance from New York, as the main thing, but distance from physicality more generally, too. I've done it before. Honestly, I'm not eighteen anymore, I don't think it makes sense for me to do it again. I will probably stop being so strange and vague once I have even one conversation with my friends back in New York. For now, it is very strange to be alone. Very strange to walk around even a small space, that even only temporarily, is belonging just to me. The past few weeks have been about eclipsing interiority with observation. Floating in realms that are foreign. Not El Salvador, even. The hacker house stuff more. The dialogue of it all, more. The other reason I am here, home, abandoned visions of a hologram of Santa Teresa and also I already really miss my boyfriend - well there was responsibility and laundry and the reading and the stories to finish but also, the lunar eclipse played a role for sure. Something about the Earthquakes and Volcanoes. The floods and the fights. Seek less direct attention from that vivid piercing beaming beating sky. Seek solid ground, I saw someone say online. So, I did. I'm back in stupid dumb New York. Window open. You can barely feel all that fresh air. Friday, March 28 I do go for a walk in the morning, and I do still love New York, I decide. I want to have very delicate arms and boundless energy. I want to have tremendous discipline in a way so as to elicit joie de vivre, and also paths of clarity. The brain fog is so bad today. In the middle of the night, the jet lag woke me up, and I hate sleeping alone in this apartment. I'm sorry, I know I’m being a child but I hate it, the emptiness, when I wake up from paralysis, there are often moments of brief delusion. Alone, glass house, I have to talk myself down. I’ve tried to bring myself to life, today - long walk, two protein bars, slice of papaya, sushi roll for dinner, diet coke and cigarette, make a Vlog, make a Call. David had sleep paralysis, too, last night, he tells me on the phone. This is weird, because usually, this is a plight that is just for me. In real life, there was a creepy elderly woman occupying the hacker house in El Salvador, too. “I started a magazine last year,” she told me, when I told her I was a writer. “Oh, cool, about what?,” I asked her. “I don’t remember,” she told me. Blank gaze. Empty eyes. She would sometimes walk through our room while I slept, and one time I woke up to her passing by, vacant glance, I was obviously shocked, she looked obviously pleased. “How are ya, Love?” she said. The word “love” here, carrying a lot of the weight in making the indecent violation of space a lot creepier. “It’s fun, isn’t it?,” she told David’s friend, while he was doing the dishes. “Turning the water on and off is fun, it’s all fun, isn’t it?” She had referred to herself as a refugee, in El Salvador. From where, I had asked her. From Canada, she had said. A real eccentric freak, and in David’s dream, he wakes up to her sneaking up behind him, looming over him, it’s all fun isn’t it. She says sinisterly: “do you know what I think?” Then, in his dream, he felt her weight bend the bed springs and begin to smother him. Lunar eclipse. New moon. I find this dream ominous enough that I begin to become very concerned. You have to get out of there, I tell David. I'm leaving tomorrow anyways, he reminds me. Saturday, March 29 I spent the night last night reading at Tense and it was really lovely. Kansas Bowling reading and Valley Latini doing a hip hop show and Beckett Rosset on the Providence Hotel and me on half formed thoughts on the half complete piece I am writing on Techno Spirituality and El Salvador. I’m back in Real Life, and I don't regret it. I spent the morning by myself working on my edits. David is still traveling, and I am being more normal about it this time. In jet lagged fugue state, I burned the kettle down to a lump of molten plastic, not on purpose, obviously. I called my dad who's moral judgment I trust in full, so this clarifies a lot of things. I forgot how much I like running really really really fast. Whenever I am craving the extremes, I should access them through lots of sprints. The wind is crazy today. The wind has everyone whooping and hollering through the streets. I'm making TikToks again. I don't care. There are worse evils or, rather, you can leverage anything for evil if you really want and honestly, I am just trying to have lots of fun. Some of you are awfully pretentious for being addicted to things like Ketamine and Feeld. Not me. I don’t like drugs, and I have a soulmate. It is just as bad if not worse to be addicted to your phone as it is to anything else, but I’m regulating my time, and I’m microdosing my slop - or so I tell myself. Sunday, March 30 I order uber eats groceries at midnight, and then it's like celsius and chicken just washes up at my door. I don't like this. Chemicals, aspartame, the dissolution of the social fabric, really. How these things just materialize when you want to actualize some gross borderline animalistic whim. Craving. Diet Blackberry Pepsi. I would not like to live anywhere but New York City, or really anytime but now when I think it through on a very personal and very literal level. But there is something here that I increasingly am wary of as mere hallucination. There is much to consider. I am trying to be very energetic which, really, is the feeling that I increasingly cast as synonymous with Health. We went to Bacaro for dinner last night, then to Clockwork, later. “Do you know about how to get dinner for free,” some girl sitting next to my friend and me said. Then, she explained the concept of Club Promoters. Yeah I know, I said. I didn’t say it in a rude way. I just told her that I already knew, which I already did. My energy feels back in a way that feels very True today. Before I left for El Salvador, I was getting in the habit of killing time. Looking at an hour and wishing it over. I don’t want to quantify anything. What would happen if I never rushed a second again? This is what I’m trying to figure out. What would happen if I never rushed a second again? This is what I’m trying to figure out. Monday, April 1 My mind was reeling so fast in my Irish Literature class this evening. I started flicking through Internet Web Applications at warpspeed. I made some calls. I didn’t go crazy. “Saying no is a far more reliable path to avoiding sin than saying yes”, I heard someone say, through my fog, through the haze - that snapped me out of it quite quickly. “What if you literalize that, and just say no to everything?” a quiet girl across from me asked. I wrote this part down - “JUST SAY NO TO EVERYTHING!!!!” It was humid, heavy, soon-to-be-hot spring, today, in New York. I lost my head. Truly. I became very braindead very quickly, today. I recovered as best I could. It’s the way these things always go. Unmoored from the interactions you’ve been taking for granted, you’ve been alone with your thoughts and suddenly, you’ve found yourself thinking Nothing At All, and Saying A Lot Out Loud And Saying A Lot Online. You realize, suddenly, how wrong this all is, and then you become briefly concerned that maybe, suddenly, it is already too late for you. Or maybe it isn’t too late after all.. Water on the windowsill. I remember spring two years ago, a taxi cab from Chelsea down to where the East River runs near the Lower East Side. I wore a yellow dress and I ran like the wind from the river to the hotel bar. The fires. The maggots. It was that day in New York when it felt like cosmically, biblically, something bad was probably about to happen. The Seven Plagues. The air was thicker and hotter, then. I am thinking about that day because I was braindead on the Internet then, too. Celsius, protein bar, things had begun all thick and ugly and then I’d been whisked away into a big black car, shuttled to the bar at Nine Orchard, my friends convincing me to stick around and then I did, I stuck around for a while, I never really left after that, come to think of it. “It’s Deep Tech Week in New York,” Shannon tells me, today - whatever that means. She sends me an event as such, and I investigate the schedule for the rest of this week from there. Deep Tech Week is a week of events about Tech, and they added the word Deep in front of it to make it seem more cool, I realize quickly. “Turning Science Fiction into Reality,” the text on the website says, and I don’t really like the sound of that. I find that premise, as strictly a premise, material reality aside, even, to be nearly cartoonishly evil. But, I suppose I’ll try to be less pedantic. I eat a sugar cookie (gluten free). Two protein bars from that new brand DAVID. A brand activation crispy sandwich from Joe And The Juice. The packaging is orange instead of that usual nice pastel pink. KEVIN DURANT, the packing says. It is nine pm, and I am suddenly ravenous. Good. Looks like I got my corporeality back. I really was planning to go to the Deep Tech Party tonight, but the rain started in an instant, in the exact instant I was set to leave, really. Like it’s trying to communicate some form of serendipity, reason, warning, whatever. Monday is the day where I let myself get every last thing done on my phone. My eyes burn. It rots the soul. My week continues and I become much more particular with myself. Tuesday, April 2 It’s not that I mind being kind of exhibitionist, even, but I can’t control the feedback loop and I start to drive myself mad. Taking stock of the state of the union like THINGS THAT ARE "IN": Swimming

February 15, 2026 · Original source

Feeling like I am kind of on a leash Sunday, February 8 Now, I am in my room and I am feeling ok. I am lying under my big white comforter in a green cashmere sweater, black Amazon tights, tennis skirt, nothing is messy anymore. After today’s reading group, where the discussion was about Virtue and Vice, Cassandra and Olivia and some others and I walked over to Washington Square Diner. I used to frequent Washington Square Diner at night, but in the day everything was brighter and I liked it better this way. I ordered black coffee and lemon tea and was happy with this choice, as no one seemed particularly pleased with the sandwiches that they kept on trotting out. Dry chicken, huge bread. I’m a snob, I’m a snob, Olivia kept saying. Sorry, she was saying. Sorry but I just feel really fucking bored. I added splenda to my water kind of indignantly, and stirred it around feeling strange. Olivia was talking about how it’s fine to eat anything if you’re on a desert island. It’s fine to eat bacon if the desert island is the prison-of-your mind and it’s the-only-food-you-like. Cassandra was talking about how none of her friends were getting married anytime soon, and so perhaps she’d have to conjure up a wedding of her own. Yeah, sorry, I was saying. Why sorry? Cassandra asked. There was way too much food on the table, and I think that this was the part that was throwing off everybody’s vibe. There was a new Cool Sips soda shop where Pepsi is mixed with heavy cream in town, and so after lunch, there was talk of maybe we go. Maybe we go drink heavy cream and diet Pepsi. Maybe we go weightlifting. Maybe we buy cottage cheese which is calories-per-pound-per-protein-per - I never really understood these things - better than chicken. Maybe we all go home. Whilst talking about protein in ground beef and also cottage cheese and also high cholesterol versus heavy metals, Olivia reminded us that the number one health factor is joy. At home, I am sitting on the edge of my bed in a black skirt and Lafayette striped cream sweater and brown snow and salt stained Prada boots. Thinking about self fulfilling prophecies. I will not drink and I will not look particularly pretty and I will not be socially offputting and strange. I don’t need to share every word of my google doc diaries. Twenty-five-thousand words written this week in google doc diaries because I just can’t cut myself off. Real-life-diaries. Real-life-compulsions. Fake-life-blog, maybe. In the afternoon, I walk over to a kind of industrial style Japanese coffee shop to meet Lily for tea. I am wearing a thin spring coat, no gloves, and the wind chill is negative-fifteen. My face is sort of swollen as a product of bad habits, but I am hoping to blame expedited deterioration on wind burn. I run into my priest walking quickly, somewhere around West 4th. Are you crying, my priest shouts in my direction. Just cold, I say in response. I walk for twelve more minutes, and when I reach the Japanese Coffee shop, my hands are burning and there are tears streaming down my face. A product of the cold, no-emotion, I tell Lily. The coffee shop is lined with narrow benches, and Lily lets me occupy the one-free-seat because it is clear that I am feeling fragile. She hovers above me holding silver trays, pistachio milk, black coffee, chocolate chip cookies. I feel like maybe I shouldn’t move to Los Angeles, she sighs, when I finish telling her my week of whirling hotel stories. I feel like in Los Angeles, everyone pretends that they don’t care about nice things. I drink my coffee in a few big sips, and I am feeling better at talking than listening. Did you write anything down about the people my party last week, Lily asks me. I nod, and pull up my notes. Most of my friends call girls ‘girls’ I say, The people at the party called ‘girls’ ‘women.‘ Lily smiles. It’s a posture just the same. At night, at the Superbowl party, in an apartment where the walls were recently washed a sort of deep-cloud blue, and the drinks are made with vodka and coconut water and grapefruit juice and on the side, some champagne, I arrive late. I’ve been making the drinks kind of strong, which I know you like, Savannah says. The advertisements this year are all made by Artificial Intelligence. The only advertisement not visibly made by Artificial Intelligence in an anti-hate ad wherein an antisemitic attack is covered up by a blue square, and two students walk off screen in redeemed solidarity. When this advertisement begins to play, Matt suggests that we all shut up. Everyone watch the ad, he says. The advertisement finishes, and then all the boys’ phones begin to buzz. Did you just see the ad, all the boys’ friends are asking the boys. They are all really into things like hot-ticket-cultural-discourse. What did you do last night? Matt asks me, later after everyone is already all a little drunk, and I am curled up on the couch, eating pistachios, staring at the screen. I hung out with my new friends, I tell Matt. I am feeling triumphant, and a little bit sad. Who are your new friends? Matt asks. Very nice and very promising people, I tell Matt. Don’t tell anyone that I’m making new friends, I tell Matt. I won’t, Matt responds. I won’t, because it doesn’t sound like you are. Later, trying to leave, and everyone is stuck. I think your taxi is blocking mine, Matt texts. I think a cop car is blocking me. Everyone is trying to honk louder than the car before. I was playing tetris in the snow and now we’re playing tetris at the wheel. Tetris on Houston street. My taxi makes a fake-out breakaway left and I speed away. Writing everything down in my apartment, back home. My moods are very predictable. I write about systems. I’m telling my computer that it’s never really about me. Watch how the patterns repeat. Could a human girl be so good at cycles? I’m telling my computer that I’m the best human girl at cycles. I’m the best at downward spirals. I’m the best at it’s happening over and over and over again. I’m not an evil genius. Writing like I’m top-of-class (fifth grade). Writing like I’m queen of staying up late. Window is closed tonight because outside it is just too cold. Drinking Perrier not Evian because I have ambitions of aesthetic cohesion. Dream logic. Magic logic. I am too tired to miss anything, and I am too caught up in self-surveillance to be really running on anything other than vibes. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Sunday, February 15 From 8pm at Night Club 101 — Punisher returns with a post Valentine’s Day debrief. Readings by Megsuperstarprincess, Riley Mac, Nicole Sellew, Francesca D’Alessandro, Dove Ginsburg, and Ava Doorley. Party to follow with The Heaven Forever. Mélange á seven. | RSVP here.

Inline links: Night Club 101, Punisher, The Heaven Forever, here

Perfect Bar2 mentions across 2 issues

Perfect Bar is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between May 28, 2024 and May 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "I'm eating a Peanut Butter Cookie Dough Perfect Bar"; "peanut butter perfect bar". It most often appears alongside Ellie, Le Bain, Lower East Side.

Article page: Perfect Bar
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: May 28, 2024
Last seen: May 27, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #2 May 28, 2024
generative and godly secrets May 27, 2025

Ellie 2 shared issues
Le Bain 2 shared issues
Lower East Side 2 shared issues
New York 2 shared issues
West Village 2 shared issues

Source context

COLLECTED AGENDA #2

May 28, 2024 · Original source

Day In My Life Getting My Life Together. There’s an evening full of wasted potential because I’m suddenly so Type A. I’m going to pilates. I’m ordering Sweetgreen from down the block to be deposited right to my door. I’m eating a Peanut Butter Cookie Dough Perfect Bar. Must not become braindead! Writing in my notes app - gluttony is my least favorite sin.

Inline links: Sweetgreen

May 27, 2025 · Original source

Friday, May 23 10:45am, and they are playing some kind of staticy electric classical mashup of music from the Fedex truck outside. "Even as a grad student, I felt they were looking down on chaos," one young man at the Yemeni coffee shop is telling another. Buying: coffee and chicken quiche but none of that is for me. Buying: peanut butter perfect bar and celsius and my boyfriend's screen time is up to 316 hours since midnight since he's doing things indiscernible to me but which he clarifies are Not Fraudulent. I am trying not to write so much in the google doc diaries. It is like I have learned these diaries as a trick, and now I am addicted to it. Now, I can’t do anything else. I must release all thoughts, but to release one thought I must go through, again and again, everything else. And so I go through it all, again and again and again. The thought, and then everything else. We were going to talk more about Spirituality today, but the tripwire keeps happening - stuck on: Vanity and Careerism. I make subheadings to keep myself in check. VANITY. CAREERISM. CAREERISM: Here is where I am: I have the substack for now which is nice this is something that I suppose in some ways is a defining thing I have done but it does not feel like so much it does not feel like it culminates to anything just proof of existence, yes, but everyone has some sort of proof of existence and it is nice to write the story behind something. The story itself cannot just be the story of writing about yourself. And for a minute I was very very very sad and so that plotline became dependable, but that is no sort of thing to rely on. And this is why it cannot all just be the writing of the self. It hasn’t been. [redacted] felt like something different, investigation, beginning middle end, it was not just here I am, it was like a puzzle it was like being very precise with it and it was the biggest thing I have done so far and I sat with it for such a long time. And perhaps I am being dramatic because there are other projects I could start in the meantime but I can’t sit down and make myself think oh what would be an interesting and pithy thing to talk about for somewhere glossy, I cannot do it. I think about doing it and my stomach rises into my throat with how little I care. And so it has to be a story that bursts out of me. There was one, and I can tell there is almost something else too but it’s like David said yes, it’s difficult while you are in the waiting room. Since beginning writing this, my fever got higher, and we are hanging the Bacchus masks around the apartment plus yellow golden softlight and, now I feel more peaceful about it. I wasn’t having so much humility. Nevermind. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 27 From 6pm (show at 7pm) at Baby’s All Right — Baby’s Presents a benefit concert for the Immigrant Defense Project with Palehound, The Ophelias, and Grumpy. Dj set by WeTakeManhattan. - “All proceeds from the show will go towards supporting the IDP’s 20+ year mission of fighting for the rights of immigrants targeted for imprisonment and mass deportation via advocacy, litigation, legal advice and training, community defense, grassroots alliances, and strategic communications.” | GA (18+) $38.86, Ticket and Bonus Donation $49.69

Inline links: Baby’s All Right, Palehound, The Ophelias, Grumpy, WeTakeManhattan

Sue Wong2 mentions across 2 issues

Sue Wong is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between April 04, 2025 and May 13, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "spending the last of my money on thrifted Sue Wong beaded dresses"; "Sue Wong beaded dress, borrowed shoes". It most often appears alongside KGB, Matt Weinberger, New York.

Article page: Sue Wong
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: April 04, 2025
Last seen: May 13, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

Live Diary. April 04, 2025
Panopticon-ing Everyone May 13, 2025

KGB 2 shared issues
Matt Weinberger 2 shared issues
New York 2 shared issues
ROXY CINEMA 2 shared issues
Shannon 2 shared issues

Source context

April 04, 2025 · Original source

spending money like I have it, spending the last of my money on thrifted Sue Wong beaded dresses because they don’t make beads and dresses like that anymore and certainly not at this price point.

Inline links: Sue Wong

May 13, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Thursday, May 8 I've been panopticon-ing everyone here, and you have asked me to stop. Ok. I'm sorry I have already told about what happened on Wednesday. Not here. Imagine it's all fantasy. I mean it when I say that I am really not talking about myself. Being all confessional and then I feel kind of gross about it. Being kind of glib about the parts I thought were most sincere. I've been neglectful, most of all. Right now, I am most sorry about that. In the end, you'll be lying on a Japanese floor mattress and you'll be thinking about the parts that are still the same. Tonight, I went to the party that I usually avoid. I went home before the parts that come next. Another flight tomorrow, and I wish there wasn't more travel though, I am glad for where we are going. An old school hotel, Sue Wong beaded dress, borrowed shoes and sharing the different details of my life like oh it's been all grad school and true love and self surveillance - this part will be nice. My friend suggests at dinner - I don't have insomnia, I live in an environment of psychological torture sleep depravation. I could latch onto this. Psychological torture. My friend says - New York vs LA; you can find nuance in uglier things here and she cites me as the example of nuance as if I am something like resilient or tough. I have never been described as either of these things before, and I hope I haven't been plying myself in victimhood too heavily, because really - my circumstances are wonderful. It is a sweet description, though. I'm glad I'm not a fraud, at least. Lots of parties this week and those were nice while they lasted. You can't be indignant without clarity, which - I am working on having more of. I set up the summer so as to have the days stretching endlessly in front of me. This concerns me a bit. I will need to read for two hours every morning. There is a novel forming mostly beneath my writing here, and I will need to finish that. All at once it's like everyone has drawn the same conclusions about good and evil. Everyone was all like this is so good, and then everyone snapped at once and it was like: this is evil. I have briefly wondered where this change would map out cosmically, though, I have tried to be a mystic about it, and my basic impulses revolt. I was culling chapters from my Secret Diary a while back. Here, I was saying. Time stamp it in Google Docs and you know I meant this before I even knew I would need to show you it was true someday. None of it was really so long ago. So, I wonder, for example - what July will be like? I wonder about June. You could be a bartender or a DJ. Sounds like something someone who has lost their intuition would say. I'm talking in hypotheticals because I mean it when I say that I am not, really, talking about myself. Friday, May 9 Rebecca and I sat at Bar Belly in the rain for a while last night. Shannon made me cauliflower rice and avocado for lunch. I did circle around to my boyfriend's culty and evil type hang later in the night. There was chicken from the street, there. Rebecca will stay at our place while we're gone. She stayed at ours for a while last night. Everyone went to KGB, later, but I am being more regulated about it. Making pasta at nine am because I was up all night in spite of new efforts. Pouring rain and then we're driving towards Laguardia. In retrospect, I still do not think I was being dramatic about things, but it feels distant and small now. Short term memory maybe, or, the present is often quite extreme and so; wherever I am, it absorbs me. I like his brown leather bag, cufflinks, it's been to and fro this airport all spring which serves to dividend the chaos a bit. Anyways, everything is fine. I have a life in New York that I will still feel so lucky to return to. "You guys are in love!" a girl in micro-shorts told us at the party last night. "How long have you been in love for?" "Almost two years," he said. This is the pragmatic answer and also this is true. The girl beamed. "I've been in love for ten days," she said. I need to hold things closer to my chest. Not here - I am obfuscated enough about it here, so it's hard to do much damage. It's different in the real world. I say things that I know to be true, but I say them before I really understand what they mean. I am more protective of the things that are good, and I am quick to give away all that is bad. This is not how a person should be. Happy Mother's Day, the light and water show at the airport is saying. Elderly couple to my left devouring fried chicken. I feel incredibly ill, come to think of it, but some of this stays sweet. Darling darling darling, he keeps telling me. Are you ready to fly in a plane in the sky? Artificial Intelligence will come to destroy the earth and you will be like twenty-five years old and on your phone and talking badly about your friends behind their back and forgetting to call your family and drinking to disgust. Artificial Intelligence will come to destroy the world and you will call your sister, call your mom, lie under the open window with your boyfriend. You will be making up stories and praying over a glass of sparkling water. You will be listening to music and sound and language from real life. You will picture a relic of yourself still human, and you will be pleased. Saturday, May 10 I have decided to return to Photos. It is funny how these things work. I felt quite repulsed by images for a moment, but even just a few days of speaking out loud how much the equilibrium has been missing and how much now, it is time to get it back - I said this out loud along with other things, and now I can face the physical form again. And so much of the physical form is so pretty. I do like when things are ethereal and kind of between realms - it is why I have always liked to be very thin, although I’m pretty Normal in Body these days - and this is the most boring of boring things to discuss, anyways. My tendency is to archive and hoard. It is comically wrong to suggest that I seek to leave behind no trace. My point is, for a while now, I could not bear the traces. Something has shifted. There is a gold framed photo of a palm tree across from the bed in this hotel, and it’s the kind that is old school not tacky. Everything is art deco here. The ceilings at the bar are ten stories high, he told me, before dinner. There was salad and a cosmopolitan and such nice conversation and, I do always get whisked away when the time is right. I’m feeling pretty even keeled. If April happened again, it wouldn’t happen like this. The day has been so good so far. The hotel is old, classic, and art deco. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 13 Doors at 7pm, reading at 8pm at TJ Byrnes — Bronwen Lam & David Dufour present Patio, an evening of reading. This rendition features Martina Mendoza, Mark Iosifescu, Myles Zavelo, Stephanie Wambugu, Babak Lakghomi, and Steve Anwyll.

Inline links: TJ Byrnes, Bronwen Lam, David Dufour, Patio

Sweetgreen2 mentions across 2 issues

Sweetgreen is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between May 28, 2024 and February 15, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "I'm ordering Sweetgreen from down the block to be deposited right to my door"; "everything was all Blue Mercury Skincare and Sweetgreen and farmhouses". It most often appears alongside Matthew Gasda, New York, Soho.

Article page: Sweetgreen
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: May 28, 2024
Last seen: February 15, 2026

Outbound links

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #2 May 28, 2024
Yellow-all-around February 15, 2026

Matthew Gasda 2 shared issues
New York 2 shared issues
Soho 2 shared issues
Abe Shapiro 1 shared issues
Addison Pest Control Shop 1 shared issues

Source context

COLLECTED AGENDA #2

May 28, 2024 · Original source

Day In My Life Getting My Life Together. There’s an evening full of wasted potential because I’m suddenly so Type A. I’m going to pilates. I’m ordering Sweetgreen from down the block to be deposited right to my door. I’m eating a Peanut Butter Cookie Dough Perfect Bar. Must not become braindead! Writing in my notes app - gluttony is my least favorite sin.

Inline links: Sweetgreen

February 15, 2026 · Original source

Friday, February 6 I am awake and I have been for one hour. All around me, everything is pale and still and one small room and one short hallway and one light left on. One of one. One of everything. Everything is just the same. Yesterday, when I woke up, it was yellow all around. I woke up in the country yesterday, and the first thing that I noticed was all that yellow all around. Pale yellow walls. Soft yellow light. Snow reflecting golden yellow rays off a white carriage house roof, but even that part was turned sort of yellow by the early morning sun. The night before yesterday, I stayed up all night. There wasn’t much to do with all those hours, but I knew that in the morning, I’d be whisked away. Good at leaving when I remember all the things I hate. Good at coming back when I decide to get a hold of myself. I’d decided to let the night in my apartment sort of drift. I watched the sky turn dark, stay like that for a while, and then I watched it turn light again. It always kind of happens this way. In the morning, I’d packed a book bag with a suede black mini skirt, black cotton long sleeve top, toothbrush, snow boots, notebook, Off-The-Farm brand caramel protein bar. I took the B-line to the 1-line and towards the Upper West Side. On the Upper West Side, there were big french windows and snowy streets and tree branches that scratch the side of buildings and in the summer coat the whole place green. Not so much this time of year. Empty whisper benches. Powdered sledding hills in Central Park. From the Upper West Side, Laura drove me to New Jersey. A simple enough drive, but we just could not stay on track. The Hudson River was frozen over. Big white ice blocks that solidified and fractured and split. We were trying to spot a bathhouse somewhere in the suburbs of New Jersey. Is this the place to swim? we kept on asking each other, any time we passed a warehouse, or a sign that said something like Pools and Baths and Plumbing. When we got to the country, it was already dark. The driveway was lined with silver lights. I like to return to places where I have not been for years but which stay exactly the same. We lit a fire and we had salad and salmon and white wine and chocolate truffles. I was so excited to be somewhere where there was so much space. I liked the light and the quiet and the fact that there was more snow here than in the city, and I was pleased by how much I remembered. After dinner, I ran a bath in a big white bathroom. Big clear windows looking out at clear dark skies. I liked how everything felt very old, and very big, and very familiar, and very clean. I did not like how I felt a bit like a bull in a China Shop. Everything I touched returned a little less perfect than how I found it. Soap and towels left slightly off kilter. Clothes left in a pile on the floor. I fell asleep in a big white four poster bed, and I made sure to crease the comforter only slightly. I forgot to say goodnight, but no one really minded. I woke up surrounded by yellow all around. Morning, and when I pulled open yellow sheer curtains I could look out at all those skinny barren trees and lots of ice and a long driveway that stretched on and on and on. Laura came into my room and said good morning, and then she told me that she would show me how to make coffee, downstairs, soon. On the landing, there were three bedrooms, and a long hallway with a window seat lined with stuffed animals and a big window that looked out over big snow. The stuffed animals on the landing were all like little lions and zebras and all kinds of pastel and nice faces, nothing creepy. The wallpaper was all mostly white, with little blue or pink or yellow flowers peppered in between but nothing too suffocating. The snow outside the window was silky and icy and pure white and frozen over. There was a sheen over the snow. I could see, even from here, that the snow had been solidified under a layer of crust. My hair was covered in static. When I brushed my hair, I could see it literally spark. This week, I was documenting everything with compulsion. I went downstairs. Laura was working on a puzzle in the living room, where all the windows were long and clear and let the whole space flood with light. I looked out at perfect snow coated verandas. I learned how to make coffee in a chemex glass. Boiled water. Always becoming a bit bewildered in places that are quiet and beautiful and clear. I wouldn’t be friends with someone with bad aesthetic taste, my old friends used to say. My new friends, of late, had developed somewhat of a taste for conspicuous consumption. Later, Laura drove me to the train station through snowy streets and snowy backroads. We pulled away from the house and down the snowy driveway and then we drove through suburbs where everything was all Blue Mercury Skincare and Sweetgreen and farmhouses reminiscent of Boston, Chicago, Connecticut, suburbs everywhere all the same. Ladies everywhere liking Blue Mercury and Pure Barre. Laura gave me white gloves to keep for good on the train platform towards New York. You are so cold, just take and keep these, she said. Are you sure, I said, but I was already slipping the gloves onto my hands. Back in New York, I sat on a bench in Penn Station while I waited for the 1-train. Knees tucked up to chest and clothed in kind of filthy LuLu Lemon leggings. Drinking Dunkin Donuts almond milk latte with sugar free vanilla and almond and one cool-minty-zyn. Watching strangers and all sorts of scents drift by. It is the coldest winter in history or at least in recent memory, but due to sensory issues and the flattering nature of a-line skirts, all I have been wearing is sheer tights and mini dresses. When I got home, everything was very rushed, which is another thing that always tends to happen. Saturday, February 8 Following Cassandra’s confirmation, we went to a bitcoin themed bar and then to a hotel lobby. We went to a cocktail bar after that, where the drinks were made of things like clarified basil and tasted bad. I have one statement, Sam told the waiter, at the bar. Then, he asked a question. Could I have another drink? This one is very not good. In the evening, we went to Bigelow’s to buy the hair bows just like the Kennedys wore, and after that, we went to a dinner in Soho and then a tech-week-party to end the night. At the tech week party all the girls were cute and unemployed. They all made videos on the Internet and all had long-distance boyfriends. We took photos on a digital camera and smoked cigarettes on the edge of the fire escape while the boys all talked about suicidal ideation. When they ran out of liquor, I took the elevator down without saying goodbye. On the street, in the snow, playing tetris with myself in the footholds that other boots had left behind in melting ice as I tried to claw my way into a cab, I ran into an Internet Curator. He appeared out of nowhere, though my vision was already blurry, so perhaps he had been there all along. I’ve never been somewhere with so many people from TikTok in real life, the man said. Usually, I post all these people online, but tonight there were all here in real life. Made three notes in diary in yellow taxi cab home: Freedom of Indifference vs Freedom for Excellence

TikTok2 mentions across 2 issues

TikTok is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between April 04, 2025 and May 06, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "I'm making TikToks again"; "Spring and Redemption, I say, on my dumb fucking TikTok". It most often appears alongside Confessions, Costa Rica, David.

Article page: TikTok
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: April 04, 2025
Last seen: May 06, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

Live Diary. April 04, 2025
mutually assured destruction May 06, 2025

Confessions 2 shared issues
Costa Rica 2 shared issues
David 2 shared issues
Dimes Square 2 shared issues
JM Kettle 2 shared issues

Source context

April 04, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Thursday, March 27 Midnight in New York, I'm taking stock of my glass apartment in the sky. I brought back nine dresses from El Salvador - eight old ones, one black tennis dress from El Tunco. All to be washed. Open the window. There is spring breeze now, all of a sudden, really, but I've been growing accustomed to real heat. These things I used to hate - dense hot air, beating sun, a day that stretches on under direct natural light, no end, no plans.... I would suddenly like to return to this, actually, over frigid and clipped stories about foggy northern coastlines and other things in that vein. Over stories about New York, and other things in that vein. David has stayed in San Salvador, and then, Santa Teresa, Costa Rica. It would have been basically free for me to come and yes I have commitments here but not too many if we're being really honest. I would have become kind of a freak after three whole weeks in airbnbs that are calling themselves "hacker houses," though, is the main issue. And, I wanted to do laundry and stretch in the spring breeze, open the window, set an alarm. It would be so easy for me to untether the physical circumstances of my whole life, these days. It would be easy to have distance from New York, as the main thing, but distance from physicality more generally, too. I've done it before. Honestly, I'm not eighteen anymore, I don't think it makes sense for me to do it again. I will probably stop being so strange and vague once I have even one conversation with my friends back in New York. For now, it is very strange to be alone. Very strange to walk around even a small space, that even only temporarily, is belonging just to me. The past few weeks have been about eclipsing interiority with observation. Floating in realms that are foreign. Not El Salvador, even. The hacker house stuff more. The dialogue of it all, more. The other reason I am here, home, abandoned visions of a hologram of Santa Teresa and also I already really miss my boyfriend - well there was responsibility and laundry and the reading and the stories to finish but also, the lunar eclipse played a role for sure. Something about the Earthquakes and Volcanoes. The floods and the fights. Seek less direct attention from that vivid piercing beaming beating sky. Seek solid ground, I saw someone say online. So, I did. I'm back in stupid dumb New York. Window open. You can barely feel all that fresh air. Friday, March 28 I do go for a walk in the morning, and I do still love New York, I decide. I want to have very delicate arms and boundless energy. I want to have tremendous discipline in a way so as to elicit joie de vivre, and also paths of clarity. The brain fog is so bad today. In the middle of the night, the jet lag woke me up, and I hate sleeping alone in this apartment. I'm sorry, I know I’m being a child but I hate it, the emptiness, when I wake up from paralysis, there are often moments of brief delusion. Alone, glass house, I have to talk myself down. I’ve tried to bring myself to life, today - long walk, two protein bars, slice of papaya, sushi roll for dinner, diet coke and cigarette, make a Vlog, make a Call. David had sleep paralysis, too, last night, he tells me on the phone. This is weird, because usually, this is a plight that is just for me. In real life, there was a creepy elderly woman occupying the hacker house in El Salvador, too. “I started a magazine last year,” she told me, when I told her I was a writer. “Oh, cool, about what?,” I asked her. “I don’t remember,” she told me. Blank gaze. Empty eyes. She would sometimes walk through our room while I slept, and one time I woke up to her passing by, vacant glance, I was obviously shocked, she looked obviously pleased. “How are ya, Love?” she said. The word “love” here, carrying a lot of the weight in making the indecent violation of space a lot creepier. “It’s fun, isn’t it?,” she told David’s friend, while he was doing the dishes. “Turning the water on and off is fun, it’s all fun, isn’t it?” She had referred to herself as a refugee, in El Salvador. From where, I had asked her. From Canada, she had said. A real eccentric freak, and in David’s dream, he wakes up to her sneaking up behind him, looming over him, it’s all fun isn’t it. She says sinisterly: “do you know what I think?” Then, in his dream, he felt her weight bend the bed springs and begin to smother him. Lunar eclipse. New moon. I find this dream ominous enough that I begin to become very concerned. You have to get out of there, I tell David. I'm leaving tomorrow anyways, he reminds me. Saturday, March 29 I spent the night last night reading at Tense and it was really lovely. Kansas Bowling reading and Valley Latini doing a hip hop show and Beckett Rosset on the Providence Hotel and me on half formed thoughts on the half complete piece I am writing on Techno Spirituality and El Salvador. I’m back in Real Life, and I don't regret it. I spent the morning by myself working on my edits. David is still traveling, and I am being more normal about it this time. In jet lagged fugue state, I burned the kettle down to a lump of molten plastic, not on purpose, obviously. I called my dad who's moral judgment I trust in full, so this clarifies a lot of things. I forgot how much I like running really really really fast. Whenever I am craving the extremes, I should access them through lots of sprints. The wind is crazy today. The wind has everyone whooping and hollering through the streets. I'm making TikToks again. I don't care. There are worse evils or, rather, you can leverage anything for evil if you really want and honestly, I am just trying to have lots of fun. Some of you are awfully pretentious for being addicted to things like Ketamine and Feeld. Not me. I don’t like drugs, and I have a soulmate. It is just as bad if not worse to be addicted to your phone as it is to anything else, but I’m regulating my time, and I’m microdosing my slop - or so I tell myself. Sunday, March 30 I order uber eats groceries at midnight, and then it's like celsius and chicken just washes up at my door. I don't like this. Chemicals, aspartame, the dissolution of the social fabric, really. How these things just materialize when you want to actualize some gross borderline animalistic whim. Craving. Diet Blackberry Pepsi. I would not like to live anywhere but New York City, or really anytime but now when I think it through on a very personal and very literal level. But there is something here that I increasingly am wary of as mere hallucination. There is much to consider. I am trying to be very energetic which, really, is the feeling that I increasingly cast as synonymous with Health. We went to Bacaro for dinner last night, then to Clockwork, later. “Do you know about how to get dinner for free,” some girl sitting next to my friend and me said. Then, she explained the concept of Club Promoters. Yeah I know, I said. I didn’t say it in a rude way. I just told her that I already knew, which I already did. My energy feels back in a way that feels very True today. Before I left for El Salvador, I was getting in the habit of killing time. Looking at an hour and wishing it over. I don’t want to quantify anything. What would happen if I never rushed a second again? This is what I’m trying to figure out. What would happen if I never rushed a second again? This is what I’m trying to figure out. Monday, April 1 My mind was reeling so fast in my Irish Literature class this evening. I started flicking through Internet Web Applications at warpspeed. I made some calls. I didn’t go crazy. “Saying no is a far more reliable path to avoiding sin than saying yes”, I heard someone say, through my fog, through the haze - that snapped me out of it quite quickly. “What if you literalize that, and just say no to everything?” a quiet girl across from me asked. I wrote this part down - “JUST SAY NO TO EVERYTHING!!!!” It was humid, heavy, soon-to-be-hot spring, today, in New York. I lost my head. Truly. I became very braindead very quickly, today. I recovered as best I could. It’s the way these things always go. Unmoored from the interactions you’ve been taking for granted, you’ve been alone with your thoughts and suddenly, you’ve found yourself thinking Nothing At All, and Saying A Lot Out Loud And Saying A Lot Online. You realize, suddenly, how wrong this all is, and then you become briefly concerned that maybe, suddenly, it is already too late for you. Or maybe it isn’t too late after all.. Water on the windowsill. I remember spring two years ago, a taxi cab from Chelsea down to where the East River runs near the Lower East Side. I wore a yellow dress and I ran like the wind from the river to the hotel bar. The fires. The maggots. It was that day in New York when it felt like cosmically, biblically, something bad was probably about to happen. The Seven Plagues. The air was thicker and hotter, then. I am thinking about that day because I was braindead on the Internet then, too. Celsius, protein bar, things had begun all thick and ugly and then I’d been whisked away into a big black car, shuttled to the bar at Nine Orchard, my friends convincing me to stick around and then I did, I stuck around for a while, I never really left after that, come to think of it. “It’s Deep Tech Week in New York,” Shannon tells me, today - whatever that means. She sends me an event as such, and I investigate the schedule for the rest of this week from there. Deep Tech Week is a week of events about Tech, and they added the word Deep in front of it to make it seem more cool, I realize quickly. “Turning Science Fiction into Reality,” the text on the website says, and I don’t really like the sound of that. I find that premise, as strictly a premise, material reality aside, even, to be nearly cartoonishly evil. But, I suppose I’ll try to be less pedantic. I eat a sugar cookie (gluten free). Two protein bars from that new brand DAVID. A brand activation crispy sandwich from Joe And The Juice. The packaging is orange instead of that usual nice pastel pink. KEVIN DURANT, the packing says. It is nine pm, and I am suddenly ravenous. Good. Looks like I got my corporeality back. I really was planning to go to the Deep Tech Party tonight, but the rain started in an instant, in the exact instant I was set to leave, really. Like it’s trying to communicate some form of serendipity, reason, warning, whatever. Monday is the day where I let myself get every last thing done on my phone. My eyes burn. It rots the soul. My week continues and I become much more particular with myself. Tuesday, April 2 It’s not that I mind being kind of exhibitionist, even, but I can’t control the feedback loop and I start to drive myself mad. Taking stock of the state of the union like THINGS THAT ARE "IN": Swimming

May 06, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, April 27 Sitting up in the middle of the night and saying things I don't mean and, it's not that I'm talking in my sleep exactly. More so, I've been trying to figure out if this harshness comes from being evil or if maybe it's more of a vindictive thing instead. Being vindictive implies, at least, that you are seeking some sort of equilibrium. Wrong and be wronged. You aren't just a gratuitous little freak about it. Causality is irrelevant, and I'm nauseous at the gym, playing high vibration Youtube videos in my headphones, standing on an electric plate that can jostle my insides, lymph nodes, drain me like a detox, and yes, there needs to be one of those soon. Making calls and making complaints, and then I'm like, oh sorry, I didn't mean it, I was drunk. And then I'm saying that I feel crazy instead. I feel insane. You don't understand. I have lost complete touch with my judgment. Costa Rica, in the rain I was kicking around mud with my feet and drinking too much and his friends were like oh you think you're in a teen movie or something because I was saying kind of nasty things, too. It's way worse in New York. That is the definitive thing and, also the fact that there is nowhere else. Something can be confusing and still not impossible to regulate. Sorry to be all obfuscated about it. I can control my consciousness. It's my consciousness after all. I go to church in the evening, which feels unbelievably affected - would a girl that is evil redeem herself on her knees before God? - though, that isn't really the question. You believe in good and evil, yet you have found yourself entirely incapable of distinguishing the difference between the two. Yes, then, prognosis, logical conclusion, you have lost your mind. I eat a cookie for breakfast and then the leftovers of the quiche for dinner that I fugue state ordered for my boyfriend at six am, which was a disaster in and of itself. I decided to do something nice, and then the delivery guy couldn't figure out the buzzer and so I stumbled down in my socks and Brandy Melville, I wasn't even very polite about it when he handed me my bag. I pointed to the buzzer and said that's the buzzer and then I called my boyfriend over and over because I realized, also, I'd forgotten to bring down keys. It's the type of day where I spend almost no time eating, but I still feel kind of full in a bad way. Everything I did eat is so calorically dense that it creates some kind of cognizant dissonance. I shouldn't feel this bogged down from just some stupid scraps. I don't want to say terrible things, I said. And yet you constantly are saying terrible things, he said. I wish we didn't do these things, I said. That's like saying you wish spiders weren't real, he said. People are vicious and awful. Then, I do pilates from the pilates app that they sent me for free on Instagram. I'm enough of an influencer these days that brands will send me spam mail disguised as PR. Like 20% off coupon codes to their clothing line personalized just for me, but I still have to pay them 80% if I want the clothes. This means, basically, that I am not an influencer at all, but I have just made things like my email address and my diary psychosis way too public. The pilates studio said - "share if you can!" but I'm sorry, I can't, I'm not really talking about me, I'm talking about something else. First name, last name, coupon codes, face to the name, you're ruining all my plausible deniability. I started sobbing by the window, and he said don't worry, you're sweet. I started thinking he was dead, and he said don't worry, I'm ok. I'm blurring the timelines a bit. He told me I could meet him on the steps of a Chinatown apartment a little bit after sunset. Inside, his friend took calls and let the bathtub-in-the-kitchen Chinatown apartment become a kind of neutral territory. I sat in the guest room and held my breath. Say the same things over and over, and because you mean it, they eventually stick. Viewing everything in black and white. They've told me that's my problem. That and being too suggestible, and also out of control. I started being all dramatic about it and yeah there's been too much partying, but I come to learn I'm pretty much like this sober, too. Things were really really really pure and sweet, and I keep on thinking in ninety days, ninety days of being pure again, and everything bad can be problems that belonged to someone else. I am trying to become like a Monk about it. It's not so much that my impulse towards reaction is wrong, but rather that I act purely on impulse, and impulse alone never did anything other than make a situation that much worse. Spring and Redemption, I say, on my dumb fucking TikTok. Spring and redemption, my boyfriend says. Yeah, that's cute, this one is cute. Did you spell synchronicity wrong for engagement or to be insane? my boyfriend asked. Insane, I said. He stopped to think about it. So stupid, he said. You aren't that insane. Order diet pepsi bean and cheese burrito nicotine gum and we're lying in the sun. So much sun through the windows that we have to keep the blinds shut or the light goes too crazy, the air conditioning fires up but not much can be done in the face of UV like this. Lucky, luck,y lucky. I spent the week talking to myself. Lying on the floor and I'm trying to seek cognizance in repetition. The same word three times. First, you remember what it means. Second, you determine what you think is true. You don't take it for granted. If you don't take it for granted, then you won't lose your mind. Monday, April 28 Eiverything gets better overnight. No more crying in my sleep. 2:22am and I’m not yelling. I see things more with precision than as if through angels and mystics. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be so transcendental about it. It’s really evil to try to mythologize something that is neither beautiful nor true. I stayed at Hudson Square until late last night. Black socks and black shoes and a tennis skirt that doesn’t match to be late to class today. The sun has rushed back and it’s iced tea no breakfast no lunch. David meets me at Cafe Reggio, where to our left, an awful woman is berating her husband to levels of borderline abuse, and to our right a lovely couple is talking about the difference between mere activity, and real fulfillment. You gain fulfillment from things like C-suite and making tv shows and real estate, the man is saying. Activity is something like going to Europe, he is telling his wife. These are the things that fulfill us, for others it might be different, the woman is saying. I am surprised to hear, that in referencing C-Suite, they are suggesting real fulfillment.. Materially, things are working themselves out. The rot has been first, material, and then secondly, spiritual. We go to Lupa for a lovely spring dinner. Sweet then sour then sweet. I am endlessly interested in reiterations, but that just makes things worse and worse. Homemade focaccia and olive oil and arugula salad and lobster corn ravioli and lamb chops and tartufo which is like a shell of hazelnut, ice cream, paper plane to drink and the restaurant is closing by the time we leave. Tuesday, April 29 You stop a night terror like this: creep down the ladder and say to your boyfriend, you need to turn off the projector right this second. The light was emitting vibes that were very off putting and I was concerned about scentless and odorless gas. My boyfriend makes me pasta and gives me a beer. You kind of briefly entered a state of psychosis, he tells me. I get super offended by that one. A bad dream doesn’t mean I need lithium or something, I say. I didn’t say you have schizophrenia, he says. I said you seemed to be under the impression that the projector light was toxic, poison, and evil, which is the very definition of a state of psychosis - the merging of reality with hallucination. No, I say, that’s the very definition of a bad dream. Anyways, I’ve been having sleep paralysis because I’ve been having insomnia. I’ve been much more normal about it. Run, coffee, iced tea, the world's worst sandwich back at Cafe Reggio in the afternoon. Do you have any favorite spots in New York, the tall man next to me is asking the short man across the table. “Well, it’s far from here,” the short man tells the tall man. "it's really far from here. it's called Coney Island." I pick out all the healthy bits of my dinner and eat just the bread instead. I’ve been feeling tempted to get really fucking skinny again. Being weird and off putting with my sandwich and then leaving my scraps with abandon. Feeling pretty sane today, I don't really want to get out of here anymore. Wednesday, April 30 Up all night just like last week, and I'm in class reading from my story like oh I'm probably not going to freak out but it's still a possibility. David turns older today. He's still asleep when I get home in the afternoon. Macarons and iced coffee on the table. We go to Vol de Nuit and I get promptly drunk on cider. It's bright and nice and I'm writing tipsy. This week won’t eb and flow in the way that I hate. Make yourself head empty and then see what happens. We go next door to Dear Stranger for dinner. Red snapper and jalapeno sauce and wedge salad and shrimp tostadas. Two martinis. David makes a scene in a scuffle with one of those guys on the streets who shill comedy shows on the way home. Then, I wake up and it feels like morning but it’s only just past midnight. I used to miss the things I have right now so much. I’d miss it through abstraction, really. All through hypotheticals because it had never really been mine in the first place. It shocks me when I see my life emerge unscathed from fits of self destruction. Playing fast and loose when it comes to the thing of redemption. I am trying not to be that way. First it is sour and then it is sweet. This is one of two directions that any progression of events can take. Obviously, I know the direction that I would like to pursue. Thursday, May 1 Everything has come alive again, though I'm not quite sure if it's solid yet. I almost step in a pool of blood on Rivington Street, and then we're talking about the uptick in dead bodies that people keep finding around town these days. I'm going to stop being so morbid. You can be thinking about one thing, and then you can decide to be thinking about something else. Yesterday evening felt sparkly and nice. David and I stayed at Vol de Nuit for a while, drinking cider, which makes me feel full but not that drunk, lots of sunshine and we bring in our own food. Peanut mayonnaise garlic sauce on french fries. I'm less disgusted by these things than I used to be. Yesterday's dinner felt nice but a little too drunk. I was drinking iced tea at two in the morning and then my boyfriend was throwing bottles across the room in a way that was funny, not crazy. I got an email asking me if I'd like to talk about Dimes Square for a German newspaper but I wouldn't like to do this and so I didn't respond. I got an email regarding Amtrak tickets. Things have been too whiplash lately. I got an email from my friend. I owe edits on some projects, and I like when big things happen quickly, though we are not quite there yet. The nature of how I am creatively always edges on narcissism - reflection and observation being more natural than imagination to me, I suppose. although the night terrors suggest some kind of imagination. People like to tell me that. I’m close to the mystics. On a literal level - clinical - the night terrors suggest nothing other than a flirting with psychosis, though my paranoia does not extend to fear over my mind. Nobody actually thinks I’m losing my mind Physically, a parasite cleanse can be dangerous because the heavy metals your parasites held will be dumped right back into your body. I do have paranoia surrounding being poisoned, though this is more a concern of the mind. April - I wrote 40,000 words in my secret diary that I do not share here. This is surely excessive. There are worse things. What I meant to say is: the narcissism has felt less like filtering observation and reflection through the self these days, and more like actually just kind of sloppy-like, thinking about Myself. The sun is nice, because it heats my greenhouse apartment so quickly - downstairs becomes for the daytime, and upstairs becomes so bright and burnt to a crisp that it has to only be for sleep. Sleeping in the day here is nice. It’s like somebody cast a spell on me. I am not someone to sleep in the day, but a greenhouse apartment is something like a potion this time of year. Friday, May 2 When I think about how to synthesize an idea into a quote or a meme, something pithy really, then the idea is immediately ruined. Even it was a good idea at the start. This makes me want to distance myself from the quote, meme, thing of posting more generally I suppose though, I’m still having fun. I’m so sure about things, now. I was feeling really really really unsure about things and I’m so sure now. I feel so bad for acting all ambivalent about it. I’m so certain. I have never been more certain and I have never been more sincere. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 6 From 7pm at Pete’s Candy Store — Mind Palace Poetry presents The Girls Room, with special guest host Sophie Appel. Featuring Sascha Cohen, Siena Foster-Soltis, Jude Lavelle, and Montana James Thomas.

Inline links: Pete’s Candy Store

Tumblr2 mentions across 2 issues

Tumblr is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between April 21, 2025 and October 06, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "the theory of The Internet where it all originated from Tumblr"; "I found it on Tumblr, Celia says". It most often appears alongside Alex Auder, Brooklyn, Chloe Wheeler.

Article page: Tumblr
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: April 21, 2025
Last seen: October 06, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

The Strangest Hotel in New York April 21, 2025
Big Huge World October 06, 2025

Alex Auder 2 shared issues
Brooklyn 2 shared issues
Chloe Wheeler 2 shared issues
New York 2 shared issues
Night Club 101 2 shared issues

Source context

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015?

April 21, 2025 · Original source

Sunday, April 13 After a day spent on your phone, you do wake up and it feels all gray. Sun, water, in my dreams I was swinging on a rope swing into a swimming hole in the jungle over and over and over again - a little ominous in energy but it was certainly very beautiful there. Anyways, you can bring things back into sharp focus if you latch onto momentum and if you view inertia with disdain and disregard. It's not too complicated. You go in circles sometimes, but this does not have to continue. A return to the pace of things: an hour of walking briskly on the treadmill at an upscale corporate gym. Walk faster; and then thoughts move faster. Edit and publish the diaries I culled from the Internet this week. Gem Home for trout toast. They had to get rid of the open seating plan because it was starting to feel like a WeWork, the waiter tells Natasha. Now it feels like Vermont in Nolita. Nice and sweet. I am not too cynical even if it is candlelit at noon, which feels like some sort of cosplay in the context of Nolita. I take the F to the 7 to the Whitney Claflin show at Moma Ps1 in the evening. I've never been here before, and I like that the museum feels all cavernous. Someone tries to spit on me on the subway - avoided with ease. Darby is looking at the New York Review of Books shelf in the gift shop. Is there anything you think David would like, I ask. Renaissance poetry, she suggests but she’s kind of half hearted with it. Nothing really speaking to me on the shelves. I’ll invent my own polemic. I just have to conjure some convictions, first. After the exhibitions, which are a little bit of Rookie Mag and Things Culled From Tumblr and Darby is telling me about the theory of The Internet where it all originated from Tumblr - after the Whitney Claflin and James Turrell (my favorite James Turrell) and Sol Lewitt in the basement boiler room and Yto Barrado in the lawn - we take the train home. Lavender and vodka. I meet David at a strange hotel. Cop cars are swarming the building. I wonder if it’s because of the helicopter that went down, David says, but the helicopter was days ago and I am getting the creeps and, I want to go inside, I say. My grandmother gave me some of her collection of Samuel Beckett books this weekend. In the books, all they do is wait and wait and wait. Missed happenstances. Restless. I’m not good at all this waiting. The books are in my bag and I fall asleep with a few back covers folded over on my lap. It’s a friend of a friend's hotel room. David’s been Co-Working. I’ve been sleeping. The windows are tall and glass and the room gets dark naturally. Fades with the sun. David doesn’t want renaissance poetry from Moma Ps1 for his birthday. David wants a mask of Bacchus like the one at my parents house and an 88 dollar overnight stay at the 88 Allen Street Hotel. Monday, April 14 The issue is, I am so disconnected from nature here. The wilderness, yes, but my own sense of instinct too. Yeah, intellectualize it. Drag it out step by step by step and then there are logical conclusions I can live with. Though, if removed from cold hard fact I would know very little here at all. I know nothing viscerally here. Sometimes, elsewhere, I can know things intrinsically from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. New York is good, though, and there is nowhere else for me, anyways. I woke up this morning and my whole body popped. It’s hard to explain it. Like my muscles all revolted and then I couldn’t really move. It’s not the worst thing in the world except I know this would not have happened if I was somewhere else. I am rock solid certain that this would only have happened here. So someone put a hex on me. And then I almost forgot that desperation reeks. I spend all day acting boxy and square and off-putting in my many Academic Classes on account of not being able to really move. Every time I start to feel nauseous about the future considering this sort of bodily degradation beginning at Age Twenty Four Years Old, I try to remind myself that I have probably just been hexed. My friend in Witch School sends me some guides for lying down realignment. She calls me. You can join my cult, she says. Too many cults, and none of seem very all immersive. If I am going to do this, I would like to go all in. David is back to coworking at his friends hotel and so I march my way through the Lower East Side for some company after school. One cannot wallow alone. They have a heating pad at the hotel. They have a Lush Ice Vape. David’s friend says that he’s been fasting and praying a lot. There’s a permanently skewed gold framed painting of a gold chalice of flowers and some thick tan curtains at the hotel. The curtains are pulled open so we can all see outside. David brought opera binoculars. I brought swedish candy. David goes to get some chinese food so I settle in to write, but he returns with his friend sooner than I would have liked. “Bro,” David says, “I might go get the Penthouse Balcony King Suite Deluxe.” “Hotel employees are better friends than 99% of people’s friends,” David’s friend says. David does get the suite, and so we decamp upstairs. The curtains are more ornate in this room, and the aura is more creepy. Everything is funnier when you’re sober, David’s friend is saying. Something about coming face to face with your own absurdity. Something about how when you’re drunk, you think your’ madness makes sense. Two bathrooms and the shared patio and the love seat and the dog bed and David is saying that instead of dinner, instead of ever wasting money on a dumb dinner again, we should splurge on staycations instead. I brush my teeth with the hotel provided tooth brush and I sit on the floor of the erratically tiled shower. I don’t totally get the bit and I feel bad because it’s frivolous but, I do love hotels. Suspended circumstance The safest and most secure sleep. Float me out somewhere I’ve never been before. It’s good for girls with night terrors like me. Tuesday, April 15 David stayed up all night making a borderline satanic short film. I think I’m manic, he says, which is probably why he got us the stay in the strange hotel in the first place. You’re not manic, I say. Not manic, like I need lithium, David says. Last night I was compulsively reading these decentralized networking protocol white papers, David says. David starts telling me about an opera he wants to see. Something about The Only Monotheistic Pharaoh. I walk home and I stop at Whole Foods to buy some Clear Headed Kombucha and Chicken Sausage and Cymbiotika Vitamin C. I feel really terrible. I make a list of affirming statements. I FEEL AMAZING. I HAVE NEVER FELT BETTER. I take a nap. Wakeup and, David and his friend are on the phone downstairs talking about a startup. Eavesdropping and, it sounds like they’re about to independently invent the concept of the Male Influencer. “Imagine believing yourself to be cunning and self-serving, and you're doing so by working for [redacted],” David is saying. “Anyone can learn to code,” David is saying. Tune out, tune in, and now they’re inventing the Vending Machine. They’re talking about Jon Raffman and Petra Cortright. They’re talking about LA. Evil Women. Tax Day. “Girls already invented being an influencer eons ago,” I tell David, when he gets off the phone. David pauses for a moment. “I think girls and guys invented being influencers at about the same time.” Friday, April 18 I haven't been able to fill in the blanks of the past few days. Becoming: utterly consumed. It was deeply unpleasant, honestly. I feel bad for me on Monday, thinking it would be easy to wrap up this thing I was working on and then almost losing my whole head instead. I stayed up all week. All through the very peaks of the night and then past that, even. At first it was all disjointed, but now it is making more sense. And the good news is, good for art and life - I can intuit things again! WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, April 21 From 8pm - late at Night Club 101 — I will be reading in the Domino Reading Series, alongside Jess Wolfe, Dani Narins, Ruby Hoffman, Gordon Glasgow, Jade Wootton, and Matthew Gasda. Gallipony x Solar System DJ set after the reading.

Big Huge World

October 06, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, September 22 On the Upper West Side, there are stone townhouses and quiet streets and nice branzino and diet coke with lemon and they bring us baskets of red pesto and baguette and memories both good and bad become holographic quite quickly. New York is not all rotten. There are the last days of summer to take care of. Last days of gluttony. Last days of Reading Series. In a cab downtown to meet Lily with a stomach ache, Lily tells me that she is at a bar meeting boys. I meet her on the street. She’s wearing a white dress and she looks sparkling. There are others, on the steps, out here, and we all do the whole charade of all pretending like we have all never met. Lily met a boy at the bar who wants to take her on a road trip with his dogs, she tells me. You’re too young for me, but it’ll be fun while it lasts, the boy tells Lily. He sends each individual word as a separate message and then shares a video of two pitbulls sparing on a field of plastic turf. Lily lays her phone flat in her hand and we loom over it in the orange September sort of night. The video plays on an infinite loop. The dogs unhinge their massive jaws and aim to swallow a basketball whole. You’ll go upstate and get mauled to death by this guy’s pitbulls, I tell Lily. I’m not going upstate, Lily tells me. We walk further downtown, trace the usual path to a magazine launch in a night club that I thought would be more crowded. We sit in the backroom, and you can hear the readings better here than if you claw your way to the front like everyone else, but we probably appear to be kind of checked out. I’m going to save you, Lily tells me. We walk to Funny Bar where Sam is smoking outside. Am I safe to go inside, I ask Sam. He nods and flicks his hand towards the door. His friends are all from The Internet, and they introduce themselves by alias. Standing by the bar and Sam is saying that Los Angeles is it now. I stand a little halfway outside the conversation circle with my shirt pulled pretty tight around me and contribute a few half hearted sentiments about how Los Angeles can’t be it. The cars, the sprawl, the niceties, the plastic surgery. It’s got to be Austin, Sam’s friend is saying. It’s the same stale conversation topic as usual. How New York is over. Culture is over. Sam is listing a few mid to low tier Los Angeles based Internet personalities around which a new and transgressive art scene could revolve. I am dead sober, and therefore relieved to notice that I do not float out of my body and watch myself say something annoying and off-beat, like I inevitably would if I were drunk. None of those people have a mass fanbase of beautiful women, I point out to Sam. In Los Angeles, you’d find fifteen e-girls and they’d have to take Ubers. Sam agrees that this could potentially be a problem. If it’s uninteresting here, then it’s uninteresting everywhere, but I understand why everyone is seeking renewal. Like The Internet isn’t alive and everyone isn’t talking about the same things everywhere. Like Sam and his crew could wash up on Hollywood Boulevard and say the same things five years later, to a five years younger crop of wonderful young girls, fresh eyed and eager, they’d spawn out of nowhere, they would never have heard all of the things that have already been said before. Tuesday, September 23 Watching the gray light filter through the windows of a studio where everything is tan or cream or pale blue or gold. Watching a waiter at a cafe down the street bring over black coffee, cannoli, and strawberries in a chalice. Start the day with solitude. I have never lived like this before. A smooth and slick kind of woman across from me is talking about her sister who broke up with her boyfriend after meeting a Danish stone carver who believes in hard work and apprenticeship and not necessarily general education. The sister became repulsed by her boyfriend after spending time with the stone carver because she felt her boyfriend had too pragmatic a view on life. The sister left her passport at her ex’s place for one whole week and needs an ego death. She needs a concrete understanding of the next couple years. She wants to continue to go to school for forever, though this part, the whole family agrees is fine. The girl across from me is practically dripping gel from her slicked back bright red bun. She’s cloaked in business casual and a bad attitude. She’s drinking a cappuccino and she’s off to pilates. I am wondering if I would find her smug and didactic demeanor less off putting if she were more beautiful. She is wearing a stripped shirt and she gestures a J-Crew sleeve towards me and my own striped shirt as she leaves. It’s like a movie, she says. My shirt is softer and thinner and I want to coil the sleeves up and climb inside. It’s like mimes, I respond. Mimes? she asks. I do not mime. I hope she knows what that word means. It is not so much a thing of feeling out of place. I have worlds of characters and oddities at my fingertips. I like characters and oddities, which, along with a desire driven by ennui and terror to remain right at the very center of things, is why I am still here. I tend to like when people are abrasive, because it means they are fixated on just one thing. I watch the woman leave and I know for certain that I do not like her but it is not a thought that troubles me too much. It is a thought that passes like a cloud. Wednesday, September 24 Later, the air conditioning is off, and I’m pacing through empty health food aisles, drawing signs of the moon in class; waxing crescent moon, Libra moon, PLS GO FETCH ME THE MOON. Later, someone is talking about bio weapons at another party downtown. The genomes, the rapture, the clarity, the apocalyptic ideation. Please do not stress me out right now, the man on stage at the party is saying. I do not like that question. A different question. Could someone in the audience please ask one precise and better question? I see Iris and her blond hair bobbing up and down across the traffic stop as I stand outside the ice cream shop taking stock of my day and my night. Iris is carrying bright-blue-epson-salt and she is walking back towards a glass apartment in the sky. Do you want to sit, Iris asks? Inside? The rotating apartment in the sky. One rotation used to be mine. I can survive going inside. No, outside. We sit on the benches at the edge of the street as the ice cream shop closes, and I tell Iris all about how much things have improved. I have not been home all day, I tell Iris. I throw up my hands. Performative exhaustion. The whole ordeal is pleasant. Iris is very buoyant today. You should write aphorisms, Iris tells me. Passivity responds to harshness. Lethargy responds to good metabolic function. Have you noticed how all the energy here has come whirling-back-to-life? Iris starts telling me about the state of things. She has figured out where she stands when it comes to her positioning in the state of things. She has surmised who will be left behind. I nod. I clarify my own positions and I mean it. So we agree, Iris says. Good! I tell Iris about how I was at a French Cafe in Chinatown drinking matcha with almond milk which surprised my friends because they would have presumed that someone becoming Catholic would take coffee and drink it with whole milk, preferably raw. I tell Iris about how a lot has changed but I am still not so sure. I tell Iris about how culture isn’t dead but a lot of people have just decided not to be a part of it. I don’t say all of this out loud. I am still not so sure. Every apartment I go to is full of relics. Every party I go to is the same. Thursday, September 25 Sitting at Bar Oliver with Celia and it’s all red leather booths, light jazz music, non alcoholic beer which can be good for estrogen levels in women and black coffee and my eyes keep following the ceiling fans in circles. The rain has come and washed everything clean. I can have anything I want. I hang my purse on the metal arm of the tableside lamp. Incandescent bulbs. Write a note on the top of my planner. I CAN HAVE ANYTHING I WANT BUT I CAN’T HAVE EVERYTHING I WANT. Chinatown in the rain is cinematic and less like the land of leggings and small dogs that is increasingly stretching its grimy tendrils out and expanding all over downtown Manhattan. Celia turns her laptop around to show me a photograph of a light wood living room, checkered yellow table cloth, soft and warm armchair. This looks like your parents house, Celia says. Where did you find that, I ask. I found it on Tumblr, Celia says. We go for a walk along the East River, where the rain and the heat have turned everything kind of the same shade of fairytale gray. Celia tells me stories as we walk. Sylvia was an heiress and her dad was an inventor. Camilla was a tragic figure. Lucy was a ghost. I can imagine there were a lot of inventors coming out of that part of the world, I tell Celia. Why do you imagine that?, Celia asks me. Because there’s little to do but the temperament of the area is less mundane and passive than in neighboring states, I explain. The opioid crisis never hit, Celia agrees. There was no heroin, and so people invented things. We walk past the Governors Island Ferry and a kind of dilapidated and green Casa Cipriani. This is where the art fair was, Celia says. I have brain fog, I say. I go home, cheerful and ill. I go to an album release party where the singer is shaking with tears streaming down his face as the songs play, and then very cheerful and calm as he greets his wife and friends. I go to a Right Wing magazine launch and then to a celebration for a zine about ETHICS. I listen to the same song until I can’t bear it anymore. Take the M to the end of the line. Take photos of the tennis courts here, because they’re glistening in the rain and night. I show the bartender at Gotscheer Hall my passport from Switzerland and he beams. You should work here, he says. I beam back. I should work here, I say. Gotscheer Hall is huge and cavernous and covered with murals of fairytales. It’s like a whole huge world here. The world of Gotscheer Hall, and then the world of the fairytales that line its walls. It’s a Whole Huge World, I say. I say this over and over again. I took the train to the end of the M line, and then I remembered that it’s a whole huge world. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, October 6 From 4:40pm at Film Forum — Bresson’s Four Nights Of A Dreamer (1972) screens. - “Third filming (following Visconti’s) of Dostoevsky’s White Nights, transposed to ’70s Paris.” Worth seeing before it closes.

Inline links: Film Forum, Four Nights Of A Dreamer

Virgin Atlantic2 mentions across 2 issues

Virgin Atlantic is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between July 27, 2025 and August 14, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "My seat-mate played hang man on the Virgin Atlantic TV"; "Cartoon villain voice playing on Virgin-Atlantic-TV and they're blasting it through the cabin speakers". It most often appears alongside England, London, New York.

Article page: Virgin Atlantic
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: July 27, 2025
Last seen: August 14, 2025

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

Walk The Cotswolds July 27, 2025
Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? August 14, 2025

England 2 shared issues
London 2 shared issues
New York 2 shared issues
Thomas Pynchon 2 shared issues
A Push For More Organ Transplants Is Putting Donors At Risk 1 shared issues

Source context

Walk The Cotswolds

July 27, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, July 21 There was lots of turbulence on the plane to London and my good mood was effusive. I wrote for all six hours of transit. My seat-mate played hang man on the Virgin Atlantic TV. Next door, I scribbled frantically. On review, every word was about Me Me Me. There was rain that started all at once in the greenhouse apartment, in New York, in the afternoon, before I left. The drops started heavy over my glass house and then the walls turned to waterfalls and a siren howled down the streets towards the left and I did not feel, for the first time in some time, like I would do anything to leave here with sluggish abandon and never return. Choppy and treacherous plane ride. By the way, Iris texts me. A Push For More Organ Transplants Is Putting Donors At Risk. Yes, I text Iris. Though, my aversion to medical generosity in death is not so much due to risk as it is the Purgatory between Oneself and Someone Else. I wake up at cool ten pm sunset in the Redesdale Arms Hotel, Moreton-In-Marsh, Cotswolds, England. The plans were made in different seasons and the summer has pumped things full of gluttony and inconvenience so, it is still nice to get away. I will try to go back to sleep. I will try to read the wall texts in the closet of this hotel, which they have told me once was haunted. We arrived early. My father found an illustrated biography on Shelley and his friendship with Byron at the pub in England. It is gray and chilly here and I do not quite know what to do with myself on measured time. I catch the train on time. Moreton-in-Marsh has one long street, limestone cottages, little gardens. Reading Pynchon stories full of strange winding houses and the dream logic spaces that their basements open into. My room comes with a glass bottle of milk, two oil paintings of deer, a pink ceiling fan, a silver mirror. And I do keep half expecting the floor to open up and swallow me whole, or at least the closet to burst open and reveal something upsetting, delightful, off putting, transgressive and weird. We liked hotels because of anonymity and aesthetic cohesion. Abandon your One-Week-Life. I dozed off with a diet coke in the hotel lobby. Chicken skin orzo risotto and syrup-sweetened lemon lime water at dinner. I tried to articulate, to my father, the types of ways these certain types of people can be - She is bored. She is always looking for some sort of activity to fill the time. She is not bored. She is endlessly entertained by a life sitting very still and thinking about herself. Third option… Tuesday, July 22 I will be hiking from inn to inn here. This is the plan. It is a good plan, all things considered. 8:00am - Follow the river upstream through ancient trees passing the old mill with its waterwheel. 12pm - cut across a field of brambles and sheep towards Sezincote House, where grounds of an Indian estate rise out of the Marsh. It is quite spectacular and seems to be quite abandoned. A caravan decorated on the inside like a love seat sits behind a moat, behind barbed wire. We found a manor for dinner. We found a church before that. It was 1300 years old and it hit me with heavy quiet inside like I have never been so sure to be somewhere before. This is not unusual for people in your circumstances, I was told later. But it was unusual, I said. The door is locked and so you kneel outside. You find a key. You are the only one there and so you stay til almost dusk. You walk miles til almost dark. You are not religious. You have been saying something else. You have been saying a lot of things. You planned a certain type of life in New York. You planned a different type of life first. It looked like wheat fields and wild flowers. You cannot recall one second in which I have ever been bored. Maybe, you have never been bored. Maybe, you lack recollection. Mossy patch under the crabapple tree where I would like to fall asleep. It is kind of just this thing of waiting now. reduce Inflammation, incoming emails, art and life, take a deep breath in and hold it. Wednesday, July 23 8:45 am Because I'm getting sick, when I close my eyes there is no color. Open my eyes, and I told them to leave me behind in Bourton-on-the-Water 12:00pm Pacing three loops around Windrush Public Path and thinking about everything I have ever wanted. It is a bit like a fairytale. Wind in the Willow, Windboy, Back to Oz, I have wanted things like this. The river is nice because the water is clear but the bottom is dirt and fern. So, it's brown a bit but you can still see patterns. Patterns and circles and moss. There are flowers along garden gates. I don't mind when things are a bit precious. 1:13pm I am walking through this little village again now. I am listening to silly music. Writing now. I do need to finish my story. I felt so sick this morning. I thought some little things. I took a little nap. A necklace for me a perfume and a soap for my mother I am kind of glad I skipped the hike today. Dinner was nice last night. It's nice to eat scallops and salmon on spinach shaped toast. It's nice to be sincere in art and life and perhaps to never go to a party again. I put all my cards on the table. It is so good to be busy. I should take the bartending job and remember that is is good to be busy. But, before I even begin to consider these sorts of things, I should sort out my preoccupations. There are worse things. There was a month where I was not so busy. I am pacing through the English countryside now. There was a strange man on the path and it made me jump. I do not believe a life can just fracture and then split into segments, infinite. I do believe that it is just one life all at once. It is desolate but not sad, here. It is very difficult to imagine what the rest of my life will look like. Well, we'll see. I have stories to write. I will walk back to the hotel now and finish my story. That's fine. I quit nicotine and mostly alcohol and anything unhealthy so now it won't feel like my face is melting off. I have red light therapy and a desire to be good. 6:05pm I’m back in the room and I called my best friend, whom I miss. 8:57pm I went to dinner with my mother and my father. I was quite nice and not too much of a vile little bitch full of lots of vitriol and being very unpleasant. 12:56pm open the windows out over thatched hotel roof so the outside air matches in but I am not so lucky with equilibrium and there is still much motion. Thomas Pynchon “Entropy” Thursday, July 24 Winchim is a very ancient town, the taxi driver tells me. I have been here for a few days now and already my lungs feel pumped full of air and spirit and the moments of solitude feel quite still and nice. Being alone is no longer fire alarms immediately and then alert, abort, sitting in a bar with a sparkling water til close. None of this, anyways. None of it here. Sitting in the forest full of contentment. Sitting in the secret garden full of apple elderflower juice, black coffee, rye banana bread. Winchim has been on a downward spiral for the past fifty years, the taxi driver tells me. Something about Henry the 8th, the monasteries, the drought, a tremendous amount of damage. It was all on a selfish note, the taxi driver told me. The walk today was foggy and long and I liked it best. I liked the church on Tuesday best of all, but I liked the walk today. It is kind of plotless, this walking walking walking. I have never wanted chaos. I have wanted pure metabolic function and to stay up late. Friday, July 25 Church, lying under a beach tree, cricket field established by the author of Peter Pan. I went down to the hotel bar to read about Entropy (which I hope to not believe in. Downstairs, the evening festivities were moving into their final hour. I don't know if you're drinking or anything, the bartender said to me. Must I, I said. You can do anything you want, the bartender said. The bar was lined with portraits of polo sport and big yellow orbs. The fields outside were misty and gray and peppered with racing horses. The grass was soft and sweet and so, I'd stopped for a while. You will have to hop a barbed wire fence to avoid a small horned cow and his mates, an old man had said. You will have to learn to wait a while, my father had said. There had been another warplane, only this one over the pasture not the college, and I had not quit believing in signs and symbols just yet. Outside, the pub was bright, lethargic and chilly. The hotel felt something like a sanctuary. Royal green walls and no night terrors in foggy fields and self containment. And it's been nice to be brought back to the things that were mine first. They'll pick up the bags at eight in the morning. We'll loop back around to the marsh where we began. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Travel advice for something quite restorative: I walked The Cotswolds via Mickledore Travel which is nice because I detest tours and organized fun of any kind, but this “tour” requires zero interaction with anyone outside of your travel companions and friendly strangers. Accommodations are booked across a walking route and every morning bags are picked up from a drop spot along the route and deposited at the next destination the following evening. Unburdened by baggage, you then hike to your next inn. There are little towns peppered along the route, as well as sheep fields, castles, horses, and ruins. It really is more of a long walk than a hike, which I find to be more pleasant than hut-to-hut backpacking or other similar adventures I have attempted in the past. You still are walking some ten to sixteen miles a day, so you will not feel bored or lazy.

August 14, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, July 28 Amelia is at the apartment when I arrive, bearing cloned keys and summer dresses. It is not a relief to return, I am afraid. Tiptoe across dusty slanted floors and this sense of oddity and dread creeps back no matter how quiet I am about it. There are planes overhead and I have loved all this glass before, but I am clenching my eyes shut now; wishing for drapes that close. Earlier, the flight from London was delayed hours upon hours and things went awry the moment I was left alone. Comparing notes of past present and future and then I laid my roller suitcase horizontal on the bathroom floor to take a seat and think about it. Left my passport in the airport bar where the woman beside me was making friends with every single customer cycling through aside from myself and then I sprinted over to security, where the lights were flashing all schizophrenic and neon and no one would speak. You'll miss your flight, dear, the airport attendant smiled. They opened a small door with a large electric key. They sent me to the Back Rooms. They sent me through endless identical silver doors and a mirror maze and down a long gray magic carpet. I emerged on the other side to find another magic carpet just like the first. I imagined infinite magic carpets extending in every direction. Motion activated so the feedback loop would reveal itself every time I thought I reached solid ground. I was not moving horizontal anymore. It was a vertical descent into the underbelly of Heathrow. I forgot the status of Boeing VS0137. I forgot to ever leave. I woke up in the Kids Play Center. We've lifted your curse, the airport attendant beamed. Most slides can also be used as rafts, they tell me on the plane. Cartoon villain voice playing on Virgin-Atlantic-TV and they're blasting it through the cabin speakers, too. You were an A+ travel companion, they told me in the airport. I wake up to take stock of these things: safety guidelines and praise. I fall back asleep. Tuesday, July 29 After things fell apart in June, I did not eat or sleep for four days and three nights. On the fourth night, I called the NYPD informational line quite dizzy and more out of curiosity regarding physical resilience and atrophy than out of any sincere safety concern. If you cannot sleep tonight, then you can call me in the morning, the operator said. And so I was unconscious in an instant. Put some limits on one's own neurosis. I decided to stay up late last night. It was muggy and hot outside JFK, and I missed the moors and the fog for just an instant. Then, the glass doors slid open into hot sweaty americana summer and all else was forgotten. Felt a bittersweet sort of close to home. Sat on the curb. The airtrain to the car park turned onto the highway. Felt like a road trip. Felt like team sports, two-in-the-morning, intermission. I'd been so quiet that day. I had not spoken one word since Heathrow. Everybody understood that the apartment was rotting. Great place but full of mold. Great place but full of memories both good and bad. Somebody should have thrown out the milk. Somebody should have done something about the feng shui. The dead trees. The slant of the floors. The roof, which nearly caved in last winter. Three in the morning arrival but I asked Amelia if I could come over instead, and Amelia understood it would be best to sit on her floor. Amelia had been leaning into performance art. How was your vacation, Amelia asked. Not transgressive and weird, I sighed. But rejuvenating, pleasant, precious in the sort of way I'd like to hang onto. And I am feeling physically fit from all the walking and running that went on and on and on. The heat wave has not passed in New York despite one more week dwindling into summer, and I sleep until midday around when I open my eyes and begin to feel uneasy. The lines out the stores are down the block and everyone is becoming very thin. The summer foods are things like GREENS 01 Juice and maca-powder-peanut-butter-protein-bites and very rubbery cocktail shrimp at The Smith. It is Julia who suggests The Smith for dinner and I am not picky with those sorts of things. It is me who suggests the party, despite my increasing hopes, generally, to avoid these sorts of things. Wednesday, July 30 Sitting at Banter with the Big Breakfast and hot green tea reading fairytales. It was a nice night last night. Whirling sort of thing. Nightclub101 to KGB to following a group to Ludlow House to Ripple Room. The sort of thing I like as often as possible, but really must limit to now and then. Sitting at the Australian Cafe now, using my Moldavite to mark my place in my book. The fairytales are describing relentless compassion as a form of some sort of psychological warfare. Psychosexual manipulation. Relentless compassion so as to provide one with a moral advantage, knowing it is impossible for the recipient of such compassion to reciprocate. Relentless compassion so as to cast a desperate, selfish, striving plea for reciprocation. The second option is probably more common, but it would be nice to be kind of on a high horse. August will be like oysters at The Knickerbocker with the cocktail sauce in the martini glass and we're sitting by the cracked glass window and Drew says don't cut your hair not yet and so it'll be like humid heavy hair almost down to my waist now, sparkling water in plastic cups with lime and diet coke in a bikini and I will stay put for a while. I will sit at KGB sober in the evening like I do most every evening. They're tearing chocolate chip cookies apart with their hands at the table over and Amelia says she thinks a bit too much about herself to give too much thought to the existence of God but she remembers, as a child, crying tears of joy because she couldn't believe her luck. She just realized she had somehow made it into a human body on Earth, and she couldn't believe her luck. I don't wish the evenings went on too much longer. The timing is starting to feel just right. I want to fill a Desani water bottle with white claw and catch a cab to a pool party but the evening might start to feel too late. I'll read Fanny Howe, Thomas Hardy, Dawn Powell on the floor - big cracked hard cover dog eared copies of all my books. Then, I will pack up my books into Ikea plastic storage trunks. I will pack up all my books and dresses and then the movers will come. The movers will haul my things out the door. They will haul the place bare. I will turn off the air conditioning in this glass apartment in the sky, and then I will leave. August will be somewhere else. Thursday, July 31 Rebecca and I are making plans. Involving - The Chakras by C.W. Leadbeater and Esoteric Healing by Alice Bailey. I don’t want to work harder than I ever have before, but I do wish to be a bit more intuitive about it. Rebecca is telling me about Energy Hygiene in a Chaotic City. Rebecca is telling me about Seven Rays & Soul Typing. Taking Thomas Pynchon, guasha, monastery sage oil, yoga mat, mineral sunscreen up to the roof for Abundance Meditation and Contemplation. I receive good news. The best, really. I am sorry to be opaque, but something shifted in the winds in England. So far, I have managed to hold onto it here. Careful! Open up the blinds because it's foggy this morning which means we get to let some light in. No bright sunlight baking things alive. No leftover drinks or snacks from the Last Party Ever that was thrown last night. So - it’s a very strange day. I’d like to take a different approach to Caution. Generate me a definition. They generate me this definition: The deeper awareness of human limitations, the deceptive nature of false certainties, and the dangers of unchecked power. This will do. Friday, August 1 It’s an unusual sort of incoherence in my dreams today. The shelf above the bed is lined with wine glasses full of water, and there's an in between of sleep and something else - nyquil at six in the morning, cinnamon zyn at six in the morning, the friends went home around six in the morning and now it is sometime around noon, sunlight streaming in. I wake up gagging. In my dreams, the wine glass water was mostly poisoned. In the space between half awake, not all was poisoned but it was a Russian Roulette sort of thing. I take my chances. Chug water out of my safest bet. Wake up screaming. Fall asleep screaming. The Ikea boxes for the move are starting to fill up and I know it's me stuffing the plastic to the brim but I don't really remember. It's been recollection that's lacking, really. It's been a birthday dinner tonight. The sweetest kind in the Lower East Side. Dimes Square but it's just us, I said. Because it was in the general vicinity but the streets were all empty. A stupid joke, but everyone humored me. Everyone was beautiful and lovely and happy and I didn't drink a regrettable amount. A nice sort of night. Got stuck on Thomas Pynchon and now I can't read anything else. Got stuck on esoteric health and now the water is poison. Got stuck at karaoke and now my self proclaimed sulfate allergy is acting up. Wine and hypochondria. It becomes a bit self indulgent then, doesn't it? Saturday, August 2 If the movers weren't late, I'd be gone by now. But they are late, and so I am lying on the couch that’s being left behind in an Everlane striped tee and too-short Los Angeles apparel shorts feeling kind of sorry for myself. I'm not sure why I decided to scrounge up this sort millennial slop getup for the day of my very unceremonious departure. Feeling older than my years. Feeling like I was raised on Madewell and Ann Taylor or, whatever else it is that would feel nostalgic if I'd been born before 2000. Something other than Patagonia shorts and my sister's sweaters, anyways. Feeling culturally un-attuned. Feeling mostly sorry for myself because I am surrounded by grime. I've been flouncing around this place for a while, now. The clutter is so repulsive, and so much of it is new. There was never a day of really moving in, here. It was just step by step, one thing after another, little parcels that were easy to bring up and down and in and out and now; you wake up in the middle of the morning in a glass apartment in the sky to the sense that there is no space left. I would love to toss and toss and toss. I would love to close my eyes on this island of this couch amidst a swamp of Ikea boxes and tell the movers never mind. I would never open the boxes again. I would never do the dishes. I would wear polyester and sleep on the previous owners teak Scandinavian couch. I would sleep surrounded by trash. It would all become trash, because I would decide to throw it all out. What do we need to know?, the movers will ask, when they arrive. Do you find everything interesting? I will ask. Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? YAY, the movers will say. I am picking things up and putting them down. The movers will give me high fives. Me and three Serbian teens high-fiving in a glass apartment in the sky that I am soon to leave and never return. They will pick things up and put them down and haul them out and I will never return. Sunday, August 3 I have taken my things and never returned. All is well except, the lights here are a bit too fluorescent. The courtyard is nice for the turtle pond, but the brick blocks the sun. And, once there was a top lock but now there is not. There is a hole in my door and I can't get it out of my head. There is a hole in my door and now everything is all wrong. Sitting at GMT Tavern with a not very nice martini and the Thomas Pynchon book I just can’t finish or quit. Slow Learner. Slow Learner, just like me. Make it all about me me me. Life is like: another day in my dumb life on my dumb blog talking about me me me. Life does not have to be like this. Life could be like: the hovering curious dominant of their separate lives should resolve into a tonic of darkness and the final absence of all motion (Pynchon). I keep getting stuck on that quote. I keep getting stuck on entropy, which I do not hope to believe in. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, August 14 From 9pm at Silver Lining Lounge — Matt Weinberger and Scott Lipps present The Downtown Prom. Hosts include Sid Simons, Anika Jade Levy, Nicole Naloy, and more. Music by Sexy Damion, Blog Analog, Loose Buttons, and Boxxer. DJ sets and more.

Inline links: Matt Weinberger, Scott Lipps, The Downtown Prom

WeWork2 mentions across 2 issues

WeWork is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between March 17, 2025 and April 21, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Soho WeWork location and all"; "it was starting to feel like a WeWork, the waiter tells Natasha". It most often appears alongside Alex Auder, David, Lower East Side.

Article page: WeWork
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: March 17, 2025
Last seen: April 21, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Here, There, Everywhere March 17, 2025
The Strangest Hotel in New York April 21, 2025

Alex Auder 2 shared issues
David 2 shared issues
Lower East Side 2 shared issues
New York 2 shared issues
Night Club 101 2 shared issues

Source context

March 17, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, March 9 I’ve been here, there, everywhere but there’s been no conviction to it. Yes, yes, take me to the opera now. I don’t pretend to think the things I don’t believe, but you rewire your brain away from nihilism, you spend a few years working on this task, really, and when all is said and done, resuscitation complete, you find in its place… an alarming passivity. That can’t be right. This week, I’ll be drawing new conclusions. Lying in bed and David is saying “I think giving up drinking is the solution and I think I’m ready to do that and, I might also take up eastern meditation.” “We're doing all this shit because we’re insincere swindling motherfuckers, we have no beliefs, our only beliefs are pleasure,” David is also saying. And I’m saying uh uh. And now David is saying, “put that in your substack, put in ‘i think i'm going to take up eastern meditation as well.” And now he shows me all these photos of his strange friends from the strange Decentralized Networking Platform stuff, or maybe these are just friends from parties or maybe, really, there is not much difference. But the friends are wearing big T-Shirts and flipping each other off, and David introduces me to the friends in the images like a cast of characters in a movie, or maybe like you introduce people in Real Life. Here is M. Here is C. and I say I know, I know, I know who these people are but no, I haven’t seen the photos yet, and so I let him scroll. You should also know: the sun returned today. Monday, March 10 In my Dialectics of NightLife piece that the new-ish magazine asked me to write, I am not sure how much of it all to include. "I don't include things like throwing things across the room and screaming," I told the girl at a party last week when she asked me how to be intimate online. "The throwing things and screaming is the most interesting part though," she said, which is what people always say when I share a disturbing detail from my life as an example of something I don't write about. I read something recently that has been making me reconsider my approach. Not to the nightlife piece. The approach to El Salvador, more. The approach in general, really. I am intrigued by things because they are strange. I find myself in a lot of situations as such. I don't want to cast judgments - this is bad or, this is good. But I think too, one can say yes, this part is good and this part is bad but I am not here because of good or bad, I am here because I was intrigued because this is strange. You are pretending that you just woke up and found yourself here one day, lying in the palm grove, lying on bitcoin beach, surrounded by red light and zyn and mastic gum of the gods. And maybe you were just kind of placed here. In another sense, you kind of sought this out. In another sense, you exercised a tremendous amount of agency and borderline being a stalker sometimes to then find yourself where you are now. Once I arrived, I was asked to stay, and then what was there left to say? Yes, ok I suppose I will then. This among other things is why I would be easily indoctrinated into a cult. I am not at present, in a cult. I've tried my luck with a few, but nothing quite has made the cut. Not the cut of Drawing Me In. The cut of Qualifying As A Cult. I'm going to a crypto conference tonight, David tells me and as if by instinct, as if like a child, residual panic at being left behind, at being left all alone in the first spring breeze, knees tucked up to my chest, watching the sunset on the terrace and being struck in a visceral way by how much time I continue to have - as if all of this would be so bad I pipe right up: "can I come??" And David says "are you interested in {technical stuff i don't understand} and I say no but I'm interested in crypto culturally, for the El Salvador piece. The guy giving the lecture is wearing a shirt that says something like "hey nerds" "what's up nerds" something like that, but I forgot to write it down. Sometimes, these conferences are fun because there are lots of characters and drinks and sometimes sparkly little powders though I don't like to really take these but it's fun when others are. This conference is a real conference capital C though. Or, a "meet up”, they say. Soho WeWork location and all. Sugar free red bull and gatorade and pizza and all. There is no fun to be had here. And so we make our way all through shiny Nolita instead. Tuesday, March 11 The things I overhear begin the process of reconsidering all over again. You confess that the knee jerk reaction is one of possession over things you do not even want. You confess that you do not want to tell that story even if this particular story is one that has always been yours. We go to Tiny Bar, and then the Odeon. Earlier, it was like they were doing a character study in the things you overheard. Wednesday, March 12 I went to St Dymphna tonight, but I didn't hear a single reading and I didn't watch Heat (1995) when I got home, even though David had it playing on the projector, even though he kept on playing scenes of significance over and over and over again. This is me and you, he kept saying, when some girl in some house with some glistening pool in Los Angeles calls her husband names like gambling addict and child the years keep passing by, and then the husband screeches off through Hollywood in a nice sleek car. It's not us, really, but this wouldn't be so bad. I want to party beautifully forever, David said a while ago. The key part being: beautifully. Maybe this is how people party in Los Angeles. This isn't really how people party in New York. And I should have gone to Poetry Project, to the after party for the Anne Imhoff show which I am guilty to admit I never saw in the first place and now it's too late, to the club, maybe. It's not that I worry what I missed, it is just that time passes faster when I am not here there everywhere, and I like it best when time slows down. In my dreams, my consciousness can take one second and turn it into one year. Here are the songs tonight. And the shoes are the shearling style cowboy boots my grandmother gave me from her closet last thanksgiving. Love For Sale - Tony Bennett, Lady Gaga

April 21, 2025 · Original source

Sunday, April 13 After a day spent on your phone, you do wake up and it feels all gray. Sun, water, in my dreams I was swinging on a rope swing into a swimming hole in the jungle over and over and over again - a little ominous in energy but it was certainly very beautiful there. Anyways, you can bring things back into sharp focus if you latch onto momentum and if you view inertia with disdain and disregard. It's not too complicated. You go in circles sometimes, but this does not have to continue. A return to the pace of things: an hour of walking briskly on the treadmill at an upscale corporate gym. Walk faster; and then thoughts move faster. Edit and publish the diaries I culled from the Internet this week. Gem Home for trout toast. They had to get rid of the open seating plan because it was starting to feel like a WeWork, the waiter tells Natasha. Now it feels like Vermont in Nolita. Nice and sweet. I am not too cynical even if it is candlelit at noon, which feels like some sort of cosplay in the context of Nolita. I take the F to the 7 to the Whitney Claflin show at Moma Ps1 in the evening. I've never been here before, and I like that the museum feels all cavernous. Someone tries to spit on me on the subway - avoided with ease. Darby is looking at the New York Review of Books shelf in the gift shop. Is there anything you think David would like, I ask. Renaissance poetry, she suggests but she’s kind of half hearted with it. Nothing really speaking to me on the shelves. I’ll invent my own polemic. I just have to conjure some convictions, first. After the exhibitions, which are a little bit of Rookie Mag and Things Culled From Tumblr and Darby is telling me about the theory of The Internet where it all originated from Tumblr - after the Whitney Claflin and James Turrell (my favorite James Turrell) and Sol Lewitt in the basement boiler room and Yto Barrado in the lawn - we take the train home. Lavender and vodka. I meet David at a strange hotel. Cop cars are swarming the building. I wonder if it’s because of the helicopter that went down, David says, but the helicopter was days ago and I am getting the creeps and, I want to go inside, I say. My grandmother gave me some of her collection of Samuel Beckett books this weekend. In the books, all they do is wait and wait and wait. Missed happenstances. Restless. I’m not good at all this waiting. The books are in my bag and I fall asleep with a few back covers folded over on my lap. It’s a friend of a friend's hotel room. David’s been Co-Working. I’ve been sleeping. The windows are tall and glass and the room gets dark naturally. Fades with the sun. David doesn’t want renaissance poetry from Moma Ps1 for his birthday. David wants a mask of Bacchus like the one at my parents house and an 88 dollar overnight stay at the 88 Allen Street Hotel. Monday, April 14 The issue is, I am so disconnected from nature here. The wilderness, yes, but my own sense of instinct too. Yeah, intellectualize it. Drag it out step by step by step and then there are logical conclusions I can live with. Though, if removed from cold hard fact I would know very little here at all. I know nothing viscerally here. Sometimes, elsewhere, I can know things intrinsically from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. New York is good, though, and there is nowhere else for me, anyways. I woke up this morning and my whole body popped. It’s hard to explain it. Like my muscles all revolted and then I couldn’t really move. It’s not the worst thing in the world except I know this would not have happened if I was somewhere else. I am rock solid certain that this would only have happened here. So someone put a hex on me. And then I almost forgot that desperation reeks. I spend all day acting boxy and square and off-putting in my many Academic Classes on account of not being able to really move. Every time I start to feel nauseous about the future considering this sort of bodily degradation beginning at Age Twenty Four Years Old, I try to remind myself that I have probably just been hexed. My friend in Witch School sends me some guides for lying down realignment. She calls me. You can join my cult, she says. Too many cults, and none of seem very all immersive. If I am going to do this, I would like to go all in. David is back to coworking at his friends hotel and so I march my way through the Lower East Side for some company after school. One cannot wallow alone. They have a heating pad at the hotel. They have a Lush Ice Vape. David’s friend says that he’s been fasting and praying a lot. There’s a permanently skewed gold framed painting of a gold chalice of flowers and some thick tan curtains at the hotel. The curtains are pulled open so we can all see outside. David brought opera binoculars. I brought swedish candy. David goes to get some chinese food so I settle in to write, but he returns with his friend sooner than I would have liked. “Bro,” David says, “I might go get the Penthouse Balcony King Suite Deluxe.” “Hotel employees are better friends than 99% of people’s friends,” David’s friend says. David does get the suite, and so we decamp upstairs. The curtains are more ornate in this room, and the aura is more creepy. Everything is funnier when you’re sober, David’s friend is saying. Something about coming face to face with your own absurdity. Something about how when you’re drunk, you think your’ madness makes sense. Two bathrooms and the shared patio and the love seat and the dog bed and David is saying that instead of dinner, instead of ever wasting money on a dumb dinner again, we should splurge on staycations instead. I brush my teeth with the hotel provided tooth brush and I sit on the floor of the erratically tiled shower. I don’t totally get the bit and I feel bad because it’s frivolous but, I do love hotels. Suspended circumstance The safest and most secure sleep. Float me out somewhere I’ve never been before. It’s good for girls with night terrors like me. Tuesday, April 15 David stayed up all night making a borderline satanic short film. I think I’m manic, he says, which is probably why he got us the stay in the strange hotel in the first place. You’re not manic, I say. Not manic, like I need lithium, David says. Last night I was compulsively reading these decentralized networking protocol white papers, David says. David starts telling me about an opera he wants to see. Something about The Only Monotheistic Pharaoh. I walk home and I stop at Whole Foods to buy some Clear Headed Kombucha and Chicken Sausage and Cymbiotika Vitamin C. I feel really terrible. I make a list of affirming statements. I FEEL AMAZING. I HAVE NEVER FELT BETTER. I take a nap. Wakeup and, David and his friend are on the phone downstairs talking about a startup. Eavesdropping and, it sounds like they’re about to independently invent the concept of the Male Influencer. “Imagine believing yourself to be cunning and self-serving, and you're doing so by working for [redacted],” David is saying. “Anyone can learn to code,” David is saying. Tune out, tune in, and now they’re inventing the Vending Machine. They’re talking about Jon Raffman and Petra Cortright. They’re talking about LA. Evil Women. Tax Day. “Girls already invented being an influencer eons ago,” I tell David, when he gets off the phone. David pauses for a moment. “I think girls and guys invented being influencers at about the same time.” Friday, April 18 I haven't been able to fill in the blanks of the past few days. Becoming: utterly consumed. It was deeply unpleasant, honestly. I feel bad for me on Monday, thinking it would be easy to wrap up this thing I was working on and then almost losing my whole head instead. I stayed up all week. All through the very peaks of the night and then past that, even. At first it was all disjointed, but now it is making more sense. And the good news is, good for art and life - I can intuit things again! WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, April 21 From 8pm - late at Night Club 101 — I will be reading in the Domino Reading Series, alongside Jess Wolfe, Dani Narins, Ruby Hoffman, Gordon Glasgow, Jade Wootton, and Matthew Gasda. Gallipony x Solar System DJ set after the reading.

Whole Foods2 mentions across 2 issues

Whole Foods is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 2 times across 2 issues between July 18, 2025 and September 04, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "taking whole foods hot bar to helena's roof"; "Bowery Park and Whole Foods and JPress nearby and inside". It most often appears alongside Amelia, Club Chess, Coney Island.

Article page: Whole Foods
Mention count: 2
Issue count: 2
First seen: July 18, 2025
Last seen: September 04, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Things I do like here July 18, 2025
Drinking Dreams September 04, 2025

Amelia 2 shared issues
Club Chess 2 shared issues
Coney Island 2 shared issues
Hell Phone 2 shared issues
Le Bain 2 shared issues

Source context

Things I do like here

July 18, 2025 · Original source

taking whole foods hot bar to helena's roof

September 04, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, August 24 Lay with filthy tangled hair hanging off the edge of the roof for a while last night, watching the Chase Clock Tower lit up too royal blue and the Empire State Building lit up the nicer sort of baby blue. I've been collecting shades of blue. Kind of navy blue Frankie's Bikini little number reflecting something sort of aqua off my Diet Pepsi on the D-line towards Coney Island. Screaming children on the D-line. Naked man running around trying to steal pedestrians pants on Coney Island. He keeps on saying to the other guy, Darby says - “I like those pants ! Gimme those pants!” And it was all these beautiful friends coming and going last night. Coming and going until it was late, really late, so taxi home and then I ate the toppings off a slice of pizza on the floor with a spoon. I spent the morning alone doing Rituals. Tretinoin before sleep and I did wake up screaming for the first time in a while. Red light therapy and copper multi peptides and avocado eye cream and mineral sunscreen and now I'm on the Subway. Kind of braindead on the subway. It sometimes takes it out of you. This sort of thing can really take it out of you. It's been summer for forever, now. I have a lot more friends now. Connectivity, connected tissue, I walk down Brighton Beach by myself, walk to Tashkent Supermarket for a towel and carrot salad and on the phone I'm saying it is not that I wish for death and even sometimes I fear it but things have become a lot less Risk Averse. I'm a lot less Risk Averse now. It would be better to be dead, someone was saying at the bar last night. She was looking at me eyes all intense and no one was really listening, I could tell no one was really listening but everyone was watching her all the same and I could see them all clenching their bodies and kind of pulling away.. Me particularly, pulling away. Perhaps I'm being self absorbed. It wouldn't be better to be dead, someone else said. He looked at me then, locked eyes which usually makes me kind of uncomfortable but I felt inclined to agree. It's definitely better when nobody is dead, I said. The bar was full of plants and glass. Like a glass jungle, I told my nameless friends at the bar.. That's not very astute, a nameless friend told me. Tonight, the cocktail menu is flavored and priced like a full course meal, and so tonight I order Cold Pizza for dinner. Cold Pizza in a crisp glass bottle, plus greasy fried chicken after that, which comes in thick paper cups. And everyone is so grateful to be alive, tonight. Everyone is so grateful for one more year of life for themselves and for their dear friends particularly. Purple sunrise if I hadn't slept through it. Yellow sunset if I hadn't gritted my teeth and clenched my eyes shut through it. Planted two feet firmly in the ground and screamed through it. First, I made one thousand promises I couldn't keep. Second, I sat on the stoop with an energy drink, water, cool minty menthol gum and the antiseptic kind of sore throat with some bodega spray gripped tight in my hand to heal all my problems. My ailments and the other things. My organs and my mind. Overjoyed to be alive again after leaving my apartment, I told Amelia. It does make things better again, Amelia told me. Tuesday, August 25 Bartending school feels kind of like an alcoholic's vision of a drinking dream. Like holograms of condensation, dim lighting, one takes a sip to the tune of disappointment. Water and food coloring dye. Bowery Park and Whole Foods and JPress nearby and inside; Christmas is coming. Smooth jazz. Everything has felt a bit the same for a time, but my room is clean. Summer is passing. Three months is not so long. Would a functional alcoholic lace up black ankle boots at seven in the morning with a clear mind and bright eyes to catch the train towards midtown towards Bartending School, at the top of the week, at the tail end of August? I am not so good at pretending like anything is changing. Like habits stack towards something greater. It might as well be yesterday, I sigh on the phone. For you, it might as well be yesterday, Amelia agrees. I do the things a person should. Cake for friends' birthdays and the waiter keeps stacking on fees at Union Square Cafe. Cut the cake fee, sit at the table fee, big group of people fee, bring your own food fee. There are other tables next to us all inhabited by people who all appear to be exactly the same, though perhaps I am being uncharitable. Imagine them as skeletons. Imagine them as children. My parents used to tell me this when I was little. Kind of a hack against boredom. I imagine myself as a psychic, looking out on things overpriced and people all exactly the same. You will have a small child and feed her nothing but buttered noodles. You will advance in age but stay exactly the same through invasive surgical facial intervention and stunted social development. You will spend evenings eating french fries with caviar for One Hundred Dollars despite a rich inner world and a childhood pumped full of extracurricular stimulation designed, specifically, to avoid a fate like this. You will fear God more than death and you will understand self destruction to be akin to suicide hence rendering you too, on a trajectory like this, a rather hellish creature. You will wake up in the middle of the night in a small box criss-crossed wood roof apartment in New York City to the sense that there are No Loopholes Left. You will go to bartending school. You will recognize that, while you can be cruel there were other factors at play. There were worse factors at play. Wednesday, August 26 Walking from Greenwich Village to Long Meadow in Prospect Park with a bag filled up with white linen and Thomas Pynchon and a plan to celebrate sweet Sylvie's birthday. A different sort of nostalgia in the air today. Nostalgia of all sorts being kind of a form of mental illness, of course but once - we were woodland fairies. Once, there were fall morning running races and cranberries that crunched under bare feet on Massachusetts roads. Once, there were rounds of Tom Collins in a kind of jazzy jungle garden restaurant in the tropics that my boyfriend who liked gender-roles enjoyed because they wouldn't let girls order their own drinks. Once, I went to the Yankees game in late August, blue and pink hazy skies, the sort of advertisements that blare out notes about Fast Food and Safe Driving in the stadium, and the sort of crowd that is so big it starts inspiring feelings of Life and Spirit rather than Homogoninity and Dread. Once, I walked from bartending school full of Tom Collins, Chambord, a sip of walnut martinini, frangelico liquor. Walked to Caffe Reggio for egg white omelet, toast, a creamy cannoli. Walking to Prospect Park a little bit tipsy. Thinking about the sort of things I used to pretend to care about. Writing about the sorts of things I used to pretend to care about. Writing it all down. Writing and walking. Writing it everywhere. Writing it on the walls. Though, I'm not so bad at keeping secrets anymore. Thursday, August 27 Amelia and I sat at Caffe Reggio until close last night, and now I have returned. Tomato soup and side grilled chicken and creamy cannoli and mint tea because things feel decadent again. Limited consumption. I haven’t really been limiting consumption. The waitress is complimenting the gray sweatpants on the boys at the table over from me, and the waitress seems to be vaguely annoyed with me, though I am trying to be pleasant. Thanks the sweatpants cost enough, the boys are saying, at the table over. Thanks we didn't realize we couldn't split the bill, Amelia and I were saying, last night, our tea was four dollars total and everything was starting to feel a little bit hazy. Sitting on the floor at sunrise, this morning, Amelia and I were watching videos from Miami. Videos from Bahamas. Videos from New York City, 2022, we'd been at all the same parties, but I hadn't known a soul. BAHAMAS, we are beaming, in one video, in the back of a taxi cab, streaking over MacArthur Causeway, Miami-Dade County, Florida, and so, as I recall, the driver was confused. I'm putting on makeup in the photo booth webcam on the floor of a hotel room and Amelia is talking in the background. It's Opposite Day in the background. Who had a mental breakdown, someone is saying in the background. From an outsider's perspective, who was it who had a mental breakdown? Friday, August 28 6:30pm, and I am back at IFC for my third viewing of Diva (1981) in twenty-four hours. I came to view Diva (1981) for the third time in twenty-four hours, because I became very sick of thinking about myself. This is a desirable alternative. The film is beautiful, and I wish to live in places like the apartments pictured. A large and wrecked studio in a car park with painted walls and recording equipment or, a hotel in Paris or, a castle by the sea or, the best one of all is a large blue flat full of puzzles and high ceilings and echoing sea sounds and an aqua glow and a man who wants to learn to stop the waves. They are fighting crime in the film. They are entrapping the criminals and they are doing it kind of like performance art. I don’t wish to spoil the ending. It really is the perfect little film. So; I will send out the recipe for zucchini (courgette) soup, and I will explain away the things I did in breathless optimism as things I did while bored. I will go to The Scratcher, Killarney Rose, Funny Bar, then Gospel then Caffe Reggio again - these are the decadent places to which I continue to return. I will draw my name with Riley on the table in crayon writing Best Friends Forever and listen to Feryquitous ft Sennzai and Sigur Rós and John Maus and think about Switzerland, Iceland, having a lot of dreams about places that are lush, lush, lush. Thinking about places that are quiet quiet quiet. Thinking about places that are green green green. Feels like Fall, outside, after church. Amelia woke me up in a living room that looked like a library and she was screaming that the air was poison. I was difficult to awaken, because it is my own delusions of poison air that wake me up screaming on other nights. Different from tonight. I was reminding myself of reality. I was reminding myself of delusions and keeping my eyes clenched shut while Amelia screamed. Well, the air wasn’t poison after all, just late night and late august and heavy with mosquitos and dust from renovations and revelations and; we walked back to the cafe. I walked through Washington Square Park at dawn. The doorman wished me good night at seven in the morning and the cycles repeated. It isn’t opposite day and we aren’t in hell, just working on things like bed time and emotional regulation. Working on archiving the things that happen outside of my head. It becomes good to have been an archivist all along. It becomes good to become sick of dealing with things mainly in repetition. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, September 4 From 6pm at Carinito — Saloon is throwing a party. Drinks from Dio. Dancing, DJ, tacos, etc

Inline links: Carinito, Saloon, throwing a party

7-Eleven1 mentions across 1 issues

7-Eleven is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between July 08, 2024 and July 08, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "free Slurpees in honor of 7/11". It most often appears alongside 442 Broadway, A Doll House, Adam Lehrer.

Article page: 7-Eleven
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: July 08, 2024
Last seen: July 08, 2024

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #5 July 08, 2024

442 Broadway 1 shared issues
A Doll House 1 shared issues
Adam Lehrer 1 shared issues
Amant 1 shared issues
Annabella Sciorra 1 shared issues

Source context

Inline links: X Post, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!C7a6!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F5b47129c-0bc4-49be-9951-68a8a3f58ac6_1179x1372.jpeg, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!RkCJ!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fcb4a64bf-f664-428e-854a-221b40a26109_1536x2048.jpeg, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!XxFb!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F59a8c887-c1bc-4090-9568-92185cc4e0c1_1412x1420.png, Amazon Labor Union, PradaHorseShoe, Russian Cosmism Circle NYC, Doomscroll Podcast, Geo Yankey, Capitalist Realism, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!kDE6!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fd7220533-39ee-4944-a185-b7983b1500e9_1600x1066.jpeg, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!abSY!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fcb12cd88-f058-4032-ba7f-a91514034d33_1600x1066.jpeg, here, EARTH, Jordan Castro, Cluny

July 08, 2024 · Original source

From 6-9pm with a party to follow - Blade Study celebrates the opening of Em Aull’s painting show Never Too Much. The party portion of the evening will feature a hot dog vendor and free Slurpees in honor of 7/11

Inline links: Blade Study, Em Aull

Airbnb1 mentions across 1 issues

Airbnb is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 19, 2025 and January 19, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "I can picture the airbnb in San Benito". It most often appears alongside accelerationism, Ada Antoinette, Adam Wilson.

Article page: Airbnb
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 19, 2025
Last seen: January 19, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

January continues January 19, 2025

accelerationism 1 shared issues
Ada Antoinette 1 shared issues
Adam Wilson 1 shared issues
Adele 1 shared issues
Alex Auder 1 shared issues

Source context

January continues

January 19, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, January 12 Ruby and I go to Bar Belly for dinner. Can we move to a table away from the bar, Ruby asks the waitress. Sitting at the bar is bad for your posture and alignment, she explains. This is another thing she's been learning at witch school. It seems that at witch school, you learn to sit and stand and then by proxy, to eat and sleep and breathe and think. Fruit and honey for breakfast, feet on the ground when you are seated with an unsupported spine. I am craving spiritual guidance, and so I soak this up like a sponge. I want to be taught how to be. This is how you wake up. This is how you shift your feet out of bed, this is how you land on the wood floor, toes first, the arches of your feet, then heels. The truth of it is my movements are products of my best but often misguided judgment. Guesses, really. For all I know, you should wake up in the morning upside down. Palms on the ground first. Heels then arches then toes. I want to learn how to be divine, but there are so many shamans and they all know best. God forbid I become sacrilegious. I certainly know myself to be fringing on this at times. Even the mention of shamans.... Ruby and I were going to go to El Salvador on Tuesday, but then I’m thinking about how I should read more before I continue my research on the ground. I visited El Salvador this summer. Later, halted my story about crypto-charter-state-red-light-therapy-benevolent-dictatorship etc etc etc. A result of overstimulation and laziness - I should deepen my roots before I return to them. Later, I'll go later. David sends me an X Post: “Wish we lived in 1970s media economy so esquire or playboy could fly me to El Salvador and publish my 10,000-word marginally-coherent slice-of-life coverage of the crypto convention that ends with a guy in a hot tub saying something accidentally zeitgeisty.” Ruby and I go to Forgetmenot. There’s a dog behind me, a big white husky, I hold out my hand to pet him and he gives me his paw. He does this a few times. He’s trained, I’m sure, to expect a reward in response but we’ve ordered a grill plate, there’s only halloumi left, I don’t want to poison the poor thing. Ruby posts a picture of me with the dog, but I’m in my big puffy jacket, and it mostly becomes just a picture of the dog. She tags my name on the screen. David sends me a screenshot of the picture. “DID YOU TURN INTO A DOG???” he asks. I order David ice cream from Figo when I get home. I ate half his bread and butter even though I've been so Ray Peat and even though after, I’ve been so Keto. I've been drinking again, hence the bread. Not a lot, but I was sober for a week, and the three drinks feel jarring. I've decided to stop causing problems. I've decided to get a job at a restaurant. I like the service industry, because the job is intensely exterior. There are many things so close to me of true significance, and I'm sick of ignoring them in favor of acting like a grasping freak. Monday, January 13 And so, you decide to redecorate again. Look at the layout of this place. There’s so much potential. There’s a big marble table and it’s cramping every corner. It’s cramping the light from the window. It’s cramping the yellow golden light that is framing our mirror. I go downstairs quickly, the light will be gone soon. I want to get a flight tomorrow, leave with my friends and find clarity in the hot humid heat, but it doesn’t feel like I'll be absorbing myself in something more - it feels like escape, and I haven’t earned this decadence. I’ve been deliberating all day. I’ve been clutching my evil eye in case I do decide to travel. All my friends wear evil eyes, too. It’s a strange coincidence - something most people I'm drawn to share, not intentional. I'm not religious, but this is different. Adele keeps a drawer in her apartment full of evil eyes, stocked to the brim in case one charm coincidently shatters. She'll never have to go unprepared. I take a test today. Sent, received, complete, returned. It’s so thrilling to do something I’m supposed to do. If we got rid of the marble table…. If we lined the walls with floor pillows below the windows, their tufted fabric landing well lower than the horizon line even when stacked…. I can imagine the furniture gone. Me, staring clearly across the room, one wall to another. I'm imagining all the clutter dissipated. I imagine it would erase some sense of static. I can imagine my hypothetical week in El Salvador, but I need to learn how to think about something outside of myself, even when I’m here. It would be better there. I can picture the airbnb in San Benito, the eight or so bedrooms, the open air layout that big homes in warm climates often share, arches bleeding into courtyards, steps built into hills, unclear where one room becomes another, wind and heat lightning swirling around you and raising your hair as your walking, even through the kitchen, even ostensibly inside. I want to swim in a big clear pool over a city that is now vaguely familiar but still, not really mine. I want to finish the story I started. New England Winter. I need to learn how to sort things through while staying put. David and I go to Estela for dinner. It’s our anniversary. He tells me not to say anything online about it. Private life should stay private, he says, but I’m writing it anyway. Estela is nice. It’s the sister restaurant of Altro Paradiso. My friend, Madelyn works there. Estela is smaller, cozier, you have to buzz to get into the building and then it’s up some steps, it feels like you’re in an apartment, it feels like you’re in Berlin. I’ve never been to Copenhagen, but I imagine it feels a bit like Copenhagen, too. “I like more old timey restaurants,” David says. “Me too,” I say. “But sometimes isn’t it nice to be in a restaurant that feels like Copenhagen? David agrees. He’s never been to Copenhagen either. Altro Paradiso is brightly lit, whereas Estela is dim. Stella - Latin for Star. Etc. The distinction feels a little obvious, but then, I’m being a little particular. Estela is small plates. Romantic. You can tell because you have to buzz the door to get in, and because the lighting is really dark. They put us in a little alcove by the shelves and shelves of wine. We order iberico ham, bread and butter, endive salad, crab with celery root (the best dish), squid ink fried rice with little bits of squid, steak with elderberry sauce. I order a Tito's martini, but I’m told they don’t serve Titos here. I’m told they have one martini with vodka that “tastes like smirnoff” ($22) and another with vodka that’s way better and far preferable (paraphrased) ($30). Our waitress is peppy. “We’ll take the Smirnoff,” David says. “She’s nice,” I say, later. “Domineering,” David says. Later, the waitress rolls her eyes a little when she asks me how my martini is. She smiles when I say good. I believe she is sincere in her hope that I’m happy as I guzzle up the fruits of my lowbrow taste. It really is a lovely meal. I don’t mean to be cynical. I tell David he should tell them it’s our anniversary so we can have something free, and he tells them “it’s our anniversary, can we have dessert on the house.” Then, I’m embarrassed, but they bring us dessert (with a price) and champagne (on the house). Tuesday, January 14 I’ve been working on maintaining constant motion. “An object in motion will stay in motion,” I’ve been telling anyone that will listen. I walk in place all day, and then I walk through Washington Square Park at night, freezing. I make sure to do an extra lap to circle under the arch, all sparkling and illuminated and icy. I’m thirty minutes late to the Post-Doomerism talk at Gonzo’s, and this feels like an important one to me because I used to base my entire framework of thought around mitigating dread through a surrender to the inevitability of fates worse than death. It’s a terrible way to view the world - juvenile if nothing else, but also aesthetically and morally barren, limiting, a nihilistic obsession with the present does lead to destruction (yourself and others), no matter how many delusions you harbor about enlightenment, and about time and therefore preservation as false constructs. You can’t be nihilistic if you believe in good and evil, and I do believe in good and evil, so it was never going to hold up. Post Doomerism The lecture is just starting when I exit the elevator. The talk is between Chris Small (founder of Amazon Labor Union), PradaHorseShoe (founder of Russian Cosmism Circle NYC), Joshua Citarella (Doomscroll Podcast), and Geo Yankey (Comedian) “Russian Cosmists think that Marx doesn't take it far enough,” Amana explains. “Marxism wants to abolish capitalism, religion, the family…. but what about abolishing the OG bummer - death.” The point of the talk seems to be to present a sort of leftist vision of tech accelerationism. Capitalist Realism, the parts of the industrial revolution deemed actually good, nuclear fusion (clean and limitless energy which imitates the sun) instead of nuclear fission, fossil fuels , etc etc etc. The audience, on the other hand, is mostly composed of people I recognize from other downtown events - this one taking on an uncharacteristic and somewhat academic sincerity. “Hypothetically, heat death could occur before we run out of fuel,” a girl sitting next to me murmurs at one point, evidently at least somewhat convinced by technology’s capacity for limitless good. I try to conjure a sense of what she’s imagining in my mind's eye - create enough clean energy, and you could be driving your car one day when the whole universe just implodes. This isn’t aspirational to me. Longevity even, has never been particularly aspirational to me, although increasingly moreso, I’m increasingly less cynical. I appreciate the sincerity of the lecture. I appreciate some of the ideas they put forward, too. It’s an irony-pilled audience and they're sitting in a deeply earnest room. I slip out during the Q&A - overwhelmed, honestly, and I’m late to another function. I’m handed a gin and tonic in the Lower East Side. I’m talking about the Russian Cosmism lecture. “Lenin tried that and 20 million people died,” I am told. “I don’t really know enough,” I say. I’m sent a documentary about The Tyranny of Scientism. I order some things like the books by Nick Zurnig and Mark Fisher. It’s good to be objective. The night slips onward. It’s rude to talk about accelerationism at a party. Wednesday, January 16 It's slightly warmer in New York today. It's still cold, but it's less frigid, I'm walking through Soho typing, I'm walking to Equinox, I'll finish writing this on the treadmill, I had such a fun night last night although I do feel terribly guilty about squandering my health and my beauty and my soul every time I get drunk. I was such a good drunk, though. I adore my friends so deeply. I adore my new friends. I think they are my best friends. I’m trying not to quantify everything. There are names of people I love spinning through my mind, now. Why order things. Some people exhaust me, and then there are other people who don’t. I’ve found new friends who live artfully while occupying a natural state that is absorbed with the physical world, recently. How lucky for me. I don’t want to use my volatility as a bludgeon with which to bend people to my whims. Good thing I don’t feel particularly volatile this week. It’s best to consider these while outside of them. Objective introspection: am I doing a good job? WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Gofundme + LA Fire Resources here. Sunday, January 19 From 6pm - midnight at EARTH — Jordan Castro and Cluny present SILENCE. An evening of silence. No speaking, no phones.

AirPods Max1 mentions across 1 issues

AirPods Max is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between June 24, 2024 and June 24, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "surrounded by men with notebooks and airpod maxes". It most often appears alongside A Doll House, Adam Lehrer, AMA Raw Bar.

Article page: AirPods Max
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: June 24, 2024
Last seen: June 24, 2024

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #4 June 24, 2024

A Doll House 1 shared issues
Adam Lehrer 1 shared issues
AMA Raw Bar 1 shared issues
Anastasia Berg 1 shared issues
Andre Breton 1 shared issues

Source context

June 24, 2024 · Original source

I am cleansing my body and my soul. I’m drinking THE DETOXIFIER from Juice Generation - dandelion, burdock, lime, hibiscus, milk thistle. I am sitting at Equinox surrounded by men with notebooks and airpod maxes. I want to get up but I am surrounded on all sides and I don’t want to ask anyone to move. I don’t want to be Type A, but I do want to be pure in body and spirit.

Inline links: THE DETOXIFIER

Angelmoon1 mentions across 1 issues

Angelmoon is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 06, 2026 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Angelmoon dresses"; "Angelmoon"; "I want everything I own to be from Angelmoon and Ebay and LoveThanksWorld". It most often appears alongside A Place in the Sun, Ali RQ, Angelica.

Article page: Angelmoon
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 06, 2026
Last seen: March 06, 2026

Outbound links

Issue trail

Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

A Place in the Sun 1 shared issues
Ali RQ 1 shared issues
Angelica 1 shared issues
Banana Republic 1 shared issues
Bella Litsa 1 shared issues

Source context

March 06, 2026 · Original source

I am not a robot. In the morning, I want to get sunlight in my eyes and I want to wear a Tankair black tank top and Rag and Bone green cargo pants and Petrucci ballet flats and big wired headphones. In the night, I want goat milk elixirs and Angelmoon dresses and answers and ideas to float through my phone. When it is nighttime, I love to play on my phone. It is night and the window is open and I am feeling quite happy with myself, though believe it-or-not I do have a tendency to let things ebb and flow. White noise meditation outside my window, but it’s just listening to the turtle pond churn day old water right below me in the courtyard, and listening to day-four-snow melt in big fast drops off the roof. Snow melts fast and then it’s no-longer-magic-outside. I am not totally ready for spring to begin. I am not totally ready to be old or even bored or to go to sleep most nights before the sun is high in the sky. This is why I leave the windows open. This is why I put on black silk eye mask. This is why I live in New York City, totally out of sync with nature, totally in sync with the dictations of my whims. I am lying with the lights off and I am totally ready for Pi (1998) to begin on my computer. My least favorite thing about myself is my tendency to let things ebb and flow. My favorite thing about myself is my ability to notice patterns and symbols and other sorts of interesting and mysterious and astral or perhaps just normal projections in everything everywhere and particularly in real life. While I wait for Pi (1998) to begin, my computer is flashing words and sounds and symbols about Cyriossis took my wings and winter drab and summer glam and being honest with your clients about the effects of their lifestyle. When Pi (1988) begins, a series of patterns and symbols and pumping rock music and black and white imagery will flash across my computer screen. When I was a little kid, my mother told me not to stare into the sun, so once when I was six I did, Sean Gullete will say. One-eight-one-eight-one-eight, he will say. He will walk past a tai chi class in the park and solve math problems with a small child in his building. If you graph the numbers of any system, patterns emerge, he will say. He will talk about the stock market and the universe of numbers and he will live-blog-his-day. 11:52; personal note, he will say. 11:52: Not a pattern In the mornings, I like to live-blog-my-days, but it’s not so much the numerological sort of thing. I like to go on vacation. I like to give up vice. I am feeling totally thrilled about the trajectory of things. Failed treatments to date, they are saying in Pi (1998): beta blockers, calcium channel blockers, adrenaline injections, high doses of ibuprofen, steroids, trager mentastics, violent exercise, caffeine, acupuncture, marijuana, percodan, midrin, tenormin, sansert, and homeopathics. Failed treatments to date: rock climbing, chess, caution-to-the-wind, throwing everything out again-and-again-and-again. Numerology. Event calendar. 2016. IFC screening. Total isolation. Total consumption. Total sweetness policy. I’m not really treating anything. Moreso, I am just writing it all down.

It is morning and the day feels kind of bright and nice. I am in my room and I am feeling sweet. I am in my room and it is feeling a little bit messy. I am listening to Drasticism which is the new album by a girl who’s playing a show tonight and I am thinking I would perhaps like to go. Listening to a sweet kind of diy soft music that reminds me of crystals. I kind of want to be by the water. I kind of want to learn guitar with my friends. I kind of want sunlight on my face first thing in the morning. I want everything I own to be from Angelmoon and Ebay and LoveThanksWorld. I’d like to be in salt water in Costa Rica or perhaps Brazil but I am trying not to want things outside the present so much. Listening to “Angelica” by Bella Litsa and “If You Were Around” by Celestine Manno and “Yellow House” by Satya and I never listen to new music but it all can’t stop reminding me of crystals. My morning routine is a fantasy land. My morning routine is real life. My window is open and I can say hello to the turtles swimming in the churning water beneath me. Smell of jasmine, orange trees, salted air the song is saying. Something about California. Sweet and lovely. I am thinking of everything on such sweet terms. My morning routine is Current Body LED red light mask and water out of a metal flask and ten minute guasha routine and walk to the Italian cafe for one little morning coffee. One little morning coffee because I just quit everything. I quit everything all at once. We will see what gives.

Appendix: Things Brandy Melville depop boatneck long sleeve dress, Zalt electrolyte zyn, Davolls tee-shirt, Angelmoon, Imperfaite, Prada boots, Monroe suede penny loafers, Frye leather riding boot Places Thai Diner, Vince’s Cobbler, The Manhattan Club, The Marlton Hotel, Tartinery, Caffe Reggio, Dr. Clark, Swan Room Read GirlInsides, The Masque of the Read Death, Fatherland (Victoria Shorr, 2026) Watch Pi (1988), The Biggest Sabotage in History (weird documentary youtube), A Place in the Sun (1951) Listen Gregarian Chants (via Health Gossip), Tango In The Night (1987), Drasticism (2026).

Animal Cookies1 mentions across 1 issues

Animal Cookies is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between June 24, 2024 and June 24, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "we buy Black Ash and Animal Cookies ice cream from Morgenstern's". It most often appears alongside A Doll House, Adam Lehrer, AirPods Max.

Article page: Animal Cookies
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: June 24, 2024
Last seen: June 24, 2024

Outbound links

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #4 June 24, 2024

A Doll House 1 shared issues
Adam Lehrer 1 shared issues
AirPods Max 1 shared issues
AMA Raw Bar 1 shared issues
Anastasia Berg 1 shared issues

Source context

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015?

June 24, 2024 · Original source

Later, my sister comes over and we buy Black Ash and Animal Cookies ice cream from Morgenstern’s. The Black Ash stains everything dark and by this point the rain has stopped and we’re outside and washing our hands in the hose on the terrace.

Inline links: Morgenstern’s

Ann Taylor1 mentions across 1 issues

Ann Taylor is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between August 14, 2025 and August 14, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Feeling like I was raised on Madewell and Ann Taylor". It most often appears alongside Abundance Meditation, Alice Bailey, Amelia.

Article page: Ann Taylor
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: August 14, 2025
Last seen: August 14, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? August 14, 2025

Abundance Meditation 1 shared issues
Alice Bailey 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
Anika Jade Levy 1 shared issues
Australian Cafe 1 shared issues

Source context

August 14, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, July 28 Amelia is at the apartment when I arrive, bearing cloned keys and summer dresses. It is not a relief to return, I am afraid. Tiptoe across dusty slanted floors and this sense of oddity and dread creeps back no matter how quiet I am about it. There are planes overhead and I have loved all this glass before, but I am clenching my eyes shut now; wishing for drapes that close. Earlier, the flight from London was delayed hours upon hours and things went awry the moment I was left alone. Comparing notes of past present and future and then I laid my roller suitcase horizontal on the bathroom floor to take a seat and think about it. Left my passport in the airport bar where the woman beside me was making friends with every single customer cycling through aside from myself and then I sprinted over to security, where the lights were flashing all schizophrenic and neon and no one would speak. You'll miss your flight, dear, the airport attendant smiled. They opened a small door with a large electric key. They sent me to the Back Rooms. They sent me through endless identical silver doors and a mirror maze and down a long gray magic carpet. I emerged on the other side to find another magic carpet just like the first. I imagined infinite magic carpets extending in every direction. Motion activated so the feedback loop would reveal itself every time I thought I reached solid ground. I was not moving horizontal anymore. It was a vertical descent into the underbelly of Heathrow. I forgot the status of Boeing VS0137. I forgot to ever leave. I woke up in the Kids Play Center. We've lifted your curse, the airport attendant beamed. Most slides can also be used as rafts, they tell me on the plane. Cartoon villain voice playing on Virgin-Atlantic-TV and they're blasting it through the cabin speakers, too. You were an A+ travel companion, they told me in the airport. I wake up to take stock of these things: safety guidelines and praise. I fall back asleep. Tuesday, July 29 After things fell apart in June, I did not eat or sleep for four days and three nights. On the fourth night, I called the NYPD informational line quite dizzy and more out of curiosity regarding physical resilience and atrophy than out of any sincere safety concern. If you cannot sleep tonight, then you can call me in the morning, the operator said. And so I was unconscious in an instant. Put some limits on one's own neurosis. I decided to stay up late last night. It was muggy and hot outside JFK, and I missed the moors and the fog for just an instant. Then, the glass doors slid open into hot sweaty americana summer and all else was forgotten. Felt a bittersweet sort of close to home. Sat on the curb. The airtrain to the car park turned onto the highway. Felt like a road trip. Felt like team sports, two-in-the-morning, intermission. I'd been so quiet that day. I had not spoken one word since Heathrow. Everybody understood that the apartment was rotting. Great place but full of mold. Great place but full of memories both good and bad. Somebody should have thrown out the milk. Somebody should have done something about the feng shui. The dead trees. The slant of the floors. The roof, which nearly caved in last winter. Three in the morning arrival but I asked Amelia if I could come over instead, and Amelia understood it would be best to sit on her floor. Amelia had been leaning into performance art. How was your vacation, Amelia asked. Not transgressive and weird, I sighed. But rejuvenating, pleasant, precious in the sort of way I'd like to hang onto. And I am feeling physically fit from all the walking and running that went on and on and on. The heat wave has not passed in New York despite one more week dwindling into summer, and I sleep until midday around when I open my eyes and begin to feel uneasy. The lines out the stores are down the block and everyone is becoming very thin. The summer foods are things like GREENS 01 Juice and maca-powder-peanut-butter-protein-bites and very rubbery cocktail shrimp at The Smith. It is Julia who suggests The Smith for dinner and I am not picky with those sorts of things. It is me who suggests the party, despite my increasing hopes, generally, to avoid these sorts of things. Wednesday, July 30 Sitting at Banter with the Big Breakfast and hot green tea reading fairytales. It was a nice night last night. Whirling sort of thing. Nightclub101 to KGB to following a group to Ludlow House to Ripple Room. The sort of thing I like as often as possible, but really must limit to now and then. Sitting at the Australian Cafe now, using my Moldavite to mark my place in my book. The fairytales are describing relentless compassion as a form of some sort of psychological warfare. Psychosexual manipulation. Relentless compassion so as to provide one with a moral advantage, knowing it is impossible for the recipient of such compassion to reciprocate. Relentless compassion so as to cast a desperate, selfish, striving plea for reciprocation. The second option is probably more common, but it would be nice to be kind of on a high horse. August will be like oysters at The Knickerbocker with the cocktail sauce in the martini glass and we're sitting by the cracked glass window and Drew says don't cut your hair not yet and so it'll be like humid heavy hair almost down to my waist now, sparkling water in plastic cups with lime and diet coke in a bikini and I will stay put for a while. I will sit at KGB sober in the evening like I do most every evening. They're tearing chocolate chip cookies apart with their hands at the table over and Amelia says she thinks a bit too much about herself to give too much thought to the existence of God but she remembers, as a child, crying tears of joy because she couldn't believe her luck. She just realized she had somehow made it into a human body on Earth, and she couldn't believe her luck. I don't wish the evenings went on too much longer. The timing is starting to feel just right. I want to fill a Desani water bottle with white claw and catch a cab to a pool party but the evening might start to feel too late. I'll read Fanny Howe, Thomas Hardy, Dawn Powell on the floor - big cracked hard cover dog eared copies of all my books. Then, I will pack up my books into Ikea plastic storage trunks. I will pack up all my books and dresses and then the movers will come. The movers will haul my things out the door. They will haul the place bare. I will turn off the air conditioning in this glass apartment in the sky, and then I will leave. August will be somewhere else. Thursday, July 31 Rebecca and I are making plans. Involving - The Chakras by C.W. Leadbeater and Esoteric Healing by Alice Bailey. I don’t want to work harder than I ever have before, but I do wish to be a bit more intuitive about it. Rebecca is telling me about Energy Hygiene in a Chaotic City. Rebecca is telling me about Seven Rays & Soul Typing. Taking Thomas Pynchon, guasha, monastery sage oil, yoga mat, mineral sunscreen up to the roof for Abundance Meditation and Contemplation. I receive good news. The best, really. I am sorry to be opaque, but something shifted in the winds in England. So far, I have managed to hold onto it here. Careful! Open up the blinds because it's foggy this morning which means we get to let some light in. No bright sunlight baking things alive. No leftover drinks or snacks from the Last Party Ever that was thrown last night. So - it’s a very strange day. I’d like to take a different approach to Caution. Generate me a definition. They generate me this definition: The deeper awareness of human limitations, the deceptive nature of false certainties, and the dangers of unchecked power. This will do. Friday, August 1 It’s an unusual sort of incoherence in my dreams today. The shelf above the bed is lined with wine glasses full of water, and there's an in between of sleep and something else - nyquil at six in the morning, cinnamon zyn at six in the morning, the friends went home around six in the morning and now it is sometime around noon, sunlight streaming in. I wake up gagging. In my dreams, the wine glass water was mostly poisoned. In the space between half awake, not all was poisoned but it was a Russian Roulette sort of thing. I take my chances. Chug water out of my safest bet. Wake up screaming. Fall asleep screaming. The Ikea boxes for the move are starting to fill up and I know it's me stuffing the plastic to the brim but I don't really remember. It's been recollection that's lacking, really. It's been a birthday dinner tonight. The sweetest kind in the Lower East Side. Dimes Square but it's just us, I said. Because it was in the general vicinity but the streets were all empty. A stupid joke, but everyone humored me. Everyone was beautiful and lovely and happy and I didn't drink a regrettable amount. A nice sort of night. Got stuck on Thomas Pynchon and now I can't read anything else. Got stuck on esoteric health and now the water is poison. Got stuck at karaoke and now my self proclaimed sulfate allergy is acting up. Wine and hypochondria. It becomes a bit self indulgent then, doesn't it? Saturday, August 2 If the movers weren't late, I'd be gone by now. But they are late, and so I am lying on the couch that’s being left behind in an Everlane striped tee and too-short Los Angeles apparel shorts feeling kind of sorry for myself. I'm not sure why I decided to scrounge up this sort millennial slop getup for the day of my very unceremonious departure. Feeling older than my years. Feeling like I was raised on Madewell and Ann Taylor or, whatever else it is that would feel nostalgic if I'd been born before 2000. Something other than Patagonia shorts and my sister's sweaters, anyways. Feeling culturally un-attuned. Feeling mostly sorry for myself because I am surrounded by grime. I've been flouncing around this place for a while, now. The clutter is so repulsive, and so much of it is new. There was never a day of really moving in, here. It was just step by step, one thing after another, little parcels that were easy to bring up and down and in and out and now; you wake up in the middle of the morning in a glass apartment in the sky to the sense that there is no space left. I would love to toss and toss and toss. I would love to close my eyes on this island of this couch amidst a swamp of Ikea boxes and tell the movers never mind. I would never open the boxes again. I would never do the dishes. I would wear polyester and sleep on the previous owners teak Scandinavian couch. I would sleep surrounded by trash. It would all become trash, because I would decide to throw it all out. What do we need to know?, the movers will ask, when they arrive. Do you find everything interesting? I will ask. Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? YAY, the movers will say. I am picking things up and putting them down. The movers will give me high fives. Me and three Serbian teens high-fiving in a glass apartment in the sky that I am soon to leave and never return. They will pick things up and put them down and haul them out and I will never return. Sunday, August 3 I have taken my things and never returned. All is well except, the lights here are a bit too fluorescent. The courtyard is nice for the turtle pond, but the brick blocks the sun. And, once there was a top lock but now there is not. There is a hole in my door and I can't get it out of my head. There is a hole in my door and now everything is all wrong. Sitting at GMT Tavern with a not very nice martini and the Thomas Pynchon book I just can’t finish or quit. Slow Learner. Slow Learner, just like me. Make it all about me me me. Life is like: another day in my dumb life on my dumb blog talking about me me me. Life does not have to be like this. Life could be like: the hovering curious dominant of their separate lives should resolve into a tonic of darkness and the final absence of all motion (Pynchon). I keep getting stuck on that quote. I keep getting stuck on entropy, which I do not hope to believe in. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, August 14 From 9pm at Silver Lining Lounge — Matt Weinberger and Scott Lipps present The Downtown Prom. Hosts include Sid Simons, Anika Jade Levy, Nicole Naloy, and more. Music by Sexy Damion, Blog Analog, Loose Buttons, and Boxxer. DJ sets and more.

Inline links: Matt Weinberger, Scott Lipps, The Downtown Prom

Annie's1 mentions across 1 issues

Annie's is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between July 18, 2025 and July 18, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "annie's mac and cheese with peas in my new yellow kitchen". It most often appears alongside 154 Scott NYC, ALLSHIPS, Alphaville.

Article page: Annie's
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: July 18, 2025
Last seen: July 18, 2025

Issue trail

Things I do like here July 18, 2025

154 Scott NYC 1 shared issues
ALLSHIPS 1 shared issues
Alphaville 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
Bacaro 1 shared issues

Source context

Things I do like here

July 18, 2025 · Original source

annie's mac and cheese with peas in my new yellow kitchen (i think i will like this at least)

Aperol1 mentions across 1 issues

Aperol is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between June 09, 2025 and June 09, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "sorting of cosmopolitan, candies, pretzels, aperol spritz". It most often appears alongside A Court of Thorns and Roses, Allie Rowbottom, Amnesiascope.

Article page: Aperol
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: June 09, 2025
Last seen: June 09, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

A supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again June 09, 2025

A Court of Thorns and Roses 1 shared issues
Allie Rowbottom 1 shared issues
Amnesiascope 1 shared issues
Apt 5 1 shared issues
Art Party 1 shared issues

Source context

June 09, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Saturday, May 31 I wake up at six am to Miami Beach hazy dawn, honey bear full of gummy bears, skinny pop popcorn and torres truffle potato chips and I believe this mini bar isn't motion-censored but if it is, well, is already to late because I am crouched over on the floor playing pharmacy with the sorting of cosmopolitan, candies, pretzels, aperol spritz. The sun is hot and already almost too bright outside. There's a kind of resignation to the physical exhaustion of today. I could pump myself full of junk food and sink into the hotel carpet disassociated, spinning, things have been oscillating in such extremes and I guess there is some solid ground now, but I am still so breathless and uncertain when I try to consider this as real. "What I like about a hotel is the idea that you can just completely change vibes," my boyfriend was saying. "Anonymity. Abandon your two week life.” I came to consciousness in my two week life sobbing in the morning. I came to consciousness with tears pouring down my face in the bluest water you have ever seen. There was cognizance while gasping for air at the coconut stand, warm liquor, a scene at The Standard. I plugged the story into chat gpt like someone evil or something all made up. Is the narrator likable, I asked. Is this genius, I begged. A whirling tale about wearing the wrong linens, said the robot. the narrator is kind of redeemable, unlike, clearly [redacted] I have lost all my vindication. I have promised not to beg. I reread the letter and they told Rose at breakfast at The Social Club that she is getting sick because of Central AC. You know you are in Miami right, they ask us. The servers beam big wide beams and only I beam back. I have been working on fiction a lot, but then I find it difficult to swing back here. I find myself very cold and with a lingering sense of maybe fatalism more than nihilism but regardless there is such removal in my made up language no matter how much I try to bring it down to earth. I am not removed at all, here. I learned quickly. I deleted my transcription of the other days so I could better tell you about the parts that Never Happened. I remember almost nothing but it's like I don't really drink anymore, so this was something else. My Miami Beach: The Standard, The Beachcomber, The Betsey, The Social Club. The coconut stand and the diet coke mini bar and the pleading about what happens now - a sunburn, a whole entire life, there was the mystic who was telling us about Gnosticism that summer. There was the quivering lady at the quaker church who was telling us about angels and destiny and if we became unaligned, then there would be nothing else. I did write a story of fiction and so you're getting the scraps, here. I came to consciousness already half in a dream. My consciousness has never faltered, before. We began in Connecticut. Things were bright and nice that weekend. All the green of Connecticut was very lush and it caught me by surprise. I did not feel much to prove nor a need to get all on the defensive. I wrote stories outside of myself, and I was pleased to find an escape. There was a castle over the river ferry in lush and luminous New England spring and it reminded me of somewhere further South and of a life that stretched out all human and endless. I didn't mean to leave again. I didn't mean to cycle on and on and on. We went further South. Bahamas then Miami. It wasn't so much a thing of irresponsibility or of being in a cult as it was, having lots of friends and being given a gift. Drops of water in a wave don't move with the wave, they simply jostle around in place with the wind. He read this aloud to me from my book like this was news and I was stupid. I'm not stupid, I said. His face became crestfallen like he was surprised to find me harsh. I'm sorry for being careless with the only thing in the world I know to be true, I said. My mind was moving too fast but it might have just been the sterile setting and the dehydration. I left New York and I landed in a place where I should never be. It was a bit of impulsivity and a bit of an exercise in absurdity and camp perhaps, though none of it is ever really my decision with these things and these trips. There Are Casinos Everywhere For Those With Eyes To See. There are golf cart highways and fake black marble lounge tables and a DJ saying Let's Get It Started with no irony. There is plenty of sun, too but the rejuvenative qualities of light become quite negated when filtered off of all this pale concrete. Ancestral memory or something of the sort, but I was really craving foggy pine forests by the gray ocean. What was it they were saying in El Salvador? The teachings on light and life from the Bitcoin Doctor in El Salvador were proven to be true because Las Vegas was so palpably optimized to be terrible. They were saying a lot of things in El Salvador, but I did feel like there is something almost nefarious in the Casino-Desert air, here. We took the plane to Miami after that. I'm obscuring the timelines, a bit, again. I rediscovered Privacy and Fiction at right about the same time. I rediscovered golf course concrete roads and mind numbing sun and privacy and fiction and now I'd like to write what happens next but it all begins to feel a bit stilted. The Beachcomber was kind of party party party and bottomless brunch in the lobby and windows that opened onto all that green jungle Miami swim week bottle service ceviche room service drifting around the paths outdoors taking short sharp breaths. The Betsey was more colonial, like a maze, they considered themselves to be bookish and we moved there for the purpose of manufacturing stability and more cheer. Iris came over in the afternoon. I picked her up in the lobby. I dove for my boyfriend's lost coral in the pool downstairs. The skin off my chest burned easily. I lay on the deck of the pool on the roof with a virgin bloody mary for electrolytes, and a spicy watermelon margarita for a self destructive haze. How are you doing, Iris asked. What are your favorite foods, Iris asked. Octopus, apples, apple pie lamb chops with mint jelly, creamed spinach, a certain type of barbeque salmon, a whole roast chicken. It was funny to say Best Day Of My Life because I cried a million billion tears and now we’re swimming in the moonlight off Miami Beach. I like the club scene pulsing behind all the crescent moon glow and waves. It’s a shame about that night and that day. The resurrection has been unsteady but it’s like Kygo and a palm grove and a cityscape behind me, and all blue dark ocean and saturns return to the front. There was a moment there where I lost every piece of everything good. Gulps of water and air. I pull it all back. Sunday, June 1 The flight back from Miami is gray and swift. I spent the evening on the rooftop at The Betsy yesterday. Iris asked me for the list of my favorite foods. Octopus, apples, apple pie, lamb chops with mint jelly, creamed spinach, a certain type of barbeque salmon, a whole roast chicken. The concrete by the pool bar was hot and steamy and we didn’t bring identification and we would not be served. David bought us bloody marys and we drank them behind the tarp where the bartenders couldn’t see. I swam laps up and down and up and down the length of this pool that was mostly for drinking. I found Chanel sunglasses while standing barefoot in the bathroom and I returned them to the French girl. It’s like I’ve been immune to the permanence of ramifications of the things that are really bad, these days. I keep forgiving and I keep on being forgiven. They gave me free Pina Colada samples in little plastic cups. Ok Intense Girl, he was saying, because every time I would pop my head out of the water to say the things I thought, it would be with beady eyes and a determined stare. I like ice cream particularly matcha ice cream and I like lamb, Iris told me. Iris taught me about Gnosticism, and I believe this is somewhat aligned with the situation with me and him, though he thinks it's kind of sacrilegious when I equate my nightmares with mysticism, or when I attribute the interest that people who are kind of half of this world and half of another take in me to anything other than high agreeability and openness. Iris and I walked along Ocean Drive to Kalamata way down South Beach, and then we walked back along the water. A writing retreat, a rave, apocalyptic undertones. You can’t choose solitude and practicality at the edge of an extinction event, is one of many roots of it. I walked barefoot along the boardwalk. I met him for a second dinner. The ribeye was bloody and it came with a gross side of pasta alfredo. I woke up screaming. I woke up all smiles. I took photos of our hands on the plane Just In Case. I showed him a song. The Message. Is this a good song, or is this a secret message, he asked. It’s just a good song, I said. The frat guys in front of us on the plane are reading A Court of Thorns and Roses smut novels and buying tickets to Jake Shane's comedy tour. The guy on my boyfriend's phone intercom is stealing all my LA Apparel underwear from our lobby. I'm eating the Worst Sandwich Ever and Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. I am taking pictures of our reflections in the clouded plane window and I am thinking about how impossible it feels right now, flying like this, to imagine that so often, we become something else. Monday, June 2 I read some GirlInsides on the airtrain back from JFK who I think is just like me if I were more honest and precise about it, or maybe whom my stories would echo more precisely if I did not have this sick need to put my face all over everything. Anyways, GirlInsides was talking about how summer would bring things like long long long hair and farmers market plums eaten over the sink in underwear and writing and reading all over the place, and her ideas made me feel like I was melting and going to cry. Then I wrote what I wanted summer to bring, all - getting off the subway because it's too hot and walking in sandals sticking to my feet until i find somewhere that glows right and then its morning and we're sitting first then lying down on the terrace in sun that becomes unbearable drinking sparkling water out of glass bottles dripping it over my chest opening the door for the blast of air conditioning and to let the friends that come by in and out people floating by in and out and come and go and then at dusk i put on something green and i drink cold cider cold diet coke or spicy watermelon margarita outside at kikis in swan room away from the heat at vol de nuit with fries and garlic sauce on the roof, on my roof, in the backyards and basements and i walk out and walk everywhere when it is time to leave i leave and sometimes it is time to leave and so then I take the train and there’s the coast and then I’m putting laundry on the line in a black bikini and drinking diet coke with lemon in my black bikini and driving to the ocean down the driveway at night headlights breaking through june gloom fog and jumping off the dock where the sharks don't eat us but any summer now they could, or then it's morning and i'm sober writing in my google docs journal walking outside, writing in my greenhouse apartment in new york, writing along the overgrown pond and field and it always smells thicker there outside of boston, writing by foggy shores and rocky shores and sometimes the air becomes thick too and my dad plays dougie mclain and we make pesto pasta mozzarella chicken sausage in yellow china bowls on yellow placemats the meal gets kind of hazy through the sheen of blue hour rain coming through the window and then i'm pacing and writing down ocean drive in Miami because I can't decide where i want to be anymore and i like flashing lights i like coming back to the very nice very cold hotel that we're staying in because he's Sorry but I don't want any more apologies i want this summer to be Being very very very in love because i really have been anticipating extinction events or at least things become robotic sterile i used to think id be pretty good at both being in love like this and at not being robotic and sterile and i have become slightly above average at both these things in practice i guess though, it's nice to have the most human thing in the world, it's nice for me all the time, even then, even when it isn't for him i think it's nicer for me then it would be to not have this all the time and I don't know why i keep sabotaging the only thing i know to be true and human and so i am hoping for a summer of all that, hands pressed against the plane window greenhouse window train window glass mirror glassy water plunging my face underwater no more eb and flow. Anyways, none of that made any sense and then shock of all shocks it did eb and flow again last night. Everyone was so nice to me about my story and I wore the Nasseau, Bahamas shirt he bought for me all Life Is Better In FlipFlops and he wanted me to wear the sunglasses too, to exacerbate the bit but I thought that would be a little bit too far. He said “you know why I’m mad at you” when we got home, and I didn’t know, I had no idea actually, and so then I got sad, but the story was fiction. This is fiction too. I’m not being facetious when I say that. This isn’t even autofiction. This is literally all made up. “they seem lost and completely clueless,” he is saying now, downstairs, on the phone, he is talking about some forty year old woman and an awful charleton and some guy who does RedPill posting online and some guy he personally has a strong dislike for who has a lot of medical malpractice suits against him. Maybe he’s a genius, he is saying. I don’t know, he is saying. These people are so strange, he is saying. Tuesday, June 3 His friend rubs my head like i'm a dog or something when i walk into his stupid fake exclusive evil party that i'm not invited to and then my heart swells with rage. I'm so mad, I was telling everyone. I'm so sorry I didn't mean to say that I guess I had one too many, I was saying. I didn't have one too many, I had just right, I was telling him. I like The Sweet East, he is telling me. I like Yeats and social norms. Yes and, I say; I hope that you get everything you have ever wanted. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, June 9 A quiet night in the realm of events. Consider; dinner at The Marlton’s new restaurant Chez Nous followed by a screening of Buffalo 66 at Metrograph (10pm). I have historically liked The Marlton because it is vaguely past its prime and also a five minute walk from my apartment, and a place where no one ever tells you that you’ve stayed too long. The food at the old restaurant was terrible (so I’ve heard) (I only went for tea), but the recently refurbished Chez Nous is chic and fun and has maintained all of the hotel's original charm. The shrimp salad is very good, as is the martini. I’ll report back after my second visit (possibly tonight). Otherwise - 10pm on a Monday evening is the perfect time to see a film bar none, besides, possibly 1pm on a Friday.

Argireline1 mentions across 1 issues

Argireline is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between December 22, 2025 and December 22, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "mixing potions this morning, like matrixyl and Argireline and Evian water". It most often appears alongside Advil, Alice B. Toklas, Alligator.

Article page: Argireline
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: December 22, 2025
Last seen: December 22, 2025

Issue trail

The social experiment is now over December 22, 2025

Advil 1 shared issues
Alice B. Toklas 1 shared issues
Alligator 1 shared issues
Caffe Reggio 1 shared issues
CASH 4 GOLD 1 shared issues

Source context

December 22, 2025 · Original source

One life all at once Friday, December 19 The West Side Highway is cold and clear and empty driving home, like everyone is already gone and this night will be the last dredges of things as they were. The taxi driver is playing soft rock and the barges on the Hudson look like little houses from a distance. New York in December is like a fairytale, because most everyone leaves for real life and then you are reminded, in the lost week of the year, that none of this was ever exactly real life. There’s a red sports car doing donuts in the empty lot of Pier 76. There are three American flags blowing in the wind. Every December feels almost inconceivably distant from the one before. It’s been this way for a few years, at least, now. Mostly, this makes me feel self satisfied, and sometimes, this makes me feel sick. The wind has been crazy the past few days. It’s like a wind tunnel, specifically, driving through midtown. The river is churning. The wind is making everyone insane. I wake up to yellow overhead lights left on overnight, and they look particularly warm cast against the winter sun that filters through my windows. No curtains. In my dream, I was sitting in a Starbucks somewhere foreign, waiting on a bench next to two girls whom I did not know. The coffees were taking a while, and so the baristas kept on offering up shared bread. Something to compensate. The loaves of bread were huge and warm. The barista was throwing them overhand over the counter. The bread was soaring through the air and then landing on the floor. The other girls around me were scooping up the loaves and devouring them with their hands. They were breaking the bread in half and then tearing off a morsel for me. That landed on the floor, I was saying. Everyone shrugging. Looks of disgust. I always dream in mundanities. Wearing athleisure and mixing potions this morning, like matrixyl and Argireline and Evian water full of bubbles and microplastics and wind through the open window blowing all the dust around. I watched all the energy come roaring back for each and every false start these past few months, but it’s been a pause in the ebb and flow, now. I like when things are fascinating. Three books from the party are lying on my glass table in the center of my floor. The Champ is Here and Season of the Rat and a book called Alligator, all bought from some place called CASH 4 GOLD. Because the glass table is so big, and the room is so small, the table creates a disproportionate presence. I wonder what will change, once the glass table is gone. Bundled up and then drifted outside to procure a celsius at the bodega and now I am home, again. Listening to Kali Uchis play off my tinny computer speakers from my playlist that reminds me of hot dry desert air and CRYSTALS. Making plans that fifty-percent chance I will then cancel. Trying to finish my Florida, Massachusetts story but the tone requires a kind of gothic and spooky vibe that I am entirely unable to access right now. Everything at Los Angeles Apparel is five dollars, and so I spend the afternoon being gluttonous online. Purchasing a white tube top and a black fine jersey long sleeve and two a-line skirts and some shimmering silver earrings. Purchasing a red circle scarf for Iris, too, because she left her brand new red circle scarf in the basement at my brand new job, and I said I would find it for her but couldn’t. Unsure if I will tell her I have found the scarf, or admit to procuring a new one online. I think I will just hand it over and say nothing. Celia calls, and I tell her about cleaning my windows and live blogging my day. Careful, Celia says. It’s a good idea to talk about things like architecture, or strange observations. It is probably not a good idea to start live blogging your days. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO It’s the most program-less week of the year, and so I’m taking a week off the event call. Watch The Shop Around The Corner and make Sabayon

Inline links: The Shop Around The Corner, Sabayon

Aritzia1 mentions across 1 issues

Aritzia is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 27, 2026 and January 27, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "my polyester Aritzia slip". It most often appears alongside 3, Alexander Perrelli, Amelia.

Article page: Aritzia
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 27, 2026
Last seen: January 27, 2026

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

California-At-Home January 27, 2026

3 1 shared issues
Alexander Perrelli 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
Anders Lindseth 1 shared issues
Ani Tatintsyan 1 shared issues

Source context

January 27, 2026 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, January 12 I’m in my room and I’m feeling normal. Outside, the streets are winter-warm. Foggy and sweet. Different from El Salvador, which was humid-sweet. Tropics sweet. El Salvador was learning to understand things and also learning to let the wind blow in interesting directions and also learning to stand on my own two feet. On the flight home, I mapped out every day as a container. At JFK, I decided to treat the city like Vacation. Big Bar every Monday. Museums of Illusions. FDR themed social club. Procure activities on Partiful or Instagram or Yelp or through Word of Mouth. I call Amelia to announce my return and my vacation-forever plans. Is this vacation for the sake of transgression or fun? Amelia asks me. New York is over, Matthew was saying, in El Salvador. New York is over, and Los Angeles is it. I suppose we’ll see, I was saying in response. I suppose we’ll see but for now I’ll take all the energy-whirling-back. The flight home was quiet and late. I sat in the very back row of the plane with lots of water and ambient dread. I dreamt of a rocky landing where Avianca (Boeing 787) (Flight 267) touches ground and then immediately takes back off. I dreamt of being robbed. I dreamt of turning around. Dreamt of being scammed. Dreamt of busy days and busy nights in N.Y.C Back home, tonight, and it’s dinner at Lanterna di Vittoria with my friend whom I like because he offers me generosity kind of liminally. He presents a dangling sort of kindness that I did not have to accept or deny. I could accept his kindness later. I could pluck it from thin air, long after he has walked away. Maybe he is just generally cautious like that, or perhaps he intuits my inherent distaste towards drawing definitive conclusions. He is extremely helpful, but I never say thank you for the advice even though I am thankful. I never acknowledge I agree and I think it is better this way. I’m particularly grateful for the ease of it. He’s happy to know he’s right and also to feel useful without any of the misery that accompanies reliance. The grid is blinking in and out today, and so we are all feeling anxious about nuclear war. You too?? my friend says, when I bring up the topic of nuclear war at dinner. Everyone is becoming so much stupider. Small grid means big problems. I am feeling uneasy, sitting in my apartment tonight, knowing all the best minds in the world are coming up short. Later, cotton candy skies turning dark as we’re walking home. The city is freezing over, and hell along with it. Since I cleared my mind head-empty, I have become so much better at being perfect. Since I became religious, I have become so much faster at driving. Since I started telling all my friends that I want no-trouble, none-of-the-time, everything has started to really spiral out of control. I want to be good, I keep on telling Olivia. We go to the gym together every-other-day. She is the only girl with hair that is longer than mine. You are goodest, Olivia tells me. She says it with a smile, and she is very much not-devious so I believe that she believes this to be true. How many millions of dollars do you think were lost when the grid went down? I ask my friend, walking home in the icy city that I just can’t quit. Trillions, he tells me. What do you mean millions? Jesus Christ. Do you know how the GRID works? He gives me a book. Elephants and economy. Something like that. I already have it. I am smug when I tell him so. They already gave me this book in El Salvador. This book is already mine. The grid has already never-existed. Nothing ever happens. New silk eye mask arrived by mail which means: big sleep incoming. Big sleep in mummy mode. Clean room. Room of a girl who respects herself. Every day is something new. This part has always been obvious. Tuesday, January 13 The air is clear in my apartment, but somehow tinged a little bit blue this morning. Somehow kind of record-stretch hazy, which I suppose is what happens when I am tired and outside, it’s foggy. My friend texted while I slept: I am taking on your mannerisms. Texting back now: I don’t really have mannerisms. I could write a story this morning, but instead, I will write mantras in my mind. It’s good to be quiet It’s important to seize control over myself God gives the world to girls who don’t get in their own way. Black velvet hanger left off kilter. Last night, I purchased a blue dress that reminded me of dreams I already forgot. A blue dress to wear in a glass house in a place like Topanga. Bright blue dress to wear while making spring green soup. Purchased the dress with visions of next summer spinning through my mind. Visions of wearing a blue dress and standing barefoot on the wood floor of my parents’ house and making spring green soup. Sitting on the edge of my bed in dark green lulu lemon leggings and black tank top this morning. Cool minty Zyn in mouth, and Celsius in hand. The apartment is a mess, and it has been for a while. Trees are barren and kind of sweet outside my window. I hate this apartment. I want my old apartment back. I want to get everything I’ve ever wanted. I want to get sober and mean it. I want two hours of dedicated time-writing-fiction per day, and two hours of dedicated time walking outdoors writing notes. I want to let no more hours drift. I was not happy to come back to New York, but I do like the parts of the city that just are-what-they-are. Green turtle pond and freezing hands. Big buildings and tour groups. Windy streets. Bustling with people. When I’m at pilates I don’t feel like I need to move to LA, I tell Saorise, in the studio. The toned and old gay man that owns Pilates People runs warm. He cracked the window to let in the frigid winter fog. All the girls are upset about this. The light is silver and bright like a beam. It is a foggy day. We have LA at home, Saiorse says. We have life-like-California, but it’s real-life and it’s right-here. We can stay right here. We can invent different schools of movement. We can even go to Sugarfish Girls mass-exodus a friend group or even a whole entire life because of totally superficial reasons that are totally fake, Saoirse is saying, at Sugarfish. We acquire Saki. I pull my hair into a tight ponytail and I revel in my perfect day. I document my material reality meticulously. I have been training myself to become totally head empty. I have been training myself to gently accept gluttony, and also to be less subject to my whims. Sugar Fish has the sort of generic-upscale interior that reminds you of nothing, and thus reminds you of personal recollections of positive experiences in similar generic upscale interior restaurants. This is how they keep you coming back, I say. Girls couldn’t find a backbone if it hit them over the head, Saiorse says. Girls want to drown their enemies in buckets like kittens. Girls want to pray for you and ask to kiss you and pretend to be your friends. I am starting to feel some animosity, I tell Saorsie. Our meal is light but comes out in many courses. Saiorse is happy to hear about my budding proclivity for negativity. I’ve been telling you these things for years and knowing that it wasn’t yet time for you to listen, Sairse responds. You can pick something really good, or you can pick something that you really really want. Saiorse plays with her salmon sashimi and she doesn’t like soy sauce. Saoirse doesn’t ask me to tell her which one I pick: really good versus really wanted, that is. Do you remember Michael the explorer, Saoirse asks me. I have known Saoirse for a million billion years. We share a million billion strange friends. It’s nice to pour over these things. Internet friends. Federal agent friends. Friend who snuck over the Canadian border a few years ago and then washed up outside a fire pit in The Hamptons. Her explorer friend who we took to Round Swamp market for blueberry muffins after he got back from some place like Antarctica or maybe North Korea. He was not very risk-adverse. He was so worried about you, Saoirse says. Did you know that at the time? He said you seemed so nice. Walking home in the crisp and cold afternoon feeling so nice. Walking through the farmers market. Curling up in bed half asleep half dressed half under covers. Half lonely and half at peace because I love when my apartment is so cold. Cassandra texts that she is going to the museum. Why, I ask? It is our duty to seek out all the latent beauty in the world. Cassandra responds. At night, In Brooklyn, I can listen to Jeff Buckley Forget Her on repeat and think about what I actually want. Purification. Indulging my addictions. Freedom from vice. Sweet music and soft cover of winter fog and little green glass wind chimes hanging from the trees. I like wearing natural fibers and clothing I move easily in and having a uniform and following an obsession to its logical conclusion. I like knowing immediately and totally what it is that I could or could not love. Little dried leaves shivering across the pavement. They look like little rats except for the part where they are very beautiful. I run into one friend smoking on the street in a velvet black jacket when I arrive at the reading. I like your suit, I say. It’s my only suit, he responds. I don’t want to drink but I do want a cigarette and I only like cigarettes when I’m drinking. There’s a glowing strawberry on the wall, and there are a lot of people I have never seen before or at least do not see often. Like the cool theater kids’ basement in college, the girl next to me is saying. Soft snow flurries outside, which serves as a nice reminder that it is still winter. Reading out loud about Florida, Massachusetts and feeling reclusive. Wednesday, January 14 Sweet Wednesday morning, but I’m going to treat it like a Monday. Still listening to Jeff Bukley Forget Her, which makes me want to be somewhere else. Somewhere very cold or very foggy or even, very sunny. Perhaps I should stop hedging and just commit to something. Last night, a boy was ordering a drink and talking about how he was so glad no one was doing dry January this year. He asked his friend what he was drinking. Soda water and cranberry, the friend said. Oh, he said. You’re doing dry January? I’ve been dry for six months, his friend said. I felt so jealous of his friend. So, I know what has to give. Need to take pleasure in denying myself the things I want, etc etc etc. Listening to Forget Her over and over and over again, and turning my head all the way upside down so I can get a look at the snow behind me, but the snow has mostly stopped. Just silver skies all the way, now. Silver skies all the way up and all the way down. Jeff Buckley died at thirty-years-old. Someone who destroyed himself early but at least he had something to show for it. The desire to toss out everything I own becomes pervasive in the snow. The desire to get rid of all these things I wish were not mine. Gathering up all these clothes and throwing them in a big white trash bag. Thinking about the big smile on my face when my mother gave me a blue and shiny dress and then thinking about throwing it in a donation bin which pipelines to landfills, obviously. Hours can pass, percolating in guilt over what to do with this blue dress among other items. There are many more wasteful things than throwing out a dress. Buying and drinking alcohol for example. Buying and eating protein bars just to feel full by which I mean full of trash. Scrolling on my phone. Being cruel. The snow is both coming down and melting outside. Smells like ski racing. Nothing I am getting rid of is special. If the people whom I don’t want to see show up at a party, then I will leave. My friends are in the basement of the party when I arrive. Another friend’s new bar. The wood has been stained dark brown and the place is starting to look formal and nice. My friends are vacuuming and putting away books. We all look like little elves putting the books away, Quinn says. Many interesting books. Esoterics of Health and something about Aliens, for example. Thursday, January 15 Rinse and repeat. Blueish silver light in my apartment, where the sun barely penetrates, but at least nothing is artificial. Outside, everything is melting, melting, melting. White and chipped paint on the fire escape, and I can see the drops of water growing from the metal edges and then… drop! Leafless trees shimmering like they’re coated in gum drops. Each silver water droplet crystallized as its own little form, and then together, they are turning the whole tree silver. Since they turned down the central heating and then I turned off my air conditioner, a few days ago, everything has begun to feel quite quiet. Should we do a dress exchange? I ask Cassandra. Should I bring you your bible and a book called The Elephant in the Brain and also your blue cashmere sweater in exchange for my polyester Aritzia slip? Yes! says Cassandra. The West Village is wet and cold and the church is white and the doors are blue. The dining room of The Marlton Hotel is full of red velvet booths and gold lined mirrors and star shaped yellow lights. The mirrors and the lights make me feel a little bit like I am in a room full of sun, but I am not in a room full of sun. I am in a windowless hotel lobby full of mirrors. Cassandra takes out her Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls at table over are taking out their Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls everywhere are just the same. Olivia has her Rapunzel hair bundled up in her scarf like a baboushka. Cassandra is wearing a beautiful red scarf tied around her neck and wearing beautiful gold jewelry. The girls at the table over are talking about how we were created to have gentle souls. Why would anybody make it their mission in life to seek out… chaos? Cassandra interjects. To seek to degrade others, Olivia says. Cassandra teaches me a new word: Odoriferous. Cassandra tells me about her friend who lives in Northern California off the grid, farming salmon or maybe saving them, researching them, I can’t remember. A girl stumbles into the dining room to greet her friends at the table over. I can feel how cold you are, her friends say. I can’t wait to see the ocean again, Cassandra says. It feels really weird going so long without seeing the ocean. I guess I won’t see the ocean again for a while. Thinking about feeling manic. Thinking about every other timeline. Thinking about pouring big glass of water and black coffee with five splenda because I am still glutenous. Getting right to the cusp of something means that in at least a few other timelines, you probably figured it out. Nice to assume you’re capable of that, at least. Nice to know that in another timeline, my diaries are probably anonymous and I can be less vague. Nice to know that in another timeline I can probably lie. I can probably say what I actually mean. Spraying perfume over green sweater and imagining myself as someone who moves more slowly. Ordered a glass of wine because I love relapsing on an empty stomach. Telling Olivia about when my life was hot and cold and up and down and crazy all the time, because for the first time, I am realizing that she did not know me then. It’s hard to describe to someone who wasn’t there. Feeling a little bit nauseous and like I wish I hadn’t spoken. We could be living in the Midwest driving golf carts, Olivia says. Indiana is just corn and soy but not even produced for human production just animal feed or corn syrup, she says. I have a fondness for cornfields, Cassandra says. We could belong to country clubs, Olivia said. I wonder what that is like. Friday, January 16 In my dreams, I am surrounded by water on all sides, Somewhere in El Salvador. Somewhere in Costa Rica. Somewhere with all my friends-from-the-internet, and they do not like my new boyfriend. It’s ok, because I don’t like my new boyfriend too much either. I am scheming with my internet-friends. We are scheming ways to get rid of new boyfriend. Everyone is happy about my plots to get him gone, and no one seems to clock that I am the one who invited him in the first place. We are deep sea fishing. I am hanging by my arms from the edge of the boat and my feet are running through the water while a girl I know to be my best friend fires up the boat faster and faster and faster. I am a little scared. I am having so much fun. Salt water. Earth water. Angel water. I wake up. One light left on, back in New York. Yellow glowing floor lamp, so at least there’s nothing shining overhead. Last night, I was walking through the winter snow sliding on ice and filled with energy and adoration and also two illicit drinks. Listening to music and wind and stopping for gum and diet coke and then washing up in a restaurant that was bustling and warm and dimly lit. Telling my friends not to wait outside. For a while, I wanted to show others the places that had always been mine. It had never been like that before. It had always been more of a self protective sort of thing. Back to letting myself be dragged to kind of nice places to which I have no attachment, now. Talking about myself like I am playing SIMS at dinner. Ordering one diet coke and one piece of fish. Dinner passing kind of assembly line cool. Chill and smooth. In the snow and the ice, everything is seamless and then I’m in a car home so that I do not slip. Things could be quiet and end early but I still just can’t stay put. I become more full of energy, later on. I have become very sick of interiority. I went to a small Italian cafe to pass the later night because when I don’t, I always wish I did. It was a snowy and beautiful night. The cafe was made for families and locals and tour groups and dark and lovely. My new friends were talking about things like art-of-business, so it felt kind of far from myself but I could bear it for some hours. A beautiful life. Trying to be more tender and less neurotic. This does not have to mean everything. A person can just be cautious and nice-for-now. Walked home in the snow. Woke up warm. Still can’t stay away from places that have always been mine. Yellow light emanates from the yellow lamp. Nothing fluorescent. A million things to write over a million times. A million things to consider. A million topics on which the thing to do now is to wait and see. Waiting and seeing. Text about finding a DJ for a party in San Francisco. Email about a party at The Mount Washington Hotel. All these very random things that feel so close to being in reach. Kind of want to go. Kind of want to languish in old and beautiful rooms at the Mount Washington Hotel and in the majestic magic pool and imagine that money flows like water by which I mean spend money like it is water. Opening the window, now. Letting it be morning, now. Have to be clear, now. Sober minded and clear. Time passes like water, too, so that is something else to be wary of. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, January 27 From 8pm at The River — Theme Trivia returns with Medieval Trivia.

Inline links: The River, Theme Trivia

Armani1 mentions across 1 issues

Armani is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between November 19, 2024 and November 19, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "they are still nice material and still from places like Armani". It most often appears alongside Adeline, Adriana Furlong, Aimee Armstrong.

Article page: Armani
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: November 19, 2024
Last seen: November 19, 2024

Outbound links

https://substack.com/@anitatintsyan

Issue trail

Autumn passes and one remembers one's reverence November 19, 2024

Adeline 1 shared issues
Adriana Furlong 1 shared issues
Aimee Armstrong 1 shared issues
Alexander Sammartino 1 shared issues
Alissa Bennett 1 shared issues

Source context

November 19, 2024 · Original source

WHAT I DID Chloe Pingeon's Substack is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Monday, November 10 It feels very important to parse through things very carefully today. I write down what I value: truth and beauty. mental and physical clarity. But then, there are other things, too. I don't experience life as this ethereal. Making big lists. Having big fun. Making big points. I write down: This is the thing I dislike about myself most; not experiencing things as this ethereal and wanting to make things like big points. I write down: when was the time you felt most transcendent? Remember: I'm not writing auto fiction. I'm writing my diary. It's weird - picking up the pieces of things. I feel disdain when I see people exercising bad habits. You cannot imagine my horror as I self destruct. Picture This: on the Upper West Side, things are quiet. The stone walls on the edge of the park are lined with trimmed hedges in the summer, but the branches are bare now, and so, you see, now, that the skeletons have always been jagged. The subway has been nicer lately, better to step inside when the warm air is a relief and nothing is steaming. I like the uptown F, the cars with the orange seats, the stations where there's no one there so you can hear the doors whoosh. Picture this: you go to The Central Park Zoo, you wear a Christmas dress, you go to Sarabeth's for lunch, pancakes, toast. After, you don't go window shopping but you do walk home. Not your home, it belongs to someone else, but it's familiar. You make tea by big French windows. The trees are bare already, remember, and so picture the precision with which you can watch the people on the street below. They don't look like little ants, you aren't that high up, they just look as they are - little people in and out. People looking for something. It’s like they are on a little treasure hunt. Imagine you would wish them the best. You wouldn't close the windows - not for a while, at least David told me I smelled like winter when I got home today. I didn't. I smelled like eucalyptus. You would too after a few minutes in that steam room in SoHo. I can’t stop spending money the instant that I make it. I can’t stop spending money like I have it. I have stopped purchasing stuff. I like to wear the same thing most days. I like to sort TheRealReal Black Blazers prices low to high and buy five at once, eight dollars each. When they arrive, they are still nice material and still from places like Armani or at least Theory and you spend little and you can sell them for more when it’s time to declutter. It’s been so wonderful to declutter lately. I’ve gotten rid of almost all of it - stuff, I mean. In the new place, there are no closets. I’ve gotten rid of all my storage space. I’ve gotten rid of all my streams of income. My Stuff is still in storage somewhere. Not in New York. I’ll sell it soon. You can have some but not all my earthly possessions if you want them. You can have the ones I’ve packed away. I like this idea – “Autumn passes and one remembers one's reverence” Tuesday, November 11 My new favorite blog is this - Health Gossip. It’s an old school newsletter. The health advice is very Pure and True, but more than this, it is beautiful to consume. Health Gossip is my favorite thing on the Internet this week. Very rarely does something in digital form elicit a real sense of calm in me. Usually, things in digital form make me feel kind of manic and bad. I’m not sure why this project strikes me so profoundly. Today, I spend multiple hours reading Health Gossip. A writer texts me after last week's letter - “your writing is always “good” ie flashy/ineffable… but this one bummed me out.” I’m not sure if he’s referring to the happenings of the week, or to the passivity, lethargy, dare I say gluttony and sludge… with which I’ve been diluting my descriptions of it all. I don't ask him to clarify. Regardless, his assessment of the piece in some sense parallels my own, and an attempt to dredge out an opinion from an acquaintance I admire that might placate my own sense of shame does not feel like an endeavor of any significance. “it bummed me out to write… ”, I say. We’re at a large group dinner at Olive Garden Times Square tonight. The host picked this place with a genuine fervor, nothing snidely ironic about it, and so I am more good humored in this venture than would be my usual inclination. It's less kitschy here then I l expected, anyways. Wall to wall carpeting, lots of families, lazy susan’s, the color schemes of muted Americana. I have a healthy appreciation for Times Square Charm. I have a healthy Relationship With Capitalism. I can't really eat the food here but isn't some of it just so fun to look at. I'm drifting in and out of focus at dinner - preoccupied by unrelated concerns of wavering integrity and petty betrayal, not important, not interesting. When I do tune in, a girl across the table is talking about Politics. “My grandma is spending her time so worried about school shooters because it's an obsession of the news,” she says. “It makes me angry and so sad for her. She shouldn't be spending her time thinking about this.” I get her sentiment a little bit. A sensationalist sense of doom that makes my skin crawl at some family dinners. Sometimes, there is frost on the grass just outside the window and when it catches my eye during these conversations - look at the dew, look at the mist, there are fawns in the field - then I just want to scream. But then, I worry sometimes that I am not very empathetic. I am envious, sometimes, of people who become utterly consumed by suffering that for the most part, they could simply look away from. Nihilism is something I am trying to avoid for the main reason of - its been breeding cruelty more than healthy removal, lately. Walking through Times Square after, David asks me if I am ok. I guess my eyes have glazed over. I realize this now, that it's been called to my attention. “Of course,” I say. “I worry that everything in my life is going to very suddenly fall apart,” I say. I am reassured. The night passes peacefully. Thursday, November 14 I take the Q to the end of the line today. It's something I've always wanted to do - take the train until the cars stop and I'm the last one left on board and a voice comes on and says please exit the train for cleaning, this is the last stop on this train, please exit the train so the train can be cleaned. I'm in Bay Ridge to shoot a music video today. To be an extra in a music video, that is. I'm exceptionally bad at acting. I'm bad enough that I am even bad as an extra. I'm not particularly bad at lying, but I am bad at having an expressive face. The neighborhood at the end of the Q is nice. I've been taken to other places in New York like this before. Places where you feel like you're by the seaside, where you're under the bridge, where the architecture is more brick, more limestone, more instances of art deco. The Hudson widens into the open ocean somewhere not too far from here and so of course the air feels different. It's strange, even if anticipated, to take the subway ninety minutes to a place where the air feels different, to walk down strange streets and into an unfamiliar gothic building, to open the door to a room where I have never been, and to find it filled with people I mostly already know. The past few years have given me many instances like this. This is something I am very grateful for. The music video is for DDM / Uncensored New York. It's a cool concept. It's cool to watch things come to life. The shoot is outside, and I am the coldest I have ever been. I'm still having fun. I'm thinking about things like how monks orient their consciousness and focus towards the cause of their suffering, and then I am trying to think only about the cold. I am not able to transcend myself, but even freezing, I don't wish I was elsewhere. In the afternoon, I sit in a warm car and I thaw my hands. I have miso soup, tea, and cheese sticks. There is still a chill in me even once inside, which is simultaneously unpleasant and cozy. I'd been wanting a day like this very badly. Friday, November 15 Beckett's Tense comes together with serendipity. There was a crisis with the headliners, Lucy Sante was sick. Beckett ran into Penny Arcade outside of Madame Matovu on 10th. Now, Penny is the headliner. The unsalvageable is always salvaged. The bar can serve real liquor tonight. There's a lot of people here and it's a different crowd than usual. Tense is back in Manhattan. Penny says she’s here because she wants to see what the new New York is doing. I give Beckett a hug at Sovereign House. I say hi to Chris and Adeline. Chris and Adeline are drawing big Tense bubble letters on the chalkboard. The seats are already mostly full. I climb to the top of a ladder and I sit up there. From up there, I have the best view in the house. Tense is not just a reading series, Tense is a show, and this distinction is important. There is a program, an order of events, a flow of new and old. The serendipity with Penny’s arrival lies in this - she seems to understand exactly what Beckett is doing, and while she didn’t write her piece specifically for TENSE (she describes it as “cultural criticism you can dance to”), it speaks with exaction to the spirit of things. Here are some things that Penny Arcade says: I’d rather put a stick in my eye than go somewhere where everyone is the same age. When I was young, if I went to a party and everyone was under thirty I thought... I'm at the wrong party.”

Inline links: Health Gossip, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!BqEq!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F8d9f96c9-96e5-4a0b-9813-061226dc9197_3024x3775.jpeg, DDM, Uncensored New York, Beckett's, Tense, Lucy Sante, Penny Arcade, Madame Matovu, Chris, Adeline

Ayede1 mentions across 1 issues

Ayede is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between May 21, 2025 and May 21, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "the Ayede heels from ssense.com". It most often appears alongside 99 Scott, Al Warren, Amelia Ritthaler.

Article page: Ayede
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: May 21, 2025
Last seen: May 21, 2025

Issue trail

Total Nightmare Policy May 21, 2025

99 Scott 1 shared issues
Al Warren 1 shared issues
Amelia Ritthaler 1 shared issues
Anne Lesley Selcer 1 shared issues
bdgrlbklyn 1 shared issues

Source context

May 21, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, May 12 At the Holiday Inn, there are Yakisoda noodles and banana cream pie snack pack jellos and krabby patties gummy candies and lances cream cheese and onion dip crackers. All the most disgusting snacks imaginable, and kind of perverted, too. I’m so particular and annoying with my sleeping issues that I always find myself at depressing hotels, even when there is a wonderful home down the road where I am welcome. I need a Big Bed and Isolation. I need Temperature Control. As a child, I liked things such as camping in birch forests and cramped little stone cottages in some village where my parents would find someone on the Internet to swap houses with. Unfortunately, I grew up into someone with severe and undiagnosable sleep disorders, and a taste for adventure that is rooted more in hedonism and less in fresh air. I feel really full and sleepy heading back to New York. Well, things are better than they were. Total nightmare policy. Total, blow up your life brother, policy. I was so addicted to writing in my google docs journal this weekend and now I have a lot of annoying slop to show for it. I call my dad in the sun outside the Starbucks in a Strip Mall. Stop thinking about things in such eternal terms, they tell me. You wouldn’t get in a car crash and say When Can I Go 100 Again, they remind me. Fiction, again - they are talking about somebody else. The idea of compromise no longer makes your blood boil. It’s an unsavory trait that it ever did in the first place. "The other alternative is that I just become a nightmare and you become perfect," I told him. "That is certainly an alternative," he told me. It is 11:30pm, and I am thinking about getting a job. I am thinking about the Current Body Red Light Mask and the Ayede heels from ssense.com. "What if I hadn’t simply crashed out," he said. "There would have been pros and cons to that," I said. There is a fire alarm and mauve curtains and two weird arched doorways because we booked a suite and so the architecture suggests some simulacra of something vaguely Roman. Marble. Plaster cut to look like marble. I go to buy water and they have turned off the creepy lights at the creepy pool. Tuesday, May 13 I was feeling really terrified, if I’m being honest about it. I was sitting on the sidewalk picking at my nails and drinking hot coffee in the hot sun, eight splenda, curdled almond milk. I was voicing concerns in a high pitched voice and I was losing track of the distinguishment between ideas imagined and conversations regurgitated. God forbid I have an original thought of my own - that part wasn't even on the table. It isn’t so dark and depressing anymore. Walk in the rain and everything is so green here. I’ll be back in the city tonight and there are better omens in the astrology these days around things like planes, the return, glass apartments in the sky. He leaves my keys on the bedside table at the hotel, and he’s still asleep when I pack up my things and leave to eat black coffee, turkey deli meat, garlic aioli, marcona almonds. We drive to his parent’s house and he gives me drumstick vanilla ice cream. Working on this laptop, surrounded by all this green. You know that every time you hit this vape it coats your lungs in sweet thick paste, I am telling him, as I hit his vape. The last time I wrote about hitting a vape I received an infuriating pseudo intellectual email about the verbiage "hit" as suggesting a sado-masochistic impulse in our digital age. "I wonder if soon, you'll be saying you 'Beat' or 'Pummeled' your vape?" the idiot email writer wrote. The email made me so mad. You're so stupid, I wanted to write back. We go for a walk in the bright green forest. There is a sweetness here. A coming-back-into-control that makes the out-of-control-ness feel so distant. Escape from Evil and two days later you mistake reprieve for salvation. Unless, you are not mistaken. It really could be that simple. What was it they were saying on The Internet? Break The Pattern Today Or The Loop Will Repeat Tomorrow. What was it I've been saying online? Edit Artificial Intelligence robot voice over text to speech words - "Taking My Party Boy Boyfriend On A Walking Tour Of The Cotswolds." I clarify that I've been defending his honor. We're crushing up the plastic water cups, and the hill is steep up the road. I clarify that there are people of extremes. It was very bad, but now it is very good, I am texting my mother. Honestly, I'm so sick of clarifying anything at all. You're a little more sober with it. You're a little more gentle about it. It transformed in two days. Imagine two weeks. Imagine a year. Imagine rushing even one second. I can control my consciousness. Though, it isn't my consciousness, really, that I've been concerned about. I'm glad we share a frame of mind. This plane is basically empty. Wednesday, May 14 We went to KGB late last night. Thursday, May 15 The woman who does yoga on her fire escape is out there with a cigarette, today. I’m not in a bad mood today. The apartment is a mess and I am concerned about my past. Things become steady, and then even bright. Friday, May 16 Well, I didn't write because I have been busy in real life. I've been imagining an identity rooted in delusions in the secret diary that stays offline. It is not so delusional. I am feeling so sincere. Rebecca is here. My sister is here. We went to KGB Bar and Fanelli Cafe and Funny Bar where we met a Gagosian guy turned AI guy, which I guess has kind of been my career arch too though I am not so pleased about that direction. We went to the party at Bowery where the waiter from Fanelli Cafe was the DJ and I had two vodka sodas then soda water with lime which might be all I do soon, though I keep on having all these cyclical conversations with myself about these things - consumption and gluttony - and there is little that more dull, so I will not bring it up again. I went to the sleep specialist and she giggled when I said I don't scream in my sleep if I am in the company of strangers. That's different but great, she said. Do I control my subconscious, I said. Stupid idiot, she said. I did actually go to all these parties, and I did call him from the bathroom. He'll be back in New York soon, making film and code and learning banjo. It's way better than the alternative, and I do feel very proud this week which is something I have not been able to say in a good long while. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, May 21 From 7pm - 8:30pm at The Flea Theater (20 Thomas St) — I’ll be seeing Revolution: The Play. Sophia Englesberg is associate producer, and everything she touches is wonderful. Written and produced by Brett Neveu, directed by Rebecca Harris. The theater is next to The Odeon, so you can get my favorite martini before or after the show. - “Who celebrates their 26th birthday in the alley outside of her hairdressing place o’ work? Revolution interrogates and celebrates the very nature of creating community and building friendships in our ever-evolving, ever disconnecting world.”

Inline links: Revolution: The Play, Sophia Englesberg, The Odeon

Balenciaga1 mentions across 1 issues

Balenciaga is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between May 27, 2025 and May 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "you like perfume from MiuMiu and you Hate Balenciaga"; "you Hate Balenciaga". It most often appears alongside 327 Bowery, Abby Lloyd, absurdism.

Article page: Balenciaga
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: May 27, 2025
Last seen: May 27, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

generative and godly secrets May 27, 2025

327 Bowery 1 shared issues
Abby Lloyd 1 shared issues
absurdism 1 shared issues
Adidas 1 shared issues
Allie Rowbottom 1 shared issues

Source context

May 27, 2025 · Original source

Thursday, May 22 May is quivering right before me; I'm not letting it lapse like April did but there are still smokescreens, silkscreens, my fingers are sleeping right through it. The Club, last night. The Play then The Club. It was smokey and sweet. My lungs felt coated in something sour by the end. The smoking patio was wet with dew and I was kind of floating, not in a bad way. Not hungover, it's something way more visceral but still hazy. I could feel it all start to slip, and so I held onto myself quite tightly. My boyfriend's screen time is 102 hours a day across devices. My face is encased in sheaths of plastic that keep you young, but they're not the temu kind that's weird and freaky. The light I use is Science Backed. I'm thinking of getting into vintage workout wear. I'm thinking of getting into Vlogging. I'm thinking of getting into filling out paid surveys online for luxury perfume sellers that require you to swear your spending habits are High and you like perfume from MiuMiu and you Hate Balenciaga and what perfume means to me is; I think sometimes scents can bring up... nostalgia? I say. Do you own a Prada dress? they ask. We leave the party early - I'm sick and he buys me chicken caesar salad pizza. Aren't you glad we left early so we could dance a little at home, he says. In the living room, the windows are all a little frosted from the rain. There are lights in the neighbors windows across the courtyard but it's thursday night, the rain has stopped. You couldn't have expected everyone to just stay home, really. I notice the people in the windows if he is spinning me across the room. Exhibitionism. I catch myself in the peripheries. The windows. The back of my mind. And I never shut the blinds but that is just no Executive Function or Detail Orientation. I am not some sort of voyeur. Friday, May 23 10:45am, and they are playing some kind of staticy electric classical mashup of music from the Fedex truck outside. "Even as a grad student, I felt they were looking down on chaos," one young man at the Yemeni coffee shop is telling another. Buying: coffee and chicken quiche but none of that is for me. Buying: peanut butter perfect bar and celsius and my boyfriend's screen time is up to 316 hours since midnight since he's doing things indiscernible to me but which he clarifies are Not Fraudulent. I am trying not to write so much in the google doc diaries. It is like I have learned these diaries as a trick, and now I am addicted to it. Now, I can’t do anything else. I must release all thoughts, but to release one thought I must go through, again and again, everything else. And so I go through it all, again and again and again. The thought, and then everything else. We were going to talk more about Spirituality today, but the tripwire keeps happening - stuck on: Vanity and Careerism. I make subheadings to keep myself in check. VANITY. CAREERISM. CAREERISM: Here is where I am: I have the substack for now which is nice this is something that I suppose in some ways is a defining thing I have done but it does not feel like so much it does not feel like it culminates to anything just proof of existence, yes, but everyone has some sort of proof of existence and it is nice to write the story behind something. The story itself cannot just be the story of writing about yourself. And for a minute I was very very very sad and so that plotline became dependable, but that is no sort of thing to rely on. And this is why it cannot all just be the writing of the self. It hasn’t been. [redacted] felt like something different, investigation, beginning middle end, it was not just here I am, it was like a puzzle it was like being very precise with it and it was the biggest thing I have done so far and I sat with it for such a long time. And perhaps I am being dramatic because there are other projects I could start in the meantime but I can’t sit down and make myself think oh what would be an interesting and pithy thing to talk about for somewhere glossy, I cannot do it. I think about doing it and my stomach rises into my throat with how little I care. And so it has to be a story that bursts out of me. There was one, and I can tell there is almost something else too but it’s like David said yes, it’s difficult while you are in the waiting room. Since beginning writing this, my fever got higher, and we are hanging the Bacchus masks around the apartment plus yellow golden softlight and, now I feel more peaceful about it. I wasn’t having so much humility. Nevermind. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 27 From 6pm (show at 7pm) at Baby’s All Right — Baby’s Presents a benefit concert for the Immigrant Defense Project with Palehound, The Ophelias, and Grumpy. Dj set by WeTakeManhattan. - “All proceeds from the show will go towards supporting the IDP’s 20+ year mission of fighting for the rights of immigrants targeted for imprisonment and mass deportation via advocacy, litigation, legal advice and training, community defense, grassroots alliances, and strategic communications.” | GA (18+) $38.86, Ticket and Bonus Donation $49.69

Bar Harbor1 mentions across 1 issues

Bar Harbor is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 13, 2025 and January 13, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "I get the one from Bar Harbor online, preserved in salt water with lots of pepper". It most often appears alongside 4chan, Altadena Girls, Altro Paradiso.

Article page: Bar Harbor
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 13, 2025
Last seen: January 13, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Life before inositol January 13, 2025

4chan 1 shared issues
Altadena Girls 1 shared issues
Altro Paradiso 1 shared issues
Anastasia Coope 1 shared issues
Angelika East 1 shared issues

Source context

Inline links: Bar Harbor, inositol, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!VYl0!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F08cd7020-7ebc-489e-b243-209ab1d83d20_906x606.jpeg, “Josephine the Singer, or the Mouse Folk”, Big Bar, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!Wp05!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F9a23d264-68fb-4db9-aada-e135b8a1ffb2_1200x1600.jpeg, Tense, Altro Paradiso, The Angel - L.A. Fires — How to Help

January 13, 2025 · Original source

I eat wild herring for breakfast. I get the one from Bar Harbor online, preserved in salt water with lots of pepper. If I eat breakfast, it’s always something strange. Sometimes, David makes me a french omelette. If David makes me a french omelet, then I eat that. I’ve been sleeping better. Eating better, too. The two are very connected for me. Ruby recommends inositol. It arrives today. If it can cure me, that’s a miracle, but I’ve been getting a little better on my own, anyways. A walk to the gym through SoHo - it begins to snow. Blizzard, almost. They're sprinkling salt in big clumps all over the sidewalk by Corner Bar. This is the first winter I can recall since childhood where there's been snow and lots of it. It's nice. There's whimsy in the air. I could stay here for hours. I’ve been praying for the calm, and now it is here. Sterility is nice in few regards - an empty and cavernous gym being one of them. I go to see Babygirl with Natasha and some of her friends at Angelika East in the evening. It’s a nice evening of cinema, but sometimes a theater can enclose you, and this is not one of those times. We’re too close to the screen, everyone around us keeps squealing, the movie is just really pretty overall bad. It’s like Nicole Kidman’s second Eyes Wide Shut, I keep on hearing people say but it’s not, really, at all actually. Perhaps thematically - both delving into female sexuality and desire - but you can like the topics a film explores and still sense that there is absolutely no coherence to the plot, nor to the flailing illogical actions of the characters - actions of which at no point are genuinely sold as being driven by desire. Tuesday, January 7 After briefly losing one's mind, simple tendrils of thought that gesture towards sanity become disproportionately lovely. I’m reading Kafka, still - my godforsaken piece on Kafka coming out next week and then I can abandon these stories for good. It’s been nice to delve deeply into a topic, nice to hate everything I have to say so much that I rephrase it over and over again, nice to consider language with an eye towards cognizance, towards if it actually makes any sense. Most of the time, I write and speak out of necessity, or even, desperation. Clearing the mind. Purging the soul. I am a diarist - self indulgent. Or perhaps, it’s just something else entirely. It’s something different than an artistic practice. Criticism and fiction necessitate at least grasping towards some idealized form of clarity. Writing about writing - awful, boring, should never be done. For now, it’s like I'm in highschool. Reading “Josephine the Singer, or the Mouse Folk” under the comforter with a reading lamp turned all the way up. It’s still early afternoon but it’s too cold, too windy, the draft is vicious through the greenhouse roof. I have my head under the blankets and so it’s like a simulation of evening. David keeps the reading lamp set to soft orange light, and so it’s like a simulation of candlelight, too. I’m exhausted and so I’m stretching reality. I’m stretching a story out of thin air. Now, I’ll go to pilates and stretch on an empty floor. I’ll go get nail polish remover from the boxes on the highest shelf or, if missing, from the CVS next door. Kafka’s Josephine is a wretched character. She possesses a firm belief in her own entitlement to a life of leisure on account of her artistic talents, but of course she lives in a time where wretched conditions have rendered real artistic talents inconceivable. She is not only un-talented, but also a fraud. There are notes that could be made about self-recognition in this spoiled, awful, regrettable character, but I’m sparing myself. We go to Big Bar in the evening. I've never been before, but it seems to be a spot that people know about. I knew it would be these people here, my friend says when we walk in. I don’t really recognize anyone, but that's often how these things go. The bit with Big Bar is that it's actually an extremely small bar. It's all drenched in red light and there’s a tiny DJ booth by the front window and it's cash only, the drinks are not terribly strong, but they are cheap. Someone has a small dog in a carrier in their arms, but no one seems to notice aside from us. This seems like a spot for old heads - of which I am not, but I enjoy the company of. Wednesday, January 8 Meeting with Beckett and Jonah this morning at Caffe Reggio to discuss Tense - Reggio is full and so Beckett suggests Dante. It’s not like he remembered it, now. It’s a coffee shop, he says, but it’s a cocktail bar now. Expensive green and red martinis in thin glasses whirling through the room even now, at two pm. They still let us sit for coffee. I have an interview after. Madelyn texts me. At Altro Paradiso at 3pm, they are saying goodbye to the head chef. I’ve gone to Altro Paradiso a few times recently, because Madelyn works there mostly, although even independent of that it’s the best food I’ve had in New York in a while. Today, I was in a rush, the plans were last minute. I'm still wearing my workout clothes and their ‘archival lululemon’ - hand-me-downs from a closet of a friend of my mothers when I was about thirteen years old. The shirt is striped and black and white and a small band bearing slogans like “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” folds up or down at the hem, depending on how flagrantly antisocial you feel like being on that particular day. I’m keeping the band folded under today. I’m wildly underdressed but it’s afternoon, the restaurant isn’t even technically open yet. There’s a toast to the chef and I’m the only outsider in attendance and so I stay at the bar while the group of staff and friends and family assemble. It’s very special, even to bear witness to as someone uninvolved. There’s a heart and soul to food and drink and service that other industries, even creative industries, really don’t have in the same way. I’m a tiny bit tipsy, now. I need to start hostessing again. I make this note on my phone: “NEED TO START HOSTESSING AGAIN!!!!” We stay at Altro Paradiso til dinner starts, and we continue to stay till it feels like dinner is about to end. Everything is magical - the alla prima cocktail, wine, dirty martini, pane e ricotta, salad with figs and dates, octopus, olives, oysters under beds of thinly sliced veggies, malfatti (which is pasta that is like little pillows), linguine al nero (which is pasta with squid ink and cuttlefish and basil), a few deserts - pistachio ice cream and the pear cake. The afternoon turns to a sparkling evening. I walk home. I go elsewhere, after - fun too, but I probably shouldn’t have. I should probably learn when to call an evening. Decadence in excess, turns all that sparkles sour. Thursday, January 9 It's been the same day on repeat so far this year. The same three days, really. Rinse and do it again. The year has only held nine days. I can't view my stagnation with too much harshness. Decadence, in contrast, should be viewed with harshness. Los Angeles is burning up and it feels uncouth to talk about this here as this tragedy is not my life, but I can't stop watching. Most emotions are triggered through all five senses - it's a strange feeling of muted horror to see destruction of places and lives you know on a screen, detached from your physical experience but visible in real time in your cognizant mind - peripheral vision. I accidentally get stuck in the Louis Vuitton x Murakami line in SoHo. I accidentally steal a pair of Split sweatpants from the gym. I accidentally read all the books on the 4chan 2024 Top 100 Lit Board list. I'm on tiktok watching videos of the apocalypse overlaid with Lana del Rey audio. I’m browsing r/lainfluencersnark and they have a lot to say about the way their parasocial relationships are handling the apocalypse. I tried to write something about phones and chaos and end times but it was silly. These are resources / writing from people in LA. The Angel - L.A. Fires — How to Help

Bean Boots1 mentions across 1 issues

Bean Boots is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 08, 2026 and January 08, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Toes cold in my Bean Boots". It most often appears alongside Abigail Ogilvy Gallery, Abraham Lincoln, Addie.

Article page: Bean Boots
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 08, 2026
Last seen: January 08, 2026
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Lost Week January 08, 2026

Abigail Ogilvy Gallery 1 shared issues
Abraham Lincoln 1 shared issues
Addie 1 shared issues
Adrienne Greenblatt 1 shared issues
Adrienne Hunter 1 shared issues

Source context

January 08, 2026 · Original source

REDACTED resolutions for the benefit of oneself and others Friday, December 26 I woke up to it like a snow globe outside. The type of storm that is hard to describe unless you are me, waking up surrounded on all sides by everything soft and quiet and shimmering in a room that has always been yours. Everything coated white and sweet and branches out my window still heavy from the fresh cover of the storm. Looking at the snow through the sheen of sheer white curtains in my window. Looking at dried wild flowers rising out of fields and the pine forest past the farm shivering kind of silver and the green of the shed and the barn creating pops of color against all that bright white. And all of this is just to say that I slept peacefully through the night and waking up this morning I do feel like I can access this place and this holiday and a sense of rootedness in myself, physical form, physical home, in a way that in the past few months I have not felt capable of understanding. Last year I spent every morning at home writing: cold crisp clear morning and everything it is better than I possibly could have imagined. Last year, I took the train back to a glass apartment in the sky and floated in infinite life for a few more weeks, and then I began to scream. Laundry and writing in my google docs diary at the soapstone counter this morning. I can’t tell if the storm is silent, or if it sounds like ice and little bells. Amelia called last night to tell a different version of the usual story. I am getting so creeped out again, Amelia said. My room here is pale and quiet and blue. it is the only bedroom above which there is no attic, so I can really hear the wind. I’m not creeped out, I told Amelia. Everything about your story just feels kind of distant and strange. Driving to get coffee in the old town center and I’m not hitting anyone’s bumper as I wheel around into Cumberland Farms. Toes cold in my Bean Boots. Extremities always cold from Raynod’s Disease and avoidance of contact with rough fabrics like “wool” out of delusional distaste for “overstimulation.” The town is kind of story book snowy, too, though less so than in the fields by the house, where everything is encased and total and like a picture and a dream and one scene all at once. The scene is less all encompassing here, by noon, in town, where the heaviest parts of the snow have already started to drip down and melt. It is strange to be alone here. Wind moving quickly outside my car and I did imagine something else. I’ve imagined everything a million times over, and so I guess it’s hard to pinpoint any one scenario. Things change very quickly. It used to take my breath away and now it doesn’t. I watch a woman running in place in a phone booth like a treadmill. I watch a young dad placing pennies on the train track with his kids where the commuter rail comes through. Sitting in my car watching the trains and mostly just holding my hands up to the heat. Everything is covered in a blanket of snow. In the car, I have; almond milk latte with peppermint and sugar free vanilla, vitamin D3, vitamin C, Inositol, fish oil, black seed oil. Taking it all in big huge gulps. Taking it all and then stuffing the wrappings in my bag and resuming watching everything around me. Later, I am reading Alain de Botton Architecture of Happiness in blue hour dusk and I am in the passenger seat driving on the highway when I look up to find: it is dark. Crescent moon. The George Washington Bridge looks so beautiful, my aunt says. I’ve never seen it glow like that. It’s never been this dark, this early, on this drive, before. There’s never been a drive that was as fast and smooth and calm, as this one. Back in New York City, it smells like caution to the wind and the mania of a week that exists in a void. Rushed back from dusty fields and Winter Break to find that no one else is here. You can tell that no one else is here, because the sidewalks on the Upper West Side are piled high with snow banks, no foot prints, yellow glow from the townhouses I pass in a yellow taxi cab on my way downtown, but perhaps the lights are simulated or at the very least on a timer, because there are no shadowy figures or even moving silhouettes visible past the windows. Central Park is pitch black, covered in snow that I can’t see but it makes the outlines of things kind of rough and cartoonish. It’s not that I actually believe nothing to be real. I’m just watching the shape of things kind of morph all around me. On the last night of the Lost Week of the Year, I walk to Dr Clark for the sake of fresh air and doing the things I say I will. My apartment was quiet and clean, because I left it quiet and clean. I returned to everything totally unchanged. The quiet part was shocking, and then it was ok. The city was kind of like a winter wonderland, too, except for the snow that had already turned kind of black. On the Houston Street median strip, I was stranded amidst blurry traffic with a man in a blanket, rocking back and forth and drinking whisky from the bottle. HEY, he said. Hey, I responded. He seemed surprised, and I became immediately afraid. Whatever. Everything was normal. Cannot become cynical. Dr Clark’s is quiet, my friends texted, on my walk. I’m sorry we lied and said that Dr. Clark’s was lively, my friends said, when I arrived. You didn’t say it was lively, you said it was quiet, I responded. The bar was full of dried flowers and almost no people. Emilia brings everyone rounds of cheesecake and superba beers. Dried flowers everywhere I turn, these days. Dried flowers everywhere for those with eyes to see. Here are the things that are making me feel suspicious, I told my friends.. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, January 8 From 12:15pm and 4:15pm at Film Forum — Last chance to see Peter Hujar’s Day - “The best film in Sundance is just two people talking.” - Vulture. | Tickets here

Inline links: Film Forum, here

Betsey Johnson1 mentions across 1 issues

Betsey Johnson is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 23, 2024 and October 23, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "she surprises me with a gift — a pair of Betsey Johnson stilettos". It most often appears alongside Alimentari Flaneur, Andrew, Ani.

Article page: Betsey Johnson
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 23, 2024
Last seen: October 23, 2024
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Collected Agenda with Vivien Lee October 23, 2024

Alimentari Flaneur 1 shared issues
Andrew 1 shared issues
Ani 1 shared issues
Architectural Digest 1 shared issues
Bamonte's 1 shared issues

Source context

October 23, 2024 · Original source

Vivien Lee is a writer and copywriter from Northern Virginia. I invited her to Guest Edit immediately upon first reading her work, mostly because I was struck by her voice – unique in its ability to merge cool elegance with visceral, aesthetic, and physical engagement. Vivien writes a substack titled Lessons for Next Time which is loosely tied to the theme of detachment. She describes the Substack as an exercise in exploring her tendency towards aloofness as a person. She does this vividly with essays such as going to the opera in my red miu miu heels during a storm - emotionally untethered, yet sharp and grounded in its aesthetic pinpoints and moments of vulnerability. Vivien has written for The Cut, Architectural Digest, Family Style, and elsewhere, covering art, sex, love, design, music, books, history, film. Last summer, she taught a writing workshop on speculative fiction at the School of Visual Arts. Lately, she has been quietly exploring fiction and screenwriting. She cites Clarice Lispector, Carl Jung, Simone Veil, and June Jordan as voices she finds timeless. She is drawn to symbolism, abstract concepts, psychology, and the metaphysical… topics that transcend the ordinary. If Vivien Lee was not a writer, she probably would have pursued a career in psychoanalysis. WHAT VIVIEN LEE DID Friday, October 11 It’s my day off and I text Ani, who is back in New York. We meet to get lymphatic drainage massages at Pure Qi, which is like a neti pot for your nervous system. I’m addicted, and need one once a month. At the appointment, she surprises me with a gift — a pair of Betsey Johnson stilettos — that look like Beetlejuice and Barbie had a lovechild. After our massage, we try to get a table at Bernie’s. I’ve heard their burgers are good (I am a burger connoisseur, in case you didn't know) but the wait is 3 hours long, so we opt for Five Leaves. Ani orders a salmon and I ask for the shepherd’s pie. We discuss the play we are working on, along with other things, like the mysteries of vigorous bonding and the embarrassments of “being known”. Ani teaches high school and writes fiction. Most of my close friends, now that I think about it, are either teachers, therapists, artists, or writers. Ani and I get along, I think, because we both understand the value of privacy, and the sense of self that stems from solitude, which often feels lonely at times. With Ani, we can each share our loneliness without drowning the other in it. And that is nice. Sunday, October 12 I spend the morning reading Karmic Traces by Eliot Weinberger. I’m one of those people who will delay finishing a book if I am enjoying it too much. I grab the latest issue of Harper’s and skim through Lauren Oyler’s cover story. I don’t know why everyone hates her. My boyfriend takes me to Duals Natural to go spice shopping. I’ve been curious about white pepper, which is apparently earthier, milder, and more umami than black pepper — usually used in Asian dishes. We restock the staples: cumin, coriander, marsala, ceylon, bay leaves, along with basmati rice and various blends of tea. My grandmother warned me not to buy anything grown in China because of the pollution — unconfirmed, but fine — I decide not to get the pu’erh this time. A few years ago for my 30th birthday, my friend Soraya surprised me with the most perfect parcel of spices, tea, perfume, and wine. Sumac with tinned cod in biscayne sauce is a doomsday prepper’s delicacy. That little canned fish was so precious to me that I ended up hauling it around in my suitcase through three different countries “in case of emergencies”. Gift your loved ones non-perishables… a gesture of thoughtful care and preservation, symbolic of a friendship with no shelf life. For dinner, I make a mille-feuille nabe (nappa cabbage and pork hot pot dish) in a clay pot. It’s simple, yet decadent. Just my taste. All you need is cabbage, thinly sliced pork (or beef if you so desire), ginger, soy sauce, water. I use miso paste in lieu of dashi and a splash of fish sauce. The white pepper adds a nice subtle kick. Thursday, Oct 14 I don’t like to talk about my job because I tend to be precious about things, which is why I love NDAs. I enjoy being in an office again though, and dressing up to start your day for who-knows-what-drama! After work, I make a trip to Eataly, and have my mind blown because I’ve discovered kiwi berries. On my way out, I fill a cellophane bag with an assortment of Italian chocolates (Venchi, the best) and grab a box of lemon amaretti cookies for a friend’s mom’s going away party later in the week. I love shopping for gifts because I’ll be walking around the city with nothing but three different types of dessert and exotic fruit in my purse and nobody knows it. PS. I want to befriend everyone’s moms. When Andrew and I started dating, he was working for WNYC, and we talked about the station’s struggle to survive ever since Giuliani cut funding for public media. On the evening of their 100th anniversary, we turned on the radio, and while listening to the analog tradition, enforced a rule that we would eat dinner together as often as we could. That night, I made us a seaweed omelet with rice, mackerel, and fermented pollock roe... a meal I often had with my family back home, when we still ate together. Tonight, we’re celebrating 7 months (which feels like 2 years in New York time) and for dinner he’s making us chicken meatball soup adapted from this NYT recipe. Saturday, Oct 19 I’d like to contend that today is the last nicest day of the year. I have plans to hit some golf balls at the Chelsea Piers driving range, because I’m feeling a lot of pent up energy from last night’s full moon. On my way over, I walk down 14th and look at what the girls are wearing. Straight black denim over square toe boots. Mini claw clips and messy half pulled ponytails. Sleek shoulder bags. Sporty pullovers and tailored houndstooth pants. Quarter-zip sweaters. Trench coat, trench coat, trench coat. Ralph Lauren is in the air. Next to my favorite burger joint, I have yet to find my favorite Italian restaurant in New York. Coastal elite “European cuisine” is an elusive concept to me. Don’t get me wrong — I love to keep up my inconceivable spending habits on niche and aspirational dining, but I prefer an honest plate of pasta made by someone’s 100-year-old grandmother in their kitchen any day (hello, Pasta Grannies). I do like Bamonte’s, because having angry centenarian waiters throwing plates of mediocre food at you creates the same comforting effect, to a degree. Andrew asks if I want to try Emillio’s Ballato, but I’d remembered my friend Daniel of Alimentari Flaneur told me his favorite Italian spot is Il Buco in NoHo, so we book a reservation. Their menu is technically “Mediterranean” and changes every day. We order the octopus with sweet potato, roasted lamb and broccoli rabe, and the orecchiette with eggplant and sausage. Everything is rich, especially the olive oil. The atmosphere is dark and rustic. Cozy romantic. I need a nap. WHAT VIVIEN LEE THINKS YOU SHOULD DO Visit Family Social activism, by its definition, is the practice of working toward the reform of relations and expectations, however that looks. It doesn’t always have to be about protests or shouting the loudest. Sometimes, it’s more private. One form, for me, has been returning to my family. Our first source of error. As I get older (I need to stop saying that), I find myself craving connections that aren’t so seeded in the economy of validation. Wanting to sit with discomfort and tension without completely losing myself to it. Also, learning to forgive. I mean really forgive. Get a New Scent It’s the next best cure for seasonal depression. These are my current favorites, powerful and sweet with patchouli as their thread-through. YOU KISSED ME IN PARIS by Lazarus

Black Ash1 mentions across 1 issues

Black Ash is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between June 24, 2024 and June 24, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "we buy Black Ash and Animal Cookies ice cream from Morgenstern's". It most often appears alongside A Doll House, Adam Lehrer, AirPods Max.

Article page: Black Ash
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: June 24, 2024
Last seen: June 24, 2024
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #4 June 24, 2024

A Doll House 1 shared issues
Adam Lehrer 1 shared issues
AirPods Max 1 shared issues
AMA Raw Bar 1 shared issues
Anastasia Berg 1 shared issues

Source context

June 24, 2024 · Original source

Later, my sister comes over and we buy Black Ash and Animal Cookies ice cream from Morgenstern’s. The Black Ash stains everything dark and by this point the rain has stopped and we’re outside and washing our hands in the hose on the terrace.

Inline links: Morgenstern’s

Blip1 mentions across 1 issues

Blip is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 21, 2024 and September 21, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "the afterparty is sponsored by Blip nicotine gum". It most often appears alongside $EGIRL Zine, 10cust, Adeline Swartzendruber.

Article page: Blip
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 21, 2024
Last seen: September 21, 2024
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

I wish I had more to say about fashion week. September 21, 2024

$EGIRL Zine 1 shared issues
10cust 1 shared issues
Adeline Swartzendruber 1 shared issues
Alexa Chung 1 shared issues
Alirqq 1 shared issues

Source context

September 21, 2024 · Original source

I go to Denmark first tonight. It’s the first play I’ve seen at The Brooklyn Center for Theater Research, although I took a writing class with Betsey Brown there this summer that I loved.

Inline links: Denmark, The Brooklyn Center for Theater Research, B

I was given QuitwithJones mints at a pop up on the street this morning and the afterparty is sponsored by Blip nicotine gum. I’ve been indulging like it’s candy and now I’m starving and dizzy, spinning from so many milligrams of Quitting Vaping. The afterparty is at Soho Grand, a good party, a club I thought I hated but I’m having fun. Later, too late, deviled eggs and martini at Little Ways. A good stop. Something to return for on another evening, sometime when I’m not reeling.

Inline links: QuitwithJones, Blip nicotine gum, Soho Grand, Little Ways

BLUE BEAUTY1 mentions across 1 issues

BLUE BEAUTY is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between May 19, 2024 and May 19, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Drinking BLUE BEAUTY at Juice Generation and making vows to never have a regret again". It most often appears alongside Anna Dorn, August Lamm, Auntie Anne's.

Article page: BLUE BEAUTY
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: May 19, 2024
Last seen: May 19, 2024
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #1 May 19, 2024

Anna Dorn 1 shared issues
August Lamm 1 shared issues
Auntie Anne's 1 shared issues
Bensonhurst 1 shared issues
Bill Armstrong 1 shared issues

Source context

May 19, 2024 · Original source

Drinking BLUE BEAUTY at Juice Generation and making vows to never have a regret again. There’s a Byline Party at Casetta that my friends who attend describe to me as pretty art world, kind of girlboss. I don’t go because I’m walking so aimlessly at Equinox and I don’t get home until the party is almost over. Also a New Potentials For Psychedelics in Society screening at Sovereign House - don’t go to that either.

Inline links: BLUE BEAUTY, Byline Party

Blue Mercury Skincare1 mentions across 1 issues

Blue Mercury Skincare is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 15, 2026 and February 15, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "suburbs where everything was all Blue Mercury Skincare and Sweetgreen". It most often appears alongside Abe Shapiro, Aidan Lapoche, Alan Parker.

Article page: Blue Mercury Skincare
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 15, 2026
Last seen: February 15, 2026
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Yellow-all-around February 15, 2026

Abe Shapiro 1 shared issues
Aidan Lapoche 1 shared issues
Alan Parker 1 shared issues
Allen Parker 1 shared issues
Amazon 1 shared issues

Source context

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015?

February 15, 2026 · Original source

Friday, February 6 I am awake and I have been for one hour. All around me, everything is pale and still and one small room and one short hallway and one light left on. One of one. One of everything. Everything is just the same. Yesterday, when I woke up, it was yellow all around. I woke up in the country yesterday, and the first thing that I noticed was all that yellow all around. Pale yellow walls. Soft yellow light. Snow reflecting golden yellow rays off a white carriage house roof, but even that part was turned sort of yellow by the early morning sun. The night before yesterday, I stayed up all night. There wasn’t much to do with all those hours, but I knew that in the morning, I’d be whisked away. Good at leaving when I remember all the things I hate. Good at coming back when I decide to get a hold of myself. I’d decided to let the night in my apartment sort of drift. I watched the sky turn dark, stay like that for a while, and then I watched it turn light again. It always kind of happens this way. In the morning, I’d packed a book bag with a suede black mini skirt, black cotton long sleeve top, toothbrush, snow boots, notebook, Off-The-Farm brand caramel protein bar. I took the B-line to the 1-line and towards the Upper West Side. On the Upper West Side, there were big french windows and snowy streets and tree branches that scratch the side of buildings and in the summer coat the whole place green. Not so much this time of year. Empty whisper benches. Powdered sledding hills in Central Park. From the Upper West Side, Laura drove me to New Jersey. A simple enough drive, but we just could not stay on track. The Hudson River was frozen over. Big white ice blocks that solidified and fractured and split. We were trying to spot a bathhouse somewhere in the suburbs of New Jersey. Is this the place to swim? we kept on asking each other, any time we passed a warehouse, or a sign that said something like Pools and Baths and Plumbing. When we got to the country, it was already dark. The driveway was lined with silver lights. I like to return to places where I have not been for years but which stay exactly the same. We lit a fire and we had salad and salmon and white wine and chocolate truffles. I was so excited to be somewhere where there was so much space. I liked the light and the quiet and the fact that there was more snow here than in the city, and I was pleased by how much I remembered. After dinner, I ran a bath in a big white bathroom. Big clear windows looking out at clear dark skies. I liked how everything felt very old, and very big, and very familiar, and very clean. I did not like how I felt a bit like a bull in a China Shop. Everything I touched returned a little less perfect than how I found it. Soap and towels left slightly off kilter. Clothes left in a pile on the floor. I fell asleep in a big white four poster bed, and I made sure to crease the comforter only slightly. I forgot to say goodnight, but no one really minded. I woke up surrounded by yellow all around. Morning, and when I pulled open yellow sheer curtains I could look out at all those skinny barren trees and lots of ice and a long driveway that stretched on and on and on. Laura came into my room and said good morning, and then she told me that she would show me how to make coffee, downstairs, soon. On the landing, there were three bedrooms, and a long hallway with a window seat lined with stuffed animals and a big window that looked out over big snow. The stuffed animals on the landing were all like little lions and zebras and all kinds of pastel and nice faces, nothing creepy. The wallpaper was all mostly white, with little blue or pink or yellow flowers peppered in between but nothing too suffocating. The snow outside the window was silky and icy and pure white and frozen over. There was a sheen over the snow. I could see, even from here, that the snow had been solidified under a layer of crust. My hair was covered in static. When I brushed my hair, I could see it literally spark. This week, I was documenting everything with compulsion. I went downstairs. Laura was working on a puzzle in the living room, where all the windows were long and clear and let the whole space flood with light. I looked out at perfect snow coated verandas. I learned how to make coffee in a chemex glass. Boiled water. Always becoming a bit bewildered in places that are quiet and beautiful and clear. I wouldn’t be friends with someone with bad aesthetic taste, my old friends used to say. My new friends, of late, had developed somewhat of a taste for conspicuous consumption. Later, Laura drove me to the train station through snowy streets and snowy backroads. We pulled away from the house and down the snowy driveway and then we drove through suburbs where everything was all Blue Mercury Skincare and Sweetgreen and farmhouses reminiscent of Boston, Chicago, Connecticut, suburbs everywhere all the same. Ladies everywhere liking Blue Mercury and Pure Barre. Laura gave me white gloves to keep for good on the train platform towards New York. You are so cold, just take and keep these, she said. Are you sure, I said, but I was already slipping the gloves onto my hands. Back in New York, I sat on a bench in Penn Station while I waited for the 1-train. Knees tucked up to chest and clothed in kind of filthy LuLu Lemon leggings. Drinking Dunkin Donuts almond milk latte with sugar free vanilla and almond and one cool-minty-zyn. Watching strangers and all sorts of scents drift by. It is the coldest winter in history or at least in recent memory, but due to sensory issues and the flattering nature of a-line skirts, all I have been wearing is sheer tights and mini dresses. When I got home, everything was very rushed, which is another thing that always tends to happen. Saturday, February 8 Following Cassandra’s confirmation, we went to a bitcoin themed bar and then to a hotel lobby. We went to a cocktail bar after that, where the drinks were made of things like clarified basil and tasted bad. I have one statement, Sam told the waiter, at the bar. Then, he asked a question. Could I have another drink? This one is very not good. In the evening, we went to Bigelow’s to buy the hair bows just like the Kennedys wore, and after that, we went to a dinner in Soho and then a tech-week-party to end the night. At the tech week party all the girls were cute and unemployed. They all made videos on the Internet and all had long-distance boyfriends. We took photos on a digital camera and smoked cigarettes on the edge of the fire escape while the boys all talked about suicidal ideation. When they ran out of liquor, I took the elevator down without saying goodbye. On the street, in the snow, playing tetris with myself in the footholds that other boots had left behind in melting ice as I tried to claw my way into a cab, I ran into an Internet Curator. He appeared out of nowhere, though my vision was already blurry, so perhaps he had been there all along. I’ve never been somewhere with so many people from TikTok in real life, the man said. Usually, I post all these people online, but tonight there were all here in real life. Made three notes in diary in yellow taxi cab home: Freedom of Indifference vs Freedom for Excellence

Boeing1 mentions across 1 issues

Boeing is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between August 14, 2025 and August 14, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "I forgot the status of Boeing VS0137". It most often appears alongside Abundance Meditation, Alice Bailey, Amelia.

Article page: Boeing
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: August 14, 2025
Last seen: August 14, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? August 14, 2025

Abundance Meditation 1 shared issues
Alice Bailey 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
Anika Jade Levy 1 shared issues
Ann Taylor 1 shared issues

Source context

August 14, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, July 28 Amelia is at the apartment when I arrive, bearing cloned keys and summer dresses. It is not a relief to return, I am afraid. Tiptoe across dusty slanted floors and this sense of oddity and dread creeps back no matter how quiet I am about it. There are planes overhead and I have loved all this glass before, but I am clenching my eyes shut now; wishing for drapes that close. Earlier, the flight from London was delayed hours upon hours and things went awry the moment I was left alone. Comparing notes of past present and future and then I laid my roller suitcase horizontal on the bathroom floor to take a seat and think about it. Left my passport in the airport bar where the woman beside me was making friends with every single customer cycling through aside from myself and then I sprinted over to security, where the lights were flashing all schizophrenic and neon and no one would speak. You'll miss your flight, dear, the airport attendant smiled. They opened a small door with a large electric key. They sent me to the Back Rooms. They sent me through endless identical silver doors and a mirror maze and down a long gray magic carpet. I emerged on the other side to find another magic carpet just like the first. I imagined infinite magic carpets extending in every direction. Motion activated so the feedback loop would reveal itself every time I thought I reached solid ground. I was not moving horizontal anymore. It was a vertical descent into the underbelly of Heathrow. I forgot the status of Boeing VS0137. I forgot to ever leave. I woke up in the Kids Play Center. We've lifted your curse, the airport attendant beamed. Most slides can also be used as rafts, they tell me on the plane. Cartoon villain voice playing on Virgin-Atlantic-TV and they're blasting it through the cabin speakers, too. You were an A+ travel companion, they told me in the airport. I wake up to take stock of these things: safety guidelines and praise. I fall back asleep. Tuesday, July 29 After things fell apart in June, I did not eat or sleep for four days and three nights. On the fourth night, I called the NYPD informational line quite dizzy and more out of curiosity regarding physical resilience and atrophy than out of any sincere safety concern. If you cannot sleep tonight, then you can call me in the morning, the operator said. And so I was unconscious in an instant. Put some limits on one's own neurosis. I decided to stay up late last night. It was muggy and hot outside JFK, and I missed the moors and the fog for just an instant. Then, the glass doors slid open into hot sweaty americana summer and all else was forgotten. Felt a bittersweet sort of close to home. Sat on the curb. The airtrain to the car park turned onto the highway. Felt like a road trip. Felt like team sports, two-in-the-morning, intermission. I'd been so quiet that day. I had not spoken one word since Heathrow. Everybody understood that the apartment was rotting. Great place but full of mold. Great place but full of memories both good and bad. Somebody should have thrown out the milk. Somebody should have done something about the feng shui. The dead trees. The slant of the floors. The roof, which nearly caved in last winter. Three in the morning arrival but I asked Amelia if I could come over instead, and Amelia understood it would be best to sit on her floor. Amelia had been leaning into performance art. How was your vacation, Amelia asked. Not transgressive and weird, I sighed. But rejuvenating, pleasant, precious in the sort of way I'd like to hang onto. And I am feeling physically fit from all the walking and running that went on and on and on. The heat wave has not passed in New York despite one more week dwindling into summer, and I sleep until midday around when I open my eyes and begin to feel uneasy. The lines out the stores are down the block and everyone is becoming very thin. The summer foods are things like GREENS 01 Juice and maca-powder-peanut-butter-protein-bites and very rubbery cocktail shrimp at The Smith. It is Julia who suggests The Smith for dinner and I am not picky with those sorts of things. It is me who suggests the party, despite my increasing hopes, generally, to avoid these sorts of things. Wednesday, July 30 Sitting at Banter with the Big Breakfast and hot green tea reading fairytales. It was a nice night last night. Whirling sort of thing. Nightclub101 to KGB to following a group to Ludlow House to Ripple Room. The sort of thing I like as often as possible, but really must limit to now and then. Sitting at the Australian Cafe now, using my Moldavite to mark my place in my book. The fairytales are describing relentless compassion as a form of some sort of psychological warfare. Psychosexual manipulation. Relentless compassion so as to provide one with a moral advantage, knowing it is impossible for the recipient of such compassion to reciprocate. Relentless compassion so as to cast a desperate, selfish, striving plea for reciprocation. The second option is probably more common, but it would be nice to be kind of on a high horse. August will be like oysters at The Knickerbocker with the cocktail sauce in the martini glass and we're sitting by the cracked glass window and Drew says don't cut your hair not yet and so it'll be like humid heavy hair almost down to my waist now, sparkling water in plastic cups with lime and diet coke in a bikini and I will stay put for a while. I will sit at KGB sober in the evening like I do most every evening. They're tearing chocolate chip cookies apart with their hands at the table over and Amelia says she thinks a bit too much about herself to give too much thought to the existence of God but she remembers, as a child, crying tears of joy because she couldn't believe her luck. She just realized she had somehow made it into a human body on Earth, and she couldn't believe her luck. I don't wish the evenings went on too much longer. The timing is starting to feel just right. I want to fill a Desani water bottle with white claw and catch a cab to a pool party but the evening might start to feel too late. I'll read Fanny Howe, Thomas Hardy, Dawn Powell on the floor - big cracked hard cover dog eared copies of all my books. Then, I will pack up my books into Ikea plastic storage trunks. I will pack up all my books and dresses and then the movers will come. The movers will haul my things out the door. They will haul the place bare. I will turn off the air conditioning in this glass apartment in the sky, and then I will leave. August will be somewhere else. Thursday, July 31 Rebecca and I are making plans. Involving - The Chakras by C.W. Leadbeater and Esoteric Healing by Alice Bailey. I don’t want to work harder than I ever have before, but I do wish to be a bit more intuitive about it. Rebecca is telling me about Energy Hygiene in a Chaotic City. Rebecca is telling me about Seven Rays & Soul Typing. Taking Thomas Pynchon, guasha, monastery sage oil, yoga mat, mineral sunscreen up to the roof for Abundance Meditation and Contemplation. I receive good news. The best, really. I am sorry to be opaque, but something shifted in the winds in England. So far, I have managed to hold onto it here. Careful! Open up the blinds because it's foggy this morning which means we get to let some light in. No bright sunlight baking things alive. No leftover drinks or snacks from the Last Party Ever that was thrown last night. So - it’s a very strange day. I’d like to take a different approach to Caution. Generate me a definition. They generate me this definition: The deeper awareness of human limitations, the deceptive nature of false certainties, and the dangers of unchecked power. This will do. Friday, August 1 It’s an unusual sort of incoherence in my dreams today. The shelf above the bed is lined with wine glasses full of water, and there's an in between of sleep and something else - nyquil at six in the morning, cinnamon zyn at six in the morning, the friends went home around six in the morning and now it is sometime around noon, sunlight streaming in. I wake up gagging. In my dreams, the wine glass water was mostly poisoned. In the space between half awake, not all was poisoned but it was a Russian Roulette sort of thing. I take my chances. Chug water out of my safest bet. Wake up screaming. Fall asleep screaming. The Ikea boxes for the move are starting to fill up and I know it's me stuffing the plastic to the brim but I don't really remember. It's been recollection that's lacking, really. It's been a birthday dinner tonight. The sweetest kind in the Lower East Side. Dimes Square but it's just us, I said. Because it was in the general vicinity but the streets were all empty. A stupid joke, but everyone humored me. Everyone was beautiful and lovely and happy and I didn't drink a regrettable amount. A nice sort of night. Got stuck on Thomas Pynchon and now I can't read anything else. Got stuck on esoteric health and now the water is poison. Got stuck at karaoke and now my self proclaimed sulfate allergy is acting up. Wine and hypochondria. It becomes a bit self indulgent then, doesn't it? Saturday, August 2 If the movers weren't late, I'd be gone by now. But they are late, and so I am lying on the couch that’s being left behind in an Everlane striped tee and too-short Los Angeles apparel shorts feeling kind of sorry for myself. I'm not sure why I decided to scrounge up this sort millennial slop getup for the day of my very unceremonious departure. Feeling older than my years. Feeling like I was raised on Madewell and Ann Taylor or, whatever else it is that would feel nostalgic if I'd been born before 2000. Something other than Patagonia shorts and my sister's sweaters, anyways. Feeling culturally un-attuned. Feeling mostly sorry for myself because I am surrounded by grime. I've been flouncing around this place for a while, now. The clutter is so repulsive, and so much of it is new. There was never a day of really moving in, here. It was just step by step, one thing after another, little parcels that were easy to bring up and down and in and out and now; you wake up in the middle of the morning in a glass apartment in the sky to the sense that there is no space left. I would love to toss and toss and toss. I would love to close my eyes on this island of this couch amidst a swamp of Ikea boxes and tell the movers never mind. I would never open the boxes again. I would never do the dishes. I would wear polyester and sleep on the previous owners teak Scandinavian couch. I would sleep surrounded by trash. It would all become trash, because I would decide to throw it all out. What do we need to know?, the movers will ask, when they arrive. Do you find everything interesting? I will ask. Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? YAY, the movers will say. I am picking things up and putting them down. The movers will give me high fives. Me and three Serbian teens high-fiving in a glass apartment in the sky that I am soon to leave and never return. They will pick things up and put them down and haul them out and I will never return. Sunday, August 3 I have taken my things and never returned. All is well except, the lights here are a bit too fluorescent. The courtyard is nice for the turtle pond, but the brick blocks the sun. And, once there was a top lock but now there is not. There is a hole in my door and I can't get it out of my head. There is a hole in my door and now everything is all wrong. Sitting at GMT Tavern with a not very nice martini and the Thomas Pynchon book I just can’t finish or quit. Slow Learner. Slow Learner, just like me. Make it all about me me me. Life is like: another day in my dumb life on my dumb blog talking about me me me. Life does not have to be like this. Life could be like: the hovering curious dominant of their separate lives should resolve into a tonic of darkness and the final absence of all motion (Pynchon). I keep getting stuck on that quote. I keep getting stuck on entropy, which I do not hope to believe in. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, August 14 From 9pm at Silver Lining Lounge — Matt Weinberger and Scott Lipps present The Downtown Prom. Hosts include Sid Simons, Anika Jade Levy, Nicole Naloy, and more. Music by Sexy Damion, Blog Analog, Loose Buttons, and Boxxer. DJ sets and more.

Inline links: Matt Weinberger, Scott Lipps, The Downtown Prom

Boeing 7871 mentions across 1 issues

Boeing 787 is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 27, 2026 and January 27, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Avianca (Boeing 787) (Flight 267)". It most often appears alongside 3, Alexander Perrelli, Amelia.

Article page: Boeing 787
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 27, 2026
Last seen: January 27, 2026
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

California-At-Home January 27, 2026

3 1 shared issues
Alexander Perrelli 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
Anders Lindseth 1 shared issues
Ani Tatintsyan 1 shared issues

Source context

January 27, 2026 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, January 12 I’m in my room and I’m feeling normal. Outside, the streets are winter-warm. Foggy and sweet. Different from El Salvador, which was humid-sweet. Tropics sweet. El Salvador was learning to understand things and also learning to let the wind blow in interesting directions and also learning to stand on my own two feet. On the flight home, I mapped out every day as a container. At JFK, I decided to treat the city like Vacation. Big Bar every Monday. Museums of Illusions. FDR themed social club. Procure activities on Partiful or Instagram or Yelp or through Word of Mouth. I call Amelia to announce my return and my vacation-forever plans. Is this vacation for the sake of transgression or fun? Amelia asks me. New York is over, Matthew was saying, in El Salvador. New York is over, and Los Angeles is it. I suppose we’ll see, I was saying in response. I suppose we’ll see but for now I’ll take all the energy-whirling-back. The flight home was quiet and late. I sat in the very back row of the plane with lots of water and ambient dread. I dreamt of a rocky landing where Avianca (Boeing 787) (Flight 267) touches ground and then immediately takes back off. I dreamt of being robbed. I dreamt of turning around. Dreamt of being scammed. Dreamt of busy days and busy nights in N.Y.C Back home, tonight, and it’s dinner at Lanterna di Vittoria with my friend whom I like because he offers me generosity kind of liminally. He presents a dangling sort of kindness that I did not have to accept or deny. I could accept his kindness later. I could pluck it from thin air, long after he has walked away. Maybe he is just generally cautious like that, or perhaps he intuits my inherent distaste towards drawing definitive conclusions. He is extremely helpful, but I never say thank you for the advice even though I am thankful. I never acknowledge I agree and I think it is better this way. I’m particularly grateful for the ease of it. He’s happy to know he’s right and also to feel useful without any of the misery that accompanies reliance. The grid is blinking in and out today, and so we are all feeling anxious about nuclear war. You too?? my friend says, when I bring up the topic of nuclear war at dinner. Everyone is becoming so much stupider. Small grid means big problems. I am feeling uneasy, sitting in my apartment tonight, knowing all the best minds in the world are coming up short. Later, cotton candy skies turning dark as we’re walking home. The city is freezing over, and hell along with it. Since I cleared my mind head-empty, I have become so much better at being perfect. Since I became religious, I have become so much faster at driving. Since I started telling all my friends that I want no-trouble, none-of-the-time, everything has started to really spiral out of control. I want to be good, I keep on telling Olivia. We go to the gym together every-other-day. She is the only girl with hair that is longer than mine. You are goodest, Olivia tells me. She says it with a smile, and she is very much not-devious so I believe that she believes this to be true. How many millions of dollars do you think were lost when the grid went down? I ask my friend, walking home in the icy city that I just can’t quit. Trillions, he tells me. What do you mean millions? Jesus Christ. Do you know how the GRID works? He gives me a book. Elephants and economy. Something like that. I already have it. I am smug when I tell him so. They already gave me this book in El Salvador. This book is already mine. The grid has already never-existed. Nothing ever happens. New silk eye mask arrived by mail which means: big sleep incoming. Big sleep in mummy mode. Clean room. Room of a girl who respects herself. Every day is something new. This part has always been obvious. Tuesday, January 13 The air is clear in my apartment, but somehow tinged a little bit blue this morning. Somehow kind of record-stretch hazy, which I suppose is what happens when I am tired and outside, it’s foggy. My friend texted while I slept: I am taking on your mannerisms. Texting back now: I don’t really have mannerisms. I could write a story this morning, but instead, I will write mantras in my mind. It’s good to be quiet It’s important to seize control over myself God gives the world to girls who don’t get in their own way. Black velvet hanger left off kilter. Last night, I purchased a blue dress that reminded me of dreams I already forgot. A blue dress to wear in a glass house in a place like Topanga. Bright blue dress to wear while making spring green soup. Purchased the dress with visions of next summer spinning through my mind. Visions of wearing a blue dress and standing barefoot on the wood floor of my parents’ house and making spring green soup. Sitting on the edge of my bed in dark green lulu lemon leggings and black tank top this morning. Cool minty Zyn in mouth, and Celsius in hand. The apartment is a mess, and it has been for a while. Trees are barren and kind of sweet outside my window. I hate this apartment. I want my old apartment back. I want to get everything I’ve ever wanted. I want to get sober and mean it. I want two hours of dedicated time-writing-fiction per day, and two hours of dedicated time walking outdoors writing notes. I want to let no more hours drift. I was not happy to come back to New York, but I do like the parts of the city that just are-what-they-are. Green turtle pond and freezing hands. Big buildings and tour groups. Windy streets. Bustling with people. When I’m at pilates I don’t feel like I need to move to LA, I tell Saorise, in the studio. The toned and old gay man that owns Pilates People runs warm. He cracked the window to let in the frigid winter fog. All the girls are upset about this. The light is silver and bright like a beam. It is a foggy day. We have LA at home, Saiorse says. We have life-like-California, but it’s real-life and it’s right-here. We can stay right here. We can invent different schools of movement. We can even go to Sugarfish Girls mass-exodus a friend group or even a whole entire life because of totally superficial reasons that are totally fake, Saoirse is saying, at Sugarfish. We acquire Saki. I pull my hair into a tight ponytail and I revel in my perfect day. I document my material reality meticulously. I have been training myself to become totally head empty. I have been training myself to gently accept gluttony, and also to be less subject to my whims. Sugar Fish has the sort of generic-upscale interior that reminds you of nothing, and thus reminds you of personal recollections of positive experiences in similar generic upscale interior restaurants. This is how they keep you coming back, I say. Girls couldn’t find a backbone if it hit them over the head, Saiorse says. Girls want to drown their enemies in buckets like kittens. Girls want to pray for you and ask to kiss you and pretend to be your friends. I am starting to feel some animosity, I tell Saorsie. Our meal is light but comes out in many courses. Saiorse is happy to hear about my budding proclivity for negativity. I’ve been telling you these things for years and knowing that it wasn’t yet time for you to listen, Sairse responds. You can pick something really good, or you can pick something that you really really want. Saiorse plays with her salmon sashimi and she doesn’t like soy sauce. Saoirse doesn’t ask me to tell her which one I pick: really good versus really wanted, that is. Do you remember Michael the explorer, Saoirse asks me. I have known Saoirse for a million billion years. We share a million billion strange friends. It’s nice to pour over these things. Internet friends. Federal agent friends. Friend who snuck over the Canadian border a few years ago and then washed up outside a fire pit in The Hamptons. Her explorer friend who we took to Round Swamp market for blueberry muffins after he got back from some place like Antarctica or maybe North Korea. He was not very risk-adverse. He was so worried about you, Saoirse says. Did you know that at the time? He said you seemed so nice. Walking home in the crisp and cold afternoon feeling so nice. Walking through the farmers market. Curling up in bed half asleep half dressed half under covers. Half lonely and half at peace because I love when my apartment is so cold. Cassandra texts that she is going to the museum. Why, I ask? It is our duty to seek out all the latent beauty in the world. Cassandra responds. At night, In Brooklyn, I can listen to Jeff Buckley Forget Her on repeat and think about what I actually want. Purification. Indulging my addictions. Freedom from vice. Sweet music and soft cover of winter fog and little green glass wind chimes hanging from the trees. I like wearing natural fibers and clothing I move easily in and having a uniform and following an obsession to its logical conclusion. I like knowing immediately and totally what it is that I could or could not love. Little dried leaves shivering across the pavement. They look like little rats except for the part where they are very beautiful. I run into one friend smoking on the street in a velvet black jacket when I arrive at the reading. I like your suit, I say. It’s my only suit, he responds. I don’t want to drink but I do want a cigarette and I only like cigarettes when I’m drinking. There’s a glowing strawberry on the wall, and there are a lot of people I have never seen before or at least do not see often. Like the cool theater kids’ basement in college, the girl next to me is saying. Soft snow flurries outside, which serves as a nice reminder that it is still winter. Reading out loud about Florida, Massachusetts and feeling reclusive. Wednesday, January 14 Sweet Wednesday morning, but I’m going to treat it like a Monday. Still listening to Jeff Bukley Forget Her, which makes me want to be somewhere else. Somewhere very cold or very foggy or even, very sunny. Perhaps I should stop hedging and just commit to something. Last night, a boy was ordering a drink and talking about how he was so glad no one was doing dry January this year. He asked his friend what he was drinking. Soda water and cranberry, the friend said. Oh, he said. You’re doing dry January? I’ve been dry for six months, his friend said. I felt so jealous of his friend. So, I know what has to give. Need to take pleasure in denying myself the things I want, etc etc etc. Listening to Forget Her over and over and over again, and turning my head all the way upside down so I can get a look at the snow behind me, but the snow has mostly stopped. Just silver skies all the way, now. Silver skies all the way up and all the way down. Jeff Buckley died at thirty-years-old. Someone who destroyed himself early but at least he had something to show for it. The desire to toss out everything I own becomes pervasive in the snow. The desire to get rid of all these things I wish were not mine. Gathering up all these clothes and throwing them in a big white trash bag. Thinking about the big smile on my face when my mother gave me a blue and shiny dress and then thinking about throwing it in a donation bin which pipelines to landfills, obviously. Hours can pass, percolating in guilt over what to do with this blue dress among other items. There are many more wasteful things than throwing out a dress. Buying and drinking alcohol for example. Buying and eating protein bars just to feel full by which I mean full of trash. Scrolling on my phone. Being cruel. The snow is both coming down and melting outside. Smells like ski racing. Nothing I am getting rid of is special. If the people whom I don’t want to see show up at a party, then I will leave. My friends are in the basement of the party when I arrive. Another friend’s new bar. The wood has been stained dark brown and the place is starting to look formal and nice. My friends are vacuuming and putting away books. We all look like little elves putting the books away, Quinn says. Many interesting books. Esoterics of Health and something about Aliens, for example. Thursday, January 15 Rinse and repeat. Blueish silver light in my apartment, where the sun barely penetrates, but at least nothing is artificial. Outside, everything is melting, melting, melting. White and chipped paint on the fire escape, and I can see the drops of water growing from the metal edges and then… drop! Leafless trees shimmering like they’re coated in gum drops. Each silver water droplet crystallized as its own little form, and then together, they are turning the whole tree silver. Since they turned down the central heating and then I turned off my air conditioner, a few days ago, everything has begun to feel quite quiet. Should we do a dress exchange? I ask Cassandra. Should I bring you your bible and a book called The Elephant in the Brain and also your blue cashmere sweater in exchange for my polyester Aritzia slip? Yes! says Cassandra. The West Village is wet and cold and the church is white and the doors are blue. The dining room of The Marlton Hotel is full of red velvet booths and gold lined mirrors and star shaped yellow lights. The mirrors and the lights make me feel a little bit like I am in a room full of sun, but I am not in a room full of sun. I am in a windowless hotel lobby full of mirrors. Cassandra takes out her Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls at table over are taking out their Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls everywhere are just the same. Olivia has her Rapunzel hair bundled up in her scarf like a baboushka. Cassandra is wearing a beautiful red scarf tied around her neck and wearing beautiful gold jewelry. The girls at the table over are talking about how we were created to have gentle souls. Why would anybody make it their mission in life to seek out… chaos? Cassandra interjects. To seek to degrade others, Olivia says. Cassandra teaches me a new word: Odoriferous. Cassandra tells me about her friend who lives in Northern California off the grid, farming salmon or maybe saving them, researching them, I can’t remember. A girl stumbles into the dining room to greet her friends at the table over. I can feel how cold you are, her friends say. I can’t wait to see the ocean again, Cassandra says. It feels really weird going so long without seeing the ocean. I guess I won’t see the ocean again for a while. Thinking about feeling manic. Thinking about every other timeline. Thinking about pouring big glass of water and black coffee with five splenda because I am still glutenous. Getting right to the cusp of something means that in at least a few other timelines, you probably figured it out. Nice to assume you’re capable of that, at least. Nice to know that in another timeline, my diaries are probably anonymous and I can be less vague. Nice to know that in another timeline I can probably lie. I can probably say what I actually mean. Spraying perfume over green sweater and imagining myself as someone who moves more slowly. Ordered a glass of wine because I love relapsing on an empty stomach. Telling Olivia about when my life was hot and cold and up and down and crazy all the time, because for the first time, I am realizing that she did not know me then. It’s hard to describe to someone who wasn’t there. Feeling a little bit nauseous and like I wish I hadn’t spoken. We could be living in the Midwest driving golf carts, Olivia says. Indiana is just corn and soy but not even produced for human production just animal feed or corn syrup, she says. I have a fondness for cornfields, Cassandra says. We could belong to country clubs, Olivia said. I wonder what that is like. Friday, January 16 In my dreams, I am surrounded by water on all sides, Somewhere in El Salvador. Somewhere in Costa Rica. Somewhere with all my friends-from-the-internet, and they do not like my new boyfriend. It’s ok, because I don’t like my new boyfriend too much either. I am scheming with my internet-friends. We are scheming ways to get rid of new boyfriend. Everyone is happy about my plots to get him gone, and no one seems to clock that I am the one who invited him in the first place. We are deep sea fishing. I am hanging by my arms from the edge of the boat and my feet are running through the water while a girl I know to be my best friend fires up the boat faster and faster and faster. I am a little scared. I am having so much fun. Salt water. Earth water. Angel water. I wake up. One light left on, back in New York. Yellow glowing floor lamp, so at least there’s nothing shining overhead. Last night, I was walking through the winter snow sliding on ice and filled with energy and adoration and also two illicit drinks. Listening to music and wind and stopping for gum and diet coke and then washing up in a restaurant that was bustling and warm and dimly lit. Telling my friends not to wait outside. For a while, I wanted to show others the places that had always been mine. It had never been like that before. It had always been more of a self protective sort of thing. Back to letting myself be dragged to kind of nice places to which I have no attachment, now. Talking about myself like I am playing SIMS at dinner. Ordering one diet coke and one piece of fish. Dinner passing kind of assembly line cool. Chill and smooth. In the snow and the ice, everything is seamless and then I’m in a car home so that I do not slip. Things could be quiet and end early but I still just can’t stay put. I become more full of energy, later on. I have become very sick of interiority. I went to a small Italian cafe to pass the later night because when I don’t, I always wish I did. It was a snowy and beautiful night. The cafe was made for families and locals and tour groups and dark and lovely. My new friends were talking about things like art-of-business, so it felt kind of far from myself but I could bear it for some hours. A beautiful life. Trying to be more tender and less neurotic. This does not have to mean everything. A person can just be cautious and nice-for-now. Walked home in the snow. Woke up warm. Still can’t stay away from places that have always been mine. Yellow light emanates from the yellow lamp. Nothing fluorescent. A million things to write over a million times. A million things to consider. A million topics on which the thing to do now is to wait and see. Waiting and seeing. Text about finding a DJ for a party in San Francisco. Email about a party at The Mount Washington Hotel. All these very random things that feel so close to being in reach. Kind of want to go. Kind of want to languish in old and beautiful rooms at the Mount Washington Hotel and in the majestic magic pool and imagine that money flows like water by which I mean spend money like it is water. Opening the window, now. Letting it be morning, now. Have to be clear, now. Sober minded and clear. Time passes like water, too, so that is something else to be wary of. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, January 27 From 8pm at The River — Theme Trivia returns with Medieval Trivia.

Inline links: The River, Theme Trivia

Brita1 mentions across 1 issues

Brita is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between August 28, 2025 and August 28, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "pull out a brita filter, lemons, orange juice". It most often appears alongside A Horse with No Name, A Night of Male Readings, Amelia.

Article page: Brita
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: August 28, 2025
Last seen: August 28, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Arrowhead expert August 28, 2025

A Horse with No Name 1 shared issues
A Night of Male Readings 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
America 1 shared issues
Andrew Durbin 1 shared issues

Source context

August 28, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, August 18 Sitting at the dining room table with a breeze coming through the screen door and white hydrangeas all around and I have decided to stay for a while. I may stay here all week. I can control my consciousness. It’s my consciousness after all. Things feel a bit more tentative and also a bit harsh in the glass sort of way, now. In a wood house by the ocean, I become a bit militant about it. I begin the day - hang by my finger tips from a metal road in the forest. Open the fridge in the moonlight and pull out a brita filter, lemons, orange juice. My dad and I drove down here a few days ago. He cooked dinner on the beach and he was proud to only use wood on the grill, no charcoal, it’s overpriced at Cumberland Farms anyways and a bit of a scam. There were other things, too. The dog bit the neighbor. The quaker church burned down. The cycles repeated and I suppose, I used to prefer to dig my feet into the ground and scream than reckon with any sort of silence. They brought the boxes over before I left New York City. Omniscent forces. I don’t really know. I wrote a check and left a tip and they gave me high-fives and the new place felt a bit too caged, perfect rectangle, white walls and bright lights before I swapped them out for something warmer. I’d become a bit spoiled at least when it came to living conditions. I’d never lived in a place of my own before. I came back to the ocean because, of course, this is the sort of place where summer storms are nicer. Summer storm of the nicest kind outside. I can’t seem to help it. This repeating of myself. Well, the news is smaller now. They are selling the mini-van but not until they haul my sister off to Bushwick, and the touch-and-go kind of violent coordination of the summer has finally slowed and now stopped altogether thank god and, I will be in bartending school for the last week of August and I start my mornings now hanging by my finger tips from a metal rod in the forest or, at least I will do this for as long as I stay out of Godforsaken New-York-City. I played these songs on the drive down the coast Silver Springs - Fleetwood Mac

Burberry1 mentions across 1 issues

Burberry is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 27, 2025 and October 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Saoirse wears a Burberry scarf and a Burberry coat". It most often appears alongside 424 Broadway, Ally Salvador, Alt-Citizen.

Article page: Burberry
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 27, 2025
Last seen: October 27, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Autumn Secrets October 27, 2025

424 Broadway 1 shared issues
Ally Salvador 1 shared issues
Alt-Citizen 1 shared issues
Amtrak 1 shared issues
Amy Li 1 shared issues

Source context

Autumn Secrets

October 27, 2025 · Original source

Printed pdf of Paris Review Anne Sexton poem that Celia keeps on trying to read to me out loud. The Anne Sexton is a thirty-six page poem, and Celia keeps telling me that it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. She keeps on reciting passages. ‘She didn’t have friends, children, sex, religion, marriage, success, a salary or a fear of death.’ and ‘Astonished light is washing over the moor from north to east.’ and ‘At this time of year there is no sunset, just some movements inside the light and then a sinking away.’ Stop trying to read this to me out loud, I keep on saying to Celia. I’ll read it later in my head. I’ll read it once I have a printed-PDF. I’ll suspend my disbelief and read your beautiful poem about art and love and loss and other things, too sometime down the line. Lying on my floor. Once I have a hard copy. Once I have everything I ever wanted. Tuesday, October 21 The screening of Darling (1965) at Film Forum is nice. All about a very beautiful and very selfish girl who cannot bear the consequences of her own actions. She whirls through London and Italy and is momentarily relieved, towards the end of the film, to learn that it is not too late. The scenery is black and white and lovely, and our heroine likes Italy because she finds it more religious, though she dislikes Italy on the other hand, because she mourns the distance from the real love of her life. Things escalate further. Overnight. In an instant. It is, indeed, she is dismayed to find, too late. The ending leaves me feeling quite uneasy. Probably because the souls of all the characters have been pretty much scrubbed and examined and turned inside out and back again, and the conclusion really has to be that these beautiful and mostly trying-their-best people, are pretty bad-to-the-core. Are you staying for the next screening, the staff at Film Forum ask us, well after the lights come on. We have stayed tucked into the seats at the theater. Kept my legs tucked into my sweatshirt in the theater. It has become, I’ve realized recently, difficult to determine the proper times for things. When to stay, when to go. No, no we’re leaving and sorry about that, we say to the staff at Film Forum. It is only two in the afternoon so there is plenty of time to pace around the newly and suddenly eternally rainy city. Looking for a hotel lobby. Looking for a wooden umbrella. A humidifier. Chamomile tea. A job. A meeting. Algorithmic knowledge pertaining to things like; how to spend a day, how should a person be, how to optimize health and intellect. How to buy a Life Well Lived. Wednesday, October 22 In July, I was in a small hotel in Bourton-On-The-Water. There was a chipped ceramic bathtub with feet on it and nice eclectic lamps and the air was humid and gray and cool in the evening, even in summer, this is kind of how things are in much of England, where the climate is somewhat more temperate. I made some decisions, then, which I remember now because they pertain in large part to promises I couldn’t keep. I promised to be a Secret Keeper, for one, and to move forward kind of sober minded and steadfast and without interest in petty resentments or high volatility reactions. I was lying on the floor on the phone, then, by an open window, in the thick of a week full of walks and cable-knit-cardigans. And so one imagines a different sort of life in the quiet mist, and one is very sure about it in the moment. And then back in New York, some solitude on the plane, shifting whims of my own, yes, but mostly of others. I was able to hold onto all of this for a while. Not for forever, though, because there were a few more weeks after that. And I did say everything, to everyone, back in New York. Mostly because I felt like I had to and because I did try to grasp at discretion and couldn’t, but now there are all these secrets spilling all about. I can feel them everywhere in the air. All the things I meant to hold close to my chest, I mean. It is ruining everything, if I’m being totally honest about it. I have tried to be more bright about things, but some basic facts remain. And before I tried to be more bright about things, I did try everything else. Thursday, October 23 Trying something else as in: Boundless Energy. The day flies by. Everyone is upset about the way things are articulated all the time, and so I suppose it doesn’t really matter. Explaining myself, that is. Saoirse teaches me how to breathe both up and down but also side to side at pilates training. The studio is full of light and very clean and very crisp and the movements, up and down and also side to side, remind me of being a dancer or a child or someone who is very quiet and precise. Afterward, Saoirse and I share chicken at the bar at Gramercy Tavern. A nice restaurant. The nicest one. The walls are decked in fall decor, and since Saoirse taught me how to breathe and move one hour ago, I have begun to feel quite alive. Are you nostalgic for a certain type of beauty, or for being the sort of person who feels of and entitled to beautiful things? Saorise wears a Burberry scarf and a Burberry coat and she is very composed, and so I trust her opinions. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, October 27 From 7:30pm at Night Club 101 — Domino Reading Series returns with Evan Donnachie, Armon Mahdavi, Erin Satterthwaite, Jade Wootton, Nick Dove, Izzy Capulong, and Chesea Hodson.

Inline links: Night Club 101, Domino Reading Series

Calvin Klein1 mentions across 1 issues

Calvin Klein is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between November 19, 2025 and November 19, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "a Calvin Klein black sweater". It most often appears alongside @jeansdown, @thegirljt, Adi Eshman.

Article page: Calvin Klein
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: November 19, 2025
Last seen: November 19, 2025

Issue trail

Winter (03) November 19, 2025

@jeansdown 1 shared issues
@thegirljt 1 shared issues
Adi Eshman 1 shared issues
Afters 1 shared issues
Afters 1 shared issues

Source context

Winter (03)

November 19, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, November 11 The first winter when I started to understand how things work here, I was crazy with momentum. Crazy like I was floating in air or maybe even made of it. It all started because it was too cold to walk slowly outside, and once we started picking up the pace - a quick clip in the night and the snow and it was a particularly windy winter - then everything else started to spiral a bit out of control. I wore velvet dresses to magazine offices for Christmas parties that winter and I was generally very uninhibited. I floated very warm and drunk off hot wine through a basement in Chinatown full of books and Arabian rugs for many nights in a row. In one night alone, I lost my voice and my phone and my sense of time passing all along. Sairose helped me wash up in the back of some night club, in a purple-lit party designed to simulate the void, at home and in love and in Los Angeles for a respite from the cold and all the can’t-stop-motion that came with it. Anyways, I slept on a floor under white arched ceilings pressed against a radiator for a few months after that. And I was certain I was not ready to be old yet and I’m still not, really, but there were other things too. 8am (present) - The first real day of winter, and so everything freezes over and then quiets in the soft start of snow outside. It’s fish and soup season, an old man at Caffe Reggio is saying. It reminds me of The Godfather (1972) in here, the old man is laughing. Stained glass lamps and the replicas of the Carvaggio paintings and white tiled ceilings and, since I gave up vice the goal has become to be a bit more quiet and clean about everything. Amelia wears Dries Van Noten jeans and a Calvin Klein black sweater and prada boots to meet me in the morning snow and read the things I wrote on paper. In the mornings, this time of year, it is good to brew things like bone broth, hot apple cider from the amish market, sardines in tomato sauce, your throat in black seed oil, your face in red light, and your thoughts in memories that resurface and ideas that reconstruct away from the architectures of unhappiness. Your aphorisms don’t make a ton of sense, Amelia tells me. I’m not writing aphorisms, I’m writing optimizations, I tell Amelia. At the bar last night, we ordered Fernets and diet coke and asked our guests if they considered themselves well adjusted and if they had tips to share pertaining to Esoteric Health. Do you know about Ray Peat, our guests asked. Do you know about royal jelly and methalyn blue and red light chicken lamps? Do you know about making good decisions for the benefit of yourself and the people around you? Kind of dizzy from two fernets on an empty stomach, Celia made a joke about her life and how it overlapped with mine. Don’t ever make any comparison to your life as it pertains to mine, I snapped. The bar was loud and so no one heard the vitriol but her. Is this what you want more than anything in the world?, Celia asked. To be able to say and do whatever you want without consequence? Howling wind outside, and we’ve been working on temperance. I wanted a lot of things, but I mostly wanted that. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, November 19 From 7:00 - 8:30pm at Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research — Cabin Pressure opened yesterday, and there’s another performance tonight! A new play by Adi Eshman, directed by Jennesy Herrera. - “Set in a cabin at a ski resort, What begins as a light-hearted getaway spirals into a cocaine-and-beer-fueled disaster, with the groom’s sober brother-in-law as the unwilling witness to the chaos.” | tickets here (additional performances Nov 20, 21, 22)

Inline links: Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research, Adi Eshman, Jennesy Herrera, here

Campari1 mentions across 1 issues

Campari is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 06, 2026 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "I mixed myself a drink full of Campari syrup and ginger and gin". It most often appears alongside A Place in the Sun, Ali RQ, Angelica.

Article page: Campari
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 06, 2026
Last seen: March 06, 2026

Issue trail

Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

A Place in the Sun 1 shared issues
Ali RQ 1 shared issues
Angelica 1 shared issues
Angelmoon 1 shared issues
Banana Republic 1 shared issues

Source context

52 Notifications From Hell

March 06, 2026 · Original source

Before the once-in one-hundred-years snow-storm, the air was soft and warm and not even that still, and so no one could believe what was about to come. I spent all day thinking about winter cleaning, but I did not spring into action until late. Then, I pulled on a black Gil Rodriguez dress, and I walked to buy Celsius, get on the train, drift over to downtown for a book launch, whilst feeling tired yet optimistic. Sam was sitting behind the bar next to a huge bison head and a lot of Olympic memorabilia, and he told me that Ellie was there and New-York-University girls were there and not Saiorse, yet, who is terminally late. Downstairs, the lounge was open and dark and I mixed myself a drink full of Campari syrup and ginger and gin. I went upstairs and I sat at the bar and Sam made me a Roy Rogers which is a Shirley Temple but for boys. Saiorse arrived in a gray dress and boots, and she made me a glass of melon juice. Lily arrived, and she told Sam that she only drinks diet coke. After that, we walked over through the still warm enough night to a penthouse party full of people who make robots. This, or a dive-bar. This, or Soho House. This or homeward bound. Choose your own adventure. Humanoid robots are designed to do physical things that humans do like serve food at restaurants, and to potentially also have superior intellect and perhaps become agentic-not-mimetic, Saiorse explained. She explained something of a sort of space-race to get this show-on-the-road. Cold War. I was thinking more in hypotheticals. I hadn’t really been invited. I have not had existential dread since summer, when I moved out of a glass apartment where I was always staring up at terminally blinking skies. I only ever said I was a nihilist when I didn’t know what that word meant. At the party, there were trays and trays of sushi and a spiral staircase and men carrying around platters of dumplings. Everyone from the Stanford class of twenty-two is here, Sam said. A lot of people flew in for this party, he explained. Saiorse and I maneuvered our way to the bar, and then towards a long counter top that appeared to be a buffet, but was totally untouched. Lily and Saoirse and I began to eat everything on display. Grabbing plates of salmon and being greedy. A girl standing in the center of the room was saying she felt dizzy. Does anyone else feel dizzy, she was asking. Yes, I decided. Yes indeed I do, and so I went to the bathroom but the door was just one big plywood sheath with no lock, and the music that was fired up throughout the whole huge vast apartment was pumping out from two small speakers that were located here. Blaring Ye so loudly from out of the bathroom ceiling and from under the sink. It felt kind of like a strange and architectural dream. Not like a bad dream, but like I had to go. The girl in the center of the room had reminded me that I was feeling dizzy. She disappeared by the time I came back to the party, and I tried to tell my friends about the strange and blaring bathroom music but they were absorbed in things that seemed hyper and happy and totally present. Nobody seemed too future-oriented despite the product at hand, but they never do at these sorts of things. The books on display all had colorful spines and recognizable titles. I did say goodbye, and outside, the snow had still not started.

Canon G7X1 mentions across 1 issues

Canon G7X is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 07, 2025 and March 07, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "having fun with my old canon G7X and with my cigarette". It most often appears alongside 127 Mulberry Street, 154 Scott BK, A Rachel Ormont Afters.

Article page: Canon G7X
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 07, 2025
Last seen: March 07, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

52 Notifications From Hell March 07, 2025

127 Mulberry Street 1 shared issues
154 Scott BK 1 shared issues
A Rachel Ormont Afters 1 shared issues
Alex Both 1 shared issues
Andrew Norman Wilson 1 shared issues

Source context

March 07, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, February 24 David's friend wore a shirt that said RESIST COCAINE last night, and he made us steak, spinach, cashews, wine. It was lovely, imbibing on the floor in this smokey room. And there are many grand plans, and I believe most of them will come true, and I was struggling to begin the day but now the evening floats on and on all weightless. "C. said the best thing about living with me was the blade runner type atmosphere created by all the smoke from my steak fixation," David's friend says. And there is a lot of smoke, and it is in a nice way. A cozy night and I was home not too late in truth although it felt later than it was, slipping onto the couch and falling into black sleep the second we arrived back at the apartment. The falling asleep was nice too, and more annoying was waking up at two, four, six am and then you decide it's late enough. The day begins. I was writing by hand during this wistful restless sleep last night - notes of little coherence, notes of: I am so lucky to have been raised in environments of normalcy. not regarding aesthetics even but regarding, having normal fucking morals, seeking to live a life that is good, avoiding the gamble of turning insane or, evil. The guidelines that compose a moral compass are blurrier in general these days, but I should seek more of this, the normalcy that is. I should not crave chaos in this way. I should not resent anyone who seeks tranquility, politeness, who seeks to sleep and wake early. But I like this other thing too, this sense of a fugue state, flow state, whatever. It's utterly consuming. In the real world, I am trying to articulate how detached I am sometimes. Either that, or I'm trying to make sure you don't catch on. I'm not sure if all of this is good or bad. I'm becoming smarter and more Serious and I'm very sincere in wanting to make good works and be conscious of the state of my body and soul and the state of yours too and also, and I hope I'm not becoming too annoying. Tuesday, February 25 I tried to work with video this morning, a return to my roots as a health and wellness vlogger, but it mostly made me want to kill myself. I smoked my last cigarette ever last night by the open window, by the basil plant, David didn’t get home until late and I was having fun with my old canon G7X and with my cigarette and then I tried to film a conversation this morning, and it made the whole conversation so stilted and dull, I think it ruined the conversation, really, and so now I never want to document anything visually ever again. I thought I was going to pass out at the gym, but I didn’t. I thought I was going to scream because David keeps borrowing that wonderful yellow and navy rain jacket that my dad found washed up in the beach, and I don’t want my boyfriend parading all around New York in my special jacket, even though it doesn’t fit me, even though I never wear it, I don’t care, I was feeling possessive. And then the sun comes out, and so Natasha and I spend the morning at Fanelli Cafe in the sun. Coffees until I feel even more sick but it’s not in the worst way, And then at night, there is the birthday at Kenka. Oh, David says, the BDSM Japanese place in the East Village, and it’s true, yes, that when you arrive, there are the automatic shopping mall style sliding doors and the mannequin of the woman bound and gagged and the cotton candy machine. And it's on that crazy street in the East Village with all the halloween stores. The girls next to me are talking about shooting their movie. And we'll need skeletons, they are saying, where are we going to get skeletons? I think about my fathers collections of strange bones, wondering if I can find anything to contribute, but (most) of those bones are not human, and he comes by them in strange and obscure places regardless, and then I think about suggesting the strange halloween stores down the street, but I’m eavesdropping, really, and they come to these conclusions all on their own. Party City, they are saying. We can just get the skeletons at Party City. Wednesday, February 26 I wish I was a bit more consistent in keeping the promises I make. The promises to myself mostly but there are promises to others, sometimes, too. And there is this duality of desire for nostalgia and acceleration and I find them both repugnant on the larger level but then I see them both in myself, so strongly in myself, all these distance edges of extremities so rawly on display within my own mind, which I have been trying to have integrity with, btw. And it hasn't been so bad, really. There was walking eight miles in sunshine today. The schoolyard animal cookie ice cream from Morgensterns and I order it with the lemon jam and sometimes cherries. There have been a few false starts. Which is why, I think, I've been ranting so much about the ebb and flow of it all, but there is equilibrium, too. Some proximity to this equilibrium, at least. Thursday, February 27 Matthew imagines a situation and he tells it to David wherein; David is in heaven, and I am in hell, but in this version of hell, they let me keep my phone. “and she’ll ruin heaven,” Matthew tells David, because she’ll just keep texting you, “it’s so warm down here David, they made it too warm down here!!!” The other part of this joke, Matthew explains to David, is that in this heaven, “you’ll be surrounded by beautiful, adoring, women, but there will just be this barrage of texts from Chloe, constant, never ending, about how awfully terribly warm it is down there in hell.” The cosmic joke of it all, of course, is that our varyingly unpleasant respective situations in this hypothetical story will both, unfortunately, be utterly eternal. Last night was the night for Being Freaked Out. Tonight is the night for Being Calm As Can Be. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Friday, March 7 I missed the Foreign Domestic opening this week, but I am planning to visit God alone loves all things and he loves only himself before the festivities of the evening. Works by Alex Both, Joan Dillon, Kylie Mitchell, TINMANTIS.

Inline links: Foreign Domestic, God alone loves all things and he loves only himself

catedralmezcal1 mentions across 1 issues

catedralmezcal is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 10, 2025 and February 10, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Cocktails by drinkmothersmilk and catedralmezcal". It most often appears alongside 131 Chrystie St, Ahmed, Alamo Drafthouse Cinema.

Article page: catedralmezcal
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 10, 2025
Last seen: February 10, 2025
Instagram handle: @catedralmezcal

Outbound links

Issue trail

February Dining. February 10, 2025

131 Chrystie St 1 shared issues
Ahmed 1 shared issues
Alamo Drafthouse Cinema 1 shared issues
Alt Lit 1 shared issues
Andrew Shental 1 shared issues

Source context

February 10, 2025 · Original source

From 7pm - 11pm at 131 Chrystie St — Salteye Studio celebrates the launch of their debut collection, co-hosted by Dirty Mag. Cocktails by drinkmothersmilk and catedralmezcal. Bites by Supper Studio.

Inline links: Salteye Studio, Dirty Mag, drinkmothersmilk, catedralmezcal

Chambord1 mentions across 1 issues

Chambord is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 04, 2025 and September 04, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "full of Tom Collins, Chambord, a sip of walnut martinini". It most often appears alongside 131 Chrystie St, 54 Barrow St, Aeronauts Aimed for Altitude, Even….

Article page: Chambord
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 04, 2025
Last seen: September 04, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Drinking Dreams September 04, 2025

131 Chrystie St 1 shared issues
54 Barrow St 1 shared issues
Aeronauts Aimed for Altitude, Even… 1 shared issues
Agnes Enhktamir 1 shared issues
Alexa Ferrer 1 shared issues

Source context

September 04, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, August 24 Lay with filthy tangled hair hanging off the edge of the roof for a while last night, watching the Chase Clock Tower lit up too royal blue and the Empire State Building lit up the nicer sort of baby blue. I've been collecting shades of blue. Kind of navy blue Frankie's Bikini little number reflecting something sort of aqua off my Diet Pepsi on the D-line towards Coney Island. Screaming children on the D-line. Naked man running around trying to steal pedestrians pants on Coney Island. He keeps on saying to the other guy, Darby says - “I like those pants ! Gimme those pants!” And it was all these beautiful friends coming and going last night. Coming and going until it was late, really late, so taxi home and then I ate the toppings off a slice of pizza on the floor with a spoon. I spent the morning alone doing Rituals. Tretinoin before sleep and I did wake up screaming for the first time in a while. Red light therapy and copper multi peptides and avocado eye cream and mineral sunscreen and now I'm on the Subway. Kind of braindead on the subway. It sometimes takes it out of you. This sort of thing can really take it out of you. It's been summer for forever, now. I have a lot more friends now. Connectivity, connected tissue, I walk down Brighton Beach by myself, walk to Tashkent Supermarket for a towel and carrot salad and on the phone I'm saying it is not that I wish for death and even sometimes I fear it but things have become a lot less Risk Averse. I'm a lot less Risk Averse now. It would be better to be dead, someone was saying at the bar last night. She was looking at me eyes all intense and no one was really listening, I could tell no one was really listening but everyone was watching her all the same and I could see them all clenching their bodies and kind of pulling away.. Me particularly, pulling away. Perhaps I'm being self absorbed. It wouldn't be better to be dead, someone else said. He looked at me then, locked eyes which usually makes me kind of uncomfortable but I felt inclined to agree. It's definitely better when nobody is dead, I said. The bar was full of plants and glass. Like a glass jungle, I told my nameless friends at the bar.. That's not very astute, a nameless friend told me. Tonight, the cocktail menu is flavored and priced like a full course meal, and so tonight I order Cold Pizza for dinner. Cold Pizza in a crisp glass bottle, plus greasy fried chicken after that, which comes in thick paper cups. And everyone is so grateful to be alive, tonight. Everyone is so grateful for one more year of life for themselves and for their dear friends particularly. Purple sunrise if I hadn't slept through it. Yellow sunset if I hadn't gritted my teeth and clenched my eyes shut through it. Planted two feet firmly in the ground and screamed through it. First, I made one thousand promises I couldn't keep. Second, I sat on the stoop with an energy drink, water, cool minty menthol gum and the antiseptic kind of sore throat with some bodega spray gripped tight in my hand to heal all my problems. My ailments and the other things. My organs and my mind. Overjoyed to be alive again after leaving my apartment, I told Amelia. It does make things better again, Amelia told me. Tuesday, August 25 Bartending school feels kind of like an alcoholic's vision of a drinking dream. Like holograms of condensation, dim lighting, one takes a sip to the tune of disappointment. Water and food coloring dye. Bowery Park and Whole Foods and JPress nearby and inside; Christmas is coming. Smooth jazz. Everything has felt a bit the same for a time, but my room is clean. Summer is passing. Three months is not so long. Would a functional alcoholic lace up black ankle boots at seven in the morning with a clear mind and bright eyes to catch the train towards midtown towards Bartending School, at the top of the week, at the tail end of August? I am not so good at pretending like anything is changing. Like habits stack towards something greater. It might as well be yesterday, I sigh on the phone. For you, it might as well be yesterday, Amelia agrees. I do the things a person should. Cake for friends' birthdays and the waiter keeps stacking on fees at Union Square Cafe. Cut the cake fee, sit at the table fee, big group of people fee, bring your own food fee. There are other tables next to us all inhabited by people who all appear to be exactly the same, though perhaps I am being uncharitable. Imagine them as skeletons. Imagine them as children. My parents used to tell me this when I was little. Kind of a hack against boredom. I imagine myself as a psychic, looking out on things overpriced and people all exactly the same. You will have a small child and feed her nothing but buttered noodles. You will advance in age but stay exactly the same through invasive surgical facial intervention and stunted social development. You will spend evenings eating french fries with caviar for One Hundred Dollars despite a rich inner world and a childhood pumped full of extracurricular stimulation designed, specifically, to avoid a fate like this. You will fear God more than death and you will understand self destruction to be akin to suicide hence rendering you too, on a trajectory like this, a rather hellish creature. You will wake up in the middle of the night in a small box criss-crossed wood roof apartment in New York City to the sense that there are No Loopholes Left. You will go to bartending school. You will recognize that, while you can be cruel there were other factors at play. There were worse factors at play. Wednesday, August 26 Walking from Greenwich Village to Long Meadow in Prospect Park with a bag filled up with white linen and Thomas Pynchon and a plan to celebrate sweet Sylvie's birthday. A different sort of nostalgia in the air today. Nostalgia of all sorts being kind of a form of mental illness, of course but once - we were woodland fairies. Once, there were fall morning running races and cranberries that crunched under bare feet on Massachusetts roads. Once, there were rounds of Tom Collins in a kind of jazzy jungle garden restaurant in the tropics that my boyfriend who liked gender-roles enjoyed because they wouldn't let girls order their own drinks. Once, I went to the Yankees game in late August, blue and pink hazy skies, the sort of advertisements that blare out notes about Fast Food and Safe Driving in the stadium, and the sort of crowd that is so big it starts inspiring feelings of Life and Spirit rather than Homogoninity and Dread. Once, I walked from bartending school full of Tom Collins, Chambord, a sip of walnut martinini, frangelico liquor. Walked to Caffe Reggio for egg white omelet, toast, a creamy cannoli. Walking to Prospect Park a little bit tipsy. Thinking about the sort of things I used to pretend to care about. Writing about the sorts of things I used to pretend to care about. Writing it all down. Writing and walking. Writing it everywhere. Writing it on the walls. Though, I'm not so bad at keeping secrets anymore. Thursday, August 27 Amelia and I sat at Caffe Reggio until close last night, and now I have returned. Tomato soup and side grilled chicken and creamy cannoli and mint tea because things feel decadent again. Limited consumption. I haven’t really been limiting consumption. The waitress is complimenting the gray sweatpants on the boys at the table over from me, and the waitress seems to be vaguely annoyed with me, though I am trying to be pleasant. Thanks the sweatpants cost enough, the boys are saying, at the table over. Thanks we didn't realize we couldn't split the bill, Amelia and I were saying, last night, our tea was four dollars total and everything was starting to feel a little bit hazy. Sitting on the floor at sunrise, this morning, Amelia and I were watching videos from Miami. Videos from Bahamas. Videos from New York City, 2022, we'd been at all the same parties, but I hadn't known a soul. BAHAMAS, we are beaming, in one video, in the back of a taxi cab, streaking over MacArthur Causeway, Miami-Dade County, Florida, and so, as I recall, the driver was confused. I'm putting on makeup in the photo booth webcam on the floor of a hotel room and Amelia is talking in the background. It's Opposite Day in the background. Who had a mental breakdown, someone is saying in the background. From an outsider's perspective, who was it who had a mental breakdown? Friday, August 28 6:30pm, and I am back at IFC for my third viewing of Diva (1981) in twenty-four hours. I came to view Diva (1981) for the third time in twenty-four hours, because I became very sick of thinking about myself. This is a desirable alternative. The film is beautiful, and I wish to live in places like the apartments pictured. A large and wrecked studio in a car park with painted walls and recording equipment or, a hotel in Paris or, a castle by the sea or, the best one of all is a large blue flat full of puzzles and high ceilings and echoing sea sounds and an aqua glow and a man who wants to learn to stop the waves. They are fighting crime in the film. They are entrapping the criminals and they are doing it kind of like performance art. I don’t wish to spoil the ending. It really is the perfect little film. So; I will send out the recipe for zucchini (courgette) soup, and I will explain away the things I did in breathless optimism as things I did while bored. I will go to The Scratcher, Killarney Rose, Funny Bar, then Gospel then Caffe Reggio again - these are the decadent places to which I continue to return. I will draw my name with Riley on the table in crayon writing Best Friends Forever and listen to Feryquitous ft Sennzai and Sigur Rós and John Maus and think about Switzerland, Iceland, having a lot of dreams about places that are lush, lush, lush. Thinking about places that are quiet quiet quiet. Thinking about places that are green green green. Feels like Fall, outside, after church. Amelia woke me up in a living room that looked like a library and she was screaming that the air was poison. I was difficult to awaken, because it is my own delusions of poison air that wake me up screaming on other nights. Different from tonight. I was reminding myself of reality. I was reminding myself of delusions and keeping my eyes clenched shut while Amelia screamed. Well, the air wasn’t poison after all, just late night and late august and heavy with mosquitos and dust from renovations and revelations and; we walked back to the cafe. I walked through Washington Square Park at dawn. The doorman wished me good night at seven in the morning and the cycles repeated. It isn’t opposite day and we aren’t in hell, just working on things like bed time and emotional regulation. Working on archiving the things that happen outside of my head. It becomes good to have been an archivist all along. It becomes good to become sick of dealing with things mainly in repetition. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, September 4 From 6pm at Carinito — Saloon is throwing a party. Drinks from Dio. Dancing, DJ, tacos, etc

Inline links: Carinito, Saloon, throwing a party

Chemex1 mentions across 1 issues

Chemex is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 15, 2026 and February 15, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "I learned how to make coffee in a chemex glass". It most often appears alongside Abe Shapiro, Aidan Lapoche, Alan Parker.

Article page: Chemex
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 15, 2026
Last seen: February 15, 2026

Issue trail

Yellow-all-around February 15, 2026

Abe Shapiro 1 shared issues
Aidan Lapoche 1 shared issues
Alan Parker 1 shared issues
Allen Parker 1 shared issues
Amazon 1 shared issues

Source context

February 15, 2026 · Original source

Friday, February 6 I am awake and I have been for one hour. All around me, everything is pale and still and one small room and one short hallway and one light left on. One of one. One of everything. Everything is just the same. Yesterday, when I woke up, it was yellow all around. I woke up in the country yesterday, and the first thing that I noticed was all that yellow all around. Pale yellow walls. Soft yellow light. Snow reflecting golden yellow rays off a white carriage house roof, but even that part was turned sort of yellow by the early morning sun. The night before yesterday, I stayed up all night. There wasn’t much to do with all those hours, but I knew that in the morning, I’d be whisked away. Good at leaving when I remember all the things I hate. Good at coming back when I decide to get a hold of myself. I’d decided to let the night in my apartment sort of drift. I watched the sky turn dark, stay like that for a while, and then I watched it turn light again. It always kind of happens this way. In the morning, I’d packed a book bag with a suede black mini skirt, black cotton long sleeve top, toothbrush, snow boots, notebook, Off-The-Farm brand caramel protein bar. I took the B-line to the 1-line and towards the Upper West Side. On the Upper West Side, there were big french windows and snowy streets and tree branches that scratch the side of buildings and in the summer coat the whole place green. Not so much this time of year. Empty whisper benches. Powdered sledding hills in Central Park. From the Upper West Side, Laura drove me to New Jersey. A simple enough drive, but we just could not stay on track. The Hudson River was frozen over. Big white ice blocks that solidified and fractured and split. We were trying to spot a bathhouse somewhere in the suburbs of New Jersey. Is this the place to swim? we kept on asking each other, any time we passed a warehouse, or a sign that said something like Pools and Baths and Plumbing. When we got to the country, it was already dark. The driveway was lined with silver lights. I like to return to places where I have not been for years but which stay exactly the same. We lit a fire and we had salad and salmon and white wine and chocolate truffles. I was so excited to be somewhere where there was so much space. I liked the light and the quiet and the fact that there was more snow here than in the city, and I was pleased by how much I remembered. After dinner, I ran a bath in a big white bathroom. Big clear windows looking out at clear dark skies. I liked how everything felt very old, and very big, and very familiar, and very clean. I did not like how I felt a bit like a bull in a China Shop. Everything I touched returned a little less perfect than how I found it. Soap and towels left slightly off kilter. Clothes left in a pile on the floor. I fell asleep in a big white four poster bed, and I made sure to crease the comforter only slightly. I forgot to say goodnight, but no one really minded. I woke up surrounded by yellow all around. Morning, and when I pulled open yellow sheer curtains I could look out at all those skinny barren trees and lots of ice and a long driveway that stretched on and on and on. Laura came into my room and said good morning, and then she told me that she would show me how to make coffee, downstairs, soon. On the landing, there were three bedrooms, and a long hallway with a window seat lined with stuffed animals and a big window that looked out over big snow. The stuffed animals on the landing were all like little lions and zebras and all kinds of pastel and nice faces, nothing creepy. The wallpaper was all mostly white, with little blue or pink or yellow flowers peppered in between but nothing too suffocating. The snow outside the window was silky and icy and pure white and frozen over. There was a sheen over the snow. I could see, even from here, that the snow had been solidified under a layer of crust. My hair was covered in static. When I brushed my hair, I could see it literally spark. This week, I was documenting everything with compulsion. I went downstairs. Laura was working on a puzzle in the living room, where all the windows were long and clear and let the whole space flood with light. I looked out at perfect snow coated verandas. I learned how to make coffee in a chemex glass. Boiled water. Always becoming a bit bewildered in places that are quiet and beautiful and clear. I wouldn’t be friends with someone with bad aesthetic taste, my old friends used to say. My new friends, of late, had developed somewhat of a taste for conspicuous consumption. Later, Laura drove me to the train station through snowy streets and snowy backroads. We pulled away from the house and down the snowy driveway and then we drove through suburbs where everything was all Blue Mercury Skincare and Sweetgreen and farmhouses reminiscent of Boston, Chicago, Connecticut, suburbs everywhere all the same. Ladies everywhere liking Blue Mercury and Pure Barre. Laura gave me white gloves to keep for good on the train platform towards New York. You are so cold, just take and keep these, she said. Are you sure, I said, but I was already slipping the gloves onto my hands. Back in New York, I sat on a bench in Penn Station while I waited for the 1-train. Knees tucked up to chest and clothed in kind of filthy LuLu Lemon leggings. Drinking Dunkin Donuts almond milk latte with sugar free vanilla and almond and one cool-minty-zyn. Watching strangers and all sorts of scents drift by. It is the coldest winter in history or at least in recent memory, but due to sensory issues and the flattering nature of a-line skirts, all I have been wearing is sheer tights and mini dresses. When I got home, everything was very rushed, which is another thing that always tends to happen. Saturday, February 8 Following Cassandra’s confirmation, we went to a bitcoin themed bar and then to a hotel lobby. We went to a cocktail bar after that, where the drinks were made of things like clarified basil and tasted bad. I have one statement, Sam told the waiter, at the bar. Then, he asked a question. Could I have another drink? This one is very not good. In the evening, we went to Bigelow’s to buy the hair bows just like the Kennedys wore, and after that, we went to a dinner in Soho and then a tech-week-party to end the night. At the tech week party all the girls were cute and unemployed. They all made videos on the Internet and all had long-distance boyfriends. We took photos on a digital camera and smoked cigarettes on the edge of the fire escape while the boys all talked about suicidal ideation. When they ran out of liquor, I took the elevator down without saying goodbye. On the street, in the snow, playing tetris with myself in the footholds that other boots had left behind in melting ice as I tried to claw my way into a cab, I ran into an Internet Curator. He appeared out of nowhere, though my vision was already blurry, so perhaps he had been there all along. I’ve never been somewhere with so many people from TikTok in real life, the man said. Usually, I post all these people online, but tonight there were all here in real life. Made three notes in diary in yellow taxi cab home: Freedom of Indifference vs Freedom for Excellence

Chex Mix1 mentions across 1 issues

Chex Mix is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between June 06, 2024 and June 06, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "tex mex chex mix". It most often appears alongside 06 Art, ALLSHIPS, Ally Pankiw.

Article page: Chex Mix
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: June 06, 2024
Last seen: June 06, 2024

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #3 June 06, 2024

06 Art 1 shared issues
ALLSHIPS 1 shared issues
Ally Pankiw 1 shared issues
Anastasia Berg 1 shared issues
Angela Torres 1 shared issues

Source context

June 06, 2024 · Original source

After the second rest stop, the car is full of: iced coffee, sponge bob popsicles, spicy pickles in bag, tex mex chex mix, two hot dogs with no bun but lots of condiments that are impossible to cut with fork and knife, one hot dog with bun, one chicken sandwich, peanut m&ms, oreo cakesters. The sponge bob popsicles are fun, but everything else is actually just pretty genuinely repulsive.

CHLOÉ1 mentions across 1 issues

CHLOÉ is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between June 06, 2024 and June 06, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "a big billboard that says CHLOÉ". It most often appears alongside 06 Art, ALLSHIPS, Ally Pankiw.

Article page: CHLOÉ
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: June 06, 2024
Last seen: June 06, 2024

Outbound links

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #3 June 06, 2024

06 Art 1 shared issues
ALLSHIPS 1 shared issues
Ally Pankiw 1 shared issues
Anastasia Berg 1 shared issues
Angela Torres 1 shared issues

Source context

One Million Billion Interludes

June 06, 2024 · Original source

A Note: Thanks for reading Chloe Pingeon's Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. I Solemnly Swear I Will Never Write Another Late COLLECTED AGENDA Ever Again

I always worry that things that are new will be sterile and awful but the new apartment isn’t. The new apartment is magical. I’m on the roof looking at both the Empire State Building and the One World Trade Center and a big billboard that says CHLOÉ. I’m looking at the outlines of people’s windows glowing yellow far away, and the outlines of people’s curtains glowing brighter past the fire escapes close by.

Inline links: CHLOÉ

Peter Vack celebrates the launch of SILLYBOYat Gonzo’s from 9pm - late. The lineup of DJ / Readers / Hosts includes Chloe Cherry, Ivy Wolk, Dasha Nekrasova, and Chloe Wise, among many others.

Inline links: SILLYBOY, Gonzo’s

Cinq à Sept1 mentions across 1 issues

Cinq à Sept is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between November 27, 2025 and November 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Two dresses arrived in the night from resale Cinq de Sept". It most often appears alongside A Very Pussycat Thanksgiving, Alex Arthur, Alice Bailey.

Article page: Cinq à Sept
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: November 27, 2025
Last seen: November 27, 2025

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

One Million Billion Interludes November 27, 2025

A Very Pussycat Thanksgiving 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues
Alice Bailey 1 shared issues
Andrei Tarkovsky 1 shared issues
Apple Store 1 shared issues

Source context

November 27, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, November 17 After the summer passed and I started fresh one million billion times and nothing really happened all autumn which is always how it kind of goes this time of year, I realized I’d been trying to be a bit too ethereal about it. There were certain ways I actually spent my days, after all. One tried to become more private, and instead, one started to simply become a bit obtuse. On Saturday, Lily invited me to the Philharmonic with friends, for example. Composed and conducted by John Adams to create “jazz-inflected take on film noir’s gritty sound world” as well as “a tribute to the Northern California coastline.” This was nice, because everything I’d been imagining for months now was all misty shores and temperate gray climates and so it was nice to hear the music and imagine kind of floating in that. Sat there kind of ignorant about it all, but liking the ideas that form in one’s subconscious in conjunction to classical music and the high ceilings and fancy rooms and watching the conductor move like a marionette. That was like drugs, Lily said, after. Phillip Glass was seated a few seats over the last time we were here, my new friends said, before. It was not quite midtown in Winter but Lincoln Center was still starting to glow, what with the horses and the Christmas trees and an older demographic of opera and film and philharmonic-goers all dressed up. Negronis in sippy-cups and vodka at the Russian Tea Room, and Lily’s artist boss had dressed her for the occasion and so she looked kind of sparkling in a long green skirt and a wool coat with a shoulder-hook for her purse. You look like a martini, I told Lily. I wore tights from the Internet and a dress from my ex-roomate and a falling-apart-purse from my ex-boyfriend and black shoes from my mother. You look like a whiteclaw, Lily told me, but she said it very kindly and so I didn’t take offense. After, our new friends showed us the lines in the road where the horse manure and hay had become indented to permanence, and they showed us a fountain where once an old woman was seen wrangling snakes, and they showed us an apple store they’d robbed, and they assisted the blind. We followed the blind man onto the subway and then later I was at downtown bars where it’s the same thing over and over again. Matt and Matt perched in the corridor by the bathroom. Ran into a friend fresh off of working a Palantir-Party. It could have been so good in theory, she explained. They’d rented out multiple bars and catered Carbone and a martini tower, after all. But the dry ice was kind of glitching and San Francisco people all wear aura rings even on nights-out and on the bright side, they left behind thousands and thousands of dollars in parmesan cheese. What else? Two dresses arrived in the night from resale Cinq de Sept and Gil Rodriguez and I laid them out on my perfectly made bed all black and christmas white. I wrote a small review about a book about a girl who idolizes the apocalypse because she does not desire to get old. I was paralyzed, for a while, which come to think of it, was what stirred all that talk about momentum. For breakfast, I am served a rotten egg at the gym on Prince Street. It emerges in a plastic cup and it is sheened in dark brown sludge. This egg is rotten, I cautiously tell the man who is working behind the counter. Oh, the man says, and then he opens his palms like he hopes for me to place the plastic box and rotting egg in them. We both seem unsure of what to do. Oh I’m sorry, he says. It’s ok, I say. And then he hands me a barbell bar in response. Like we are doing barter and trade. Cassandra tells me a story about one of her favorite days of her life. We were all on the peninsula for the week, by the ocean, in the room with the big wooden bed and the canopy curtains and the patchwork quilts. We let Cassandra and Celia in around mid afternoon, and we were all watching the boats float by on the window. And I was doing a rubix cube, Cassandra says. And you were getting so mad. And the day went on forever, I tell Cassandra Not forever, Cassandra says. I do remember writing down everything everyone said, though. Now, everything hovering hovering hovering. New Moon, tomorrow. Grab all that crisp and frozen air that’s hovering so thin it could snap, and maybe it will. November snaps in half and all the other omens and things-that-could-happen come spilling out. All because of the New Moon. All because of the artificial intelligence apocalypse. All because I’m reading the book that Alice Bailey’s demon wrote. Not to get too new age about it... WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, November 26 From 7:00 - 9:00pm at The Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research — Hillsdale opened yesterday, and there’s another performance tonight! A play written by Roman D’Ambrosio and directed by Rabiah Rowther. “During homecoming weekend at the infamous conservative Hillsdale College, former fraternity brothers, and the women they love, reunite. As the weekend unfolds and the drinking increases, the alumni question their relationship with each other and the promises they were told. | This is a very unique play that I’m excited about. Definitely worth seeing. tickets here (additional performances Nov 28

Inline links: The Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research, Hillsdale, Roman D’Ambrosio, Rabiah Rowther, here

Ciro Picariello1 mentions across 1 issues

Ciro Picariello is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between December 16, 2024 and December 16, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Tonight, I drink Ciro Picariello. It's like white wine but it sparkles". It most often appears alongside Allison Brainard, Altro Paradiso, Ama Birch.

Article page: Ciro Picariello
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: December 16, 2024
Last seen: December 16, 2024

Outbound links

Issue trail

Moral Framework December 16, 2024

Allison Brainard 1 shared issues
Altro Paradiso 1 shared issues
Ama Birch 1 shared issues
American Cuck 1 shared issues
Annabel 1 shared issues

Source context

Moral Framework

December 16, 2024 · Original source

Monday, December 9 A busy day. One quickly finds this to be the solution to all malignant indulgences. Before a comedy show at Jean’s, Natasha and I go to Altro Paradiso for dinner. It’s an early dinner in the rain. Madelyn works here, and I’ve been meaning to visit for a while. I’ve been meaning to apply for a job here, too, but the list of things I’ve been meaning to do on that front continues to pile up. We order many things on the menu. The house specialties that we did not order somehow seem to keep materializing on our table as well. It’s like magic. It’s a special night. Rumor has it: Marina Abromovic was dining here this afternoon. Rumor has it, she’s dined here twenty times. Altro Paradiso is a well lit restaurant - I read something I liked about well lit restaurants this week and now I can’t recall where. The premise was: enough of this haze. Some people want to see their food. Some people want to see and be seen. Tonight, I drink Ciro Picariello. It’s like white wine but it sparkles. I drink a cocktail with peach purée and peach liquor. I drink a dirty martini. I eat olives, bread and ricotta, finocchio, another salad with fig and orange, mushroom pasta shaped like pillows, lemon pasta shaped like thick noodles, branzino, gelato. It’s a winter feast. I haven’t had a feast like this in my recent recollection. After, the rain has stopped but the evening is still misty. We hail a cab. We’re too late for Jean’s. Natasha is good at spotting famous people. Rebecca Black walks by. EmRata’s ex husband. Some other people, too. We go the The Nines, which is very festive, but where everyone is very rude. We go back to Jean’s. The show is over, they let us in, but there's no point in lingering now. I loved tonight, I say when I get home. A sign of mental stability is drinking alcohol and not hating every second of it. I know for some people, it's the opposite, but this is how it works for me. Tuesday, December 10 The line to get into the Richard Kern book launch is too long and it's raining. I see Annabel and Ellie outside. I see that Berlin blogger who only wears all black or all white and her TikTok DJ boyfriend. "I need to become someone who's 'list me or miss me'", a girl in line sighs. We're still waiting in the rain. She said this in a way like she was kidding, but I repeat the sentiment with no humility to David later. "We should become 'list me or miss me’,” I say. David has a tendency to bludgeon his way through lines. "We should become 'list me or i'm going to fucking kill you’,” David says. After I abandon the Richard Kern line, I go to Lucien. I run into a few people there. The expected and the unexpected. There are things I'm very excited about these days. Excitement is risky - it's unwise to tempt fate and it's destructive to celebrate accomplishments you are yet to achieve, but I am excited. Full of ideas again. Everyone at Lucien is an actor. That must be so cool, I say. I'm so full of sincerity, I think. This time of year can be so full in general that it begins to feel uneasy. This type of luxury isn't mine to claim and it's certainly not sustainable. The hedonism feels truly hedonistic today, though. It's energetic, not coated with something darker. I'm having so much fun. David wants to go to Frog Club for banana chiffon pie. "Why am I so broken up about Frog Club closing?” asks David. "You've never been to Frog Club," I say. "Yeah, that's probably why," says David. Risotto David made for me + prints from Paris Wednesday, December 11 I went to the Russian Baths on Wall Street on my first day in New York. I still go often now. It’s not really of my own volition. It’s a family tradition. It’s still pouring today. It’s been pouring all week. I used to think the Russian Baths were all liminal space and Russian mob, but now it feels less secret. The Doritos are from Israel. Russian Jews and Russian Gentiles, I hear someone explaining in line behind me. The building is huge. The pool area does feel kind of like The Backrooms. I have night terrors every night. In my dreams, I am never stuck in places like this. My aunt likes the cold plunge. She can stay in it for seven minutes, far beyond the recommended time of three. The Wim Hof method recommends rapid bursts of breath coupled with exposure to the extreme cold. I’m in the Infrared Sauna. On Christmas, I will swim outside in Walden Pond. Wim Hof (the man) lost a finger, an ear, something detached in the retina of his eye… I can’t recall the specific injury but something bad happened swimming across an icy lake. He took it too far. When I get back to New York, I will swim off Orchard Beach. There’s a group that goes every morning. My aunt tells me you have to go to Orchard Beach in the winter. It’s like Siberia in the Winter. It’s finally getting cold enough to swim. On my Wednesday at the Russian Baths, I lose my keys. I lose the big rubber slippers that they give you on arrival. I can’t last very long in the extreme heat or the extreme cold. An actor in the infrared sauna is talking about how he can only memorize lines in the cold plunge. I’m thinking about how I’m in an infinite feedback loop where everyone I meet keeps being actors. We go to dinner at the Russian Restaurant at the spa. It’s called Matryoshka like the dolls. I only learn this later David and I split potato pancakes, salad olivier which is the one with mayonnaise and egg and chicken (delicious), beef stroganoff, steamed chicken pelmeni. More stroganoff and borscht and red wine is also passed around the table. I can’t drink red wine, so I drink ginger juice and ginger vodka instead. Afterwards, too full to continue. There are other plans tonight - a film, a party, I promised I would go and I never cancel plans but sometimes I do just neglect to show up. A very bad habit. Inertia ultimately breeds pure evil! Time doesn’t pass at Spa 88. Still pouring but dark now, when we emerge from the underground. Thursday, December 12 My abridged review of Dimes Square (revival) today. I didn’t see it the first time around - I wasn’t here. I was in Boston. I was in a sorority. I arrived in this godforsaken ecosystem after it was already dead. I’m kind of being facetious. I think people try to qualify eras too concretely. Concretely: Dimes Square (the play) is indeed a period piece. In the vein of all Matthew Gasda’s plays, it is emotionally rich, lucid, kind of yearning, which catches me off guard but I think adds depth. The thing I like most about Dimes Square is this: it’s not self serious but also it is not sneering. The best satire is actually quite sincere. This is why most satire is generally and particularly in contemporary culture, bad. Dimes Square (the play) is excellent. I will be publishing a stand alone review of the play here shortly. I already wrote the review but then I realized I was far too stuck on historical accuracy and far too personally tortured. In the meantime (from my notes) -- “The main fault of the characters in the play is that they are cruel, but the main critique of this scene in real life is that it is (was?) (is?) full of people who are pathetic”

Inline links: Richard Kern, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!gXs4!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F5a0a08cc-f0bf-4529-82bd-40b8e59712aa_4284x5363.jpeg

CitiBike1 mentions across 1 issues

CitiBike is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 06, 2026 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "we took a CitiBike over towards Thai Diner". It most often appears alongside A Place in the Sun, Ali RQ, Angelica.

Article page: CitiBike
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 06, 2026
Last seen: March 06, 2026
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

A Place in the Sun 1 shared issues
Ali RQ 1 shared issues
Angelica 1 shared issues
Angelmoon 1 shared issues
Banana Republic 1 shared issues

Source context

March 06, 2026 · Original source

In the summer, when the air was sickly sweet and I was feeling ill but knew the day would be ok to pass in the sort of languid-and-waiting-for-it-to-end kind of way, we took a CitiBike over towards Thai Diner. We biked along the Hudson River, first. In Riverside Park, I stopped alongside the dinosaur playground and the firefighter memorial and I touched the shiny metal heads of all these structures left behind. My companions were irritated yet understanding of this divergence. We biked to the George Washington Square Bridge after that, and Jennifer jumped in the dirty water, and Riley vomited off the pier. Back downtown, the air was humid and heavy and the wait outside Thai Diner was long, which made everyone feel kind of claustrophobic if not necessarily physically worse. Not traditional not traditional not traditional, Ian kept on saying. Kicking rocks around Chinatown. He liked this place nonetheless. Thai Diner is cartoonishly bright and the greenhouse heats quickly and it is not the sort of place to visit during summer storms. When the rain started, Ian and I walked to the chocolate factory. At the chocolate factory, he bought me sweets painted like portraits and water colors and little mini worlds. Best chocolates in the world, he kept on saying. I unwrapped the chocolates like little parcels, and we both found them to be quite a delight. Thai Diner is kind of Michelin-star style. Really good food. Mango and coconut sticky rice. Curries and fried cod. Every bite delights, but all I can really remember is we were all too sick or maybe just too hot to eat. I ordered hot toddy because it’s good to drink warm things when warm, and it’s good to drink strong things when hands are shaking at the cedar wood counter of a nice restaurant, and friends are dripping Hudson River water all over the floor. Ian ordered a smoothie that was green and piled high with coconut-flakes. Get me out of here, he kept on saying. I love this place, he said. I feel so goddamn bad. Get me a cab right now. We went home after that, and the greenhouse roof at home made the whole place boil and so I fell asleep easily, even midday. I think I fell asleep for the rest of the year, or at least the afternoon.

Citizen App1 mentions across 1 issues

Citizen App is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 10, 2024 and September 10, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "This Confessions takes inspiration from the Citizen App, with stories that take notifications". It most often appears alongside Anika Levy, Annabel Boardman, Antiart.

Article page: Citizen App
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 10, 2024
Last seen: September 10, 2024

Outbound links

Issue trail

Statues Of Critics. September 10, 2024

Anika Levy 1 shared issues
Annabel Boardman 1 shared issues
Antiart 1 shared issues
Artnet 1 shared issues
August Lamm 1 shared issues

Source context

September 10, 2024 · Original source

As a newly declared patron of Confessions, I’m particularly excited that the Sunday night reading and parties series will return for the second week in a row — from 7pm at KGB. Readings from Maxine Beiny, Christian Cail, Sammy Friedman, Chris Gabriel, Bijan Stephen, Beckett Rosset, Stephania Vazquez, Madison Brading, Cassidy Grady, and Annabel Boardman. This Confessions takes inspiration from the Citizen App, with stories that take notifications, and imagine what the hell happened.

Inline links: Confessions, KGB, Maxine Beiny, Christian Cail, Sammy Friedman, Chris Gabriel, Bijan Stephen, Beckett Rosset, Stephania Vazquez, Cassidy Grady, Annabel Boardman, Citizen App

civilpleasures1 mentions across 1 issues

civilpleasures is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between August 21, 2025 and August 21, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "pick-up basketball games with cigars from civilpleasures". It most often appears alongside 154 Scott, 7th Street Burger, Abby Jones.

Article page: civilpleasures
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: August 21, 2025
Last seen: August 21, 2025

Issue trail

Early August August 21, 2025

154 Scott 1 shared issues
7th Street Burger 1 shared issues
Abby Jones 1 shared issues
Alec Niedenthal 1 shared issues
Alexander Droesch 1 shared issues

Source context

August 21, 2025 · Original source

From 3pm at West 4th St Courts — Loser’s x 7th Street Burger hosts pick-up basketball games with cigars from civilpleasures, and free Los Angeles Apparel clothing.

Inline links: Loser’s x 7th Street Burger

Clear Headed Kombucha1 mentions across 1 issues

Clear Headed Kombucha is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between April 21, 2025 and April 21, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "I stop at Whole Foods to buy some Clear Headed Kombucha". It most often appears alongside 88 Allen Street Hotel, Ada Wickens, Alex Arthur.

Article page: Clear Headed Kombucha
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: April 21, 2025
Last seen: April 21, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

The Strangest Hotel in New York April 21, 2025

88 Allen Street Hotel 1 shared issues
Ada Wickens 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues
Alex Auder 1 shared issues
Alex Berns 1 shared issues

Source context

Inline links: borderline satanic short film, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!sXNu!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F2692d191-2567-4b52-ab49-e81eacdf528d_730x832.png, Night Club 101, Domino Reading Series

April 21, 2025 · Original source

Tuesday, April 15 David stayed up all night making a borderline satanic short film. I think I’m manic, he says, which is probably why he got us the stay in the strange hotel in the first place. You’re not manic, I say. Not manic, like I need lithium, David says. Last night I was compulsively reading these decentralized networking protocol white papers, David says. David starts telling me about an opera he wants to see. Something about The Only Monotheistic Pharaoh. I walk home and I stop at Whole Foods to buy some Clear Headed Kombucha and Chicken Sausage and Cymbiotika Vitamin C. I feel really terrible. I make a list of affirming statements. I FEEL AMAZING. I HAVE NEVER FELT BETTER. I take a nap. Wakeup and, David and his friend are on the phone downstairs talking about a startup. Eavesdropping and, it sounds like they’re about to independently invent the concept of the Male Influencer. “Imagine believing yourself to be cunning and self-serving, and you're doing so by working for [redacted],” David is saying. “Anyone can learn to code,” David is saying. Tune out, tune in, and now they’re inventing the Vending Machine. They’re talking about Jon Raffman and Petra Cortright. They’re talking about LA. Evil Women. Tax Day. “Girls already invented being an influencer eons ago,” I tell David, when he gets off the phone. David pauses for a moment. “I think girls and guys invented being influencers at about the same time.” Friday, April 18 I haven't been able to fill in the blanks of the past few days. Becoming: utterly consumed. It was deeply unpleasant, honestly. I feel bad for me on Monday, thinking it would be easy to wrap up this thing I was working on and then almost losing my whole head instead. I stayed up all week. All through the very peaks of the night and then past that, even. At first it was all disjointed, but now it is making more sense. And the good news is, good for art and life - I can intuit things again! WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, April 21 From 8pm - late at Night Club 101 — I will be reading in the Domino Reading Series, alongside Jess Wolfe, Dani Narins, Ruby Hoffman, Gordon Glasgow, Jade Wootton, and Matthew Gasda. Gallipony x Solar System DJ set after the reading.

Clif Bar1 mentions across 1 issues

Clif Bar is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 14, 2026 and January 14, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Procured green juice and cliff bar". It most often appears alongside 169 Bar, 56 Henry, 99 Minutes of 2026.

Article page: Clif Bar
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 14, 2026
Last seen: January 14, 2026
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

How To Break Paralysis January 14, 2026

169 Bar 1 shared issues
56 Henry 1 shared issues
99 Minutes of 2026 1 shared issues
@lucdarcy 1 shared issues
A.L. Bahta 1 shared issues

Source context

January 14, 2026 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, January 5 Start the year at Cassandra’s apartment, and then a few days pass kind of breathless and stranded in this way. Her bedroom looks over St Vincent’s Ferrer, and it is light filled and sweet. Cards and paper star cut outs hung on red ribbon stream down the edges of the cream walls. A seashell necklace, Mary Magdalene portrait, books of Adorno and Mary Gaitskill. The bible. When my friends leave for the day, I do not. Rush of opening doors and boots on wood and winter air, and then they are gone. Cassandra’s apartment is very clean. It strikes me, somewhat uneasily, that everything I touch appears slightly less precise when I’m the one returning it to its proper place. Face oil left off kilter and kind of dripping. A little bit bad at treading gently in this place where I am a guest and everything is delicate and gorgeous. Wearing my friend’s Adidas pajamas and drinking water and taking Advil in thick blue translucent pill form. Writing down the things I no longer care to reflect on. A lot can happen in a year, I tell Cassandra, but then again, a lot can happen in one day or one hour or one minute, even, so best to be kind of chill about it. We go to Heidelberg for herring and brown bread and hot raspberries in ice cream and apple strudel at night. We go to CVS for baby food and tooth brushes and nicotine gum. The evenings uptown are more sparkling and quiet. Back at the apartment, and I can’t stop talking about all the things I want to do or places I want to move. California, Switzerland, El Salvador. Uptown, to a four bedroom apartment with my four best friends. Lying on Cassandra’s couch wearing a blue sweater under a gray blanket and drinking flower power kombucha this morning. Cassandra gets ready for work and offers general hospitality. Eat any fruits and vegetables you want, Cassandra tells me. She lists them like a game. Ad libs. She was teaching me how to type cast a person as “Lego” or “Dust Bowl” or “Victorian Orphan,” last night. Blueberries, shallots, pickles, seeded mustard from the Amish farm stand. I tell Cassandra that she’ll come home to find I have devoured all of her arugula with my bare hands. Later, I wear Cassandra’s blue sweater and black ballet flats and take my own belongings clutched in my arms in a cab downtown. Am I crazy, or did you take my black ballet flats, Cassandra texts, that evening. We discuss an exchange. Tomorrow’s plans. My polyester black gown bartered for Cassandra’s blue sweater and black ballet flats. We’ll meet at mass, lunch, The Frick, The Met, the play, the party. The light is blue gray in my apartment, and all the windows steam over when the hot water is on. All the windows steam over because my apartment is very small, and because the bathroom has no doors. A New Year should feel psychedelic, not sluggish, one of my friends said, a few days back. Psychedelic??? I said. What about crisp and clear???? After my dream where there is No Air Left, I come to consciousness with concerns about redemption. Something about bad habits and something omnipresent left unsaid. Sun and light and real sort of detox incoming and yes this has all happened or is happening or needs to happen soon. Sirens outside the foggy window. Gentle winter sunrise. Watching Darling (1965) on my computer as it gets light outside. The Schlesinger film where Julie Christie whirls about all thrilled to find it’s not too late, even though, of course, it is. Back on my phone, I’m checking prediction markets and trackers and fortune tellers and all the things I’m trying to avoid for religious and also paranoid reasons. My fears are all confirmed. Reading the stars. That voice in your head telling you everything will work out fine is wrong, they say. Sound of shattering glass crystallizing outside my open window this morning. I can sense, therefore, more than see, bright morning light starting to seep through. Thank God. It was a few days of gluttony last week. Last days of bohemia, but it was different from the bohemia of before. Different from the times that we were all manic from the wind and cold and early January where everything or nothing happens all at once. Everything used to be reeling. I miss Butterfly Club. Ex-best friends are forever. I’ve been talking about being ascetic for reasons of necessity, and also because simulated intensity can only do so much when it comes to keeping a life pure. Morning, now, and I don’t remember my dreams but I jolted awake ready to chase the same thoughts in circles. Washington Square Park is bright and feeling like spring today, because the snow is melting and the trees and lights are coming down. Pine piles looking a little lonely under the park archway. Something a bit melancholy about it. Dead and gone. Nothing to overthink. Cassandra comes downtown for mass and black ballet flat retrieval, and then she goes uptown to clean her apartment and do good things so she can be a good person. Your apartment is already so clean, I want to tell Cassandra. Cassandra is telling me about the only girl in the world who are funny. I went to tell Cassandra about someone who said me and one other girl and one specific nun are only girls who are funny, but the conversation moves on before I can assert my piece. And I think I’m mostly funny when I’m being mimetic, anyway. Better at knowing funny than at being funny myself. Cassandra is telling me about childlike wonder. Washed my face with La Rouche Possay cleanser and Japanese milk toner and did Big 6 Lymphatic drainage which is supposed to do things like give you the whites of your eyes back and also cleanse your insides through and through, this morning. Procured a Celsius and cool minty zyn from the fridge. Procured green juice and cliff bar and sat in Prada boots, for a while, on the edge of my bed. I do feel confident things will work out in the end, Cassandra texts me. Only if no spiritual blockage with vice or isolation, I text her in response. What if we had seven more hours of daylight, my friend said tonight, but I like it when it is four pm and I’ve completed my day of obligations and the fading daylight matches a sense of completion. I wore a tan skirt with no tights because they all keep running and a black long sleeve tee and sneakers to do venue tours and other obligations. I thought you were coming from the gym when I saw you wearing shorts, my friend said, after I ran into him on the street. I’m not wearing shorts, but I am wearing sneakers because I keep on procuring mysterious injuries, I said in response. It was a strange December and then a good January, incoming. Good, because it is quiet. Good, because I think I sense things picking up. Can I see a menu, I asked the bartender, at a dive bar, later that night. There is no menu, because this is a dive bar, the bartender told me. Can I get something warm, I asked. The bartender fired up the kettle. Imagine seeking out attention to get only the negative aspects of fame like stalkers and rage, my friends were saying, at the dive bar. Imagine selling out your friends to cloy for low hanging fruit. Imagine turning twenty-six. Imagine playing pool. Imagine moving to Los Angeles, California, or San Salvador, El Salvador, or Geneva, or even Austin I would move anywhere, I was saying to my friends. I would move across the country or even the world and become very sweet or even very bored. My friends were talking about people for whom spectacle is just real life. You assume that everyone is excited to go back to real life, and then you realize that they have no real life. So these are the people that you’re supposed to avoid. And then after that, everyone was talking about religion again. Which is sort of crystallizing to be the topic these days, or even this year. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, January 14 A few good downtown art openings tonight (6pm - 9pm) — At 56 Henry; works by Yifan Jiang and Sareh Imani. At Entrance; Seth Cameron’s first New York exhibition in six years. At Post Times; Elberto Muller solo show.

Inline links: 56 Henry, Yifan Jiang, Sareh Imani, Entrance;, Seth Cameron’s, Post Times, Elberto Muller

Club Mel1 mentions across 1 issues

Club Mel is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 09, 2024 and October 09, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "a crisp yellow tee from Olly Shinder, Club Mel via RE/DONE, or Gimaguas". It most often appears alongside 52 Walker, @singersny, Are.na.

Article page: Club Mel
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 09, 2024
Last seen: October 09, 2024
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Collected Agenda with Sam Falb October 09, 2024

52 Walker 1 shared issues
@singersny 1 shared issues
Are.na 1 shared issues
Basement 1 shared issues
Behind The Seams 1 shared issues

Source context

October 09, 2024 · Original source

As the seasons change, ask yourself: what’s a sartorial need? For me, I want a crisp yellow tee from Olly Shinder, Club Mel via RE/DONE, or Gimaguas. Drape a TSE cashmere sweater over the back of the tee (probably black or cream), and throw a deeply cozy, black, wool top coat over the combination. This is the impending winter uniform of choice. Insulated, style-forward, and bright in its accent. All I need now is a shoe.

Inline links: Olly Shinder, Club Mel via RE/DONE, Gimaguas, TSE

Coca Cola1 mentions across 1 issues

Coca Cola is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 23, 2025 and January 23, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Coca Cola and muffin at the bodega for David". It most often appears alongside 4 Berry Street, 61 Lispenard, A Room of One's Own.

Article page: Coca Cola
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 23, 2025
Last seen: January 23, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Burn my diaries January 23, 2025

4 Berry Street 1 shared issues
61 Lispenard 1 shared issues
A Room of One's Own 1 shared issues
A Silent Woman 1 shared issues
Ada Antoinette 1 shared issues

Source context

January 23, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, January 19 Wet hair in the lobby at the gym. I am criticized only very slightly, and I am struck with nearly physical rage. I can’t walk anymore today. When I walk, I am compelled to think - then write - about myself. I have this huge body of work. I’ve written 364,133 unpublished words since my birthday in June, but they are all about myself, and the ugliest parts of myself at that. “You must be able to convert some of your journals into work you can use,” some of my friends say, but I don’t think anyone realizes just how bad they are. Any problem, the smallest problem, I can twist and chew and solve, often through written and rotating self deprecation and self congratulation that renders said problem irrelevant. I can do this over and over and over again, for hours daily, if I'm being honest. It’s not necessarily bad as a limited practice - churn out sludge so that it doesn’t live in your mind - but it becomes more and more excessive, nauseatingly so. I meet Madelyn at Shosh for dinner. The snowstorm has started. I texted David at the gym earlier: "big snowstorm coming." "Link me an article or you're full of shit," David said, but I wasn't, because it's here, and it's falling in big fat clumps. Shosh is lovely. It’s a new vegan wine bar in the West Village, which I would roll my eyes at as a concept, but Madelyn’s friends work there and I walk there in the blizzard - enter to a silver bar, an open kitchen, cream walls with a perfect archway cut into them that frames shades of glass wine bottles and assembled rows of thin wine glasses. We don’t get wine, but we do get gem salad, celeriac shawarma with fluffy bread, mushrooms, by which they mean every variety of mushroom you can imagine and a perfect green sauce to accompany. “Hummus is one of those things you think is all the same, but then you have good hummus…,” Madelyn’s friend who works there says, and he’s right, because the hummus here is determinately different. Better. Madelyn tells me she likes showing me good food, and I like this, too. Left to my own devices it’s all instant pistachio pudding and cold mashed potatoes eaten while standing up. This isn’t how one should live - slogging through the essential details of survival and routine like it’s something to get over with, not something to enjoy. At the very least, it’s something to be appreciated. I like meals like this. There’s the Casual Encounters reading later, the fundraiser for Los Angeles reading at that gallery in Tribeca, although all the galleries seem like they are suddenly in Tribeca these days. We’re there early. I can’t find the building, can’t get out of the snow. You do get out of the snow, eventually. You pick a few GoFundMe’s from the options laid out on the table, so many options on the table. You sit on the couch so you’re removed from the room, you have a birds eye view in that sense even though technically, you’re beneath, not above, it all. “You can see the social dynamics from here,” your friend says, kind of kidding, kind of not. You can see how the room clusters itself, at least. I stay for the readings, but not for long after. Walk home in the sleet and ice. It's a blizzard, but nothing is really sticking. Streets are mostly quiet - people in the windows of Lucia and Cipriani but otherwise it’s all empty. My reflection surprises me in the mirror when I get home. I only wear dresses, but today I’m wearing jeans. Mundanity, mundanity, mundanity. David says he wants to go to KGB, and at first I want to go too, but then I decide that I don’t. He leaves, walking into the storm as I’m coming out of it. I start to feel sick around eleven pm. I feel strange, falling asleep. Being sick really scares me. I hope it goes away. Monday, January 20 I expected to wake up sad this morning but I didn't. The snow didn't stick, but a thin layer of it did freeze. I'm sliding down the streets, and they aren't empty anymore. Bright, bright, icy light today. Coca Cola and muffin at the bodega for David. Celsius for me. Green tea mango and Cyanocobalamin. I need black coffee. Inauguration today. I walk and write for ninety minutes. I tried to join the David Lynch Meditation Live Stream at noon, but I got the time zones wrong and I was meant to join at three. It’s five now. Too late. Sitting in a steam room in a cloud of eucalyptus smog. The semester begins tomorrow, and other things, too. An end to my life of leisure, or more generously, an end to responsibility only as self directed. I feel like I was starting to figure it out. Non-fiction in the morning, fiction at night - my friend Grazie advised me of this schedule this summer. Being honest, though, I need more intensive direction. Natasha goes to take snow photos in Washington Square Park, but she says that Jill Stein is there and the park is so so so loud. The theme is: anti imperialism.. She sends me a photo of the birds in the snow. In an ironic twist, David is sick, but I am not. He orders sushi from Soho Sushi. He gives me five pieces from a california roll. I make cinnamon chai tea in the mug my dad got me from the ceramics shop near Mishaum. Every mug there is different. Mine has coarse leaves all over it, and a special rivet where your hand fits. “This apartment is pretty magical when it’s icy,” David admitted earlier, because it’s a greenhouse roof and so when you look up today it’s all like a snow globe. Icicles swirl in soft formations overhead, melting in morning light and then refreezing slightly differently as the sky turns hazy. I have my head under the cover. I’m reading other people’s diaries. Kafka, Anais Nin, I like the diaries I find online, too. I like the diaries I am sent. This isn’t my diary. I cannot stress that enough. My real diary is often quite ugly. This is one of the things I feel most guilty for. It’s strange, though. I wake up, I write in my secret diary, I walk for many miles, I write in my diary that I share online. It is good I will have less time, soon. Anya is staying with me tonight. David, in a friend's spare bedroom because I cannot, cannot, cannot get sick right now, too. It's so nice tonight. Anya and I have been friends since we were two weeks old. I used to tell people that as a child - "this is my best friend since I was two weeks old." Dimes in the snow. Clandestino in the snow. I really like sitting in the corner of a bar until the night reaches its bitter end. Not tonight, though. It's only ten. Tuesday, January 21 My first real responsibility in a month, and it's canceled - a whim of the weather. The snow has melted overnight and in its place is chalky salt stained pavement as far as you can see. It looks like marble. They turned Soho into marble in the night. I try to run outside, but it's too cold. Bitter cold, not pleasant cold. I'm coughing up the chalky air. It's the coldest day of the year. There's a man on the street and he's running towards the train, sloshing coffee all over his suit but he doesn't seem to even notice, certainly he doesn't care. The drops are freezing to the sleeves of his camel hair jacket before they reach the ground. He's covered in little coffee icicles. I doubt it will stain. I had nightmares last night. Everyone knew I was Actually Bad. I woke up saying "help me", but I used to wake up talking about rituals in rural places, so this is not a negative progression in the storyline of my possible possession. The chalky pavement has turned to ice in the afternoon. Walking under the Washington Square arch on the way to Tibet House and its icier than ever. The ground is all glazed over. It’s the latest installment of the Arden Wohl’s reading series at Tibet House; Inauguration Edition this time. Madelyn is wearing a pink sweatshirt when I get there. Madelyn is telling me about knowing your own mind. Alex Auder reads about cock sucking and brings up a friend to read with her who enjoys the act, because she doesn't "I feel demeaned when I suck dick. I feel demeaned when I teach yoga," she says. She reads a story about a life in servitude to someone famous who reminds her of Donald Trump. Tonight is a night where as soon as I have one glass of wine, I wish I didn’t. The haze sets in, and I want it to clear. Beckett arrives. The readings are mostly good, but I’m jittery. I sit in the lobby and I eat some grapes and cheese, replace the wine with water. “Over the years I noticed from my overlord that peasants were increasingly behaving like they were nobles,” Alex Auder is saying, when I return. “There are more cameras than there are people in the world,” Gideon Jacobs is reading, later. I can’t stop drifting in and out of the room. I’m worried about some things, about some people. I get like this sometimes, and I wish I could get it to stop. I go to the bathroom and I return again, to a reading about Courtney Love. “She used to do water ballet and she was getting into the grateful dead.” “She lied a lot and never listened directly but she was a sponge - she takes a word from an incidental periphery and works it into her trope in real time. She’s that fast.” “She said she was born on my birthday; July 1st, but she was born a week later; July 8th” This is my type of lie, I’m thinking. A lie to please. False enchantment. It’s a juvenile compulsion, you mostly outgrow it, and if it was Courtney Love partaking then perhaps it was charming, but my visceral reaction is one of repulsion. Lizzi Bougatsos reads about Gary Indiana. She sits on the floor and she clips her toenails. “We shall mark memory with reverence,” Arden is saying. Beckett is telling me that it’s cool to be at a reading that’s an older crowd, and it is, it’s wine and cheese, there’s no disco party to follow. Beckett introduces me to his acquaintance from Paris. They are talking about Godot and prison sentences. Samuel Beckett gave his Nobel Prize money to a jail org, or was it prisone.org One time, there was a prison break after a performance of Godot. Madelyn is making tape formations on her phone with the other Lacanians. Lacan as separated from psychoanalysis. Lacan as applicable to real life. I’m just gleaning sentences. These ideas aren’t mine. Cigarette outside and then a burger at the orthodox Jewish establishment nearby. We forgot they can only do vegan cheese on burgers here. A lychee martini instead. They’re playing pop music so loud Wednesday, January 23 I hear my neighbors door shut as I’m poised to leave this morning. Decide, instead, to hover in the kitchen. We don't really like each other, my neighbor and I. Nothing was ever said, but there’s an underlying hostility. I have friends over too late, too often. The walls are thin. I'm glad to be waking up at the same time as the rest of the world, though. Sometimes - up all night, becoming manic around five am, this can be nice, but it's usually not. Normal hours. Normal cycles of day and night. The ice has come and smoothed everything over. Too cold to listen to music on my walk to school. I'm peeling off layers in an office, at the gym, the hallway of our apartment is becoming salty and dusted with the chalky snowstorm residue that first coated the surface of everything, and that now is starting to settle. Nothing is volatile. Such placidity, suddenly, but I’m not bored. All the calm in the world. Thank god. It really was about time. And so, you eat two chalky protein pop tarts on the bench at the gym. There are two girls with thick french accents in the locker room parallel to you. "He's a fucking retard, he only calls me at three am and it's only because he wants to sleep with my friends," says one of the girls. She's wearing a sherpa jacket. KHRISJOY, it says, in big red dripping letters. Spray paint imitation. You look it up - $2145 online. It's so ugly, but you're vaguely impressed. Of course you are. You're wearing a Versace sports bra that you bought for a music festival in high school. Absurd. The people watching here is good. The girl is still talking. She's so furious. "And he would be calling to sleep with me, but he knows he can't, fucking retard," she is saying. This version of the narration makes more sense - her rage rooted in something adjacent to jealousy. You gather your things. You gather your tote bags. It's too cold for so many bags. Your hands get numb out there. You're in a humid basement now, but you can't stay here forever. There's an artists talk tonight, but do you have it in you to attend? Cheese and sausage for dinner at home. I forgot about the dishes and I left the sink running for an hour. I’ve never known how to dress for the weather, but that doesn’t mean I mind the extremes. Today - my mother’s gloves, a borrowed Urbit hat from David, a beanie really, it looks insane but it’s too freezing for me to mind. More isn’t always more. More is often so, intolerably, annoying. I don’t want to wear a coat. My books arrive today. Mostly for school, plus one Ruby recommended. I’ll read them all - I’m glad that I have reason to. Salvador - Joan Didion The Company She Keeps - Mary McCarthy The Fire Next Time - James Baldwin Confessions - Saint Augustine The Situation and the Story - Vivian Gornic A Room of One’s Own - Virginia Woolf A Silent Woman - Janet Malcom Are You My Mother - Alison Bechdel The Argonauts - Maggie Nelson The Atrocity Exhibition - J. G. Ballard WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, January 23 From 6pm - 8pm at 61 Lispenard — Canada NY and Eighth House present Rest and Reprieve: A Window into Creative Solitude. Eighth House is “an interdisciplinary residency for artists and curators located in Central Vermont.” The exhibition serves as a benefit for this very special residency.

Coca-Cola1 mentions across 1 issues

Coca-Cola is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 23, 2025 and January 23, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Coca Cola and muffin at the bodega for David". It most often appears alongside 4 Berry Street, 61 Lispenard, A Room of One's Own.

Article page: Coca-Cola
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 23, 2025
Last seen: January 23, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Burn my diaries January 23, 2025

4 Berry Street 1 shared issues
61 Lispenard 1 shared issues
A Room of One's Own 1 shared issues
A Silent Woman 1 shared issues
Ada Antoinette 1 shared issues

Source context

January 23, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, January 19 Wet hair in the lobby at the gym. I am criticized only very slightly, and I am struck with nearly physical rage. I can’t walk anymore today. When I walk, I am compelled to think - then write - about myself. I have this huge body of work. I’ve written 364,133 unpublished words since my birthday in June, but they are all about myself, and the ugliest parts of myself at that. “You must be able to convert some of your journals into work you can use,” some of my friends say, but I don’t think anyone realizes just how bad they are. Any problem, the smallest problem, I can twist and chew and solve, often through written and rotating self deprecation and self congratulation that renders said problem irrelevant. I can do this over and over and over again, for hours daily, if I'm being honest. It’s not necessarily bad as a limited practice - churn out sludge so that it doesn’t live in your mind - but it becomes more and more excessive, nauseatingly so. I meet Madelyn at Shosh for dinner. The snowstorm has started. I texted David at the gym earlier: "big snowstorm coming." "Link me an article or you're full of shit," David said, but I wasn't, because it's here, and it's falling in big fat clumps. Shosh is lovely. It’s a new vegan wine bar in the West Village, which I would roll my eyes at as a concept, but Madelyn’s friends work there and I walk there in the blizzard - enter to a silver bar, an open kitchen, cream walls with a perfect archway cut into them that frames shades of glass wine bottles and assembled rows of thin wine glasses. We don’t get wine, but we do get gem salad, celeriac shawarma with fluffy bread, mushrooms, by which they mean every variety of mushroom you can imagine and a perfect green sauce to accompany. “Hummus is one of those things you think is all the same, but then you have good hummus…,” Madelyn’s friend who works there says, and he’s right, because the hummus here is determinately different. Better. Madelyn tells me she likes showing me good food, and I like this, too. Left to my own devices it’s all instant pistachio pudding and cold mashed potatoes eaten while standing up. This isn’t how one should live - slogging through the essential details of survival and routine like it’s something to get over with, not something to enjoy. At the very least, it’s something to be appreciated. I like meals like this. There’s the Casual Encounters reading later, the fundraiser for Los Angeles reading at that gallery in Tribeca, although all the galleries seem like they are suddenly in Tribeca these days. We’re there early. I can’t find the building, can’t get out of the snow. You do get out of the snow, eventually. You pick a few GoFundMe’s from the options laid out on the table, so many options on the table. You sit on the couch so you’re removed from the room, you have a birds eye view in that sense even though technically, you’re beneath, not above, it all. “You can see the social dynamics from here,” your friend says, kind of kidding, kind of not. You can see how the room clusters itself, at least. I stay for the readings, but not for long after. Walk home in the sleet and ice. It's a blizzard, but nothing is really sticking. Streets are mostly quiet - people in the windows of Lucia and Cipriani but otherwise it’s all empty. My reflection surprises me in the mirror when I get home. I only wear dresses, but today I’m wearing jeans. Mundanity, mundanity, mundanity. David says he wants to go to KGB, and at first I want to go too, but then I decide that I don’t. He leaves, walking into the storm as I’m coming out of it. I start to feel sick around eleven pm. I feel strange, falling asleep. Being sick really scares me. I hope it goes away. Monday, January 20 I expected to wake up sad this morning but I didn't. The snow didn't stick, but a thin layer of it did freeze. I'm sliding down the streets, and they aren't empty anymore. Bright, bright, icy light today. Coca Cola and muffin at the bodega for David. Celsius for me. Green tea mango and Cyanocobalamin. I need black coffee. Inauguration today. I walk and write for ninety minutes. I tried to join the David Lynch Meditation Live Stream at noon, but I got the time zones wrong and I was meant to join at three. It’s five now. Too late. Sitting in a steam room in a cloud of eucalyptus smog. The semester begins tomorrow, and other things, too. An end to my life of leisure, or more generously, an end to responsibility only as self directed. I feel like I was starting to figure it out. Non-fiction in the morning, fiction at night - my friend Grazie advised me of this schedule this summer. Being honest, though, I need more intensive direction. Natasha goes to take snow photos in Washington Square Park, but she says that Jill Stein is there and the park is so so so loud. The theme is: anti imperialism.. She sends me a photo of the birds in the snow. In an ironic twist, David is sick, but I am not. He orders sushi from Soho Sushi. He gives me five pieces from a california roll. I make cinnamon chai tea in the mug my dad got me from the ceramics shop near Mishaum. Every mug there is different. Mine has coarse leaves all over it, and a special rivet where your hand fits. “This apartment is pretty magical when it’s icy,” David admitted earlier, because it’s a greenhouse roof and so when you look up today it’s all like a snow globe. Icicles swirl in soft formations overhead, melting in morning light and then refreezing slightly differently as the sky turns hazy. I have my head under the cover. I’m reading other people’s diaries. Kafka, Anais Nin, I like the diaries I find online, too. I like the diaries I am sent. This isn’t my diary. I cannot stress that enough. My real diary is often quite ugly. This is one of the things I feel most guilty for. It’s strange, though. I wake up, I write in my secret diary, I walk for many miles, I write in my diary that I share online. It is good I will have less time, soon. Anya is staying with me tonight. David, in a friend's spare bedroom because I cannot, cannot, cannot get sick right now, too. It's so nice tonight. Anya and I have been friends since we were two weeks old. I used to tell people that as a child - "this is my best friend since I was two weeks old." Dimes in the snow. Clandestino in the snow. I really like sitting in the corner of a bar until the night reaches its bitter end. Not tonight, though. It's only ten. Tuesday, January 21 My first real responsibility in a month, and it's canceled - a whim of the weather. The snow has melted overnight and in its place is chalky salt stained pavement as far as you can see. It looks like marble. They turned Soho into marble in the night. I try to run outside, but it's too cold. Bitter cold, not pleasant cold. I'm coughing up the chalky air. It's the coldest day of the year. There's a man on the street and he's running towards the train, sloshing coffee all over his suit but he doesn't seem to even notice, certainly he doesn't care. The drops are freezing to the sleeves of his camel hair jacket before they reach the ground. He's covered in little coffee icicles. I doubt it will stain. I had nightmares last night. Everyone knew I was Actually Bad. I woke up saying "help me", but I used to wake up talking about rituals in rural places, so this is not a negative progression in the storyline of my possible possession. The chalky pavement has turned to ice in the afternoon. Walking under the Washington Square arch on the way to Tibet House and its icier than ever. The ground is all glazed over. It’s the latest installment of the Arden Wohl’s reading series at Tibet House; Inauguration Edition this time. Madelyn is wearing a pink sweatshirt when I get there. Madelyn is telling me about knowing your own mind. Alex Auder reads about cock sucking and brings up a friend to read with her who enjoys the act, because she doesn't "I feel demeaned when I suck dick. I feel demeaned when I teach yoga," she says. She reads a story about a life in servitude to someone famous who reminds her of Donald Trump. Tonight is a night where as soon as I have one glass of wine, I wish I didn’t. The haze sets in, and I want it to clear. Beckett arrives. The readings are mostly good, but I’m jittery. I sit in the lobby and I eat some grapes and cheese, replace the wine with water. “Over the years I noticed from my overlord that peasants were increasingly behaving like they were nobles,” Alex Auder is saying, when I return. “There are more cameras than there are people in the world,” Gideon Jacobs is reading, later. I can’t stop drifting in and out of the room. I’m worried about some things, about some people. I get like this sometimes, and I wish I could get it to stop. I go to the bathroom and I return again, to a reading about Courtney Love. “She used to do water ballet and she was getting into the grateful dead.” “She lied a lot and never listened directly but she was a sponge - she takes a word from an incidental periphery and works it into her trope in real time. She’s that fast.” “She said she was born on my birthday; July 1st, but she was born a week later; July 8th” This is my type of lie, I’m thinking. A lie to please. False enchantment. It’s a juvenile compulsion, you mostly outgrow it, and if it was Courtney Love partaking then perhaps it was charming, but my visceral reaction is one of repulsion. Lizzi Bougatsos reads about Gary Indiana. She sits on the floor and she clips her toenails. “We shall mark memory with reverence,” Arden is saying. Beckett is telling me that it’s cool to be at a reading that’s an older crowd, and it is, it’s wine and cheese, there’s no disco party to follow. Beckett introduces me to his acquaintance from Paris. They are talking about Godot and prison sentences. Samuel Beckett gave his Nobel Prize money to a jail org, or was it prisone.org One time, there was a prison break after a performance of Godot. Madelyn is making tape formations on her phone with the other Lacanians. Lacan as separated from psychoanalysis. Lacan as applicable to real life. I’m just gleaning sentences. These ideas aren’t mine. Cigarette outside and then a burger at the orthodox Jewish establishment nearby. We forgot they can only do vegan cheese on burgers here. A lychee martini instead. They’re playing pop music so loud Wednesday, January 23 I hear my neighbors door shut as I’m poised to leave this morning. Decide, instead, to hover in the kitchen. We don't really like each other, my neighbor and I. Nothing was ever said, but there’s an underlying hostility. I have friends over too late, too often. The walls are thin. I'm glad to be waking up at the same time as the rest of the world, though. Sometimes - up all night, becoming manic around five am, this can be nice, but it's usually not. Normal hours. Normal cycles of day and night. The ice has come and smoothed everything over. Too cold to listen to music on my walk to school. I'm peeling off layers in an office, at the gym, the hallway of our apartment is becoming salty and dusted with the chalky snowstorm residue that first coated the surface of everything, and that now is starting to settle. Nothing is volatile. Such placidity, suddenly, but I’m not bored. All the calm in the world. Thank god. It really was about time. And so, you eat two chalky protein pop tarts on the bench at the gym. There are two girls with thick french accents in the locker room parallel to you. "He's a fucking retard, he only calls me at three am and it's only because he wants to sleep with my friends," says one of the girls. She's wearing a sherpa jacket. KHRISJOY, it says, in big red dripping letters. Spray paint imitation. You look it up - $2145 online. It's so ugly, but you're vaguely impressed. Of course you are. You're wearing a Versace sports bra that you bought for a music festival in high school. Absurd. The people watching here is good. The girl is still talking. She's so furious. "And he would be calling to sleep with me, but he knows he can't, fucking retard," she is saying. This version of the narration makes more sense - her rage rooted in something adjacent to jealousy. You gather your things. You gather your tote bags. It's too cold for so many bags. Your hands get numb out there. You're in a humid basement now, but you can't stay here forever. There's an artists talk tonight, but do you have it in you to attend? Cheese and sausage for dinner at home. I forgot about the dishes and I left the sink running for an hour. I’ve never known how to dress for the weather, but that doesn’t mean I mind the extremes. Today - my mother’s gloves, a borrowed Urbit hat from David, a beanie really, it looks insane but it’s too freezing for me to mind. More isn’t always more. More is often so, intolerably, annoying. I don’t want to wear a coat. My books arrive today. Mostly for school, plus one Ruby recommended. I’ll read them all - I’m glad that I have reason to. Salvador - Joan Didion The Company She Keeps - Mary McCarthy The Fire Next Time - James Baldwin Confessions - Saint Augustine The Situation and the Story - Vivian Gornic A Room of One’s Own - Virginia Woolf A Silent Woman - Janet Malcom Are You My Mother - Alison Bechdel The Argonauts - Maggie Nelson The Atrocity Exhibition - J. G. Ballard WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, January 23 From 6pm - 8pm at 61 Lispenard — Canada NY and Eighth House present Rest and Reprieve: A Window into Creative Solitude. Eighth House is “an interdisciplinary residency for artists and curators located in Central Vermont.” The exhibition serves as a benefit for this very special residency.

Cocoa Puffs1 mentions across 1 issues

Cocoa Puffs is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between December 09, 2025 and December 09, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "coocoo-for-coco puffs lady". It most often appears alongside A Winter Ball, Alice Bailey, An Evening of Internet Cinema.

Article page: Cocoa Puffs
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: December 09, 2025
Last seen: December 09, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Hotel Lobby Gossip December 09, 2025

A Winter Ball 1 shared issues
Alice Bailey 1 shared issues
An Evening of Internet Cinema 1 shared issues
Annabel Gould 1 shared issues
Araya 1 shared issues

Source context

Hotel Lobby Gossip

December 09, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, December 1 Everyone is sick and dropping like flies but not me. I’m at a rooftop hot tub in Williamsburg tracing my hands through the water and watching the sun come up as I stare blankly ahead. I’m driving back to New York City squinting into the skeleton trees and the blue hour dusk that fills the space between them on the side of the road off the Mohawk Trail. Do you shop at Uniglo, my family members are asking? I am muttering something about Brandy Melville in response and then I am feeling vaguely nauseous. I am break the pattern today or the loop repeats tomorrow. I am imagining everything magical all the time. I am washing up on the Upper West Side where the streets are wide and quiet and sweet and winter rain has frozen everything shining. I am washing up in the Marlton Hotel Lobby, where I am telling Celia about my dream. In my dream, a composite of every person I’ve ever met was calling me on my phone, I tell Celia. They kept on asking me to turn the call to Facetime instead. They kept on saying it was time to see each other’s faces. They were warm and not scary and I was crying and pleading a lot, though I don’t know what for. Was it everyone you ever met, or just everyone you’ve ever cared for? Celia asks me. Same thing, I say. That is unequivocally untrue, Celia tells me. Tuesday, December 2 In The Marlton Hotel lobby, I order black coffee, avocado, smoked salmon and sourdough toast with the perfect type of butter. The butter with salt water mixed in, and then a tall bottle of sparkling water on the side, too. Eavesdropping at The Marlton Hotel, where the bar room is decked in Christmas cheer and the fire, per usual, is roaring. The conversations on either side of me are increasingly hallucinogenic. Two chirpy and pretty girls to the right, and two middle-aged Jewish ladies to the left This is how I feel with a lot of my relationships, one of the girls says. The first was not a provider, but I thought that I could fix that. The second was a psycho libertarian who got me health insurance as his sick way of trying to lock it down The last man I dated told me I was full of shit, her friend responds. I said something in earnest, and he said that I was full of shit. I could never see past that. Me saying something in sincerity, and him saying I was full of shit. On the other side, the middle-aged Jewish women are talking about pizza night. It’s pizza night and then it’s pepper night. They have no plans this week. These are the only plans they have made. I’m getting dinner with a man who thought his whole family was dead, but then they weren’t, one of the women tells the other. He is so amazing. He taught me about exercise. I get the zoomies, says her friend. We don’t work, and so we have to exercise. I hate people who don’t. Exercise? Exercise. When were things the best with him? The first girl is asking her friend. I think, before we met, the friend responds. Who was that coocoo-for-coco puffs lady that you got friendly with, the middle aged woman asks her friend. She is wearing a red amulet. We will call her Celine. Oh, she was crazy. and the sister was out of her mind. she was very beautiful You introduced her to me one week and we loved her. And then the next week you said; She Cannot. Come. Back. Here. We pick up interesting people. Everyone’s interesting It is so weird when we think about relationships as two full selves coming together, one girl is telling the other. They liked coats! Whole family of coat owners, Celine is telling her friend. I mean the father was GAY. The whole family was gay. My first kiss was gay. Well… his brothers were gay. All his brothers were gay…” Celine’s friend says. So he HAD to be! They’re all gay! As long as they’re happy…. Amongst the girls to the right, the conversation has turned to heaven and earth. Death and other realms. They are talking about Neurolink and how they were at a neurolink conference and they met a man who died for twenty minutes because he slipped and fell and chipped a tooth and affixated in his own blood. Do you want to hear what happened when he died?, one girl asks another Yes, the other responds. He was floating in light. He was disembodied. He could hear sounds but they weren’t sounds he could describe in human terms. There was a God-like presence, and God asked the man if he would like to stay. The man started to feel a pull towards earth. It was like when you wake up from a dream. God said you have a choice. God said everyone has a choice. The man made the decision to go back to Earth. The man woke up in the hospital bed. Her friend responds: I spoke with a psychiatry professor at Harvard who briefly died as part of a death-study, but he couldn’t tell me about it because he signed an NDA. He said he can’t say very much, but it’s going to be ok. Girl 1: So what do you think about that? Girl 2: I mean I definitely don’t believe in heaven or hell Girl 1: The reason I never killed myself is because I want to see what happens Girl 2: I mean I definetly do believe that consciousness is eternal… Wednesday, December 3 What do I care about now? Write and read. Wait with pulsing anticipation but not too much anticipation, mostly just a sense that some things are at their tail end and others at their precipices. Something in Saturn, maybe, but I am trying not to play with fire in this way. After I played Kali Uchis off the tinny computer speakers and I read books by healers who possessed demons and I drank sparkling water and cleaned everything top to bottom and flirted with danger a bit, Celia came over to sit on my floor. I think I’m having a bit of a panic attack, Celia texted me. Would you like to come sit on the floor of my apartment, I texted Celia. She arrived in a gray sweater and a blue wool scarf and bearing a suitcase that belonged to me. Do you like the window open? I asked Celia. I am feeling a bit cold, Celia told me. I am feeling very excited and ambitious, I told Celia. I have always had boundless energy and this is the only thing I know to be true. There are magazines on the way to the apartment and I am realizing how nice it is when things are very clean. I am going to go to The Marlton hotel now, Celia told me. Thursday, December 4 Writing, like a list, the things I have that I can quantify, now. A blog

Corona1 mentions across 1 issues

Corona is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 12, 2025 and September 12, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "I will drink Corona with lime". It most often appears alongside Accidie, Albania, AltCitizen.

Article page: Corona
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 12, 2025
Last seen: September 12, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Perfect Little Life September 12, 2025

Accidie 1 shared issues
Albania 1 shared issues
AltCitizen 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
ARDOR 1 shared issues

Source context

September 12, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, September 7 Woke up to something amazing happening. More rain outside and also, a message from Emma. How are you? Emma asks. Like no time has passed at all, though of course, years have. There are other things to think about first. Octopus and shrimp salad and some cicen cheese at Tashkent Market. Interrogate one’s own sincerity. I am certain that Emma lives a very full and rich life now. I am not sure where in the world she is. I will know this soon. The first time I met Emma, her mom drove her to my house as a friend of a friend on her sixteenth birthday. I made signs to welcome my new acquaintance. Strung up HAPPY BIRTHDAY EMMA and WE HEART EMMA on poster board in neon sharpie above the wooden porch to greet her when she arrived. Nice to meet you Emma, I remember saying. The formality was awkward because I really wanted Emma to already be my friend. Later, I posted a photo of Emma and I hugging on the beach. Happy birthday Emma, I posted. Like plastering our pseudo-friendship online would make it real. After Emma and I became friends, and after Emma got her learner’s permit a few months after that, she would drive around Natick, Massachusetts with me hidden in the back of her trunk looking for parties that we’d find posted on YikYak. We would come home disappointed, usually, drinking a few warm beers in her parents’ basement or sitting with people we didn’t really know on the outer edges of my parents back yard. A few years had passed that way, and then another year hitchhiking around the Balkans after high school. Emma had convinced me to come bartend in Budapest and so I’d lost or maybe gained another life, here, drinking liquor and taking pills from strange cups in hostel hallways. Hitching rides from strange women across the Montenegro border. We’d bought loaves of bread and tomato sauce and bottles of wine to drink in the backseat and we'd driven for quite some time along coastlines and corn fields. They burned brush to prevent forest fires in this part of the world, and so often the sides of the highway would be almost totally ablaze. Emma and I were always half asleep, half drunk, half larping as destitute and disassociated and developing an early onset case of Peter Pan syndrome as mostly mine but kind of our cerebral ambitions paled in comparison to the magical ephemerality of our alcoholic, older, nomadic, wandering compatriots. My best friend Emma was more solid than I was. She had traveled for a while longer while I washed up in a hotel room in Albania and then, a flight back to Boston. Emma sold coffee in Morocco and then attended Georgetown. Emma calls mid afternoon. Are you still in New York? Emma asks me. She’s in the car in San Diego and she’s driving home from the beach with her boyfriend. Emma and her boyfriend are laughing. The perfect little life. Sitting on the edge of my bed in my New York studio apartment and I’m feeling kind of giddy because here I am, suddenly, with this perfect little window into the perfect little life. It’s exactly as I suspected. I talk quickly at Emma for about twenty minutes when I pick up the phone, mostly recounting the events of the spring and summer, but there are other things, too. Sorry, I say when I finish my story. Sorry sorry sorry. Emma sighs, though she remains cheerful. I always thought you’d marry young, Emma says. Are you ok? Emma asks. You should talk about yourself now, I tell Emma. And so Emma tells me that she is in San Diego with her boyfriend. They have been there since the spring now, and they have started to make some friends. They are driving home from the beach. They are stopping for food. Emma is in a city on the Pacific coast of California known for its beaches, parks and warm climate. Emma is on the edge of a deep harbor that is home to a large active naval fleet. I imagine that it is misty there sometimes and sunny at other times and the houses are bright colored beach bungalows and they are always filled up with a little bit of sand. All my dreams this summer have been about California, I tell Emma. There is an OctoberFest party in San Diego, Emma tells me. Come to San Diego, Emma urges me. Do you surf a lot?, I ask Emma. Where are you getting food? Is everything made of wood and is everyone barefoot all the time and do you buy blue dresses at second-hand shops and wear them as you wander down the coast? Do you feed seagulls scraps of fish as they fly over your perfect white wooden balcony and do you go to the carnival and get massages at open air studios on the pier and is everything kind of pastel and creaky and at what pace does time pass? So, I will go to San Diego. Not in October but sometime soon. Sometime in the spring. Emma and Arthur will drive me around in their perfect little car and I will sleep on their perfect little couch and I will drink Corona with lime and wear a bikini in March and everything will be kind of pastel and creaky and I imagine I won’t be too aware of time passing at all. I will be embraced and absorbed by a life that does not belong to me. Maybe it’ll be like Never Land. Maybe I’ll stay forever. Monday, September 8 In New York City, people feed birds scraps of food and then grab them by their bare hands, too. In Washington Square Park, the tourists from Prague are doing this today. Washington Square Park, which is peppered with falling leaves and fountain mist and Bad Luck Spots, which I will never make the mistake of stepping on again. The park is still green but becoming less so. I’ve been praying for the cold, and now it is almost here. It is September 8th. It is Day One of being Cerebral and Ascetic and I am feeling very horrified that I ever thought it might be good to opt for any other alternative path. I am feeling regretful for my experimentations in self-abandonment and trying-on-new-personalities though, I suppose, this is where God comes in. And it was a God filled day yesterday, which is something I still hope to be somewhat watchful with and let things happen to me rather than intellectualize it all. The greatest thing is to Love and Know and Be Loved And Known, strangers kept on telling me yesterday. I already knew this, but I wrote it down anyway. Write it down and filter it through new contexts. Begin the day. It is Monday now. It is September 8th. I run into Emilia at Caffe Reggio, where I always sit and where she always finds me. You seem kind of volatile, she tells me. You should write about God if you are sick of writing about yourself. You should write about art. You should not write about politics. You should come to Slovenia. I was sitting in a church last night and someone was laughing outside. The laughter was reverberating inside. The laughter was distorting sound waves off the walls and causing interference with the incense and the air and with the silence. Because it was, otherwise, silent. Felt very frozen. Felt like fall. Felt like it was all beautiful even here in stupid NYC. Felt like I slowly noticed myself, shaking. What's your favorite book, a stranger asked me at the bar, later. V by Thomas Pynchon I said, because that's the book I read last and my mind was moving kind of slowly. What's your favorite film, the stranger asked. Diva by Jean-Jacques Beineix because that is the film I watched and liked last or also; Manhattan and Match Point, I said. What's your favorite book, I asked the stranger. The stranger smiled. I always say The Bible when people ask me that. Tuesday, September 9 In the criss-crossed wood-roofed apartment, the lights start to flicker around eight pm which is a good reminder, then, that one is never supposed to linger in the sort of place like this. One is supposed to live in a city like this so that one might pace around and wait for omens. It is Fashion Week which means even less to me this year than Art Week did the week before. It is energies and after parties and humiliation rituals when I'm wearing my cotton non-synthetic workout wear all around Soho at a time like this and; all of this of course, means nothing at all and so this week is just like any other. This summer passed kind of dusty and endless and I do not feel sorry for myself anymore because first of all there is no need for that it is just one life all at once and second of all, Accidie is the only truly mortal sin and so one must proceed with caution. I sat with Amelia in bars with sparkling water in June for a while because I just could not go home. I sat with other sorts of substances for a while after that and I took it too far. Day One (trying again) of being Ascetic and Cerebral tonight. September 9. 999. People on the Internet say that means something and I'm good at taking people at their word. Sitting in the basement of Night Club 101 at the AltCitizen show with Joe and Darby and a cup of Suju waiting for the after party to start. The basement of Night Club 101 feels kind of like a high school music room classroom particularly now, particularly empty. Joe and Darby and I are talking about the gap between self possession and self awareness and a Kinsey Scale sort of method of categorizing people this way. Self possessed people often lacking self awareness and vice versa. The lowest form of discourse being discourse on discourse. Smart people talking about ideas average people talking about events stupid people talking about other people; though, I sort of disagree with this concept. Other people are the root of all loftier things like "Ideas", I am saying. It's like The Backrooms down here, Darby is saying. It's like a kind of weird vibe but we don't want to leave. We're near the bathrooms and so others keep drifting by but they don't want to stay. Fabulous outfits. Rockstar Girlfriends. Los Angeles apparel unitard and big black boots lining up for the restroom or to buy socks that say I CAN DO ANYTHING ON DRUGS. Patchwork style neon dress and small gray loafers, silver ballet flats leather pants light green linen v neck top. Lots of girls with long and flowy and jet black hair here. Lace black dresses that look like spiderwebs paired with emerald necklaces. Lots of guys in jeans with long and curly hair or long and greasy hair and they all are carrying guitars. I'm perched in the bleachers in the basement with my one kind of SEC-school-style-tattoo and an A-line dress watching everyone kind of wistfully. So, there were a few different lives and now there is something else. Maybe in the next one, I will pick a life like the club kids. Micro-bangs and rock music. Fall asleep in Bushwick or in the back of a bus. Buy a bus and drive across the country with a lust for Music above all. Drive past things like diners in Wyoming or sacred hot springs in New Mexico or the haunted Mount Washington Hotel in New Hampshire or Motel 6s and 8s somewhere along the way. Drive to California wearing True Religion low rise jeans and shredded tees. Drive all the way to the Pacific Ocean. Can't stop thinking about the Pacific Ocean. Drive to San Diego. Wash up on Emma and Arthur's door. I would do fewer things each day in this life, but maybe each of them would matter more. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Friday, September 12 From 7:30pm - 9:00pm at Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research — It’s your last week to see ARDOR - a very special play following a group of nine artists and friends on an annual retreat to their aging patrons Vermont farmhouse. Nothing and everything has changed and will change.

Inline links: Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research, ARDOR

Corona Extra1 mentions across 1 issues

Corona Extra is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between April 10, 2025 and April 10, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Yerba mate and corona extra and white claw and paloma in a can and redbull green". It most often appears alongside A Bath of Approbation, Against Nihilism, all the words that came down to meet the body that came up from the ground.

Article page: Corona Extra
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: April 10, 2025
Last seen: April 10, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

Santa Teresa April 10, 2025

A Bath of Approbation 1 shared issues
Against Nihilism 1 shared issues
all the words that came down to meet the body that came up from the ground 1 shared issues
Alyssa Davis Gallery 1 shared issues
Anna Robertson 1 shared issues

Source context

April 10, 2025 · Original source

Friday, April 4 It's been such a haze since arriving in Costa Rica and at first I felt strange about it, like this isn't Good Behavior, treating a Big Trip kind of glibly, feeling a bit pouty and out of sorts and letting myself just be whisked away like it's nothing, when really it's never nothing, when really it's always touch and go and particularly something like this should make me feel ecstatic. Though, I kind of do feel ecstatic. I never really do become jaded. I quantify and calculate it all far too much to take anything for granted. You do kind of feel like you're floating, though. Cold beer to clutch between my knees on the sea plane that starts up all shaky and then scares me less even than a commercial plane because I can see into the cockpit and I can get the sense of how these pilots are navigating this thing. A cloud is just a cloud. I've been using too many words to inadequately explain myself. Send some bizarre texts upon landing that I hope will be encoded with… what, exactly? But, you’re in the jungle when you land. The sea plane slipped over the rainforest and then slipped out to sea, into the clouds. This part made me a bit nervous because there was nothing to spot except the horizon ahead. The scary part didn't last too long. Peninsula de Nicoya. Thick brambled forest by a single black tarmac. David sent me a video when he got here last week. The Jungle, he said, and now it’s like a hologram seeing it here myself. I really wasn’t going to come here. Two A.M. last night and the flights were so cheap that it felt like a glitch or something and then all I had to do was decide, ok, and then everything else was taken care of. There’s a driver at the gate for me. CHLOE, the sign says. That’s me, I say, and I point to the sign. I don’t know why I said it like that. It's a different vibe at the house here than in El Salvador. Surfer spiritualism over techno spiritualism. The aura here makes me feel significantly calmer. Because I am someone who accounts for danger at every turn (neurotic) I can remember being twelve or thirteen somewhere around here, handed a stick to ward off snakes at night, warned that don't you dare touch the frogs, the ants, they told me, fall screeching from the trees and it feels like a bullet wound when they bite you. But, “there is nothing actually scary here,” David’s friend tells me. “The main thing you have to worry about are these.” He shows me a picture of a scorpion. He tells me that the sting hurts a little, but after that the main thing is it makes your body feel all electric. “People sting themselves on purpose to get high,” David’s friends tell me. “They make you high???” I ask. One of the only things that scares me more than getting hurt is getting high. “No, not really,” David’s friend says. When I got here it felt kind of like I’d been teleported. David was there with an ATV where the car dropped me off, up a dirt road, by some stables and then he said - this might scare you but no backseat driving and then we roared up a mountain, nighttime already, I was left in a room in the hills in the jungle alone while the others offroad up and down and up and down until everyone was here for dinner. You can see the stars in a way that is so special here. I’d been told about this part, but it’s better to see for yourself. You couldn’t make out what parts were ocean and what parts were horizon but you could see that the darkness was placid and lovely and it stretched out quite some ways. You could see where there were villages, because lights close to the ground edged up against the stars in the sky but lacking any visual markers to ground them, these villages appeared to be hovering, unmoored. “You’ll be able to see the ocean in the morning,” David told me. So, in the morning, I thought, I will be able to distinguish which parts are ocean, and which parts are sky. Saturday, April 5 In the morning, there is a gecko on the ceiling and a dog outside my door. Chat GPT got way better overnight, I am told. It’s harder for me to suss out the vibe here. They are bullish on AI, but they are hesitant about some of the other stuff. We’re not really doing much of the hacker house stuff anyways, this time, though. Back down the mountain, and we’re in a hotel, and there’s surfer girls with pretty hair in pretty dresses dancing barefoot in all the nightclubs here. The heat makes a run in the morning unbearable. Even the walk to the shop is heavy and thick but I don't mind this. The only thing I do every single morning is walk for an hour and write while I walk, but the heat makes this hard. It's ok, because I can float instead. Yerba mate and corona extra and white claw and paloma in a can and redbull green and coconut water all stacked side by side in the shop, but I leave empty handed. Before, we got cold brew mixed with orange juice and a cashew avocado tart at a cafe run by the girlfriend of one of David’s friends. Since I tried it out and basically just became an alcoholic bartending my way around Eastern Europe at eighteen, I have kind of found the whole nomad thing to be spiritually ugly. Like it's something for mid thirties men that look older from the partying who stop you in back alleys in Croatia and tell you things like the key to it all is to never buy a couch. And they would say it like you were supposed to really get it. And you did get it, you got what they meant by it at least, but the thought was just a bit half baked and unconvincing. Ok, so, I wouldn't buy a couch but then what? Then what would I do? What should I do? I didn't want to stay listless and skimming the surface forever. New York is kind of empty too when you aren't living at least a little bit gently, and so these are the different pieces I am trying to parse out. I would stay here for a while with a project. David drops a chip on the beach lined with hermit crabs and he creates this huge commotion. Anarchy, really. All the little crabs begin to rip each other to shreds. "I hope the big one comes in and destroys them all," David says, regarding the hermit crab pile-on situation. There's not really any metaphor here, he’s just being vaguely sadistic. It does happen as you would expect. One big hermit crab sees its opportunity, identifies his leg up in this whole situation or perhaps, they aren't the brightest creatures, perhaps it just wants to try its lot at the prize like all the others and is surprised to find itself emerge victorious. He makes a clean break with the chip down the beach. The crabs kind of look like spiders from my vantage point. A mass of little tendrils for legs chasing after someone six times their size. They all have the death drive, because when they do catch up, it's not good news for any animal involved. An underdog swoops in and gets the chip. I don't know, I lose sight of it all. You have a target on your back when carrying the bounty though. If I was a hermit crab, I wouldn’t risk it. I put my head underwater in the ocean to get myself sorted. I walk back through a little bit of jungle and then past the fishermen in Malpaís while David turns around the ATV. Soles of my shoes are all sticky on the pavement. Herd of goats in the road. The heat makes all my thoughts become all slippery and smooth. If I spent a month here, I could learn how to become all tan and bendy and strong. Sometimes, I become slippery and smooth. I could spend the first part of my month learning how to notice when my mind becomes like this, and I could spend the second part learning how to make the feeling last. I would stay here for a while with a project… WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, April 10 From 6pm - 8pm at Blade Study — Clare Koury presents the opening of solo exhibition Scaling Laws For An Open EnTrainment Structure. With this installation, Clare Koury is addressing the part of the color spectrum that eyes don’t see.

Crest1 mentions across 1 issues

Crest is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between November 05, 2025 and November 05, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Crest whitening strips". It most often appears alongside 220 Bogart St, 99 Minutes or Less, Alex Da Corte.

Article page: Crest
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: November 05, 2025
Last seen: November 05, 2025

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

Fever Dreams November 05, 2025

220 Bogart St 1 shared issues
99 Minutes or Less 1 shared issues
Alex Da Corte 1 shared issues
Alex Delany 1 shared issues
Alice Bailey 1 shared issues

Source context

November 05, 2025 · Original source

Crest whitening strips

Cumberland Farms1 mentions across 1 issues

Cumberland Farms is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between August 28, 2025 and August 28, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "it's overpriced at Cumberland Farms anyways and a bit of a scam". It most often appears alongside A Horse with No Name, A Night of Male Readings, Amelia.

Article page: Cumberland Farms
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: August 28, 2025
Last seen: August 28, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Arrowhead expert August 28, 2025

A Horse with No Name 1 shared issues
A Night of Male Readings 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
America 1 shared issues
Andrew Durbin 1 shared issues

Source context

August 28, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, August 18 Sitting at the dining room table with a breeze coming through the screen door and white hydrangeas all around and I have decided to stay for a while. I may stay here all week. I can control my consciousness. It’s my consciousness after all. Things feel a bit more tentative and also a bit harsh in the glass sort of way, now. In a wood house by the ocean, I become a bit militant about it. I begin the day - hang by my finger tips from a metal road in the forest. Open the fridge in the moonlight and pull out a brita filter, lemons, orange juice. My dad and I drove down here a few days ago. He cooked dinner on the beach and he was proud to only use wood on the grill, no charcoal, it’s overpriced at Cumberland Farms anyways and a bit of a scam. There were other things, too. The dog bit the neighbor. The quaker church burned down. The cycles repeated and I suppose, I used to prefer to dig my feet into the ground and scream than reckon with any sort of silence. They brought the boxes over before I left New York City. Omniscent forces. I don’t really know. I wrote a check and left a tip and they gave me high-fives and the new place felt a bit too caged, perfect rectangle, white walls and bright lights before I swapped them out for something warmer. I’d become a bit spoiled at least when it came to living conditions. I’d never lived in a place of my own before. I came back to the ocean because, of course, this is the sort of place where summer storms are nicer. Summer storm of the nicest kind outside. I can’t seem to help it. This repeating of myself. Well, the news is smaller now. They are selling the mini-van but not until they haul my sister off to Bushwick, and the touch-and-go kind of violent coordination of the summer has finally slowed and now stopped altogether thank god and, I will be in bartending school for the last week of August and I start my mornings now hanging by my finger tips from a metal rod in the forest or, at least I will do this for as long as I stay out of Godforsaken New-York-City. I played these songs on the drive down the coast Silver Springs - Fleetwood Mac

Current Body1 mentions across 1 issues

Current Body is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 06, 2026 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "morning routine is Current Body LED red light mask". It most often appears alongside A Place in the Sun, Ali RQ, Angelica.

Article page: Current Body
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 06, 2026
Last seen: March 06, 2026
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

A Place in the Sun 1 shared issues
Ali RQ 1 shared issues
Angelica 1 shared issues
Angelmoon 1 shared issues
Banana Republic 1 shared issues

Source context

March 06, 2026 · Original source

It is morning and the day feels kind of bright and nice. I am in my room and I am feeling sweet. I am in my room and it is feeling a little bit messy. I am listening to Drasticism which is the new album by a girl who’s playing a show tonight and I am thinking I would perhaps like to go. Listening to a sweet kind of diy soft music that reminds me of crystals. I kind of want to be by the water. I kind of want to learn guitar with my friends. I kind of want sunlight on my face first thing in the morning. I want everything I own to be from Angelmoon and Ebay and LoveThanksWorld. I’d like to be in salt water in Costa Rica or perhaps Brazil but I am trying not to want things outside the present so much. Listening to “Angelica” by Bella Litsa and “If You Were Around” by Celestine Manno and “Yellow House” by Satya and I never listen to new music but it all can’t stop reminding me of crystals. My morning routine is a fantasy land. My morning routine is real life. My window is open and I can say hello to the turtles swimming in the churning water beneath me. Smell of jasmine, orange trees, salted air the song is saying. Something about California. Sweet and lovely. I am thinking of everything on such sweet terms. My morning routine is Current Body LED red light mask and water out of a metal flask and ten minute guasha routine and walk to the Italian cafe for one little morning coffee. One little morning coffee because I just quit everything. I quit everything all at once. We will see what gives.

Cymbiotika1 mentions across 1 issues

Cymbiotika is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between April 21, 2025 and April 21, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Cymbiotika Vitamin C". It most often appears alongside 88 Allen Street Hotel, Ada Wickens, Alex Arthur.

Article page: Cymbiotika
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: April 21, 2025
Last seen: April 21, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

The Strangest Hotel in New York April 21, 2025

88 Allen Street Hotel 1 shared issues
Ada Wickens 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues
Alex Auder 1 shared issues
Alex Berns 1 shared issues

Source context

April 21, 2025 · Original source

Tuesday, April 15 David stayed up all night making a borderline satanic short film. I think I’m manic, he says, which is probably why he got us the stay in the strange hotel in the first place. You’re not manic, I say. Not manic, like I need lithium, David says. Last night I was compulsively reading these decentralized networking protocol white papers, David says. David starts telling me about an opera he wants to see. Something about The Only Monotheistic Pharaoh. I walk home and I stop at Whole Foods to buy some Clear Headed Kombucha and Chicken Sausage and Cymbiotika Vitamin C. I feel really terrible. I make a list of affirming statements. I FEEL AMAZING. I HAVE NEVER FELT BETTER. I take a nap. Wakeup and, David and his friend are on the phone downstairs talking about a startup. Eavesdropping and, it sounds like they’re about to independently invent the concept of the Male Influencer. “Imagine believing yourself to be cunning and self-serving, and you're doing so by working for [redacted],” David is saying. “Anyone can learn to code,” David is saying. Tune out, tune in, and now they’re inventing the Vending Machine. They’re talking about Jon Raffman and Petra Cortright. They’re talking about LA. Evil Women. Tax Day. “Girls already invented being an influencer eons ago,” I tell David, when he gets off the phone. David pauses for a moment. “I think girls and guys invented being influencers at about the same time.” Friday, April 18 I haven't been able to fill in the blanks of the past few days. Becoming: utterly consumed. It was deeply unpleasant, honestly. I feel bad for me on Monday, thinking it would be easy to wrap up this thing I was working on and then almost losing my whole head instead. I stayed up all week. All through the very peaks of the night and then past that, even. At first it was all disjointed, but now it is making more sense. And the good news is, good for art and life - I can intuit things again! WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, April 21 From 8pm - late at Night Club 101 — I will be reading in the Domino Reading Series, alongside Jess Wolfe, Dani Narins, Ruby Hoffman, Gordon Glasgow, Jade Wootton, and Matthew Gasda. Gallipony x Solar System DJ set after the reading.

Cyriossis1 mentions across 1 issues

Cyriossis is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 06, 2026 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "my computer is flashing words and sounds and symbols about Cyriossis took my wings and winter drab and summer glam". It most often appears alongside A Place in the Sun, Ali RQ, Angelica.

Article page: Cyriossis
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 06, 2026
Last seen: March 06, 2026

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

A Place in the Sun 1 shared issues
Ali RQ 1 shared issues
Angelica 1 shared issues
Angelmoon 1 shared issues
Banana Republic 1 shared issues

Source context

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015?

March 06, 2026 · Original source

I am not a robot. In the morning, I want to get sunlight in my eyes and I want to wear a Tankair black tank top and Rag and Bone green cargo pants and Petrucci ballet flats and big wired headphones. In the night, I want goat milk elixirs and Angelmoon dresses and answers and ideas to float through my phone. When it is nighttime, I love to play on my phone. It is night and the window is open and I am feeling quite happy with myself, though believe it-or-not I do have a tendency to let things ebb and flow. White noise meditation outside my window, but it’s just listening to the turtle pond churn day old water right below me in the courtyard, and listening to day-four-snow melt in big fast drops off the roof. Snow melts fast and then it’s no-longer-magic-outside. I am not totally ready for spring to begin. I am not totally ready to be old or even bored or to go to sleep most nights before the sun is high in the sky. This is why I leave the windows open. This is why I put on black silk eye mask. This is why I live in New York City, totally out of sync with nature, totally in sync with the dictations of my whims. I am lying with the lights off and I am totally ready for Pi (1998) to begin on my computer. My least favorite thing about myself is my tendency to let things ebb and flow. My favorite thing about myself is my ability to notice patterns and symbols and other sorts of interesting and mysterious and astral or perhaps just normal projections in everything everywhere and particularly in real life. While I wait for Pi (1998) to begin, my computer is flashing words and sounds and symbols about Cyriossis took my wings and winter drab and summer glam and being honest with your clients about the effects of their lifestyle. When Pi (1988) begins, a series of patterns and symbols and pumping rock music and black and white imagery will flash across my computer screen. When I was a little kid, my mother told me not to stare into the sun, so once when I was six I did, Sean Gullete will say. One-eight-one-eight-one-eight, he will say. He will walk past a tai chi class in the park and solve math problems with a small child in his building. If you graph the numbers of any system, patterns emerge, he will say. He will talk about the stock market and the universe of numbers and he will live-blog-his-day. 11:52; personal note, he will say. 11:52: Not a pattern In the mornings, I like to live-blog-my-days, but it’s not so much the numerological sort of thing. I like to go on vacation. I like to give up vice. I am feeling totally thrilled about the trajectory of things. Failed treatments to date, they are saying in Pi (1998): beta blockers, calcium channel blockers, adrenaline injections, high doses of ibuprofen, steroids, trager mentastics, violent exercise, caffeine, acupuncture, marijuana, percodan, midrin, tenormin, sansert, and homeopathics. Failed treatments to date: rock climbing, chess, caution-to-the-wind, throwing everything out again-and-again-and-again. Numerology. Event calendar. 2016. IFC screening. Total isolation. Total consumption. Total sweetness policy. I’m not really treating anything. Moreso, I am just writing it all down.

Dasani1 mentions across 1 issues

Dasani is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between August 14, 2025 and August 14, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "fill a Desani water bottle with white claw"; "I want to fill a Desani water bottle with white claw". It most often appears alongside Abundance Meditation, Alice Bailey, Amelia.

Article page: Dasani
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: August 14, 2025
Last seen: August 14, 2025

Outbound links

https://substack.com/@anitatintsyan

Issue trail

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? August 14, 2025

Abundance Meditation 1 shared issues
Alice Bailey 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
Anika Jade Levy 1 shared issues
Ann Taylor 1 shared issues

Source context

August 14, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, July 28 Amelia is at the apartment when I arrive, bearing cloned keys and summer dresses. It is not a relief to return, I am afraid. Tiptoe across dusty slanted floors and this sense of oddity and dread creeps back no matter how quiet I am about it. There are planes overhead and I have loved all this glass before, but I am clenching my eyes shut now; wishing for drapes that close. Earlier, the flight from London was delayed hours upon hours and things went awry the moment I was left alone. Comparing notes of past present and future and then I laid my roller suitcase horizontal on the bathroom floor to take a seat and think about it. Left my passport in the airport bar where the woman beside me was making friends with every single customer cycling through aside from myself and then I sprinted over to security, where the lights were flashing all schizophrenic and neon and no one would speak. You'll miss your flight, dear, the airport attendant smiled. They opened a small door with a large electric key. They sent me to the Back Rooms. They sent me through endless identical silver doors and a mirror maze and down a long gray magic carpet. I emerged on the other side to find another magic carpet just like the first. I imagined infinite magic carpets extending in every direction. Motion activated so the feedback loop would reveal itself every time I thought I reached solid ground. I was not moving horizontal anymore. It was a vertical descent into the underbelly of Heathrow. I forgot the status of Boeing VS0137. I forgot to ever leave. I woke up in the Kids Play Center. We've lifted your curse, the airport attendant beamed. Most slides can also be used as rafts, they tell me on the plane. Cartoon villain voice playing on Virgin-Atlantic-TV and they're blasting it through the cabin speakers, too. You were an A+ travel companion, they told me in the airport. I wake up to take stock of these things: safety guidelines and praise. I fall back asleep. Tuesday, July 29 After things fell apart in June, I did not eat or sleep for four days and three nights. On the fourth night, I called the NYPD informational line quite dizzy and more out of curiosity regarding physical resilience and atrophy than out of any sincere safety concern. If you cannot sleep tonight, then you can call me in the morning, the operator said. And so I was unconscious in an instant. Put some limits on one's own neurosis. I decided to stay up late last night. It was muggy and hot outside JFK, and I missed the moors and the fog for just an instant. Then, the glass doors slid open into hot sweaty americana summer and all else was forgotten. Felt a bittersweet sort of close to home. Sat on the curb. The airtrain to the car park turned onto the highway. Felt like a road trip. Felt like team sports, two-in-the-morning, intermission. I'd been so quiet that day. I had not spoken one word since Heathrow. Everybody understood that the apartment was rotting. Great place but full of mold. Great place but full of memories both good and bad. Somebody should have thrown out the milk. Somebody should have done something about the feng shui. The dead trees. The slant of the floors. The roof, which nearly caved in last winter. Three in the morning arrival but I asked Amelia if I could come over instead, and Amelia understood it would be best to sit on her floor. Amelia had been leaning into performance art. How was your vacation, Amelia asked. Not transgressive and weird, I sighed. But rejuvenating, pleasant, precious in the sort of way I'd like to hang onto. And I am feeling physically fit from all the walking and running that went on and on and on. The heat wave has not passed in New York despite one more week dwindling into summer, and I sleep until midday around when I open my eyes and begin to feel uneasy. The lines out the stores are down the block and everyone is becoming very thin. The summer foods are things like GREENS 01 Juice and maca-powder-peanut-butter-protein-bites and very rubbery cocktail shrimp at The Smith. It is Julia who suggests The Smith for dinner and I am not picky with those sorts of things. It is me who suggests the party, despite my increasing hopes, generally, to avoid these sorts of things. Wednesday, July 30 Sitting at Banter with the Big Breakfast and hot green tea reading fairytales. It was a nice night last night. Whirling sort of thing. Nightclub101 to KGB to following a group to Ludlow House to Ripple Room. The sort of thing I like as often as possible, but really must limit to now and then. Sitting at the Australian Cafe now, using my Moldavite to mark my place in my book. The fairytales are describing relentless compassion as a form of some sort of psychological warfare. Psychosexual manipulation. Relentless compassion so as to provide one with a moral advantage, knowing it is impossible for the recipient of such compassion to reciprocate. Relentless compassion so as to cast a desperate, selfish, striving plea for reciprocation. The second option is probably more common, but it would be nice to be kind of on a high horse. August will be like oysters at The Knickerbocker with the cocktail sauce in the martini glass and we're sitting by the cracked glass window and Drew says don't cut your hair not yet and so it'll be like humid heavy hair almost down to my waist now, sparkling water in plastic cups with lime and diet coke in a bikini and I will stay put for a while. I will sit at KGB sober in the evening like I do most every evening. They're tearing chocolate chip cookies apart with their hands at the table over and Amelia says she thinks a bit too much about herself to give too much thought to the existence of God but she remembers, as a child, crying tears of joy because she couldn't believe her luck. She just realized she had somehow made it into a human body on Earth, and she couldn't believe her luck. I don't wish the evenings went on too much longer. The timing is starting to feel just right. I want to fill a Desani water bottle with white claw and catch a cab to a pool party but the evening might start to feel too late. I'll read Fanny Howe, Thomas Hardy, Dawn Powell on the floor - big cracked hard cover dog eared copies of all my books. Then, I will pack up my books into Ikea plastic storage trunks. I will pack up all my books and dresses and then the movers will come. The movers will haul my things out the door. They will haul the place bare. I will turn off the air conditioning in this glass apartment in the sky, and then I will leave. August will be somewhere else. Thursday, July 31 Rebecca and I are making plans. Involving - The Chakras by C.W. Leadbeater and Esoteric Healing by Alice Bailey. I don’t want to work harder than I ever have before, but I do wish to be a bit more intuitive about it. Rebecca is telling me about Energy Hygiene in a Chaotic City. Rebecca is telling me about Seven Rays & Soul Typing. Taking Thomas Pynchon, guasha, monastery sage oil, yoga mat, mineral sunscreen up to the roof for Abundance Meditation and Contemplation. I receive good news. The best, really. I am sorry to be opaque, but something shifted in the winds in England. So far, I have managed to hold onto it here. Careful! Open up the blinds because it's foggy this morning which means we get to let some light in. No bright sunlight baking things alive. No leftover drinks or snacks from the Last Party Ever that was thrown last night. So - it’s a very strange day. I’d like to take a different approach to Caution. Generate me a definition. They generate me this definition: The deeper awareness of human limitations, the deceptive nature of false certainties, and the dangers of unchecked power. This will do. Friday, August 1 It’s an unusual sort of incoherence in my dreams today. The shelf above the bed is lined with wine glasses full of water, and there's an in between of sleep and something else - nyquil at six in the morning, cinnamon zyn at six in the morning, the friends went home around six in the morning and now it is sometime around noon, sunlight streaming in. I wake up gagging. In my dreams, the wine glass water was mostly poisoned. In the space between half awake, not all was poisoned but it was a Russian Roulette sort of thing. I take my chances. Chug water out of my safest bet. Wake up screaming. Fall asleep screaming. The Ikea boxes for the move are starting to fill up and I know it's me stuffing the plastic to the brim but I don't really remember. It's been recollection that's lacking, really. It's been a birthday dinner tonight. The sweetest kind in the Lower East Side. Dimes Square but it's just us, I said. Because it was in the general vicinity but the streets were all empty. A stupid joke, but everyone humored me. Everyone was beautiful and lovely and happy and I didn't drink a regrettable amount. A nice sort of night. Got stuck on Thomas Pynchon and now I can't read anything else. Got stuck on esoteric health and now the water is poison. Got stuck at karaoke and now my self proclaimed sulfate allergy is acting up. Wine and hypochondria. It becomes a bit self indulgent then, doesn't it? Saturday, August 2 If the movers weren't late, I'd be gone by now. But they are late, and so I am lying on the couch that’s being left behind in an Everlane striped tee and too-short Los Angeles apparel shorts feeling kind of sorry for myself. I'm not sure why I decided to scrounge up this sort millennial slop getup for the day of my very unceremonious departure. Feeling older than my years. Feeling like I was raised on Madewell and Ann Taylor or, whatever else it is that would feel nostalgic if I'd been born before 2000. Something other than Patagonia shorts and my sister's sweaters, anyways. Feeling culturally un-attuned. Feeling mostly sorry for myself because I am surrounded by grime. I've been flouncing around this place for a while, now. The clutter is so repulsive, and so much of it is new. There was never a day of really moving in, here. It was just step by step, one thing after another, little parcels that were easy to bring up and down and in and out and now; you wake up in the middle of the morning in a glass apartment in the sky to the sense that there is no space left. I would love to toss and toss and toss. I would love to close my eyes on this island of this couch amidst a swamp of Ikea boxes and tell the movers never mind. I would never open the boxes again. I would never do the dishes. I would wear polyester and sleep on the previous owners teak Scandinavian couch. I would sleep surrounded by trash. It would all become trash, because I would decide to throw it all out. What do we need to know?, the movers will ask, when they arrive. Do you find everything interesting? I will ask. Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? YAY, the movers will say. I am picking things up and putting them down. The movers will give me high fives. Me and three Serbian teens high-fiving in a glass apartment in the sky that I am soon to leave and never return. They will pick things up and put them down and haul them out and I will never return. Sunday, August 3 I have taken my things and never returned. All is well except, the lights here are a bit too fluorescent. The courtyard is nice for the turtle pond, but the brick blocks the sun. And, once there was a top lock but now there is not. There is a hole in my door and I can't get it out of my head. There is a hole in my door and now everything is all wrong. Sitting at GMT Tavern with a not very nice martini and the Thomas Pynchon book I just can’t finish or quit. Slow Learner. Slow Learner, just like me. Make it all about me me me. Life is like: another day in my dumb life on my dumb blog talking about me me me. Life does not have to be like this. Life could be like: the hovering curious dominant of their separate lives should resolve into a tonic of darkness and the final absence of all motion (Pynchon). I keep getting stuck on that quote. I keep getting stuck on entropy, which I do not hope to believe in. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, August 14 From 9pm at Silver Lining Lounge — Matt Weinberger and Scott Lipps present The Downtown Prom. Hosts include Sid Simons, Anika Jade Levy, Nicole Naloy, and more. Music by Sexy Damion, Blog Analog, Loose Buttons, and Boxxer. DJ sets and more.

Inline links: Matt Weinberger, Scott Lipps, The Downtown Prom

DAVID1 mentions across 1 issues

DAVID is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between April 04, 2025 and April 04, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Two protein bars from that new brand DAVID". It most often appears alongside 154 Scott Ave, 247 Varet, A HAPPENING.

Article page: DAVID
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: April 04, 2025
Last seen: April 04, 2025
Instagram handle: @davidpeterfrancis

Outbound links

Issue trail

Live Diary. April 04, 2025

154 Scott Ave 1 shared issues
247 Varet 1 shared issues
A HAPPENING 1 shared issues
Alexi Wasser 1 shared issues
Alice Aster 1 shared issues

Source context

April 04, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Thursday, March 27 Midnight in New York, I'm taking stock of my glass apartment in the sky. I brought back nine dresses from El Salvador - eight old ones, one black tennis dress from El Tunco. All to be washed. Open the window. There is spring breeze now, all of a sudden, really, but I've been growing accustomed to real heat. These things I used to hate - dense hot air, beating sun, a day that stretches on under direct natural light, no end, no plans.... I would suddenly like to return to this, actually, over frigid and clipped stories about foggy northern coastlines and other things in that vein. Over stories about New York, and other things in that vein. David has stayed in San Salvador, and then, Santa Teresa, Costa Rica. It would have been basically free for me to come and yes I have commitments here but not too many if we're being really honest. I would have become kind of a freak after three whole weeks in airbnbs that are calling themselves "hacker houses," though, is the main issue. And, I wanted to do laundry and stretch in the spring breeze, open the window, set an alarm. It would be so easy for me to untether the physical circumstances of my whole life, these days. It would be easy to have distance from New York, as the main thing, but distance from physicality more generally, too. I've done it before. Honestly, I'm not eighteen anymore, I don't think it makes sense for me to do it again. I will probably stop being so strange and vague once I have even one conversation with my friends back in New York. For now, it is very strange to be alone. Very strange to walk around even a small space, that even only temporarily, is belonging just to me. The past few weeks have been about eclipsing interiority with observation. Floating in realms that are foreign. Not El Salvador, even. The hacker house stuff more. The dialogue of it all, more. The other reason I am here, home, abandoned visions of a hologram of Santa Teresa and also I already really miss my boyfriend - well there was responsibility and laundry and the reading and the stories to finish but also, the lunar eclipse played a role for sure. Something about the Earthquakes and Volcanoes. The floods and the fights. Seek less direct attention from that vivid piercing beaming beating sky. Seek solid ground, I saw someone say online. So, I did. I'm back in stupid dumb New York. Window open. You can barely feel all that fresh air. Friday, March 28 I do go for a walk in the morning, and I do still love New York, I decide. I want to have very delicate arms and boundless energy. I want to have tremendous discipline in a way so as to elicit joie de vivre, and also paths of clarity. The brain fog is so bad today. In the middle of the night, the jet lag woke me up, and I hate sleeping alone in this apartment. I'm sorry, I know I’m being a child but I hate it, the emptiness, when I wake up from paralysis, there are often moments of brief delusion. Alone, glass house, I have to talk myself down. I’ve tried to bring myself to life, today - long walk, two protein bars, slice of papaya, sushi roll for dinner, diet coke and cigarette, make a Vlog, make a Call. David had sleep paralysis, too, last night, he tells me on the phone. This is weird, because usually, this is a plight that is just for me. In real life, there was a creepy elderly woman occupying the hacker house in El Salvador, too. “I started a magazine last year,” she told me, when I told her I was a writer. “Oh, cool, about what?,” I asked her. “I don’t remember,” she told me. Blank gaze. Empty eyes. She would sometimes walk through our room while I slept, and one time I woke up to her passing by, vacant glance, I was obviously shocked, she looked obviously pleased. “How are ya, Love?” she said. The word “love” here, carrying a lot of the weight in making the indecent violation of space a lot creepier. “It’s fun, isn’t it?,” she told David’s friend, while he was doing the dishes. “Turning the water on and off is fun, it’s all fun, isn’t it?” She had referred to herself as a refugee, in El Salvador. From where, I had asked her. From Canada, she had said. A real eccentric freak, and in David’s dream, he wakes up to her sneaking up behind him, looming over him, it’s all fun isn’t it. She says sinisterly: “do you know what I think?” Then, in his dream, he felt her weight bend the bed springs and begin to smother him. Lunar eclipse. New moon. I find this dream ominous enough that I begin to become very concerned. You have to get out of there, I tell David. I'm leaving tomorrow anyways, he reminds me. Saturday, March 29 I spent the night last night reading at Tense and it was really lovely. Kansas Bowling reading and Valley Latini doing a hip hop show and Beckett Rosset on the Providence Hotel and me on half formed thoughts on the half complete piece I am writing on Techno Spirituality and El Salvador. I’m back in Real Life, and I don't regret it. I spent the morning by myself working on my edits. David is still traveling, and I am being more normal about it this time. In jet lagged fugue state, I burned the kettle down to a lump of molten plastic, not on purpose, obviously. I called my dad who's moral judgment I trust in full, so this clarifies a lot of things. I forgot how much I like running really really really fast. Whenever I am craving the extremes, I should access them through lots of sprints. The wind is crazy today. The wind has everyone whooping and hollering through the streets. I'm making TikToks again. I don't care. There are worse evils or, rather, you can leverage anything for evil if you really want and honestly, I am just trying to have lots of fun. Some of you are awfully pretentious for being addicted to things like Ketamine and Feeld. Not me. I don’t like drugs, and I have a soulmate. It is just as bad if not worse to be addicted to your phone as it is to anything else, but I’m regulating my time, and I’m microdosing my slop - or so I tell myself. Sunday, March 30 I order uber eats groceries at midnight, and then it's like celsius and chicken just washes up at my door. I don't like this. Chemicals, aspartame, the dissolution of the social fabric, really. How these things just materialize when you want to actualize some gross borderline animalistic whim. Craving. Diet Blackberry Pepsi. I would not like to live anywhere but New York City, or really anytime but now when I think it through on a very personal and very literal level. But there is something here that I increasingly am wary of as mere hallucination. There is much to consider. I am trying to be very energetic which, really, is the feeling that I increasingly cast as synonymous with Health. We went to Bacaro for dinner last night, then to Clockwork, later. “Do you know about how to get dinner for free,” some girl sitting next to my friend and me said. Then, she explained the concept of Club Promoters. Yeah I know, I said. I didn’t say it in a rude way. I just told her that I already knew, which I already did. My energy feels back in a way that feels very True today. Before I left for El Salvador, I was getting in the habit of killing time. Looking at an hour and wishing it over. I don’t want to quantify anything. What would happen if I never rushed a second again? This is what I’m trying to figure out. What would happen if I never rushed a second again? This is what I’m trying to figure out. Monday, April 1 My mind was reeling so fast in my Irish Literature class this evening. I started flicking through Internet Web Applications at warpspeed. I made some calls. I didn’t go crazy. “Saying no is a far more reliable path to avoiding sin than saying yes”, I heard someone say, through my fog, through the haze - that snapped me out of it quite quickly. “What if you literalize that, and just say no to everything?” a quiet girl across from me asked. I wrote this part down - “JUST SAY NO TO EVERYTHING!!!!” It was humid, heavy, soon-to-be-hot spring, today, in New York. I lost my head. Truly. I became very braindead very quickly, today. I recovered as best I could. It’s the way these things always go. Unmoored from the interactions you’ve been taking for granted, you’ve been alone with your thoughts and suddenly, you’ve found yourself thinking Nothing At All, and Saying A Lot Out Loud And Saying A Lot Online. You realize, suddenly, how wrong this all is, and then you become briefly concerned that maybe, suddenly, it is already too late for you. Or maybe it isn’t too late after all.. Water on the windowsill. I remember spring two years ago, a taxi cab from Chelsea down to where the East River runs near the Lower East Side. I wore a yellow dress and I ran like the wind from the river to the hotel bar. The fires. The maggots. It was that day in New York when it felt like cosmically, biblically, something bad was probably about to happen. The Seven Plagues. The air was thicker and hotter, then. I am thinking about that day because I was braindead on the Internet then, too. Celsius, protein bar, things had begun all thick and ugly and then I’d been whisked away into a big black car, shuttled to the bar at Nine Orchard, my friends convincing me to stick around and then I did, I stuck around for a while, I never really left after that, come to think of it. “It’s Deep Tech Week in New York,” Shannon tells me, today - whatever that means. She sends me an event as such, and I investigate the schedule for the rest of this week from there. Deep Tech Week is a week of events about Tech, and they added the word Deep in front of it to make it seem more cool, I realize quickly. “Turning Science Fiction into Reality,” the text on the website says, and I don’t really like the sound of that. I find that premise, as strictly a premise, material reality aside, even, to be nearly cartoonishly evil. But, I suppose I’ll try to be less pedantic. I eat a sugar cookie (gluten free). Two protein bars from that new brand DAVID. A brand activation crispy sandwich from Joe And The Juice. The packaging is orange instead of that usual nice pastel pink. KEVIN DURANT, the packing says. It is nine pm, and I am suddenly ravenous. Good. Looks like I got my corporeality back. I really was planning to go to the Deep Tech Party tonight, but the rain started in an instant, in the exact instant I was set to leave, really. Like it’s trying to communicate some form of serendipity, reason, warning, whatever. Monday is the day where I let myself get every last thing done on my phone. My eyes burn. It rots the soul. My week continues and I become much more particular with myself. Tuesday, April 2 It’s not that I mind being kind of exhibitionist, even, but I can’t control the feedback loop and I start to drive myself mad. Taking stock of the state of the union like THINGS THAT ARE "IN": Swimming

Monday, April 1 My mind was reeling so fast in my Irish Literature class this evening. I started flicking through Internet Web Applications at warpspeed. I made some calls. I didn’t go crazy. “Saying no is a far more reliable path to avoiding sin than saying yes”, I heard someone say, through my fog, through the haze - that snapped me out of it quite quickly. “What if you literalize that, and just say no to everything?” a quiet girl across from me asked. I wrote this part down - “JUST SAY NO TO EVERYTHING!!!!” It was humid, heavy, soon-to-be-hot spring, today, in New York. I lost my head. Truly. I became very braindead very quickly, today. I recovered as best I could. It’s the way these things always go. Unmoored from the interactions you’ve been taking for granted, you’ve been alone with your thoughts and suddenly, you’ve found yourself thinking Nothing At All, and Saying A Lot Out Loud And Saying A Lot Online. You realize, suddenly, how wrong this all is, and then you become briefly concerned that maybe, suddenly, it is already too late for you. Or maybe it isn’t too late after all.. Water on the windowsill. I remember spring two years ago, a taxi cab from Chelsea down to where the East River runs near the Lower East Side. I wore a yellow dress and I ran like the wind from the river to the hotel bar. The fires. The maggots. It was that day in New York when it felt like cosmically, biblically, something bad was probably about to happen. The Seven Plagues. The air was thicker and hotter, then. I am thinking about that day because I was braindead on the Internet then, too. Celsius, protein bar, things had begun all thick and ugly and then I’d been whisked away into a big black car, shuttled to the bar at Nine Orchard, my friends convincing me to stick around and then I did, I stuck around for a while, I never really left after that, come to think of it. “It’s Deep Tech Week in New York,” Shannon tells me, today - whatever that means. She sends me an event as such, and I investigate the schedule for the rest of this week from there. Deep Tech Week is a week of events about Tech, and they added the word Deep in front of it to make it seem more cool, I realize quickly. “Turning Science Fiction into Reality,” the text on the website says, and I don’t really like the sound of that. I find that premise, as strictly a premise, material reality aside, even, to be nearly cartoonishly evil. But, I suppose I’ll try to be less pedantic. I eat a sugar cookie (gluten free). Two protein bars from that new brand DAVID. A brand activation crispy sandwich from Joe And The Juice. The packaging is orange instead of that usual nice pastel pink. KEVIN DURANT, the packing says. It is nine pm, and I am suddenly ravenous. Good. Looks like I got my corporeality back. I really was planning to go to the Deep Tech Party tonight, but the rain started in an instant, in the exact instant I was set to leave, really. Like it’s trying to communicate some form of serendipity, reason, warning, whatever. Monday is the day where I let myself get every last thing done on my phone. My eyes burn. It rots the soul. My week continues and I become much more particular with myself. Tuesday, April 2 It’s not that I mind being kind of exhibitionist, even, but I can’t control the feedback loop and I start to drive myself mad. Taking stock of the state of the union like THINGS THAT ARE "IN": Swimming

David's1 mentions across 1 issues

David's is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 10, 2024 and September 10, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "a new protein bar brand inspired by Michelangelo's David". It most often appears alongside Anika Levy, Annabel Boardman, Antiart.

Article page: David's
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 10, 2024
Last seen: September 10, 2024

Outbound links

https://davidprotein.com/

Issue trail

Statues Of Critics. September 10, 2024

Anika Levy 1 shared issues
Annabel Boardman 1 shared issues
Antiart 1 shared issues
Artnet 1 shared issues
August Lamm 1 shared issues

Source context

September 10, 2024 · Original source

I have my eye on Literary Sport; a new activewear line inspired by poets coming September, 2024. There’s an increasing emphasis on the artistry of the body and the art of fitness in health and wellness branding recently. I honestly think this is a welcome departure from GymShark, QuestBars, GNC, etc… It's long been an aesthetic wasteland for Girls Who Like Splenda. Literary Sport is particularly chic, but I’m also intrigued by David's; a new protein bar brand inspired by Michelangelo’s David that unabashedly promises to make their consumers beautiful. I’ve been seeing the FKA Twigs 'The Body Is Art' Campaign for OnRunning all over Manhattan as well. I might be working on a longer story about this trend, so send me thoughts – chloegpingeon@gmail.com

Inline links: Literary Sport, GymShark, QuestBars, GNC, David's, Michelangelo’s David, FKA Twigs 'The Body Is Art' Campaign, OnRunning

Davolls1 mentions across 1 issues

Davolls is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 06, 2026 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Davolls tee-shirt". It most often appears alongside A Place in the Sun, Ali RQ, Angelica.

Article page: Davolls
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 06, 2026
Last seen: March 06, 2026

Outbound links

Issue trail

Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

A Place in the Sun 1 shared issues
Ali RQ 1 shared issues
Angelica 1 shared issues
Angelmoon 1 shared issues
Banana Republic 1 shared issues

Source context

March 06, 2026 · Original source

Appendix: Things Brandy Melville depop boatneck long sleeve dress, Zalt electrolyte zyn, Davolls tee-shirt, Angelmoon, Imperfaite, Prada boots, Monroe suede penny loafers, Frye leather riding boot Places Thai Diner, Vince’s Cobbler, The Manhattan Club, The Marlton Hotel, Tartinery, Caffe Reggio, Dr. Clark, Swan Room Read GirlInsides, The Masque of the Read Death, Fatherland (Victoria Shorr, 2026) Watch Pi (1988), The Biggest Sabotage in History (weird documentary youtube), A Place in the Sun (1951) Listen Gregarian Chants (via Health Gossip), Tango In The Night (1987), Drasticism (2026).

DiCo Copenhagen1 mentions across 1 issues

DiCo Copenhagen is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 27, 2025 and October 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "DiCo Copenhagen boots". It most often appears alongside 424 Broadway, Ally Salvador, Alt-Citizen.

Article page: DiCo Copenhagen
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 27, 2025
Last seen: October 27, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Autumn Secrets October 27, 2025

424 Broadway 1 shared issues
Ally Salvador 1 shared issues
Alt-Citizen 1 shared issues
Amtrak 1 shared issues
Amy Li 1 shared issues

Source context

Autumn Secrets

October 27, 2025 · Original source

DiCo Copenhagen boots

Dio1 mentions across 1 issues

Dio is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 04, 2025 and September 04, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Drinks from Dio". It most often appears alongside 131 Chrystie St, 54 Barrow St, Aeronauts Aimed for Altitude, Even….

Article page: Dio
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 04, 2025
Last seen: September 04, 2025
Instagram handle: @studio1609nyc

Outbound links

Issue trail

Drinking Dreams September 04, 2025

131 Chrystie St 1 shared issues
54 Barrow St 1 shared issues
Aeronauts Aimed for Altitude, Even… 1 shared issues
Agnes Enhktamir 1 shared issues
Alexa Ferrer 1 shared issues

Source context

September 04, 2025 · Original source

From 6pm at Carinito — Saloon is throwing a party. Drinks from Dio. Dancing, DJ, tacos, etc

Inline links: Carinito, Saloon, throwing a party

Dr. Pepper1 mentions across 1 issues

Dr. Pepper is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between May 27, 2025 and May 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "blackberry dr. pepper". It most often appears alongside 327 Bowery, Abby Lloyd, absurdism.

Article page: Dr. Pepper
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: May 27, 2025
Last seen: May 27, 2025

Issue trail

generative and godly secrets May 27, 2025

327 Bowery 1 shared issues
Abby Lloyd 1 shared issues
absurdism 1 shared issues
Adidas 1 shared issues
Allie Rowbottom 1 shared issues

Source context

May 27, 2025 · Original source

Monday, May 19 I will take the rest of my youth as it is. He turns on the air conditioner for me and leaves to drink Non Alcoholic Beers while I stay put and read the Diaries of Girls Online. I walk ten miles and I do not really believe his friends who say there are worms at the Russian Spa. This is how rumors spread, I tell him. You are Married To The Truth, I tell myself. In the morning, there is light through my greenhouse roof and to start; I am the only one awake. It feels like this; I had one of the best weeks ever last week, where everything came rushing back into being as it should be and I was certain it would stay like this forever. Then there was sudden chaos on the phone, chaos on the train, serenity at Spa88 and then I was calling my mom muttering sentiments I knew she would find vaguely offensive, stomping around the financial district saying bad words like a child intent on proving herself lovable even if insufferable. He said it wasn't that I was so uninteresting, more that my story was bizarre, not really a story at all, full of vitriol. Everyone was running along the Hudson River and I had two or three diet cokes with dinner and I was up not all night but close. It goes like this: in the morning there is energy and a package thief filling a suitcase up with my boxes of celsius and fiber powder and whitening strips and dental floss. I crouch above him on the stairway and I scream HEY. He screams back HEY and so I let him have it. I turn on my heels and I run up the stairs. My favorite things are leaving the house in the morning and not coming back till late night, cool mint zyns, blackberry dr. pepper, turkey cold cuts with truffle mustard eaten in a kind of self-punishing way. I lie on the roof in my boyfriend's Adidas track shorts and a black tank top that I stole from the gymnastics locker room in highschool. The thing about New York is there is immense competition to be skinny, beautiful, successful, rich all in circumstances that are entirely unconducive to all these things, my friend is telling me on the phone. Circumstances like the package thief and your metabolism doesn’t even get a boost from the sun and also there are hard drugs and alcohol. I don’t feel above all of that, but I do feel distant from it now and so I suppose, with some plausible humility, this adds up to kind of the same thing. I wish I was a gentle person. I feel lazy today, but this is not the same thing. Tuesday, May 20 Last night, we went to Lucky's for dinner and I had something with tequila and Saint Germaine straight up and he had more non-alcoholic beer. Then, they brought us mountains of shoestring onion rings and a big wedge salad and it was good for a while, until I started to feel sick. I went to the bathroom to play on my phone while the scent of grease dissipated. The drinks were crisp and they brought the shaker right to our table. Lucky's was like a steakhouse, but with a smaller interior than your average We went to Matthew's house after, to sit in his barren family room while he hacked up a lung. I rolled up my Zara blazer that I stole from Paul's Casablanca lost and found after someone stole my blazer first and also back when I was an alcoholic. I curled up under my blazer on Matthew's tiny couch while Matthew and my boyfriend talked in code and made rankings of all their friends. Matthew's apartment was pretty empty except for a whiteboard with a list of girls he likes and a Chinese new year banner and a huge pile of hats that said I'M IMMUNE TO PROPAGANDA. “Jesus, she is combative. you're right, she's so combative,” Matthew told my boyfriend, talking about me. "It's possible that Canne after dark was something that happened in the daytime," he said. "she'll get mad if I ask her why she won't play anagrams," he said. "The activation triggers a chain of events leading to increased dopamine release," he said. Sometimes, when I am with my boyfriend's friends I feel like I am in a video game, or maybe in an orphanage. You don't want to be someone who is contorting your face and yelling. It is morning now. I don't really know what happened there. Being at these parties more sober is strange, because there is nothing else but me and yet I still don't really understand. I am listening to sweet and gentle music, and I feel a total surrender. S - i do feel bad i was not so gentle and kind about this. i get myself trip wired and lose it. but it is always better to be gentle and kind and i understand new york can kill the soul and there is something beautiful in a peaceful house alone and that is why you left which is innocent and pure and it's not fair to be rageful to you for that. Wednesday, May 21 There were two cigarettes and two glasses of wine at Voile de Nuit. This becomes some sort of Diary of Consumption. I met Ellie at a tall house on a wooded street in the West Village where she works on things pertaining to design and then we spent the hours in the courtyard of Voile de Nuit, which I adore because it’s reminiscent of Summer and Reality. I behaved badly the last time I was here. My boyfriend comes by to drop off fries. We run into friends at Caffe Reggio and it's raining by the time we reach home. My boyfriend says: Spreading secrets is entropic Keeping your mouth shut is static Spreading misinformation is generative and godly I do think he is mostly kidding. It's Simone Weil who says about rage - “To be able to hurt others with impunity—for instance to pass our anger on to an inferior who is obliged to be silent—is to spare ourselves from an expenditure of energy, an expenditure which the other person will have to make.” And I wonder which character I am in this story and it's not always the good one. I was thinking about all of that in the novel. That and the self surveillance of it all. Unfortunately, my thought experiments are ruining my life and also, the novel is ending up being All About Me LOL, too. The play tonight (Revolution at Flea Theatre ) is nice, because I walk through the rain to get there and smoke cigarettes outside The Odeon after, and because its depiction is of genuine weirdos, not like Quirked Up, not like the girls my friend texts me about after the party, “have you met them? so spacey!” not like, becoming strange because of course there is some desire to conjure up some personality and if you’re pretty then it’s fine and even appealing to be off-putting. The play is like grocery store clerk alcoholic, gun in the purse grocery store clerk alcoholic, therapy speak coping mechanisms like count up then down then up and it’s employed in the play as the coping mechanism not as an ironic tactic. Drinking beers on a birthday in the back alley and the play is disaffected from glamor in a way that I’m realizing not many things are. Like even most depictions of poverty in a lot of media, at least media coming out of New York at least certainly media surrounding youth culture and a narrative surrounding a party, goes like; we have nothing but we’re slippery adjacent to everything as a result of our charm and good looks and happenstance. The play is like, leftover charcuterie from her husband’s weird mega church and splurging at the liquor store and old cocaine shoved into a bowling ball but there’s an innocence and almost childlike wonderment to the way they tackle the expired drug situation, and the play is not about drugs. There’s a genuine kind of earnest stiltedness to the conversation that lends itself to sincerity. Thursday, May 22 May is quivering right before me; I'm not letting it lapse like April did but there are still smokescreens, silkscreens, my fingers are sleeping right through it. The Club, last night. The Play then The Club. It was smokey and sweet. My lungs felt coated in something sour by the end. The smoking patio was wet with dew and I was kind of floating, not in a bad way. Not hungover, it's something way more visceral but still hazy. I could feel it all start to slip, and so I held onto myself quite tightly. My boyfriend's screen time is 102 hours a day across devices. My face is encased in sheaths of plastic that keep you young, but they're not the temu kind that's weird and freaky. The light I use is Science Backed. I'm thinking of getting into vintage workout wear. I'm thinking of getting into Vlogging. I'm thinking of getting into filling out paid surveys online for luxury perfume sellers that require you to swear your spending habits are High and you like perfume from MiuMiu and you Hate Balenciaga and what perfume means to me is; I think sometimes scents can bring up... nostalgia? I say. Do you own a Prada dress? they ask. We leave the party early - I'm sick and he buys me chicken caesar salad pizza. Aren't you glad we left early so we could dance a little at home, he says. In the living room, the windows are all a little frosted from the rain. There are lights in the neighbors windows across the courtyard but it's thursday night, the rain has stopped. You couldn't have expected everyone to just stay home, really. I notice the people in the windows if he is spinning me across the room. Exhibitionism. I catch myself in the peripheries. The windows. The back of my mind. And I never shut the blinds but that is just no Executive Function or Detail Orientation. I am not some sort of voyeur. Friday, May 23 10:45am, and they are playing some kind of staticy electric classical mashup of music from the Fedex truck outside. "Even as a grad student, I felt they were looking down on chaos," one young man at the Yemeni coffee shop is telling another. Buying: coffee and chicken quiche but none of that is for me. Buying: peanut butter perfect bar and celsius and my boyfriend's screen time is up to 316 hours since midnight since he's doing things indiscernible to me but which he clarifies are Not Fraudulent. I am trying not to write so much in the google doc diaries. It is like I have learned these diaries as a trick, and now I am addicted to it. Now, I can’t do anything else. I must release all thoughts, but to release one thought I must go through, again and again, everything else. And so I go through it all, again and again and again. The thought, and then everything else. We were going to talk more about Spirituality today, but the tripwire keeps happening - stuck on: Vanity and Careerism. I make subheadings to keep myself in check. VANITY. CAREERISM. CAREERISM: Here is where I am: I have the substack for now which is nice this is something that I suppose in some ways is a defining thing I have done but it does not feel like so much it does not feel like it culminates to anything just proof of existence, yes, but everyone has some sort of proof of existence and it is nice to write the story behind something. The story itself cannot just be the story of writing about yourself. And for a minute I was very very very sad and so that plotline became dependable, but that is no sort of thing to rely on. And this is why it cannot all just be the writing of the self. It hasn’t been. [redacted] felt like something different, investigation, beginning middle end, it was not just here I am, it was like a puzzle it was like being very precise with it and it was the biggest thing I have done so far and I sat with it for such a long time. And perhaps I am being dramatic because there are other projects I could start in the meantime but I can’t sit down and make myself think oh what would be an interesting and pithy thing to talk about for somewhere glossy, I cannot do it. I think about doing it and my stomach rises into my throat with how little I care. And so it has to be a story that bursts out of me. There was one, and I can tell there is almost something else too but it’s like David said yes, it’s difficult while you are in the waiting room. Since beginning writing this, my fever got higher, and we are hanging the Bacchus masks around the apartment plus yellow golden softlight and, now I feel more peaceful about it. I wasn’t having so much humility. Nevermind. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 27 From 6pm (show at 7pm) at Baby’s All Right — Baby’s Presents a benefit concert for the Immigrant Defense Project with Palehound, The Ophelias, and Grumpy. Dj set by WeTakeManhattan. - “All proceeds from the show will go towards supporting the IDP’s 20+ year mission of fighting for the rights of immigrants targeted for imprisonment and mass deportation via advocacy, litigation, legal advice and training, community defense, grassroots alliances, and strategic communications.” | GA (18+) $38.86, Ticket and Bonus Donation $49.69

Dries Van Noten1 mentions across 1 issues

Dries Van Noten is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between November 19, 2025 and November 19, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Amelia wears Dries Van Noten jeans". It most often appears alongside @jeansdown, @thegirljt, Adi Eshman.

Article page: Dries Van Noten
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: November 19, 2025
Last seen: November 19, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

Winter (03) November 19, 2025

@jeansdown 1 shared issues
@thegirljt 1 shared issues
Adi Eshman 1 shared issues
Afters 1 shared issues
Afters 1 shared issues

Source context

Winter (03)

November 19, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, November 11 The first winter when I started to understand how things work here, I was crazy with momentum. Crazy like I was floating in air or maybe even made of it. It all started because it was too cold to walk slowly outside, and once we started picking up the pace - a quick clip in the night and the snow and it was a particularly windy winter - then everything else started to spiral a bit out of control. I wore velvet dresses to magazine offices for Christmas parties that winter and I was generally very uninhibited. I floated very warm and drunk off hot wine through a basement in Chinatown full of books and Arabian rugs for many nights in a row. In one night alone, I lost my voice and my phone and my sense of time passing all along. Sairose helped me wash up in the back of some night club, in a purple-lit party designed to simulate the void, at home and in love and in Los Angeles for a respite from the cold and all the can’t-stop-motion that came with it. Anyways, I slept on a floor under white arched ceilings pressed against a radiator for a few months after that. And I was certain I was not ready to be old yet and I’m still not, really, but there were other things too. 8am (present) - The first real day of winter, and so everything freezes over and then quiets in the soft start of snow outside. It’s fish and soup season, an old man at Caffe Reggio is saying. It reminds me of The Godfather (1972) in here, the old man is laughing. Stained glass lamps and the replicas of the Carvaggio paintings and white tiled ceilings and, since I gave up vice the goal has become to be a bit more quiet and clean about everything. Amelia wears Dries Van Noten jeans and a Calvin Klein black sweater and prada boots to meet me in the morning snow and read the things I wrote on paper. In the mornings, this time of year, it is good to brew things like bone broth, hot apple cider from the amish market, sardines in tomato sauce, your throat in black seed oil, your face in red light, and your thoughts in memories that resurface and ideas that reconstruct away from the architectures of unhappiness. Your aphorisms don’t make a ton of sense, Amelia tells me. I’m not writing aphorisms, I’m writing optimizations, I tell Amelia. At the bar last night, we ordered Fernets and diet coke and asked our guests if they considered themselves well adjusted and if they had tips to share pertaining to Esoteric Health. Do you know about Ray Peat, our guests asked. Do you know about royal jelly and methalyn blue and red light chicken lamps? Do you know about making good decisions for the benefit of yourself and the people around you? Kind of dizzy from two fernets on an empty stomach, Celia made a joke about her life and how it overlapped with mine. Don’t ever make any comparison to your life as it pertains to mine, I snapped. The bar was loud and so no one heard the vitriol but her. Is this what you want more than anything in the world?, Celia asked. To be able to say and do whatever you want without consequence? Howling wind outside, and we’ve been working on temperance. I wanted a lot of things, but I mostly wanted that. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, November 19 From 7:00 - 8:30pm at Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research — Cabin Pressure opened yesterday, and there’s another performance tonight! A new play by Adi Eshman, directed by Jennesy Herrera. - “Set in a cabin at a ski resort, What begins as a light-hearted getaway spirals into a cocaine-and-beer-fueled disaster, with the groom’s sober brother-in-law as the unwilling witness to the chaos.” | tickets here (additional performances Nov 20, 21, 22)

Inline links: Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research, Adi Eshman, Jennesy Herrera, here

drinkmothersmilk1 mentions across 1 issues

drinkmothersmilk is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 10, 2025 and February 10, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Cocktails by drinkmothersmilk". It most often appears alongside 131 Chrystie St, Ahmed, Alamo Drafthouse Cinema.

Article page: drinkmothersmilk
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 10, 2025
Last seen: February 10, 2025
Instagram handle: @nkrchtr

Outbound links

Issue trail

February Dining. February 10, 2025

131 Chrystie St 1 shared issues
Ahmed 1 shared issues
Alamo Drafthouse Cinema 1 shared issues
Alt Lit 1 shared issues
Andrew Shental 1 shared issues

Source context

February 10, 2025 · Original source

From 7pm - 11pm at 131 Chrystie St — Salteye Studio celebrates the launch of their debut collection, co-hosted by Dirty Mag. Cocktails by drinkmothersmilk and catedralmezcal. Bites by Supper Studio.

Inline links: Salteye Studio, Dirty Mag, drinkmothersmilk, catedralmezcal

Drumstick1 mentions across 1 issues

Drumstick is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between May 21, 2025 and May 21, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "he gives me drumstick vanilla ice cream". It most often appears alongside 99 Scott, Al Warren, Amelia Ritthaler.

Article page: Drumstick
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: May 21, 2025
Last seen: May 21, 2025

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

Total Nightmare Policy May 21, 2025

99 Scott 1 shared issues
Al Warren 1 shared issues
Amelia Ritthaler 1 shared issues
Anne Lesley Selcer 1 shared issues
Ayede 1 shared issues

Source context

May 21, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, May 12 At the Holiday Inn, there are Yakisoda noodles and banana cream pie snack pack jellos and krabby patties gummy candies and lances cream cheese and onion dip crackers. All the most disgusting snacks imaginable, and kind of perverted, too. I’m so particular and annoying with my sleeping issues that I always find myself at depressing hotels, even when there is a wonderful home down the road where I am welcome. I need a Big Bed and Isolation. I need Temperature Control. As a child, I liked things such as camping in birch forests and cramped little stone cottages in some village where my parents would find someone on the Internet to swap houses with. Unfortunately, I grew up into someone with severe and undiagnosable sleep disorders, and a taste for adventure that is rooted more in hedonism and less in fresh air. I feel really full and sleepy heading back to New York. Well, things are better than they were. Total nightmare policy. Total, blow up your life brother, policy. I was so addicted to writing in my google docs journal this weekend and now I have a lot of annoying slop to show for it. I call my dad in the sun outside the Starbucks in a Strip Mall. Stop thinking about things in such eternal terms, they tell me. You wouldn’t get in a car crash and say When Can I Go 100 Again, they remind me. Fiction, again - they are talking about somebody else. The idea of compromise no longer makes your blood boil. It’s an unsavory trait that it ever did in the first place. "The other alternative is that I just become a nightmare and you become perfect," I told him. "That is certainly an alternative," he told me. It is 11:30pm, and I am thinking about getting a job. I am thinking about the Current Body Red Light Mask and the Ayede heels from ssense.com. "What if I hadn’t simply crashed out," he said. "There would have been pros and cons to that," I said. There is a fire alarm and mauve curtains and two weird arched doorways because we booked a suite and so the architecture suggests some simulacra of something vaguely Roman. Marble. Plaster cut to look like marble. I go to buy water and they have turned off the creepy lights at the creepy pool. Tuesday, May 13 I was feeling really terrified, if I’m being honest about it. I was sitting on the sidewalk picking at my nails and drinking hot coffee in the hot sun, eight splenda, curdled almond milk. I was voicing concerns in a high pitched voice and I was losing track of the distinguishment between ideas imagined and conversations regurgitated. God forbid I have an original thought of my own - that part wasn't even on the table. It isn’t so dark and depressing anymore. Walk in the rain and everything is so green here. I’ll be back in the city tonight and there are better omens in the astrology these days around things like planes, the return, glass apartments in the sky. He leaves my keys on the bedside table at the hotel, and he’s still asleep when I pack up my things and leave to eat black coffee, turkey deli meat, garlic aioli, marcona almonds. We drive to his parent’s house and he gives me drumstick vanilla ice cream. Working on this laptop, surrounded by all this green. You know that every time you hit this vape it coats your lungs in sweet thick paste, I am telling him, as I hit his vape. The last time I wrote about hitting a vape I received an infuriating pseudo intellectual email about the verbiage "hit" as suggesting a sado-masochistic impulse in our digital age. "I wonder if soon, you'll be saying you 'Beat' or 'Pummeled' your vape?" the idiot email writer wrote. The email made me so mad. You're so stupid, I wanted to write back. We go for a walk in the bright green forest. There is a sweetness here. A coming-back-into-control that makes the out-of-control-ness feel so distant. Escape from Evil and two days later you mistake reprieve for salvation. Unless, you are not mistaken. It really could be that simple. What was it they were saying on The Internet? Break The Pattern Today Or The Loop Will Repeat Tomorrow. What was it I've been saying online? Edit Artificial Intelligence robot voice over text to speech words - "Taking My Party Boy Boyfriend On A Walking Tour Of The Cotswolds." I clarify that I've been defending his honor. We're crushing up the plastic water cups, and the hill is steep up the road. I clarify that there are people of extremes. It was very bad, but now it is very good, I am texting my mother. Honestly, I'm so sick of clarifying anything at all. You're a little more sober with it. You're a little more gentle about it. It transformed in two days. Imagine two weeks. Imagine a year. Imagine rushing even one second. I can control my consciousness. Though, it isn't my consciousness, really, that I've been concerned about. I'm glad we share a frame of mind. This plane is basically empty. Wednesday, May 14 We went to KGB late last night. Thursday, May 15 The woman who does yoga on her fire escape is out there with a cigarette, today. I’m not in a bad mood today. The apartment is a mess and I am concerned about my past. Things become steady, and then even bright. Friday, May 16 Well, I didn't write because I have been busy in real life. I've been imagining an identity rooted in delusions in the secret diary that stays offline. It is not so delusional. I am feeling so sincere. Rebecca is here. My sister is here. We went to KGB Bar and Fanelli Cafe and Funny Bar where we met a Gagosian guy turned AI guy, which I guess has kind of been my career arch too though I am not so pleased about that direction. We went to the party at Bowery where the waiter from Fanelli Cafe was the DJ and I had two vodka sodas then soda water with lime which might be all I do soon, though I keep on having all these cyclical conversations with myself about these things - consumption and gluttony - and there is little that more dull, so I will not bring it up again. I went to the sleep specialist and she giggled when I said I don't scream in my sleep if I am in the company of strangers. That's different but great, she said. Do I control my subconscious, I said. Stupid idiot, she said. I did actually go to all these parties, and I did call him from the bathroom. He'll be back in New York soon, making film and code and learning banjo. It's way better than the alternative, and I do feel very proud this week which is something I have not been able to say in a good long while. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, May 21 From 7pm - 8:30pm at The Flea Theater (20 Thomas St) — I’ll be seeing Revolution: The Play. Sophia Englesberg is associate producer, and everything she touches is wonderful. Written and produced by Brett Neveu, directed by Rebecca Harris. The theater is next to The Odeon, so you can get my favorite martini before or after the show. - “Who celebrates their 26th birthday in the alley outside of her hairdressing place o’ work? Revolution interrogates and celebrates the very nature of creating community and building friendships in our ever-evolving, ever disconnecting world.”

Inline links: Revolution: The Play, Sophia Englesberg, The Odeon

Dunkin Donuts1 mentions across 1 issues

Dunkin Donuts is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 15, 2026 and February 15, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Drinking Dunkin Donuts almond milk latte with sugar free vanilla". It most often appears alongside Abe Shapiro, Aidan Lapoche, Alan Parker.

Article page: Dunkin Donuts
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 15, 2026
Last seen: February 15, 2026
Instagram handle: @nkrchtr

Outbound links

Issue trail

Yellow-all-around February 15, 2026

Abe Shapiro 1 shared issues
Aidan Lapoche 1 shared issues
Alan Parker 1 shared issues
Allen Parker 1 shared issues
Amazon 1 shared issues

Source context

February 15, 2026 · Original source

Friday, February 6 I am awake and I have been for one hour. All around me, everything is pale and still and one small room and one short hallway and one light left on. One of one. One of everything. Everything is just the same. Yesterday, when I woke up, it was yellow all around. I woke up in the country yesterday, and the first thing that I noticed was all that yellow all around. Pale yellow walls. Soft yellow light. Snow reflecting golden yellow rays off a white carriage house roof, but even that part was turned sort of yellow by the early morning sun. The night before yesterday, I stayed up all night. There wasn’t much to do with all those hours, but I knew that in the morning, I’d be whisked away. Good at leaving when I remember all the things I hate. Good at coming back when I decide to get a hold of myself. I’d decided to let the night in my apartment sort of drift. I watched the sky turn dark, stay like that for a while, and then I watched it turn light again. It always kind of happens this way. In the morning, I’d packed a book bag with a suede black mini skirt, black cotton long sleeve top, toothbrush, snow boots, notebook, Off-The-Farm brand caramel protein bar. I took the B-line to the 1-line and towards the Upper West Side. On the Upper West Side, there were big french windows and snowy streets and tree branches that scratch the side of buildings and in the summer coat the whole place green. Not so much this time of year. Empty whisper benches. Powdered sledding hills in Central Park. From the Upper West Side, Laura drove me to New Jersey. A simple enough drive, but we just could not stay on track. The Hudson River was frozen over. Big white ice blocks that solidified and fractured and split. We were trying to spot a bathhouse somewhere in the suburbs of New Jersey. Is this the place to swim? we kept on asking each other, any time we passed a warehouse, or a sign that said something like Pools and Baths and Plumbing. When we got to the country, it was already dark. The driveway was lined with silver lights. I like to return to places where I have not been for years but which stay exactly the same. We lit a fire and we had salad and salmon and white wine and chocolate truffles. I was so excited to be somewhere where there was so much space. I liked the light and the quiet and the fact that there was more snow here than in the city, and I was pleased by how much I remembered. After dinner, I ran a bath in a big white bathroom. Big clear windows looking out at clear dark skies. I liked how everything felt very old, and very big, and very familiar, and very clean. I did not like how I felt a bit like a bull in a China Shop. Everything I touched returned a little less perfect than how I found it. Soap and towels left slightly off kilter. Clothes left in a pile on the floor. I fell asleep in a big white four poster bed, and I made sure to crease the comforter only slightly. I forgot to say goodnight, but no one really minded. I woke up surrounded by yellow all around. Morning, and when I pulled open yellow sheer curtains I could look out at all those skinny barren trees and lots of ice and a long driveway that stretched on and on and on. Laura came into my room and said good morning, and then she told me that she would show me how to make coffee, downstairs, soon. On the landing, there were three bedrooms, and a long hallway with a window seat lined with stuffed animals and a big window that looked out over big snow. The stuffed animals on the landing were all like little lions and zebras and all kinds of pastel and nice faces, nothing creepy. The wallpaper was all mostly white, with little blue or pink or yellow flowers peppered in between but nothing too suffocating. The snow outside the window was silky and icy and pure white and frozen over. There was a sheen over the snow. I could see, even from here, that the snow had been solidified under a layer of crust. My hair was covered in static. When I brushed my hair, I could see it literally spark. This week, I was documenting everything with compulsion. I went downstairs. Laura was working on a puzzle in the living room, where all the windows were long and clear and let the whole space flood with light. I looked out at perfect snow coated verandas. I learned how to make coffee in a chemex glass. Boiled water. Always becoming a bit bewildered in places that are quiet and beautiful and clear. I wouldn’t be friends with someone with bad aesthetic taste, my old friends used to say. My new friends, of late, had developed somewhat of a taste for conspicuous consumption. Later, Laura drove me to the train station through snowy streets and snowy backroads. We pulled away from the house and down the snowy driveway and then we drove through suburbs where everything was all Blue Mercury Skincare and Sweetgreen and farmhouses reminiscent of Boston, Chicago, Connecticut, suburbs everywhere all the same. Ladies everywhere liking Blue Mercury and Pure Barre. Laura gave me white gloves to keep for good on the train platform towards New York. You are so cold, just take and keep these, she said. Are you sure, I said, but I was already slipping the gloves onto my hands. Back in New York, I sat on a bench in Penn Station while I waited for the 1-train. Knees tucked up to chest and clothed in kind of filthy LuLu Lemon leggings. Drinking Dunkin Donuts almond milk latte with sugar free vanilla and almond and one cool-minty-zyn. Watching strangers and all sorts of scents drift by. It is the coldest winter in history or at least in recent memory, but due to sensory issues and the flattering nature of a-line skirts, all I have been wearing is sheer tights and mini dresses. When I got home, everything was very rushed, which is another thing that always tends to happen. Saturday, February 8 Following Cassandra’s confirmation, we went to a bitcoin themed bar and then to a hotel lobby. We went to a cocktail bar after that, where the drinks were made of things like clarified basil and tasted bad. I have one statement, Sam told the waiter, at the bar. Then, he asked a question. Could I have another drink? This one is very not good. In the evening, we went to Bigelow’s to buy the hair bows just like the Kennedys wore, and after that, we went to a dinner in Soho and then a tech-week-party to end the night. At the tech week party all the girls were cute and unemployed. They all made videos on the Internet and all had long-distance boyfriends. We took photos on a digital camera and smoked cigarettes on the edge of the fire escape while the boys all talked about suicidal ideation. When they ran out of liquor, I took the elevator down without saying goodbye. On the street, in the snow, playing tetris with myself in the footholds that other boots had left behind in melting ice as I tried to claw my way into a cab, I ran into an Internet Curator. He appeared out of nowhere, though my vision was already blurry, so perhaps he had been there all along. I’ve never been somewhere with so many people from TikTok in real life, the man said. Usually, I post all these people online, but tonight there were all here in real life. Made three notes in diary in yellow taxi cab home: Freedom of Indifference vs Freedom for Excellence

DVF1 mentions across 1 issues

DVF is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 17, 2025 and September 17, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "a side-zip sale-rack dress from DVF". It most often appears alongside 1301PE, Aamina Khan, Adoration of the Magi.

Article page: DVF
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 17, 2025
Last seen: September 17, 2025

Issue trail

Aura-Abysmal September 17, 2025

1301PE 1 shared issues
Aamina Khan 1 shared issues
Adoration of the Magi 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues
Alexa Dark 1 shared issues

Source context

September 17, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Saturday, September 13 8:01am Driving over the Williamsburg Bridge where the skyline of New York City (the place where the Energies have been swirling back to life but all kinds of evil ones) is now tinged kind of light blue. The gallery last night was orange and swirling with smoke which made me gag. I couldn't really hear the readings. Something about grilled chicken. Do you think we got second hand high, my friend asked me. Do you think anything artistically interesting happens anymore? We found other friends, then, which is a good thing about New York City; insofar as it always feels quite small. We meandered further downtown for a while which was nice despite everywhere feeling a bit like a crime scene and sleep deprivation due to current events in my personal life and also on a more global and national scale. 8:27am There's a cemetery that is green green green in Middle Village and the graves are all topped with angels. There are bumper stickers that say TEACH SOMEONE HOW TO PRAY THE ROSARY on a gray car and MAKE NAZI’S AFRAID AGAIN on a blue car. 8:39am Listening to La Bás by Huysmans on tape in the car. "He could not stay in one place long and kept on inventing reasons to leave the house," the recording says. 11:29am It is sunny in Delaware and the billboards in New Jersey are amazing. Staring at my kind of puffy reflection in a streaked mirror at a rest stop feeling kind of weightless to be outside Manhattan which is kind of how it always goes these days. I do the things I need to do, but I’m not sure if that makes them right. I try to be precise and honest. I have not been acting very Selfless, but there are other things to consider besides Nobility and Sacrifice. Purchase: uncrustables and celsius. Interrogate the mundane because there is only so much one can glean from The Bigger Picture. A dress from Zara is kind of Washington-DC-Chic. This, or a side-zip sale-rack dress from DVF. I pumped my veins full of microplastics and bought an ill-fitting wardrobe. I drank iodine until my thyroid exploded. I got a tick-born illness and now steak tartar triggers anaphylactic shock. It is good that nothing bad has ever happened. 1:00pm Washington DC is Butterworth’s bone marrow for lunch and then the bookstore nearby to purchase a new copy of Paradise Lost and then The National Gallery where I like the Italian Renaissance section best because all the images are very well preserved and reverent. The most special works to me are Frau Angelico’s Adoration of the Magi and David with the Head of Goliath ceremonial shield because it’s satisying to imagine someone going into battle with something so bejewled and decedant despite the cermemonial nature of the shield that renders this idea irrelevant and a painting that I note as just Big Baby which is wonderful because the angel wings depicted are transparent like the light is just starting to rise. There is Cupid With The Wheel of Time and Bachuus floor tiles. Bachuus being; God of wine revelry and fertility. I grew up in a home peppered with masks of Bacchus and, in my old apartment we adorned the walls in masks of Bachuus, too. I tell my friends how I bought one ceramic Bachuus mask in April and then other masks kept on arriving in the mail after that. It was a colorful kind of Venetian mask to start, and then the ones that came after were darker and smaller. Like something out of a horror movie, my friends say. And this is kind of true yes, except like all reverent images or omens one can seek either good or evil or one can also choose to accept that; the most simple explanation is always the true one. And things used to be so much more interesting because everyone was much more reverent, I am thinking. Except then we walk over to the French area where the art is less reverent but more like a fairy tale. Hubert Robert’s The Ponte Salario and Francois Boucher’s Allegory of Painting and Fragonard’s Blindman’s Bluff, which makes me feel full of light Jean Honoré Fragonard’s Blindman's Buff (1775-85) - Photo via The National Gallery WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, September 17 From 7pm at EARTH — I Feel Like Seth Price in 2012 commences with BEFORE AND AFTER WRITING book launch and reading and record launch.

Eames1 mentions across 1 issues

Eames is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between December 02, 2025 and December 02, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "The Eames chair is empty behind me". It most often appears alongside 98th Academy Awards, Airliner, Albany.

Article page: Eames
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: December 02, 2025
Last seen: December 02, 2025

Issue trail

Florida, Massachusetts (03) December 02, 2025

98th Academy Awards 1 shared issues
Airliner 1 shared issues
Albany 1 shared issues
Alma Pannier 1 shared issues
Amtrak 1 shared issues

Source context

December 02, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday 7:45am and I am lying very still in my clean crisp bed like it’s a haven or a ship that will float me above and away from the clutter around me. Lying with my head pulled under white bamboo sheets, so I don’t have to see anything other than white noise and whatever I decide to fire up on my phone all around me. Reading Girl Insides live blogging her breakup on my phone this morning, and I do feel envious of the corporeal and anonymous ways in which her brand of compulsive documentation flows. Feeling kind of vague and emotionless after a weekend that was here there everywhere, and I let myself really be sucked into it which is always how it goes but one needs to be careful. I wore Cinq-a-Sept Christmas dress for a few days in a row, and there was dinner in a dark wood uptown apartment and there was a sunrise over the Hudson River and I kind of don’t want to write it like a sequence of events. I kind of hope to talk about the architectures of things and why they happen as they do. On my phone, Girl Insides is in Hollywood and breathing in jasmine and perfect fog and smog and panzanella crackers. All of a sudden everything that happens in my life is up to me, Girl Insides says. Well, me too for the first-time-ever, but it becomes more difficult this way. Perhaps I’ll go to surf in San Diego with Emma. Perhaps I’ll go to Kazakhstan or Tbilisi, Georgia or at least commit myself to no more losing days following wherever the wind blows me. I’ll be in Florida, Massachusetts, anyways this week. A spooky little town. They cursed the Amtrak towards Western, Massachusetts last year. Strangers yelling at me as we sat in dark seats hurdling through the night with train snacks of hot dog and coca cola and chips that came in perfect little packages that one unboxes in the dining car. A girl threw herself at the walls of the train on the platform as it pulled out of Moynihan Station. She bounced off the train and was removed unscathed. The conductor announced that they’d lost the crew somewhere around Albany. I walked into a doctors office and I recognized the dermatologist’s twisted and frozen face as the woman who’d been screaming on a night train heading out of New York. And all of this is just to say that everything was kind of cursed and still is sometimes, but I am trying to find omens in the more beautiful and serendipitous sorts of patterns and symbols and signs. In the hotel lobby, Celia told me to be less vague about it. Either say what you mean or don’t. So I do believe everything that I have ever been told. Which is mostly just to say that before I believed everything bad, I believed everything good. Tuesday We drove from New York to The Berkshires this morning. I stopped at Broadway Bagels and then at a farmstand and now we are here. So, these are the things that have happened. No curses and no omens. The house we can see outside the long glass window got painted green and now it totally fades into the woods. That’s nice, everyone says. That’s so much nicer, now. It’s brilliant blue-gray outside the long glass windows now that the snow has stopped and it is settling into very early afternoon dusk. I am lying by the fire that is crackling louder when the furnace is on and quieter when it isn’t. The Eames chair is empty behind me and the lamps overhead are big yellow orbs, hanging from the slanted wooden ceilings. There are things I could do here. Mass MoCA museum and my favorite James Turrell works there that change with morning and evening light. Or, The Clarke Art Museum and I can hear whispers of a textile show that others are bundling up to go see downstairs, but I think I would prefer to just stay put. There is a Tourists Hotel by the North Adams airport, which is a motel that turned fancy, with individual bungalows looking out at the river and a restaurant that looks like a home inside, all fireplaces and craft drinks and lots of little rooms. There is the alpaca farm up the road and there is Hopkins Forest and Pine Cobble and the Appalachian Trail and the sauna room by the river and trees like skeletons waving in the fading daylight just past my peripheral vision. I drove to Graylock Works when we got here to do ballet and yoga in an old mill and then I drove to the gas station and then to the local hotel lobby where I sat incognito for a moment watching families in autumn dresses and long jackets filter in and out and in and out and then I drove home. I’ve been here for a while. It’s nice to find a house that I can float through. It’s nice that when I look around I see something aside from four small walls. A blizzard just began. It is strange, because the snow is flying horizontally in the Southbound wind, but the trees suddenly appear to be standing perfectly still. Wednesday Field Notes from Florida, Massachusetts and my Google Docs Diary: I woke up this morning and I cleansed my face and put on toner and then guasha with rose oil and then red light therapy while stretching.

Inline links: Girl Insides

Eataly1 mentions across 1 issues

Eataly is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 25, 2026 and February 25, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "despite the Eataly-esque reputation". It most often appears alongside 41 Orchard Street, AceMo, Albany.

Article page: Eataly
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 25, 2026
Last seen: February 25, 2026

Outbound links

Issue trail

Life-in-a-lab February 25, 2026

41 Orchard Street 1 shared issues
AceMo 1 shared issues
Albany 1 shared issues
Allyson Joanerwin 1 shared issues
Arcade Publishing 1 shared issues

Source context

February 25, 2026 · Original source

I went to Oceans last week for a seafood “plateau” and very dirty martini, and while I tend to dislike cavernous restaurants and find them to be expense-account adjacent, this one was very good and tons of fun. Gramercy in general is very good and tons of fun, despite the Eataly-esque reputation. The walking tours of Gramercy are rumoured to be great, mostly insofar as many of the current facades are built directly over preserved original facades, and because there used to be a lot of fabulous parties thrown by interesting characters, here. The Municipal Arts Society hosts tours sometimes.

Inline links: Oceans, The Municipal Arts Society

eBay1 mentions across 1 issues

eBay is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 06, 2026 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "I want everything I own to be from Angelmoon and Ebay and LoveThanksWorld". It most often appears alongside A Place in the Sun, Ali RQ, Angelica.

Article page: eBay
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 06, 2026
Last seen: March 06, 2026
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

A Place in the Sun 1 shared issues
Ali RQ 1 shared issues
Angelica 1 shared issues
Angelmoon 1 shared issues
Banana Republic 1 shared issues

Source context

March 06, 2026 · Original source

It is morning and the day feels kind of bright and nice. I am in my room and I am feeling sweet. I am in my room and it is feeling a little bit messy. I am listening to Drasticism which is the new album by a girl who’s playing a show tonight and I am thinking I would perhaps like to go. Listening to a sweet kind of diy soft music that reminds me of crystals. I kind of want to be by the water. I kind of want to learn guitar with my friends. I kind of want sunlight on my face first thing in the morning. I want everything I own to be from Angelmoon and Ebay and LoveThanksWorld. I’d like to be in salt water in Costa Rica or perhaps Brazil but I am trying not to want things outside the present so much. Listening to “Angelica” by Bella Litsa and “If You Were Around” by Celestine Manno and “Yellow House” by Satya and I never listen to new music but it all can’t stop reminding me of crystals. My morning routine is a fantasy land. My morning routine is real life. My window is open and I can say hello to the turtles swimming in the churning water beneath me. Smell of jasmine, orange trees, salted air the song is saying. Something about California. Sweet and lovely. I am thinking of everything on such sweet terms. My morning routine is Current Body LED red light mask and water out of a metal flask and ten minute guasha routine and walk to the Italian cafe for one little morning coffee. One little morning coffee because I just quit everything. I quit everything all at once. We will see what gives.

Elene Velez1 mentions across 1 issues

Elene Velez is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between April 04, 2025 and April 04, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "I was wearing my Elene Velez Gray Jacket". It most often appears alongside 154 Scott Ave, 247 Varet, A HAPPENING.

Article page: Elene Velez
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: April 04, 2025
Last seen: April 04, 2025

Issue trail

Live Diary. April 04, 2025

154 Scott Ave 1 shared issues
247 Varet 1 shared issues
A HAPPENING 1 shared issues
Alexi Wasser 1 shared issues
Alice Aster 1 shared issues

Source context

April 04, 2025 · Original source

Today feels very slow and languid. It's the sun that's starting to boil my greenhouse apartment, maybe. It's the solitude, maybe. Not that there has been that much solitude, even. Just today, really. There’s this, from Virgina Woolfe’s Diary: “what a disgraceful lapse! Nothing added to my disquisition & life allowed to waste like a tap left running. Eleven days unrecorded.” They asked me to contribute to a time capsule. What is the purpose of archiving? When does archiving become hoarding? I skipped over these questions. I answered the questions about Nostalgia instead. You aren’t nostalgic for your phone, I said, or it was something different than that, there was more to it than that. I don’t mean to be so self-effacing. I almost bought a blood thickening potion at The Alchemy Kitchen, but I felt thick blood might bog me down. I felt that this whole potion thing, here, in this situation, was probably a scam. The other girls in the store were carrying Princess Polly Bags. The other potions were things like Build Your Own Concoction: Serenity and Joy. Matthew used to be Enemy Number One, but now he is my friend, and so I make plans to meet him at the April Fools Party tonight. Halfway through the walk to the party I get overwhelmed at the thought of going to a Party. I was wearing my Elene Velez Gray Jacket. I was wearing my Ganni Boots. It was all a bit much, then, wasn’t it? Reroute my walk towards the tip of downtown. That bar that’s way too cavernous, too expensive, full of Internet Superstars and I like it none-the-less. “I went to a party at my friend's house and she's kind of famous so they sent us five million free margaritas,” the girl at the table next to me is saying. It sounds like a quote that is fake, but this is what she actually said. The night turns all sloshy and sparkly. Yeah, it was a lot of fun and then later, the apartment is still a mess and yeah, yes, I have to get out of here. There are certain habits I’ve been struggling to break. I am not bored, I am not thinking that everything that happens here is suddenly stale and stilted and I am not, even, very disappointed in myself. More so, I think I should have left when I had the chance. And then the chance presents itself again and so off I go, then. I didn’t mean to be too self indulgent. It’s not escapism, really. Who said that thing about square pegs and round holes? Anyways, that’s the sort of thing I’m talking about. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Friday, April 3 Two shows opened yesterday. If you missed the openings, you should go today – Parent Company — Stewart Bird Amberweight opened. - “The image machine turns out an indeterminate cloud of images based on its experiences seeing more images than anyone but the image machine could ever see.” Parent Company is one of my favorite galleries around these days, and this looks to be a very special exhibition. | on view through May 24 and Psychic Readings — Stacy Kranitz and Chris Verene “The Safety Net” opened , curated by Ani Cordero. - “' a two-person exhibition that examines life in today's American small towns, through the work of acclaimed documentary photographers.” .

Inline links: Parent Company, Stewart Bird, Psychic Readings, Stacy Kranitz, Chris Verene

Embryolisse1 mentions across 1 issues

Embryolisse is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 27, 2025 and January 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "You put smooth serum on your face - sea buckthorn, La Roche Posay, Embryolisse". It most often appears alongside A Lit Mag Mixer, A Public Space, After Hours Book Club.

Article page: Embryolisse
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 27, 2025
Last seen: January 27, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

End of the Cold Front January 27, 2025

A Lit Mag Mixer 1 shared issues
A Public Space 1 shared issues
After Hours Book Club 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues
Andreas Keller 1 shared issues

Source context

End of the Cold Front

January 27, 2025 · Original source

Friday, January 24 You think you will wake up in a haze, but you don’t. Bright light this morning. It is still morning, not yet early afternoon, although close enough. They turned the water back on in the night - sent the ice fairies flying back through the streets. The faucet lurches and then starts to spew all rust colored. All the drama of the evening becomes silly in the light of day, obviously. You put smooth serum on your face - sea buckthorn, La Roche Posay, Embryolisse. The rusty water has turned all clear again. Warmer today - weaving in and out of sanity, if I'm being honest. I decide to go to Massachusetts and then I decide against it. David brings me a white chocolate bear from Lil Lac. I run into him and the bear on the way back from the gym. "I got you a really stupid present," he says. I call with the people in El Salvador in the afternoon - talking about things like The Art of The State. Red Light Therapy. I need to write my story. I need to start doing things like eating fresh fruit, drinking lots of water with things like added drops of Maldon sea salt. There's the reading everyone is going to at EARTH tonight, but the line is too long. I hear that through the rumblings of people who are there before me. The line is way too long, and there are other things to do too but I stay put which is depressing, and rare for me, and I don't do anything with the solitude except I am asleep the earliest I've been in years. Saturday, January 25 I knew I was going to get sick. It was only a matter of time, and I’m a little relieved that it’s finally here. It’s not too bad. My eyes sting, and I slept twelve hours. I slept peacefully though, no nightmares, a fever dulling whatever tripwires my mind most nights and so in this sense it’s kind of nice - the being sick. Someone asks me to write a story about ANTI REALITY - “I think of your writing as a sense of unreliability of perception,” they say. And so of course, I want to write about my nightmares, but I’ve been having fewer nightmares lately, and now I’m sick. I’ll have to think about this more, later. Honestly, I feel strange about putting these event calendars here, now that the other parts have for real become my public diary. I feel weird about putting up paywalls, but I don’t want SEO to find my Secret Thoughts. I started writing this in May, and I started writing about Everything I Did and Everything You Should Do, but now I kind of want to be doing less, or I want to be going to things because I know no one and not because I know everyone. I still feel so grateful to have places to go where I know everyone, and I do think you should go to these things, too. Creative things. Special things. Isolation is so sad and so lonely and I am so grateful that my life is mostly devoid of it. It’s like a fluke - not being isolated, I mean, but I’m not, and I feel very lucky for this. I go to a reading in Union Square tonight. Something for Casual Encounters and a new newspaper called Ummm. My illness dissipated as quickly as it arrived. I think I made myself sick because I cried a lot, if I’m being honest. But I’m fine now. I’m really relieved this happened, because it was only a matter of time, and because now it’s all fine. The reading is wonderful. I'm so happy all night. It's in a beautiful apartment, dazzling, really, and I'm there early, embarrassingly early, and so be it out of pity or mistaken identity, I am given a tour. Here is the roof. Here is the room where the reading will be. Here is the artist's studio. Here are fifty sculptures above the hallway, each sculpture is by a different artist, interpreting the same person in a different way, can you guess who the person is? Sam arrives during this part. “Hillary Clinton,” he guesses. He's right. I like readings like this. One glass of orange wine and then water. I've been so cynical lately, but this feels lovely. Natasha arrives. Others, too. It's a nice mix of people I know and people I don't. It feels so easy for things to go wrong, but sometimes a night hovers just right. Sitting on the windowsill with David later, surveying the room. Up on a basketball court later, but I'm not smoking cigarettes these days. Sometimes glamor is just glamor and you don't have to feel jaded to it. The theme of the newspaper is good - umm… exercise. And this is really the root of it all, isn't it? You run, you write, there are other things, too, but this has always been the crux of things for me. This, and then hedonism, sometimes. “I'm going to make you a french omelette with parsley and guanciale and three eggs,” David tells me at home. “And it's going to be the best omelette you've ever had.” “Was the omelette pretty decent,” David asks later. Davids’s Decent Omelette Suddenly, all my music is new. The things we’re playing over and over again - they're songs I've never heard before. This means my nostalgia for this time will be different - new emotions recollected when I revisit images of now, as compared to in the months before. I feel silly and cheap reflecting on things like this - future nostalgia, imagining the contemporary as a memory. It's a slightly drunken conversation. There is no feasible counter culture anymore, no zeitgeist to seize in a think piece, interest draws towards the interior. This doesn't have to be narcissistic if done well. It's a little narcissistic, in my case. I keep on listening to these songs, over and over and over again. Home - Kinlaw

Erewhon1 mentions across 1 issues

Erewhon is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 25, 2026 and February 25, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "she is drinking an Erewhon smoothie and talking about how Hollywood is dead". It most often appears alongside 41 Orchard Street, AceMo, Albany.

Article page: Erewhon
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 25, 2026
Last seen: February 25, 2026

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Life-in-a-lab February 25, 2026

41 Orchard Street 1 shared issues
AceMo 1 shared issues
Albany 1 shared issues
Allyson Joanerwin 1 shared issues
Arcade Publishing 1 shared issues

Source context

February 25, 2026 · Original source

Tuesday Life-in-a-lab In my dream, the house was a lab. I woke up to light not just streaming no, but flooding, absolutely pouring through the long glass windows in front of me. I knew that once the light cleared, I would be staring into the heart of this lab. I knew it was a problem that I was anticipating waking up in a lab, because I knew that I should have been anticipating a morning waking up at home. Instead, I was finding myself totally nonplused about waking up in a lab. The important thing, I knew, as I woke up with a sense of increasing urgency, was to conjure up an image of a home, not a lab. You have been in a lab for so long that you have forgotten about home, a very confident voice inside my head was saying. A picture of my childhood bedroom appeared in a few frames. Different versions. Big white bed and blue wooden floors and presently frosty fields behind the house. Little twin bed yellow walls, carpeted floors, and hot summer cornfields outside. I couldn’t get it straight. If I was in a lab, then I needed to remember. You need to remember a place that actually exists, the lab-attendants were saying in my dream. Saying in my head. Glass apartment in the sky. Room at The Marlton Hotel. I’ve been eating vegetables and collecting things like dried flowers and books on Esoteric Health and buying wash-and-fold laundry service and being swept away to places like nice restaurants with no menus and nice-apartments-with-no-owners. I woke up in Connecticut. Can’t wake up in a lab if you never go to sleep. In the morning, I woke up at close to noon. I shared photos on The Internet of a very aesthetically-cohesive and un-lab-like home. I went to the bathroom to wash my face and collect myself as best I could. The house was beautiful, and I was unsure as to why I was watching things unfold from as if I was somewhere else. I made lists of things that were special, being places like this most of all. I made lists of things that compose self respect, and then I made lists of things that compose a life that is bright and white and full of light. The country is quiet and sometimes difficult for me, though I sleep through the night now and this changes everything. Downstairs, the dogs and Celia and the other were sitting under high lofted ceilings. There was a magical and silvery presence that mediation gives to a person. I asked about coffee and they told me there was coffee in the pot and I could heat it up in a silver bowl on the stove. The stove was green and handmade and you turned it on by flicking little metal burner switches. The bowl was nice and very small. I poured the coffee in the bowl and I waited for everything to begin to boil. I added vital proteins collagen and also oat milk creamer and also lots of white sugar because the esoteric health advice of the age says this is fine. There were homemade mini muffins from The Smith Bakery down the street on the counter (blueberry, morning harvest, strawberry corn, and chocolate chip) and so I cut each muffin in half, and then I had one-half-of-each. Two mini muffins total. I put two of the halves in the toaster, and I had two of the halves cold. Everyone started telling me about gnosticism and buddhism and catholicism. They recommended to me a friend who writes about God and married into a famous band. They recommended I come to meditate in places like New York, too. You look ready, Celia said, as I packed up my north face back-pack and changed out of split-sweatpants and banaa-republic-black-top. I’m not, I snapped, in response. Do you actually want to meditate more, Celia asked. I don’t say I want to do things I don’t actually want to do, I replied. I could not stop with all this harshness. Wednesday Grand Central Station Back in New York City and I am totally covered in dog hair. Shoes untied in Grand Central Station but there is nowhere for me to stop and tie them without risking some sort of stampede or at least massive inconvenience and so onward we go. A man just walked towards me rapidly and I flinched and then felt kind of bad. Then, he shouted; young lady can I ask you a question and so now I do not feel bad. My instincts were correct, and now I do not feel bad at all. Ok, fine, whatever. I used to love arriving back in New York and hearing all the music and the lights and I would twirl through this place nonpulsed. Then, I would twirl home. I used to get drunk-before-christmas at the midtown Cipriani and then giggle when people called my ex-boyfriend and I bad-people-for-cutting on the trains toward Albany, but I’m not allowed to move like that anymore. I used to sink into sixty-dollar taxi-cabs because I found the subway over-stimulating. My Prada purse used to be lined with shiny leather, but I got fidgety somewhere tropical and I ripped it all off so now we’re working with something more flattened and matte. Teenage girls used to fling themselves at the side of the train platforms, and conductors used to lose their whole crew in Boston and train heists used to happen. I used to consider everything to be pretty taken-care-of. I think I never used to notice when sometimes, problems would arise. On the train ride back to New York, tonight, the tracks were icy and slick and it was already kind of blue hour dusk. When I said goodbye, I told Celia I love you I love you I love you a million times over because I felt slightly neurotic about a weekend full of being slightly late and slightly harsh. I am smart enough to know that the only thing complaining makes you better at is complaining, so I decided to stop. In Grand Central Station, they are playing live music, and I watch a man propose, though no one else around the soon-to-be newlyweds reacted. No photos or energy. Sad. I am wearing beat up Ganni knee high boots and Brandy Melville long sleeved dress, and Zara blazer that I stole from Paul’s Baby Grande back when I was in the practice of going lots of places and stealing lots of things. I miss my Max Mara coat that I left at “tech week” and I miss “drinking” and I am suddenly desperate to be out the door. I imagine that when the subway doors fly open and I burst out free and all-in-one piece, I will see the Washington Square Park arch, and it will be glowing silver in mid-winter light. I imagine that the city will feel warm with soon-to-be-spring-humidity. I imagine that since groundhog day has come and gone the tides will change soon, and I imagine I will relinquish my Groundhog Day (1993) fantasies of nothing-ever-happens at some point down the line, when it all becomes a bit too much to take. Tomorrow, I will be taking my shoes to the tailor and then the next day, I will have a totally fresh new crop of things to wear. I imagine that soon, I will have a fresh new crop of things to consider. Thursday Whore Dialectics Greenwich Village’s bitcoin bar sports a libertarian clientele and taxidermy and a podcast studio and beef-tallow-fries. Tonight, it sports a projector screen from my old apartment that looks sad and small propped on stage, and a big audience in metal chairs, and a birthday party in the front room, and plenty of opportunities to make myself feel useful as I tinker with film equipment and fire off texts regarding “promotional material.” I am sitting at Pubkey Bar drinking a diet coke while I wait for the screening of “Whore Dialects” to begin. When I ordered my diet coke at the bar, a strange man made a strange joke about NA beer, and I felt immediately irritated and restrained by my self imposed limits. I am listening to a group of young men discuss the career path of “Internet Pervert” as one of the only viable post-AI jobs. Monetize your self destruction, they are saying. Male prostitution. Buying plushies is to women as buying porn is to men. There’s a strange pseudo-intellectual glare to it all and I am enjoying listening in. They are talking about Brian Kaplan, but they keep on mispronouncing his name. They are talking about scientists, rationalists, and flexible proposals. When they talk about Internet Perverts, there are stars in their eyes, less because of the sex, it seems, and more because the internet perverts are able to get some money and get some attention. The male influencer. That seems to be what they are starry eyed about. They are thrilled to be in the same extended universe as someone who might be able to garner some vague attention. This is a bar that usually makes me feel kind of hazy. This is a bar where I used to make scenes. Enough reminiscing, because I am here to watch a film that is all about auto-documentarians, which is in sharp contrast to the maladjusted forms of auto-diary or auto-fiction. In the film, a beautiful girl is in the back of a car with the wind in her face and she is drinking an Erewhon smoothie and talking about how Hollywood is dead and the monasteries are empty and you can’t be a nun or get a phd because you question what truth is, and these institutions just won’t let you get at it. After that, the film cuts to a scene where the girl is in a white dress being play-drowned in the ocean by a right-wing provocateur. The film crew sent the provocateur to stay with the girl, and it was kind of the perfect setup, a voiceover explains. The provocateur describes how when he arrived, the girl was in a state of almost total abjection. Like how kids who are sexually assaulted don’t shower to make themselves totally disgusting and unappealing, he explains. I find the provocateur slightly less interesting as a character than both the girl, and the disgraced art-advisor (another prominent character in the film) but I like when he argues about politics and then reconciles on a personal level with those around him in places like California. I like the scenes about the professionally fraught yet personally friendly relationship between the art advisor and his not terribly successful clients, ie the clients are disappointed but still use the advisor’s pool for summer swims. The client still dreams of having an eighteen person studio because this means tremendous success, and because this is just how men dream. When the provocateur is described but not depicted as losing control, it is explained that the jig is kind of up, because it’s no triumph of power to reign over somebody who is not even in control of themselves. I only watch the film once and I am not taking notes, really, during the public screening at the Bitcoin Bar, but I like it because it is auto-documentary not auto-fiction or auto-diary and as such, it is very precise. The film says, for someone like me in the conditions like the ones I occupy, here is what life is like. This is more matter of fact and less indulgent than saying; here is what life is like for me. At a party last month that was also all about art whores, the filmmakers wrote a few lines about a few of my friends. The women present were on average quite a bit younger than the men and looked fresh. Perhaps because of their age, or perhaps because of the care they put into their bodies and minds, but the vibe among the women was optimistic and exuberant. I thought this was nice. Nice, too, to catch purity in unexpected places while staying totally true. Friday Upper West Side Later, I am uptown and I am thinking about how I can become more self-disciplined so I can become more interesting. I am watching Pierre Le Fou at Lillian’s apartment on the Upper West Side and all the girls are dressed like characters in the film. Lilian keeps leaning out the window with a long skinny cigarette and I am drinking a glass of Sancerre because I just can’t quit. In this film, a very small man is holding a gun to a very beautiful girl’s head while she cuts her hair. The beautiful girl has a brunette bob, and she is wearing a red dress. The film is full of primary colors and very bright paint. When a man is stabbed, he bleeds red paint. Before a man explodes himself in dynamite at the end of the film, he paints himself blue. I like the film because the colors of the gore are all bright and fake like paint, and the colors of the scenery are all pastel and muted and lovely like real life. Summer in The Riviera. Beautiful people living a simple and crime-filled life. I have not watched very many films this year because I’ve been busy writing thirty-thousand-words-about-myself-per-week. In the last film I watched, a Japanese cat was exploded by a grenade, and when gore and guts spilled everywhere, I flinched and clenched my eyes shut. Do you want to leave, my friend asked, and what I wanted was to be resilient, but what I said was I don’t really care. Now, a girl in the film is sitting on a boat with a man, and she is talking about how the two have only known each other for a few million seconds. She’s such a stupid girl, Lillian says. I would say something like that, I respond. One-million-billion-seconds and one-million-billion-words. I am feeling bubbly when I am not feeling sick or shy. I am feeling like it’s time to be more light about it. When I look to my left, I see beautiful stained glass lamps and a defense surveillance tech-branded throw blanket. When I look to my right, I see an open window and all my friends leaning too far outside smoking skinny vogues. On the Internet, people are talking about how things are only interesting if they are true. Determinative reasoning then says, one should make what is true more interesting. Everything just became crystal clear. By which I mean, everything is operating on material terms now. DIRECTORY The full event calendar is now going to live on The Aleph - an exciting new platform by Noah Kumin of The Mars Review of Books. The Aleph is a marketplace and membership club for the arts, with an emphasis on supporting in-person events, production, and funding for artists. Programming featured will be intentional and curated, and include more opportunities for early-access and invitation-only events. If you would like to submit an event for consideration, please email me at chloegpingeon@gmail.com. Apply to join The Aleph here I will still be featuring select events on the blog, along with more eclectic or personal recommendations, news, and guest features. To start: David Rimanelli is perhaps my favorite person to follow on Instagram, as well as one of my favorite critics. Tonight, from 6:30pm at Tibet House, he will be reading, along with Kiely Sweatt and Sean Fabi. Tickets here.

Estrella1 mentions across 1 issues

Estrella is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 18, 2026 and March 18, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "the only beer I like is estrella, per, my Galician friend Rebecca". It most often appears alongside Ada Donnelly, Alex Bienstock, Amelia.

Article page: Estrella
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 18, 2026
Last seen: March 18, 2026

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

West-side-highway-dog-park March 18, 2026

Ada Donnelly 1 shared issues
Alex Bienstock 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
American Affairs Magazine 1 shared issues
Angel Money 1 shared issues

Source context

March 18, 2026 · Original source

Plagiarized images of spring Saturday Everything in my room was quiet in a way that was a little bit like heaven and a little bit like hell. I lay down in bed with a Spring-2024 copy of American Affairs Magazine and I tried to read over an article about Tech Clusters and Stagnation but I ended up in AI psychosis instead. Affirm affirm affirm, my computer said. Your life seems to have solidified, my computer said. The point of it all isn’t really to be that pretty or even that kind, my computer said. The point of life isn’t love or hate, but understanding. The cycles repeat until they flip, and then they rarely return. You shouldn’t really try to understand yourself that well. You should try to resist the compulsion to share the mundanities of your everyday life and certainly of your rich-inner-world. I was supposed to shut my computer around six-pm, but the call came at five-fifty instead. The West Village was like l’heure bleue. The West Village was humid and sweet and warm and lovely. The trees were like silver skeletons, and Washington Square Park was full of teens hosting vigils for deceased foreign leaders and lookalike contests for girls with borderline-personality-disorder and presidential men. You’re in your spring coat, Max said. He had never heard that word before me. Some coats are heavy, and other coats are light, I explained. The outside of Babbo is somewhat unassuming, and the inside of Babbo is burgundy and warm and old school and sweet. The host stand is set back from the entryway and the bar is lively even at six. The whole place is basically windowless, which makes me feel like I am in a cave or on a ship or at a private party or in a nineteen-fifties-film or an architectural-dream. The menus come in small leather binders and a line drawing of a black cartoon jester carrying a bottle of wine is sketched on the first page. I am somewhat unable to typecast the demographic of the clientele here, which is interesting and somewhat rare. Everyone is quite well dressed but unassuming and of various ages though leaning-older. It is impossible to eavesdrop inside Babbo, which goes against my usual sensibilities, and aligns exactly with my dinner-sensibilities. The hostess was an older lady, because all the best restaurants have older-waitstaff-mostly. I’ll let you sit at a table and I won’t make you move, the hostess said. Everybody laughed politely and was very pleased. In the center of Babbo, there is a velvety staircase. This would be a good place for a private party, I said. The hostess led us up the velvet stairs. In the upstairs of Babbo, there is a burgundy room and a big bar and white-table-cloths and the waiter poured city-water out of metal-watering-pails and into glass-cups. The specialty martini is made very-dry. Can you make it very-dirty, I asked. We can do anything you want, the waiter said. The waiter was an old Italian man. He wrote down the martini order and our names on a napkin. MARTINI ORDER, the napkin read. You’ve been here before, the waiter said. Once, I said. You look familiar, he said. I’m not, I said. The waiter told a story about the time that all the old French restaurants closed and never returned. Only the Italian restaurant remained, he explained. You come as a child then perhaps on a date at eighteen then with family then a wedding, he said. Coming back and coming back and coming back over and over again. Anytime the water glass would run low, the waiter would appear with the metal watering pale, and the glass would be filled up. The bread came with ricotta and fresh olive oil and sea salt. Squid ink pasta and branzino and broccoli. Two martinis and a cappuccino after dinner and I melted the sugar cubes on the surface of the coffee and then I ate them with a spoon. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, all the staff said, when we left. The theme of the magazine launch was print revival and kosher pickle martinis. There were girls scout cookies on the counter, and the vibe was one of general mystique, though all I could make out when the editor spoke was something about “fiction” and “Elon Musk.” Saoirse and Olivia were behind the bar, and they were looking like angels wearing white and being kind. The late winter hadn’t really felt like real life, so it was nice and quite affirming to make eye contact with my friends. You’re the best contract employee in the world, the girls assured each other. You’re the best girlfriend ever. You’re the sweetest girl to ever walk this Earth. The magazine was free and so I helped myself and left by midnight. I can psyop myself, and then I can do whatever I want. My process is I write everything that happened and then I filter it into obfuscation one-million-times. My process is to invent my own school of movement and adopt a moral code. My process is totally against religious iconography as vague gestures towards false meaning, but totally pro iconography when one’s belief in something is complete. My self psyop sometimes looks like self experimentation, or bandaid-solution, or destruction and construction and being social-chair. I tread very lightly, and when I act according to things I hate or things I miss, it goes about exactly how you’d expect it to. Here is something: call up my parents and I read my diaries aloud on my phone. Everything seems like the end of the world in dizzy night, and: The boys hands were bloody in the morning, and; I ordered coffee and milkshake and breakfast sandwich in, and: everyone seems so fragile in the sunshine, and: One thing about being here, hazy in the sun is I feel less aggressive. In New York, the sun keeps coming back and going away and I love it when my friends and I talk about the weather. I order green juice and cold brew in the morning, and it’s quiet and cold-again. I order chopped-green-goddess-sandwhich and I seek intellectual-stimulation and I wear a brown-leather-jacket to the west-side-highway-dog-park. My process is everything-beautiful-all-the-time and iphone photography and whenever my perspective is called into question I can call up Amelia who can affirm how happy I really was all the time, there, and sometimes now. She’s totally straight-edge, and she always has a good sense of the way things were and are and are heading. Sunday Sitting on the couch in an empty apartment watching the gray sky turn light in the courtyard and listening to the garbage trucks fire up on the somewhat distant street. It feels like waking up in New York as a child, right now. Awake too early. Jet lagged, almost. At a magazine launch during evening fading night in a white house with framed art and long french windows and yellow trim, a man was telling me that the only good thing about not growing up in New York City is that you get to experience the thing that it is to understand the city for the first time and to let it consume you. If you grow up in New York, then you understand the city all along and this is mostly a great thing, he was saying, but what about that feeling when you arrive and you’re older and you understand a place like this for the very first time. There were daffodils all throughout the apartment, and carpeted floors over wood that stretched back into room after room like a maze. Everyone was calling each other “dear” and there was a sense of things as generally boisterous but not overblown. I like older people who love New York. I like people that are sober-minded, fun, and rarely cynical. The people at the party wore pearls and black and ballet flats and lived uptown and they kept on asking me about New York. Do you love New York, they kept on asking. And I said yes and I meant it and they seemed pleased The air conditioner is running. The sky is gray and sweet. I always am very aware of causation, and I know how to understand what makes something bad and what makes something good. I don’t think it’s narcissistic to try to understand your own intentions but one shouldn’t go too much deeper than that. I would never betray anyone I love. I want ginger beer for breakfast lunch and dinner. I want hydrangeas in the apartment. I want to fall asleep in a room sized bed and be airlifted into daylight and clothed in blue sweaters. I want to be dosed with soylent but not lobotomized. Last night, at the magazine launch, a man was telling me about the story of his life. I lived across from Jeffrey Epstein, he said. I’m a lawyer, he said. I know hundreds of people, he explained. Do you know any secrets, I asked. The girls never looked underage to me, he shrugged. Isabel pulled me away. We walked down the long and wooden hallway and we stood by open windows. The figures across the street looked almost cartoonish, running like shadowy stick figures down the paths in hazy dusk in Central Park. So winter is great until March comes around, and I am not so ready for spring equinox and abandon-interiority and things moving faster and faster and faster. Everything material feels kind of cartoonishly good. Everything on my computer feels kind of cartoonishly evil. Cassandra and I bought big blue books full of curses, and now we are going to open them on the floor of an apartment on the Upper West Side and wear cable-knit sweaters and assume invincibility until proven otherwise. Since Darby gave me a blue heart-shaped bowl and an evil-eye bracelet that I haven’t taken off since, I’ve realized that I need to hold my cards closer to my chest. I put myself to sleep at dusk tonight because there are colors flashing in front of my open eyes like hallucinations and signs of delirium. I wake up on the couch shivering under my spring coat. Little white dried flowers all around me. A new wooden toothbrush propped on one clean shelf in an otherwise crowded cabinet. I wait for midnight so the new day can begin, and then at twelve-oh-one I say thank you to God one million times. I go outside for a walk in humid winter air. I go inside, and I’m alone again. I go to a building that looks “new” in Tribeca, and I go to a building that looks “old”. I interrupted a meeting, and I was given plastic bottles of fireball behind the bar. My friends were all talking about picking up new hobbies. A boy outside told me about adult gymnastics. I told the girls about rock climbing. I considered aerial silks. I considered French lessons and online shopping and recommending books-to-buy-boys-who-are-just-getting-into-reading. I watched a video essay about how not to let the moon affect your moods. I watched a video essay about undersea cables. So, February was fine. Cold and a little bit dreary and Iris keeps on telling me that above all she considers herself to be pragmatic, which seems to be working out for her and so I’m taking notes. I keep on deciding to just become nihilistic about it, but even when I don’t set alarms, I always wake up in time to do the things I should. DIRECTORY Wednesday, March 18 from 4:45pm at Metrograph —El Sur (1983, Victor Erice) screens. I have a special fondness for the landscapes of Northern Spain and the only beer I like is estrella, per, my Galician friend Rebecca. This film is not about spanish beer, but rather a spanish girl by the same name. “it’s half a film that contains a whole world of wonders.” Thursday, March 19 evening plans: MANHATTAN: From 7:30pm at Night Club 101 — Lubov says THE INTERNET MADE ME DO IT. A night of readings and music with Ada Donnelly, Alex Bienstock, Marble Index, Kyle Sullivan Dobbs, Lorry Kikta, Melissa Seward, Angel Money, and Yuri NYC. | RSVP here

Etat Libre d'Orange1 mentions across 1 issues

Etat Libre d'Orange is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 23, 2024 and October 23, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Experimentum Crucis by Etat Libre d'Orange (Luxurious, provocative, sometimes ironic, often subversive, and always elegant)". It most often appears alongside Alimentari Flaneur, Andrew, Ani.

Article page: Etat Libre d'Orange
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 23, 2024
Last seen: October 23, 2024
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Collected Agenda with Vivien Lee October 23, 2024

Alimentari Flaneur 1 shared issues
Andrew 1 shared issues
Ani 1 shared issues
Architectural Digest 1 shared issues
Bamonte's 1 shared issues

Source context

October 23, 2024 · Original source

No direct inline source block was recovered for this mention.

Eventbrite1 mentions across 1 issues

Eventbrite is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between June 06, 2024 and June 06, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Eventbrite coming soon with ticket links". It most often appears alongside 06 Art, ALLSHIPS, Ally Pankiw.

Article page: Eventbrite
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: June 06, 2024
Last seen: June 06, 2024
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

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Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #3 June 06, 2024

06 Art 1 shared issues
ALLSHIPS 1 shared issues
Ally Pankiw 1 shared issues
Anastasia Berg 1 shared issues
Angela Torres 1 shared issues

Source context

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015?

June 06, 2024 · Original source

Friday, June 14 at 8pm, TENSE MAGAZINE will present “Vagrancy and Vice” at The Locker Room. This will be a special evening, with a forthcoming lineup of amazing readers (including Beckett Rosset himself), ballet, music from New Orleans, and a magician. Eventbrite coming soon with ticket links

Inline links: TENSE MAGAZINE, The Locker Room, Beckett Rosset

Everlane1 mentions across 1 issues

Everlane is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between August 14, 2025 and August 14, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "lying on the couch... in an Everlane striped tee". It most often appears alongside Abundance Meditation, Alice Bailey, Amelia.

Article page: Everlane
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: August 14, 2025
Last seen: August 14, 2025

Issue trail

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? August 14, 2025

Abundance Meditation 1 shared issues
Alice Bailey 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
Anika Jade Levy 1 shared issues
Ann Taylor 1 shared issues

Source context

August 14, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, July 28 Amelia is at the apartment when I arrive, bearing cloned keys and summer dresses. It is not a relief to return, I am afraid. Tiptoe across dusty slanted floors and this sense of oddity and dread creeps back no matter how quiet I am about it. There are planes overhead and I have loved all this glass before, but I am clenching my eyes shut now; wishing for drapes that close. Earlier, the flight from London was delayed hours upon hours and things went awry the moment I was left alone. Comparing notes of past present and future and then I laid my roller suitcase horizontal on the bathroom floor to take a seat and think about it. Left my passport in the airport bar where the woman beside me was making friends with every single customer cycling through aside from myself and then I sprinted over to security, where the lights were flashing all schizophrenic and neon and no one would speak. You'll miss your flight, dear, the airport attendant smiled. They opened a small door with a large electric key. They sent me to the Back Rooms. They sent me through endless identical silver doors and a mirror maze and down a long gray magic carpet. I emerged on the other side to find another magic carpet just like the first. I imagined infinite magic carpets extending in every direction. Motion activated so the feedback loop would reveal itself every time I thought I reached solid ground. I was not moving horizontal anymore. It was a vertical descent into the underbelly of Heathrow. I forgot the status of Boeing VS0137. I forgot to ever leave. I woke up in the Kids Play Center. We've lifted your curse, the airport attendant beamed. Most slides can also be used as rafts, they tell me on the plane. Cartoon villain voice playing on Virgin-Atlantic-TV and they're blasting it through the cabin speakers, too. You were an A+ travel companion, they told me in the airport. I wake up to take stock of these things: safety guidelines and praise. I fall back asleep. Tuesday, July 29 After things fell apart in June, I did not eat or sleep for four days and three nights. On the fourth night, I called the NYPD informational line quite dizzy and more out of curiosity regarding physical resilience and atrophy than out of any sincere safety concern. If you cannot sleep tonight, then you can call me in the morning, the operator said. And so I was unconscious in an instant. Put some limits on one's own neurosis. I decided to stay up late last night. It was muggy and hot outside JFK, and I missed the moors and the fog for just an instant. Then, the glass doors slid open into hot sweaty americana summer and all else was forgotten. Felt a bittersweet sort of close to home. Sat on the curb. The airtrain to the car park turned onto the highway. Felt like a road trip. Felt like team sports, two-in-the-morning, intermission. I'd been so quiet that day. I had not spoken one word since Heathrow. Everybody understood that the apartment was rotting. Great place but full of mold. Great place but full of memories both good and bad. Somebody should have thrown out the milk. Somebody should have done something about the feng shui. The dead trees. The slant of the floors. The roof, which nearly caved in last winter. Three in the morning arrival but I asked Amelia if I could come over instead, and Amelia understood it would be best to sit on her floor. Amelia had been leaning into performance art. How was your vacation, Amelia asked. Not transgressive and weird, I sighed. But rejuvenating, pleasant, precious in the sort of way I'd like to hang onto. And I am feeling physically fit from all the walking and running that went on and on and on. The heat wave has not passed in New York despite one more week dwindling into summer, and I sleep until midday around when I open my eyes and begin to feel uneasy. The lines out the stores are down the block and everyone is becoming very thin. The summer foods are things like GREENS 01 Juice and maca-powder-peanut-butter-protein-bites and very rubbery cocktail shrimp at The Smith. It is Julia who suggests The Smith for dinner and I am not picky with those sorts of things. It is me who suggests the party, despite my increasing hopes, generally, to avoid these sorts of things. Wednesday, July 30 Sitting at Banter with the Big Breakfast and hot green tea reading fairytales. It was a nice night last night. Whirling sort of thing. Nightclub101 to KGB to following a group to Ludlow House to Ripple Room. The sort of thing I like as often as possible, but really must limit to now and then. Sitting at the Australian Cafe now, using my Moldavite to mark my place in my book. The fairytales are describing relentless compassion as a form of some sort of psychological warfare. Psychosexual manipulation. Relentless compassion so as to provide one with a moral advantage, knowing it is impossible for the recipient of such compassion to reciprocate. Relentless compassion so as to cast a desperate, selfish, striving plea for reciprocation. The second option is probably more common, but it would be nice to be kind of on a high horse. August will be like oysters at The Knickerbocker with the cocktail sauce in the martini glass and we're sitting by the cracked glass window and Drew says don't cut your hair not yet and so it'll be like humid heavy hair almost down to my waist now, sparkling water in plastic cups with lime and diet coke in a bikini and I will stay put for a while. I will sit at KGB sober in the evening like I do most every evening. They're tearing chocolate chip cookies apart with their hands at the table over and Amelia says she thinks a bit too much about herself to give too much thought to the existence of God but she remembers, as a child, crying tears of joy because she couldn't believe her luck. She just realized she had somehow made it into a human body on Earth, and she couldn't believe her luck. I don't wish the evenings went on too much longer. The timing is starting to feel just right. I want to fill a Desani water bottle with white claw and catch a cab to a pool party but the evening might start to feel too late. I'll read Fanny Howe, Thomas Hardy, Dawn Powell on the floor - big cracked hard cover dog eared copies of all my books. Then, I will pack up my books into Ikea plastic storage trunks. I will pack up all my books and dresses and then the movers will come. The movers will haul my things out the door. They will haul the place bare. I will turn off the air conditioning in this glass apartment in the sky, and then I will leave. August will be somewhere else. Thursday, July 31 Rebecca and I are making plans. Involving - The Chakras by C.W. Leadbeater and Esoteric Healing by Alice Bailey. I don’t want to work harder than I ever have before, but I do wish to be a bit more intuitive about it. Rebecca is telling me about Energy Hygiene in a Chaotic City. Rebecca is telling me about Seven Rays & Soul Typing. Taking Thomas Pynchon, guasha, monastery sage oil, yoga mat, mineral sunscreen up to the roof for Abundance Meditation and Contemplation. I receive good news. The best, really. I am sorry to be opaque, but something shifted in the winds in England. So far, I have managed to hold onto it here. Careful! Open up the blinds because it's foggy this morning which means we get to let some light in. No bright sunlight baking things alive. No leftover drinks or snacks from the Last Party Ever that was thrown last night. So - it’s a very strange day. I’d like to take a different approach to Caution. Generate me a definition. They generate me this definition: The deeper awareness of human limitations, the deceptive nature of false certainties, and the dangers of unchecked power. This will do. Friday, August 1 It’s an unusual sort of incoherence in my dreams today. The shelf above the bed is lined with wine glasses full of water, and there's an in between of sleep and something else - nyquil at six in the morning, cinnamon zyn at six in the morning, the friends went home around six in the morning and now it is sometime around noon, sunlight streaming in. I wake up gagging. In my dreams, the wine glass water was mostly poisoned. In the space between half awake, not all was poisoned but it was a Russian Roulette sort of thing. I take my chances. Chug water out of my safest bet. Wake up screaming. Fall asleep screaming. The Ikea boxes for the move are starting to fill up and I know it's me stuffing the plastic to the brim but I don't really remember. It's been recollection that's lacking, really. It's been a birthday dinner tonight. The sweetest kind in the Lower East Side. Dimes Square but it's just us, I said. Because it was in the general vicinity but the streets were all empty. A stupid joke, but everyone humored me. Everyone was beautiful and lovely and happy and I didn't drink a regrettable amount. A nice sort of night. Got stuck on Thomas Pynchon and now I can't read anything else. Got stuck on esoteric health and now the water is poison. Got stuck at karaoke and now my self proclaimed sulfate allergy is acting up. Wine and hypochondria. It becomes a bit self indulgent then, doesn't it? Saturday, August 2 If the movers weren't late, I'd be gone by now. But they are late, and so I am lying on the couch that’s being left behind in an Everlane striped tee and too-short Los Angeles apparel shorts feeling kind of sorry for myself. I'm not sure why I decided to scrounge up this sort millennial slop getup for the day of my very unceremonious departure. Feeling older than my years. Feeling like I was raised on Madewell and Ann Taylor or, whatever else it is that would feel nostalgic if I'd been born before 2000. Something other than Patagonia shorts and my sister's sweaters, anyways. Feeling culturally un-attuned. Feeling mostly sorry for myself because I am surrounded by grime. I've been flouncing around this place for a while, now. The clutter is so repulsive, and so much of it is new. There was never a day of really moving in, here. It was just step by step, one thing after another, little parcels that were easy to bring up and down and in and out and now; you wake up in the middle of the morning in a glass apartment in the sky to the sense that there is no space left. I would love to toss and toss and toss. I would love to close my eyes on this island of this couch amidst a swamp of Ikea boxes and tell the movers never mind. I would never open the boxes again. I would never do the dishes. I would wear polyester and sleep on the previous owners teak Scandinavian couch. I would sleep surrounded by trash. It would all become trash, because I would decide to throw it all out. What do we need to know?, the movers will ask, when they arrive. Do you find everything interesting? I will ask. Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? YAY, the movers will say. I am picking things up and putting them down. The movers will give me high fives. Me and three Serbian teens high-fiving in a glass apartment in the sky that I am soon to leave and never return. They will pick things up and put them down and haul them out and I will never return. Sunday, August 3 I have taken my things and never returned. All is well except, the lights here are a bit too fluorescent. The courtyard is nice for the turtle pond, but the brick blocks the sun. And, once there was a top lock but now there is not. There is a hole in my door and I can't get it out of my head. There is a hole in my door and now everything is all wrong. Sitting at GMT Tavern with a not very nice martini and the Thomas Pynchon book I just can’t finish or quit. Slow Learner. Slow Learner, just like me. Make it all about me me me. Life is like: another day in my dumb life on my dumb blog talking about me me me. Life does not have to be like this. Life could be like: the hovering curious dominant of their separate lives should resolve into a tonic of darkness and the final absence of all motion (Pynchon). I keep getting stuck on that quote. I keep getting stuck on entropy, which I do not hope to believe in. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, August 14 From 9pm at Silver Lining Lounge — Matt Weinberger and Scott Lipps present The Downtown Prom. Hosts include Sid Simons, Anika Jade Levy, Nicole Naloy, and more. Music by Sexy Damion, Blog Analog, Loose Buttons, and Boxxer. DJ sets and more.

Inline links: Matt Weinberger, Scott Lipps, The Downtown Prom

Experimentum Crucis1 mentions across 1 issues

Experimentum Crucis is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 23, 2024 and October 23, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Experimentum Crucis by Etat Libre d'Orange". It most often appears alongside Alimentari Flaneur, Andrew, Ani.

Article page: Experimentum Crucis
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 23, 2024
Last seen: October 23, 2024

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Issue trail

Collected Agenda with Vivien Lee October 23, 2024

Alimentari Flaneur 1 shared issues
Andrew 1 shared issues
Ani 1 shared issues
Architectural Digest 1 shared issues
Bamonte's 1 shared issues

Source context

October 23, 2024 · Original source

Experimentum Crucis by Etat Libre d’Orange (Luxurious, provocative, sometimes ironic, often subversive, and always elegant… what a tagline)

Inline links: Experimentum Crucis by Etat Libre d’Orange

Feeld1 mentions across 1 issues

Feeld is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between April 04, 2025 and April 04, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "addicted to things like Ketamine and Feeld". It most often appears alongside 154 Scott Ave, 247 Varet, A HAPPENING.

Article page: Feeld
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: April 04, 2025
Last seen: April 04, 2025

Issue trail

Live Diary. April 04, 2025

154 Scott Ave 1 shared issues
247 Varet 1 shared issues
A HAPPENING 1 shared issues
Alexi Wasser 1 shared issues
Alice Aster 1 shared issues

Source context

April 04, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Thursday, March 27 Midnight in New York, I'm taking stock of my glass apartment in the sky. I brought back nine dresses from El Salvador - eight old ones, one black tennis dress from El Tunco. All to be washed. Open the window. There is spring breeze now, all of a sudden, really, but I've been growing accustomed to real heat. These things I used to hate - dense hot air, beating sun, a day that stretches on under direct natural light, no end, no plans.... I would suddenly like to return to this, actually, over frigid and clipped stories about foggy northern coastlines and other things in that vein. Over stories about New York, and other things in that vein. David has stayed in San Salvador, and then, Santa Teresa, Costa Rica. It would have been basically free for me to come and yes I have commitments here but not too many if we're being really honest. I would have become kind of a freak after three whole weeks in airbnbs that are calling themselves "hacker houses," though, is the main issue. And, I wanted to do laundry and stretch in the spring breeze, open the window, set an alarm. It would be so easy for me to untether the physical circumstances of my whole life, these days. It would be easy to have distance from New York, as the main thing, but distance from physicality more generally, too. I've done it before. Honestly, I'm not eighteen anymore, I don't think it makes sense for me to do it again. I will probably stop being so strange and vague once I have even one conversation with my friends back in New York. For now, it is very strange to be alone. Very strange to walk around even a small space, that even only temporarily, is belonging just to me. The past few weeks have been about eclipsing interiority with observation. Floating in realms that are foreign. Not El Salvador, even. The hacker house stuff more. The dialogue of it all, more. The other reason I am here, home, abandoned visions of a hologram of Santa Teresa and also I already really miss my boyfriend - well there was responsibility and laundry and the reading and the stories to finish but also, the lunar eclipse played a role for sure. Something about the Earthquakes and Volcanoes. The floods and the fights. Seek less direct attention from that vivid piercing beaming beating sky. Seek solid ground, I saw someone say online. So, I did. I'm back in stupid dumb New York. Window open. You can barely feel all that fresh air. Friday, March 28 I do go for a walk in the morning, and I do still love New York, I decide. I want to have very delicate arms and boundless energy. I want to have tremendous discipline in a way so as to elicit joie de vivre, and also paths of clarity. The brain fog is so bad today. In the middle of the night, the jet lag woke me up, and I hate sleeping alone in this apartment. I'm sorry, I know I’m being a child but I hate it, the emptiness, when I wake up from paralysis, there are often moments of brief delusion. Alone, glass house, I have to talk myself down. I’ve tried to bring myself to life, today - long walk, two protein bars, slice of papaya, sushi roll for dinner, diet coke and cigarette, make a Vlog, make a Call. David had sleep paralysis, too, last night, he tells me on the phone. This is weird, because usually, this is a plight that is just for me. In real life, there was a creepy elderly woman occupying the hacker house in El Salvador, too. “I started a magazine last year,” she told me, when I told her I was a writer. “Oh, cool, about what?,” I asked her. “I don’t remember,” she told me. Blank gaze. Empty eyes. She would sometimes walk through our room while I slept, and one time I woke up to her passing by, vacant glance, I was obviously shocked, she looked obviously pleased. “How are ya, Love?” she said. The word “love” here, carrying a lot of the weight in making the indecent violation of space a lot creepier. “It’s fun, isn’t it?,” she told David’s friend, while he was doing the dishes. “Turning the water on and off is fun, it’s all fun, isn’t it?” She had referred to herself as a refugee, in El Salvador. From where, I had asked her. From Canada, she had said. A real eccentric freak, and in David’s dream, he wakes up to her sneaking up behind him, looming over him, it’s all fun isn’t it. She says sinisterly: “do you know what I think?” Then, in his dream, he felt her weight bend the bed springs and begin to smother him. Lunar eclipse. New moon. I find this dream ominous enough that I begin to become very concerned. You have to get out of there, I tell David. I'm leaving tomorrow anyways, he reminds me. Saturday, March 29 I spent the night last night reading at Tense and it was really lovely. Kansas Bowling reading and Valley Latini doing a hip hop show and Beckett Rosset on the Providence Hotel and me on half formed thoughts on the half complete piece I am writing on Techno Spirituality and El Salvador. I’m back in Real Life, and I don't regret it. I spent the morning by myself working on my edits. David is still traveling, and I am being more normal about it this time. In jet lagged fugue state, I burned the kettle down to a lump of molten plastic, not on purpose, obviously. I called my dad who's moral judgment I trust in full, so this clarifies a lot of things. I forgot how much I like running really really really fast. Whenever I am craving the extremes, I should access them through lots of sprints. The wind is crazy today. The wind has everyone whooping and hollering through the streets. I'm making TikToks again. I don't care. There are worse evils or, rather, you can leverage anything for evil if you really want and honestly, I am just trying to have lots of fun. Some of you are awfully pretentious for being addicted to things like Ketamine and Feeld. Not me. I don’t like drugs, and I have a soulmate. It is just as bad if not worse to be addicted to your phone as it is to anything else, but I’m regulating my time, and I’m microdosing my slop - or so I tell myself. Sunday, March 30 I order uber eats groceries at midnight, and then it's like celsius and chicken just washes up at my door. I don't like this. Chemicals, aspartame, the dissolution of the social fabric, really. How these things just materialize when you want to actualize some gross borderline animalistic whim. Craving. Diet Blackberry Pepsi. I would not like to live anywhere but New York City, or really anytime but now when I think it through on a very personal and very literal level. But there is something here that I increasingly am wary of as mere hallucination. There is much to consider. I am trying to be very energetic which, really, is the feeling that I increasingly cast as synonymous with Health. We went to Bacaro for dinner last night, then to Clockwork, later. “Do you know about how to get dinner for free,” some girl sitting next to my friend and me said. Then, she explained the concept of Club Promoters. Yeah I know, I said. I didn’t say it in a rude way. I just told her that I already knew, which I already did. My energy feels back in a way that feels very True today. Before I left for El Salvador, I was getting in the habit of killing time. Looking at an hour and wishing it over. I don’t want to quantify anything. What would happen if I never rushed a second again? This is what I’m trying to figure out. What would happen if I never rushed a second again? This is what I’m trying to figure out. Monday, April 1 My mind was reeling so fast in my Irish Literature class this evening. I started flicking through Internet Web Applications at warpspeed. I made some calls. I didn’t go crazy. “Saying no is a far more reliable path to avoiding sin than saying yes”, I heard someone say, through my fog, through the haze - that snapped me out of it quite quickly. “What if you literalize that, and just say no to everything?” a quiet girl across from me asked. I wrote this part down - “JUST SAY NO TO EVERYTHING!!!!” It was humid, heavy, soon-to-be-hot spring, today, in New York. I lost my head. Truly. I became very braindead very quickly, today. I recovered as best I could. It’s the way these things always go. Unmoored from the interactions you’ve been taking for granted, you’ve been alone with your thoughts and suddenly, you’ve found yourself thinking Nothing At All, and Saying A Lot Out Loud And Saying A Lot Online. You realize, suddenly, how wrong this all is, and then you become briefly concerned that maybe, suddenly, it is already too late for you. Or maybe it isn’t too late after all.. Water on the windowsill. I remember spring two years ago, a taxi cab from Chelsea down to where the East River runs near the Lower East Side. I wore a yellow dress and I ran like the wind from the river to the hotel bar. The fires. The maggots. It was that day in New York when it felt like cosmically, biblically, something bad was probably about to happen. The Seven Plagues. The air was thicker and hotter, then. I am thinking about that day because I was braindead on the Internet then, too. Celsius, protein bar, things had begun all thick and ugly and then I’d been whisked away into a big black car, shuttled to the bar at Nine Orchard, my friends convincing me to stick around and then I did, I stuck around for a while, I never really left after that, come to think of it. “It’s Deep Tech Week in New York,” Shannon tells me, today - whatever that means. She sends me an event as such, and I investigate the schedule for the rest of this week from there. Deep Tech Week is a week of events about Tech, and they added the word Deep in front of it to make it seem more cool, I realize quickly. “Turning Science Fiction into Reality,” the text on the website says, and I don’t really like the sound of that. I find that premise, as strictly a premise, material reality aside, even, to be nearly cartoonishly evil. But, I suppose I’ll try to be less pedantic. I eat a sugar cookie (gluten free). Two protein bars from that new brand DAVID. A brand activation crispy sandwich from Joe And The Juice. The packaging is orange instead of that usual nice pastel pink. KEVIN DURANT, the packing says. It is nine pm, and I am suddenly ravenous. Good. Looks like I got my corporeality back. I really was planning to go to the Deep Tech Party tonight, but the rain started in an instant, in the exact instant I was set to leave, really. Like it’s trying to communicate some form of serendipity, reason, warning, whatever. Monday is the day where I let myself get every last thing done on my phone. My eyes burn. It rots the soul. My week continues and I become much more particular with myself. Tuesday, April 2 It’s not that I mind being kind of exhibitionist, even, but I can’t control the feedback loop and I start to drive myself mad. Taking stock of the state of the union like THINGS THAT ARE "IN": Swimming

Feels Good To Do Things1 mentions across 1 issues

Feels Good To Do Things is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 03, 2025 and February 03, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "including Drink More Water, and Feels Good To Do Things". It most often appears alongside Abscissa #2, Adderall, Adriana Furlong.

Article page: Feels Good To Do Things
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 03, 2025
Last seen: February 03, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

Dream Logic February 03, 2025

Abscissa #2 1 shared issues
Adderall 1 shared issues
Adriana Furlong 1 shared issues
Advil 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues

Source context

February 03, 2025 · Original source

From 10pm - 4am at Le Bain — NY Alt celebrates fashion week, too. Matt Weinberger and Orson present The NY Fashion Alt Gala, hosted by a plethora of cool brands, designers, and labels including Drink More Water, and Feels Good To Do Things.

Inline links: The NY Fashion Alt Gala

Fireball1 mentions across 1 issues

Fireball is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 18, 2026 and March 18, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "I was given plastic bottles of fireball behind the bar". It most often appears alongside Ada Donnelly, Alex Bienstock, Amelia.

Article page: Fireball
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 18, 2026
Last seen: March 18, 2026
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

West-side-highway-dog-park March 18, 2026

Ada Donnelly 1 shared issues
Alex Bienstock 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
American Affairs Magazine 1 shared issues
Angel Money 1 shared issues

Source context

March 18, 2026 · Original source

Plagiarized images of spring Saturday Everything in my room was quiet in a way that was a little bit like heaven and a little bit like hell. I lay down in bed with a Spring-2024 copy of American Affairs Magazine and I tried to read over an article about Tech Clusters and Stagnation but I ended up in AI psychosis instead. Affirm affirm affirm, my computer said. Your life seems to have solidified, my computer said. The point of it all isn’t really to be that pretty or even that kind, my computer said. The point of life isn’t love or hate, but understanding. The cycles repeat until they flip, and then they rarely return. You shouldn’t really try to understand yourself that well. You should try to resist the compulsion to share the mundanities of your everyday life and certainly of your rich-inner-world. I was supposed to shut my computer around six-pm, but the call came at five-fifty instead. The West Village was like l’heure bleue. The West Village was humid and sweet and warm and lovely. The trees were like silver skeletons, and Washington Square Park was full of teens hosting vigils for deceased foreign leaders and lookalike contests for girls with borderline-personality-disorder and presidential men. You’re in your spring coat, Max said. He had never heard that word before me. Some coats are heavy, and other coats are light, I explained. The outside of Babbo is somewhat unassuming, and the inside of Babbo is burgundy and warm and old school and sweet. The host stand is set back from the entryway and the bar is lively even at six. The whole place is basically windowless, which makes me feel like I am in a cave or on a ship or at a private party or in a nineteen-fifties-film or an architectural-dream. The menus come in small leather binders and a line drawing of a black cartoon jester carrying a bottle of wine is sketched on the first page. I am somewhat unable to typecast the demographic of the clientele here, which is interesting and somewhat rare. Everyone is quite well dressed but unassuming and of various ages though leaning-older. It is impossible to eavesdrop inside Babbo, which goes against my usual sensibilities, and aligns exactly with my dinner-sensibilities. The hostess was an older lady, because all the best restaurants have older-waitstaff-mostly. I’ll let you sit at a table and I won’t make you move, the hostess said. Everybody laughed politely and was very pleased. In the center of Babbo, there is a velvety staircase. This would be a good place for a private party, I said. The hostess led us up the velvet stairs. In the upstairs of Babbo, there is a burgundy room and a big bar and white-table-cloths and the waiter poured city-water out of metal-watering-pails and into glass-cups. The specialty martini is made very-dry. Can you make it very-dirty, I asked. We can do anything you want, the waiter said. The waiter was an old Italian man. He wrote down the martini order and our names on a napkin. MARTINI ORDER, the napkin read. You’ve been here before, the waiter said. Once, I said. You look familiar, he said. I’m not, I said. The waiter told a story about the time that all the old French restaurants closed and never returned. Only the Italian restaurant remained, he explained. You come as a child then perhaps on a date at eighteen then with family then a wedding, he said. Coming back and coming back and coming back over and over again. Anytime the water glass would run low, the waiter would appear with the metal watering pale, and the glass would be filled up. The bread came with ricotta and fresh olive oil and sea salt. Squid ink pasta and branzino and broccoli. Two martinis and a cappuccino after dinner and I melted the sugar cubes on the surface of the coffee and then I ate them with a spoon. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, all the staff said, when we left. The theme of the magazine launch was print revival and kosher pickle martinis. There were girls scout cookies on the counter, and the vibe was one of general mystique, though all I could make out when the editor spoke was something about “fiction” and “Elon Musk.” Saoirse and Olivia were behind the bar, and they were looking like angels wearing white and being kind. The late winter hadn’t really felt like real life, so it was nice and quite affirming to make eye contact with my friends. You’re the best contract employee in the world, the girls assured each other. You’re the best girlfriend ever. You’re the sweetest girl to ever walk this Earth. The magazine was free and so I helped myself and left by midnight. I can psyop myself, and then I can do whatever I want. My process is I write everything that happened and then I filter it into obfuscation one-million-times. My process is to invent my own school of movement and adopt a moral code. My process is totally against religious iconography as vague gestures towards false meaning, but totally pro iconography when one’s belief in something is complete. My self psyop sometimes looks like self experimentation, or bandaid-solution, or destruction and construction and being social-chair. I tread very lightly, and when I act according to things I hate or things I miss, it goes about exactly how you’d expect it to. Here is something: call up my parents and I read my diaries aloud on my phone. Everything seems like the end of the world in dizzy night, and: The boys hands were bloody in the morning, and; I ordered coffee and milkshake and breakfast sandwich in, and: everyone seems so fragile in the sunshine, and: One thing about being here, hazy in the sun is I feel less aggressive. In New York, the sun keeps coming back and going away and I love it when my friends and I talk about the weather. I order green juice and cold brew in the morning, and it’s quiet and cold-again. I order chopped-green-goddess-sandwhich and I seek intellectual-stimulation and I wear a brown-leather-jacket to the west-side-highway-dog-park. My process is everything-beautiful-all-the-time and iphone photography and whenever my perspective is called into question I can call up Amelia who can affirm how happy I really was all the time, there, and sometimes now. She’s totally straight-edge, and she always has a good sense of the way things were and are and are heading. Sunday Sitting on the couch in an empty apartment watching the gray sky turn light in the courtyard and listening to the garbage trucks fire up on the somewhat distant street. It feels like waking up in New York as a child, right now. Awake too early. Jet lagged, almost. At a magazine launch during evening fading night in a white house with framed art and long french windows and yellow trim, a man was telling me that the only good thing about not growing up in New York City is that you get to experience the thing that it is to understand the city for the first time and to let it consume you. If you grow up in New York, then you understand the city all along and this is mostly a great thing, he was saying, but what about that feeling when you arrive and you’re older and you understand a place like this for the very first time. There were daffodils all throughout the apartment, and carpeted floors over wood that stretched back into room after room like a maze. Everyone was calling each other “dear” and there was a sense of things as generally boisterous but not overblown. I like older people who love New York. I like people that are sober-minded, fun, and rarely cynical. The people at the party wore pearls and black and ballet flats and lived uptown and they kept on asking me about New York. Do you love New York, they kept on asking. And I said yes and I meant it and they seemed pleased The air conditioner is running. The sky is gray and sweet. I always am very aware of causation, and I know how to understand what makes something bad and what makes something good. I don’t think it’s narcissistic to try to understand your own intentions but one shouldn’t go too much deeper than that. I would never betray anyone I love. I want ginger beer for breakfast lunch and dinner. I want hydrangeas in the apartment. I want to fall asleep in a room sized bed and be airlifted into daylight and clothed in blue sweaters. I want to be dosed with soylent but not lobotomized. Last night, at the magazine launch, a man was telling me about the story of his life. I lived across from Jeffrey Epstein, he said. I’m a lawyer, he said. I know hundreds of people, he explained. Do you know any secrets, I asked. The girls never looked underage to me, he shrugged. Isabel pulled me away. We walked down the long and wooden hallway and we stood by open windows. The figures across the street looked almost cartoonish, running like shadowy stick figures down the paths in hazy dusk in Central Park. So winter is great until March comes around, and I am not so ready for spring equinox and abandon-interiority and things moving faster and faster and faster. Everything material feels kind of cartoonishly good. Everything on my computer feels kind of cartoonishly evil. Cassandra and I bought big blue books full of curses, and now we are going to open them on the floor of an apartment on the Upper West Side and wear cable-knit sweaters and assume invincibility until proven otherwise. Since Darby gave me a blue heart-shaped bowl and an evil-eye bracelet that I haven’t taken off since, I’ve realized that I need to hold my cards closer to my chest. I put myself to sleep at dusk tonight because there are colors flashing in front of my open eyes like hallucinations and signs of delirium. I wake up on the couch shivering under my spring coat. Little white dried flowers all around me. A new wooden toothbrush propped on one clean shelf in an otherwise crowded cabinet. I wait for midnight so the new day can begin, and then at twelve-oh-one I say thank you to God one million times. I go outside for a walk in humid winter air. I go inside, and I’m alone again. I go to a building that looks “new” in Tribeca, and I go to a building that looks “old”. I interrupted a meeting, and I was given plastic bottles of fireball behind the bar. My friends were all talking about picking up new hobbies. A boy outside told me about adult gymnastics. I told the girls about rock climbing. I considered aerial silks. I considered French lessons and online shopping and recommending books-to-buy-boys-who-are-just-getting-into-reading. I watched a video essay about how not to let the moon affect your moods. I watched a video essay about undersea cables. So, February was fine. Cold and a little bit dreary and Iris keeps on telling me that above all she considers herself to be pragmatic, which seems to be working out for her and so I’m taking notes. I keep on deciding to just become nihilistic about it, but even when I don’t set alarms, I always wake up in time to do the things I should. DIRECTORY Wednesday, March 18 from 4:45pm at Metrograph —El Sur (1983, Victor Erice) screens. I have a special fondness for the landscapes of Northern Spain and the only beer I like is estrella, per, my Galician friend Rebecca. This film is not about spanish beer, but rather a spanish girl by the same name. “it’s half a film that contains a whole world of wonders.” Thursday, March 19 evening plans: MANHATTAN: From 7:30pm at Night Club 101 — Lubov says THE INTERNET MADE ME DO IT. A night of readings and music with Ada Donnelly, Alex Bienstock, Marble Index, Kyle Sullivan Dobbs, Lorry Kikta, Melissa Seward, Angel Money, and Yuri NYC. | RSVP here

Firehook1 mentions across 1 issues

Firehook is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 25, 2025 and February 25, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "firehook crackers with dill and double cream for lunch". It most often appears alongside 1 storypod, 115 Bowery, 185 E Broadway.

Article page: Firehook
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 25, 2025
Last seen: February 25, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

My Glass House February 25, 2025

1 storypod 1 shared issues
115 Bowery 1 shared issues
185 E Broadway 1 shared issues
8 St. Marks Place 1 shared issues
Absolute Divinity 1 shared issues

Source context

My Glass House

February 25, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, February 16 The rain continues turning everything muted and gray, but I am bursting with energy, and I am bursting with the feeling like myself again. Early afternoon - the morning gentle sleet turns to a downpour. David bought a basil plant and he put it by my flowers. Do you notice what is by the flowers, he asks. There are firehook crackers with dill and double cream for lunch. Then, a few more of the same with sliced turkey for dinner. You could be a rock climber, if you wanted. You could be an artist in a really useless and abrasive sense, too. You could spend all your time making art and it could all just pertain to yourself. Only make the most incoherent shit imaginable, and then write some really fire press releases and float on by with that, with obfuscation and with stylish sentiments that conceal your vacancy and lack of meaning. I read an interview that snaps me out of it so quickly. The author is talking about how monks are maybe missing something. If you’re meditating all the time, then you’ve kind of lost a grip on reality. It’s enlightened, maybe, but you lose something if you go so deep into interiority that you turn off exterior reflection altogether. If spiritual leaders have lost the plot, then so too, certainly, have I. I’m going monk mode but it’s just Playing On My Phone. I’m going monk mode but it’s just Publishing My Diaries.1 I walk to Le Dive in the evening. I talk for many hours with my brilliant friend who has much clarity in what she is actually saying when she writes. We talk about how to withhold or not withhold pieces of yourself, and she asks me something about how I reveal so much of myself without worrying about things like people who hate you, or worse, people who stalk you. It’s easy to reveal a lot of your thoughts on things like ice on the window when you have no convictions, I think. I do have some convictions, but I won’t reveal myself here. “It’s a scary wind outside,” David says when I get home. “And we’re in this scary apartment in the sky.” “It’s not too scary,” I say. Monday, February 17 In my dreams last night, they take me to Spring Street Dermatology and they give me a chemical peel, microneedling, they shake me up with electrical currents and I leave feeling burned and new. In real life, the wind is whistling even more in the morning. Bright sun, howling wind. David is starting to think about going to bed for the night just as I am waking up for the morning. David spreads orange marmalade and double cream on toast. “What a wonderful thing,” David says. At the party at Jeans, I get a lychee martini, a cosmopolitan, a vodka soda... it's kind of gross sloshing around a nightclub on a monday night, but after I decided to stop doing things like this, I decided again, to stop hindering all my own fun. They’ve packed us like sardines in this basement tonight, and so I don’t linger long. There is a song, a show, and it’s a good lineup of performers and I’m sorry that I didn’t really pay attention, but I was quite busy and I was sloshing around. I was talking about publishing with a famous Twitter Anon friend of a friend who I ran into at the bar, I was looking for service, I was looking for wifi, I was sitting by coat check because I hate standing at these things, I become extremely untethered standing at these, so I was sitting in the hallway, and I was missing the show. Tuesday, February 18 Asleep by eleven, awake by six, this is all very new for me. There is such hazy blue gray sky lighting up the room through the panes of my glass roof. There is David on the terrace with a cigarette. I have a busy day today, and thank god for that. I've been waiting for momentum, and now it is here. Erin tells me about dinner with the most beautiful girl you know. She lives only off of sponge cake, and she was nicer this time. I’m going to read an Irish gothic novella,” I tell David. “Wait one second,” David says. “I just want to reassure you about the plane crashes.” The reassurance is something all about the role of the dice. The gothic novella is all about the moon and untempered desire. I wasn’t too worried about the plane crashes, really, but it is nice nonetheless to be reminded of Rationalism and Randomness. The gothic novella is supposed to be interesting because it was reinterpreted into a Lesbian Dorm Room Drama in a 2014 Web Series. The gothic novel is interesting to me, because it reads like a fairytale. I like the insularity. I, too, have been possessed by demons in my sleep. I am going to write out my Food Diary now, because I am trying to take stock of these things: celsius, apple, peanut gomacro bar, almond gomacro bar, salmon sushi roll, some bites of David's steak with the crust piece of the baguette and then mint tea and then the dandelion tea too, before I go to sleep. You can talk yourself in circles, but of course the only solution is to consistently live well and to consistently live in a way that you can stand behind. Such a life does not require all this talk talk talk on the topic. Carmilla by Sheridan La Fenu. Illustration from The Dark Blue by D. H. Friston, 1872 Wednesday, February 19 I do not want to write you an essay about what happened. I want instead, to write you a story about the parts I made up. After class and then after lunch, and then after a few other things, because there were a few other things, it is not like I did nothing, but the momentum didn’t really last. After just these few things, there is the space heater and the protein bar and the playing on my godforsaken phone and the rereading of all the fairytales, Carmella, The Wind Boy, I have all these hazy spring stories on my mind. I like the photographs Natasha took of me. In these photographs, I am in my room, and I feel like myself. I think I look like myself, too, and this has never happened before, not really at least, never in a photograph, or at least not since I was very young. It is only seven in the evening. It's not too late to run outside in crystal dusk. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, February 25 From 6pm - 8pm at Hauser & Wirth 18th Street: ‘Dieter Roth. Islandscapes’ opens. I like the looks of this - “Featuring a selection of graphic works, monoprints, multiples and unique pieces spanning from the early 1960s to 1975, ‘Islandscapes’ focuses on Dieter Roth’s printmaking, which accompanied every phase of his life and practice.”

Five Minute Journal1 mentions across 1 issues

Five Minute Journal is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between August 14, 2024 and August 14, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "she didn't mean a diary, she meant bullet points, a bullet journal, a Five Minute Journal". It most often appears alongside Adam Friedland, Adeline, Annabel Boardman.

Article page: Five Minute Journal
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: August 14, 2024
Last seen: August 14, 2024

Outbound links

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #7 August 14, 2024

Adam Friedland 1 shared issues
Adeline 1 shared issues
Annabel Boardman 1 shared issues
August Lamm 1 shared issues
Baby's All Right 1 shared issues

Source context

COLLECTED AGENDA #7

August 14, 2024 · Original source

I go to the gym, I go to pilates, I go to dinner and I make a scene. I'm happy and I’m productive and I'm not sure I see the value in writing the mundane. I see the value in this writing by others, I see it when it’s not just cyclical. Journaling Won’t Save You, my friend Grazie wrote in a beautiful essay last year, but she didn’t mean a diary, she meant bullet points, a bullet journal, a Five Minute Journal. I’m trying to write a novel with little avail, and I'm starting to understand the value of PLOT. Plot, perhaps, as more valuable than Interior Monologue, or at least as inextricably connected, both valueless without the other. I’m not sure it’s a given that art and life are inherently connected. I used to make lists of my consumption: ART AND LIFE OF 2022 - chronicling film, books, food, friends. There’s harsher distinctions between those categories than the titles to my notebooks allowed.

Inline links: Journaling Won’t Save You, Grazie

Flower Power Kombucha1 mentions across 1 issues

Flower Power Kombucha is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 14, 2026 and January 14, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "drinking flower power kombucha this morning". It most often appears alongside 169 Bar, 56 Henry, 99 Minutes of 2026.

Article page: Flower Power Kombucha
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 14, 2026
Last seen: January 14, 2026
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

How To Break Paralysis January 14, 2026

169 Bar 1 shared issues
56 Henry 1 shared issues
99 Minutes of 2026 1 shared issues
@lucdarcy 1 shared issues
A.L. Bahta 1 shared issues

Source context

January 14, 2026 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, January 5 Start the year at Cassandra’s apartment, and then a few days pass kind of breathless and stranded in this way. Her bedroom looks over St Vincent’s Ferrer, and it is light filled and sweet. Cards and paper star cut outs hung on red ribbon stream down the edges of the cream walls. A seashell necklace, Mary Magdalene portrait, books of Adorno and Mary Gaitskill. The bible. When my friends leave for the day, I do not. Rush of opening doors and boots on wood and winter air, and then they are gone. Cassandra’s apartment is very clean. It strikes me, somewhat uneasily, that everything I touch appears slightly less precise when I’m the one returning it to its proper place. Face oil left off kilter and kind of dripping. A little bit bad at treading gently in this place where I am a guest and everything is delicate and gorgeous. Wearing my friend’s Adidas pajamas and drinking water and taking Advil in thick blue translucent pill form. Writing down the things I no longer care to reflect on. A lot can happen in a year, I tell Cassandra, but then again, a lot can happen in one day or one hour or one minute, even, so best to be kind of chill about it. We go to Heidelberg for herring and brown bread and hot raspberries in ice cream and apple strudel at night. We go to CVS for baby food and tooth brushes and nicotine gum. The evenings uptown are more sparkling and quiet. Back at the apartment, and I can’t stop talking about all the things I want to do or places I want to move. California, Switzerland, El Salvador. Uptown, to a four bedroom apartment with my four best friends. Lying on Cassandra’s couch wearing a blue sweater under a gray blanket and drinking flower power kombucha this morning. Cassandra gets ready for work and offers general hospitality. Eat any fruits and vegetables you want, Cassandra tells me. She lists them like a game. Ad libs. She was teaching me how to type cast a person as “Lego” or “Dust Bowl” or “Victorian Orphan,” last night. Blueberries, shallots, pickles, seeded mustard from the Amish farm stand. I tell Cassandra that she’ll come home to find I have devoured all of her arugula with my bare hands. Later, I wear Cassandra’s blue sweater and black ballet flats and take my own belongings clutched in my arms in a cab downtown. Am I crazy, or did you take my black ballet flats, Cassandra texts, that evening. We discuss an exchange. Tomorrow’s plans. My polyester black gown bartered for Cassandra’s blue sweater and black ballet flats. We’ll meet at mass, lunch, The Frick, The Met, the play, the party. The light is blue gray in my apartment, and all the windows steam over when the hot water is on. All the windows steam over because my apartment is very small, and because the bathroom has no doors. A New Year should feel psychedelic, not sluggish, one of my friends said, a few days back. Psychedelic??? I said. What about crisp and clear???? After my dream where there is No Air Left, I come to consciousness with concerns about redemption. Something about bad habits and something omnipresent left unsaid. Sun and light and real sort of detox incoming and yes this has all happened or is happening or needs to happen soon. Sirens outside the foggy window. Gentle winter sunrise. Watching Darling (1965) on my computer as it gets light outside. The Schlesinger film where Julie Christie whirls about all thrilled to find it’s not too late, even though, of course, it is. Back on my phone, I’m checking prediction markets and trackers and fortune tellers and all the things I’m trying to avoid for religious and also paranoid reasons. My fears are all confirmed. Reading the stars. That voice in your head telling you everything will work out fine is wrong, they say. Sound of shattering glass crystallizing outside my open window this morning. I can sense, therefore, more than see, bright morning light starting to seep through. Thank God. It was a few days of gluttony last week. Last days of bohemia, but it was different from the bohemia of before. Different from the times that we were all manic from the wind and cold and early January where everything or nothing happens all at once. Everything used to be reeling. I miss Butterfly Club. Ex-best friends are forever. I’ve been talking about being ascetic for reasons of necessity, and also because simulated intensity can only do so much when it comes to keeping a life pure. Morning, now, and I don’t remember my dreams but I jolted awake ready to chase the same thoughts in circles. Washington Square Park is bright and feeling like spring today, because the snow is melting and the trees and lights are coming down. Pine piles looking a little lonely under the park archway. Something a bit melancholy about it. Dead and gone. Nothing to overthink. Cassandra comes downtown for mass and black ballet flat retrieval, and then she goes uptown to clean her apartment and do good things so she can be a good person. Your apartment is already so clean, I want to tell Cassandra. Cassandra is telling me about the only girl in the world who are funny. I went to tell Cassandra about someone who said me and one other girl and one specific nun are only girls who are funny, but the conversation moves on before I can assert my piece. And I think I’m mostly funny when I’m being mimetic, anyway. Better at knowing funny than at being funny myself. Cassandra is telling me about childlike wonder. Washed my face with La Rouche Possay cleanser and Japanese milk toner and did Big 6 Lymphatic drainage which is supposed to do things like give you the whites of your eyes back and also cleanse your insides through and through, this morning. Procured a Celsius and cool minty zyn from the fridge. Procured green juice and cliff bar and sat in Prada boots, for a while, on the edge of my bed. I do feel confident things will work out in the end, Cassandra texts me. Only if no spiritual blockage with vice or isolation, I text her in response. What if we had seven more hours of daylight, my friend said tonight, but I like it when it is four pm and I’ve completed my day of obligations and the fading daylight matches a sense of completion. I wore a tan skirt with no tights because they all keep running and a black long sleeve tee and sneakers to do venue tours and other obligations. I thought you were coming from the gym when I saw you wearing shorts, my friend said, after I ran into him on the street. I’m not wearing shorts, but I am wearing sneakers because I keep on procuring mysterious injuries, I said in response. It was a strange December and then a good January, incoming. Good, because it is quiet. Good, because I think I sense things picking up. Can I see a menu, I asked the bartender, at a dive bar, later that night. There is no menu, because this is a dive bar, the bartender told me. Can I get something warm, I asked. The bartender fired up the kettle. Imagine seeking out attention to get only the negative aspects of fame like stalkers and rage, my friends were saying, at the dive bar. Imagine selling out your friends to cloy for low hanging fruit. Imagine turning twenty-six. Imagine playing pool. Imagine moving to Los Angeles, California, or San Salvador, El Salvador, or Geneva, or even Austin I would move anywhere, I was saying to my friends. I would move across the country or even the world and become very sweet or even very bored. My friends were talking about people for whom spectacle is just real life. You assume that everyone is excited to go back to real life, and then you realize that they have no real life. So these are the people that you’re supposed to avoid. And then after that, everyone was talking about religion again. Which is sort of crystallizing to be the topic these days, or even this year. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, January 14 A few good downtown art openings tonight (6pm - 9pm) — At 56 Henry; works by Yifan Jiang and Sareh Imani. At Entrance; Seth Cameron’s first New York exhibition in six years. At Post Times; Elberto Muller solo show.

Inline links: 56 Henry, Yifan Jiang, Sareh Imani, Entrance;, Seth Cameron’s, Post Times, Elberto Muller

Forte Forte1 mentions across 1 issues

Forte Forte is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 21, 2024 and September 21, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "a Forte Forte blouse that would have looked cooler untucked". It most often appears alongside $EGIRL Zine, 10cust, Adeline Swartzendruber.

Article page: Forte Forte
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 21, 2024
Last seen: September 21, 2024

Outbound links

Issue trail

I wish I had more to say about fashion week. September 21, 2024

$EGIRL Zine 1 shared issues
10cust 1 shared issues
Adeline Swartzendruber 1 shared issues
Alexa Chung 1 shared issues
Alirqq 1 shared issues

Source context

September 21, 2024 · Original source

I wear a black suede skirt to the Elena Velez show, a Forte Forte blouse that would have looked cooler untucked but I didn’t want to look wide, LaBucq heels, white socks, I often worry that everything I own is awful. I see Shannon in line at the show looking chic and a tiktokker known for almost unwatchable parody videos doing street interviews ahead of her. There’s the Hallowed Sons biker game revving engines loudly on the sidewalk, but when I remark at their rudeness, I am told that they are there for the show, part of the spectacle, obviously. Later, I see them inside. I’m not a fashion critic. I’m not really a critic at all. I feel earnestly, simply happy to be here. The show is on the seventh floor of an office building, an industrial space, lots of light, only two rows of seating down a long runway and an apocalyptic techno-adjacent soundtrack that, in a very pared down sense, works.

Inline links: Elena Velez, Forte Forte, LaBucq, Shannon, Hallowed Sons

Franciacorta1 mentions across 1 issues

Franciacorta is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between December 03, 2024 and December 03, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Wine provided by Franciacorta". It most often appears alongside Alice's Restaurant, Amtrak, Anna.

Article page: Franciacorta
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: December 03, 2024
Last seen: December 03, 2024
Instagram handle: @franciacorta

Outbound links

Issue trail

Florida, Massachusetts December 03, 2024

Alice's Restaurant 1 shared issues
Amtrak 1 shared issues
Anna 1 shared issues
Anthology Film Festival Paradise Shredition 1 shared issues
Arlo Guthrie 1 shared issues

Source context

Florida, Massachusetts

December 03, 2024 · Original source

From 5:30 - 7:30pm at Il Bisonte — Yolo Journal celebrates the new Fall/Winter issue. I love few things more than a beautiful travel journal (something that has become few and far between). Yolo Journal, however, fits this bill to exaction. Wine provided by Franciacorta. RSVP to ilbisonte@novellapagherapr.com

Inline links: Il Bisonte, Yolo Journal, Franciacorta

Frangelico1 mentions across 1 issues

Frangelico is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 04, 2025 and September 04, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Chambord, a sip of walnut martinini, frangelico liquor". It most often appears alongside 131 Chrystie St, 54 Barrow St, Aeronauts Aimed for Altitude, Even….

Article page: Frangelico
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 04, 2025
Last seen: September 04, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Drinking Dreams September 04, 2025

131 Chrystie St 1 shared issues
54 Barrow St 1 shared issues
Aeronauts Aimed for Altitude, Even… 1 shared issues
Agnes Enhktamir 1 shared issues
Alexa Ferrer 1 shared issues

Source context

September 04, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, August 24 Lay with filthy tangled hair hanging off the edge of the roof for a while last night, watching the Chase Clock Tower lit up too royal blue and the Empire State Building lit up the nicer sort of baby blue. I've been collecting shades of blue. Kind of navy blue Frankie's Bikini little number reflecting something sort of aqua off my Diet Pepsi on the D-line towards Coney Island. Screaming children on the D-line. Naked man running around trying to steal pedestrians pants on Coney Island. He keeps on saying to the other guy, Darby says - “I like those pants ! Gimme those pants!” And it was all these beautiful friends coming and going last night. Coming and going until it was late, really late, so taxi home and then I ate the toppings off a slice of pizza on the floor with a spoon. I spent the morning alone doing Rituals. Tretinoin before sleep and I did wake up screaming for the first time in a while. Red light therapy and copper multi peptides and avocado eye cream and mineral sunscreen and now I'm on the Subway. Kind of braindead on the subway. It sometimes takes it out of you. This sort of thing can really take it out of you. It's been summer for forever, now. I have a lot more friends now. Connectivity, connected tissue, I walk down Brighton Beach by myself, walk to Tashkent Supermarket for a towel and carrot salad and on the phone I'm saying it is not that I wish for death and even sometimes I fear it but things have become a lot less Risk Averse. I'm a lot less Risk Averse now. It would be better to be dead, someone was saying at the bar last night. She was looking at me eyes all intense and no one was really listening, I could tell no one was really listening but everyone was watching her all the same and I could see them all clenching their bodies and kind of pulling away.. Me particularly, pulling away. Perhaps I'm being self absorbed. It wouldn't be better to be dead, someone else said. He looked at me then, locked eyes which usually makes me kind of uncomfortable but I felt inclined to agree. It's definitely better when nobody is dead, I said. The bar was full of plants and glass. Like a glass jungle, I told my nameless friends at the bar.. That's not very astute, a nameless friend told me. Tonight, the cocktail menu is flavored and priced like a full course meal, and so tonight I order Cold Pizza for dinner. Cold Pizza in a crisp glass bottle, plus greasy fried chicken after that, which comes in thick paper cups. And everyone is so grateful to be alive, tonight. Everyone is so grateful for one more year of life for themselves and for their dear friends particularly. Purple sunrise if I hadn't slept through it. Yellow sunset if I hadn't gritted my teeth and clenched my eyes shut through it. Planted two feet firmly in the ground and screamed through it. First, I made one thousand promises I couldn't keep. Second, I sat on the stoop with an energy drink, water, cool minty menthol gum and the antiseptic kind of sore throat with some bodega spray gripped tight in my hand to heal all my problems. My ailments and the other things. My organs and my mind. Overjoyed to be alive again after leaving my apartment, I told Amelia. It does make things better again, Amelia told me. Tuesday, August 25 Bartending school feels kind of like an alcoholic's vision of a drinking dream. Like holograms of condensation, dim lighting, one takes a sip to the tune of disappointment. Water and food coloring dye. Bowery Park and Whole Foods and JPress nearby and inside; Christmas is coming. Smooth jazz. Everything has felt a bit the same for a time, but my room is clean. Summer is passing. Three months is not so long. Would a functional alcoholic lace up black ankle boots at seven in the morning with a clear mind and bright eyes to catch the train towards midtown towards Bartending School, at the top of the week, at the tail end of August? I am not so good at pretending like anything is changing. Like habits stack towards something greater. It might as well be yesterday, I sigh on the phone. For you, it might as well be yesterday, Amelia agrees. I do the things a person should. Cake for friends' birthdays and the waiter keeps stacking on fees at Union Square Cafe. Cut the cake fee, sit at the table fee, big group of people fee, bring your own food fee. There are other tables next to us all inhabited by people who all appear to be exactly the same, though perhaps I am being uncharitable. Imagine them as skeletons. Imagine them as children. My parents used to tell me this when I was little. Kind of a hack against boredom. I imagine myself as a psychic, looking out on things overpriced and people all exactly the same. You will have a small child and feed her nothing but buttered noodles. You will advance in age but stay exactly the same through invasive surgical facial intervention and stunted social development. You will spend evenings eating french fries with caviar for One Hundred Dollars despite a rich inner world and a childhood pumped full of extracurricular stimulation designed, specifically, to avoid a fate like this. You will fear God more than death and you will understand self destruction to be akin to suicide hence rendering you too, on a trajectory like this, a rather hellish creature. You will wake up in the middle of the night in a small box criss-crossed wood roof apartment in New York City to the sense that there are No Loopholes Left. You will go to bartending school. You will recognize that, while you can be cruel there were other factors at play. There were worse factors at play. Wednesday, August 26 Walking from Greenwich Village to Long Meadow in Prospect Park with a bag filled up with white linen and Thomas Pynchon and a plan to celebrate sweet Sylvie's birthday. A different sort of nostalgia in the air today. Nostalgia of all sorts being kind of a form of mental illness, of course but once - we were woodland fairies. Once, there were fall morning running races and cranberries that crunched under bare feet on Massachusetts roads. Once, there were rounds of Tom Collins in a kind of jazzy jungle garden restaurant in the tropics that my boyfriend who liked gender-roles enjoyed because they wouldn't let girls order their own drinks. Once, I went to the Yankees game in late August, blue and pink hazy skies, the sort of advertisements that blare out notes about Fast Food and Safe Driving in the stadium, and the sort of crowd that is so big it starts inspiring feelings of Life and Spirit rather than Homogoninity and Dread. Once, I walked from bartending school full of Tom Collins, Chambord, a sip of walnut martinini, frangelico liquor. Walked to Caffe Reggio for egg white omelet, toast, a creamy cannoli. Walking to Prospect Park a little bit tipsy. Thinking about the sort of things I used to pretend to care about. Writing about the sorts of things I used to pretend to care about. Writing it all down. Writing and walking. Writing it everywhere. Writing it on the walls. Though, I'm not so bad at keeping secrets anymore. Thursday, August 27 Amelia and I sat at Caffe Reggio until close last night, and now I have returned. Tomato soup and side grilled chicken and creamy cannoli and mint tea because things feel decadent again. Limited consumption. I haven’t really been limiting consumption. The waitress is complimenting the gray sweatpants on the boys at the table over from me, and the waitress seems to be vaguely annoyed with me, though I am trying to be pleasant. Thanks the sweatpants cost enough, the boys are saying, at the table over. Thanks we didn't realize we couldn't split the bill, Amelia and I were saying, last night, our tea was four dollars total and everything was starting to feel a little bit hazy. Sitting on the floor at sunrise, this morning, Amelia and I were watching videos from Miami. Videos from Bahamas. Videos from New York City, 2022, we'd been at all the same parties, but I hadn't known a soul. BAHAMAS, we are beaming, in one video, in the back of a taxi cab, streaking over MacArthur Causeway, Miami-Dade County, Florida, and so, as I recall, the driver was confused. I'm putting on makeup in the photo booth webcam on the floor of a hotel room and Amelia is talking in the background. It's Opposite Day in the background. Who had a mental breakdown, someone is saying in the background. From an outsider's perspective, who was it who had a mental breakdown? Friday, August 28 6:30pm, and I am back at IFC for my third viewing of Diva (1981) in twenty-four hours. I came to view Diva (1981) for the third time in twenty-four hours, because I became very sick of thinking about myself. This is a desirable alternative. The film is beautiful, and I wish to live in places like the apartments pictured. A large and wrecked studio in a car park with painted walls and recording equipment or, a hotel in Paris or, a castle by the sea or, the best one of all is a large blue flat full of puzzles and high ceilings and echoing sea sounds and an aqua glow and a man who wants to learn to stop the waves. They are fighting crime in the film. They are entrapping the criminals and they are doing it kind of like performance art. I don’t wish to spoil the ending. It really is the perfect little film. So; I will send out the recipe for zucchini (courgette) soup, and I will explain away the things I did in breathless optimism as things I did while bored. I will go to The Scratcher, Killarney Rose, Funny Bar, then Gospel then Caffe Reggio again - these are the decadent places to which I continue to return. I will draw my name with Riley on the table in crayon writing Best Friends Forever and listen to Feryquitous ft Sennzai and Sigur Rós and John Maus and think about Switzerland, Iceland, having a lot of dreams about places that are lush, lush, lush. Thinking about places that are quiet quiet quiet. Thinking about places that are green green green. Feels like Fall, outside, after church. Amelia woke me up in a living room that looked like a library and she was screaming that the air was poison. I was difficult to awaken, because it is my own delusions of poison air that wake me up screaming on other nights. Different from tonight. I was reminding myself of reality. I was reminding myself of delusions and keeping my eyes clenched shut while Amelia screamed. Well, the air wasn’t poison after all, just late night and late august and heavy with mosquitos and dust from renovations and revelations and; we walked back to the cafe. I walked through Washington Square Park at dawn. The doorman wished me good night at seven in the morning and the cycles repeated. It isn’t opposite day and we aren’t in hell, just working on things like bed time and emotional regulation. Working on archiving the things that happen outside of my head. It becomes good to have been an archivist all along. It becomes good to become sick of dealing with things mainly in repetition. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, September 4 From 6pm at Carinito — Saloon is throwing a party. Drinks from Dio. Dancing, DJ, tacos, etc

Inline links: Carinito, Saloon, throwing a party

Frankie's Bikinis1 mentions across 1 issues

Frankie's Bikinis is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 04, 2025 and September 04, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Kind of navy blue Frankie's Bikini little number reflecting something sort of aqua". It most often appears alongside 131 Chrystie St, 54 Barrow St, Aeronauts Aimed for Altitude, Even….

Article page: Frankie's Bikinis
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 04, 2025
Last seen: September 04, 2025
Instagram handle: @nkrchtr

Outbound links

Issue trail

Drinking Dreams September 04, 2025

131 Chrystie St 1 shared issues
54 Barrow St 1 shared issues
Aeronauts Aimed for Altitude, Even… 1 shared issues
Agnes Enhktamir 1 shared issues
Alexa Ferrer 1 shared issues

Source context

September 04, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, August 24 Lay with filthy tangled hair hanging off the edge of the roof for a while last night, watching the Chase Clock Tower lit up too royal blue and the Empire State Building lit up the nicer sort of baby blue. I've been collecting shades of blue. Kind of navy blue Frankie's Bikini little number reflecting something sort of aqua off my Diet Pepsi on the D-line towards Coney Island. Screaming children on the D-line. Naked man running around trying to steal pedestrians pants on Coney Island. He keeps on saying to the other guy, Darby says - “I like those pants ! Gimme those pants!” And it was all these beautiful friends coming and going last night. Coming and going until it was late, really late, so taxi home and then I ate the toppings off a slice of pizza on the floor with a spoon. I spent the morning alone doing Rituals. Tretinoin before sleep and I did wake up screaming for the first time in a while. Red light therapy and copper multi peptides and avocado eye cream and mineral sunscreen and now I'm on the Subway. Kind of braindead on the subway. It sometimes takes it out of you. This sort of thing can really take it out of you. It's been summer for forever, now. I have a lot more friends now. Connectivity, connected tissue, I walk down Brighton Beach by myself, walk to Tashkent Supermarket for a towel and carrot salad and on the phone I'm saying it is not that I wish for death and even sometimes I fear it but things have become a lot less Risk Averse. I'm a lot less Risk Averse now. It would be better to be dead, someone was saying at the bar last night. She was looking at me eyes all intense and no one was really listening, I could tell no one was really listening but everyone was watching her all the same and I could see them all clenching their bodies and kind of pulling away.. Me particularly, pulling away. Perhaps I'm being self absorbed. It wouldn't be better to be dead, someone else said. He looked at me then, locked eyes which usually makes me kind of uncomfortable but I felt inclined to agree. It's definitely better when nobody is dead, I said. The bar was full of plants and glass. Like a glass jungle, I told my nameless friends at the bar.. That's not very astute, a nameless friend told me. Tonight, the cocktail menu is flavored and priced like a full course meal, and so tonight I order Cold Pizza for dinner. Cold Pizza in a crisp glass bottle, plus greasy fried chicken after that, which comes in thick paper cups. And everyone is so grateful to be alive, tonight. Everyone is so grateful for one more year of life for themselves and for their dear friends particularly. Purple sunrise if I hadn't slept through it. Yellow sunset if I hadn't gritted my teeth and clenched my eyes shut through it. Planted two feet firmly in the ground and screamed through it. First, I made one thousand promises I couldn't keep. Second, I sat on the stoop with an energy drink, water, cool minty menthol gum and the antiseptic kind of sore throat with some bodega spray gripped tight in my hand to heal all my problems. My ailments and the other things. My organs and my mind. Overjoyed to be alive again after leaving my apartment, I told Amelia. It does make things better again, Amelia told me. Tuesday, August 25 Bartending school feels kind of like an alcoholic's vision of a drinking dream. Like holograms of condensation, dim lighting, one takes a sip to the tune of disappointment. Water and food coloring dye. Bowery Park and Whole Foods and JPress nearby and inside; Christmas is coming. Smooth jazz. Everything has felt a bit the same for a time, but my room is clean. Summer is passing. Three months is not so long. Would a functional alcoholic lace up black ankle boots at seven in the morning with a clear mind and bright eyes to catch the train towards midtown towards Bartending School, at the top of the week, at the tail end of August? I am not so good at pretending like anything is changing. Like habits stack towards something greater. It might as well be yesterday, I sigh on the phone. For you, it might as well be yesterday, Amelia agrees. I do the things a person should. Cake for friends' birthdays and the waiter keeps stacking on fees at Union Square Cafe. Cut the cake fee, sit at the table fee, big group of people fee, bring your own food fee. There are other tables next to us all inhabited by people who all appear to be exactly the same, though perhaps I am being uncharitable. Imagine them as skeletons. Imagine them as children. My parents used to tell me this when I was little. Kind of a hack against boredom. I imagine myself as a psychic, looking out on things overpriced and people all exactly the same. You will have a small child and feed her nothing but buttered noodles. You will advance in age but stay exactly the same through invasive surgical facial intervention and stunted social development. You will spend evenings eating french fries with caviar for One Hundred Dollars despite a rich inner world and a childhood pumped full of extracurricular stimulation designed, specifically, to avoid a fate like this. You will fear God more than death and you will understand self destruction to be akin to suicide hence rendering you too, on a trajectory like this, a rather hellish creature. You will wake up in the middle of the night in a small box criss-crossed wood roof apartment in New York City to the sense that there are No Loopholes Left. You will go to bartending school. You will recognize that, while you can be cruel there were other factors at play. There were worse factors at play. Wednesday, August 26 Walking from Greenwich Village to Long Meadow in Prospect Park with a bag filled up with white linen and Thomas Pynchon and a plan to celebrate sweet Sylvie's birthday. A different sort of nostalgia in the air today. Nostalgia of all sorts being kind of a form of mental illness, of course but once - we were woodland fairies. Once, there were fall morning running races and cranberries that crunched under bare feet on Massachusetts roads. Once, there were rounds of Tom Collins in a kind of jazzy jungle garden restaurant in the tropics that my boyfriend who liked gender-roles enjoyed because they wouldn't let girls order their own drinks. Once, I went to the Yankees game in late August, blue and pink hazy skies, the sort of advertisements that blare out notes about Fast Food and Safe Driving in the stadium, and the sort of crowd that is so big it starts inspiring feelings of Life and Spirit rather than Homogoninity and Dread. Once, I walked from bartending school full of Tom Collins, Chambord, a sip of walnut martinini, frangelico liquor. Walked to Caffe Reggio for egg white omelet, toast, a creamy cannoli. Walking to Prospect Park a little bit tipsy. Thinking about the sort of things I used to pretend to care about. Writing about the sorts of things I used to pretend to care about. Writing it all down. Writing and walking. Writing it everywhere. Writing it on the walls. Though, I'm not so bad at keeping secrets anymore. Thursday, August 27 Amelia and I sat at Caffe Reggio until close last night, and now I have returned. Tomato soup and side grilled chicken and creamy cannoli and mint tea because things feel decadent again. Limited consumption. I haven’t really been limiting consumption. The waitress is complimenting the gray sweatpants on the boys at the table over from me, and the waitress seems to be vaguely annoyed with me, though I am trying to be pleasant. Thanks the sweatpants cost enough, the boys are saying, at the table over. Thanks we didn't realize we couldn't split the bill, Amelia and I were saying, last night, our tea was four dollars total and everything was starting to feel a little bit hazy. Sitting on the floor at sunrise, this morning, Amelia and I were watching videos from Miami. Videos from Bahamas. Videos from New York City, 2022, we'd been at all the same parties, but I hadn't known a soul. BAHAMAS, we are beaming, in one video, in the back of a taxi cab, streaking over MacArthur Causeway, Miami-Dade County, Florida, and so, as I recall, the driver was confused. I'm putting on makeup in the photo booth webcam on the floor of a hotel room and Amelia is talking in the background. It's Opposite Day in the background. Who had a mental breakdown, someone is saying in the background. From an outsider's perspective, who was it who had a mental breakdown? Friday, August 28 6:30pm, and I am back at IFC for my third viewing of Diva (1981) in twenty-four hours. I came to view Diva (1981) for the third time in twenty-four hours, because I became very sick of thinking about myself. This is a desirable alternative. The film is beautiful, and I wish to live in places like the apartments pictured. A large and wrecked studio in a car park with painted walls and recording equipment or, a hotel in Paris or, a castle by the sea or, the best one of all is a large blue flat full of puzzles and high ceilings and echoing sea sounds and an aqua glow and a man who wants to learn to stop the waves. They are fighting crime in the film. They are entrapping the criminals and they are doing it kind of like performance art. I don’t wish to spoil the ending. It really is the perfect little film. So; I will send out the recipe for zucchini (courgette) soup, and I will explain away the things I did in breathless optimism as things I did while bored. I will go to The Scratcher, Killarney Rose, Funny Bar, then Gospel then Caffe Reggio again - these are the decadent places to which I continue to return. I will draw my name with Riley on the table in crayon writing Best Friends Forever and listen to Feryquitous ft Sennzai and Sigur Rós and John Maus and think about Switzerland, Iceland, having a lot of dreams about places that are lush, lush, lush. Thinking about places that are quiet quiet quiet. Thinking about places that are green green green. Feels like Fall, outside, after church. Amelia woke me up in a living room that looked like a library and she was screaming that the air was poison. I was difficult to awaken, because it is my own delusions of poison air that wake me up screaming on other nights. Different from tonight. I was reminding myself of reality. I was reminding myself of delusions and keeping my eyes clenched shut while Amelia screamed. Well, the air wasn’t poison after all, just late night and late august and heavy with mosquitos and dust from renovations and revelations and; we walked back to the cafe. I walked through Washington Square Park at dawn. The doorman wished me good night at seven in the morning and the cycles repeated. It isn’t opposite day and we aren’t in hell, just working on things like bed time and emotional regulation. Working on archiving the things that happen outside of my head. It becomes good to have been an archivist all along. It becomes good to become sick of dealing with things mainly in repetition. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, September 4 From 6pm at Carinito — Saloon is throwing a party. Drinks from Dio. Dancing, DJ, tacos, etc

Inline links: Carinito, Saloon, throwing a party

Fu Cakes1 mentions across 1 issues

Fu Cakes is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 17, 2025 and September 17, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Free dessert inspired by the issue from Taipei's Fu Cakes". It most often appears alongside 1301PE, Aamina Khan, Adoration of the Magi.

Article page: Fu Cakes
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 17, 2025
Last seen: September 17, 2025

Issue trail

Aura-Abysmal September 17, 2025

1301PE 1 shared issues
Aamina Khan 1 shared issues
Adoration of the Magi 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues
Alexa Dark 1 shared issues

Source context

September 17, 2025 · Original source

From 7 - 8:30pm (readings) and 8:30 - 12:30pm at Honey’s — Cake Zine celebrates the release of Volume 7: Forbidden Fruit. Readings by contributors Aamina Khan, Osama Shehzad, Grayson Samuels, and Ankit Sethi. Free dessert inspired by the issue from Taipei’s Fu Cakes. | tickets here

Inline links: Honey’s, Cake Zine, here

Gatorade1 mentions across 1 issues

Gatorade is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 17, 2025 and March 17, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Sugar free red bull and gatorade and pizza and all". It most often appears alongside 8 St. Marks, 99 Canal, Aashish Gadani.

Article page: Gatorade
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 17, 2025
Last seen: March 17, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

Here, There, Everywhere March 17, 2025

8 St. Marks 1 shared issues
99 Canal 1 shared issues
Aashish Gadani 1 shared issues
Ace Hotel New York 1 shared issues
Aiden Arata 1 shared issues

Source context

March 17, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, March 9 I’ve been here, there, everywhere but there’s been no conviction to it. Yes, yes, take me to the opera now. I don’t pretend to think the things I don’t believe, but you rewire your brain away from nihilism, you spend a few years working on this task, really, and when all is said and done, resuscitation complete, you find in its place… an alarming passivity. That can’t be right. This week, I’ll be drawing new conclusions. Lying in bed and David is saying “I think giving up drinking is the solution and I think I’m ready to do that and, I might also take up eastern meditation.” “We're doing all this shit because we’re insincere swindling motherfuckers, we have no beliefs, our only beliefs are pleasure,” David is also saying. And I’m saying uh uh. And now David is saying, “put that in your substack, put in ‘i think i'm going to take up eastern meditation as well.” And now he shows me all these photos of his strange friends from the strange Decentralized Networking Platform stuff, or maybe these are just friends from parties or maybe, really, there is not much difference. But the friends are wearing big T-Shirts and flipping each other off, and David introduces me to the friends in the images like a cast of characters in a movie, or maybe like you introduce people in Real Life. Here is M. Here is C. and I say I know, I know, I know who these people are but no, I haven’t seen the photos yet, and so I let him scroll. You should also know: the sun returned today. Monday, March 10 In my Dialectics of NightLife piece that the new-ish magazine asked me to write, I am not sure how much of it all to include. "I don't include things like throwing things across the room and screaming," I told the girl at a party last week when she asked me how to be intimate online. "The throwing things and screaming is the most interesting part though," she said, which is what people always say when I share a disturbing detail from my life as an example of something I don't write about. I read something recently that has been making me reconsider my approach. Not to the nightlife piece. The approach to El Salvador, more. The approach in general, really. I am intrigued by things because they are strange. I find myself in a lot of situations as such. I don't want to cast judgments - this is bad or, this is good. But I think too, one can say yes, this part is good and this part is bad but I am not here because of good or bad, I am here because I was intrigued because this is strange. You are pretending that you just woke up and found yourself here one day, lying in the palm grove, lying on bitcoin beach, surrounded by red light and zyn and mastic gum of the gods. And maybe you were just kind of placed here. In another sense, you kind of sought this out. In another sense, you exercised a tremendous amount of agency and borderline being a stalker sometimes to then find yourself where you are now. Once I arrived, I was asked to stay, and then what was there left to say? Yes, ok I suppose I will then. This among other things is why I would be easily indoctrinated into a cult. I am not at present, in a cult. I've tried my luck with a few, but nothing quite has made the cut. Not the cut of Drawing Me In. The cut of Qualifying As A Cult. I'm going to a crypto conference tonight, David tells me and as if by instinct, as if like a child, residual panic at being left behind, at being left all alone in the first spring breeze, knees tucked up to my chest, watching the sunset on the terrace and being struck in a visceral way by how much time I continue to have - as if all of this would be so bad I pipe right up: "can I come??" And David says "are you interested in {technical stuff i don't understand} and I say no but I'm interested in crypto culturally, for the El Salvador piece. The guy giving the lecture is wearing a shirt that says something like "hey nerds" "what's up nerds" something like that, but I forgot to write it down. Sometimes, these conferences are fun because there are lots of characters and drinks and sometimes sparkly little powders though I don't like to really take these but it's fun when others are. This conference is a real conference capital C though. Or, a "meet up”, they say. Soho WeWork location and all. Sugar free red bull and gatorade and pizza and all. There is no fun to be had here. And so we make our way all through shiny Nolita instead. Tuesday, March 11 The things I overhear begin the process of reconsidering all over again. You confess that the knee jerk reaction is one of possession over things you do not even want. You confess that you do not want to tell that story even if this particular story is one that has always been yours. We go to Tiny Bar, and then the Odeon. Earlier, it was like they were doing a character study in the things you overheard. Wednesday, March 12 I went to St Dymphna tonight, but I didn't hear a single reading and I didn't watch Heat (1995) when I got home, even though David had it playing on the projector, even though he kept on playing scenes of significance over and over and over again. This is me and you, he kept saying, when some girl in some house with some glistening pool in Los Angeles calls her husband names like gambling addict and child the years keep passing by, and then the husband screeches off through Hollywood in a nice sleek car. It's not us, really, but this wouldn't be so bad. I want to party beautifully forever, David said a while ago. The key part being: beautifully. Maybe this is how people party in Los Angeles. This isn't really how people party in New York. And I should have gone to Poetry Project, to the after party for the Anne Imhoff show which I am guilty to admit I never saw in the first place and now it's too late, to the club, maybe. It's not that I worry what I missed, it is just that time passes faster when I am not here there everywhere, and I like it best when time slows down. In my dreams, my consciousness can take one second and turn it into one year. Here are the songs tonight. And the shoes are the shearling style cowboy boots my grandmother gave me from her closet last thanksgiving. Love For Sale - Tony Bennett, Lady Gaga

Gil Rodriguez1 mentions across 1 issues

Gil Rodriguez is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 06, 2026 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "I pulled on a black Gil Rodriguez dress". It most often appears alongside A Place in the Sun, Ali RQ, Angelica.

Article page: Gil Rodriguez
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 06, 2026
Last seen: March 06, 2026

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

A Place in the Sun 1 shared issues
Ali RQ 1 shared issues
Angelica 1 shared issues
Angelmoon 1 shared issues
Banana Republic 1 shared issues

Source context

March 06, 2026 · Original source

Before the once-in one-hundred-years snow-storm, the air was soft and warm and not even that still, and so no one could believe what was about to come. I spent all day thinking about winter cleaning, but I did not spring into action until late. Then, I pulled on a black Gil Rodriguez dress, and I walked to buy Celsius, get on the train, drift over to downtown for a book launch, whilst feeling tired yet optimistic. Sam was sitting behind the bar next to a huge bison head and a lot of Olympic memorabilia, and he told me that Ellie was there and New-York-University girls were there and not Saiorse, yet, who is terminally late. Downstairs, the lounge was open and dark and I mixed myself a drink full of Campari syrup and ginger and gin. I went upstairs and I sat at the bar and Sam made me a Roy Rogers which is a Shirley Temple but for boys. Saiorse arrived in a gray dress and boots, and she made me a glass of melon juice. Lily arrived, and she told Sam that she only drinks diet coke. After that, we walked over through the still warm enough night to a penthouse party full of people who make robots. This, or a dive-bar. This, or Soho House. This or homeward bound. Choose your own adventure. Humanoid robots are designed to do physical things that humans do like serve food at restaurants, and to potentially also have superior intellect and perhaps become agentic-not-mimetic, Saiorse explained. She explained something of a sort of space-race to get this show-on-the-road. Cold War. I was thinking more in hypotheticals. I hadn’t really been invited. I have not had existential dread since summer, when I moved out of a glass apartment where I was always staring up at terminally blinking skies. I only ever said I was a nihilist when I didn’t know what that word meant. At the party, there were trays and trays of sushi and a spiral staircase and men carrying around platters of dumplings. Everyone from the Stanford class of twenty-two is here, Sam said. A lot of people flew in for this party, he explained. Saiorse and I maneuvered our way to the bar, and then towards a long counter top that appeared to be a buffet, but was totally untouched. Lily and Saoirse and I began to eat everything on display. Grabbing plates of salmon and being greedy. A girl standing in the center of the room was saying she felt dizzy. Does anyone else feel dizzy, she was asking. Yes, I decided. Yes indeed I do, and so I went to the bathroom but the door was just one big plywood sheath with no lock, and the music that was fired up throughout the whole huge vast apartment was pumping out from two small speakers that were located here. Blaring Ye so loudly from out of the bathroom ceiling and from under the sink. It felt kind of like a strange and architectural dream. Not like a bad dream, but like I had to go. The girl in the center of the room had reminded me that I was feeling dizzy. She disappeared by the time I came back to the party, and I tried to tell my friends about the strange and blaring bathroom music but they were absorbed in things that seemed hyper and happy and totally present. Nobody seemed too future-oriented despite the product at hand, but they never do at these sorts of things. The books on display all had colorful spines and recognizable titles. I did say goodbye, and outside, the snow had still not started.

Gimaguas1 mentions across 1 issues

Gimaguas is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 09, 2024 and October 09, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "a crisp yellow tee from Olly Shinder, Club Mel via RE/DONE, or Gimaguas". It most often appears alongside 52 Walker, @singersny, Are.na.

Article page: Gimaguas
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 09, 2024
Last seen: October 09, 2024

Outbound links

https://gimaguas.com/products/diego-tshirt-yellow-navy#man

Issue trail

Collected Agenda with Sam Falb October 09, 2024

52 Walker 1 shared issues
@singersny 1 shared issues
Are.na 1 shared issues
Basement 1 shared issues
Behind The Seams 1 shared issues

Source context

October 09, 2024 · Original source

As the seasons change, ask yourself: what’s a sartorial need? For me, I want a crisp yellow tee from Olly Shinder, Club Mel via RE/DONE, or Gimaguas. Drape a TSE cashmere sweater over the back of the tee (probably black or cream), and throw a deeply cozy, black, wool top coat over the combination. This is the impending winter uniform of choice. Insulated, style-forward, and bright in its accent. All I need now is a shoe.

Inline links: Olly Shinder, Club Mel via RE/DONE, Gimaguas, TSE

Girl Scout Cookies1 mentions across 1 issues

Girl Scout Cookies is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 18, 2026 and March 18, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "There were girl scout cookies on the counter". It most often appears alongside Ada Donnelly, Alex Bienstock, Amelia.

Article page: Girl Scout Cookies
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 18, 2026
Last seen: March 18, 2026

Outbound links

Issue trail

West-side-highway-dog-park March 18, 2026

Ada Donnelly 1 shared issues
Alex Bienstock 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
American Affairs Magazine 1 shared issues
Angel Money 1 shared issues

Source context

March 18, 2026 · Original source

No direct inline source block was recovered for this mention.

Girls to the Front1 mentions across 1 issues

Girls to the Front is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between May 13, 2025 and May 13, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "launch of "Girls to the Front" capsule collection - a night of fashion, music, and community". It most often appears alongside Abraham Kanovitch, Ali Rq, Amalia Ulman.

Article page: Girls to the Front
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: May 13, 2025
Last seen: May 13, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

Panopticon-ing Everyone May 13, 2025

Abraham Kanovitch 1 shared issues
Ali Rq 1 shared issues
Amalia Ulman 1 shared issues
Anika Jade Levy 1 shared issues
Arlo Hotel Williamsburg 1 shared issues

Source context

May 13, 2025 · Original source

From 7pm at Pianos — Emerson Isa celebrates the launch of “Girls to the Front” capsule collection - a night of fashion, music, and community, with 100$ of ticket proceeds benefiting Girls Inc. of NYC. Performance by The Dutch Kills. Photos by Matt Weinberger & Esp. | Tickets - $22.66

Inline links: Emerson Isa, launch

Glock1 mentions across 1 issues

Glock is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between November 13, 2024 and November 13, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "put the Glock in your mouth". It most often appears alongside A Year on Earth with Mr. Hell, Alex Katz, Alex Osman.

Article page: Glock
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: November 13, 2024
Last seen: November 13, 2024

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Collected Agenda with Lydia Sviatoslavsky November 13, 2024

A Year on Earth with Mr. Hell 1 shared issues
Alex Katz 1 shared issues
Alex Osman 1 shared issues
Allen Street 1 shared issues
America: The Farewell Tour 1 shared issues

Source context

November 13, 2024 · Original source

put the Glock in your mouth

GNC1 mentions across 1 issues

GNC is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 10, 2024 and September 10, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "a welcome departure from GymShark, QuestBars, GNC". It most often appears alongside Anika Levy, Annabel Boardman, Antiart.

Article page: GNC
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 10, 2024
Last seen: September 10, 2024

Outbound links

https://www.google.com/search?q=gnc+vitamins&sca_esv=2a311b6289420270&sca_upv=1&sxsrf=ADLYWIKn21g9bKZKbieHmRwkJMJETIxHEQ%3A1725984763029&ei=-2_gZoKvAdeu5NoPo4GX0AI&oq=gmc+vitam&gs_lp=Egxnd3Mtd2l6LXNlcnAiCWdtYyB2aXRhbSoCCAAyDRAAGIAEGLEDGEMYigUyBxAAGIAEGAoyBxAAGIAEGAoyChAuGIAEGOUEGAoyBxAAGIAEGAoyBxAAGIAEGAoyBxAAGIAEGAoyBxAAGIAEGAoyBxAAGIAEGAoyChAuGIAEGOUEGApI_BFQ0wFY0ApwAXgBkAEAmAFuoAH7A6oBAzUuMbgBAcgBAPgBAZgCB6ACoQTCAgoQABiwAxjWBBhHwgINEAAYgAQYsAMYQxiKBcICGRAuGIAEGLADGNEDGEMYxwEYyAMYigXYAQHCAhMQLhiABBiwAxhDGMgDGIoF2AEBwgINEC4YgAQYsQMYQxiKBcICChAAGIAEGEMYigXCAhAQABiABBixAxhDGIMBGIoFwgIcEC4YgAQYsQMYQxiKBRiXBRjcBBjeBBjgBNgBAsICDhAuGIAEGMcBGI4FGK8BwgIFEAAYgATCAgsQLhiABBjHARivAcICBxAuGIAEGArCAgoQABiABBgUGIcCmAMAiAYBkAYUugYGCAEQARgIugYGCAIQARgUkgcDNi4xoAf5Sw&sclient=gws-wiz-serp

Issue trail

Statues Of Critics. September 10, 2024

Anika Levy 1 shared issues
Annabel Boardman 1 shared issues
Antiart 1 shared issues
Artnet 1 shared issues
August Lamm 1 shared issues

Source context

September 10, 2024 · Original source

No direct inline source block was recovered for this mention.

GoFundMe1 mentions across 1 issues

GoFundMe is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 23, 2025 and January 23, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "You pick a few GoFundMe's from the options laid out on the table". It most often appears alongside 4 Berry Street, 61 Lispenard, A Room of One's Own.

Article page: GoFundMe
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 23, 2025
Last seen: January 23, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Burn my diaries January 23, 2025

4 Berry Street 1 shared issues
61 Lispenard 1 shared issues
A Room of One's Own 1 shared issues
A Silent Woman 1 shared issues
Ada Antoinette 1 shared issues

Source context

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015?

January 23, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, January 19 Wet hair in the lobby at the gym. I am criticized only very slightly, and I am struck with nearly physical rage. I can’t walk anymore today. When I walk, I am compelled to think - then write - about myself. I have this huge body of work. I’ve written 364,133 unpublished words since my birthday in June, but they are all about myself, and the ugliest parts of myself at that. “You must be able to convert some of your journals into work you can use,” some of my friends say, but I don’t think anyone realizes just how bad they are. Any problem, the smallest problem, I can twist and chew and solve, often through written and rotating self deprecation and self congratulation that renders said problem irrelevant. I can do this over and over and over again, for hours daily, if I'm being honest. It’s not necessarily bad as a limited practice - churn out sludge so that it doesn’t live in your mind - but it becomes more and more excessive, nauseatingly so. I meet Madelyn at Shosh for dinner. The snowstorm has started. I texted David at the gym earlier: "big snowstorm coming." "Link me an article or you're full of shit," David said, but I wasn't, because it's here, and it's falling in big fat clumps. Shosh is lovely. It’s a new vegan wine bar in the West Village, which I would roll my eyes at as a concept, but Madelyn’s friends work there and I walk there in the blizzard - enter to a silver bar, an open kitchen, cream walls with a perfect archway cut into them that frames shades of glass wine bottles and assembled rows of thin wine glasses. We don’t get wine, but we do get gem salad, celeriac shawarma with fluffy bread, mushrooms, by which they mean every variety of mushroom you can imagine and a perfect green sauce to accompany. “Hummus is one of those things you think is all the same, but then you have good hummus…,” Madelyn’s friend who works there says, and he’s right, because the hummus here is determinately different. Better. Madelyn tells me she likes showing me good food, and I like this, too. Left to my own devices it’s all instant pistachio pudding and cold mashed potatoes eaten while standing up. This isn’t how one should live - slogging through the essential details of survival and routine like it’s something to get over with, not something to enjoy. At the very least, it’s something to be appreciated. I like meals like this. There’s the Casual Encounters reading later, the fundraiser for Los Angeles reading at that gallery in Tribeca, although all the galleries seem like they are suddenly in Tribeca these days. We’re there early. I can’t find the building, can’t get out of the snow. You do get out of the snow, eventually. You pick a few GoFundMe’s from the options laid out on the table, so many options on the table. You sit on the couch so you’re removed from the room, you have a birds eye view in that sense even though technically, you’re beneath, not above, it all. “You can see the social dynamics from here,” your friend says, kind of kidding, kind of not. You can see how the room clusters itself, at least. I stay for the readings, but not for long after. Walk home in the sleet and ice. It's a blizzard, but nothing is really sticking. Streets are mostly quiet - people in the windows of Lucia and Cipriani but otherwise it’s all empty. My reflection surprises me in the mirror when I get home. I only wear dresses, but today I’m wearing jeans. Mundanity, mundanity, mundanity. David says he wants to go to KGB, and at first I want to go too, but then I decide that I don’t. He leaves, walking into the storm as I’m coming out of it. I start to feel sick around eleven pm. I feel strange, falling asleep. Being sick really scares me. I hope it goes away. Monday, January 20 I expected to wake up sad this morning but I didn't. The snow didn't stick, but a thin layer of it did freeze. I'm sliding down the streets, and they aren't empty anymore. Bright, bright, icy light today. Coca Cola and muffin at the bodega for David. Celsius for me. Green tea mango and Cyanocobalamin. I need black coffee. Inauguration today. I walk and write for ninety minutes. I tried to join the David Lynch Meditation Live Stream at noon, but I got the time zones wrong and I was meant to join at three. It’s five now. Too late. Sitting in a steam room in a cloud of eucalyptus smog. The semester begins tomorrow, and other things, too. An end to my life of leisure, or more generously, an end to responsibility only as self directed. I feel like I was starting to figure it out. Non-fiction in the morning, fiction at night - my friend Grazie advised me of this schedule this summer. Being honest, though, I need more intensive direction. Natasha goes to take snow photos in Washington Square Park, but she says that Jill Stein is there and the park is so so so loud. The theme is: anti imperialism.. She sends me a photo of the birds in the snow. In an ironic twist, David is sick, but I am not. He orders sushi from Soho Sushi. He gives me five pieces from a california roll. I make cinnamon chai tea in the mug my dad got me from the ceramics shop near Mishaum. Every mug there is different. Mine has coarse leaves all over it, and a special rivet where your hand fits. “This apartment is pretty magical when it’s icy,” David admitted earlier, because it’s a greenhouse roof and so when you look up today it’s all like a snow globe. Icicles swirl in soft formations overhead, melting in morning light and then refreezing slightly differently as the sky turns hazy. I have my head under the cover. I’m reading other people’s diaries. Kafka, Anais Nin, I like the diaries I find online, too. I like the diaries I am sent. This isn’t my diary. I cannot stress that enough. My real diary is often quite ugly. This is one of the things I feel most guilty for. It’s strange, though. I wake up, I write in my secret diary, I walk for many miles, I write in my diary that I share online. It is good I will have less time, soon. Anya is staying with me tonight. David, in a friend's spare bedroom because I cannot, cannot, cannot get sick right now, too. It's so nice tonight. Anya and I have been friends since we were two weeks old. I used to tell people that as a child - "this is my best friend since I was two weeks old." Dimes in the snow. Clandestino in the snow. I really like sitting in the corner of a bar until the night reaches its bitter end. Not tonight, though. It's only ten. Tuesday, January 21 My first real responsibility in a month, and it's canceled - a whim of the weather. The snow has melted overnight and in its place is chalky salt stained pavement as far as you can see. It looks like marble. They turned Soho into marble in the night. I try to run outside, but it's too cold. Bitter cold, not pleasant cold. I'm coughing up the chalky air. It's the coldest day of the year. There's a man on the street and he's running towards the train, sloshing coffee all over his suit but he doesn't seem to even notice, certainly he doesn't care. The drops are freezing to the sleeves of his camel hair jacket before they reach the ground. He's covered in little coffee icicles. I doubt it will stain. I had nightmares last night. Everyone knew I was Actually Bad. I woke up saying "help me", but I used to wake up talking about rituals in rural places, so this is not a negative progression in the storyline of my possible possession. The chalky pavement has turned to ice in the afternoon. Walking under the Washington Square arch on the way to Tibet House and its icier than ever. The ground is all glazed over. It’s the latest installment of the Arden Wohl’s reading series at Tibet House; Inauguration Edition this time. Madelyn is wearing a pink sweatshirt when I get there. Madelyn is telling me about knowing your own mind. Alex Auder reads about cock sucking and brings up a friend to read with her who enjoys the act, because she doesn't "I feel demeaned when I suck dick. I feel demeaned when I teach yoga," she says. She reads a story about a life in servitude to someone famous who reminds her of Donald Trump. Tonight is a night where as soon as I have one glass of wine, I wish I didn’t. The haze sets in, and I want it to clear. Beckett arrives. The readings are mostly good, but I’m jittery. I sit in the lobby and I eat some grapes and cheese, replace the wine with water. “Over the years I noticed from my overlord that peasants were increasingly behaving like they were nobles,” Alex Auder is saying, when I return. “There are more cameras than there are people in the world,” Gideon Jacobs is reading, later. I can’t stop drifting in and out of the room. I’m worried about some things, about some people. I get like this sometimes, and I wish I could get it to stop. I go to the bathroom and I return again, to a reading about Courtney Love. “She used to do water ballet and she was getting into the grateful dead.” “She lied a lot and never listened directly but she was a sponge - she takes a word from an incidental periphery and works it into her trope in real time. She’s that fast.” “She said she was born on my birthday; July 1st, but she was born a week later; July 8th” This is my type of lie, I’m thinking. A lie to please. False enchantment. It’s a juvenile compulsion, you mostly outgrow it, and if it was Courtney Love partaking then perhaps it was charming, but my visceral reaction is one of repulsion. Lizzi Bougatsos reads about Gary Indiana. She sits on the floor and she clips her toenails. “We shall mark memory with reverence,” Arden is saying. Beckett is telling me that it’s cool to be at a reading that’s an older crowd, and it is, it’s wine and cheese, there’s no disco party to follow. Beckett introduces me to his acquaintance from Paris. They are talking about Godot and prison sentences. Samuel Beckett gave his Nobel Prize money to a jail org, or was it prisone.org One time, there was a prison break after a performance of Godot. Madelyn is making tape formations on her phone with the other Lacanians. Lacan as separated from psychoanalysis. Lacan as applicable to real life. I’m just gleaning sentences. These ideas aren’t mine. Cigarette outside and then a burger at the orthodox Jewish establishment nearby. We forgot they can only do vegan cheese on burgers here. A lychee martini instead. They’re playing pop music so loud Wednesday, January 23 I hear my neighbors door shut as I’m poised to leave this morning. Decide, instead, to hover in the kitchen. We don't really like each other, my neighbor and I. Nothing was ever said, but there’s an underlying hostility. I have friends over too late, too often. The walls are thin. I'm glad to be waking up at the same time as the rest of the world, though. Sometimes - up all night, becoming manic around five am, this can be nice, but it's usually not. Normal hours. Normal cycles of day and night. The ice has come and smoothed everything over. Too cold to listen to music on my walk to school. I'm peeling off layers in an office, at the gym, the hallway of our apartment is becoming salty and dusted with the chalky snowstorm residue that first coated the surface of everything, and that now is starting to settle. Nothing is volatile. Such placidity, suddenly, but I’m not bored. All the calm in the world. Thank god. It really was about time. And so, you eat two chalky protein pop tarts on the bench at the gym. There are two girls with thick french accents in the locker room parallel to you. "He's a fucking retard, he only calls me at three am and it's only because he wants to sleep with my friends," says one of the girls. She's wearing a sherpa jacket. KHRISJOY, it says, in big red dripping letters. Spray paint imitation. You look it up - $2145 online. It's so ugly, but you're vaguely impressed. Of course you are. You're wearing a Versace sports bra that you bought for a music festival in high school. Absurd. The people watching here is good. The girl is still talking. She's so furious. "And he would be calling to sleep with me, but he knows he can't, fucking retard," she is saying. This version of the narration makes more sense - her rage rooted in something adjacent to jealousy. You gather your things. You gather your tote bags. It's too cold for so many bags. Your hands get numb out there. You're in a humid basement now, but you can't stay here forever. There's an artists talk tonight, but do you have it in you to attend? Cheese and sausage for dinner at home. I forgot about the dishes and I left the sink running for an hour. I’ve never known how to dress for the weather, but that doesn’t mean I mind the extremes. Today - my mother’s gloves, a borrowed Urbit hat from David, a beanie really, it looks insane but it’s too freezing for me to mind. More isn’t always more. More is often so, intolerably, annoying. I don’t want to wear a coat. My books arrive today. Mostly for school, plus one Ruby recommended. I’ll read them all - I’m glad that I have reason to. Salvador - Joan Didion The Company She Keeps - Mary McCarthy The Fire Next Time - James Baldwin Confessions - Saint Augustine The Situation and the Story - Vivian Gornic A Room of One’s Own - Virginia Woolf A Silent Woman - Janet Malcom Are You My Mother - Alison Bechdel The Argonauts - Maggie Nelson The Atrocity Exhibition - J. G. Ballard WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, January 23 From 6pm - 8pm at 61 Lispenard — Canada NY and Eighth House present Rest and Reprieve: A Window into Creative Solitude. Eighth House is “an interdisciplinary residency for artists and curators located in Central Vermont.” The exhibition serves as a benefit for this very special residency.

GoMacro1 mentions across 1 issues

GoMacro is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 25, 2025 and February 25, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "peanut gomacro bar, almond gomacro bar". It most often appears alongside 1 storypod, 115 Bowery, 185 E Broadway.

Article page: GoMacro
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 25, 2025
Last seen: February 25, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

My Glass House February 25, 2025

1 storypod 1 shared issues
115 Bowery 1 shared issues
185 E Broadway 1 shared issues
8 St. Marks Place 1 shared issues
Absolute Divinity 1 shared issues

Source context

My Glass House

February 25, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, February 16 The rain continues turning everything muted and gray, but I am bursting with energy, and I am bursting with the feeling like myself again. Early afternoon - the morning gentle sleet turns to a downpour. David bought a basil plant and he put it by my flowers. Do you notice what is by the flowers, he asks. There are firehook crackers with dill and double cream for lunch. Then, a few more of the same with sliced turkey for dinner. You could be a rock climber, if you wanted. You could be an artist in a really useless and abrasive sense, too. You could spend all your time making art and it could all just pertain to yourself. Only make the most incoherent shit imaginable, and then write some really fire press releases and float on by with that, with obfuscation and with stylish sentiments that conceal your vacancy and lack of meaning. I read an interview that snaps me out of it so quickly. The author is talking about how monks are maybe missing something. If you’re meditating all the time, then you’ve kind of lost a grip on reality. It’s enlightened, maybe, but you lose something if you go so deep into interiority that you turn off exterior reflection altogether. If spiritual leaders have lost the plot, then so too, certainly, have I. I’m going monk mode but it’s just Playing On My Phone. I’m going monk mode but it’s just Publishing My Diaries.1 I walk to Le Dive in the evening. I talk for many hours with my brilliant friend who has much clarity in what she is actually saying when she writes. We talk about how to withhold or not withhold pieces of yourself, and she asks me something about how I reveal so much of myself without worrying about things like people who hate you, or worse, people who stalk you. It’s easy to reveal a lot of your thoughts on things like ice on the window when you have no convictions, I think. I do have some convictions, but I won’t reveal myself here. “It’s a scary wind outside,” David says when I get home. “And we’re in this scary apartment in the sky.” “It’s not too scary,” I say. Monday, February 17 In my dreams last night, they take me to Spring Street Dermatology and they give me a chemical peel, microneedling, they shake me up with electrical currents and I leave feeling burned and new. In real life, the wind is whistling even more in the morning. Bright sun, howling wind. David is starting to think about going to bed for the night just as I am waking up for the morning. David spreads orange marmalade and double cream on toast. “What a wonderful thing,” David says. At the party at Jeans, I get a lychee martini, a cosmopolitan, a vodka soda... it's kind of gross sloshing around a nightclub on a monday night, but after I decided to stop doing things like this, I decided again, to stop hindering all my own fun. They’ve packed us like sardines in this basement tonight, and so I don’t linger long. There is a song, a show, and it’s a good lineup of performers and I’m sorry that I didn’t really pay attention, but I was quite busy and I was sloshing around. I was talking about publishing with a famous Twitter Anon friend of a friend who I ran into at the bar, I was looking for service, I was looking for wifi, I was sitting by coat check because I hate standing at these things, I become extremely untethered standing at these, so I was sitting in the hallway, and I was missing the show. Tuesday, February 18 Asleep by eleven, awake by six, this is all very new for me. There is such hazy blue gray sky lighting up the room through the panes of my glass roof. There is David on the terrace with a cigarette. I have a busy day today, and thank god for that. I've been waiting for momentum, and now it is here. Erin tells me about dinner with the most beautiful girl you know. She lives only off of sponge cake, and she was nicer this time. I’m going to read an Irish gothic novella,” I tell David. “Wait one second,” David says. “I just want to reassure you about the plane crashes.” The reassurance is something all about the role of the dice. The gothic novella is all about the moon and untempered desire. I wasn’t too worried about the plane crashes, really, but it is nice nonetheless to be reminded of Rationalism and Randomness. The gothic novella is supposed to be interesting because it was reinterpreted into a Lesbian Dorm Room Drama in a 2014 Web Series. The gothic novel is interesting to me, because it reads like a fairytale. I like the insularity. I, too, have been possessed by demons in my sleep. I am going to write out my Food Diary now, because I am trying to take stock of these things: celsius, apple, peanut gomacro bar, almond gomacro bar, salmon sushi roll, some bites of David's steak with the crust piece of the baguette and then mint tea and then the dandelion tea too, before I go to sleep. You can talk yourself in circles, but of course the only solution is to consistently live well and to consistently live in a way that you can stand behind. Such a life does not require all this talk talk talk on the topic. Carmilla by Sheridan La Fenu. Illustration from The Dark Blue by D. H. Friston, 1872 Wednesday, February 19 I do not want to write you an essay about what happened. I want instead, to write you a story about the parts I made up. After class and then after lunch, and then after a few other things, because there were a few other things, it is not like I did nothing, but the momentum didn’t really last. After just these few things, there is the space heater and the protein bar and the playing on my godforsaken phone and the rereading of all the fairytales, Carmella, The Wind Boy, I have all these hazy spring stories on my mind. I like the photographs Natasha took of me. In these photographs, I am in my room, and I feel like myself. I think I look like myself, too, and this has never happened before, not really at least, never in a photograph, or at least not since I was very young. It is only seven in the evening. It's not too late to run outside in crystal dusk. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, February 25 From 6pm - 8pm at Hauser & Wirth 18th Street: ‘Dieter Roth. Islandscapes’ opens. I like the looks of this - “Featuring a selection of graphic works, monoprints, multiples and unique pieces spanning from the early 1960s to 1975, ‘Islandscapes’ focuses on Dieter Roth’s printmaking, which accompanied every phase of his life and practice.”

GREENS 01 Juice1 mentions across 1 issues

GREENS 01 Juice is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between August 14, 2025 and August 14, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "The summer foods are things like GREENS 01 Juice and maca-powder-peanut-butter-protein-bites". It most often appears alongside Abundance Meditation, Alice Bailey, Amelia.

Article page: GREENS 01 Juice
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: August 14, 2025
Last seen: August 14, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.instagram.com/p/C8meUUEuMs4/?img_index=1

Issue trail

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? August 14, 2025

Abundance Meditation 1 shared issues
Alice Bailey 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
Anika Jade Levy 1 shared issues
Ann Taylor 1 shared issues

Source context

August 14, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, July 28 Amelia is at the apartment when I arrive, bearing cloned keys and summer dresses. It is not a relief to return, I am afraid. Tiptoe across dusty slanted floors and this sense of oddity and dread creeps back no matter how quiet I am about it. There are planes overhead and I have loved all this glass before, but I am clenching my eyes shut now; wishing for drapes that close. Earlier, the flight from London was delayed hours upon hours and things went awry the moment I was left alone. Comparing notes of past present and future and then I laid my roller suitcase horizontal on the bathroom floor to take a seat and think about it. Left my passport in the airport bar where the woman beside me was making friends with every single customer cycling through aside from myself and then I sprinted over to security, where the lights were flashing all schizophrenic and neon and no one would speak. You'll miss your flight, dear, the airport attendant smiled. They opened a small door with a large electric key. They sent me to the Back Rooms. They sent me through endless identical silver doors and a mirror maze and down a long gray magic carpet. I emerged on the other side to find another magic carpet just like the first. I imagined infinite magic carpets extending in every direction. Motion activated so the feedback loop would reveal itself every time I thought I reached solid ground. I was not moving horizontal anymore. It was a vertical descent into the underbelly of Heathrow. I forgot the status of Boeing VS0137. I forgot to ever leave. I woke up in the Kids Play Center. We've lifted your curse, the airport attendant beamed. Most slides can also be used as rafts, they tell me on the plane. Cartoon villain voice playing on Virgin-Atlantic-TV and they're blasting it through the cabin speakers, too. You were an A+ travel companion, they told me in the airport. I wake up to take stock of these things: safety guidelines and praise. I fall back asleep. Tuesday, July 29 After things fell apart in June, I did not eat or sleep for four days and three nights. On the fourth night, I called the NYPD informational line quite dizzy and more out of curiosity regarding physical resilience and atrophy than out of any sincere safety concern. If you cannot sleep tonight, then you can call me in the morning, the operator said. And so I was unconscious in an instant. Put some limits on one's own neurosis. I decided to stay up late last night. It was muggy and hot outside JFK, and I missed the moors and the fog for just an instant. Then, the glass doors slid open into hot sweaty americana summer and all else was forgotten. Felt a bittersweet sort of close to home. Sat on the curb. The airtrain to the car park turned onto the highway. Felt like a road trip. Felt like team sports, two-in-the-morning, intermission. I'd been so quiet that day. I had not spoken one word since Heathrow. Everybody understood that the apartment was rotting. Great place but full of mold. Great place but full of memories both good and bad. Somebody should have thrown out the milk. Somebody should have done something about the feng shui. The dead trees. The slant of the floors. The roof, which nearly caved in last winter. Three in the morning arrival but I asked Amelia if I could come over instead, and Amelia understood it would be best to sit on her floor. Amelia had been leaning into performance art. How was your vacation, Amelia asked. Not transgressive and weird, I sighed. But rejuvenating, pleasant, precious in the sort of way I'd like to hang onto. And I am feeling physically fit from all the walking and running that went on and on and on. The heat wave has not passed in New York despite one more week dwindling into summer, and I sleep until midday around when I open my eyes and begin to feel uneasy. The lines out the stores are down the block and everyone is becoming very thin. The summer foods are things like GREENS 01 Juice and maca-powder-peanut-butter-protein-bites and very rubbery cocktail shrimp at The Smith. It is Julia who suggests The Smith for dinner and I am not picky with those sorts of things. It is me who suggests the party, despite my increasing hopes, generally, to avoid these sorts of things. Wednesday, July 30 Sitting at Banter with the Big Breakfast and hot green tea reading fairytales. It was a nice night last night. Whirling sort of thing. Nightclub101 to KGB to following a group to Ludlow House to Ripple Room. The sort of thing I like as often as possible, but really must limit to now and then. Sitting at the Australian Cafe now, using my Moldavite to mark my place in my book. The fairytales are describing relentless compassion as a form of some sort of psychological warfare. Psychosexual manipulation. Relentless compassion so as to provide one with a moral advantage, knowing it is impossible for the recipient of such compassion to reciprocate. Relentless compassion so as to cast a desperate, selfish, striving plea for reciprocation. The second option is probably more common, but it would be nice to be kind of on a high horse. August will be like oysters at The Knickerbocker with the cocktail sauce in the martini glass and we're sitting by the cracked glass window and Drew says don't cut your hair not yet and so it'll be like humid heavy hair almost down to my waist now, sparkling water in plastic cups with lime and diet coke in a bikini and I will stay put for a while. I will sit at KGB sober in the evening like I do most every evening. They're tearing chocolate chip cookies apart with their hands at the table over and Amelia says she thinks a bit too much about herself to give too much thought to the existence of God but she remembers, as a child, crying tears of joy because she couldn't believe her luck. She just realized she had somehow made it into a human body on Earth, and she couldn't believe her luck. I don't wish the evenings went on too much longer. The timing is starting to feel just right. I want to fill a Desani water bottle with white claw and catch a cab to a pool party but the evening might start to feel too late. I'll read Fanny Howe, Thomas Hardy, Dawn Powell on the floor - big cracked hard cover dog eared copies of all my books. Then, I will pack up my books into Ikea plastic storage trunks. I will pack up all my books and dresses and then the movers will come. The movers will haul my things out the door. They will haul the place bare. I will turn off the air conditioning in this glass apartment in the sky, and then I will leave. August will be somewhere else. Thursday, July 31 Rebecca and I are making plans. Involving - The Chakras by C.W. Leadbeater and Esoteric Healing by Alice Bailey. I don’t want to work harder than I ever have before, but I do wish to be a bit more intuitive about it. Rebecca is telling me about Energy Hygiene in a Chaotic City. Rebecca is telling me about Seven Rays & Soul Typing. Taking Thomas Pynchon, guasha, monastery sage oil, yoga mat, mineral sunscreen up to the roof for Abundance Meditation and Contemplation. I receive good news. The best, really. I am sorry to be opaque, but something shifted in the winds in England. So far, I have managed to hold onto it here. Careful! Open up the blinds because it's foggy this morning which means we get to let some light in. No bright sunlight baking things alive. No leftover drinks or snacks from the Last Party Ever that was thrown last night. So - it’s a very strange day. I’d like to take a different approach to Caution. Generate me a definition. They generate me this definition: The deeper awareness of human limitations, the deceptive nature of false certainties, and the dangers of unchecked power. This will do. Friday, August 1 It’s an unusual sort of incoherence in my dreams today. The shelf above the bed is lined with wine glasses full of water, and there's an in between of sleep and something else - nyquil at six in the morning, cinnamon zyn at six in the morning, the friends went home around six in the morning and now it is sometime around noon, sunlight streaming in. I wake up gagging. In my dreams, the wine glass water was mostly poisoned. In the space between half awake, not all was poisoned but it was a Russian Roulette sort of thing. I take my chances. Chug water out of my safest bet. Wake up screaming. Fall asleep screaming. The Ikea boxes for the move are starting to fill up and I know it's me stuffing the plastic to the brim but I don't really remember. It's been recollection that's lacking, really. It's been a birthday dinner tonight. The sweetest kind in the Lower East Side. Dimes Square but it's just us, I said. Because it was in the general vicinity but the streets were all empty. A stupid joke, but everyone humored me. Everyone was beautiful and lovely and happy and I didn't drink a regrettable amount. A nice sort of night. Got stuck on Thomas Pynchon and now I can't read anything else. Got stuck on esoteric health and now the water is poison. Got stuck at karaoke and now my self proclaimed sulfate allergy is acting up. Wine and hypochondria. It becomes a bit self indulgent then, doesn't it? Saturday, August 2 If the movers weren't late, I'd be gone by now. But they are late, and so I am lying on the couch that’s being left behind in an Everlane striped tee and too-short Los Angeles apparel shorts feeling kind of sorry for myself. I'm not sure why I decided to scrounge up this sort millennial slop getup for the day of my very unceremonious departure. Feeling older than my years. Feeling like I was raised on Madewell and Ann Taylor or, whatever else it is that would feel nostalgic if I'd been born before 2000. Something other than Patagonia shorts and my sister's sweaters, anyways. Feeling culturally un-attuned. Feeling mostly sorry for myself because I am surrounded by grime. I've been flouncing around this place for a while, now. The clutter is so repulsive, and so much of it is new. There was never a day of really moving in, here. It was just step by step, one thing after another, little parcels that were easy to bring up and down and in and out and now; you wake up in the middle of the morning in a glass apartment in the sky to the sense that there is no space left. I would love to toss and toss and toss. I would love to close my eyes on this island of this couch amidst a swamp of Ikea boxes and tell the movers never mind. I would never open the boxes again. I would never do the dishes. I would wear polyester and sleep on the previous owners teak Scandinavian couch. I would sleep surrounded by trash. It would all become trash, because I would decide to throw it all out. What do we need to know?, the movers will ask, when they arrive. Do you find everything interesting? I will ask. Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? YAY, the movers will say. I am picking things up and putting them down. The movers will give me high fives. Me and three Serbian teens high-fiving in a glass apartment in the sky that I am soon to leave and never return. They will pick things up and put them down and haul them out and I will never return. Sunday, August 3 I have taken my things and never returned. All is well except, the lights here are a bit too fluorescent. The courtyard is nice for the turtle pond, but the brick blocks the sun. And, once there was a top lock but now there is not. There is a hole in my door and I can't get it out of my head. There is a hole in my door and now everything is all wrong. Sitting at GMT Tavern with a not very nice martini and the Thomas Pynchon book I just can’t finish or quit. Slow Learner. Slow Learner, just like me. Make it all about me me me. Life is like: another day in my dumb life on my dumb blog talking about me me me. Life does not have to be like this. Life could be like: the hovering curious dominant of their separate lives should resolve into a tonic of darkness and the final absence of all motion (Pynchon). I keep getting stuck on that quote. I keep getting stuck on entropy, which I do not hope to believe in. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, August 14 From 9pm at Silver Lining Lounge — Matt Weinberger and Scott Lipps present The Downtown Prom. Hosts include Sid Simons, Anika Jade Levy, Nicole Naloy, and more. Music by Sexy Damion, Blog Analog, Loose Buttons, and Boxxer. DJ sets and more.

Inline links: Matt Weinberger, Scott Lipps, The Downtown Prom

GymShark1 mentions across 1 issues

GymShark is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 10, 2024 and September 10, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "a welcome departure from GymShark, QuestBars, GNC". It most often appears alongside Anika Levy, Annabel Boardman, Antiart.

Article page: GymShark
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 10, 2024
Last seen: September 10, 2024

Outbound links

https://www.gymshark.com/

Issue trail

Statues Of Critics. September 10, 2024

Anika Levy 1 shared issues
Annabel Boardman 1 shared issues
Antiart 1 shared issues
Artnet 1 shared issues
August Lamm 1 shared issues

Source context

September 10, 2024 · Original source

I have my eye on Literary Sport; a new activewear line inspired by poets coming September, 2024. There’s an increasing emphasis on the artistry of the body and the art of fitness in health and wellness branding recently. I honestly think this is a welcome departure from GymShark, QuestBars, GNC, etc… It's long been an aesthetic wasteland for Girls Who Like Splenda. Literary Sport is particularly chic, but I’m also intrigued by David's; a new protein bar brand inspired by Michelangelo’s David that unabashedly promises to make their consumers beautiful. I’ve been seeing the FKA Twigs 'The Body Is Art' Campaign for OnRunning all over Manhattan as well. I might be working on a longer story about this trend, so send me thoughts – chloegpingeon@gmail.com

Inline links: Literary Sport, GymShark, QuestBars, GNC, David's, Michelangelo’s David, FKA Twigs 'The Body Is Art' Campaign, OnRunning

Hendrick's Gin1 mentions across 1 issues

Hendrick's Gin is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 17, 2025 and March 17, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Drinks provided by Rose Bakery and Hendrick's Gin". It most often appears alongside 8 St. Marks, 99 Canal, Aashish Gadani.

Article page: Hendrick's Gin
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 17, 2025
Last seen: March 17, 2025

Issue trail

Here, There, Everywhere March 17, 2025

8 St. Marks 1 shared issues
99 Canal 1 shared issues
Aashish Gadani 1 shared issues
Ace Hotel New York 1 shared issues
Aiden Arata 1 shared issues

Source context

March 17, 2025 · Original source

No direct inline source block was recovered for this mention.

Hinge1 mentions across 1 issues

Hinge is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 02, 2024 and October 02, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "NPCC (and Trippin) (and Hinge?) will be hosting free screenwriting workshops"; "NPCC (and Trippin ) (and Hinge ?) will be hosting free screenwriting workshops". It most often appears alongside Accdntl Dred, Adeline Swartzendruber, Alex Bienstock.

Article page: Hinge
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 02, 2024
Last seen: October 02, 2024
Instagram handle: @hinge

Outbound links

Issue trail

Ways to be sincere. October 02, 2024

Accdntl Dred 1 shared issues
Adeline Swartzendruber 1 shared issues
Alex Bienstock 1 shared issues
Alex Ross Perry 1 shared issues
Angel Landing Productions 1 shared issues

Source context

October 02, 2024 · Original source

From 12 - 12:45pm and 1 - 1:45pm — NPCC (and Trippin) (and Hinge?) will be hosting free screenwriting workshops at Public Records.

Inline links: NPCC, Trippin, Hinge, Public Records

ICEE1 mentions across 1 issues

ICEE is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between December 22, 2025 and December 22, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Sparkling ICEE water and Advil and fever chills". It most often appears alongside Advil, Alice B. Toklas, Alligator.

Article page: ICEE
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: December 22, 2025
Last seen: December 22, 2025

Issue trail

The social experiment is now over December 22, 2025

Advil 1 shared issues
Alice B. Toklas 1 shared issues
Alligator 1 shared issues
Argireline 1 shared issues
Caffe Reggio 1 shared issues

Source context

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015?

December 22, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, December 15 Woke up to snow feeling self possessed, self determined, and ill, and so I’ll hold onto this for a while, I think. Everyone keeps on telling me what I should do next, to which I say: o.k. Everything is kind of medium levels of certain, these days. Lying on the floor last night at the after party and I could tell that people’s visions were kind of starting to spin but I have needed, personally, to be more solid about it. I have needed, personally, to keep my own vision clear. You can look at her face and see she’s not a good writer, the boys were saying, last night, about someone, can’t remember who. Can we just talk about pretty girls who are good writers?, the boys were asking the group. I wasn’t fishing for compliments. Just kind of sitting there watching everything because my only real goal here is to be observational and not prescriptive. There’s not a role to be filled if you want God to love what you do, someone was saying. If you want the angels to sing you have to eat the script. Angels weren’t really on the mind as I drifted home, more consumed with things like self improvement and hand selecting a new addiction and a caution to the wind sort of impulse. Potions washed up at my doorstep this morning. Sparkling ICEE water and Advil and fever chills which come as blessings when one reads them as signs. Anyways, magical blue hour snowy dusk over Washington Square Park on the way uptown tonight, and since everything changed this summer or really three days ago in a way that is true, I have started to imagine something else. The Christmas party was in an apartment around the corner from Saint Vincent Ferrer Roman Catholic Church off Lexington Ave, last night. The apartment was open-concept with big windows and a pine tree and roaring fire, poached salmon, chocolate chip cookies and a beautiful bed on which everyone lay their beautiful coats. I wanted to stay there forever, as I always do in places that I like. I wore the Cinq-a-Sept holiday dress and the big wool coat I’ve been donning for weeks now, and I wore pearls, too, which is something new. Everything was slippery and bright and better and kind of like a dream, but I don’t want to get complacent. When I moved to New York, I lived in Yorkville where I could not sleep and where the streets were too muted and it made me uneasy. In the Lower East Side, in an apartment I hated, I was given a whole new life, and there, nothing was muted and everything was windy and cold. The wind made me kind of crazy, as wind tends to do. I was airlifted out of that apartment, ultimately, which I suppose is what I’ve kind of been praying for, here, in a space that is my own and good except for; the bed faces a fluorescent hallway and there is no room for a couch or even really a trash can. I’m seeking clarity for kind of selfish but partly religious reasons. And I’m sick of writing about the things I own or once did. On the end of the year; it is kind of pointless to say anything at all when things were fast then slow then impossible to recall, and all of this is just to say that I hope I’ve been sincere. Almost midnight, and so I go to Caffe Reggio, where things are small and precise and decked in holiday cheer, cozier even than the hotel lobby. Resolutions are: everything beautiful. And more stories that flow like water, obviously. The night is crisp and cool and I care to be extremely alert. Tuesday, December 16 Celia left the scene because she was good at noticing when things became embarrassing, and I resonated with the principle but still could not help but to hover. Nothing was embarrassing, anymore, Matthew reminded me, because everything was dead in the water and then it wasn’t and then it was and now, he suspected a new wave. Last year at this time I had to beg girls to come to parties, Matthew sighed. He gestured around the very crowded and warm bar and towards the people standing and sitting in circles and filtering in and out and the elderly Italian birthday party in the backroom. This is nothing like last year, he insisted. In the Financial District, everything was FAKE. Fake little streets and old-timey bars and I only realized the facade of it all because I walked by a Christmas Tree and the sign at its edges sent the whole charade tumbling down. EVEN THE CHRISTMAS TREE IS FAKE, the sign said. In the freezing cold, the most freezing day of the year so far, Celia and I got burgers at a small and new seafood spot. Celia wore three pops of red (bag, tights, gloves), and I wore all black. After the reading, where the stories were good and where more and more people kept materializing as if out of dust by the door, I bought three books and then sat on what seemed to be a bike rack in the back of a van driving towards the Lower East Side. Ducked my head so it wouldn’t slam into the van ceiling on every bump. The views became Real again, driving out of toy-house-town simulation FiDi, and then the bridges were glowing and the streets were full of snow and I was writing on my phone, kind of just humming to myself and mostly just saying the same things in my head over and over and over again; everything clear and everything sweet. Cold and windy winter where the elements make me kind of lose my mind. Sober minded mania. I am drawn to these kinds of things. The thing about this winter is that everyone has been going crazy. Me first, but then I learned how to put a stop to it. Sophia gave me a white rose at the Marlton Hotel in the morning, and then I found it kind of crumpled in the recesses of my bag. Petals floating everywhere and we’d moved to a different bar by then, somewhere kind of velvety and sleek and my friends and I were the only people there. Matthew was talking about people who fabricate enemies out of neutral acquaintances who just didn’t want to be their friends. A sad sort of thing, but you can’t feel too bad about someone who decides to turn evil. Dimes Square was a two year operation to get [redacted] laid, Matthew was saying. The experiment is now over. The social experiment is now over, and now you can all go home. Wednesday, December 17 I have decided to take the rest of the winter floating and soaring. Orange leaves turning brown outside the open window. Little gold watch and swan and cross and green Dartmouth Tercentenary tile and white Lake Neuchatel winter landscape postcard propped against the windowsill. So, if clarity is the thing that is most important above all, then you know what has to give. I will play “Garden Botanum” and “Come Undone” and “When Autumn Leaves” and everything by Dougie Mcclean and watch as things become crisper and more into focus. It’s important to only make a promise once and then keep it. It’s important to not be so vague about all of it going forward. Very precise and very discerning. That can be what a winter is like. I watch the light and shadows shift and shudder off my walls and bad-feng-shua hallway for some hours. I walk to the gym and I feel normal. Water and hyperpop music and images of faces sheathed in light or maybe armor all around. The television is falling off its hinges at the gym, and so the mantras on the walls are all skewed. COMMIT TO SOMETHING. REACT TO NOTHING. I’ve been culling mantras from the internet. I’ve been making lists of all my friends and everything kind I have to say about them. I’ve been making lists of all the ways I’ve maybe wronged others but have never been wronged myself. Sitting in a basement that’s illuminated blue watching films last night. Sitting in a conversation pit all day and all night for most moments of this week. Sitting under holly and cranberry and splintering wood and dried wasps nests and flowers and everything sparkling and snowy outside, soon, next week. There’s a few more dinners before that. The last days of gluttony but everyone seems over it. Sitting around dimly lit tables and everyone keeps talking about the ways we used to be. We used to wake up with crumbling Prada purses at the foot of our beds, overflowing with candy and mascara and all the things we didn’t remember stealing the night before. We used to be at the gym before dawn. I used to get along with people who viewed things as linear. I’ve always known the happiest days of my life to be exactly what they are, even as they are happening. Slipping away. There are other things, too. What do you think your new addiction will be?, Celia asks me. Something unrelated to consumption, I tell Celia. Something kind of manic and empty?, Celia asks me. It’s not so bad to think about what you want in strictly material terms, I tell Celia Thursday, December 18 THINGS I PROCURED THIS YEAR IN STRICTLY MATERIAL TERMS Silk long sleeve Ganni top

Inline links: Silk long sleeve Ganni top

Ikea1 mentions across 1 issues

Ikea is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between August 14, 2025 and August 14, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "this island of this couch amidst a swamp of Ikea boxes"; "pack up my books into Ikea plastic storage trunks"; "The Ikea boxes for the move are starting to fill up". It most often appears alongside Abundance Meditation, Alice Bailey, Amelia.

Article page: Ikea
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: August 14, 2025
Last seen: August 14, 2025

Issue trail

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? August 14, 2025

Abundance Meditation 1 shared issues
Alice Bailey 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
Anika Jade Levy 1 shared issues
Ann Taylor 1 shared issues

Source context

August 14, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, July 28 Amelia is at the apartment when I arrive, bearing cloned keys and summer dresses. It is not a relief to return, I am afraid. Tiptoe across dusty slanted floors and this sense of oddity and dread creeps back no matter how quiet I am about it. There are planes overhead and I have loved all this glass before, but I am clenching my eyes shut now; wishing for drapes that close. Earlier, the flight from London was delayed hours upon hours and things went awry the moment I was left alone. Comparing notes of past present and future and then I laid my roller suitcase horizontal on the bathroom floor to take a seat and think about it. Left my passport in the airport bar where the woman beside me was making friends with every single customer cycling through aside from myself and then I sprinted over to security, where the lights were flashing all schizophrenic and neon and no one would speak. You'll miss your flight, dear, the airport attendant smiled. They opened a small door with a large electric key. They sent me to the Back Rooms. They sent me through endless identical silver doors and a mirror maze and down a long gray magic carpet. I emerged on the other side to find another magic carpet just like the first. I imagined infinite magic carpets extending in every direction. Motion activated so the feedback loop would reveal itself every time I thought I reached solid ground. I was not moving horizontal anymore. It was a vertical descent into the underbelly of Heathrow. I forgot the status of Boeing VS0137. I forgot to ever leave. I woke up in the Kids Play Center. We've lifted your curse, the airport attendant beamed. Most slides can also be used as rafts, they tell me on the plane. Cartoon villain voice playing on Virgin-Atlantic-TV and they're blasting it through the cabin speakers, too. You were an A+ travel companion, they told me in the airport. I wake up to take stock of these things: safety guidelines and praise. I fall back asleep. Tuesday, July 29 After things fell apart in June, I did not eat or sleep for four days and three nights. On the fourth night, I called the NYPD informational line quite dizzy and more out of curiosity regarding physical resilience and atrophy than out of any sincere safety concern. If you cannot sleep tonight, then you can call me in the morning, the operator said. And so I was unconscious in an instant. Put some limits on one's own neurosis. I decided to stay up late last night. It was muggy and hot outside JFK, and I missed the moors and the fog for just an instant. Then, the glass doors slid open into hot sweaty americana summer and all else was forgotten. Felt a bittersweet sort of close to home. Sat on the curb. The airtrain to the car park turned onto the highway. Felt like a road trip. Felt like team sports, two-in-the-morning, intermission. I'd been so quiet that day. I had not spoken one word since Heathrow. Everybody understood that the apartment was rotting. Great place but full of mold. Great place but full of memories both good and bad. Somebody should have thrown out the milk. Somebody should have done something about the feng shui. The dead trees. The slant of the floors. The roof, which nearly caved in last winter. Three in the morning arrival but I asked Amelia if I could come over instead, and Amelia understood it would be best to sit on her floor. Amelia had been leaning into performance art. How was your vacation, Amelia asked. Not transgressive and weird, I sighed. But rejuvenating, pleasant, precious in the sort of way I'd like to hang onto. And I am feeling physically fit from all the walking and running that went on and on and on. The heat wave has not passed in New York despite one more week dwindling into summer, and I sleep until midday around when I open my eyes and begin to feel uneasy. The lines out the stores are down the block and everyone is becoming very thin. The summer foods are things like GREENS 01 Juice and maca-powder-peanut-butter-protein-bites and very rubbery cocktail shrimp at The Smith. It is Julia who suggests The Smith for dinner and I am not picky with those sorts of things. It is me who suggests the party, despite my increasing hopes, generally, to avoid these sorts of things. Wednesday, July 30 Sitting at Banter with the Big Breakfast and hot green tea reading fairytales. It was a nice night last night. Whirling sort of thing. Nightclub101 to KGB to following a group to Ludlow House to Ripple Room. The sort of thing I like as often as possible, but really must limit to now and then. Sitting at the Australian Cafe now, using my Moldavite to mark my place in my book. The fairytales are describing relentless compassion as a form of some sort of psychological warfare. Psychosexual manipulation. Relentless compassion so as to provide one with a moral advantage, knowing it is impossible for the recipient of such compassion to reciprocate. Relentless compassion so as to cast a desperate, selfish, striving plea for reciprocation. The second option is probably more common, but it would be nice to be kind of on a high horse. August will be like oysters at The Knickerbocker with the cocktail sauce in the martini glass and we're sitting by the cracked glass window and Drew says don't cut your hair not yet and so it'll be like humid heavy hair almost down to my waist now, sparkling water in plastic cups with lime and diet coke in a bikini and I will stay put for a while. I will sit at KGB sober in the evening like I do most every evening. They're tearing chocolate chip cookies apart with their hands at the table over and Amelia says she thinks a bit too much about herself to give too much thought to the existence of God but she remembers, as a child, crying tears of joy because she couldn't believe her luck. She just realized she had somehow made it into a human body on Earth, and she couldn't believe her luck. I don't wish the evenings went on too much longer. The timing is starting to feel just right. I want to fill a Desani water bottle with white claw and catch a cab to a pool party but the evening might start to feel too late. I'll read Fanny Howe, Thomas Hardy, Dawn Powell on the floor - big cracked hard cover dog eared copies of all my books. Then, I will pack up my books into Ikea plastic storage trunks. I will pack up all my books and dresses and then the movers will come. The movers will haul my things out the door. They will haul the place bare. I will turn off the air conditioning in this glass apartment in the sky, and then I will leave. August will be somewhere else. Thursday, July 31 Rebecca and I are making plans. Involving - The Chakras by C.W. Leadbeater and Esoteric Healing by Alice Bailey. I don’t want to work harder than I ever have before, but I do wish to be a bit more intuitive about it. Rebecca is telling me about Energy Hygiene in a Chaotic City. Rebecca is telling me about Seven Rays & Soul Typing. Taking Thomas Pynchon, guasha, monastery sage oil, yoga mat, mineral sunscreen up to the roof for Abundance Meditation and Contemplation. I receive good news. The best, really. I am sorry to be opaque, but something shifted in the winds in England. So far, I have managed to hold onto it here. Careful! Open up the blinds because it's foggy this morning which means we get to let some light in. No bright sunlight baking things alive. No leftover drinks or snacks from the Last Party Ever that was thrown last night. So - it’s a very strange day. I’d like to take a different approach to Caution. Generate me a definition. They generate me this definition: The deeper awareness of human limitations, the deceptive nature of false certainties, and the dangers of unchecked power. This will do. Friday, August 1 It’s an unusual sort of incoherence in my dreams today. The shelf above the bed is lined with wine glasses full of water, and there's an in between of sleep and something else - nyquil at six in the morning, cinnamon zyn at six in the morning, the friends went home around six in the morning and now it is sometime around noon, sunlight streaming in. I wake up gagging. In my dreams, the wine glass water was mostly poisoned. In the space between half awake, not all was poisoned but it was a Russian Roulette sort of thing. I take my chances. Chug water out of my safest bet. Wake up screaming. Fall asleep screaming. The Ikea boxes for the move are starting to fill up and I know it's me stuffing the plastic to the brim but I don't really remember. It's been recollection that's lacking, really. It's been a birthday dinner tonight. The sweetest kind in the Lower East Side. Dimes Square but it's just us, I said. Because it was in the general vicinity but the streets were all empty. A stupid joke, but everyone humored me. Everyone was beautiful and lovely and happy and I didn't drink a regrettable amount. A nice sort of night. Got stuck on Thomas Pynchon and now I can't read anything else. Got stuck on esoteric health and now the water is poison. Got stuck at karaoke and now my self proclaimed sulfate allergy is acting up. Wine and hypochondria. It becomes a bit self indulgent then, doesn't it? Saturday, August 2 If the movers weren't late, I'd be gone by now. But they are late, and so I am lying on the couch that’s being left behind in an Everlane striped tee and too-short Los Angeles apparel shorts feeling kind of sorry for myself. I'm not sure why I decided to scrounge up this sort millennial slop getup for the day of my very unceremonious departure. Feeling older than my years. Feeling like I was raised on Madewell and Ann Taylor or, whatever else it is that would feel nostalgic if I'd been born before 2000. Something other than Patagonia shorts and my sister's sweaters, anyways. Feeling culturally un-attuned. Feeling mostly sorry for myself because I am surrounded by grime. I've been flouncing around this place for a while, now. The clutter is so repulsive, and so much of it is new. There was never a day of really moving in, here. It was just step by step, one thing after another, little parcels that were easy to bring up and down and in and out and now; you wake up in the middle of the morning in a glass apartment in the sky to the sense that there is no space left. I would love to toss and toss and toss. I would love to close my eyes on this island of this couch amidst a swamp of Ikea boxes and tell the movers never mind. I would never open the boxes again. I would never do the dishes. I would wear polyester and sleep on the previous owners teak Scandinavian couch. I would sleep surrounded by trash. It would all become trash, because I would decide to throw it all out. What do we need to know?, the movers will ask, when they arrive. Do you find everything interesting? I will ask. Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? YAY, the movers will say. I am picking things up and putting them down. The movers will give me high fives. Me and three Serbian teens high-fiving in a glass apartment in the sky that I am soon to leave and never return. They will pick things up and put them down and haul them out and I will never return. Sunday, August 3 I have taken my things and never returned. All is well except, the lights here are a bit too fluorescent. The courtyard is nice for the turtle pond, but the brick blocks the sun. And, once there was a top lock but now there is not. There is a hole in my door and I can't get it out of my head. There is a hole in my door and now everything is all wrong. Sitting at GMT Tavern with a not very nice martini and the Thomas Pynchon book I just can’t finish or quit. Slow Learner. Slow Learner, just like me. Make it all about me me me. Life is like: another day in my dumb life on my dumb blog talking about me me me. Life does not have to be like this. Life could be like: the hovering curious dominant of their separate lives should resolve into a tonic of darkness and the final absence of all motion (Pynchon). I keep getting stuck on that quote. I keep getting stuck on entropy, which I do not hope to believe in. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, August 14 From 9pm at Silver Lining Lounge — Matt Weinberger and Scott Lipps present The Downtown Prom. Hosts include Sid Simons, Anika Jade Levy, Nicole Naloy, and more. Music by Sexy Damion, Blog Analog, Loose Buttons, and Boxxer. DJ sets and more.

Inline links: Matt Weinberger, Scott Lipps, The Downtown Prom

Imperfaite1 mentions across 1 issues

Imperfaite is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 06, 2026 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Imperfaite". It most often appears alongside A Place in the Sun, Ali RQ, Angelica.

Article page: Imperfaite
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 06, 2026
Last seen: March 06, 2026

Outbound links

Issue trail

Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

A Place in the Sun 1 shared issues
Ali RQ 1 shared issues
Angelica 1 shared issues
Angelmoon 1 shared issues
Banana Republic 1 shared issues

Source context

March 06, 2026 · Original source

Appendix: Things Brandy Melville depop boatneck long sleeve dress, Zalt electrolyte zyn, Davolls tee-shirt, Angelmoon, Imperfaite, Prada boots, Monroe suede penny loafers, Frye leather riding boot Places Thai Diner, Vince’s Cobbler, The Manhattan Club, The Marlton Hotel, Tartinery, Caffe Reggio, Dr. Clark, Swan Room Read GirlInsides, The Masque of the Read Death, Fatherland (Victoria Shorr, 2026) Watch Pi (1988), The Biggest Sabotage in History (weird documentary youtube), A Place in the Sun (1951) Listen Gregarian Chants (via Health Gossip), Tango In The Night (1987), Drasticism (2026).

J. Press1 mentions across 1 issues

J. Press is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between November 19, 2024 and November 19, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "the history of J.Press... Hosted by The New Criterion at the J. Press shop on 44th Street"; "a life in American tailoring and the history of J.Press". It most often appears alongside Adeline, Adriana Furlong, Aimee Armstrong.

Article page: J. Press
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: November 19, 2024
Last seen: November 19, 2024

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https://www.instagram.com/p/C8meUUEuMs4/?img_index=1

Issue trail

Autumn passes and one remembers one's reverence November 19, 2024

Adeline 1 shared issues
Adriana Furlong 1 shared issues
Aimee Armstrong 1 shared issues
Alexander Sammartino 1 shared issues
Alissa Bennett 1 shared issues

Source context

November 19, 2024 · Original source

For menswear enthusiasts - Richard Press (grandson of J.Press founder) presents his recent book on a life in American tailoring and the history of J.Press. Hosted by The New Criterion at the J. Press shop on 44th Street. (RSVP)

Inline links: Richard Press, J.Press, The New Criterion, RSVP

Jameson1 mentions across 1 issues

Jameson is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 03, 2025 and February 03, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "hot apple cider and Jameson whiskey at Cafe Reggio". It most often appears alongside Abscissa #2, Adderall, Adriana Furlong.

Article page: Jameson
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 03, 2025
Last seen: February 03, 2025

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Issue trail

Dream Logic February 03, 2025

Abscissa #2 1 shared issues
Adderall 1 shared issues
Adriana Furlong 1 shared issues
Advil 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues

Source context

February 03, 2025 · Original source

Monday, January 27 Perhaps you theme your days. On Health, you say. L-theanine with my coffee. Not really, but I’ll plan for this down the line. Bar Oliver is all lit up in piercing morning sun. I walk outside early this morning. Chinatown fruit market coming alive so quickly. There was a cemetery outside the window where I slept last night. I kept on looking out and seeing icy branches overhead that framed the building like a second roof, the cemetery like a courtyard. It scared me once, I screamed once in my sleep, but I woke up other times too, and it wasn't too bad then. Mostly, the sky outside just looked all pale blue and clear, the same pale blue all night in my memory, although this doesn't make sense in a logical way, what with the night passing and the becoming dark and the me being asleep for it all. Dream Logic. A recollection of slippery silvery vines forming an outline of a roof over a gravestone. You wake up, and there is no roof, the trees were never shaped like that at all. Tahini chocolate cookie because Ruby told me sugar is actually ok. Whole milk cappuccino and I'm adding honey instead of Splenda. Enough is enough. I'm not going to crash out, but days are different now that my hours don't float on and on in pacing and typing that becomes like a trance. I felt like I was floating yesterday. Not today. That's probably ok. Tuesday, January 28 Tea with Madelyn Grace and then hot apple cider and Jameson whiskey at Cafe Reggio last night. David and his friends came by and acted abrasive. I was annoyed, but then I wasn’t. I walked the Williamsburg Bridge this morning - all the way from The West Village to Brooklyn. Delancey street was crazy at that hour, but everything after that was nice. I’d never done this before - walk the bridge, I mean - and it went on for so much longer than I expected. At first it was all windy and it made me scared, how once you got on the bridge you really couldn’t get off, how in the center the only exit was to finish the walk or perhaps to blow over, and I was the only one there, people were biking by so fast but no one else was walking, so then I started to run, and so then it got all warm, the water in the Hudson looked nice and wild and churning and distant from up here. The thing is, this winter was mostly a practice in what I’m recalling like a meditation now, with even the slight perspective - now that it’s late January, that is. Everything was present, so hyper present, and all I did was walk and think and walk and walk and walk and write down what I was thinking about and sometimes I yelled a lot, and I know it’s still the depth of winter, but this time starts to feel like it is passing. I freaked out last week, I thought about what if I couldn’t keep my days like that, but my days still hold all of this, only now, they hold more too. At the gym, I write about how it is ok to just do things like - go for a walk, go to work, lie by the window with David, go to the gym, write a story, and these days can be good and even better than the other ones, the ones that snap you into fierce exteriority. After the gym, Cassidy texts me. “Are you at KGB?,” and I’m not, but I think, well, I would go. Augustine says - “Give me chastity and continence, but not yet.” Etc etc etc. I feel better when almost all my time is spent with people, and I think my mind is better like this, too. At KGB, I am dressed all in Pilates and Going-For-A-Jog type clothing. At KGB, Matthew is telling a girl about how Blade Runner the movie is based on a very antisemitic book. I've heard him tell this story before, and the gist varies each time, but there are a few lines that consistently resurface. I zone out after I hear the first line that I am sure I have heard before. When I zone back in, he's talking about religion more generally. "Really?," the girl he's with is saying. "Yes, YES," Matthew is saying “I looked up the history of the Blade Runner movie, and it said it was made around World War II," the girl is saying. “No, not at all," Matthew says “Oh,” the girl says “How did you like the rape scene?" Matthew asks “What rape scene?" the girl says “Oh that's good," Matthew says. There is new art on the wall of KGB. A rendition of Vermeer’s Girl With Pearl Earring, except in this case, the girl is a dog. “Do you like the new art?,” David asks. “Yes,” I say. “I don’t,” David says. I am picking at the wax on the candle, because everyone is talking and because I don’t have much to say. “Stop playing with fire,” the bartender tells me. “Act like you are at your mothers house.” Except - I mishear her. I think she says you aren’t at your mothers house, because she is right, I am not, but if I was; I would play with the flames as much as I liked. Wednesday, January 29 I would like to put away this phone, I think. Warmer, today. They’ve left the windows open at the coffee shop. I told you it was starting to feel like spring. I told you it would be all spring-like in the depth of winter, soon. Sunlight filtering, filtering, filtering, through the roof at home. The roof and the windows. It’s all one and the same. It’s a new moon tonight. Lunar New Year tonight. You put your head under the covers and filter out the sun. You like it because it is warm but also - the blue light of your phone can absorb your entire vision at any hour, here, in this makeshift tent. I am not of the Escape The Internet train of thought. It’s designed to addict you but then, well, having some fucking discipline. On my phone, I see people saying things like - “there is no ‘on your phone’, just another layer of constant consciousness”. And in real life I think things like - you should separate it if you can, you should know real life if you can but, to leave it all behind - impossible, because it will always be right there, and you could still do things like walk down the street and understand the street as purely physical but then, look around you, look at the other people, look at the surroundings they are absorbing and none of them are real, none of them are there, and so you can’t just stand on this street and get it, understand it, all offline. I don’t really want to get it anymore. My mornings could be real, they could be with just a little discipline and a touch of joie de vivre. They aren’t real, really, because I’m making makeshift Blue Light tents to filter out the sunlight, but then, I’m working on this. Blue, blue, blue sky today. Doomers previews, tonight. Biohacker meetup tonight. Bryan Johnson in Interview Magazine tonight. I like to do things like drink six teas with six Splenda each, and then I like to act very harsh with myself and others regarding the principles of a life well lived. Year of the snake. What do you think about that...? All this talk about discipline, and my afternoon is all drop off a few Depop packages and refresh, refresh, refresh the stats on a piece that I didn’t even write. There’s a hazy little run in the afternoon. There’s some bad news, or, news that is more irritating, really. Ruby spreads the word: "do not take my advice about eating lots of honey," she says. Ok. Ok, it's all protein now, then. David takes me to a strange party tonight. An interloper arrives, and he is chased out at sword point. It is insane how quickly the tides turn. You said the things that you didn’t mean, again. It wasn't supposed to happen like this, but then, it never is. You wrote today, earlier, about how - things were good, better, but you didn't want to get too cocky because remember what you were capable of really not too long ago, it was only a few weeks back, but it felt so distant. And then, tonight, again... Thursday, January 30 And then it's ok. Well, it's not, but it can be. You’ve been taking for granted that it will be ok, if it has to be ok. That if you care about something so, so, so deeply then it cannot possibly be destroyed, but it could, you are capable of this. It feels foreign sometimes, this force, this capacity for destruction, like it can’t belong to you, but it does, it’s no one else’s. It becomes simple, then. You can’t just say I crossed my fingers, you can’t just say I take it back. And so, no more. I'm working the door at Tense tonight, which is my favorite - both TENSE, and working doors, that is. It’s a beautiful night, and this, after everything, is a relief. Christian Lorentzen reads emails with Gary Indiana. “I now believe you can tell if the writer is part of a writing program, by looking at their teeth,” Gary told Christian. "Why does everybody love Downton Abbey?" Gary asked Christian, in another email. "Well, what's not to love? The series construction is so glibly subscribed that you know what will happen before the writers do." In another, he lamented the logistical problems surrounding his writings on Cuba - the travel ban, his lover there, etc etc etc. It's a good format for a reading - the emails thing. Correspondences brought to life. Not quite a diary, but close, more intimate, often, because one isn't writing into the void of one's own neurosis in a correspondence. Madelyn writes me an email, after. I am working on my own correspondence back, still. Mania delays the process. It's good to have a long form conversation to return to. I hope this email finds you well. This email finds me almost incapacitated, but I won't be, soon. Beckett's reading is full of empathy and wit as always. He's lamenting the narcissism of our times in his introductory speech, and his own gut impulses and the stories that follow give him the proper wherewithal to do so. I see Sean Lynch and others outside. Sean writes something nice on the evening. I see Doomers the next day - the dream logic of my thoughts following this production requiring another letter altogether WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, February 4 From 7pm at Heaven Can't Wait — Cynosure presents the first of a two night fundraiser for Los Angeles, featuring Alex Arthur, Precious Human, Truman Flyer, and more.

Jones1 mentions across 1 issues

Jones is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 21, 2024 and September 21, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Nicotine mints so you can actually quit vaping... provided by Jones". It most often appears alongside $EGIRL Zine, 10cust, Adeline Swartzendruber.

Article page: Jones
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 21, 2024
Last seen: September 21, 2024
Instagram handle: @patspearsjones

Outbound links

Issue trail

I wish I had more to say about fashion week. September 21, 2024

$EGIRL Zine 1 shared issues
10cust 1 shared issues
Adeline Swartzendruber 1 shared issues
Alexa Chung 1 shared issues
Alirqq 1 shared issues

Source context

September 21, 2024 · Original source

I was given QuitwithJones mints at a pop up on the street this morning and the afterparty is sponsored by Blip nicotine gum. I’ve been indulging like it’s candy and now I’m starving and dizzy, spinning from so many milligrams of Quitting Vaping. The afterparty is at Soho Grand, a good party, a club I thought I hated but I’m having fun. Later, too late, deviled eggs and martini at Little Ways. A good stop. Something to return for on another evening, sometime when I’m not reeling.

Inline links: QuitwithJones, Blip nicotine gum, Soho Grand, Little Ways

Friday, September 27 — TENSE presents a much anticipated event at The Locker Room. The Fall will feature readings and performances from Anika Levy, August Lamm, Beckett Rosset, Kitty St Remy, Madeline Cash, Sophie Madeline Doss, Zack Graham, and Magdalene Taylor. Nicotine mints so you can actually quit vaping (like me!) provided by Jones.

Inline links: The Fall, Anika Levy, August Lamm, Beckett Rosset, Kitty St Remy, Madeline Cash, Zack Graham, Magdalene Taylor, Jones

JPress1 mentions across 1 issues

JPress is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 04, 2025 and September 04, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Bowery Park and Whole Foods and JPress nearby and inside". It most often appears alongside 131 Chrystie St, 54 Barrow St, Aeronauts Aimed for Altitude, Even….

Article page: JPress
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 04, 2025
Last seen: September 04, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.instagram.com/p/C8meUUEuMs4/?img_index=1

Issue trail

Drinking Dreams September 04, 2025

131 Chrystie St 1 shared issues
54 Barrow St 1 shared issues
Aeronauts Aimed for Altitude, Even… 1 shared issues
Agnes Enhktamir 1 shared issues
Alexa Ferrer 1 shared issues

Source context

September 04, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, August 24 Lay with filthy tangled hair hanging off the edge of the roof for a while last night, watching the Chase Clock Tower lit up too royal blue and the Empire State Building lit up the nicer sort of baby blue. I've been collecting shades of blue. Kind of navy blue Frankie's Bikini little number reflecting something sort of aqua off my Diet Pepsi on the D-line towards Coney Island. Screaming children on the D-line. Naked man running around trying to steal pedestrians pants on Coney Island. He keeps on saying to the other guy, Darby says - “I like those pants ! Gimme those pants!” And it was all these beautiful friends coming and going last night. Coming and going until it was late, really late, so taxi home and then I ate the toppings off a slice of pizza on the floor with a spoon. I spent the morning alone doing Rituals. Tretinoin before sleep and I did wake up screaming for the first time in a while. Red light therapy and copper multi peptides and avocado eye cream and mineral sunscreen and now I'm on the Subway. Kind of braindead on the subway. It sometimes takes it out of you. This sort of thing can really take it out of you. It's been summer for forever, now. I have a lot more friends now. Connectivity, connected tissue, I walk down Brighton Beach by myself, walk to Tashkent Supermarket for a towel and carrot salad and on the phone I'm saying it is not that I wish for death and even sometimes I fear it but things have become a lot less Risk Averse. I'm a lot less Risk Averse now. It would be better to be dead, someone was saying at the bar last night. She was looking at me eyes all intense and no one was really listening, I could tell no one was really listening but everyone was watching her all the same and I could see them all clenching their bodies and kind of pulling away.. Me particularly, pulling away. Perhaps I'm being self absorbed. It wouldn't be better to be dead, someone else said. He looked at me then, locked eyes which usually makes me kind of uncomfortable but I felt inclined to agree. It's definitely better when nobody is dead, I said. The bar was full of plants and glass. Like a glass jungle, I told my nameless friends at the bar.. That's not very astute, a nameless friend told me. Tonight, the cocktail menu is flavored and priced like a full course meal, and so tonight I order Cold Pizza for dinner. Cold Pizza in a crisp glass bottle, plus greasy fried chicken after that, which comes in thick paper cups. And everyone is so grateful to be alive, tonight. Everyone is so grateful for one more year of life for themselves and for their dear friends particularly. Purple sunrise if I hadn't slept through it. Yellow sunset if I hadn't gritted my teeth and clenched my eyes shut through it. Planted two feet firmly in the ground and screamed through it. First, I made one thousand promises I couldn't keep. Second, I sat on the stoop with an energy drink, water, cool minty menthol gum and the antiseptic kind of sore throat with some bodega spray gripped tight in my hand to heal all my problems. My ailments and the other things. My organs and my mind. Overjoyed to be alive again after leaving my apartment, I told Amelia. It does make things better again, Amelia told me. Tuesday, August 25 Bartending school feels kind of like an alcoholic's vision of a drinking dream. Like holograms of condensation, dim lighting, one takes a sip to the tune of disappointment. Water and food coloring dye. Bowery Park and Whole Foods and JPress nearby and inside; Christmas is coming. Smooth jazz. Everything has felt a bit the same for a time, but my room is clean. Summer is passing. Three months is not so long. Would a functional alcoholic lace up black ankle boots at seven in the morning with a clear mind and bright eyes to catch the train towards midtown towards Bartending School, at the top of the week, at the tail end of August? I am not so good at pretending like anything is changing. Like habits stack towards something greater. It might as well be yesterday, I sigh on the phone. For you, it might as well be yesterday, Amelia agrees. I do the things a person should. Cake for friends' birthdays and the waiter keeps stacking on fees at Union Square Cafe. Cut the cake fee, sit at the table fee, big group of people fee, bring your own food fee. There are other tables next to us all inhabited by people who all appear to be exactly the same, though perhaps I am being uncharitable. Imagine them as skeletons. Imagine them as children. My parents used to tell me this when I was little. Kind of a hack against boredom. I imagine myself as a psychic, looking out on things overpriced and people all exactly the same. You will have a small child and feed her nothing but buttered noodles. You will advance in age but stay exactly the same through invasive surgical facial intervention and stunted social development. You will spend evenings eating french fries with caviar for One Hundred Dollars despite a rich inner world and a childhood pumped full of extracurricular stimulation designed, specifically, to avoid a fate like this. You will fear God more than death and you will understand self destruction to be akin to suicide hence rendering you too, on a trajectory like this, a rather hellish creature. You will wake up in the middle of the night in a small box criss-crossed wood roof apartment in New York City to the sense that there are No Loopholes Left. You will go to bartending school. You will recognize that, while you can be cruel there were other factors at play. There were worse factors at play. Wednesday, August 26 Walking from Greenwich Village to Long Meadow in Prospect Park with a bag filled up with white linen and Thomas Pynchon and a plan to celebrate sweet Sylvie's birthday. A different sort of nostalgia in the air today. Nostalgia of all sorts being kind of a form of mental illness, of course but once - we were woodland fairies. Once, there were fall morning running races and cranberries that crunched under bare feet on Massachusetts roads. Once, there were rounds of Tom Collins in a kind of jazzy jungle garden restaurant in the tropics that my boyfriend who liked gender-roles enjoyed because they wouldn't let girls order their own drinks. Once, I went to the Yankees game in late August, blue and pink hazy skies, the sort of advertisements that blare out notes about Fast Food and Safe Driving in the stadium, and the sort of crowd that is so big it starts inspiring feelings of Life and Spirit rather than Homogoninity and Dread. Once, I walked from bartending school full of Tom Collins, Chambord, a sip of walnut martinini, frangelico liquor. Walked to Caffe Reggio for egg white omelet, toast, a creamy cannoli. Walking to Prospect Park a little bit tipsy. Thinking about the sort of things I used to pretend to care about. Writing about the sorts of things I used to pretend to care about. Writing it all down. Writing and walking. Writing it everywhere. Writing it on the walls. Though, I'm not so bad at keeping secrets anymore. Thursday, August 27 Amelia and I sat at Caffe Reggio until close last night, and now I have returned. Tomato soup and side grilled chicken and creamy cannoli and mint tea because things feel decadent again. Limited consumption. I haven’t really been limiting consumption. The waitress is complimenting the gray sweatpants on the boys at the table over from me, and the waitress seems to be vaguely annoyed with me, though I am trying to be pleasant. Thanks the sweatpants cost enough, the boys are saying, at the table over. Thanks we didn't realize we couldn't split the bill, Amelia and I were saying, last night, our tea was four dollars total and everything was starting to feel a little bit hazy. Sitting on the floor at sunrise, this morning, Amelia and I were watching videos from Miami. Videos from Bahamas. Videos from New York City, 2022, we'd been at all the same parties, but I hadn't known a soul. BAHAMAS, we are beaming, in one video, in the back of a taxi cab, streaking over MacArthur Causeway, Miami-Dade County, Florida, and so, as I recall, the driver was confused. I'm putting on makeup in the photo booth webcam on the floor of a hotel room and Amelia is talking in the background. It's Opposite Day in the background. Who had a mental breakdown, someone is saying in the background. From an outsider's perspective, who was it who had a mental breakdown? Friday, August 28 6:30pm, and I am back at IFC for my third viewing of Diva (1981) in twenty-four hours. I came to view Diva (1981) for the third time in twenty-four hours, because I became very sick of thinking about myself. This is a desirable alternative. The film is beautiful, and I wish to live in places like the apartments pictured. A large and wrecked studio in a car park with painted walls and recording equipment or, a hotel in Paris or, a castle by the sea or, the best one of all is a large blue flat full of puzzles and high ceilings and echoing sea sounds and an aqua glow and a man who wants to learn to stop the waves. They are fighting crime in the film. They are entrapping the criminals and they are doing it kind of like performance art. I don’t wish to spoil the ending. It really is the perfect little film. So; I will send out the recipe for zucchini (courgette) soup, and I will explain away the things I did in breathless optimism as things I did while bored. I will go to The Scratcher, Killarney Rose, Funny Bar, then Gospel then Caffe Reggio again - these are the decadent places to which I continue to return. I will draw my name with Riley on the table in crayon writing Best Friends Forever and listen to Feryquitous ft Sennzai and Sigur Rós and John Maus and think about Switzerland, Iceland, having a lot of dreams about places that are lush, lush, lush. Thinking about places that are quiet quiet quiet. Thinking about places that are green green green. Feels like Fall, outside, after church. Amelia woke me up in a living room that looked like a library and she was screaming that the air was poison. I was difficult to awaken, because it is my own delusions of poison air that wake me up screaming on other nights. Different from tonight. I was reminding myself of reality. I was reminding myself of delusions and keeping my eyes clenched shut while Amelia screamed. Well, the air wasn’t poison after all, just late night and late august and heavy with mosquitos and dust from renovations and revelations and; we walked back to the cafe. I walked through Washington Square Park at dawn. The doorman wished me good night at seven in the morning and the cycles repeated. It isn’t opposite day and we aren’t in hell, just working on things like bed time and emotional regulation. Working on archiving the things that happen outside of my head. It becomes good to have been an archivist all along. It becomes good to become sick of dealing with things mainly in repetition. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, September 4 From 6pm at Carinito — Saloon is throwing a party. Drinks from Dio. Dancing, DJ, tacos, etc

Inline links: Carinito, Saloon, throwing a party

Juniper Gin1 mentions across 1 issues

Juniper Gin is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 08, 2026 and January 08, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Juniper Gin". It most often appears alongside Abigail Ogilvy Gallery, Abraham Lincoln, Addie.

Article page: Juniper Gin
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 08, 2026
Last seen: January 08, 2026

Outbound links

https://www.instagram.com/p/C8meUUEuMs4/?img_index=1

Issue trail

Lost Week January 08, 2026

Abigail Ogilvy Gallery 1 shared issues
Abraham Lincoln 1 shared issues
Addie 1 shared issues
Adrienne Greenblatt 1 shared issues
Adrienne Hunter 1 shared issues

Source context

January 08, 2026 · Original source

Juniper Gin

Jägermeister1 mentions across 1 issues

Jägermeister is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 03, 2025 and January 03, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "someone on their way to the freezer to replenish the jäger". It most often appears alongside @byrellthegreat, @fysicaltherapy, A Small Fruit Song.

Article page: Jägermeister
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 03, 2025
Last seen: January 03, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

The End Of The Year January 03, 2025

@byrellthegreat 1 shared issues
@fysicaltherapy 1 shared issues
A Small Fruit Song 1 shared issues
Adam Ross 1 shared issues
After Hours 1 shared issues

Source context

The End Of The Year

January 03, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Tuesday, December 30 I struggle with specificities of Resolution - there are things I care about in the new year, but these feel more like seasonal ideals, wrought in the empty clarity of colder months and then you hope, adapting gently and seamlessly as time passes. Health, reverence, the discipline to resist the slop of it all until you cease to desire things of excess and rot in the first place. I return to New York today. I start my New Year today, too. I feel too bogged down by too much to wait. I am trying to feel pure again. I write big letters in my planner - First Week Of The Year. I write in little letters below - I am trying to feel pure again. Back in the city means there's a party and I'm feeling really sick of talking about these things. I'm feeling like a scene as defined as "social circle" is a wonderful thing to have, but a scene as in "microcosm of politics and culture and the malaise and dreams of our times" is something that I shouldn't touch with a ten foot pole. David is telling me about everyone who's going to the party and he's listing off so many names and then he says oh wait it's actually just three people and he says oh they want us to bring beer and then he says do you want to split an uber with some other friends I didn’t know were in town and then I feel like I'm being absolutely ripped off and so I absolutely refuse to attend. Instead, another Party, I trail David to his friend's house. Mostly people I don't know, but I'm feeling pleasant. The boys are playing on a vintage video game console that someone got for free, and I find solitude in the hallway - surprisingly long and isolated for a Chinatown apartment. I pace up and down the hallway like it's a treadmill and I play on my phone. It's kind of dark. I would be an eerie sight walking up and down by myself here, but no one can see me. David tells me later that everyone could hear my thumping footsteps going an and and on. I didn't know this at the time, though. I walk two miles in the hallway. A really weird thing to do, but it's raining outside and the night feels quietly spooky in a way I want to embrace. Now and then someone on their way to the freezer to replenish the jäger crosses my path, but I avoid collision with ease. I'm listening to music that sounds particularly sweet. I want to bunch it all together. I make a list. Winter Dinner, I call it. It's a fittingly cheesy name. A playlist title should sound cheap. These are some songs in a playlist. If someone actually played this at a dinner it would probably be a little bit much. Playlists probably shouldn’t even exist. We should probably only listen to albums. The titles of sloppy curation shouldn’t make sense. Winter Dinner Elliott Smith - Rose Parade

Karen Fleisch Designs1 mentions across 1 issues

Karen Fleisch Designs is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 12, 2025 and September 12, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Karen Fleisch Designs presents an Artist Market & Salon". It most often appears alongside Accidie, Albania, AltCitizen.

Article page: Karen Fleisch Designs
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 12, 2025
Last seen: September 12, 2025
Instagram handle: @karenfleischdesigns

Outbound links

Issue trail

Perfect Little Life September 12, 2025

Accidie 1 shared issues
Albania 1 shared issues
AltCitizen 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
ARDOR 1 shared issues

Source context

September 12, 2025 · Original source

From 3:30pm - 7:30pm at Victoria — Karen Fleisch Designs presents an Artist Market & Salon. Featuring Sunday drink specials, spoken word open mic, and local artists selling their creations.

Inline links: Victoria, Karen Fleisch Designs

Kartik Research1 mentions across 1 issues

Kartik Research is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 09, 2024 and October 09, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Kartik Research pop up at the old Chickee's location". It most often appears alongside 52 Walker, @singersny, Are.na.

Article page: Kartik Research
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 09, 2024
Last seen: October 09, 2024
Instagram handle: @karuresearch

Outbound links

Issue trail

Collected Agenda with Sam Falb October 09, 2024

52 Walker 1 shared issues
@singersny 1 shared issues
Are.na 1 shared issues
Basement 1 shared issues
Behind The Seams 1 shared issues

Source context

October 09, 2024 · Original source

Cod with a garlicky, crunchy crust and a delightful selection of salads follow the morning’s prayers. A worthy treat for the gathered 20-odd family members. My mom loves the gloves. I make it back to the city in time to meet up with Meka, who’s in town from LA for a few days, and we stop with a combined group of friends to the Kartik Research pop up at the old Chickee’s location, which is now Sorbara’s down the street.

Inline links: Meka, Kartik Research, Sorbara’s

Kate Spade1 mentions across 1 issues

Kate Spade is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 25, 2025 and March 25, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "I bought pink Kate Spade ballet flats". It most often appears alongside Albany, Alex Arthur, Anamaria Silic.

Article page: Kate Spade
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 25, 2025
Last seen: March 25, 2025

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

How to Redeem Yourself March 25, 2025

Albany 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues
Anamaria Silic 1 shared issues
Anthology Film Archives 1 shared issues
ArtX 1 shared issues

Source context

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!pGk7!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F121e430b-e68e-404a-8963-27f700eb191f_1286x832.png, presents her new memoir

March 25, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, March 15 When I have a tablespoon of manuka honey with a sprinkle of sea salt before bed, I wake up feeling electric. My whole body is pulsing. It’s like a chemical reaction, almost. Very strange. When I record my letters like it’s a podcast or something, sitting at the marble kitchen table in my empty foggy living room, the recordings process and save like I am somewhere else. A restaurant nearby, maybe. The files label themselves. Finest Goods #1, Finest Goods #2, Finest Goods #9, Finest Goods #12. I do feel quite stupid, doing all of this. I’m sorry to speak like this. I’m sorry to be late or even absent, again. Long Island, Saint Patrick’s Day, my mom and my aunt and my cousins have me for dinner uptown and so I claw myself out of the apartment for this evening occasion. The health stuff is starting to feel more under control, thank god. It was starting to freak me out at the play last night. “There is no physical illness without mental connection, conceptualization, perception,” it was one of those words. Madelyn reminded me. I’m fine, really. I bought cold pressed rosehip oil and I bought multi-peptides + copper peptides. I bought four pints of ice cream to bring to the dinner tonight. I bought pink Kate Spade ballet flats and black Marc Jacobs riding boots and black manolo blahnik ballet flats, too, for soooo cheap vintage, but then when they arrived at my door, within minutes of arriving at my door, someone stole them! I am mostly upset because these things were a real splurge. I am also upset, because these things were one of a kind. Honestly, I am less upset about the one of a kind part. I am not too precious when it comes to things of fashion. The play last night was great. Matthew Gasda’s Uncle Vanya on Huron Street. Uncle Vanya at ArtX, because the water on Huron Street was shut off for the week. Admittedly, I never saw Uncle Vanya at The Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research in its original run, but I was glad to see it in this bigger space, here - the insularity and the claustrophobia and the suffocating sense of everybody speaking and nobody being heard given ever-so-slightly more air in this room of high ceilings than in a living room loft. November - I was in a too small airbnb outside Albany New York and I almost punched a hole in the glass window. There was too much gray sleet, and no escape. I did not break the window, but I was somewhat awestruck by the potential for violence elicited by even the early aughts of claustrophobia. Which is to say, this is a bit of how I felt while watching Vanya. Dimes Square was insular, but the characters kind of love it. Vanya is insular, and there is literally no escape. What happens when you cannot leave, when there is nowhere to go, when the path lays itself bare at your feet and the options are bleak? It is not a hopeful story, though not nihilistic really, either. George Olesky is brilliant as The Doctor, Bob Laine as a kind of hapless Vanya, Asli Mumtas as the beautiful and listless Yelena, Mia Vallet as Sonya, half bursting with youthful vigor and potential, and then veering into a nearly manic and finally resigned pitch, as it becomes clear there will be no actualization. No salvation, either. I have thought before that desperation reeks, but this play suggests instead, that it festers. The characters who can leave, do. Those who must stay, are forced to find something else. What that something is remains a bit ambiguous. Integrity, perhaps. Hope in death and in God. Monday, March 16 I entered into all this fugue state psychosis yesterday. The guy my friends ran into at the bar yesterday entered into all this unrequited love psychosis. People can be so evil. That’s the last thing I texted my boyfriend before I basically blacked out on Saturday: people can be so evil. In my glass house, it was pouring pouring pouring rain last night. I felt so nostalgic for that apartment last night, even as it still remains mine, now. I felt like I could suddenly remember what it was for this apartment to be all new. There was no clutter last June. There was a sudden arrival in a place that was suddenly mine. It was freshly cleaned and there was all this space, it was like infinity it was like, all this light, oh my god, all this air and light and space, this will never get old. My mother says that about the fields behind the house sometimes: I moved in and I wondered if it would ever get old and it never did, she says. But she’s been there twenty-five years. humid summer air and thrifted propped up fans still blowing hot air through the white wood corridors on august mornings. I’ve been here nine months and I am already starting to stagnate. Which I guess is to say: I’m spoiled or, maybe I’m boring. Last night, I was nothing but happy. Tuesday, March 17 How to redeem yourself? Wednesday, March 18 Places this week: Cafe Reggio, The Public Library, Elizabeth Street Garden, Lucien for drinks, Fanelli Cafe for dinner. My roof every morning and night because it is spring now. Spring again. Spring at last. Thursday, March 19 And something gives in a permanent way. New practices, new routines, you cannot continue like this, and so you wake up one day and you don't. There has been a lot that has been beautiful and then, there has been me taking myself out of all this beauty. And you don't become so didactic and harsh and full empty promises. You just give yourself some willpower and then you give yourself some peace. I'm feeling really really really really annoyed on the plane to El Salvador. I'm sorry. This part isn't supposed to be in the story. I will tell you the real story, soon. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, March 25 From 6:30pm at McNally Jackson Seaport — Jamie Hood presents her new memoir Trauma Plot, in conversation with Rayne Risher-Quann.

KHRISJOY1 mentions across 1 issues

KHRISJOY is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 23, 2025 and January 23, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "KHRISJOY, it says, in big red dripping letters. Spray paint imitation... $2145 online". It most often appears alongside 4 Berry Street, 61 Lispenard, A Room of One's Own.

Article page: KHRISJOY
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 23, 2025
Last seen: January 23, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

Burn my diaries January 23, 2025

4 Berry Street 1 shared issues
61 Lispenard 1 shared issues
A Room of One's Own 1 shared issues
A Silent Woman 1 shared issues
Ada Antoinette 1 shared issues

Source context

January 23, 2025 · Original source

The chalky pavement has turned to ice in the afternoon. Walking under the Washington Square arch on the way to Tibet House and its icier than ever. The ground is all glazed over. It’s the latest installment of the Arden Wohl’s reading series at Tibet House; Inauguration Edition this time. Madelyn is wearing a pink sweatshirt when I get there. Madelyn is telling me about knowing your own mind. Alex Auder reads about cock sucking and brings up a friend to read with her who enjoys the act, because she doesn't "I feel demeaned when I suck dick. I feel demeaned when I teach yoga," she says. She reads a story about a life in servitude to someone famous who reminds her of Donald Trump. Tonight is a night where as soon as I have one glass of wine, I wish I didn’t. The haze sets in, and I want it to clear. Beckett arrives. The readings are mostly good, but I’m jittery. I sit in the lobby and I eat some grapes and cheese, replace the wine with water. “Over the years I noticed from my overlord that peasants were increasingly behaving like they were nobles,” Alex Auder is saying, when I return. “There are more cameras than there are people in the world,” Gideon Jacobs is reading, later. I can’t stop drifting in and out of the room. I’m worried about some things, about some people. I get like this sometimes, and I wish I could get it to stop. I go to the bathroom and I return again, to a reading about Courtney Love. “She used to do water ballet and she was getting into the grateful dead.” “She lied a lot and never listened directly but she was a sponge - she takes a word from an incidental periphery and works it into her trope in real time. She’s that fast.” “She said she was born on my birthday; July 1st, but she was born a week later; July 8th” This is my type of lie, I’m thinking. A lie to please. False enchantment. It’s a juvenile compulsion, you mostly outgrow it, and if it was Courtney Love partaking then perhaps it was charming, but my visceral reaction is one of repulsion. Lizzi Bougatsos reads about Gary Indiana. She sits on the floor and she clips her toenails. “We shall mark memory with reverence,” Arden is saying. Beckett is telling me that it’s cool to be at a reading that’s an older crowd, and it is, it’s wine and cheese, there’s no disco party to follow. Beckett introduces me to his acquaintance from Paris. They are talking about Godot and prison sentences. Samuel Beckett gave his Nobel Prize money to a jail org, or was it prisone.org One time, there was a prison break after a performance of Godot. Madelyn is making tape formations on her phone with the other Lacanians. Lacan as separated from psychoanalysis. Lacan as applicable to real life. I’m just gleaning sentences. These ideas aren’t mine. Cigarette outside and then a burger at the orthodox Jewish establishment nearby. We forgot they can only do vegan cheese on burgers here. A lychee martini instead. They’re playing pop music so loud Wednesday, January 23 I hear my neighbors door shut as I’m poised to leave this morning. Decide, instead, to hover in the kitchen. We don't really like each other, my neighbor and I. Nothing was ever said, but there’s an underlying hostility. I have friends over too late, too often. The walls are thin. I'm glad to be waking up at the same time as the rest of the world, though. Sometimes - up all night, becoming manic around five am, this can be nice, but it's usually not. Normal hours. Normal cycles of day and night. The ice has come and smoothed everything over. Too cold to listen to music on my walk to school. I'm peeling off layers in an office, at the gym, the hallway of our apartment is becoming salty and dusted with the chalky snowstorm residue that first coated the surface of everything, and that now is starting to settle. Nothing is volatile. Such placidity, suddenly, but I’m not bored. All the calm in the world. Thank god. It really was about time. And so, you eat two chalky protein pop tarts on the bench at the gym. There are two girls with thick french accents in the locker room parallel to you. "He's a fucking retard, he only calls me at three am and it's only because he wants to sleep with my friends," says one of the girls. She's wearing a sherpa jacket. KHRISJOY, it says, in big red dripping letters. Spray paint imitation. You look it up - $2145 online. It's so ugly, but you're vaguely impressed. Of course you are. You're wearing a Versace sports bra that you bought for a music festival in high school. Absurd. The people watching here is good. The girl is still talking. She's so furious. "And he would be calling to sleep with me, but he knows he can't, fucking retard," she is saying. This version of the narration makes more sense - her rage rooted in something adjacent to jealousy. You gather your things. You gather your tote bags. It's too cold for so many bags. Your hands get numb out there. You're in a humid basement now, but you can't stay here forever. There's an artists talk tonight, but do you have it in you to attend? Cheese and sausage for dinner at home. I forgot about the dishes and I left the sink running for an hour. I’ve never known how to dress for the weather, but that doesn’t mean I mind the extremes. Today - my mother’s gloves, a borrowed Urbit hat from David, a beanie really, it looks insane but it’s too freezing for me to mind. More isn’t always more. More is often so, intolerably, annoying. I don’t want to wear a coat. My books arrive today. Mostly for school, plus one Ruby recommended. I’ll read them all - I’m glad that I have reason to. Salvador - Joan Didion The Company She Keeps - Mary McCarthy The Fire Next Time - James Baldwin Confessions - Saint Augustine The Situation and the Story - Vivian Gornic A Room of One’s Own - Virginia Woolf A Silent Woman - Janet Malcom Are You My Mother - Alison Bechdel The Argonauts - Maggie Nelson The Atrocity Exhibition - J. G. Ballard WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, January 23 From 6pm - 8pm at 61 Lispenard — Canada NY and Eighth House present Rest and Reprieve: A Window into Creative Solitude. Eighth House is “an interdisciplinary residency for artists and curators located in Central Vermont.” The exhibition serves as a benefit for this very special residency.

Inline links: Tibet House, Alex Auder, Gideon Jacobs, Lizzi Bougatsos, Arden, KHRISJOY, Salvador -, The Company She Keeps, The Fire Next Time, Confessions, The Situation and the Story, A Room of One’s Own, A Silent Woman, Are You My Mother, The Argonauts, The Atrocity Exhibition, Canada NY, Eighth House, Rest and Reprieve: A Window into Creative Solitude.

Krabby Patties1 mentions across 1 issues

Krabby Patties is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between May 21, 2025 and May 21, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "krabby patties gummy candies". It most often appears alongside 99 Scott, Al Warren, Amelia Ritthaler.

Article page: Krabby Patties
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: May 21, 2025
Last seen: May 21, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Total Nightmare Policy May 21, 2025

99 Scott 1 shared issues
Al Warren 1 shared issues
Amelia Ritthaler 1 shared issues
Anne Lesley Selcer 1 shared issues
Ayede 1 shared issues

Source context

May 21, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, May 12 At the Holiday Inn, there are Yakisoda noodles and banana cream pie snack pack jellos and krabby patties gummy candies and lances cream cheese and onion dip crackers. All the most disgusting snacks imaginable, and kind of perverted, too. I’m so particular and annoying with my sleeping issues that I always find myself at depressing hotels, even when there is a wonderful home down the road where I am welcome. I need a Big Bed and Isolation. I need Temperature Control. As a child, I liked things such as camping in birch forests and cramped little stone cottages in some village where my parents would find someone on the Internet to swap houses with. Unfortunately, I grew up into someone with severe and undiagnosable sleep disorders, and a taste for adventure that is rooted more in hedonism and less in fresh air. I feel really full and sleepy heading back to New York. Well, things are better than they were. Total nightmare policy. Total, blow up your life brother, policy. I was so addicted to writing in my google docs journal this weekend and now I have a lot of annoying slop to show for it. I call my dad in the sun outside the Starbucks in a Strip Mall. Stop thinking about things in such eternal terms, they tell me. You wouldn’t get in a car crash and say When Can I Go 100 Again, they remind me. Fiction, again - they are talking about somebody else. The idea of compromise no longer makes your blood boil. It’s an unsavory trait that it ever did in the first place. "The other alternative is that I just become a nightmare and you become perfect," I told him. "That is certainly an alternative," he told me. It is 11:30pm, and I am thinking about getting a job. I am thinking about the Current Body Red Light Mask and the Ayede heels from ssense.com. "What if I hadn’t simply crashed out," he said. "There would have been pros and cons to that," I said. There is a fire alarm and mauve curtains and two weird arched doorways because we booked a suite and so the architecture suggests some simulacra of something vaguely Roman. Marble. Plaster cut to look like marble. I go to buy water and they have turned off the creepy lights at the creepy pool. Tuesday, May 13 I was feeling really terrified, if I’m being honest about it. I was sitting on the sidewalk picking at my nails and drinking hot coffee in the hot sun, eight splenda, curdled almond milk. I was voicing concerns in a high pitched voice and I was losing track of the distinguishment between ideas imagined and conversations regurgitated. God forbid I have an original thought of my own - that part wasn't even on the table. It isn’t so dark and depressing anymore. Walk in the rain and everything is so green here. I’ll be back in the city tonight and there are better omens in the astrology these days around things like planes, the return, glass apartments in the sky. He leaves my keys on the bedside table at the hotel, and he’s still asleep when I pack up my things and leave to eat black coffee, turkey deli meat, garlic aioli, marcona almonds. We drive to his parent’s house and he gives me drumstick vanilla ice cream. Working on this laptop, surrounded by all this green. You know that every time you hit this vape it coats your lungs in sweet thick paste, I am telling him, as I hit his vape. The last time I wrote about hitting a vape I received an infuriating pseudo intellectual email about the verbiage "hit" as suggesting a sado-masochistic impulse in our digital age. "I wonder if soon, you'll be saying you 'Beat' or 'Pummeled' your vape?" the idiot email writer wrote. The email made me so mad. You're so stupid, I wanted to write back. We go for a walk in the bright green forest. There is a sweetness here. A coming-back-into-control that makes the out-of-control-ness feel so distant. Escape from Evil and two days later you mistake reprieve for salvation. Unless, you are not mistaken. It really could be that simple. What was it they were saying on The Internet? Break The Pattern Today Or The Loop Will Repeat Tomorrow. What was it I've been saying online? Edit Artificial Intelligence robot voice over text to speech words - "Taking My Party Boy Boyfriend On A Walking Tour Of The Cotswolds." I clarify that I've been defending his honor. We're crushing up the plastic water cups, and the hill is steep up the road. I clarify that there are people of extremes. It was very bad, but now it is very good, I am texting my mother. Honestly, I'm so sick of clarifying anything at all. You're a little more sober with it. You're a little more gentle about it. It transformed in two days. Imagine two weeks. Imagine a year. Imagine rushing even one second. I can control my consciousness. Though, it isn't my consciousness, really, that I've been concerned about. I'm glad we share a frame of mind. This plane is basically empty. Wednesday, May 14 We went to KGB late last night. Thursday, May 15 The woman who does yoga on her fire escape is out there with a cigarette, today. I’m not in a bad mood today. The apartment is a mess and I am concerned about my past. Things become steady, and then even bright. Friday, May 16 Well, I didn't write because I have been busy in real life. I've been imagining an identity rooted in delusions in the secret diary that stays offline. It is not so delusional. I am feeling so sincere. Rebecca is here. My sister is here. We went to KGB Bar and Fanelli Cafe and Funny Bar where we met a Gagosian guy turned AI guy, which I guess has kind of been my career arch too though I am not so pleased about that direction. We went to the party at Bowery where the waiter from Fanelli Cafe was the DJ and I had two vodka sodas then soda water with lime which might be all I do soon, though I keep on having all these cyclical conversations with myself about these things - consumption and gluttony - and there is little that more dull, so I will not bring it up again. I went to the sleep specialist and she giggled when I said I don't scream in my sleep if I am in the company of strangers. That's different but great, she said. Do I control my subconscious, I said. Stupid idiot, she said. I did actually go to all these parties, and I did call him from the bathroom. He'll be back in New York soon, making film and code and learning banjo. It's way better than the alternative, and I do feel very proud this week which is something I have not been able to say in a good long while. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, May 21 From 7pm - 8:30pm at The Flea Theater (20 Thomas St) — I’ll be seeing Revolution: The Play. Sophia Englesberg is associate producer, and everything she touches is wonderful. Written and produced by Brett Neveu, directed by Rebecca Harris. The theater is next to The Odeon, so you can get my favorite martini before or after the show. - “Who celebrates their 26th birthday in the alley outside of her hairdressing place o’ work? Revolution interrogates and celebrates the very nature of creating community and building friendships in our ever-evolving, ever disconnecting world.”

Inline links: Revolution: The Play, Sophia Englesberg, The Odeon

LA Apparel1 mentions across 1 issues

LA Apparel is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between June 09, 2025 and June 09, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "the guy on my boyfriend's phone intercom is stealing all my LA Apparel underwear". It most often appears alongside A Court of Thorns and Roses, Allie Rowbottom, Amnesiascope.

Article page: LA Apparel
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: June 09, 2025
Last seen: June 09, 2025

Issue trail

A supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again June 09, 2025

A Court of Thorns and Roses 1 shared issues
Allie Rowbottom 1 shared issues
Amnesiascope 1 shared issues
Aperol 1 shared issues
Apt 5 1 shared issues

Source context

June 09, 2025 · Original source

Sunday, June 1 The flight back from Miami is gray and swift. I spent the evening on the rooftop at The Betsy yesterday. Iris asked me for the list of my favorite foods. Octopus, apples, apple pie, lamb chops with mint jelly, creamed spinach, a certain type of barbeque salmon, a whole roast chicken. The concrete by the pool bar was hot and steamy and we didn’t bring identification and we would not be served. David bought us bloody marys and we drank them behind the tarp where the bartenders couldn’t see. I swam laps up and down and up and down the length of this pool that was mostly for drinking. I found Chanel sunglasses while standing barefoot in the bathroom and I returned them to the French girl. It’s like I’ve been immune to the permanence of ramifications of the things that are really bad, these days. I keep forgiving and I keep on being forgiven. They gave me free Pina Colada samples in little plastic cups. Ok Intense Girl, he was saying, because every time I would pop my head out of the water to say the things I thought, it would be with beady eyes and a determined stare. I like ice cream particularly matcha ice cream and I like lamb, Iris told me. Iris taught me about Gnosticism, and I believe this is somewhat aligned with the situation with me and him, though he thinks it's kind of sacrilegious when I equate my nightmares with mysticism, or when I attribute the interest that people who are kind of half of this world and half of another take in me to anything other than high agreeability and openness. Iris and I walked along Ocean Drive to Kalamata way down South Beach, and then we walked back along the water. A writing retreat, a rave, apocalyptic undertones. You can’t choose solitude and practicality at the edge of an extinction event, is one of many roots of it. I walked barefoot along the boardwalk. I met him for a second dinner. The ribeye was bloody and it came with a gross side of pasta alfredo. I woke up screaming. I woke up all smiles. I took photos of our hands on the plane Just In Case. I showed him a song. The Message. Is this a good song, or is this a secret message, he asked. It’s just a good song, I said. The frat guys in front of us on the plane are reading A Court of Thorns and Roses smut novels and buying tickets to Jake Shane's comedy tour. The guy on my boyfriend's phone intercom is stealing all my LA Apparel underwear from our lobby. I'm eating the Worst Sandwich Ever and Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. I am taking pictures of our reflections in the clouded plane window and I am thinking about how impossible it feels right now, flying like this, to imagine that so often, we become something else. Monday, June 2 I read some GirlInsides on the airtrain back from JFK who I think is just like me if I were more honest and precise about it, or maybe whom my stories would echo more precisely if I did not have this sick need to put my face all over everything. Anyways, GirlInsides was talking about how summer would bring things like long long long hair and farmers market plums eaten over the sink in underwear and writing and reading all over the place, and her ideas made me feel like I was melting and going to cry. Then I wrote what I wanted summer to bring, all - getting off the subway because it's too hot and walking in sandals sticking to my feet until i find somewhere that glows right and then its morning and we're sitting first then lying down on the terrace in sun that becomes unbearable drinking sparkling water out of glass bottles dripping it over my chest opening the door for the blast of air conditioning and to let the friends that come by in and out people floating by in and out and come and go and then at dusk i put on something green and i drink cold cider cold diet coke or spicy watermelon margarita outside at kikis in swan room away from the heat at vol de nuit with fries and garlic sauce on the roof, on my roof, in the backyards and basements and i walk out and walk everywhere when it is time to leave i leave and sometimes it is time to leave and so then I take the train and there’s the coast and then I’m putting laundry on the line in a black bikini and drinking diet coke with lemon in my black bikini and driving to the ocean down the driveway at night headlights breaking through june gloom fog and jumping off the dock where the sharks don't eat us but any summer now they could, or then it's morning and i'm sober writing in my google docs journal walking outside, writing in my greenhouse apartment in new york, writing along the overgrown pond and field and it always smells thicker there outside of boston, writing by foggy shores and rocky shores and sometimes the air becomes thick too and my dad plays dougie mclain and we make pesto pasta mozzarella chicken sausage in yellow china bowls on yellow placemats the meal gets kind of hazy through the sheen of blue hour rain coming through the window and then i'm pacing and writing down ocean drive in Miami because I can't decide where i want to be anymore and i like flashing lights i like coming back to the very nice very cold hotel that we're staying in because he's Sorry but I don't want any more apologies i want this summer to be Being very very very in love because i really have been anticipating extinction events or at least things become robotic sterile i used to think id be pretty good at both being in love like this and at not being robotic and sterile and i have become slightly above average at both these things in practice i guess though, it's nice to have the most human thing in the world, it's nice for me all the time, even then, even when it isn't for him i think it's nicer for me then it would be to not have this all the time and I don't know why i keep sabotaging the only thing i know to be true and human and so i am hoping for a summer of all that, hands pressed against the plane window greenhouse window train window glass mirror glassy water plunging my face underwater no more eb and flow. Anyways, none of that made any sense and then shock of all shocks it did eb and flow again last night. Everyone was so nice to me about my story and I wore the Nasseau, Bahamas shirt he bought for me all Life Is Better In FlipFlops and he wanted me to wear the sunglasses too, to exacerbate the bit but I thought that would be a little bit too far. He said “you know why I’m mad at you” when we got home, and I didn’t know, I had no idea actually, and so then I got sad, but the story was fiction. This is fiction too. I’m not being facetious when I say that. This isn’t even autofiction. This is literally all made up. “they seem lost and completely clueless,” he is saying now, downstairs, on the phone, he is talking about some forty year old woman and an awful charleton and some guy who does RedPill posting online and some guy he personally has a strong dislike for who has a lot of medical malpractice suits against him. Maybe he’s a genius, he is saying. I don’t know, he is saying. These people are so strange, he is saying. Tuesday, June 3 His friend rubs my head like i'm a dog or something when i walk into his stupid fake exclusive evil party that i'm not invited to and then my heart swells with rage. I'm so mad, I was telling everyone. I'm so sorry I didn't mean to say that I guess I had one too many, I was saying. I didn't have one too many, I had just right, I was telling him. I like The Sweet East, he is telling me. I like Yeats and social norms. Yes and, I say; I hope that you get everything you have ever wanted. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, June 9 A quiet night in the realm of events. Consider; dinner at The Marlton’s new restaurant Chez Nous followed by a screening of Buffalo 66 at Metrograph (10pm). I have historically liked The Marlton because it is vaguely past its prime and also a five minute walk from my apartment, and a place where no one ever tells you that you’ve stayed too long. The food at the old restaurant was terrible (so I’ve heard) (I only went for tea), but the recently refurbished Chez Nous is chic and fun and has maintained all of the hotel's original charm. The shrimp salad is very good, as is the martini. I’ll report back after my second visit (possibly tonight). Otherwise - 10pm on a Monday evening is the perfect time to see a film bar none, besides, possibly 1pm on a Friday.

La Pucelle1 mentions across 1 issues

La Pucelle is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 10, 2024 and September 10, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Elena Velez debuts her La Pucelle collection". It most often appears alongside Anika Levy, Annabel Boardman, Antiart.

Article page: La Pucelle
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 10, 2024
Last seen: September 10, 2024

Outbound links

https://wwd.com/fashion-news/shows-reviews/gallery/elena-velez-spring-2025-ready-to-wear-1236600838/

Issue trail

Statues Of Critics. September 10, 2024

Anika Levy 1 shared issues
Annabel Boardman 1 shared issues
Antiart 1 shared issues
Artnet 1 shared issues
August Lamm 1 shared issues

Source context

September 10, 2024 · Original source

Today, Tuesday, September 10 at 6pm — Elena Velez debuts her La Pucelle collection with her SS’25 Runway Show. Dirty Thirty After Party to follow at the Club Room at the SoHo Grand in celebration of the collection and Elena’s birthday. There will be a special performance by Doechii with sets from Chopstix and Orson.

Inline links: Elena Velez, Club Room at the SoHo Grand, Doechii, Chopstix, Orson

LaBucq1 mentions across 1 issues

LaBucq is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 21, 2024 and September 21, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "LaBucq heels, white socks". It most often appears alongside $EGIRL Zine, 10cust, Adeline Swartzendruber.

Article page: LaBucq
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 21, 2024
Last seen: September 21, 2024
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

I wish I had more to say about fashion week. September 21, 2024

$EGIRL Zine 1 shared issues
10cust 1 shared issues
Adeline Swartzendruber 1 shared issues
Alexa Chung 1 shared issues
Alirqq 1 shared issues

Source context

September 21, 2024 · Original source

I go to Denmark first tonight. It’s the first play I’ve seen at The Brooklyn Center for Theater Research, although I took a writing class with Betsey Brown there this summer that I loved.

Inline links: Denmark, The Brooklyn Center for Theater Research, B

I wear a black suede skirt to the Elena Velez show, a Forte Forte blouse that would have looked cooler untucked but I didn’t want to look wide, LaBucq heels, white socks, I often worry that everything I own is awful. I see Shannon in line at the show looking chic and a tiktokker known for almost unwatchable parody videos doing street interviews ahead of her. There’s the Hallowed Sons biker game revving engines loudly on the sidewalk, but when I remark at their rudeness, I am told that they are there for the show, part of the spectacle, obviously. Later, I see them inside. I’m not a fashion critic. I’m not really a critic at all. I feel earnestly, simply happy to be here. The show is on the seventh floor of an office building, an industrial space, lots of light, only two rows of seating down a long runway and an apocalyptic techno-adjacent soundtrack that, in a very pared down sense, works.

Inline links: Elena Velez, Forte Forte, LaBucq, Shannon, Hallowed Sons

Lafayette1 mentions across 1 issues

Lafayette is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 15, 2026 and February 15, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Lafayette striped cream sweater". It most often appears alongside Abe Shapiro, Aidan Lapoche, Alan Parker.

Article page: Lafayette
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 15, 2026
Last seen: February 15, 2026

Outbound links

Issue trail

Yellow-all-around February 15, 2026

Abe Shapiro 1 shared issues
Aidan Lapoche 1 shared issues
Alan Parker 1 shared issues
Allen Parker 1 shared issues
Amazon 1 shared issues

Source context

February 15, 2026 · Original source

Feeling like I am kind of on a leash Sunday, February 8 Now, I am in my room and I am feeling ok. I am lying under my big white comforter in a green cashmere sweater, black Amazon tights, tennis skirt, nothing is messy anymore. After today’s reading group, where the discussion was about Virtue and Vice, Cassandra and Olivia and some others and I walked over to Washington Square Diner. I used to frequent Washington Square Diner at night, but in the day everything was brighter and I liked it better this way. I ordered black coffee and lemon tea and was happy with this choice, as no one seemed particularly pleased with the sandwiches that they kept on trotting out. Dry chicken, huge bread. I’m a snob, I’m a snob, Olivia kept saying. Sorry, she was saying. Sorry but I just feel really fucking bored. I added splenda to my water kind of indignantly, and stirred it around feeling strange. Olivia was talking about how it’s fine to eat anything if you’re on a desert island. It’s fine to eat bacon if the desert island is the prison-of-your mind and it’s the-only-food-you-like. Cassandra was talking about how none of her friends were getting married anytime soon, and so perhaps she’d have to conjure up a wedding of her own. Yeah, sorry, I was saying. Why sorry? Cassandra asked. There was way too much food on the table, and I think that this was the part that was throwing off everybody’s vibe. There was a new Cool Sips soda shop where Pepsi is mixed with heavy cream in town, and so after lunch, there was talk of maybe we go. Maybe we go drink heavy cream and diet Pepsi. Maybe we go weightlifting. Maybe we buy cottage cheese which is calories-per-pound-per-protein-per - I never really understood these things - better than chicken. Maybe we all go home. Whilst talking about protein in ground beef and also cottage cheese and also high cholesterol versus heavy metals, Olivia reminded us that the number one health factor is joy. At home, I am sitting on the edge of my bed in a black skirt and Lafayette striped cream sweater and brown snow and salt stained Prada boots. Thinking about self fulfilling prophecies. I will not drink and I will not look particularly pretty and I will not be socially offputting and strange. I don’t need to share every word of my google doc diaries. Twenty-five-thousand words written this week in google doc diaries because I just can’t cut myself off. Real-life-diaries. Real-life-compulsions. Fake-life-blog, maybe. In the afternoon, I walk over to a kind of industrial style Japanese coffee shop to meet Lily for tea. I am wearing a thin spring coat, no gloves, and the wind chill is negative-fifteen. My face is sort of swollen as a product of bad habits, but I am hoping to blame expedited deterioration on wind burn. I run into my priest walking quickly, somewhere around West 4th. Are you crying, my priest shouts in my direction. Just cold, I say in response. I walk for twelve more minutes, and when I reach the Japanese Coffee shop, my hands are burning and there are tears streaming down my face. A product of the cold, no-emotion, I tell Lily. The coffee shop is lined with narrow benches, and Lily lets me occupy the one-free-seat because it is clear that I am feeling fragile. She hovers above me holding silver trays, pistachio milk, black coffee, chocolate chip cookies. I feel like maybe I shouldn’t move to Los Angeles, she sighs, when I finish telling her my week of whirling hotel stories. I feel like in Los Angeles, everyone pretends that they don’t care about nice things. I drink my coffee in a few big sips, and I am feeling better at talking than listening. Did you write anything down about the people my party last week, Lily asks me. I nod, and pull up my notes. Most of my friends call girls ‘girls’ I say, The people at the party called ‘girls’ ‘women.‘ Lily smiles. It’s a posture just the same. At night, at the Superbowl party, in an apartment where the walls were recently washed a sort of deep-cloud blue, and the drinks are made with vodka and coconut water and grapefruit juice and on the side, some champagne, I arrive late. I’ve been making the drinks kind of strong, which I know you like, Savannah says. The advertisements this year are all made by Artificial Intelligence. The only advertisement not visibly made by Artificial Intelligence in an anti-hate ad wherein an antisemitic attack is covered up by a blue square, and two students walk off screen in redeemed solidarity. When this advertisement begins to play, Matt suggests that we all shut up. Everyone watch the ad, he says. The advertisement finishes, and then all the boys’ phones begin to buzz. Did you just see the ad, all the boys’ friends are asking the boys. They are all really into things like hot-ticket-cultural-discourse. What did you do last night? Matt asks me, later after everyone is already all a little drunk, and I am curled up on the couch, eating pistachios, staring at the screen. I hung out with my new friends, I tell Matt. I am feeling triumphant, and a little bit sad. Who are your new friends? Matt asks. Very nice and very promising people, I tell Matt. Don’t tell anyone that I’m making new friends, I tell Matt. I won’t, Matt responds. I won’t, because it doesn’t sound like you are. Later, trying to leave, and everyone is stuck. I think your taxi is blocking mine, Matt texts. I think a cop car is blocking me. Everyone is trying to honk louder than the car before. I was playing tetris in the snow and now we’re playing tetris at the wheel. Tetris on Houston street. My taxi makes a fake-out breakaway left and I speed away. Writing everything down in my apartment, back home. My moods are very predictable. I write about systems. I’m telling my computer that it’s never really about me. Watch how the patterns repeat. Could a human girl be so good at cycles? I’m telling my computer that I’m the best human girl at cycles. I’m the best at downward spirals. I’m the best at it’s happening over and over and over again. I’m not an evil genius. Writing like I’m top-of-class (fifth grade). Writing like I’m queen of staying up late. Window is closed tonight because outside it is just too cold. Drinking Perrier not Evian because I have ambitions of aesthetic cohesion. Dream logic. Magic logic. I am too tired to miss anything, and I am too caught up in self-surveillance to be really running on anything other than vibes. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Sunday, February 15 From 8pm at Night Club 101 — Punisher returns with a post Valentine’s Day debrief. Readings by Megsuperstarprincess, Riley Mac, Nicole Sellew, Francesca D’Alessandro, Dove Ginsburg, and Ava Doorley. Party to follow with The Heaven Forever. Mélange á seven. | RSVP here.

Inline links: Night Club 101, Punisher, The Heaven Forever, here

Laila1 mentions across 1 issues

Laila is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 17, 2025 and February 17, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Sponsored by Loser's and Laila". It most often appears alongside A/Political, Actors, Alana Markel.

Article page: Laila
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 17, 2025
Last seen: February 17, 2025

Issue trail

My lame blog February 17, 2025

Political 1 shared issues
Actors 1 shared issues
Alana Markel 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues
Amtrak 1 shared issues

Source context

My lame blog

February 17, 2025 · Original source

From 8pm (doors at 7pm) at Jean’s — The Thing Is… returns. This is the most talked about show in town, and it's a really good lineup tonight, ft Caroline Calloway, Rachel Coster, Jay Jurden, Luke Rathborne, and Ivy Wolk. A limited number of premium VIP tickets can be purchased to guarantee entry here. Hosted by Alex Arthur and produced by John Doe & Co. Sponsored by Loser's and Laila. Love is in the air these weeks, and it seems like every party has a sex / love adjacent sponsor. I tend to think the last thing we need is more dating apps, but I love real life, I love TheThingIs, and I love Jeans.

Inline links: Jean’s, The Thing Is, here

Lance's1 mentions across 1 issues

Lance's is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between May 21, 2025 and May 21, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "lances cream cheese and onion dip crackers". It most often appears alongside 99 Scott, Al Warren, Amelia Ritthaler.

Article page: Lance's
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: May 21, 2025
Last seen: May 21, 2025

Issue trail

Total Nightmare Policy May 21, 2025

99 Scott 1 shared issues
Al Warren 1 shared issues
Amelia Ritthaler 1 shared issues
Anne Lesley Selcer 1 shared issues
Ayede 1 shared issues

Source context

May 21, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, May 12 At the Holiday Inn, there are Yakisoda noodles and banana cream pie snack pack jellos and krabby patties gummy candies and lances cream cheese and onion dip crackers. All the most disgusting snacks imaginable, and kind of perverted, too. I’m so particular and annoying with my sleeping issues that I always find myself at depressing hotels, even when there is a wonderful home down the road where I am welcome. I need a Big Bed and Isolation. I need Temperature Control. As a child, I liked things such as camping in birch forests and cramped little stone cottages in some village where my parents would find someone on the Internet to swap houses with. Unfortunately, I grew up into someone with severe and undiagnosable sleep disorders, and a taste for adventure that is rooted more in hedonism and less in fresh air. I feel really full and sleepy heading back to New York. Well, things are better than they were. Total nightmare policy. Total, blow up your life brother, policy. I was so addicted to writing in my google docs journal this weekend and now I have a lot of annoying slop to show for it. I call my dad in the sun outside the Starbucks in a Strip Mall. Stop thinking about things in such eternal terms, they tell me. You wouldn’t get in a car crash and say When Can I Go 100 Again, they remind me. Fiction, again - they are talking about somebody else. The idea of compromise no longer makes your blood boil. It’s an unsavory trait that it ever did in the first place. "The other alternative is that I just become a nightmare and you become perfect," I told him. "That is certainly an alternative," he told me. It is 11:30pm, and I am thinking about getting a job. I am thinking about the Current Body Red Light Mask and the Ayede heels from ssense.com. "What if I hadn’t simply crashed out," he said. "There would have been pros and cons to that," I said. There is a fire alarm and mauve curtains and two weird arched doorways because we booked a suite and so the architecture suggests some simulacra of something vaguely Roman. Marble. Plaster cut to look like marble. I go to buy water and they have turned off the creepy lights at the creepy pool. Tuesday, May 13 I was feeling really terrified, if I’m being honest about it. I was sitting on the sidewalk picking at my nails and drinking hot coffee in the hot sun, eight splenda, curdled almond milk. I was voicing concerns in a high pitched voice and I was losing track of the distinguishment between ideas imagined and conversations regurgitated. God forbid I have an original thought of my own - that part wasn't even on the table. It isn’t so dark and depressing anymore. Walk in the rain and everything is so green here. I’ll be back in the city tonight and there are better omens in the astrology these days around things like planes, the return, glass apartments in the sky. He leaves my keys on the bedside table at the hotel, and he’s still asleep when I pack up my things and leave to eat black coffee, turkey deli meat, garlic aioli, marcona almonds. We drive to his parent’s house and he gives me drumstick vanilla ice cream. Working on this laptop, surrounded by all this green. You know that every time you hit this vape it coats your lungs in sweet thick paste, I am telling him, as I hit his vape. The last time I wrote about hitting a vape I received an infuriating pseudo intellectual email about the verbiage "hit" as suggesting a sado-masochistic impulse in our digital age. "I wonder if soon, you'll be saying you 'Beat' or 'Pummeled' your vape?" the idiot email writer wrote. The email made me so mad. You're so stupid, I wanted to write back. We go for a walk in the bright green forest. There is a sweetness here. A coming-back-into-control that makes the out-of-control-ness feel so distant. Escape from Evil and two days later you mistake reprieve for salvation. Unless, you are not mistaken. It really could be that simple. What was it they were saying on The Internet? Break The Pattern Today Or The Loop Will Repeat Tomorrow. What was it I've been saying online? Edit Artificial Intelligence robot voice over text to speech words - "Taking My Party Boy Boyfriend On A Walking Tour Of The Cotswolds." I clarify that I've been defending his honor. We're crushing up the plastic water cups, and the hill is steep up the road. I clarify that there are people of extremes. It was very bad, but now it is very good, I am texting my mother. Honestly, I'm so sick of clarifying anything at all. You're a little more sober with it. You're a little more gentle about it. It transformed in two days. Imagine two weeks. Imagine a year. Imagine rushing even one second. I can control my consciousness. Though, it isn't my consciousness, really, that I've been concerned about. I'm glad we share a frame of mind. This plane is basically empty. Wednesday, May 14 We went to KGB late last night. Thursday, May 15 The woman who does yoga on her fire escape is out there with a cigarette, today. I’m not in a bad mood today. The apartment is a mess and I am concerned about my past. Things become steady, and then even bright. Friday, May 16 Well, I didn't write because I have been busy in real life. I've been imagining an identity rooted in delusions in the secret diary that stays offline. It is not so delusional. I am feeling so sincere. Rebecca is here. My sister is here. We went to KGB Bar and Fanelli Cafe and Funny Bar where we met a Gagosian guy turned AI guy, which I guess has kind of been my career arch too though I am not so pleased about that direction. We went to the party at Bowery where the waiter from Fanelli Cafe was the DJ and I had two vodka sodas then soda water with lime which might be all I do soon, though I keep on having all these cyclical conversations with myself about these things - consumption and gluttony - and there is little that more dull, so I will not bring it up again. I went to the sleep specialist and she giggled when I said I don't scream in my sleep if I am in the company of strangers. That's different but great, she said. Do I control my subconscious, I said. Stupid idiot, she said. I did actually go to all these parties, and I did call him from the bathroom. He'll be back in New York soon, making film and code and learning banjo. It's way better than the alternative, and I do feel very proud this week which is something I have not been able to say in a good long while. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, May 21 From 7pm - 8:30pm at The Flea Theater (20 Thomas St) — I’ll be seeing Revolution: The Play. Sophia Englesberg is associate producer, and everything she touches is wonderful. Written and produced by Brett Neveu, directed by Rebecca Harris. The theater is next to The Odeon, so you can get my favorite martini before or after the show. - “Who celebrates their 26th birthday in the alley outside of her hairdressing place o’ work? Revolution interrogates and celebrates the very nature of creating community and building friendships in our ever-evolving, ever disconnecting world.”

Inline links: Revolution: The Play, Sophia Englesberg, The Odeon

Lantern1 mentions across 1 issues

Lantern is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 10, 2025 and February 10, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Drinks by Lantern". It most often appears alongside 131 Chrystie St, Ahmed, Alamo Drafthouse Cinema.

Article page: Lantern
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 10, 2025
Last seen: February 10, 2025
Instagram handle: @lanternbeverages

Outbound links

Issue trail

February Dining. February 10, 2025

131 Chrystie St 1 shared issues
Ahmed 1 shared issues
Alamo Drafthouse Cinema 1 shared issues
Alt Lit 1 shared issues
Andrew Shental 1 shared issues

Source context

February 10, 2025 · Original source

From 4pm - 7pm at Café Forgot — PS by Pretty Sick hosts a pop up. Drinks by Lantern.

Inline links: Café Forgot, PS by Pretty Sick

Lantern Beverages1 mentions across 1 issues

Lantern Beverages is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 28, 2024 and October 28, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Sponsored by Lantern Beverages, Topo Chico, Mizu Sochu"; "Sponsored by Lantern Beverages, Topo Chico, Mizu Sochu". It most often appears alongside 12 Questions, 27 Club, Adeline Swartzendruber.

Article page: Lantern Beverages
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 28, 2024
Last seen: October 28, 2024
Instagram handle: @lanternbeverages

Outbound links

Issue trail

Indulging in the Eschaton October 28, 2024

12 Questions 1 shared issues
27 Club 1 shared issues
Adeline Swartzendruber 1 shared issues
Adrienne Reenblatt 1 shared issues
Ali Royals 1 shared issues

Source context

October 28, 2024 · Original source

From 10pm - 3am — Lantern is throwing an NYC theme Halloween party. Sponsored by Lantern Beverages, Topo Chico, Mizu Sochu, Okinawa Gin, Peter Pan Donuts and others – “Come dressed as your favorite New York City character or as Jojo Siwa, either is fine”

Inline links: Lantern, NYC theme Halloween party, Topo Chico, Mizu Sochu, Okinawa Gin, Peter Pan Donuts

Lazarus1 mentions across 1 issues

Lazarus is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 23, 2024 and October 23, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "YOU KISSED ME IN PARIS by Lazarus". It most often appears alongside Alimentari Flaneur, Andrew, Ani.

Article page: Lazarus
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 23, 2024
Last seen: October 23, 2024

Outbound links

https://lazarusdouvos.com/products/you-kissed-me-in-paris?srsltid=AfmBOoqHzfF6RU66trj6N3wKcXVPi1b6-yQ_eDLV5LcEK7YqU0M9UY3M

Issue trail

Collected Agenda with Vivien Lee October 23, 2024

Alimentari Flaneur 1 shared issues
Andrew 1 shared issues
Ani 1 shared issues
Architectural Digest 1 shared issues
Bamonte's 1 shared issues

Source context

October 23, 2024 · Original source

YOU KISSED ME IN PARIS by Lazarus

Inline links: YOU KISSED ME IN PARIS by Lazarus

Left Field App1 mentions across 1 issues

Left Field App is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 17, 2025 and September 17, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "a free drink if you download Left Field App". It most often appears alongside 1301PE, Aamina Khan, Adoration of the Magi.

Article page: Left Field App
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 17, 2025
Last seen: September 17, 2025
Instagram handle: @leftfieldapp

Outbound links

Issue trail

Aura-Abysmal September 17, 2025

1301PE 1 shared issues
Aamina Khan 1 shared issues
Adoration of the Magi 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues
Alexa Dark 1 shared issues

Source context

September 17, 2025 · Original source

From 7pm - 9pm at Time Again — D8 Time celebrates their first birthday with more speed dating (plus a free drink if you download Left Field App and frozen yogurt from a sour cherries pop-up). | tickets here

Inline links: Time Again, D8 Time, Left Field App, sour cherries, here

Life Is Better In FlipFlops1 mentions across 1 issues

Life Is Better In FlipFlops is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between June 09, 2025 and June 09, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "the Nassau, Bahamas shirt he bought for me all Life Is Better In FlipFlops". It most often appears alongside A Court of Thorns and Roses, Allie Rowbottom, Amnesiascope.

Article page: Life Is Better In FlipFlops
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: June 09, 2025
Last seen: June 09, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

A supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again June 09, 2025

A Court of Thorns and Roses 1 shared issues
Allie Rowbottom 1 shared issues
Amnesiascope 1 shared issues
Aperol 1 shared issues
Apt 5 1 shared issues

Source context

June 09, 2025 · Original source

Monday, June 2 I read some GirlInsides on the airtrain back from JFK who I think is just like me if I were more honest and precise about it, or maybe whom my stories would echo more precisely if I did not have this sick need to put my face all over everything. Anyways, GirlInsides was talking about how summer would bring things like long long long hair and farmers market plums eaten over the sink in underwear and writing and reading all over the place, and her ideas made me feel like I was melting and going to cry. Then I wrote what I wanted summer to bring, all - getting off the subway because it's too hot and walking in sandals sticking to my feet until i find somewhere that glows right and then its morning and we're sitting first then lying down on the terrace in sun that becomes unbearable drinking sparkling water out of glass bottles dripping it over my chest opening the door for the blast of air conditioning and to let the friends that come by in and out people floating by in and out and come and go and then at dusk i put on something green and i drink cold cider cold diet coke or spicy watermelon margarita outside at kikis in swan room away from the heat at vol de nuit with fries and garlic sauce on the roof, on my roof, in the backyards and basements and i walk out and walk everywhere when it is time to leave i leave and sometimes it is time to leave and so then I take the train and there’s the coast and then I’m putting laundry on the line in a black bikini and drinking diet coke with lemon in my black bikini and driving to the ocean down the driveway at night headlights breaking through june gloom fog and jumping off the dock where the sharks don't eat us but any summer now they could, or then it's morning and i'm sober writing in my google docs journal walking outside, writing in my greenhouse apartment in new york, writing along the overgrown pond and field and it always smells thicker there outside of boston, writing by foggy shores and rocky shores and sometimes the air becomes thick too and my dad plays dougie mclain and we make pesto pasta mozzarella chicken sausage in yellow china bowls on yellow placemats the meal gets kind of hazy through the sheen of blue hour rain coming through the window and then i'm pacing and writing down ocean drive in Miami because I can't decide where i want to be anymore and i like flashing lights i like coming back to the very nice very cold hotel that we're staying in because he's Sorry but I don't want any more apologies i want this summer to be Being very very very in love because i really have been anticipating extinction events or at least things become robotic sterile i used to think id be pretty good at both being in love like this and at not being robotic and sterile and i have become slightly above average at both these things in practice i guess though, it's nice to have the most human thing in the world, it's nice for me all the time, even then, even when it isn't for him i think it's nicer for me then it would be to not have this all the time and I don't know why i keep sabotaging the only thing i know to be true and human and so i am hoping for a summer of all that, hands pressed against the plane window greenhouse window train window glass mirror glassy water plunging my face underwater no more eb and flow. Anyways, none of that made any sense and then shock of all shocks it did eb and flow again last night. Everyone was so nice to me about my story and I wore the Nasseau, Bahamas shirt he bought for me all Life Is Better In FlipFlops and he wanted me to wear the sunglasses too, to exacerbate the bit but I thought that would be a little bit too far. He said “you know why I’m mad at you” when we got home, and I didn’t know, I had no idea actually, and so then I got sad, but the story was fiction. This is fiction too. I’m not being facetious when I say that. This isn’t even autofiction. This is literally all made up. “they seem lost and completely clueless,” he is saying now, downstairs, on the phone, he is talking about some forty year old woman and an awful charleton and some guy who does RedPill posting online and some guy he personally has a strong dislike for who has a lot of medical malpractice suits against him. Maybe he’s a genius, he is saying. I don’t know, he is saying. These people are so strange, he is saying. Tuesday, June 3 His friend rubs my head like i'm a dog or something when i walk into his stupid fake exclusive evil party that i'm not invited to and then my heart swells with rage. I'm so mad, I was telling everyone. I'm so sorry I didn't mean to say that I guess I had one too many, I was saying. I didn't have one too many, I had just right, I was telling him. I like The Sweet East, he is telling me. I like Yeats and social norms. Yes and, I say; I hope that you get everything you have ever wanted. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, June 9 A quiet night in the realm of events. Consider; dinner at The Marlton’s new restaurant Chez Nous followed by a screening of Buffalo 66 at Metrograph (10pm). I have historically liked The Marlton because it is vaguely past its prime and also a five minute walk from my apartment, and a place where no one ever tells you that you’ve stayed too long. The food at the old restaurant was terrible (so I’ve heard) (I only went for tea), but the recently refurbished Chez Nous is chic and fun and has maintained all of the hotel's original charm. The shrimp salad is very good, as is the martini. I’ll report back after my second visit (possibly tonight). Otherwise - 10pm on a Monday evening is the perfect time to see a film bar none, besides, possibly 1pm on a Friday.

Literary Sport1 mentions across 1 issues

Literary Sport is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 10, 2024 and September 10, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "a new activewear line inspired by poets coming September, 2024". It most often appears alongside Anika Levy, Annabel Boardman, Antiart.

Article page: Literary Sport
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 10, 2024
Last seen: September 10, 2024
Instagram handle: @literarysport

Outbound links

Issue trail

Statues Of Critics. September 10, 2024

Anika Levy 1 shared issues
Annabel Boardman 1 shared issues
Antiart 1 shared issues
Artnet 1 shared issues
August Lamm 1 shared issues

Source context

September 10, 2024 · Original source

I have my eye on Literary Sport; a new activewear line inspired by poets coming September, 2024. There’s an increasing emphasis on the artistry of the body and the art of fitness in health and wellness branding recently. I honestly think this is a welcome departure from GymShark, QuestBars, GNC, etc… It's long been an aesthetic wasteland for Girls Who Like Splenda. Literary Sport is particularly chic, but I’m also intrigued by David's; a new protein bar brand inspired by Michelangelo’s David that unabashedly promises to make their consumers beautiful. I’ve been seeing the FKA Twigs 'The Body Is Art' Campaign for OnRunning all over Manhattan as well. I might be working on a longer story about this trend, so send me thoughts – chloegpingeon@gmail.com

Inline links: Literary Sport, GymShark, QuestBars, GNC, David's, Michelangelo’s David, FKA Twigs 'The Body Is Art' Campaign, OnRunning

Loser's1 mentions across 1 issues

Loser's is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 17, 2025 and February 17, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Sponsored by Loser's and Laila". It most often appears alongside A/Political, Actors, Alana Markel.

Article page: Loser's
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 17, 2025
Last seen: February 17, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

My lame blog February 17, 2025

Political 1 shared issues
Actors 1 shared issues
Alana Markel 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues
Amtrak 1 shared issues

Source context

My lame blog

February 17, 2025 · Original source

From 8pm (doors at 7pm) at Jean’s — The Thing Is… returns. This is the most talked about show in town, and it's a really good lineup tonight, ft Caroline Calloway, Rachel Coster, Jay Jurden, Luke Rathborne, and Ivy Wolk. A limited number of premium VIP tickets can be purchased to guarantee entry here. Hosted by Alex Arthur and produced by John Doe & Co. Sponsored by Loser's and Laila. Love is in the air these weeks, and it seems like every party has a sex / love adjacent sponsor. I tend to think the last thing we need is more dating apps, but I love real life, I love TheThingIs, and I love Jeans.

Inline links: Jean’s, The Thing Is, here

Louis Vuitton1 mentions across 1 issues

Louis Vuitton is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 13, 2025 and January 13, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "I accidentally get stuck in the Louis Vuitton x Murakami line in SoHo". It most often appears alongside 4chan, Altadena Girls, Altro Paradiso.

Article page: Louis Vuitton
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 13, 2025
Last seen: January 13, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

Life before inositol January 13, 2025

4chan 1 shared issues
Altadena Girls 1 shared issues
Altro Paradiso 1 shared issues
Anastasia Coope 1 shared issues
Angelika East 1 shared issues

Source context

January 13, 2025 · Original source

Wednesday, January 8 Meeting with Beckett and Jonah this morning at Caffe Reggio to discuss Tense - Reggio is full and so Beckett suggests Dante. It’s not like he remembered it, now. It’s a coffee shop, he says, but it’s a cocktail bar now. Expensive green and red martinis in thin glasses whirling through the room even now, at two pm. They still let us sit for coffee. I have an interview after. Madelyn texts me. At Altro Paradiso at 3pm, they are saying goodbye to the head chef. I’ve gone to Altro Paradiso a few times recently, because Madelyn works there mostly, although even independent of that it’s the best food I’ve had in New York in a while. Today, I was in a rush, the plans were last minute. I'm still wearing my workout clothes and their ‘archival lululemon’ - hand-me-downs from a closet of a friend of my mothers when I was about thirteen years old. The shirt is striped and black and white and a small band bearing slogans like “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” folds up or down at the hem, depending on how flagrantly antisocial you feel like being on that particular day. I’m keeping the band folded under today. I’m wildly underdressed but it’s afternoon, the restaurant isn’t even technically open yet. There’s a toast to the chef and I’m the only outsider in attendance and so I stay at the bar while the group of staff and friends and family assemble. It’s very special, even to bear witness to as someone uninvolved. There’s a heart and soul to food and drink and service that other industries, even creative industries, really don’t have in the same way. I’m a tiny bit tipsy, now. I need to start hostessing again. I make this note on my phone: “NEED TO START HOSTESSING AGAIN!!!!” We stay at Altro Paradiso til dinner starts, and we continue to stay till it feels like dinner is about to end. Everything is magical - the alla prima cocktail, wine, dirty martini, pane e ricotta, salad with figs and dates, octopus, olives, oysters under beds of thinly sliced veggies, malfatti (which is pasta that is like little pillows), linguine al nero (which is pasta with squid ink and cuttlefish and basil), a few deserts - pistachio ice cream and the pear cake. The afternoon turns to a sparkling evening. I walk home. I go elsewhere, after - fun too, but I probably shouldn’t have. I should probably learn when to call an evening. Decadence in excess, turns all that sparkles sour. Thursday, January 9 It's been the same day on repeat so far this year. The same three days, really. Rinse and do it again. The year has only held nine days. I can't view my stagnation with too much harshness. Decadence, in contrast, should be viewed with harshness. Los Angeles is burning up and it feels uncouth to talk about this here as this tragedy is not my life, but I can't stop watching. Most emotions are triggered through all five senses - it's a strange feeling of muted horror to see destruction of places and lives you know on a screen, detached from your physical experience but visible in real time in your cognizant mind - peripheral vision. I accidentally get stuck in the Louis Vuitton x Murakami line in SoHo. I accidentally steal a pair of Split sweatpants from the gym. I accidentally read all the books on the 4chan 2024 Top 100 Lit Board list. I'm on tiktok watching videos of the apocalypse overlaid with Lana del Rey audio. I’m browsing r/lainfluencersnark and they have a lot to say about the way their parasocial relationships are handling the apocalypse. I tried to write something about phones and chaos and end times but it was silly. These are resources / writing from people in LA. The Angel - L.A. Fires — How to Help

Inline links: Tense, Altro Paradiso, The Angel - L.A. Fires — How to Help

Love Thanks1 mentions across 1 issues

Love Thanks is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 25, 2026 and February 25, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Love Thanks will be hosting a popup at 41 Orchard Street… I really love everything in this collection". It most often appears alongside 41 Orchard Street, AceMo, Albany.

Article page: Love Thanks
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 25, 2026
Last seen: February 25, 2026
Instagram handle: @nkrchtr

Outbound links

Issue trail

Life-in-a-lab February 25, 2026

41 Orchard Street 1 shared issues
AceMo 1 shared issues
Albany 1 shared issues
Allyson Joanerwin 1 shared issues
Arcade Publishing 1 shared issues

Source context

February 25, 2026 · Original source

Love Thanks will be hosting a popup at 41 Orchard Street from March 1 to March 15. I tend to wear the same thing every day and as such don’t really have shopping recommendations. However, I really love everything in this collection and am excited to go by in person.

Inline links: Love Thanks

LoveThanksWorld1 mentions across 1 issues

LoveThanksWorld is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 06, 2026 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "I want everything I own to be from Angelmoon and Ebay and LoveThanksWorld". It most often appears alongside A Place in the Sun, Ali RQ, Angelica.

Article page: LoveThanksWorld
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 06, 2026
Last seen: March 06, 2026
Instagram handle: @nkrchtr

Outbound links

Issue trail

Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

A Place in the Sun 1 shared issues
Ali RQ 1 shared issues
Angelica 1 shared issues
Angelmoon 1 shared issues
Banana Republic 1 shared issues

Source context

March 06, 2026 · Original source

It is morning and the day feels kind of bright and nice. I am in my room and I am feeling sweet. I am in my room and it is feeling a little bit messy. I am listening to Drasticism which is the new album by a girl who’s playing a show tonight and I am thinking I would perhaps like to go. Listening to a sweet kind of diy soft music that reminds me of crystals. I kind of want to be by the water. I kind of want to learn guitar with my friends. I kind of want sunlight on my face first thing in the morning. I want everything I own to be from Angelmoon and Ebay and LoveThanksWorld. I’d like to be in salt water in Costa Rica or perhaps Brazil but I am trying not to want things outside the present so much. Listening to “Angelica” by Bella Litsa and “If You Were Around” by Celestine Manno and “Yellow House” by Satya and I never listen to new music but it all can’t stop reminding me of crystals. My morning routine is a fantasy land. My morning routine is real life. My window is open and I can say hello to the turtles swimming in the churning water beneath me. Smell of jasmine, orange trees, salted air the song is saying. Something about California. Sweet and lovely. I am thinking of everything on such sweet terms. My morning routine is Current Body LED red light mask and water out of a metal flask and ten minute guasha routine and walk to the Italian cafe for one little morning coffee. One little morning coffee because I just quit everything. I quit everything all at once. We will see what gives.

Tonight – from 10pm at Night Club 101 — NK is throwing a rager. Hosted by Blizzy McGuire and Jacob Ace. Sounds by DJ Thank You, Ali RQ, Bruno Zero, DJ Kellen, and Sank. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Just show up.

Inline links: Night Club 101, NK, Blizzy McGuire, Jacob Ace, DJ Thank You, Ali RQ, Bruno Zero, DJ Kellen, Sank

lugger.com1 mentions across 1 issues

lugger.com is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between July 15, 2025 and July 15, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "I could use lugger.com or the nice neighbor from May...to move the couch". It most often appears alongside Alan Barrows, Anastasia Wolfe, Andrew Woolbright.

Article page: lugger.com
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: July 15, 2025
Last seen: July 15, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Summer Break July 15, 2025

Alan Barrows 1 shared issues
Anastasia Wolfe 1 shared issues
Andrew Woolbright 1 shared issues
Annabel Boardman 1 shared issues
Bacchus 1 shared issues

Source context

July 15, 2025 · Original source

Friday, July 11 New York is pulsing pulsing pulsing summer and I am glad to be back even just, to do little with it. Dinner at Lure Fishbar which is lovely and a clarity summit on the terrace which is less rotten in its final days, smog over the railing and the lights are blinking on and off in dusk haze across the river and then, everyone leaves. I leave too. Bring drinks in plastic bottles to the bar. Starting my days earlier and ending them later. There will be other things. I could handwrite it next time. I could use lugger.com or the nice neighbor from May or the generosity from others that I worry I do not return or deserve to move the couch. So, nothing ever happens. Stay up until seven in the morning and then it's taking down the fir wreaths because those are becoming a fire hazard too. Taking down the buoy and the copper pot because those are coming with me. The terrace has become all clogged with cigarettes and I notice it only now, plastic tarnished wood and the cracks are all stuffed with tar and rainwater and dead branches. So, I could do yard work I suppose. Or, I could just leave. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, July 15 From 8pm - 12pm at The Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research — a one night only reading of an AI generated play trained on all Matthew Gasda’s plays. Error 404: Play Not Found. Tickets are free but donations are encouraged. - “This will be done with ample drinking and unseriousness--but the experiment may also be interesting on a philosophical level.”

Inline links: The Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research, Error 404: Play Not Found

Lush Ice1 mentions across 1 issues

Lush Ice is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between April 21, 2025 and April 21, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "They have a Lush Ice Vape". It most often appears alongside 88 Allen Street Hotel, Ada Wickens, Alex Arthur.

Article page: Lush Ice
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: April 21, 2025
Last seen: April 21, 2025

Issue trail

The Strangest Hotel in New York April 21, 2025

88 Allen Street Hotel 1 shared issues
Ada Wickens 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues
Alex Auder 1 shared issues
Alex Berns 1 shared issues

Source context

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!CQwj!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fa8402160-9491-40d2-95e0-9dee6e25a00a_852x318.png, borderline satanic short film, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!sXNu!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F2692d191-2567-4b52-ab49-e81eacdf528d_730x832.png, Night Club 101, Domino Reading Series

April 21, 2025 · Original source

Monday, April 14 The issue is, I am so disconnected from nature here. The wilderness, yes, but my own sense of instinct too. Yeah, intellectualize it. Drag it out step by step by step and then there are logical conclusions I can live with. Though, if removed from cold hard fact I would know very little here at all. I know nothing viscerally here. Sometimes, elsewhere, I can know things intrinsically from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. New York is good, though, and there is nowhere else for me, anyways. I woke up this morning and my whole body popped. It’s hard to explain it. Like my muscles all revolted and then I couldn’t really move. It’s not the worst thing in the world except I know this would not have happened if I was somewhere else. I am rock solid certain that this would only have happened here. So someone put a hex on me. And then I almost forgot that desperation reeks. I spend all day acting boxy and square and off-putting in my many Academic Classes on account of not being able to really move. Every time I start to feel nauseous about the future considering this sort of bodily degradation beginning at Age Twenty Four Years Old, I try to remind myself that I have probably just been hexed. My friend in Witch School sends me some guides for lying down realignment. She calls me. You can join my cult, she says. Too many cults, and none of seem very all immersive. If I am going to do this, I would like to go all in. David is back to coworking at his friends hotel and so I march my way through the Lower East Side for some company after school. One cannot wallow alone. They have a heating pad at the hotel. They have a Lush Ice Vape. David’s friend says that he’s been fasting and praying a lot. There’s a permanently skewed gold framed painting of a gold chalice of flowers and some thick tan curtains at the hotel. The curtains are pulled open so we can all see outside. David brought opera binoculars. I brought swedish candy. David goes to get some chinese food so I settle in to write, but he returns with his friend sooner than I would have liked. “Bro,” David says, “I might go get the Penthouse Balcony King Suite Deluxe.” “Hotel employees are better friends than 99% of people’s friends,” David’s friend says. David does get the suite, and so we decamp upstairs. The curtains are more ornate in this room, and the aura is more creepy. Everything is funnier when you’re sober, David’s friend is saying. Something about coming face to face with your own absurdity. Something about how when you’re drunk, you think your’ madness makes sense. Two bathrooms and the shared patio and the love seat and the dog bed and David is saying that instead of dinner, instead of ever wasting money on a dumb dinner again, we should splurge on staycations instead. I brush my teeth with the hotel provided tooth brush and I sit on the floor of the erratically tiled shower. I don’t totally get the bit and I feel bad because it’s frivolous but, I do love hotels. Suspended circumstance The safest and most secure sleep. Float me out somewhere I’ve never been before. It’s good for girls with night terrors like me. Tuesday, April 15 David stayed up all night making a borderline satanic short film. I think I’m manic, he says, which is probably why he got us the stay in the strange hotel in the first place. You’re not manic, I say. Not manic, like I need lithium, David says. Last night I was compulsively reading these decentralized networking protocol white papers, David says. David starts telling me about an opera he wants to see. Something about The Only Monotheistic Pharaoh. I walk home and I stop at Whole Foods to buy some Clear Headed Kombucha and Chicken Sausage and Cymbiotika Vitamin C. I feel really terrible. I make a list of affirming statements. I FEEL AMAZING. I HAVE NEVER FELT BETTER. I take a nap. Wakeup and, David and his friend are on the phone downstairs talking about a startup. Eavesdropping and, it sounds like they’re about to independently invent the concept of the Male Influencer. “Imagine believing yourself to be cunning and self-serving, and you're doing so by working for [redacted],” David is saying. “Anyone can learn to code,” David is saying. Tune out, tune in, and now they’re inventing the Vending Machine. They’re talking about Jon Raffman and Petra Cortright. They’re talking about LA. Evil Women. Tax Day. “Girls already invented being an influencer eons ago,” I tell David, when he gets off the phone. David pauses for a moment. “I think girls and guys invented being influencers at about the same time.” Friday, April 18 I haven't been able to fill in the blanks of the past few days. Becoming: utterly consumed. It was deeply unpleasant, honestly. I feel bad for me on Monday, thinking it would be easy to wrap up this thing I was working on and then almost losing my whole head instead. I stayed up all week. All through the very peaks of the night and then past that, even. At first it was all disjointed, but now it is making more sense. And the good news is, good for art and life - I can intuit things again! WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, April 21 From 8pm - late at Night Club 101 — I will be reading in the Domino Reading Series, alongside Jess Wolfe, Dani Narins, Ruby Hoffman, Gordon Glasgow, Jade Wootton, and Matthew Gasda. Gallipony x Solar System DJ set after the reading.

M&Ms1 mentions across 1 issues

M&Ms is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between June 06, 2024 and June 06, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "peanut m&ms". It most often appears alongside 06 Art, ALLSHIPS, Ally Pankiw.

Article page: M&Ms
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: June 06, 2024
Last seen: June 06, 2024

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #3 June 06, 2024

06 Art 1 shared issues
ALLSHIPS 1 shared issues
Ally Pankiw 1 shared issues
Anastasia Berg 1 shared issues
Angela Torres 1 shared issues

Source context

June 06, 2024 · Original source

...bag, tex mex chex mix, two hot dogs with no bun but lots of condiments that are impossible to cut with fork and knife, one hot dog with bun, one chicken sandwich, peanut m&ms, oreo cakesters. The sponge bob popsicles are fun, but everything else is actually just pretty genuinely repulsive. Early evening I’m back in the Upper West Side throwin...

...les in bag, tex mex chex mix, two hot dogs with no bun but lots of condiments that are impossible to cut with fork and knife, one hot dog with bun, one chicken sandwich, peanut m&ms, oreo cakesters. The sponge bob popsicles are fun, but everything else is actually just pretty genuinely repulsive. Early evening I’m back in the Upper West Side throwin...

MadeOf1 mentions across 1 issues

MadeOf is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between June 06, 2024 and June 06, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "I drank coconut water with MadeOf whipped cream at Happier Grocery". It most often appears alongside 06 Art, ALLSHIPS, Ally Pankiw.

Article page: MadeOf
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: June 06, 2024
Last seen: June 06, 2024

Outbound links

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #3 June 06, 2024

06 Art 1 shared issues
ALLSHIPS 1 shared issues
Ally Pankiw 1 shared issues
Anastasia Berg 1 shared issues
Angela Torres 1 shared issues

Source context

What Are You Doing In The Fall?

June 06, 2024 · Original source

I’m going for so many walks and I’m moving the same few possessions up and down the same few blocks in the same sparkly sunshine and I’m starting to forget which day is which. Something I remember about today is that I drank coconut water with MadeOf whipped cream at Happier Grocery. This seems like a place and a product that would be sterile and fake and awful, but it’s actually lovely.

Inline links: MadeOf, Happier Grocery

Maison Margiela1 mentions across 1 issues

Maison Margiela is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 03, 2024 and September 03, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Club Chess is throwing a chess club with Maison Margiela & Highsnobiety at The Standard". It most often appears alongside 56 Henry, A.L., Adidas.

Article page: Maison Margiela
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 03, 2024
Last seen: September 03, 2024
Instagram handle: @maisonmargiela

Outbound links

Issue trail

What Are You Doing In The Fall? September 03, 2024

56 Henry 1 shared issues
A.L. 1 shared issues
Adidas 1 shared issues
Alex Walton 1 shared issues
Ali Eyal 1 shared issues

Source context

September 03, 2024 · Original source

From 3 - 7pm — Club Chess is throwing a chess club with Maison Margiela & Highsnobiety at The Standard. Music curation by A.L. and Corrine Ciani.

Inline links: Club Chess, Maison Margiela, Highsnobiety, The Standard, Corrine Ciani

Maldon1 mentions across 1 issues

Maldon is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 27, 2025 and January 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "drinking lots of water with things like added drops of Maldon sea salt". It most often appears alongside A Lit Mag Mixer, A Public Space, After Hours Book Club.

Article page: Maldon
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 27, 2025
Last seen: January 27, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

End of the Cold Front January 27, 2025

A Lit Mag Mixer 1 shared issues
A Public Space 1 shared issues
After Hours Book Club 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues
Andreas Keller 1 shared issues

Source context

End of the Cold Front

January 27, 2025 · Original source

Friday, January 24 You think you will wake up in a haze, but you don’t. Bright light this morning. It is still morning, not yet early afternoon, although close enough. They turned the water back on in the night - sent the ice fairies flying back through the streets. The faucet lurches and then starts to spew all rust colored. All the drama of the evening becomes silly in the light of day, obviously. You put smooth serum on your face - sea buckthorn, La Roche Posay, Embryolisse. The rusty water has turned all clear again. Warmer today - weaving in and out of sanity, if I'm being honest. I decide to go to Massachusetts and then I decide against it. David brings me a white chocolate bear from Lil Lac. I run into him and the bear on the way back from the gym. "I got you a really stupid present," he says. I call with the people in El Salvador in the afternoon - talking about things like The Art of The State. Red Light Therapy. I need to write my story. I need to start doing things like eating fresh fruit, drinking lots of water with things like added drops of Maldon sea salt. There's the reading everyone is going to at EARTH tonight, but the line is too long. I hear that through the rumblings of people who are there before me. The line is way too long, and there are other things to do too but I stay put which is depressing, and rare for me, and I don't do anything with the solitude except I am asleep the earliest I've been in years. Saturday, January 25 I knew I was going to get sick. It was only a matter of time, and I’m a little relieved that it’s finally here. It’s not too bad. My eyes sting, and I slept twelve hours. I slept peacefully though, no nightmares, a fever dulling whatever tripwires my mind most nights and so in this sense it’s kind of nice - the being sick. Someone asks me to write a story about ANTI REALITY - “I think of your writing as a sense of unreliability of perception,” they say. And so of course, I want to write about my nightmares, but I’ve been having fewer nightmares lately, and now I’m sick. I’ll have to think about this more, later. Honestly, I feel strange about putting these event calendars here, now that the other parts have for real become my public diary. I feel weird about putting up paywalls, but I don’t want SEO to find my Secret Thoughts. I started writing this in May, and I started writing about Everything I Did and Everything You Should Do, but now I kind of want to be doing less, or I want to be going to things because I know no one and not because I know everyone. I still feel so grateful to have places to go where I know everyone, and I do think you should go to these things, too. Creative things. Special things. Isolation is so sad and so lonely and I am so grateful that my life is mostly devoid of it. It’s like a fluke - not being isolated, I mean, but I’m not, and I feel very lucky for this. I go to a reading in Union Square tonight. Something for Casual Encounters and a new newspaper called Ummm. My illness dissipated as quickly as it arrived. I think I made myself sick because I cried a lot, if I’m being honest. But I’m fine now. I’m really relieved this happened, because it was only a matter of time, and because now it’s all fine. The reading is wonderful. I'm so happy all night. It's in a beautiful apartment, dazzling, really, and I'm there early, embarrassingly early, and so be it out of pity or mistaken identity, I am given a tour. Here is the roof. Here is the room where the reading will be. Here is the artist's studio. Here are fifty sculptures above the hallway, each sculpture is by a different artist, interpreting the same person in a different way, can you guess who the person is? Sam arrives during this part. “Hillary Clinton,” he guesses. He's right. I like readings like this. One glass of orange wine and then water. I've been so cynical lately, but this feels lovely. Natasha arrives. Others, too. It's a nice mix of people I know and people I don't. It feels so easy for things to go wrong, but sometimes a night hovers just right. Sitting on the windowsill with David later, surveying the room. Up on a basketball court later, but I'm not smoking cigarettes these days. Sometimes glamor is just glamor and you don't have to feel jaded to it. The theme of the newspaper is good - umm… exercise. And this is really the root of it all, isn't it? You run, you write, there are other things, too, but this has always been the crux of things for me. This, and then hedonism, sometimes. “I'm going to make you a french omelette with parsley and guanciale and three eggs,” David tells me at home. “And it's going to be the best omelette you've ever had.” “Was the omelette pretty decent,” David asks later. Davids’s Decent Omelette Suddenly, all my music is new. The things we’re playing over and over again - they're songs I've never heard before. This means my nostalgia for this time will be different - new emotions recollected when I revisit images of now, as compared to in the months before. I feel silly and cheap reflecting on things like this - future nostalgia, imagining the contemporary as a memory. It's a slightly drunken conversation. There is no feasible counter culture anymore, no zeitgeist to seize in a think piece, interest draws towards the interior. This doesn't have to be narcissistic if done well. It's a little narcissistic, in my case. I keep on listening to these songs, over and over and over again. Home - Kinlaw

Manojo Mezcal1 mentions across 1 issues

Manojo Mezcal is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between May 27, 2025 and May 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "open bar courtesy of Manojo Mezcal". It most often appears alongside 327 Bowery, Abby Lloyd, absurdism.

Article page: Manojo Mezcal
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: May 27, 2025
Last seen: May 27, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

generative and godly secrets May 27, 2025

327 Bowery 1 shared issues
Abby Lloyd 1 shared issues
absurdism 1 shared issues
Adidas 1 shared issues
Allie Rowbottom 1 shared issues

Source context

May 27, 2025 · Original source

From 8pm - 1am at The Boiler — Notch Magazine celebrates the launch of Issue 002: Gravity. Notch is an incredible magazine based in New York and Paris, interweaving artistic genres, inviting unfamiliar encounters. Issue 002 launch will include readings, artist talks, installations, and an open bar courtesy of Manojo Mezcal. | Tickets $25 (free for subscribers)

Inline links: The Boiler, Notch Magazine, launch of Issue 002: Gravity.

Manolo Blahnik1 mentions across 1 issues

Manolo Blahnik is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 25, 2025 and March 25, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "black manolo blahnik ballet flats, too, for soooo cheap vintage". It most often appears alongside Albany, Alex Arthur, Anamaria Silic.

Article page: Manolo Blahnik
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 25, 2025
Last seen: March 25, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

How to Redeem Yourself March 25, 2025

Albany 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues
Anamaria Silic 1 shared issues
Anthology Film Archives 1 shared issues
ArtX 1 shared issues

Source context

March 25, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, March 15 When I have a tablespoon of manuka honey with a sprinkle of sea salt before bed, I wake up feeling electric. My whole body is pulsing. It’s like a chemical reaction, almost. Very strange. When I record my letters like it’s a podcast or something, sitting at the marble kitchen table in my empty foggy living room, the recordings process and save like I am somewhere else. A restaurant nearby, maybe. The files label themselves. Finest Goods #1, Finest Goods #2, Finest Goods #9, Finest Goods #12. I do feel quite stupid, doing all of this. I’m sorry to speak like this. I’m sorry to be late or even absent, again. Long Island, Saint Patrick’s Day, my mom and my aunt and my cousins have me for dinner uptown and so I claw myself out of the apartment for this evening occasion. The health stuff is starting to feel more under control, thank god. It was starting to freak me out at the play last night. “There is no physical illness without mental connection, conceptualization, perception,” it was one of those words. Madelyn reminded me. I’m fine, really. I bought cold pressed rosehip oil and I bought multi-peptides + copper peptides. I bought four pints of ice cream to bring to the dinner tonight. I bought pink Kate Spade ballet flats and black Marc Jacobs riding boots and black manolo blahnik ballet flats, too, for soooo cheap vintage, but then when they arrived at my door, within minutes of arriving at my door, someone stole them! I am mostly upset because these things were a real splurge. I am also upset, because these things were one of a kind. Honestly, I am less upset about the one of a kind part. I am not too precious when it comes to things of fashion. The play last night was great. Matthew Gasda’s Uncle Vanya on Huron Street. Uncle Vanya at ArtX, because the water on Huron Street was shut off for the week. Admittedly, I never saw Uncle Vanya at The Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research in its original run, but I was glad to see it in this bigger space, here - the insularity and the claustrophobia and the suffocating sense of everybody speaking and nobody being heard given ever-so-slightly more air in this room of high ceilings than in a living room loft. November - I was in a too small airbnb outside Albany New York and I almost punched a hole in the glass window. There was too much gray sleet, and no escape. I did not break the window, but I was somewhat awestruck by the potential for violence elicited by even the early aughts of claustrophobia. Which is to say, this is a bit of how I felt while watching Vanya. Dimes Square was insular, but the characters kind of love it. Vanya is insular, and there is literally no escape. What happens when you cannot leave, when there is nowhere to go, when the path lays itself bare at your feet and the options are bleak? It is not a hopeful story, though not nihilistic really, either. George Olesky is brilliant as The Doctor, Bob Laine as a kind of hapless Vanya, Asli Mumtas as the beautiful and listless Yelena, Mia Vallet as Sonya, half bursting with youthful vigor and potential, and then veering into a nearly manic and finally resigned pitch, as it becomes clear there will be no actualization. No salvation, either. I have thought before that desperation reeks, but this play suggests instead, that it festers. The characters who can leave, do. Those who must stay, are forced to find something else. What that something is remains a bit ambiguous. Integrity, perhaps. Hope in death and in God. Monday, March 16 I entered into all this fugue state psychosis yesterday. The guy my friends ran into at the bar yesterday entered into all this unrequited love psychosis. People can be so evil. That’s the last thing I texted my boyfriend before I basically blacked out on Saturday: people can be so evil. In my glass house, it was pouring pouring pouring rain last night. I felt so nostalgic for that apartment last night, even as it still remains mine, now. I felt like I could suddenly remember what it was for this apartment to be all new. There was no clutter last June. There was a sudden arrival in a place that was suddenly mine. It was freshly cleaned and there was all this space, it was like infinity it was like, all this light, oh my god, all this air and light and space, this will never get old. My mother says that about the fields behind the house sometimes: I moved in and I wondered if it would ever get old and it never did, she says. But she’s been there twenty-five years. humid summer air and thrifted propped up fans still blowing hot air through the white wood corridors on august mornings. I’ve been here nine months and I am already starting to stagnate. Which I guess is to say: I’m spoiled or, maybe I’m boring. Last night, I was nothing but happy. Tuesday, March 17 How to redeem yourself? Wednesday, March 18 Places this week: Cafe Reggio, The Public Library, Elizabeth Street Garden, Lucien for drinks, Fanelli Cafe for dinner. My roof every morning and night because it is spring now. Spring again. Spring at last. Thursday, March 19 And something gives in a permanent way. New practices, new routines, you cannot continue like this, and so you wake up one day and you don't. There has been a lot that has been beautiful and then, there has been me taking myself out of all this beauty. And you don't become so didactic and harsh and full empty promises. You just give yourself some willpower and then you give yourself some peace. I'm feeling really really really really annoyed on the plane to El Salvador. I'm sorry. This part isn't supposed to be in the story. I will tell you the real story, soon. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, March 25 From 6:30pm at McNally Jackson Seaport — Jamie Hood presents her new memoir Trauma Plot, in conversation with Rayne Risher-Quann.

Marc Jacobs1 mentions across 1 issues

Marc Jacobs is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 25, 2025 and March 25, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "black Marc Jacobs riding boots". It most often appears alongside Albany, Alex Arthur, Anamaria Silic.

Article page: Marc Jacobs
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 25, 2025
Last seen: March 25, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

How to Redeem Yourself March 25, 2025

Albany 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues
Anamaria Silic 1 shared issues
Anthology Film Archives 1 shared issues
ArtX 1 shared issues

Source context

March 25, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, March 15 When I have a tablespoon of manuka honey with a sprinkle of sea salt before bed, I wake up feeling electric. My whole body is pulsing. It’s like a chemical reaction, almost. Very strange. When I record my letters like it’s a podcast or something, sitting at the marble kitchen table in my empty foggy living room, the recordings process and save like I am somewhere else. A restaurant nearby, maybe. The files label themselves. Finest Goods #1, Finest Goods #2, Finest Goods #9, Finest Goods #12. I do feel quite stupid, doing all of this. I’m sorry to speak like this. I’m sorry to be late or even absent, again. Long Island, Saint Patrick’s Day, my mom and my aunt and my cousins have me for dinner uptown and so I claw myself out of the apartment for this evening occasion. The health stuff is starting to feel more under control, thank god. It was starting to freak me out at the play last night. “There is no physical illness without mental connection, conceptualization, perception,” it was one of those words. Madelyn reminded me. I’m fine, really. I bought cold pressed rosehip oil and I bought multi-peptides + copper peptides. I bought four pints of ice cream to bring to the dinner tonight. I bought pink Kate Spade ballet flats and black Marc Jacobs riding boots and black manolo blahnik ballet flats, too, for soooo cheap vintage, but then when they arrived at my door, within minutes of arriving at my door, someone stole them! I am mostly upset because these things were a real splurge. I am also upset, because these things were one of a kind. Honestly, I am less upset about the one of a kind part. I am not too precious when it comes to things of fashion. The play last night was great. Matthew Gasda’s Uncle Vanya on Huron Street. Uncle Vanya at ArtX, because the water on Huron Street was shut off for the week. Admittedly, I never saw Uncle Vanya at The Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research in its original run, but I was glad to see it in this bigger space, here - the insularity and the claustrophobia and the suffocating sense of everybody speaking and nobody being heard given ever-so-slightly more air in this room of high ceilings than in a living room loft. November - I was in a too small airbnb outside Albany New York and I almost punched a hole in the glass window. There was too much gray sleet, and no escape. I did not break the window, but I was somewhat awestruck by the potential for violence elicited by even the early aughts of claustrophobia. Which is to say, this is a bit of how I felt while watching Vanya. Dimes Square was insular, but the characters kind of love it. Vanya is insular, and there is literally no escape. What happens when you cannot leave, when there is nowhere to go, when the path lays itself bare at your feet and the options are bleak? It is not a hopeful story, though not nihilistic really, either. George Olesky is brilliant as The Doctor, Bob Laine as a kind of hapless Vanya, Asli Mumtas as the beautiful and listless Yelena, Mia Vallet as Sonya, half bursting with youthful vigor and potential, and then veering into a nearly manic and finally resigned pitch, as it becomes clear there will be no actualization. No salvation, either. I have thought before that desperation reeks, but this play suggests instead, that it festers. The characters who can leave, do. Those who must stay, are forced to find something else. What that something is remains a bit ambiguous. Integrity, perhaps. Hope in death and in God. Monday, March 16 I entered into all this fugue state psychosis yesterday. The guy my friends ran into at the bar yesterday entered into all this unrequited love psychosis. People can be so evil. That’s the last thing I texted my boyfriend before I basically blacked out on Saturday: people can be so evil. In my glass house, it was pouring pouring pouring rain last night. I felt so nostalgic for that apartment last night, even as it still remains mine, now. I felt like I could suddenly remember what it was for this apartment to be all new. There was no clutter last June. There was a sudden arrival in a place that was suddenly mine. It was freshly cleaned and there was all this space, it was like infinity it was like, all this light, oh my god, all this air and light and space, this will never get old. My mother says that about the fields behind the house sometimes: I moved in and I wondered if it would ever get old and it never did, she says. But she’s been there twenty-five years. humid summer air and thrifted propped up fans still blowing hot air through the white wood corridors on august mornings. I’ve been here nine months and I am already starting to stagnate. Which I guess is to say: I’m spoiled or, maybe I’m boring. Last night, I was nothing but happy. Tuesday, March 17 How to redeem yourself? Wednesday, March 18 Places this week: Cafe Reggio, The Public Library, Elizabeth Street Garden, Lucien for drinks, Fanelli Cafe for dinner. My roof every morning and night because it is spring now. Spring again. Spring at last. Thursday, March 19 And something gives in a permanent way. New practices, new routines, you cannot continue like this, and so you wake up one day and you don't. There has been a lot that has been beautiful and then, there has been me taking myself out of all this beauty. And you don't become so didactic and harsh and full empty promises. You just give yourself some willpower and then you give yourself some peace. I'm feeling really really really really annoyed on the plane to El Salvador. I'm sorry. This part isn't supposed to be in the story. I will tell you the real story, soon. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, March 25 From 6:30pm at McNally Jackson Seaport — Jamie Hood presents her new memoir Trauma Plot, in conversation with Rayne Risher-Quann.

Matrixyl1 mentions across 1 issues

Matrixyl is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between December 22, 2025 and December 22, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "mixing potions this morning, like matrixyl and Argireline and Evian water". It most often appears alongside Advil, Alice B. Toklas, Alligator.

Article page: Matrixyl
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: December 22, 2025
Last seen: December 22, 2025

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

The social experiment is now over December 22, 2025

Advil 1 shared issues
Alice B. Toklas 1 shared issues
Alligator 1 shared issues
Argireline 1 shared issues
Caffe Reggio 1 shared issues

Source context

December 22, 2025 · Original source

One life all at once Friday, December 19 The West Side Highway is cold and clear and empty driving home, like everyone is already gone and this night will be the last dredges of things as they were. The taxi driver is playing soft rock and the barges on the Hudson look like little houses from a distance. New York in December is like a fairytale, because most everyone leaves for real life and then you are reminded, in the lost week of the year, that none of this was ever exactly real life. There’s a red sports car doing donuts in the empty lot of Pier 76. There are three American flags blowing in the wind. Every December feels almost inconceivably distant from the one before. It’s been this way for a few years, at least, now. Mostly, this makes me feel self satisfied, and sometimes, this makes me feel sick. The wind has been crazy the past few days. It’s like a wind tunnel, specifically, driving through midtown. The river is churning. The wind is making everyone insane. I wake up to yellow overhead lights left on overnight, and they look particularly warm cast against the winter sun that filters through my windows. No curtains. In my dream, I was sitting in a Starbucks somewhere foreign, waiting on a bench next to two girls whom I did not know. The coffees were taking a while, and so the baristas kept on offering up shared bread. Something to compensate. The loaves of bread were huge and warm. The barista was throwing them overhand over the counter. The bread was soaring through the air and then landing on the floor. The other girls around me were scooping up the loaves and devouring them with their hands. They were breaking the bread in half and then tearing off a morsel for me. That landed on the floor, I was saying. Everyone shrugging. Looks of disgust. I always dream in mundanities. Wearing athleisure and mixing potions this morning, like matrixyl and Argireline and Evian water full of bubbles and microplastics and wind through the open window blowing all the dust around. I watched all the energy come roaring back for each and every false start these past few months, but it’s been a pause in the ebb and flow, now. I like when things are fascinating. Three books from the party are lying on my glass table in the center of my floor. The Champ is Here and Season of the Rat and a book called Alligator, all bought from some place called CASH 4 GOLD. Because the glass table is so big, and the room is so small, the table creates a disproportionate presence. I wonder what will change, once the glass table is gone. Bundled up and then drifted outside to procure a celsius at the bodega and now I am home, again. Listening to Kali Uchis play off my tinny computer speakers from my playlist that reminds me of hot dry desert air and CRYSTALS. Making plans that fifty-percent chance I will then cancel. Trying to finish my Florida, Massachusetts story but the tone requires a kind of gothic and spooky vibe that I am entirely unable to access right now. Everything at Los Angeles Apparel is five dollars, and so I spend the afternoon being gluttonous online. Purchasing a white tube top and a black fine jersey long sleeve and two a-line skirts and some shimmering silver earrings. Purchasing a red circle scarf for Iris, too, because she left her brand new red circle scarf in the basement at my brand new job, and I said I would find it for her but couldn’t. Unsure if I will tell her I have found the scarf, or admit to procuring a new one online. I think I will just hand it over and say nothing. Celia calls, and I tell her about cleaning my windows and live blogging my day. Careful, Celia says. It’s a good idea to talk about things like architecture, or strange observations. It is probably not a good idea to start live blogging your days. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO It’s the most program-less week of the year, and so I’m taking a week off the event call. Watch The Shop Around The Corner and make Sabayon

Inline links: The Shop Around The Corner, Sabayon

Max Mara1 mentions across 1 issues

Max Mara is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 25, 2026 and February 25, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "I miss my Max Mara coat that I left at 'tech week'". It most often appears alongside 41 Orchard Street, AceMo, Albany.

Article page: Max Mara
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 25, 2026
Last seen: February 25, 2026

Issue trail

Life-in-a-lab February 25, 2026

41 Orchard Street 1 shared issues
AceMo 1 shared issues
Albany 1 shared issues
Allyson Joanerwin 1 shared issues
Arcade Publishing 1 shared issues

Source context

Counterculture in America

February 25, 2026 · Original source

Tuesday Life-in-a-lab In my dream, the house was a lab. I woke up to light not just streaming no, but flooding, absolutely pouring through the long glass windows in front of me. I knew that once the light cleared, I would be staring into the heart of this lab. I knew it was a problem that I was anticipating waking up in a lab, because I knew that I should have been anticipating a morning waking up at home. Instead, I was finding myself totally nonplused about waking up in a lab. The important thing, I knew, as I woke up with a sense of increasing urgency, was to conjure up an image of a home, not a lab. You have been in a lab for so long that you have forgotten about home, a very confident voice inside my head was saying. A picture of my childhood bedroom appeared in a few frames. Different versions. Big white bed and blue wooden floors and presently frosty fields behind the house. Little twin bed yellow walls, carpeted floors, and hot summer cornfields outside. I couldn’t get it straight. If I was in a lab, then I needed to remember. You need to remember a place that actually exists, the lab-attendants were saying in my dream. Saying in my head. Glass apartment in the sky. Room at The Marlton Hotel. I’ve been eating vegetables and collecting things like dried flowers and books on Esoteric Health and buying wash-and-fold laundry service and being swept away to places like nice restaurants with no menus and nice-apartments-with-no-owners. I woke up in Connecticut. Can’t wake up in a lab if you never go to sleep. In the morning, I woke up at close to noon. I shared photos on The Internet of a very aesthetically-cohesive and un-lab-like home. I went to the bathroom to wash my face and collect myself as best I could. The house was beautiful, and I was unsure as to why I was watching things unfold from as if I was somewhere else. I made lists of things that were special, being places like this most of all. I made lists of things that compose self respect, and then I made lists of things that compose a life that is bright and white and full of light. The country is quiet and sometimes difficult for me, though I sleep through the night now and this changes everything. Downstairs, the dogs and Celia and the other were sitting under high lofted ceilings. There was a magical and silvery presence that mediation gives to a person. I asked about coffee and they told me there was coffee in the pot and I could heat it up in a silver bowl on the stove. The stove was green and handmade and you turned it on by flicking little metal burner switches. The bowl was nice and very small. I poured the coffee in the bowl and I waited for everything to begin to boil. I added vital proteins collagen and also oat milk creamer and also lots of white sugar because the esoteric health advice of the age says this is fine. There were homemade mini muffins from The Smith Bakery down the street on the counter (blueberry, morning harvest, strawberry corn, and chocolate chip) and so I cut each muffin in half, and then I had one-half-of-each. Two mini muffins total. I put two of the halves in the toaster, and I had two of the halves cold. Everyone started telling me about gnosticism and buddhism and catholicism. They recommended to me a friend who writes about God and married into a famous band. They recommended I come to meditate in places like New York, too. You look ready, Celia said, as I packed up my north face back-pack and changed out of split-sweatpants and banaa-republic-black-top. I’m not, I snapped, in response. Do you actually want to meditate more, Celia asked. I don’t say I want to do things I don’t actually want to do, I replied. I could not stop with all this harshness. Wednesday Grand Central Station Back in New York City and I am totally covered in dog hair. Shoes untied in Grand Central Station but there is nowhere for me to stop and tie them without risking some sort of stampede or at least massive inconvenience and so onward we go. A man just walked towards me rapidly and I flinched and then felt kind of bad. Then, he shouted; young lady can I ask you a question and so now I do not feel bad. My instincts were correct, and now I do not feel bad at all. Ok, fine, whatever. I used to love arriving back in New York and hearing all the music and the lights and I would twirl through this place nonpulsed. Then, I would twirl home. I used to get drunk-before-christmas at the midtown Cipriani and then giggle when people called my ex-boyfriend and I bad-people-for-cutting on the trains toward Albany, but I’m not allowed to move like that anymore. I used to sink into sixty-dollar taxi-cabs because I found the subway over-stimulating. My Prada purse used to be lined with shiny leather, but I got fidgety somewhere tropical and I ripped it all off so now we’re working with something more flattened and matte. Teenage girls used to fling themselves at the side of the train platforms, and conductors used to lose their whole crew in Boston and train heists used to happen. I used to consider everything to be pretty taken-care-of. I think I never used to notice when sometimes, problems would arise. On the train ride back to New York, tonight, the tracks were icy and slick and it was already kind of blue hour dusk. When I said goodbye, I told Celia I love you I love you I love you a million times over because I felt slightly neurotic about a weekend full of being slightly late and slightly harsh. I am smart enough to know that the only thing complaining makes you better at is complaining, so I decided to stop. In Grand Central Station, they are playing live music, and I watch a man propose, though no one else around the soon-to-be newlyweds reacted. No photos or energy. Sad. I am wearing beat up Ganni knee high boots and Brandy Melville long sleeved dress, and Zara blazer that I stole from Paul’s Baby Grande back when I was in the practice of going lots of places and stealing lots of things. I miss my Max Mara coat that I left at “tech week” and I miss “drinking” and I am suddenly desperate to be out the door. I imagine that when the subway doors fly open and I burst out free and all-in-one piece, I will see the Washington Square Park arch, and it will be glowing silver in mid-winter light. I imagine that the city will feel warm with soon-to-be-spring-humidity. I imagine that since groundhog day has come and gone the tides will change soon, and I imagine I will relinquish my Groundhog Day (1993) fantasies of nothing-ever-happens at some point down the line, when it all becomes a bit too much to take. Tomorrow, I will be taking my shoes to the tailor and then the next day, I will have a totally fresh new crop of things to wear. I imagine that soon, I will have a fresh new crop of things to consider. Thursday Whore Dialectics Greenwich Village’s bitcoin bar sports a libertarian clientele and taxidermy and a podcast studio and beef-tallow-fries. Tonight, it sports a projector screen from my old apartment that looks sad and small propped on stage, and a big audience in metal chairs, and a birthday party in the front room, and plenty of opportunities to make myself feel useful as I tinker with film equipment and fire off texts regarding “promotional material.” I am sitting at Pubkey Bar drinking a diet coke while I wait for the screening of “Whore Dialects” to begin. When I ordered my diet coke at the bar, a strange man made a strange joke about NA beer, and I felt immediately irritated and restrained by my self imposed limits. I am listening to a group of young men discuss the career path of “Internet Pervert” as one of the only viable post-AI jobs. Monetize your self destruction, they are saying. Male prostitution. Buying plushies is to women as buying porn is to men. There’s a strange pseudo-intellectual glare to it all and I am enjoying listening in. They are talking about Brian Kaplan, but they keep on mispronouncing his name. They are talking about scientists, rationalists, and flexible proposals. When they talk about Internet Perverts, there are stars in their eyes, less because of the sex, it seems, and more because the internet perverts are able to get some money and get some attention. The male influencer. That seems to be what they are starry eyed about. They are thrilled to be in the same extended universe as someone who might be able to garner some vague attention. This is a bar that usually makes me feel kind of hazy. This is a bar where I used to make scenes. Enough reminiscing, because I am here to watch a film that is all about auto-documentarians, which is in sharp contrast to the maladjusted forms of auto-diary or auto-fiction. In the film, a beautiful girl is in the back of a car with the wind in her face and she is drinking an Erewhon smoothie and talking about how Hollywood is dead and the monasteries are empty and you can’t be a nun or get a phd because you question what truth is, and these institutions just won’t let you get at it. After that, the film cuts to a scene where the girl is in a white dress being play-drowned in the ocean by a right-wing provocateur. The film crew sent the provocateur to stay with the girl, and it was kind of the perfect setup, a voiceover explains. The provocateur describes how when he arrived, the girl was in a state of almost total abjection. Like how kids who are sexually assaulted don’t shower to make themselves totally disgusting and unappealing, he explains. I find the provocateur slightly less interesting as a character than both the girl, and the disgraced art-advisor (another prominent character in the film) but I like when he argues about politics and then reconciles on a personal level with those around him in places like California. I like the scenes about the professionally fraught yet personally friendly relationship between the art advisor and his not terribly successful clients, ie the clients are disappointed but still use the advisor’s pool for summer swims. The client still dreams of having an eighteen person studio because this means tremendous success, and because this is just how men dream. When the provocateur is described but not depicted as losing control, it is explained that the jig is kind of up, because it’s no triumph of power to reign over somebody who is not even in control of themselves. I only watch the film once and I am not taking notes, really, during the public screening at the Bitcoin Bar, but I like it because it is auto-documentary not auto-fiction or auto-diary and as such, it is very precise. The film says, for someone like me in the conditions like the ones I occupy, here is what life is like. This is more matter of fact and less indulgent than saying; here is what life is like for me. At a party last month that was also all about art whores, the filmmakers wrote a few lines about a few of my friends. The women present were on average quite a bit younger than the men and looked fresh. Perhaps because of their age, or perhaps because of the care they put into their bodies and minds, but the vibe among the women was optimistic and exuberant. I thought this was nice. Nice, too, to catch purity in unexpected places while staying totally true. Friday Upper West Side Later, I am uptown and I am thinking about how I can become more self-disciplined so I can become more interesting. I am watching Pierre Le Fou at Lillian’s apartment on the Upper West Side and all the girls are dressed like characters in the film. Lilian keeps leaning out the window with a long skinny cigarette and I am drinking a glass of Sancerre because I just can’t quit. In this film, a very small man is holding a gun to a very beautiful girl’s head while she cuts her hair. The beautiful girl has a brunette bob, and she is wearing a red dress. The film is full of primary colors and very bright paint. When a man is stabbed, he bleeds red paint. Before a man explodes himself in dynamite at the end of the film, he paints himself blue. I like the film because the colors of the gore are all bright and fake like paint, and the colors of the scenery are all pastel and muted and lovely like real life. Summer in The Riviera. Beautiful people living a simple and crime-filled life. I have not watched very many films this year because I’ve been busy writing thirty-thousand-words-about-myself-per-week. In the last film I watched, a Japanese cat was exploded by a grenade, and when gore and guts spilled everywhere, I flinched and clenched my eyes shut. Do you want to leave, my friend asked, and what I wanted was to be resilient, but what I said was I don’t really care. Now, a girl in the film is sitting on a boat with a man, and she is talking about how the two have only known each other for a few million seconds. She’s such a stupid girl, Lillian says. I would say something like that, I respond. One-million-billion-seconds and one-million-billion-words. I am feeling bubbly when I am not feeling sick or shy. I am feeling like it’s time to be more light about it. When I look to my left, I see beautiful stained glass lamps and a defense surveillance tech-branded throw blanket. When I look to my right, I see an open window and all my friends leaning too far outside smoking skinny vogues. On the Internet, people are talking about how things are only interesting if they are true. Determinative reasoning then says, one should make what is true more interesting. Everything just became crystal clear. By which I mean, everything is operating on material terms now. DIRECTORY The full event calendar is now going to live on The Aleph - an exciting new platform by Noah Kumin of The Mars Review of Books. The Aleph is a marketplace and membership club for the arts, with an emphasis on supporting in-person events, production, and funding for artists. Programming featured will be intentional and curated, and include more opportunities for early-access and invitation-only events. If you would like to submit an event for consideration, please email me at chloegpingeon@gmail.com. Apply to join The Aleph here I will still be featuring select events on the blog, along with more eclectic or personal recommendations, news, and guest features. To start: David Rimanelli is perhaps my favorite person to follow on Instagram, as well as one of my favorite critics. Tonight, from 6:30pm at Tibet House, he will be reading, along with Kiely Sweatt and Sean Fabi. Tickets here.

Milady1 mentions across 1 issues

Milady is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between November 12, 2024 and November 12, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "an 'I'm Immune to Propaganda' Milady hat forgotten on the sink ... the crypto party". It most often appears alongside 169 Bar, Adeline Swartzendruber, aesthetic and moral nihilism.

Article page: Milady
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: November 12, 2024
Last seen: November 12, 2024

Issue trail

Counterculture in America November 12, 2024

169 Bar 1 shared issues
Adeline Swartzendruber 1 shared issues
aesthetic and moral nihilism 1 shared issues
Aimee Armstrong 1 shared issues
Alex Katz 1 shared issues

Source context

November 12, 2024 · Original source

I leave then - it's probably around two am and outside, the streets are quiet. I walk over to 169 Bar to get a water. There's residue of a party going on, here, too, but it seems more like a kickback than anything political. They have one TV here, but it usually is playing a choppy re-run of some movie from the 90s. I don't think to check what they’re playing tonight. I'm not really sure. I go to the bathroom, where I find an "I'm Immune to Propaganda" Milady hat forgotten on the sink, no doubt the leftovers of a Sovereign House straggler who got tired of waiting for the single bathroom at the crypto party. I consider taking the hat, but decide against it. It is very late. I would like to be home.

Ming River Baiju1 mentions across 1 issues

Ming River Baiju is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 03, 2024 and September 03, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Happy hour drinks from Ming River Baiju will be served". It most often appears alongside 56 Henry, A.L., Adidas.

Article page: Ming River Baiju
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 03, 2024
Last seen: September 03, 2024
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

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Issue trail

What Are You Doing In The Fall? September 03, 2024

56 Henry 1 shared issues
A.L. 1 shared issues
Adidas 1 shared issues
Alex Walton 1 shared issues
Ali Eyal 1 shared issues

Source context

What Are You Doing In The Fall?

September 03, 2024 · Original source

Sunday, September 8 from 12 - 8pm — Markette is hosting a vintage/archive fashion and designer fair, featuring 25+ independent vendors. Happy hour drinks from Ming River Baiju will be served.

Inline links: Markette, Ming River Baiju

MiuMiu1 mentions across 1 issues

MiuMiu is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between May 27, 2025 and May 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "you like perfume from MiuMiu and you Hate Balenciaga". It most often appears alongside 327 Bowery, Abby Lloyd, absurdism.

Article page: MiuMiu
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: May 27, 2025
Last seen: May 27, 2025

Issue trail

generative and godly secrets May 27, 2025

327 Bowery 1 shared issues
Abby Lloyd 1 shared issues
absurdism 1 shared issues
Adidas 1 shared issues
Allie Rowbottom 1 shared issues

Source context

May 27, 2025 · Original source

Thursday, May 22 May is quivering right before me; I'm not letting it lapse like April did but there are still smokescreens, silkscreens, my fingers are sleeping right through it. The Club, last night. The Play then The Club. It was smokey and sweet. My lungs felt coated in something sour by the end. The smoking patio was wet with dew and I was kind of floating, not in a bad way. Not hungover, it's something way more visceral but still hazy. I could feel it all start to slip, and so I held onto myself quite tightly. My boyfriend's screen time is 102 hours a day across devices. My face is encased in sheaths of plastic that keep you young, but they're not the temu kind that's weird and freaky. The light I use is Science Backed. I'm thinking of getting into vintage workout wear. I'm thinking of getting into Vlogging. I'm thinking of getting into filling out paid surveys online for luxury perfume sellers that require you to swear your spending habits are High and you like perfume from MiuMiu and you Hate Balenciaga and what perfume means to me is; I think sometimes scents can bring up... nostalgia? I say. Do you own a Prada dress? they ask. We leave the party early - I'm sick and he buys me chicken caesar salad pizza. Aren't you glad we left early so we could dance a little at home, he says. In the living room, the windows are all a little frosted from the rain. There are lights in the neighbors windows across the courtyard but it's thursday night, the rain has stopped. You couldn't have expected everyone to just stay home, really. I notice the people in the windows if he is spinning me across the room. Exhibitionism. I catch myself in the peripheries. The windows. The back of my mind. And I never shut the blinds but that is just no Executive Function or Detail Orientation. I am not some sort of voyeur. Friday, May 23 10:45am, and they are playing some kind of staticy electric classical mashup of music from the Fedex truck outside. "Even as a grad student, I felt they were looking down on chaos," one young man at the Yemeni coffee shop is telling another. Buying: coffee and chicken quiche but none of that is for me. Buying: peanut butter perfect bar and celsius and my boyfriend's screen time is up to 316 hours since midnight since he's doing things indiscernible to me but which he clarifies are Not Fraudulent. I am trying not to write so much in the google doc diaries. It is like I have learned these diaries as a trick, and now I am addicted to it. Now, I can’t do anything else. I must release all thoughts, but to release one thought I must go through, again and again, everything else. And so I go through it all, again and again and again. The thought, and then everything else. We were going to talk more about Spirituality today, but the tripwire keeps happening - stuck on: Vanity and Careerism. I make subheadings to keep myself in check. VANITY. CAREERISM. CAREERISM: Here is where I am: I have the substack for now which is nice this is something that I suppose in some ways is a defining thing I have done but it does not feel like so much it does not feel like it culminates to anything just proof of existence, yes, but everyone has some sort of proof of existence and it is nice to write the story behind something. The story itself cannot just be the story of writing about yourself. And for a minute I was very very very sad and so that plotline became dependable, but that is no sort of thing to rely on. And this is why it cannot all just be the writing of the self. It hasn’t been. [redacted] felt like something different, investigation, beginning middle end, it was not just here I am, it was like a puzzle it was like being very precise with it and it was the biggest thing I have done so far and I sat with it for such a long time. And perhaps I am being dramatic because there are other projects I could start in the meantime but I can’t sit down and make myself think oh what would be an interesting and pithy thing to talk about for somewhere glossy, I cannot do it. I think about doing it and my stomach rises into my throat with how little I care. And so it has to be a story that bursts out of me. There was one, and I can tell there is almost something else too but it’s like David said yes, it’s difficult while you are in the waiting room. Since beginning writing this, my fever got higher, and we are hanging the Bacchus masks around the apartment plus yellow golden softlight and, now I feel more peaceful about it. I wasn’t having so much humility. Nevermind. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 27 From 6pm (show at 7pm) at Baby’s All Right — Baby’s Presents a benefit concert for the Immigrant Defense Project with Palehound, The Ophelias, and Grumpy. Dj set by WeTakeManhattan. - “All proceeds from the show will go towards supporting the IDP’s 20+ year mission of fighting for the rights of immigrants targeted for imprisonment and mass deportation via advocacy, litigation, legal advice and training, community defense, grassroots alliances, and strategic communications.” | GA (18+) $38.86, Ticket and Bonus Donation $49.69

Mizu Sochu1 mentions across 1 issues

Mizu Sochu is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 28, 2024 and October 28, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Topo Chico, Mizu Sochu, Okinawa Gin"; "Sponsored by Lantern Beverages, Topo Chico, Mizu Sochu, Okinawa Gin". It most often appears alongside 12 Questions, 27 Club, Adeline Swartzendruber.

Article page: Mizu Sochu
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 28, 2024
Last seen: October 28, 2024

Outbound links

Issue trail

Indulging in the Eschaton October 28, 2024

12 Questions 1 shared issues
27 Club 1 shared issues
Adeline Swartzendruber 1 shared issues
Adrienne Reenblatt 1 shared issues
Ali Royals 1 shared issues

Source context

October 28, 2024 · Original source

From 10pm - 3am — Lantern is throwing an NYC theme Halloween party. Sponsored by Lantern Beverages, Topo Chico, Mizu Sochu, Okinawa Gin, Peter Pan Donuts and others – “Come dressed as your favorite New York City character or as Jojo Siwa, either is fine”

Inline links: Lantern, NYC theme Halloween party, Topo Chico, Mizu Sochu, Okinawa Gin, Peter Pan Donuts

Monroe1 mentions across 1 issues

Monroe is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 06, 2026 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Monroe suede penny loafers". It most often appears alongside A Place in the Sun, Ali RQ, Angelica.

Article page: Monroe
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 06, 2026
Last seen: March 06, 2026
Instagram handle: @themonroenyc

Outbound links

Issue trail

Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

A Place in the Sun 1 shared issues
Ali RQ 1 shared issues
Angelica 1 shared issues
Angelmoon 1 shared issues
Banana Republic 1 shared issues

Source context

March 06, 2026 · Original source

Appendix: Things Brandy Melville depop boatneck long sleeve dress, Zalt electrolyte zyn, Davolls tee-shirt, Angelmoon, Imperfaite, Prada boots, Monroe suede penny loafers, Frye leather riding boot Places Thai Diner, Vince’s Cobbler, The Manhattan Club, The Marlton Hotel, Tartinery, Caffe Reggio, Dr. Clark, Swan Room Read GirlInsides, The Masque of the Read Death, Fatherland (Victoria Shorr, 2026) Watch Pi (1988), The Biggest Sabotage in History (weird documentary youtube), A Place in the Sun (1951) Listen Gregarian Chants (via Health Gossip), Tango In The Night (1987), Drasticism (2026).

MoonJuice1 mentions across 1 issues

MoonJuice is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between November 05, 2025 and November 05, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "cocoon myself alone with MoonJuice potions". It most often appears alongside 220 Bogart St, 99 Minutes or Less, Alex Da Corte.

Article page: MoonJuice
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: November 05, 2025
Last seen: November 05, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

Fever Dreams November 05, 2025

220 Bogart St 1 shared issues
99 Minutes or Less 1 shared issues
Alex Da Corte 1 shared issues
Alex Delany 1 shared issues
Alice Bailey 1 shared issues

Source context

November 05, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, October 26 Pale light through the small glass windows over which I have not bought curtains. Craving solitude and cleanliness and esoteric healing and then I get it; cocoon myself alone with MoonJuice potions and BlueLand Cleaning Supplies and three purple sweaters and four cream sweaters and all the silence in the world, courtyard facing windows, even the fan and the air conditioner are off and so the circumstances are exactly as I said I wanted. Tucked myself away to think about things here, and now the silence is starting to pool around me. Now, I am starting to feel upset. Chronic discontentment. There is really nothing more irredeemable than this. You wake up in a small room with a faux thatched roof and white sheets and a gold cross and minimal art and a sense that there is no air left. This is all right. The streets are still early morning empty. The shower is sparkling clean. You imagine that on the other side of these walls there are infinite other apartments, all better than this. I’ve been remixing the same story for a while now. I’ve been getting worse at writing and better at being by myself. The stranger and I walked through Washington Square Park where the autumn has come and swept the air muted and clean. Red berries crunch underfoot, and the grass has died and dried hazy and the buildings are brick and brown and the puddles are brown, too, though a brown of a brighter kind. The puddles reflect and remember things, the stranger says. The stranger is very dull like this. Like to observe something is to understand it. I’ve been getting better at clarity and worse at avoiding hedonism without being a bore. I sought forgiveness that I’ll never get. Now, it is time to seek other things: Living in a room that is sparkling clean

Mountain Dew1 mentions across 1 issues

Mountain Dew is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 25, 2026 and February 25, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "a party full of diet-mountain-dew". It most often appears alongside 41 Orchard Street, AceMo, Albany.

Article page: Mountain Dew
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 25, 2026
Last seen: February 25, 2026

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Issue trail

Life-in-a-lab February 25, 2026

41 Orchard Street 1 shared issues
AceMo 1 shared issues
Albany 1 shared issues
Allyson Joanerwin 1 shared issues
Arcade Publishing 1 shared issues

Source context

February 25, 2026 · Original source

Monday Preston, Connecticut Everything in the woods is still and stone and snow, which is the sort of place that’s nice to be when there is Saturn going into Aries moon and the lent beginning and compulsions-to-be-writing-everything-down and some other omens, too, that I am hoping to believe in. Lots of sounds and smells to float in between, and best to be kind of light about it. Nothing so wrong with seeking purity in pure places. I am sitting by the fire pressed against a warm stone floor, and the clock just struck midnight. I was waiting for the clock to strike midnight, because I was waiting for a new week to begin. Nothing feels too different. A few days ago, when the clock struck midnight and it was Friday-the-thirteenth, I was sitting in a glass apartment in the sky surrounded by things that don’t belong to me. Kind of beige and huge place with stock-image-skyline views and a lot of rumors swirling regarding who the apartment belonged to, but no one famous ever actually shows up. In the huge marble bathroom, I sized myself up in the unnervingly clean mirror and felt fifty-percent-miserable and fifty-percent-fun. I went home after that, and in the morning, it was hazy dawn and the day was not feeling particularly unlucky though I knew better than to get complacent. I waited kind of breathless, and when the clock struck midnight again and the curse was lifted, I donned normal clothes and hailed a cab and arrived at a party full of diet-mountain-dew and magazines about Japan. You’re late, my friends said. You’re superstitious. You’re drinking red bull but it’s one am and you’re wearing normal clothes and listening to a DJ in a normal room and the playlist is normal and everyone keeps introducing themselves by alias like ‘Pretty Girl’ or ‘Whatever.’ I was given gifts and hats and pamphlets and the night was nice because my mind was crystal clear. I spent the next day waiting kind of breathless. I took the six-line to the metro-north to southwest station to harlem-valley where I stood outside on a winter-warm evening. Blue hour dusk. Looked over at an abandoned mental hospital on one side and an Evangelical Center on the other side, across the road. The abandoned mental hospital had a sign in a cracked window etched in bright blue duct tape and the sign said WAIT. The sky was turning dark with streaks of something sort of cotton candy pale, and my father called to say he was late because of house fires along the road. All my annoyance at tardiness and stranded state and train station strips between abandoned institutions dissipated in an instant. WAITING by the cracked windows and duct-tape-text in blue. The Evangelical Center had been meant to open ten years ago, but the buildings were loaded with asbestos and mold, and so it never did. My father arrived on dirt roads out of winter mist with headlights like a beam. I considered my allegiances and decided they align mostly with places like here. You wouldn’t think that in Connecticut you could find places so open road empty with absolutely nothing around, my father and I remarked. We drove under covered bridges and over frozen rivers. When we arrived at the cabin, there were vertical nordic skis jutting out from the snowbanks and the driveway remained totally iced over. We had coq-de-vin for dinner, and I did not have any wine. The town in Connecticut is close enough to New York City, and no one really answers when I fire off some questions about commuter-local-population-ratios. Close to the house, there is a cognitive behavioral therapist who lays patients out on a couch in a hut that is mostly glass and a little bit of wood, and is hovering over the river. Who needs therapy when you have a view like that, everyone says, every time we drive past the hut. Nobody needs therapy if they have access to the outdoors and the capacity for lifestyle interventions, I pipe up, because while I have been trying to be less petulant-for-no-reason, sometimes there is a reason for petulance being; it is nice to say the opposite thing, and sometimes the opposite thing I am saying is true. The hut is not really that close by. There is a long driveway and lots of silent snow. There is a typewriter in the window, and everything is made of soft carved wood. Some of the wood is painted blue, but for the most part, the stain is gentle tan. I am sitting by the fire and I am taking some satisfaction in boxing things up. Tinned salmon and a heart shaped bowl. White socks and pearl earrings and a beautiful hand made card. A candle and a very pretty bookmark. Soon, sunlight will begin to stream through the open windows, and I hope that when this process begins, I will sleep through it totally unaware. The house is very quiet, and I have become very happy. Earlier, Celia came downstairs and she asked me why I was still awake. I don’t go to sleep til six-am, I said, which was an obstinate and kind of juvenile response. Oh really, Celia said, and she shook her head with vague indifference. I’m veiling my diaries in pretension in lieu of anonymity, I explained. Everyone’s been super into only saying things that are true, Celia shrugged. I wish it was still summer so I could say what I mean, I said. Celia looked at me kind of gently. How would it being summer change things regarding saying what you mean?, she asked. Upstairs, I turned on a rainforest stone shower and stood under the water and winter skylight looking up at stretches of dark and stretches of stars. Celia caught me on the landing on the stairway as we circled our way back through this beautiful and strange house. Sun due to come up soon. Navy and white carved clock above me. Handmade wooden cover over the refrigerator so that even the appliances are beautiful. Maybe you’d be happier if you wrote about something other than yourself, Celia said. True, I said. Everyone moving like ghosts in the shadows up all night in a cabin surrounded by snow and full of lofts and quits and beautiful food and drink. Tuesday Life-in-a-lab In my dream, the house was a lab. I woke up to light not just streaming no, but flooding, absolutely pouring through the long glass windows in front of me. I knew that once the light cleared, I would be staring into the heart of this lab. I knew it was a problem that I was anticipating waking up in a lab, because I knew that I should have been anticipating a morning waking up at home. Instead, I was finding myself totally nonplused about waking up in a lab. The important thing, I knew, as I woke up with a sense of increasing urgency, was to conjure up an image of a home, not a lab. You have been in a lab for so long that you have forgotten about home, a very confident voice inside my head was saying. A picture of my childhood bedroom appeared in a few frames. Different versions. Big white bed and blue wooden floors and presently frosty fields behind the house. Little twin bed yellow walls, carpeted floors, and hot summer cornfields outside. I couldn’t get it straight. If I was in a lab, then I needed to remember. You need to remember a place that actually exists, the lab-attendants were saying in my dream. Saying in my head. Glass apartment in the sky. Room at The Marlton Hotel. I’ve been eating vegetables and collecting things like dried flowers and books on Esoteric Health and buying wash-and-fold laundry service and being swept away to places like nice restaurants with no menus and nice-apartments-with-no-owners. I woke up in Connecticut. Can’t wake up in a lab if you never go to sleep. In the morning, I woke up at close to noon. I shared photos on The Internet of a very aesthetically-cohesive and un-lab-like home. I went to the bathroom to wash my face and collect myself as best I could. The house was beautiful, and I was unsure as to why I was watching things unfold from as if I was somewhere else. I made lists of things that were special, being places like this most of all. I made lists of things that compose self respect, and then I made lists of things that compose a life that is bright and white and full of light. The country is quiet and sometimes difficult for me, though I sleep through the night now and this changes everything. Downstairs, the dogs and Celia and the other were sitting under high lofted ceilings. There was a magical and silvery presence that mediation gives to a person. I asked about coffee and they told me there was coffee in the pot and I could heat it up in a silver bowl on the stove. The stove was green and handmade and you turned it on by flicking little metal burner switches. The bowl was nice and very small. I poured the coffee in the bowl and I waited for everything to begin to boil. I added vital proteins collagen and also oat milk creamer and also lots of white sugar because the esoteric health advice of the age says this is fine. There were homemade mini muffins from The Smith Bakery down the street on the counter (blueberry, morning harvest, strawberry corn, and chocolate chip) and so I cut each muffin in half, and then I had one-half-of-each. Two mini muffins total. I put two of the halves in the toaster, and I had two of the halves cold. Everyone started telling me about gnosticism and buddhism and catholicism. They recommended to me a friend who writes about God and married into a famous band. They recommended I come to meditate in places like New York, too. You look ready, Celia said, as I packed up my north face back-pack and changed out of split-sweatpants and banaa-republic-black-top. I’m not, I snapped, in response. Do you actually want to meditate more, Celia asked. I don’t say I want to do things I don’t actually want to do, I replied. I could not stop with all this harshness. Wednesday Grand Central Station Back in New York City and I am totally covered in dog hair. Shoes untied in Grand Central Station but there is nowhere for me to stop and tie them without risking some sort of stampede or at least massive inconvenience and so onward we go. A man just walked towards me rapidly and I flinched and then felt kind of bad. Then, he shouted; young lady can I ask you a question and so now I do not feel bad. My instincts were correct, and now I do not feel bad at all. Ok, fine, whatever. I used to love arriving back in New York and hearing all the music and the lights and I would twirl through this place nonpulsed. Then, I would twirl home. I used to get drunk-before-christmas at the midtown Cipriani and then giggle when people called my ex-boyfriend and I bad-people-for-cutting on the trains toward Albany, but I’m not allowed to move like that anymore. I used to sink into sixty-dollar taxi-cabs because I found the subway over-stimulating. My Prada purse used to be lined with shiny leather, but I got fidgety somewhere tropical and I ripped it all off so now we’re working with something more flattened and matte. Teenage girls used to fling themselves at the side of the train platforms, and conductors used to lose their whole crew in Boston and train heists used to happen. I used to consider everything to be pretty taken-care-of. I think I never used to notice when sometimes, problems would arise. On the train ride back to New York, tonight, the tracks were icy and slick and it was already kind of blue hour dusk. When I said goodbye, I told Celia I love you I love you I love you a million times over because I felt slightly neurotic about a weekend full of being slightly late and slightly harsh. I am smart enough to know that the only thing complaining makes you better at is complaining, so I decided to stop. In Grand Central Station, they are playing live music, and I watch a man propose, though no one else around the soon-to-be newlyweds reacted. No photos or energy. Sad. I am wearing beat up Ganni knee high boots and Brandy Melville long sleeved dress, and Zara blazer that I stole from Paul’s Baby Grande back when I was in the practice of going lots of places and stealing lots of things. I miss my Max Mara coat that I left at “tech week” and I miss “drinking” and I am suddenly desperate to be out the door. I imagine that when the subway doors fly open and I burst out free and all-in-one piece, I will see the Washington Square Park arch, and it will be glowing silver in mid-winter light. I imagine that the city will feel warm with soon-to-be-spring-humidity. I imagine that since groundhog day has come and gone the tides will change soon, and I imagine I will relinquish my Groundhog Day (1993) fantasies of nothing-ever-happens at some point down the line, when it all becomes a bit too much to take. Tomorrow, I will be taking my shoes to the tailor and then the next day, I will have a totally fresh new crop of things to wear. I imagine that soon, I will have a fresh new crop of things to consider. Thursday Whore Dialectics Greenwich Village’s bitcoin bar sports a libertarian clientele and taxidermy and a podcast studio and beef-tallow-fries. Tonight, it sports a projector screen from my old apartment that looks sad and small propped on stage, and a big audience in metal chairs, and a birthday party in the front room, and plenty of opportunities to make myself feel useful as I tinker with film equipment and fire off texts regarding “promotional material.” I am sitting at Pubkey Bar drinking a diet coke while I wait for the screening of “Whore Dialects” to begin. When I ordered my diet coke at the bar, a strange man made a strange joke about NA beer, and I felt immediately irritated and restrained by my self imposed limits. I am listening to a group of young men discuss the career path of “Internet Pervert” as one of the only viable post-AI jobs. Monetize your self destruction, they are saying. Male prostitution. Buying plushies is to women as buying porn is to men. There’s a strange pseudo-intellectual glare to it all and I am enjoying listening in. They are talking about Brian Kaplan, but they keep on mispronouncing his name. They are talking about scientists, rationalists, and flexible proposals. When they talk about Internet Perverts, there are stars in their eyes, less because of the sex, it seems, and more because the internet perverts are able to get some money and get some attention. The male influencer. That seems to be what they are starry eyed about. They are thrilled to be in the same extended universe as someone who might be able to garner some vague attention. This is a bar that usually makes me feel kind of hazy. This is a bar where I used to make scenes. Enough reminiscing, because I am here to watch a film that is all about auto-documentarians, which is in sharp contrast to the maladjusted forms of auto-diary or auto-fiction. In the film, a beautiful girl is in the back of a car with the wind in her face and she is drinking an Erewhon smoothie and talking about how Hollywood is dead and the monasteries are empty and you can’t be a nun or get a phd because you question what truth is, and these institutions just won’t let you get at it. After that, the film cuts to a scene where the girl is in a white dress being play-drowned in the ocean by a right-wing provocateur. The film crew sent the provocateur to stay with the girl, and it was kind of the perfect setup, a voiceover explains. The provocateur describes how when he arrived, the girl was in a state of almost total abjection. Like how kids who are sexually assaulted don’t shower to make themselves totally disgusting and unappealing, he explains. I find the provocateur slightly less interesting as a character than both the girl, and the disgraced art-advisor (another prominent character in the film) but I like when he argues about politics and then reconciles on a personal level with those around him in places like California. I like the scenes about the professionally fraught yet personally friendly relationship between the art advisor and his not terribly successful clients, ie the clients are disappointed but still use the advisor’s pool for summer swims. The client still dreams of having an eighteen person studio because this means tremendous success, and because this is just how men dream. When the provocateur is described but not depicted as losing control, it is explained that the jig is kind of up, because it’s no triumph of power to reign over somebody who is not even in control of themselves. I only watch the film once and I am not taking notes, really, during the public screening at the Bitcoin Bar, but I like it because it is auto-documentary not auto-fiction or auto-diary and as such, it is very precise. The film says, for someone like me in the conditions like the ones I occupy, here is what life is like. This is more matter of fact and less indulgent than saying; here is what life is like for me. At a party last month that was also all about art whores, the filmmakers wrote a few lines about a few of my friends. The women present were on average quite a bit younger than the men and looked fresh. Perhaps because of their age, or perhaps because of the care they put into their bodies and minds, but the vibe among the women was optimistic and exuberant. I thought this was nice. Nice, too, to catch purity in unexpected places while staying totally true. Friday Upper West Side Later, I am uptown and I am thinking about how I can become more self-disciplined so I can become more interesting. I am watching Pierre Le Fou at Lillian’s apartment on the Upper West Side and all the girls are dressed like characters in the film. Lilian keeps leaning out the window with a long skinny cigarette and I am drinking a glass of Sancerre because I just can’t quit. In this film, a very small man is holding a gun to a very beautiful girl’s head while she cuts her hair. The beautiful girl has a brunette bob, and she is wearing a red dress. The film is full of primary colors and very bright paint. When a man is stabbed, he bleeds red paint. Before a man explodes himself in dynamite at the end of the film, he paints himself blue. I like the film because the colors of the gore are all bright and fake like paint, and the colors of the scenery are all pastel and muted and lovely like real life. Summer in The Riviera. Beautiful people living a simple and crime-filled life. I have not watched very many films this year because I’ve been busy writing thirty-thousand-words-about-myself-per-week. In the last film I watched, a Japanese cat was exploded by a grenade, and when gore and guts spilled everywhere, I flinched and clenched my eyes shut. Do you want to leave, my friend asked, and what I wanted was to be resilient, but what I said was I don’t really care. Now, a girl in the film is sitting on a boat with a man, and she is talking about how the two have only known each other for a few million seconds. She’s such a stupid girl, Lillian says. I would say something like that, I respond. One-million-billion-seconds and one-million-billion-words. I am feeling bubbly when I am not feeling sick or shy. I am feeling like it’s time to be more light about it. When I look to my left, I see beautiful stained glass lamps and a defense surveillance tech-branded throw blanket. When I look to my right, I see an open window and all my friends leaning too far outside smoking skinny vogues. On the Internet, people are talking about how things are only interesting if they are true. Determinative reasoning then says, one should make what is true more interesting. Everything just became crystal clear. By which I mean, everything is operating on material terms now. DIRECTORY The full event calendar is now going to live on The Aleph - an exciting new platform by Noah Kumin of The Mars Review of Books. The Aleph is a marketplace and membership club for the arts, with an emphasis on supporting in-person events, production, and funding for artists. Programming featured will be intentional and curated, and include more opportunities for early-access and invitation-only events. If you would like to submit an event for consideration, please email me at chloegpingeon@gmail.com. Apply to join The Aleph here I will still be featuring select events on the blog, along with more eclectic or personal recommendations, news, and guest features. To start: David Rimanelli is perhaps my favorite person to follow on Instagram, as well as one of my favorite critics. Tonight, from 6:30pm at Tibet House, he will be reading, along with Kiely Sweatt and Sean Fabi. Tickets here.

New York Yankees1 mentions across 1 issues

New York Yankees is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 27, 2025 and February 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Whenever I see a guy in a Yankees cap I assume it's a cop". It most often appears alongside Aesop's Fables, AGI, AI Grifts.

Article page: New York Yankees
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 27, 2025
Last seen: February 27, 2025
Instagram handle: @nkrchtr

Outbound links

Issue trail

Your Favorite Grifters Favorite Grifter February 27, 2025

Aesop's Fables 1 shared issues
AGI 1 shared issues
AI Grifts 1 shared issues
Allison 1 shared issues
Ancient Legends of Ireland: Music Charms & Superstitions of Ireland with Sketches of the Irish Past 1 shared issues

Source context

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!JTRE!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F03385ed5-b5ac-4cc9-8d10-8542c7ed383e_1600x873.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!Yfjy!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fc2217312-7969-4c84-bcb5-e2f349100218_1600x855.png, Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu 1872 novella, Sylvie, Lady Jane Francesca Wilde’s, House Above the Trees, Aesop’s Fables, Angela Carter’s, Margin for Thought, Microculture, Seeking God, or Peter Thiel, in Silicon Valley

February 27, 2025 · Original source

Sunday, February 23 "Whenever I see a guy in a Yankees cap I assume it's a cop," David said, of the clearly undercover officer observing the turnstiles at the Bleecker St station.” At the bar, I was playing journalist. They were celebrating an AI software that marketed itself as undetectable as AI, good for cheating in school, or in screenwriting, code, whatever you want, and it was clear they thought more people would be at the party, they bought raspberry lemon Svedka, I was fighting these Florida tech guys for proximity to the only small space heater in the room. "Do you have any moral qualms about what you do?," Allison asked one of the founders; and he said "no, we're building a tool. you can use a hammer to build a house or to kill someone." Then Alison said something like yes but you aren't building artificial intelligence you are building explicitly undetectable artificial intelligence with the express purpose of cheating and then the founders started talking about the overton window and you're in or you're out and they called my boyfriend over to tell him that he needs to work specifically and only in web app development if he wants to survive the AGI and ASI apocalypse. David was all ehh about it, humoring them a bit but then like oh excuse me I'm going to get a drink and never came back, and then the founder said to me, I like him he's disagreeable and not effeminate unlike most of these N-Y-C guys man, but he needs to listen to me about being a web developer because of the overton window and AGI and ASI coming fast. Then I said why do you work in this industry if you think AI development will only have bad implications and the founder said because it's an arms race and you don't want to land on the wrong side of the glass wall. I didn't ask but thought of this later - do you really think AI will respect its creator? Or, does working on an anti academic artificial intelligence cheating software save you from apocalyptic doom? Later, the founders were telling everyone that the next step of their plan is a pivot to building a game connected to some NFT about mentally ill women called SSRI-wives. Later, a few people kept telling me you should talk to the Gen-Z kid, there's a Gen Z kid here and this program does all his homework, and I didn't meet this kid until late in the night when the founder called him over and said "do you know what Urbit is," and the kid said yes, and the founder sighed and said "he's very online." And then they brought in some girls from Miami off the street because they needed more heads, and then these girls on the street were talking about being from Miami and so the founders said want some free drinks and they pulled them into the room, and then the girls were talking to me about Dinner At Kikis and Quitting Her Server Job Even Though She Loves All The Friends She Made. Then, David sent me the company's TrustPilot reviews and it was all things like “TOTAL SCAM” and “took $6000 from my bank account” and he said this is clearly a total grift even from my preliminary research. Then, there was dinner at Forgetmenot, and there was never returning to the Strange Grift Party, and I was going to write a story. I was going to tell you about grifts and technology, but then, well, I am not sure if there is too much left to add. And I’m not sure if I like to think about these things, although the doomerism fades when you quickly find that the cartoonishly evil project was just a hologram all along. Monday, February 24 When I was eighteen years old, I lived in a hostel in Prague by myself in the springtime, and I was so lonely. I would walk to the park everyday and I would lie in the april grass and I would close my eyes and imagine that when I opened them, I would be surrounded by company. I would imagine that I would laugh and grab someone's hand and we would twirl down the streets towards the old town that reminded me of a fantasy land, a true fantasy land because everything there was all made up. McDonalds were housed in historic old buildings and I didn’t understand why the others I worked with would go on runs every morning just to drink more beer on their returns. Prague was a hologram to me too. I liked the people I met and I liked that they were never going to grow up. I had no friends there. Eventually, I did, but in April I was always alone. These days, I am never alone. I was so sleepy yesterday and not in a nice way. I would like to avoid these things. I will drink green tea on the terrace this morning. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO After reading Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu 1872 novella Carmilla for my Irish Lit class last week, I’ve been feeling big on fairytales and magic. My sister Sylvie is the most magical girl in the world, as well as the most well read. She has offered her list of recommended fairy tales for this letter: Fairy Tales (by Sylvie Pingeon) I try to read a section of Lady Jane Francesca Wilde’s Ancient Legends of Ireland: Music Charms & Superstitions of Ireland with Sketches of the Irish Past every night before I go to bed. It’s a truly magic book that brings fairytales into daily life with spells, remedies, and little bits of fairy advice: “People ought to remember that egg-shells are favorite retreats of the fairies, therefore the judicious eater should always break the shell after use, to prevent the fairy sprite from taking up his lodging therein.” A fairytale self-help book, and I love it. As a child, my favorite book was House Above the Trees by Ethel Cooke Eliot. Everything by Eliot is so special: she writes of wind creatures who look like the wind feels and tree girls who wear skirts made from the leaves of their trees (green in the summer, red in the fall), and the humans who can see these forest people have the clearest eyes around. All her books are like this, but House Above The Trees is my favorite: an eight year old orphan follows a Wind Creature into the forest and is taken in by Tree Mother, who lives in the treetops. A wonderful, fairy adventure ensues. Brothers Grimm is also always great, although Bluebeard gave me nightmares as a child that still sometimes come back. My mom gave me a beautiful copy of Aesop’s Fables for Christmas this year. It’s beautiful but I haven’t read it yet. A lot of second-wave feminists wrote retellings of fairy tales, and I’m a little embarrassed to say this, but I found Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber to be a truly beautiful read. On the topic of AI Grifts, Gabriel Hollis (of Margin for Thought and Microculture) recommends the following articles on Technology and God and Our End Times. All ideas that fall under near debilitatingly large banners, and all topics which Gabriel explores well. To be honest, I need to dive into these pieces with more intensity before I offer any original thoughts, but I will leave you with the links: Seeking God, or Peter Thiel, in Silicon Valley by Emma Goldberg, for NYT

NyQuil1 mentions across 1 issues

NyQuil is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between August 14, 2025 and August 14, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "nyquil at six in the morning". It most often appears alongside Abundance Meditation, Alice Bailey, Amelia.

Article page: NyQuil
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: August 14, 2025
Last seen: August 14, 2025

Issue trail

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? August 14, 2025

Abundance Meditation 1 shared issues
Alice Bailey 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
Anika Jade Levy 1 shared issues
Ann Taylor 1 shared issues

Source context

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015?

August 14, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, July 28 Amelia is at the apartment when I arrive, bearing cloned keys and summer dresses. It is not a relief to return, I am afraid. Tiptoe across dusty slanted floors and this sense of oddity and dread creeps back no matter how quiet I am about it. There are planes overhead and I have loved all this glass before, but I am clenching my eyes shut now; wishing for drapes that close. Earlier, the flight from London was delayed hours upon hours and things went awry the moment I was left alone. Comparing notes of past present and future and then I laid my roller suitcase horizontal on the bathroom floor to take a seat and think about it. Left my passport in the airport bar where the woman beside me was making friends with every single customer cycling through aside from myself and then I sprinted over to security, where the lights were flashing all schizophrenic and neon and no one would speak. You'll miss your flight, dear, the airport attendant smiled. They opened a small door with a large electric key. They sent me to the Back Rooms. They sent me through endless identical silver doors and a mirror maze and down a long gray magic carpet. I emerged on the other side to find another magic carpet just like the first. I imagined infinite magic carpets extending in every direction. Motion activated so the feedback loop would reveal itself every time I thought I reached solid ground. I was not moving horizontal anymore. It was a vertical descent into the underbelly of Heathrow. I forgot the status of Boeing VS0137. I forgot to ever leave. I woke up in the Kids Play Center. We've lifted your curse, the airport attendant beamed. Most slides can also be used as rafts, they tell me on the plane. Cartoon villain voice playing on Virgin-Atlantic-TV and they're blasting it through the cabin speakers, too. You were an A+ travel companion, they told me in the airport. I wake up to take stock of these things: safety guidelines and praise. I fall back asleep. Tuesday, July 29 After things fell apart in June, I did not eat or sleep for four days and three nights. On the fourth night, I called the NYPD informational line quite dizzy and more out of curiosity regarding physical resilience and atrophy than out of any sincere safety concern. If you cannot sleep tonight, then you can call me in the morning, the operator said. And so I was unconscious in an instant. Put some limits on one's own neurosis. I decided to stay up late last night. It was muggy and hot outside JFK, and I missed the moors and the fog for just an instant. Then, the glass doors slid open into hot sweaty americana summer and all else was forgotten. Felt a bittersweet sort of close to home. Sat on the curb. The airtrain to the car park turned onto the highway. Felt like a road trip. Felt like team sports, two-in-the-morning, intermission. I'd been so quiet that day. I had not spoken one word since Heathrow. Everybody understood that the apartment was rotting. Great place but full of mold. Great place but full of memories both good and bad. Somebody should have thrown out the milk. Somebody should have done something about the feng shui. The dead trees. The slant of the floors. The roof, which nearly caved in last winter. Three in the morning arrival but I asked Amelia if I could come over instead, and Amelia understood it would be best to sit on her floor. Amelia had been leaning into performance art. How was your vacation, Amelia asked. Not transgressive and weird, I sighed. But rejuvenating, pleasant, precious in the sort of way I'd like to hang onto. And I am feeling physically fit from all the walking and running that went on and on and on. The heat wave has not passed in New York despite one more week dwindling into summer, and I sleep until midday around when I open my eyes and begin to feel uneasy. The lines out the stores are down the block and everyone is becoming very thin. The summer foods are things like GREENS 01 Juice and maca-powder-peanut-butter-protein-bites and very rubbery cocktail shrimp at The Smith. It is Julia who suggests The Smith for dinner and I am not picky with those sorts of things. It is me who suggests the party, despite my increasing hopes, generally, to avoid these sorts of things. Wednesday, July 30 Sitting at Banter with the Big Breakfast and hot green tea reading fairytales. It was a nice night last night. Whirling sort of thing. Nightclub101 to KGB to following a group to Ludlow House to Ripple Room. The sort of thing I like as often as possible, but really must limit to now and then. Sitting at the Australian Cafe now, using my Moldavite to mark my place in my book. The fairytales are describing relentless compassion as a form of some sort of psychological warfare. Psychosexual manipulation. Relentless compassion so as to provide one with a moral advantage, knowing it is impossible for the recipient of such compassion to reciprocate. Relentless compassion so as to cast a desperate, selfish, striving plea for reciprocation. The second option is probably more common, but it would be nice to be kind of on a high horse. August will be like oysters at The Knickerbocker with the cocktail sauce in the martini glass and we're sitting by the cracked glass window and Drew says don't cut your hair not yet and so it'll be like humid heavy hair almost down to my waist now, sparkling water in plastic cups with lime and diet coke in a bikini and I will stay put for a while. I will sit at KGB sober in the evening like I do most every evening. They're tearing chocolate chip cookies apart with their hands at the table over and Amelia says she thinks a bit too much about herself to give too much thought to the existence of God but she remembers, as a child, crying tears of joy because she couldn't believe her luck. She just realized she had somehow made it into a human body on Earth, and she couldn't believe her luck. I don't wish the evenings went on too much longer. The timing is starting to feel just right. I want to fill a Desani water bottle with white claw and catch a cab to a pool party but the evening might start to feel too late. I'll read Fanny Howe, Thomas Hardy, Dawn Powell on the floor - big cracked hard cover dog eared copies of all my books. Then, I will pack up my books into Ikea plastic storage trunks. I will pack up all my books and dresses and then the movers will come. The movers will haul my things out the door. They will haul the place bare. I will turn off the air conditioning in this glass apartment in the sky, and then I will leave. August will be somewhere else. Thursday, July 31 Rebecca and I are making plans. Involving - The Chakras by C.W. Leadbeater and Esoteric Healing by Alice Bailey. I don’t want to work harder than I ever have before, but I do wish to be a bit more intuitive about it. Rebecca is telling me about Energy Hygiene in a Chaotic City. Rebecca is telling me about Seven Rays & Soul Typing. Taking Thomas Pynchon, guasha, monastery sage oil, yoga mat, mineral sunscreen up to the roof for Abundance Meditation and Contemplation. I receive good news. The best, really. I am sorry to be opaque, but something shifted in the winds in England. So far, I have managed to hold onto it here. Careful! Open up the blinds because it's foggy this morning which means we get to let some light in. No bright sunlight baking things alive. No leftover drinks or snacks from the Last Party Ever that was thrown last night. So - it’s a very strange day. I’d like to take a different approach to Caution. Generate me a definition. They generate me this definition: The deeper awareness of human limitations, the deceptive nature of false certainties, and the dangers of unchecked power. This will do. Friday, August 1 It’s an unusual sort of incoherence in my dreams today. The shelf above the bed is lined with wine glasses full of water, and there's an in between of sleep and something else - nyquil at six in the morning, cinnamon zyn at six in the morning, the friends went home around six in the morning and now it is sometime around noon, sunlight streaming in. I wake up gagging. In my dreams, the wine glass water was mostly poisoned. In the space between half awake, not all was poisoned but it was a Russian Roulette sort of thing. I take my chances. Chug water out of my safest bet. Wake up screaming. Fall asleep screaming. The Ikea boxes for the move are starting to fill up and I know it's me stuffing the plastic to the brim but I don't really remember. It's been recollection that's lacking, really. It's been a birthday dinner tonight. The sweetest kind in the Lower East Side. Dimes Square but it's just us, I said. Because it was in the general vicinity but the streets were all empty. A stupid joke, but everyone humored me. Everyone was beautiful and lovely and happy and I didn't drink a regrettable amount. A nice sort of night. Got stuck on Thomas Pynchon and now I can't read anything else. Got stuck on esoteric health and now the water is poison. Got stuck at karaoke and now my self proclaimed sulfate allergy is acting up. Wine and hypochondria. It becomes a bit self indulgent then, doesn't it? Saturday, August 2 If the movers weren't late, I'd be gone by now. But they are late, and so I am lying on the couch that’s being left behind in an Everlane striped tee and too-short Los Angeles apparel shorts feeling kind of sorry for myself. I'm not sure why I decided to scrounge up this sort millennial slop getup for the day of my very unceremonious departure. Feeling older than my years. Feeling like I was raised on Madewell and Ann Taylor or, whatever else it is that would feel nostalgic if I'd been born before 2000. Something other than Patagonia shorts and my sister's sweaters, anyways. Feeling culturally un-attuned. Feeling mostly sorry for myself because I am surrounded by grime. I've been flouncing around this place for a while, now. The clutter is so repulsive, and so much of it is new. There was never a day of really moving in, here. It was just step by step, one thing after another, little parcels that were easy to bring up and down and in and out and now; you wake up in the middle of the morning in a glass apartment in the sky to the sense that there is no space left. I would love to toss and toss and toss. I would love to close my eyes on this island of this couch amidst a swamp of Ikea boxes and tell the movers never mind. I would never open the boxes again. I would never do the dishes. I would wear polyester and sleep on the previous owners teak Scandinavian couch. I would sleep surrounded by trash. It would all become trash, because I would decide to throw it all out. What do we need to know?, the movers will ask, when they arrive. Do you find everything interesting? I will ask. Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? YAY, the movers will say. I am picking things up and putting them down. The movers will give me high fives. Me and three Serbian teens high-fiving in a glass apartment in the sky that I am soon to leave and never return. They will pick things up and put them down and haul them out and I will never return. Sunday, August 3 I have taken my things and never returned. All is well except, the lights here are a bit too fluorescent. The courtyard is nice for the turtle pond, but the brick blocks the sun. And, once there was a top lock but now there is not. There is a hole in my door and I can't get it out of my head. There is a hole in my door and now everything is all wrong. Sitting at GMT Tavern with a not very nice martini and the Thomas Pynchon book I just can’t finish or quit. Slow Learner. Slow Learner, just like me. Make it all about me me me. Life is like: another day in my dumb life on my dumb blog talking about me me me. Life does not have to be like this. Life could be like: the hovering curious dominant of their separate lives should resolve into a tonic of darkness and the final absence of all motion (Pynchon). I keep getting stuck on that quote. I keep getting stuck on entropy, which I do not hope to believe in. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, August 14 From 9pm at Silver Lining Lounge — Matt Weinberger and Scott Lipps present The Downtown Prom. Hosts include Sid Simons, Anika Jade Levy, Nicole Naloy, and more. Music by Sexy Damion, Blog Analog, Loose Buttons, and Boxxer. DJ sets and more.

Inline links: Matt Weinberger, Scott Lipps, The Downtown Prom

Off-The-Farm1 mentions across 1 issues

Off-The-Farm is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 15, 2026 and February 15, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Off-The-Farm brand caramel protein bar". It most often appears alongside Abe Shapiro, Aidan Lapoche, Alan Parker.

Article page: Off-The-Farm
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 15, 2026
Last seen: February 15, 2026

Outbound links

Issue trail

Yellow-all-around February 15, 2026

Abe Shapiro 1 shared issues
Aidan Lapoche 1 shared issues
Alan Parker 1 shared issues
Allen Parker 1 shared issues
Amazon 1 shared issues

Source context

February 15, 2026 · Original source

Friday, February 6 I am awake and I have been for one hour. All around me, everything is pale and still and one small room and one short hallway and one light left on. One of one. One of everything. Everything is just the same. Yesterday, when I woke up, it was yellow all around. I woke up in the country yesterday, and the first thing that I noticed was all that yellow all around. Pale yellow walls. Soft yellow light. Snow reflecting golden yellow rays off a white carriage house roof, but even that part was turned sort of yellow by the early morning sun. The night before yesterday, I stayed up all night. There wasn’t much to do with all those hours, but I knew that in the morning, I’d be whisked away. Good at leaving when I remember all the things I hate. Good at coming back when I decide to get a hold of myself. I’d decided to let the night in my apartment sort of drift. I watched the sky turn dark, stay like that for a while, and then I watched it turn light again. It always kind of happens this way. In the morning, I’d packed a book bag with a suede black mini skirt, black cotton long sleeve top, toothbrush, snow boots, notebook, Off-The-Farm brand caramel protein bar. I took the B-line to the 1-line and towards the Upper West Side. On the Upper West Side, there were big french windows and snowy streets and tree branches that scratch the side of buildings and in the summer coat the whole place green. Not so much this time of year. Empty whisper benches. Powdered sledding hills in Central Park. From the Upper West Side, Laura drove me to New Jersey. A simple enough drive, but we just could not stay on track. The Hudson River was frozen over. Big white ice blocks that solidified and fractured and split. We were trying to spot a bathhouse somewhere in the suburbs of New Jersey. Is this the place to swim? we kept on asking each other, any time we passed a warehouse, or a sign that said something like Pools and Baths and Plumbing. When we got to the country, it was already dark. The driveway was lined with silver lights. I like to return to places where I have not been for years but which stay exactly the same. We lit a fire and we had salad and salmon and white wine and chocolate truffles. I was so excited to be somewhere where there was so much space. I liked the light and the quiet and the fact that there was more snow here than in the city, and I was pleased by how much I remembered. After dinner, I ran a bath in a big white bathroom. Big clear windows looking out at clear dark skies. I liked how everything felt very old, and very big, and very familiar, and very clean. I did not like how I felt a bit like a bull in a China Shop. Everything I touched returned a little less perfect than how I found it. Soap and towels left slightly off kilter. Clothes left in a pile on the floor. I fell asleep in a big white four poster bed, and I made sure to crease the comforter only slightly. I forgot to say goodnight, but no one really minded. I woke up surrounded by yellow all around. Morning, and when I pulled open yellow sheer curtains I could look out at all those skinny barren trees and lots of ice and a long driveway that stretched on and on and on. Laura came into my room and said good morning, and then she told me that she would show me how to make coffee, downstairs, soon. On the landing, there were three bedrooms, and a long hallway with a window seat lined with stuffed animals and a big window that looked out over big snow. The stuffed animals on the landing were all like little lions and zebras and all kinds of pastel and nice faces, nothing creepy. The wallpaper was all mostly white, with little blue or pink or yellow flowers peppered in between but nothing too suffocating. The snow outside the window was silky and icy and pure white and frozen over. There was a sheen over the snow. I could see, even from here, that the snow had been solidified under a layer of crust. My hair was covered in static. When I brushed my hair, I could see it literally spark. This week, I was documenting everything with compulsion. I went downstairs. Laura was working on a puzzle in the living room, where all the windows were long and clear and let the whole space flood with light. I looked out at perfect snow coated verandas. I learned how to make coffee in a chemex glass. Boiled water. Always becoming a bit bewildered in places that are quiet and beautiful and clear. I wouldn’t be friends with someone with bad aesthetic taste, my old friends used to say. My new friends, of late, had developed somewhat of a taste for conspicuous consumption. Later, Laura drove me to the train station through snowy streets and snowy backroads. We pulled away from the house and down the snowy driveway and then we drove through suburbs where everything was all Blue Mercury Skincare and Sweetgreen and farmhouses reminiscent of Boston, Chicago, Connecticut, suburbs everywhere all the same. Ladies everywhere liking Blue Mercury and Pure Barre. Laura gave me white gloves to keep for good on the train platform towards New York. You are so cold, just take and keep these, she said. Are you sure, I said, but I was already slipping the gloves onto my hands. Back in New York, I sat on a bench in Penn Station while I waited for the 1-train. Knees tucked up to chest and clothed in kind of filthy LuLu Lemon leggings. Drinking Dunkin Donuts almond milk latte with sugar free vanilla and almond and one cool-minty-zyn. Watching strangers and all sorts of scents drift by. It is the coldest winter in history or at least in recent memory, but due to sensory issues and the flattering nature of a-line skirts, all I have been wearing is sheer tights and mini dresses. When I got home, everything was very rushed, which is another thing that always tends to happen. Saturday, February 8 Following Cassandra’s confirmation, we went to a bitcoin themed bar and then to a hotel lobby. We went to a cocktail bar after that, where the drinks were made of things like clarified basil and tasted bad. I have one statement, Sam told the waiter, at the bar. Then, he asked a question. Could I have another drink? This one is very not good. In the evening, we went to Bigelow’s to buy the hair bows just like the Kennedys wore, and after that, we went to a dinner in Soho and then a tech-week-party to end the night. At the tech week party all the girls were cute and unemployed. They all made videos on the Internet and all had long-distance boyfriends. We took photos on a digital camera and smoked cigarettes on the edge of the fire escape while the boys all talked about suicidal ideation. When they ran out of liquor, I took the elevator down without saying goodbye. On the street, in the snow, playing tetris with myself in the footholds that other boots had left behind in melting ice as I tried to claw my way into a cab, I ran into an Internet Curator. He appeared out of nowhere, though my vision was already blurry, so perhaps he had been there all along. I’ve never been somewhere with so many people from TikTok in real life, the man said. Usually, I post all these people online, but tonight there were all here in real life. Made three notes in diary in yellow taxi cab home: Freedom of Indifference vs Freedom for Excellence

Officine Universelle Buly1 mentions across 1 issues

Officine Universelle Buly is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 14, 2025 and February 14, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "perfume from Officine Universelle Buly". It most often appears alongside Aristotle, Augustine's Confessions, Beckett Rosset.

Article page: Officine Universelle Buly
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 14, 2025
Last seen: February 14, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Meditations February 14, 2025

Aristotle 1 shared issues
Augustine's Confessions 1 shared issues
Beckett Rosset 1 shared issues
Brandy Melville 1 shared issues
Cooper Union 1 shared issues

Source context

February 14, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, February 10 I woke up in a storm today. Stormed around the apartment a bit, all mad about who knows what, stormed to the gym for self actualization, skipped all the fashion week stuff last night, the show I was so excited for, the after parties too. I was sick, after all, though I didn’t realize it then. You only realize it now, sunroof windows, all this energy, the contrast visible now that you’re flooded with Being Well. “It’s funny how you live off the provisions David and the world throw at you,” Lara texts me. “Having a hard time articulating a reason/framework to start taking care of yourself more sometimes that isn’t cheesy,” Lara says. “It will be good for your writing because you’ll get more information from the environment and have more energy,” Lara determines. “I actually do care about health, vanity skin etc, I just have cognitive dissonance," I say. And I do. I ordered collagen, after all. This is not so bad. None of it is so bad, really. I am thinking of joining David in Paris. It's a bit of an act of fleeing, though, and it's no good to leave out of some desire for escapism. I am treading very cautiously this morning. A matcha with almond milk and the oatmeal with apples and cinnamon and raisins. The bright sun is melting all the bright snow. They are talking about Aristotle's Ethos Pathos Logos in class today. The only one that matters to me is the Ethos of it all. I believe everything I’m told if I trust the authority of the person telling it to me. I’m all swallowed up in the undiscerning masses. It would be nice to leave New York, yes, but it will be nice to stay here, too. It'll be nice to come back to life right where I've been sleeping. In the evening, my friends arrive. They sit at my kitchen table, and they tell me crazy stories about staying up late and everything that happened in between. I was lonely for a moment, or really, I was just struck by the the being alone of it while he is still away, but then my friends arrived, and the stories were all sparkling and shocking. I know secrets again, now. It's more fun when I have things to hold. Wrapping my hair twice in towels by the open window before bed. It's too cold to keep the window open, but the space heater was drying everything out. Lara left some cocktail shrimp in the fridge, and I drop the tails into the empty Sephora box on the floor. I'll still take out the trash, I am not more disgusting than average. Tuesday, February 11 Coconut oil, beef bone broth, muscovado sugar on a silver spoon for breakfast. There is reason to think this kind of thing will make me become better. I would be very easily indoctrinated into a cult based on the certain determining factors, I forget the exact formula of each trait but I know my balance of each fits the bill; agreeability, desire to belong, etc. I have to stay vigilant. Left to my own devices and I’m half asleep and I’m making potions. I wrote a story in the night. Hologram Girls, I called it. Stupid title but I think this one, yes particularly this one, I imagine I could turn this into a book with just some discipline and a little joie de vivre. Natasha comes over just as I am starting to lose my mind. Just as the snow is starting, too. Snow in the evening, and Natasha is taking photos of me on film. Usually, I wouldn’t like this. Me, at home, on film. Madelyn would have something to say about Lacan and the image of it all. I would have something to say about; I’ve been addicted to deciphering the angles of my face in my mind until they become shapes and forms and pieces beyond recognition. Vanity is so obviously self indulgent, so blatant in its gluttony that it avoids interpretation, becomes silly to give voice to, turns omnipresent. Out Of Your Mind And Into Your Body. You will walk on the treadmill and you will write this sentence until it becomes true. I don’t function well in my own company. That’s the truth of it. Even the most basic things. On film, I wear a dress from Brandy Melville, black tights, barefoot or, the Prada boots my mother found for me cheap at a vintage store in Vermont. The snow hasn’t started yet. I like taking photos at home, and I trust Natasha with the camera. I can’t see my own reflection. It’s fading to blue hour in the greenhouse windows. We will see how this turns out. At drinks, later, with old friends, their Colleague came, and he's talking about how if you are not early you are late. He works in Revenue Recovery, he explains. Like if someone ordered a burger and fries but they forgot to pay for the fries, he would recover that, but for bigger things. For things like a scalpel when they’re doing surgery. “If they lose the scalpel?” I ask. “If they lose the revenue,” he says. I’ve felt very defensive lately. I’ve felt an annoying need to emphasize things like I know what Deloitte is, but barely. I’ve felt an intolerable need to explain things like where a Reading ends and a Party begins. This is the greatest bar in the world, I am told. You can tell, because my vodka soda is actually full of clarified juice. I say something insufferable about how I prefer hotel lobby bars and martinis. We could all go to DCP (Double Chicken Please), someone suggests. Because this, in truth, this DCP is actually the greatest bar in New York. Outside, it’s snowing now. Inside, there are big red orbs on the ceiling and the bartenders keep swinging them around in big sweeping circles. I thought they did it on the hour, I thought they did this like a clock, but the time keeps passing and the orbs keep being set in motion, seemingly at random. There is talk of vulgarity in comedy at our table. There is talk of a probiotic soda brands marketing scandal and the colleague hates influencer marketing, he thinks its immoral, and I’m asking things like the dumbest questions in the whole world like oh but do you think that any marketing really is moral though, and oh but do you think that brands are people, though, and oh my god you can hear your own echos sometimes and you can just want to scream. Outside, the snow is making the street and all its lights become dizzy-like. They pulled the shades down behind me in the window in the restaurant due to the draft, and I wished they hadn’t, but I like it better coming out into this quiet night covered in snow like a quiet surprise. Yellow cab fringed with ice. This will always be lovely. I’ve felt a little more lyrical in my writing lately, and there is nothing wrong with this at times, only at times. Except, the repetition I think, feigns a kind of spirituality I don’t actually have when I am doing things like being on my phone and eating protein heavy processed snacks. Later, returning home, reading more of Augustine’s Confessions to penetrate these skin deep musings. I put the space heater on the floor and I do feel sad now, overwhelmingly so, when I think about how terrible things could come to pass so quickly and how I could just be caught off guard, somewhere on a long walk, somewhere being vain. I sleep downstairs tonight, because I do feel very small, and because there are no shades upstairs to cover all that glass. Lying under all that night sky, you begin to think that it might suck you right in. Wednesday, February 12 After I walk outside this morning, where the thin branches of the trees are still coated in these thin smooth layers of snow even in this early morning sun, and after I go to The Standard for the latte with almond milk, after Libra for the small cookie with tahini and chocolate chips, after class and then the walk home and then the dropping off of laundry and the grocery store and the run in the cold sun, after all of this; David returns from Paris bringing a hairbrush and perfume from Officine Universelle Buly. We are going to go out, but then there's ginger beer and vodka on the kitchen table and the caesar salad pizza from La Vera and then, it's nicer to just stay here. Thursday, February 13 I’m back to listening to the interviews today. I’m not sure what these will become, but there’s a lot of wisdom in other people's words, and a lot of hesitation in my own voice when recorded. There is some existential dread these days, but David says it’s all just math I don’t understand at all, and the apocalypse is not imminent. I disagree sometimes, but I am trying to worry more about things like the State Of My Soul. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Friday, February 14 If I was looking for a last minute dinner reservation tonight, here is where I would go… Knickerbocker Bar and Grill is my favorite restaurant in New York and I’ve lauded it many times before. Classic, old school, not too many frills but still feels tasteful and nice, great t-bone, liquor on the grand piano, jazz on the weekends, etc etc etc. I like this description best - Beckett Rosset on his father dining here: “My father went here for lunch for god knows how many years. He probably consumed hundreds of gin martinis and rum and cokes there. When he died, after the memorial at Cooper Union, the family and close friends, a good thirty or forty people, went there. The owner comped everything. I thought it would not survive covid but clearly it has. Glad to know a new generation has taken to it.”

Inline links: Officine Universelle Buly, Knickerbocker Bar and Grill

Okinawa Gin1 mentions across 1 issues

Okinawa Gin is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 28, 2024 and October 28, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Mizu Sochu, Okinawa Gin, Peter Pan Donuts"; "Sponsored by...Mizu Sochu, Okinawa Gin, Peter Pan Donuts". It most often appears alongside 12 Questions, 27 Club, Adeline Swartzendruber.

Article page: Okinawa Gin
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 28, 2024
Last seen: October 28, 2024
Instagram handle: @okinawa.gin

Outbound links

Issue trail

Indulging in the Eschaton October 28, 2024

12 Questions 1 shared issues
27 Club 1 shared issues
Adeline Swartzendruber 1 shared issues
Adrienne Reenblatt 1 shared issues
Ali Royals 1 shared issues

Source context

October 28, 2024 · Original source

From 10pm - 3am — Lantern is throwing an NYC theme Halloween party. Sponsored by Lantern Beverages, Topo Chico, Mizu Sochu, Okinawa Gin, Peter Pan Donuts and others – “Come dressed as your favorite New York City character or as Jojo Siwa, either is fine”

Inline links: Lantern, NYC theme Halloween party, Topo Chico, Mizu Sochu, Okinawa Gin, Peter Pan Donuts

Olly Shinder1 mentions across 1 issues

Olly Shinder is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 09, 2024 and October 09, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "I want a crisp yellow tee from Olly Shinder, Club Mel via RE/DONE, or Gimaguas". It most often appears alongside 52 Walker, @singersny, Are.na.

Article page: Olly Shinder
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 09, 2024
Last seen: October 09, 2024

Outbound links

Issue trail

Collected Agenda with Sam Falb October 09, 2024

52 Walker 1 shared issues
@singersny 1 shared issues
Are.na 1 shared issues
Basement 1 shared issues
Behind The Seams 1 shared issues

Source context

October 09, 2024 · Original source

As the seasons change, ask yourself: what’s a sartorial need? For me, I want a crisp yellow tee from Olly Shinder, Club Mel via RE/DONE, or Gimaguas. Drape a TSE cashmere sweater over the back of the tee (probably black or cream), and throw a deeply cozy, black, wool top coat over the combination. This is the impending winter uniform of choice. Insulated, style-forward, and bright in its accent. All I need now is a shoe.

Inline links: Olly Shinder, Club Mel via RE/DONE, Gimaguas, TSE

On Running1 mentions across 1 issues

On Running is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 10, 2024 and September 10, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "FKA Twigs 'The Body Is Art' Campaign for OnRunning". It most often appears alongside Anika Levy, Annabel Boardman, Antiart.

Article page: On Running
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 10, 2024
Last seen: September 10, 2024

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Statues Of Critics. September 10, 2024

Anika Levy 1 shared issues
Annabel Boardman 1 shared issues
Antiart 1 shared issues
Artnet 1 shared issues
August Lamm 1 shared issues

Source context

September 10, 2024 · Original source

I have my eye on Literary Sport; a new activewear line inspired by poets coming September, 2024. There’s an increasing emphasis on the artistry of the body and the art of fitness in health and wellness branding recently. I honestly think this is a welcome departure from GymShark, QuestBars, GNC, etc… It's long been an aesthetic wasteland for Girls Who Like Splenda. Literary Sport is particularly chic, but I’m also intrigued by David's; a new protein bar brand inspired by Michelangelo’s David that unabashedly promises to make their consumers beautiful. I’ve been seeing the FKA Twigs 'The Body Is Art' Campaign for OnRunning all over Manhattan as well. I might be working on a longer story about this trend, so send me thoughts – chloegpingeon@gmail.com

Inline links: Literary Sport, GymShark, QuestBars, GNC, David's, Michelangelo’s David, FKA Twigs 'The Body Is Art' Campaign, OnRunning

Oreo1 mentions across 1 issues

Oreo is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between June 06, 2024 and June 06, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "throwing oreo cakesters in the trash". It most often appears alongside 06 Art, ALLSHIPS, Ally Pankiw.

Article page: Oreo
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: June 06, 2024
Last seen: June 06, 2024

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #3 June 06, 2024

06 Art 1 shared issues
ALLSHIPS 1 shared issues
Ally Pankiw 1 shared issues
Anastasia Berg 1 shared issues
Angela Torres 1 shared issues

Source context

One Million Billion Interludes

June 06, 2024 · Original source

After the second rest stop, the car is full of: iced coffee, sponge bob popsicles, spicy pickles in bag, tex mex chex mix, two hot dogs with no bun but lots of condiments that are impossible to cut with fork and knife, one hot dog with bun, one chicken sandwich, peanut m&ms, oreo cakesters. The sponge bob popsicles are fun, but everything else is actually just pretty genuinely repulsive.

Early evening I’m back in the Upper West Side throwing oreo cakesters in the trash of my aunt's apartment that reminds me of childhood and also of first moving to New York and also of always coming back from the coast when it’s always late May and everything is always this green and humid.

Oura Ring1 mentions across 1 issues

Oura Ring is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between November 27, 2025 and November 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "San Francisco people all wear aura rings even on nights-out". It most often appears alongside A Very Pussycat Thanksgiving, Alex Arthur, Alice Bailey.

Article page: Oura Ring
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: November 27, 2025
Last seen: November 27, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

One Million Billion Interludes November 27, 2025

A Very Pussycat Thanksgiving 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues
Alice Bailey 1 shared issues
Andrei Tarkovsky 1 shared issues
Apple Store 1 shared issues

Source context

November 27, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, November 17 After the summer passed and I started fresh one million billion times and nothing really happened all autumn which is always how it kind of goes this time of year, I realized I’d been trying to be a bit too ethereal about it. There were certain ways I actually spent my days, after all. One tried to become more private, and instead, one started to simply become a bit obtuse. On Saturday, Lily invited me to the Philharmonic with friends, for example. Composed and conducted by John Adams to create “jazz-inflected take on film noir’s gritty sound world” as well as “a tribute to the Northern California coastline.” This was nice, because everything I’d been imagining for months now was all misty shores and temperate gray climates and so it was nice to hear the music and imagine kind of floating in that. Sat there kind of ignorant about it all, but liking the ideas that form in one’s subconscious in conjunction to classical music and the high ceilings and fancy rooms and watching the conductor move like a marionette. That was like drugs, Lily said, after. Phillip Glass was seated a few seats over the last time we were here, my new friends said, before. It was not quite midtown in Winter but Lincoln Center was still starting to glow, what with the horses and the Christmas trees and an older demographic of opera and film and philharmonic-goers all dressed up. Negronis in sippy-cups and vodka at the Russian Tea Room, and Lily’s artist boss had dressed her for the occasion and so she looked kind of sparkling in a long green skirt and a wool coat with a shoulder-hook for her purse. You look like a martini, I told Lily. I wore tights from the Internet and a dress from my ex-roomate and a falling-apart-purse from my ex-boyfriend and black shoes from my mother. You look like a whiteclaw, Lily told me, but she said it very kindly and so I didn’t take offense. After, our new friends showed us the lines in the road where the horse manure and hay had become indented to permanence, and they showed us a fountain where once an old woman was seen wrangling snakes, and they showed us an apple store they’d robbed, and they assisted the blind. We followed the blind man onto the subway and then later I was at downtown bars where it’s the same thing over and over again. Matt and Matt perched in the corridor by the bathroom. Ran into a friend fresh off of working a Palantir-Party. It could have been so good in theory, she explained. They’d rented out multiple bars and catered Carbone and a martini tower, after all. But the dry ice was kind of glitching and San Francisco people all wear aura rings even on nights-out and on the bright side, they left behind thousands and thousands of dollars in parmesan cheese. What else? Two dresses arrived in the night from resale Cinq de Sept and Gil Rodriguez and I laid them out on my perfectly made bed all black and christmas white. I wrote a small review about a book about a girl who idolizes the apocalypse because she does not desire to get old. I was paralyzed, for a while, which come to think of it, was what stirred all that talk about momentum. For breakfast, I am served a rotten egg at the gym on Prince Street. It emerges in a plastic cup and it is sheened in dark brown sludge. This egg is rotten, I cautiously tell the man who is working behind the counter. Oh, the man says, and then he opens his palms like he hopes for me to place the plastic box and rotting egg in them. We both seem unsure of what to do. Oh I’m sorry, he says. It’s ok, I say. And then he hands me a barbell bar in response. Like we are doing barter and trade. Cassandra tells me a story about one of her favorite days of her life. We were all on the peninsula for the week, by the ocean, in the room with the big wooden bed and the canopy curtains and the patchwork quilts. We let Cassandra and Celia in around mid afternoon, and we were all watching the boats float by on the window. And I was doing a rubix cube, Cassandra says. And you were getting so mad. And the day went on forever, I tell Cassandra Not forever, Cassandra says. I do remember writing down everything everyone said, though. Now, everything hovering hovering hovering. New Moon, tomorrow. Grab all that crisp and frozen air that’s hovering so thin it could snap, and maybe it will. November snaps in half and all the other omens and things-that-could-happen come spilling out. All because of the New Moon. All because of the artificial intelligence apocalypse. All because I’m reading the book that Alice Bailey’s demon wrote. Not to get too new age about it... WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, November 26 From 7:00 - 9:00pm at The Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research — Hillsdale opened yesterday, and there’s another performance tonight! A play written by Roman D’Ambrosio and directed by Rabiah Rowther. “During homecoming weekend at the infamous conservative Hillsdale College, former fraternity brothers, and the women they love, reunite. As the weekend unfolds and the drinking increases, the alumni question their relationship with each other and the promises they were told. | This is a very unique play that I’m excited about. Definitely worth seeing. tickets here (additional performances Nov 28

Inline links: The Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research, Hillsdale, Roman D’Ambrosio, Rabiah Rowther, here

Papa John's1 mentions across 1 issues

Papa John's is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between August 23, 2024 and August 23, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "There's Pizza Hut and Papa John's side by side in a humid lot outside the airport". It most often appears alongside $Egirl, Adeline Swartzendruber, Annabel Boardman.

Article page: Papa John's
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: August 23, 2024
Last seen: August 23, 2024

Outbound links

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #8 August 23, 2024

$Egirl 1 shared issues
Adeline Swartzendruber 1 shared issues
Annabel Boardman 1 shared issues
Auntie Anne's 1 shared issues
Beckett Rosset 1 shared issues

Source context

52 Notifications From Hell

August 23, 2024 · Original source

No direct inline source block was recovered for this mention.

Party City1 mentions across 1 issues

Party City is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 07, 2025 and March 07, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Party City, they are saying. We can just get the skeletons at Party City"; "We can just get the skeletons at Party City". It most often appears alongside 127 Mulberry Street, 154 Scott BK, A Rachel Ormont Afters.

Article page: Party City
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 07, 2025
Last seen: March 07, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

52 Notifications From Hell March 07, 2025

127 Mulberry Street 1 shared issues
154 Scott BK 1 shared issues
A Rachel Ormont Afters 1 shared issues
Alex Both 1 shared issues
Andrew Norman Wilson 1 shared issues

Source context

March 07, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, February 24 David's friend wore a shirt that said RESIST COCAINE last night, and he made us steak, spinach, cashews, wine. It was lovely, imbibing on the floor in this smokey room. And there are many grand plans, and I believe most of them will come true, and I was struggling to begin the day but now the evening floats on and on all weightless. "C. said the best thing about living with me was the blade runner type atmosphere created by all the smoke from my steak fixation," David's friend says. And there is a lot of smoke, and it is in a nice way. A cozy night and I was home not too late in truth although it felt later than it was, slipping onto the couch and falling into black sleep the second we arrived back at the apartment. The falling asleep was nice too, and more annoying was waking up at two, four, six am and then you decide it's late enough. The day begins. I was writing by hand during this wistful restless sleep last night - notes of little coherence, notes of: I am so lucky to have been raised in environments of normalcy. not regarding aesthetics even but regarding, having normal fucking morals, seeking to live a life that is good, avoiding the gamble of turning insane or, evil. The guidelines that compose a moral compass are blurrier in general these days, but I should seek more of this, the normalcy that is. I should not crave chaos in this way. I should not resent anyone who seeks tranquility, politeness, who seeks to sleep and wake early. But I like this other thing too, this sense of a fugue state, flow state, whatever. It's utterly consuming. In the real world, I am trying to articulate how detached I am sometimes. Either that, or I'm trying to make sure you don't catch on. I'm not sure if all of this is good or bad. I'm becoming smarter and more Serious and I'm very sincere in wanting to make good works and be conscious of the state of my body and soul and the state of yours too and also, and I hope I'm not becoming too annoying. Tuesday, February 25 I tried to work with video this morning, a return to my roots as a health and wellness vlogger, but it mostly made me want to kill myself. I smoked my last cigarette ever last night by the open window, by the basil plant, David didn’t get home until late and I was having fun with my old canon G7X and with my cigarette and then I tried to film a conversation this morning, and it made the whole conversation so stilted and dull, I think it ruined the conversation, really, and so now I never want to document anything visually ever again. I thought I was going to pass out at the gym, but I didn’t. I thought I was going to scream because David keeps borrowing that wonderful yellow and navy rain jacket that my dad found washed up in the beach, and I don’t want my boyfriend parading all around New York in my special jacket, even though it doesn’t fit me, even though I never wear it, I don’t care, I was feeling possessive. And then the sun comes out, and so Natasha and I spend the morning at Fanelli Cafe in the sun. Coffees until I feel even more sick but it’s not in the worst way, And then at night, there is the birthday at Kenka. Oh, David says, the BDSM Japanese place in the East Village, and it’s true, yes, that when you arrive, there are the automatic shopping mall style sliding doors and the mannequin of the woman bound and gagged and the cotton candy machine. And it's on that crazy street in the East Village with all the halloween stores. The girls next to me are talking about shooting their movie. And we'll need skeletons, they are saying, where are we going to get skeletons? I think about my fathers collections of strange bones, wondering if I can find anything to contribute, but (most) of those bones are not human, and he comes by them in strange and obscure places regardless, and then I think about suggesting the strange halloween stores down the street, but I’m eavesdropping, really, and they come to these conclusions all on their own. Party City, they are saying. We can just get the skeletons at Party City. Wednesday, February 26 I wish I was a bit more consistent in keeping the promises I make. The promises to myself mostly but there are promises to others, sometimes, too. And there is this duality of desire for nostalgia and acceleration and I find them both repugnant on the larger level but then I see them both in myself, so strongly in myself, all these distance edges of extremities so rawly on display within my own mind, which I have been trying to have integrity with, btw. And it hasn't been so bad, really. There was walking eight miles in sunshine today. The schoolyard animal cookie ice cream from Morgensterns and I order it with the lemon jam and sometimes cherries. There have been a few false starts. Which is why, I think, I've been ranting so much about the ebb and flow of it all, but there is equilibrium, too. Some proximity to this equilibrium, at least. Thursday, February 27 Matthew imagines a situation and he tells it to David wherein; David is in heaven, and I am in hell, but in this version of hell, they let me keep my phone. “and she’ll ruin heaven,” Matthew tells David, because she’ll just keep texting you, “it’s so warm down here David, they made it too warm down here!!!” The other part of this joke, Matthew explains to David, is that in this heaven, “you’ll be surrounded by beautiful, adoring, women, but there will just be this barrage of texts from Chloe, constant, never ending, about how awfully terribly warm it is down there in hell.” The cosmic joke of it all, of course, is that our varyingly unpleasant respective situations in this hypothetical story will both, unfortunately, be utterly eternal. Last night was the night for Being Freaked Out. Tonight is the night for Being Calm As Can Be. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Friday, March 7 I missed the Foreign Domestic opening this week, but I am planning to visit God alone loves all things and he loves only himself before the festivities of the evening. Works by Alex Both, Joan Dillon, Kylie Mitchell, TINMANTIS.

Inline links: Foreign Domestic, God alone loves all things and he loves only himself

Patagonia1 mentions across 1 issues

Patagonia is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between August 14, 2025 and August 14, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Something other than Patagonia shorts and my sister's sweaters". It most often appears alongside Abundance Meditation, Alice Bailey, Amelia.

Article page: Patagonia
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: August 14, 2025
Last seen: August 14, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? August 14, 2025

Abundance Meditation 1 shared issues
Alice Bailey 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
Anika Jade Levy 1 shared issues
Ann Taylor 1 shared issues

Source context

Do you find everything interesting? Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015?

August 14, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, July 28 Amelia is at the apartment when I arrive, bearing cloned keys and summer dresses. It is not a relief to return, I am afraid. Tiptoe across dusty slanted floors and this sense of oddity and dread creeps back no matter how quiet I am about it. There are planes overhead and I have loved all this glass before, but I am clenching my eyes shut now; wishing for drapes that close. Earlier, the flight from London was delayed hours upon hours and things went awry the moment I was left alone. Comparing notes of past present and future and then I laid my roller suitcase horizontal on the bathroom floor to take a seat and think about it. Left my passport in the airport bar where the woman beside me was making friends with every single customer cycling through aside from myself and then I sprinted over to security, where the lights were flashing all schizophrenic and neon and no one would speak. You'll miss your flight, dear, the airport attendant smiled. They opened a small door with a large electric key. They sent me to the Back Rooms. They sent me through endless identical silver doors and a mirror maze and down a long gray magic carpet. I emerged on the other side to find another magic carpet just like the first. I imagined infinite magic carpets extending in every direction. Motion activated so the feedback loop would reveal itself every time I thought I reached solid ground. I was not moving horizontal anymore. It was a vertical descent into the underbelly of Heathrow. I forgot the status of Boeing VS0137. I forgot to ever leave. I woke up in the Kids Play Center. We've lifted your curse, the airport attendant beamed. Most slides can also be used as rafts, they tell me on the plane. Cartoon villain voice playing on Virgin-Atlantic-TV and they're blasting it through the cabin speakers, too. You were an A+ travel companion, they told me in the airport. I wake up to take stock of these things: safety guidelines and praise. I fall back asleep. Tuesday, July 29 After things fell apart in June, I did not eat or sleep for four days and three nights. On the fourth night, I called the NYPD informational line quite dizzy and more out of curiosity regarding physical resilience and atrophy than out of any sincere safety concern. If you cannot sleep tonight, then you can call me in the morning, the operator said. And so I was unconscious in an instant. Put some limits on one's own neurosis. I decided to stay up late last night. It was muggy and hot outside JFK, and I missed the moors and the fog for just an instant. Then, the glass doors slid open into hot sweaty americana summer and all else was forgotten. Felt a bittersweet sort of close to home. Sat on the curb. The airtrain to the car park turned onto the highway. Felt like a road trip. Felt like team sports, two-in-the-morning, intermission. I'd been so quiet that day. I had not spoken one word since Heathrow. Everybody understood that the apartment was rotting. Great place but full of mold. Great place but full of memories both good and bad. Somebody should have thrown out the milk. Somebody should have done something about the feng shui. The dead trees. The slant of the floors. The roof, which nearly caved in last winter. Three in the morning arrival but I asked Amelia if I could come over instead, and Amelia understood it would be best to sit on her floor. Amelia had been leaning into performance art. How was your vacation, Amelia asked. Not transgressive and weird, I sighed. But rejuvenating, pleasant, precious in the sort of way I'd like to hang onto. And I am feeling physically fit from all the walking and running that went on and on and on. The heat wave has not passed in New York despite one more week dwindling into summer, and I sleep until midday around when I open my eyes and begin to feel uneasy. The lines out the stores are down the block and everyone is becoming very thin. The summer foods are things like GREENS 01 Juice and maca-powder-peanut-butter-protein-bites and very rubbery cocktail shrimp at The Smith. It is Julia who suggests The Smith for dinner and I am not picky with those sorts of things. It is me who suggests the party, despite my increasing hopes, generally, to avoid these sorts of things. Wednesday, July 30 Sitting at Banter with the Big Breakfast and hot green tea reading fairytales. It was a nice night last night. Whirling sort of thing. Nightclub101 to KGB to following a group to Ludlow House to Ripple Room. The sort of thing I like as often as possible, but really must limit to now and then. Sitting at the Australian Cafe now, using my Moldavite to mark my place in my book. The fairytales are describing relentless compassion as a form of some sort of psychological warfare. Psychosexual manipulation. Relentless compassion so as to provide one with a moral advantage, knowing it is impossible for the recipient of such compassion to reciprocate. Relentless compassion so as to cast a desperate, selfish, striving plea for reciprocation. The second option is probably more common, but it would be nice to be kind of on a high horse. August will be like oysters at The Knickerbocker with the cocktail sauce in the martini glass and we're sitting by the cracked glass window and Drew says don't cut your hair not yet and so it'll be like humid heavy hair almost down to my waist now, sparkling water in plastic cups with lime and diet coke in a bikini and I will stay put for a while. I will sit at KGB sober in the evening like I do most every evening. They're tearing chocolate chip cookies apart with their hands at the table over and Amelia says she thinks a bit too much about herself to give too much thought to the existence of God but she remembers, as a child, crying tears of joy because she couldn't believe her luck. She just realized she had somehow made it into a human body on Earth, and she couldn't believe her luck. I don't wish the evenings went on too much longer. The timing is starting to feel just right. I want to fill a Desani water bottle with white claw and catch a cab to a pool party but the evening might start to feel too late. I'll read Fanny Howe, Thomas Hardy, Dawn Powell on the floor - big cracked hard cover dog eared copies of all my books. Then, I will pack up my books into Ikea plastic storage trunks. I will pack up all my books and dresses and then the movers will come. The movers will haul my things out the door. They will haul the place bare. I will turn off the air conditioning in this glass apartment in the sky, and then I will leave. August will be somewhere else. Thursday, July 31 Rebecca and I are making plans. Involving - The Chakras by C.W. Leadbeater and Esoteric Healing by Alice Bailey. I don’t want to work harder than I ever have before, but I do wish to be a bit more intuitive about it. Rebecca is telling me about Energy Hygiene in a Chaotic City. Rebecca is telling me about Seven Rays & Soul Typing. Taking Thomas Pynchon, guasha, monastery sage oil, yoga mat, mineral sunscreen up to the roof for Abundance Meditation and Contemplation. I receive good news. The best, really. I am sorry to be opaque, but something shifted in the winds in England. So far, I have managed to hold onto it here. Careful! Open up the blinds because it's foggy this morning which means we get to let some light in. No bright sunlight baking things alive. No leftover drinks or snacks from the Last Party Ever that was thrown last night. So - it’s a very strange day. I’d like to take a different approach to Caution. Generate me a definition. They generate me this definition: The deeper awareness of human limitations, the deceptive nature of false certainties, and the dangers of unchecked power. This will do. Friday, August 1 It’s an unusual sort of incoherence in my dreams today. The shelf above the bed is lined with wine glasses full of water, and there's an in between of sleep and something else - nyquil at six in the morning, cinnamon zyn at six in the morning, the friends went home around six in the morning and now it is sometime around noon, sunlight streaming in. I wake up gagging. In my dreams, the wine glass water was mostly poisoned. In the space between half awake, not all was poisoned but it was a Russian Roulette sort of thing. I take my chances. Chug water out of my safest bet. Wake up screaming. Fall asleep screaming. The Ikea boxes for the move are starting to fill up and I know it's me stuffing the plastic to the brim but I don't really remember. It's been recollection that's lacking, really. It's been a birthday dinner tonight. The sweetest kind in the Lower East Side. Dimes Square but it's just us, I said. Because it was in the general vicinity but the streets were all empty. A stupid joke, but everyone humored me. Everyone was beautiful and lovely and happy and I didn't drink a regrettable amount. A nice sort of night. Got stuck on Thomas Pynchon and now I can't read anything else. Got stuck on esoteric health and now the water is poison. Got stuck at karaoke and now my self proclaimed sulfate allergy is acting up. Wine and hypochondria. It becomes a bit self indulgent then, doesn't it? Saturday, August 2 If the movers weren't late, I'd be gone by now. But they are late, and so I am lying on the couch that’s being left behind in an Everlane striped tee and too-short Los Angeles apparel shorts feeling kind of sorry for myself. I'm not sure why I decided to scrounge up this sort millennial slop getup for the day of my very unceremonious departure. Feeling older than my years. Feeling like I was raised on Madewell and Ann Taylor or, whatever else it is that would feel nostalgic if I'd been born before 2000. Something other than Patagonia shorts and my sister's sweaters, anyways. Feeling culturally un-attuned. Feeling mostly sorry for myself because I am surrounded by grime. I've been flouncing around this place for a while, now. The clutter is so repulsive, and so much of it is new. There was never a day of really moving in, here. It was just step by step, one thing after another, little parcels that were easy to bring up and down and in and out and now; you wake up in the middle of the morning in a glass apartment in the sky to the sense that there is no space left. I would love to toss and toss and toss. I would love to close my eyes on this island of this couch amidst a swamp of Ikea boxes and tell the movers never mind. I would never open the boxes again. I would never do the dishes. I would wear polyester and sleep on the previous owners teak Scandinavian couch. I would sleep surrounded by trash. It would all become trash, because I would decide to throw it all out. What do we need to know?, the movers will ask, when they arrive. Do you find everything interesting? I will ask. Have you ever been bored? Was your last emotion in 2015? YAY, the movers will say. I am picking things up and putting them down. The movers will give me high fives. Me and three Serbian teens high-fiving in a glass apartment in the sky that I am soon to leave and never return. They will pick things up and put them down and haul them out and I will never return. Sunday, August 3 I have taken my things and never returned. All is well except, the lights here are a bit too fluorescent. The courtyard is nice for the turtle pond, but the brick blocks the sun. And, once there was a top lock but now there is not. There is a hole in my door and I can't get it out of my head. There is a hole in my door and now everything is all wrong. Sitting at GMT Tavern with a not very nice martini and the Thomas Pynchon book I just can’t finish or quit. Slow Learner. Slow Learner, just like me. Make it all about me me me. Life is like: another day in my dumb life on my dumb blog talking about me me me. Life does not have to be like this. Life could be like: the hovering curious dominant of their separate lives should resolve into a tonic of darkness and the final absence of all motion (Pynchon). I keep getting stuck on that quote. I keep getting stuck on entropy, which I do not hope to believe in. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, August 14 From 9pm at Silver Lining Lounge — Matt Weinberger and Scott Lipps present The Downtown Prom. Hosts include Sid Simons, Anika Jade Levy, Nicole Naloy, and more. Music by Sexy Damion, Blog Analog, Loose Buttons, and Boxxer. DJ sets and more.

Inline links: Matt Weinberger, Scott Lipps, The Downtown Prom

Perfumer H1 mentions across 1 issues

Perfumer H is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 23, 2024 and October 23, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Rain Cloud by Perfumer H". It most often appears alongside Alimentari Flaneur, Andrew, Ani.

Article page: Perfumer H
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 23, 2024
Last seen: October 23, 2024

Outbound links

https://www.perfumerh.com/en-us/products/rain-cloud-50ml?srsltid=AfmBOop8uosbF7FDCgehOUtY7KQS6yHvmPpwX3mW6Sc9FExBYwtCa0gc

Issue trail

Collected Agenda with Vivien Lee October 23, 2024

Alimentari Flaneur 1 shared issues
Andrew 1 shared issues
Ani 1 shared issues
Architectural Digest 1 shared issues
Bamonte's 1 shared issues

Source context

October 23, 2024 · Original source

Rain Cloud by Perfumer H

Inline links: Rain Cloud by Perfumer H

Perrier1 mentions across 1 issues

Perrier is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 15, 2026 and February 15, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Drinking Perrier not Evian because I have ambitions of aesthetic cohesion". It most often appears alongside Abe Shapiro, Aidan Lapoche, Alan Parker.

Article page: Perrier
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 15, 2026
Last seen: February 15, 2026

Issue trail

Yellow-all-around February 15, 2026

Abe Shapiro 1 shared issues
Aidan Lapoche 1 shared issues
Alan Parker 1 shared issues
Allen Parker 1 shared issues
Amazon 1 shared issues

Source context

February 15, 2026 · Original source

Feeling like I am kind of on a leash Sunday, February 8 Now, I am in my room and I am feeling ok. I am lying under my big white comforter in a green cashmere sweater, black Amazon tights, tennis skirt, nothing is messy anymore. After today’s reading group, where the discussion was about Virtue and Vice, Cassandra and Olivia and some others and I walked over to Washington Square Diner. I used to frequent Washington Square Diner at night, but in the day everything was brighter and I liked it better this way. I ordered black coffee and lemon tea and was happy with this choice, as no one seemed particularly pleased with the sandwiches that they kept on trotting out. Dry chicken, huge bread. I’m a snob, I’m a snob, Olivia kept saying. Sorry, she was saying. Sorry but I just feel really fucking bored. I added splenda to my water kind of indignantly, and stirred it around feeling strange. Olivia was talking about how it’s fine to eat anything if you’re on a desert island. It’s fine to eat bacon if the desert island is the prison-of-your mind and it’s the-only-food-you-like. Cassandra was talking about how none of her friends were getting married anytime soon, and so perhaps she’d have to conjure up a wedding of her own. Yeah, sorry, I was saying. Why sorry? Cassandra asked. There was way too much food on the table, and I think that this was the part that was throwing off everybody’s vibe. There was a new Cool Sips soda shop where Pepsi is mixed with heavy cream in town, and so after lunch, there was talk of maybe we go. Maybe we go drink heavy cream and diet Pepsi. Maybe we go weightlifting. Maybe we buy cottage cheese which is calories-per-pound-per-protein-per - I never really understood these things - better than chicken. Maybe we all go home. Whilst talking about protein in ground beef and also cottage cheese and also high cholesterol versus heavy metals, Olivia reminded us that the number one health factor is joy. At home, I am sitting on the edge of my bed in a black skirt and Lafayette striped cream sweater and brown snow and salt stained Prada boots. Thinking about self fulfilling prophecies. I will not drink and I will not look particularly pretty and I will not be socially offputting and strange. I don’t need to share every word of my google doc diaries. Twenty-five-thousand words written this week in google doc diaries because I just can’t cut myself off. Real-life-diaries. Real-life-compulsions. Fake-life-blog, maybe. In the afternoon, I walk over to a kind of industrial style Japanese coffee shop to meet Lily for tea. I am wearing a thin spring coat, no gloves, and the wind chill is negative-fifteen. My face is sort of swollen as a product of bad habits, but I am hoping to blame expedited deterioration on wind burn. I run into my priest walking quickly, somewhere around West 4th. Are you crying, my priest shouts in my direction. Just cold, I say in response. I walk for twelve more minutes, and when I reach the Japanese Coffee shop, my hands are burning and there are tears streaming down my face. A product of the cold, no-emotion, I tell Lily. The coffee shop is lined with narrow benches, and Lily lets me occupy the one-free-seat because it is clear that I am feeling fragile. She hovers above me holding silver trays, pistachio milk, black coffee, chocolate chip cookies. I feel like maybe I shouldn’t move to Los Angeles, she sighs, when I finish telling her my week of whirling hotel stories. I feel like in Los Angeles, everyone pretends that they don’t care about nice things. I drink my coffee in a few big sips, and I am feeling better at talking than listening. Did you write anything down about the people my party last week, Lily asks me. I nod, and pull up my notes. Most of my friends call girls ‘girls’ I say, The people at the party called ‘girls’ ‘women.‘ Lily smiles. It’s a posture just the same. At night, at the Superbowl party, in an apartment where the walls were recently washed a sort of deep-cloud blue, and the drinks are made with vodka and coconut water and grapefruit juice and on the side, some champagne, I arrive late. I’ve been making the drinks kind of strong, which I know you like, Savannah says. The advertisements this year are all made by Artificial Intelligence. The only advertisement not visibly made by Artificial Intelligence in an anti-hate ad wherein an antisemitic attack is covered up by a blue square, and two students walk off screen in redeemed solidarity. When this advertisement begins to play, Matt suggests that we all shut up. Everyone watch the ad, he says. The advertisement finishes, and then all the boys’ phones begin to buzz. Did you just see the ad, all the boys’ friends are asking the boys. They are all really into things like hot-ticket-cultural-discourse. What did you do last night? Matt asks me, later after everyone is already all a little drunk, and I am curled up on the couch, eating pistachios, staring at the screen. I hung out with my new friends, I tell Matt. I am feeling triumphant, and a little bit sad. Who are your new friends? Matt asks. Very nice and very promising people, I tell Matt. Don’t tell anyone that I’m making new friends, I tell Matt. I won’t, Matt responds. I won’t, because it doesn’t sound like you are. Later, trying to leave, and everyone is stuck. I think your taxi is blocking mine, Matt texts. I think a cop car is blocking me. Everyone is trying to honk louder than the car before. I was playing tetris in the snow and now we’re playing tetris at the wheel. Tetris on Houston street. My taxi makes a fake-out breakaway left and I speed away. Writing everything down in my apartment, back home. My moods are very predictable. I write about systems. I’m telling my computer that it’s never really about me. Watch how the patterns repeat. Could a human girl be so good at cycles? I’m telling my computer that I’m the best human girl at cycles. I’m the best at downward spirals. I’m the best at it’s happening over and over and over again. I’m not an evil genius. Writing like I’m top-of-class (fifth grade). Writing like I’m queen of staying up late. Window is closed tonight because outside it is just too cold. Drinking Perrier not Evian because I have ambitions of aesthetic cohesion. Dream logic. Magic logic. I am too tired to miss anything, and I am too caught up in self-surveillance to be really running on anything other than vibes. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Sunday, February 15 From 8pm at Night Club 101 — Punisher returns with a post Valentine’s Day debrief. Readings by Megsuperstarprincess, Riley Mac, Nicole Sellew, Francesca D’Alessandro, Dove Ginsburg, and Ava Doorley. Party to follow with The Heaven Forever. Mélange á seven. | RSVP here.

Inline links: Night Club 101, Punisher, The Heaven Forever, here

Peter Pan Donuts1 mentions across 1 issues

Peter Pan Donuts is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 28, 2024 and October 28, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Okinawa Gin, Peter Pan Donuts and others". It most often appears alongside 12 Questions, 27 Club, Adeline Swartzendruber.

Article page: Peter Pan Donuts
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 28, 2024
Last seen: October 28, 2024
Instagram handle: @peterpandonut

Outbound links

Issue trail

Indulging in the Eschaton October 28, 2024

12 Questions 1 shared issues
27 Club 1 shared issues
Adeline Swartzendruber 1 shared issues
Adrienne Reenblatt 1 shared issues
Ali Royals 1 shared issues

Source context

October 28, 2024 · Original source

From 10pm - 3am — Lantern is throwing an NYC theme Halloween party. Sponsored by Lantern Beverages, Topo Chico, Mizu Sochu, Okinawa Gin, Peter Pan Donuts and others – “Come dressed as your favorite New York City character or as Jojo Siwa, either is fine”

Inline links: Lantern, NYC theme Halloween party, Topo Chico, Mizu Sochu, Okinawa Gin, Peter Pan Donuts

Petrucci1 mentions across 1 issues

Petrucci is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 06, 2026 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Petrucci ballet flats". It most often appears alongside A Place in the Sun, Ali RQ, Angelica.

Article page: Petrucci
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 06, 2026
Last seen: March 06, 2026

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

A Place in the Sun 1 shared issues
Ali RQ 1 shared issues
Angelica 1 shared issues
Angelmoon 1 shared issues
Banana Republic 1 shared issues

Source context

March 06, 2026 · Original source

I am not a robot. In the morning, I want to get sunlight in my eyes and I want to wear a Tankair black tank top and Rag and Bone green cargo pants and Petrucci ballet flats and big wired headphones. In the night, I want goat milk elixirs and Angelmoon dresses and answers and ideas to float through my phone. When it is nighttime, I love to play on my phone. It is night and the window is open and I am feeling quite happy with myself, though believe it-or-not I do have a tendency to let things ebb and flow. White noise meditation outside my window, but it’s just listening to the turtle pond churn day old water right below me in the courtyard, and listening to day-four-snow melt in big fast drops off the roof. Snow melts fast and then it’s no-longer-magic-outside. I am not totally ready for spring to begin. I am not totally ready to be old or even bored or to go to sleep most nights before the sun is high in the sky. This is why I leave the windows open. This is why I put on black silk eye mask. This is why I live in New York City, totally out of sync with nature, totally in sync with the dictations of my whims. I am lying with the lights off and I am totally ready for Pi (1998) to begin on my computer. My least favorite thing about myself is my tendency to let things ebb and flow. My favorite thing about myself is my ability to notice patterns and symbols and other sorts of interesting and mysterious and astral or perhaps just normal projections in everything everywhere and particularly in real life. While I wait for Pi (1998) to begin, my computer is flashing words and sounds and symbols about Cyriossis took my wings and winter drab and summer glam and being honest with your clients about the effects of their lifestyle. When Pi (1988) begins, a series of patterns and symbols and pumping rock music and black and white imagery will flash across my computer screen. When I was a little kid, my mother told me not to stare into the sun, so once when I was six I did, Sean Gullete will say. One-eight-one-eight-one-eight, he will say. He will walk past a tai chi class in the park and solve math problems with a small child in his building. If you graph the numbers of any system, patterns emerge, he will say. He will talk about the stock market and the universe of numbers and he will live-blog-his-day. 11:52; personal note, he will say. 11:52: Not a pattern In the mornings, I like to live-blog-my-days, but it’s not so much the numerological sort of thing. I like to go on vacation. I like to give up vice. I am feeling totally thrilled about the trajectory of things. Failed treatments to date, they are saying in Pi (1998): beta blockers, calcium channel blockers, adrenaline injections, high doses of ibuprofen, steroids, trager mentastics, violent exercise, caffeine, acupuncture, marijuana, percodan, midrin, tenormin, sansert, and homeopathics. Failed treatments to date: rock climbing, chess, caution-to-the-wind, throwing everything out again-and-again-and-again. Numerology. Event calendar. 2016. IFC screening. Total isolation. Total consumption. Total sweetness policy. I’m not really treating anything. Moreso, I am just writing it all down.

Photos1 mentions across 1 issues

Photos is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between May 13, 2025 and May 13, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "I have decided to return to Photos". It most often appears alongside Abraham Kanovitch, Ali Rq, Amalia Ulman.

Article page: Photos
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: May 13, 2025
Last seen: May 13, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

Panopticon-ing Everyone May 13, 2025

Abraham Kanovitch 1 shared issues
Ali Rq 1 shared issues
Amalia Ulman 1 shared issues
Anika Jade Levy 1 shared issues
Arlo Hotel Williamsburg 1 shared issues

Source context

May 13, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Thursday, May 8 I've been panopticon-ing everyone here, and you have asked me to stop. Ok. I'm sorry I have already told about what happened on Wednesday. Not here. Imagine it's all fantasy. I mean it when I say that I am really not talking about myself. Being all confessional and then I feel kind of gross about it. Being kind of glib about the parts I thought were most sincere. I've been neglectful, most of all. Right now, I am most sorry about that. In the end, you'll be lying on a Japanese floor mattress and you'll be thinking about the parts that are still the same. Tonight, I went to the party that I usually avoid. I went home before the parts that come next. Another flight tomorrow, and I wish there wasn't more travel though, I am glad for where we are going. An old school hotel, Sue Wong beaded dress, borrowed shoes and sharing the different details of my life like oh it's been all grad school and true love and self surveillance - this part will be nice. My friend suggests at dinner - I don't have insomnia, I live in an environment of psychological torture sleep depravation. I could latch onto this. Psychological torture. My friend says - New York vs LA; you can find nuance in uglier things here and she cites me as the example of nuance as if I am something like resilient or tough. I have never been described as either of these things before, and I hope I haven't been plying myself in victimhood too heavily, because really - my circumstances are wonderful. It is a sweet description, though. I'm glad I'm not a fraud, at least. Lots of parties this week and those were nice while they lasted. You can't be indignant without clarity, which - I am working on having more of. I set up the summer so as to have the days stretching endlessly in front of me. This concerns me a bit. I will need to read for two hours every morning. There is a novel forming mostly beneath my writing here, and I will need to finish that. All at once it's like everyone has drawn the same conclusions about good and evil. Everyone was all like this is so good, and then everyone snapped at once and it was like: this is evil. I have briefly wondered where this change would map out cosmically, though, I have tried to be a mystic about it, and my basic impulses revolt. I was culling chapters from my Secret Diary a while back. Here, I was saying. Time stamp it in Google Docs and you know I meant this before I even knew I would need to show you it was true someday. None of it was really so long ago. So, I wonder, for example - what July will be like? I wonder about June. You could be a bartender or a DJ. Sounds like something someone who has lost their intuition would say. I'm talking in hypotheticals because I mean it when I say that I am not, really, talking about myself. Friday, May 9 Rebecca and I sat at Bar Belly in the rain for a while last night. Shannon made me cauliflower rice and avocado for lunch. I did circle around to my boyfriend's culty and evil type hang later in the night. There was chicken from the street, there. Rebecca will stay at our place while we're gone. She stayed at ours for a while last night. Everyone went to KGB, later, but I am being more regulated about it. Making pasta at nine am because I was up all night in spite of new efforts. Pouring rain and then we're driving towards Laguardia. In retrospect, I still do not think I was being dramatic about things, but it feels distant and small now. Short term memory maybe, or, the present is often quite extreme and so; wherever I am, it absorbs me. I like his brown leather bag, cufflinks, it's been to and fro this airport all spring which serves to dividend the chaos a bit. Anyways, everything is fine. I have a life in New York that I will still feel so lucky to return to. "You guys are in love!" a girl in micro-shorts told us at the party last night. "How long have you been in love for?" "Almost two years," he said. This is the pragmatic answer and also this is true. The girl beamed. "I've been in love for ten days," she said. I need to hold things closer to my chest. Not here - I am obfuscated enough about it here, so it's hard to do much damage. It's different in the real world. I say things that I know to be true, but I say them before I really understand what they mean. I am more protective of the things that are good, and I am quick to give away all that is bad. This is not how a person should be. Happy Mother's Day, the light and water show at the airport is saying. Elderly couple to my left devouring fried chicken. I feel incredibly ill, come to think of it, but some of this stays sweet. Darling darling darling, he keeps telling me. Are you ready to fly in a plane in the sky? Artificial Intelligence will come to destroy the earth and you will be like twenty-five years old and on your phone and talking badly about your friends behind their back and forgetting to call your family and drinking to disgust. Artificial Intelligence will come to destroy the world and you will call your sister, call your mom, lie under the open window with your boyfriend. You will be making up stories and praying over a glass of sparkling water. You will be listening to music and sound and language from real life. You will picture a relic of yourself still human, and you will be pleased. Saturday, May 10 I have decided to return to Photos. It is funny how these things work. I felt quite repulsed by images for a moment, but even just a few days of speaking out loud how much the equilibrium has been missing and how much now, it is time to get it back - I said this out loud along with other things, and now I can face the physical form again. And so much of the physical form is so pretty. I do like when things are ethereal and kind of between realms - it is why I have always liked to be very thin, although I’m pretty Normal in Body these days - and this is the most boring of boring things to discuss, anyways. My tendency is to archive and hoard. It is comically wrong to suggest that I seek to leave behind no trace. My point is, for a while now, I could not bear the traces. Something has shifted. There is a gold framed photo of a palm tree across from the bed in this hotel, and it’s the kind that is old school not tacky. Everything is art deco here. The ceilings at the bar are ten stories high, he told me, before dinner. There was salad and a cosmopolitan and such nice conversation and, I do always get whisked away when the time is right. I’m feeling pretty even keeled. If April happened again, it wouldn’t happen like this. The day has been so good so far. The hotel is old, classic, and art deco. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 13 Doors at 7pm, reading at 8pm at TJ Byrnes — Bronwen Lam & David Dufour present Patio, an evening of reading. This rendition features Martina Mendoza, Mark Iosifescu, Myles Zavelo, Stephanie Wambugu, Babak Lakghomi, and Steve Anwyll.

Inline links: TJ Byrnes, Bronwen Lam, David Dufour, Patio

From 7pm at Pianos — Emerson Isa celebrates the launch of “Girls to the Front” capsule collection - a night of fashion, music, and community, with 100$ of ticket proceeds benefiting Girls Inc. of NYC. Performance by The Dutch Kills. Photos by Matt Weinberger & Esp. | Tickets - $22.66

Inline links: Emerson Isa, launch

Pinterest1 mentions across 1 issues

Pinterest is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 09, 2024 and October 09, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Like Pinterest, but exclusively populated by artists, graphic designers, and their allies". It most often appears alongside 52 Walker, @singersny, Are.na.

Article page: Pinterest
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 09, 2024
Last seen: October 09, 2024

Outbound links

Issue trail

Collected Agenda with Sam Falb October 09, 2024

52 Walker 1 shared issues
@singersny 1 shared issues
Are.na 1 shared issues
Basement 1 shared issues
Behind The Seams 1 shared issues

Source context

October 09, 2024 · Original source

This moodboarding software has fundamentally changed my approach to creativity. Like Pinterest, but exclusively populated by artists, graphic designers, and their allies (me), the well of compelling imagery that’s crowdsourced on this platform is phenomenal. Plan shoots, concept out vacation attire, or make seasonal projections with friends. It’s never too late to start and always fun to try.

Inline links: This moodboarding software, Plan shoots, vacation attire, seasonal projections

Pizza Hut1 mentions across 1 issues

Pizza Hut is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between August 23, 2024 and August 23, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "There's Pizza Hut and Papa John's side by side in a humid lot outside the airport". It most often appears alongside $Egirl, Adeline Swartzendruber, Annabel Boardman.

Article page: Pizza Hut
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: August 23, 2024
Last seen: August 23, 2024

Outbound links

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #8 August 23, 2024

$Egirl 1 shared issues
Adeline Swartzendruber 1 shared issues
Annabel Boardman 1 shared issues
Auntie Anne's 1 shared issues
Beckett Rosset 1 shared issues

Source context

August 23, 2024 · Original source

Tired, when I arrive in San Salvador. There’s Pizza Hut and Papa John’s side by side in a humid lot outside the airport. My boyfriend is sampling both. One is so much better, he says. I don’t remember which. Driving to an airbnb in the hills, somewhere a little above San Benito, past coconut stands and then lots and lots of fast food, weird fast food, Auntie Anne’s and the like, the type of fast food you don’t see a lot anymore and the buildings are all crystal clear, glistening clean. Driving past three embassies (Qatar, Germany, and Palestine) and then everything becomes green and quiet and the houses are built into hills, bigger mountains in the distance, the view becomes so beautiful.

Inline links: San Salvador

PLĀS1 mentions across 1 issues

PLĀS is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 25, 2025 and March 25, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "PLĀS SS25 will be at Café Forgot". It most often appears alongside Albany, Alex Arthur, Anamaria Silic.

Article page: PLĀS
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 25, 2025
Last seen: March 25, 2025
Instagram handle: @plas_collective

Outbound links

Issue trail

How to Redeem Yourself March 25, 2025

Albany 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues
Anamaria Silic 1 shared issues
Anthology Film Archives 1 shared issues
ArtX 1 shared issues

Source context

March 25, 2025 · Original source

From 12pm - 7pm —- PLĀS SS25 will be at Café Forgot. Drinks at Time Again to follow.

Inline links: PLĀS SS25, Café Forgot

Polo Sport1 mentions across 1 issues

Polo Sport is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between July 27, 2025 and July 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "The bar was lined with portraits of polo sport and big yellow orbs". It most often appears alongside A Push For More Organ Transplants Is Putting Donors At Risk, Back to Oz, Bourton on Water.

Article page: Polo Sport
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: July 27, 2025
Last seen: July 27, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

Walk The Cotswolds July 27, 2025

A Push For More Organ Transplants Is Putting Donors At Risk 1 shared issues
Back to Oz 1 shared issues
Bourton on Water 1 shared issues
Bourton-on-the-Water 1 shared issues
Broadway 1 shared issues

Source context

Walk The Cotswolds

July 27, 2025 · Original source

Friday, July 25 Church, lying under a beach tree, cricket field established by the author of Peter Pan. I went down to the hotel bar to read about Entropy (which I hope to not believe in. Downstairs, the evening festivities were moving into their final hour. I don't know if you're drinking or anything, the bartender said to me. Must I, I said. You can do anything you want, the bartender said. The bar was lined with portraits of polo sport and big yellow orbs. The fields outside were misty and gray and peppered with racing horses. The grass was soft and sweet and so, I'd stopped for a while. You will have to hop a barbed wire fence to avoid a small horned cow and his mates, an old man had said. You will have to learn to wait a while, my father had said. There had been another warplane, only this one over the pasture not the college, and I had not quit believing in signs and symbols just yet. Outside, the pub was bright, lethargic and chilly. The hotel felt something like a sanctuary. Royal green walls and no night terrors in foggy fields and self containment. And it's been nice to be brought back to the things that were mine first. They'll pick up the bags at eight in the morning. We'll loop back around to the marsh where we began. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Travel advice for something quite restorative: I walked The Cotswolds via Mickledore Travel which is nice because I detest tours and organized fun of any kind, but this “tour” requires zero interaction with anyone outside of your travel companions and friendly strangers. Accommodations are booked across a walking route and every morning bags are picked up from a drop spot along the route and deposited at the next destination the following evening. Unburdened by baggage, you then hike to your next inn. There are little towns peppered along the route, as well as sheep fields, castles, horses, and ruins. It really is more of a long walk than a hike, which I find to be more pleasant than hut-to-hut backpacking or other similar adventures I have attempted in the past. You still are walking some ten to sixteen miles a day, so you will not feel bored or lazy.

Inline links: Mickledore Travel

Powerade Zero1 mentions across 1 issues

Powerade Zero is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 10, 2025 and February 10, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Powerade Zero on the desks". It most often appears alongside 131 Chrystie St, Ahmed, Alamo Drafthouse Cinema.

Article page: Powerade Zero
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 10, 2025
Last seen: February 10, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

February Dining. February 10, 2025

131 Chrystie St 1 shared issues
Ahmed 1 shared issues
Alamo Drafthouse Cinema 1 shared issues
Alt Lit 1 shared issues
Andrew Shental 1 shared issues

Source context

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!uWjI!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fd9c23aa1-399d-4139-beee-26b409d77757_909x608.jpeg, Virginia’s, Date Time, Feed Me featured

February 10, 2025 · Original source

Wednesday, February 5 Deep familiarity is many different things at many different moments, I am told today. I kind of disagree. I think there is a core of things. Actually, I really disagree. I really think that there is a core of things. New album by Desire today. New dress on my doorstep. I wake up in an apartment that is briefly all mine. Where were you a year ago today, my friends were asking at dinner yesterday. It's a reasonably interesting thing to consider. I like it best when a year ago feels very distant. Me - I was at KGB Bar. A stranger took the photo. I look very morose. In my memory I was very nervous, and also, I was very pleased. On a walk, trying to write, trying to pour out the sludge, seeking clarity - "I do not feel like writing a whole fucking retrospective every time I try to journal," I write. I am sorry all my details seem crude today. Rules for solitude are - pace in circles, pace on the treadmill, do not be combative in conversation with strangers, do not eavesdrop, sometimes you will not like what you hear. They are talking about murder suicide at pilates, the girl at pilates owned an animal shelter and her star employee murder suicided himself and his girlfriend. You know that cute blonde blogger, she is saying. She was the girlfriend. The guy seemed nice. You never know. Rules for solitude are do not listen to these things, stop listening to these things, you’re going to freak out if you keep on listening to these things. Later, I'm only here to pick up a phone charger, but there's a whole wall of people reading poems about bitter cynicism in this conference room. I apologize for my bitter cynicism, the woman reading is saying, and I hate being in these buildings after dark, I hate the corporate flair to these things. Powerade Zero on the desks. I would like to go lurk in a Chinatown basement. I would like to write an Alt Lit Novel. I would like to be very, very rude. "Would you like to read a list of people who have been censored," a woman at this strange event asks me. "Have you seen a phone charger?" I ask the women. "Now is not the time to be nihilistic," Madelyn’s friend told her yesterday, and I’m not nihilistic, and I'm sorry, and I'm really sorry, and I really really really need to leave now. Thursday, February 6 Ice and snow over my glass house this morning. I heard the sharp rain in the night. I am not surprised it froze over. I am enjoying waking up with - nowhere to go, no one to see. I wouldn't enjoy it for long, but it’s not too bad for now. Walking through this empty apartment and the only sound is me, and then ice falling off the roof overhead. It’s not a big deal, really, and I'm acting a little delusional and insane about the weight of it all, but it's just that I have never done this before - woken up in a building with no one to greet me. And I have tucked my phone far away so that the solitude can feel more complete. And I have cleaned the apartment, top to bottom. I've wrapped an old scarf all around my face and then I've gone for a walk - no matter that the streets are frozen. I do like the ice. I'm sorry. I do. I hope it lasts. The night is swirling and nice. I forgot to take note. Friday, February 7 My parents are here, and I am glowing with the happiness of it. Start the day slowly. I’ve become a bit reckless. I’ll do the dishes. I’ll take out the trash. Intrinsically sloppy, and I wish I wasn’t. When left to my own devices, a descent into chaos is not entirely inevitable. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, February 10 From 7pm - 9pm at Virginia’s — Date Time thinks it’s not too late to find a valentine. The three girls behind a new Feed Me featured speed dating endeavor present their second event, featuring two 45 min rounds of mingling. - “Everyone meets everyone, so get ready to meet a lover, a friend, or perhaps an enemy.” $5 ticket required for entry (proceeds to Direct Relief in LA), and 1 drink minimum to date.

Primo1 mentions across 1 issues

Primo is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between November 12, 2024 and November 12, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Rhodora Wine Bar – wine, gossip, Primo focaccia, etc". It most often appears alongside 169 Bar, Adeline Swartzendruber, aesthetic and moral nihilism.

Article page: Primo
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: November 12, 2024
Last seen: November 12, 2024

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Counterculture in America November 12, 2024

169 Bar 1 shared issues
Adeline Swartzendruber 1 shared issues
aesthetic and moral nihilism 1 shared issues
Aimee Armstrong 1 shared issues
Alex Katz 1 shared issues

Source context

Counterculture in America

November 12, 2024 · Original source

From 2pm - 5pm — FeedMe by Emily Sundberg (the only business newsletter that matters) celebrates two years at Rhodora Wine Bar – wine, gossip, Primo focaccia, etc.

Inline links: FeedMe, Emily Sundberg, Rhodora Wine Bar

Princess Polly1 mentions across 1 issues

Princess Polly is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between April 04, 2025 and April 04, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "The other girls in the store were carrying Princess Polly Bags". It most often appears alongside 154 Scott Ave, 247 Varet, A HAPPENING.

Article page: Princess Polly
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: April 04, 2025
Last seen: April 04, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Live Diary. April 04, 2025

154 Scott Ave 1 shared issues
247 Varet 1 shared issues
A HAPPENING 1 shared issues
Alexi Wasser 1 shared issues
Alice Aster 1 shared issues

Source context

April 04, 2025 · Original source

Today feels very slow and languid. It's the sun that's starting to boil my greenhouse apartment, maybe. It's the solitude, maybe. Not that there has been that much solitude, even. Just today, really. There’s this, from Virgina Woolfe’s Diary: “what a disgraceful lapse! Nothing added to my disquisition & life allowed to waste like a tap left running. Eleven days unrecorded.” They asked me to contribute to a time capsule. What is the purpose of archiving? When does archiving become hoarding? I skipped over these questions. I answered the questions about Nostalgia instead. You aren’t nostalgic for your phone, I said, or it was something different than that, there was more to it than that. I don’t mean to be so self-effacing. I almost bought a blood thickening potion at The Alchemy Kitchen, but I felt thick blood might bog me down. I felt that this whole potion thing, here, in this situation, was probably a scam. The other girls in the store were carrying Princess Polly Bags. The other potions were things like Build Your Own Concoction: Serenity and Joy. Matthew used to be Enemy Number One, but now he is my friend, and so I make plans to meet him at the April Fools Party tonight. Halfway through the walk to the party I get overwhelmed at the thought of going to a Party. I was wearing my Elene Velez Gray Jacket. I was wearing my Ganni Boots. It was all a bit much, then, wasn’t it? Reroute my walk towards the tip of downtown. That bar that’s way too cavernous, too expensive, full of Internet Superstars and I like it none-the-less. “I went to a party at my friend's house and she's kind of famous so they sent us five million free margaritas,” the girl at the table next to me is saying. It sounds like a quote that is fake, but this is what she actually said. The night turns all sloshy and sparkly. Yeah, it was a lot of fun and then later, the apartment is still a mess and yeah, yes, I have to get out of here. There are certain habits I’ve been struggling to break. I am not bored, I am not thinking that everything that happens here is suddenly stale and stilted and I am not, even, very disappointed in myself. More so, I think I should have left when I had the chance. And then the chance presents itself again and so off I go, then. I didn’t mean to be too self indulgent. It’s not escapism, really. Who said that thing about square pegs and round holes? Anyways, that’s the sort of thing I’m talking about. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Friday, April 3 Two shows opened yesterday. If you missed the openings, you should go today – Parent Company — Stewart Bird Amberweight opened. - “The image machine turns out an indeterminate cloud of images based on its experiences seeing more images than anyone but the image machine could ever see.” Parent Company is one of my favorite galleries around these days, and this looks to be a very special exhibition. | on view through May 24 and Psychic Readings — Stacy Kranitz and Chris Verene “The Safety Net” opened , curated by Ani Cordero. - “' a two-person exhibition that examines life in today's American small towns, through the work of acclaimed documentary photographers.” .

Inline links: Parent Company, Stewart Bird, Psychic Readings, Stacy Kranitz, Chris Verene

PS by Pretty Sick1 mentions across 1 issues

PS by Pretty Sick is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 10, 2025 and February 10, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "PS by Pretty Sick hosts a pop up". It most often appears alongside 131 Chrystie St, Ahmed, Alamo Drafthouse Cinema.

Article page: PS by Pretty Sick
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 10, 2025
Last seen: February 10, 2025
Instagram handle: @ps.by.prettysick

Outbound links

Issue trail

February Dining. February 10, 2025

131 Chrystie St 1 shared issues
Ahmed 1 shared issues
Alamo Drafthouse Cinema 1 shared issues
Alt Lit 1 shared issues
Andrew Shental 1 shared issues

Source context

February 10, 2025 · Original source

From 4pm - 7pm at Café Forgot — PS by Pretty Sick hosts a pop up. Drinks by Lantern.

Inline links: Café Forgot, PS by Pretty Sick

Pure Barre1 mentions across 1 issues

Pure Barre is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 15, 2026 and February 15, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Ladies everywhere liking Blue Mercury and Pure Barre". It most often appears alongside Abe Shapiro, Aidan Lapoche, Alan Parker.

Article page: Pure Barre
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 15, 2026
Last seen: February 15, 2026
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Yellow-all-around February 15, 2026

Abe Shapiro 1 shared issues
Aidan Lapoche 1 shared issues
Alan Parker 1 shared issues
Allen Parker 1 shared issues
Amazon 1 shared issues

Source context

February 15, 2026 · Original source

Friday, February 6 I am awake and I have been for one hour. All around me, everything is pale and still and one small room and one short hallway and one light left on. One of one. One of everything. Everything is just the same. Yesterday, when I woke up, it was yellow all around. I woke up in the country yesterday, and the first thing that I noticed was all that yellow all around. Pale yellow walls. Soft yellow light. Snow reflecting golden yellow rays off a white carriage house roof, but even that part was turned sort of yellow by the early morning sun. The night before yesterday, I stayed up all night. There wasn’t much to do with all those hours, but I knew that in the morning, I’d be whisked away. Good at leaving when I remember all the things I hate. Good at coming back when I decide to get a hold of myself. I’d decided to let the night in my apartment sort of drift. I watched the sky turn dark, stay like that for a while, and then I watched it turn light again. It always kind of happens this way. In the morning, I’d packed a book bag with a suede black mini skirt, black cotton long sleeve top, toothbrush, snow boots, notebook, Off-The-Farm brand caramel protein bar. I took the B-line to the 1-line and towards the Upper West Side. On the Upper West Side, there were big french windows and snowy streets and tree branches that scratch the side of buildings and in the summer coat the whole place green. Not so much this time of year. Empty whisper benches. Powdered sledding hills in Central Park. From the Upper West Side, Laura drove me to New Jersey. A simple enough drive, but we just could not stay on track. The Hudson River was frozen over. Big white ice blocks that solidified and fractured and split. We were trying to spot a bathhouse somewhere in the suburbs of New Jersey. Is this the place to swim? we kept on asking each other, any time we passed a warehouse, or a sign that said something like Pools and Baths and Plumbing. When we got to the country, it was already dark. The driveway was lined with silver lights. I like to return to places where I have not been for years but which stay exactly the same. We lit a fire and we had salad and salmon and white wine and chocolate truffles. I was so excited to be somewhere where there was so much space. I liked the light and the quiet and the fact that there was more snow here than in the city, and I was pleased by how much I remembered. After dinner, I ran a bath in a big white bathroom. Big clear windows looking out at clear dark skies. I liked how everything felt very old, and very big, and very familiar, and very clean. I did not like how I felt a bit like a bull in a China Shop. Everything I touched returned a little less perfect than how I found it. Soap and towels left slightly off kilter. Clothes left in a pile on the floor. I fell asleep in a big white four poster bed, and I made sure to crease the comforter only slightly. I forgot to say goodnight, but no one really minded. I woke up surrounded by yellow all around. Morning, and when I pulled open yellow sheer curtains I could look out at all those skinny barren trees and lots of ice and a long driveway that stretched on and on and on. Laura came into my room and said good morning, and then she told me that she would show me how to make coffee, downstairs, soon. On the landing, there were three bedrooms, and a long hallway with a window seat lined with stuffed animals and a big window that looked out over big snow. The stuffed animals on the landing were all like little lions and zebras and all kinds of pastel and nice faces, nothing creepy. The wallpaper was all mostly white, with little blue or pink or yellow flowers peppered in between but nothing too suffocating. The snow outside the window was silky and icy and pure white and frozen over. There was a sheen over the snow. I could see, even from here, that the snow had been solidified under a layer of crust. My hair was covered in static. When I brushed my hair, I could see it literally spark. This week, I was documenting everything with compulsion. I went downstairs. Laura was working on a puzzle in the living room, where all the windows were long and clear and let the whole space flood with light. I looked out at perfect snow coated verandas. I learned how to make coffee in a chemex glass. Boiled water. Always becoming a bit bewildered in places that are quiet and beautiful and clear. I wouldn’t be friends with someone with bad aesthetic taste, my old friends used to say. My new friends, of late, had developed somewhat of a taste for conspicuous consumption. Later, Laura drove me to the train station through snowy streets and snowy backroads. We pulled away from the house and down the snowy driveway and then we drove through suburbs where everything was all Blue Mercury Skincare and Sweetgreen and farmhouses reminiscent of Boston, Chicago, Connecticut, suburbs everywhere all the same. Ladies everywhere liking Blue Mercury and Pure Barre. Laura gave me white gloves to keep for good on the train platform towards New York. You are so cold, just take and keep these, she said. Are you sure, I said, but I was already slipping the gloves onto my hands. Back in New York, I sat on a bench in Penn Station while I waited for the 1-train. Knees tucked up to chest and clothed in kind of filthy LuLu Lemon leggings. Drinking Dunkin Donuts almond milk latte with sugar free vanilla and almond and one cool-minty-zyn. Watching strangers and all sorts of scents drift by. It is the coldest winter in history or at least in recent memory, but due to sensory issues and the flattering nature of a-line skirts, all I have been wearing is sheer tights and mini dresses. When I got home, everything was very rushed, which is another thing that always tends to happen. Saturday, February 8 Following Cassandra’s confirmation, we went to a bitcoin themed bar and then to a hotel lobby. We went to a cocktail bar after that, where the drinks were made of things like clarified basil and tasted bad. I have one statement, Sam told the waiter, at the bar. Then, he asked a question. Could I have another drink? This one is very not good. In the evening, we went to Bigelow’s to buy the hair bows just like the Kennedys wore, and after that, we went to a dinner in Soho and then a tech-week-party to end the night. At the tech week party all the girls were cute and unemployed. They all made videos on the Internet and all had long-distance boyfriends. We took photos on a digital camera and smoked cigarettes on the edge of the fire escape while the boys all talked about suicidal ideation. When they ran out of liquor, I took the elevator down without saying goodbye. On the street, in the snow, playing tetris with myself in the footholds that other boots had left behind in melting ice as I tried to claw my way into a cab, I ran into an Internet Curator. He appeared out of nowhere, though my vision was already blurry, so perhaps he had been there all along. I’ve never been somewhere with so many people from TikTok in real life, the man said. Usually, I post all these people online, but tonight there were all here in real life. Made three notes in diary in yellow taxi cab home: Freedom of Indifference vs Freedom for Excellence

QuestBars1 mentions across 1 issues

QuestBars is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 10, 2024 and September 10, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "a welcome departure from GymShark, QuestBars, GNC". It most often appears alongside Anika Levy, Annabel Boardman, Antiart.

Article page: QuestBars
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 10, 2024
Last seen: September 10, 2024
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Statues Of Critics. September 10, 2024

Anika Levy 1 shared issues
Annabel Boardman 1 shared issues
Antiart 1 shared issues
Artnet 1 shared issues
August Lamm 1 shared issues

Source context

September 10, 2024 · Original source

I have my eye on Literary Sport; a new activewear line inspired by poets coming September, 2024. There’s an increasing emphasis on the artistry of the body and the art of fitness in health and wellness branding recently. I honestly think this is a welcome departure from GymShark, QuestBars, GNC, etc… It's long been an aesthetic wasteland for Girls Who Like Splenda. Literary Sport is particularly chic, but I’m also intrigued by David's; a new protein bar brand inspired by Michelangelo’s David that unabashedly promises to make their consumers beautiful. I’ve been seeing the FKA Twigs 'The Body Is Art' Campaign for OnRunning all over Manhattan as well. I might be working on a longer story about this trend, so send me thoughts – chloegpingeon@gmail.com

Inline links: Literary Sport, GymShark, QuestBars, GNC, David's, Michelangelo’s David, FKA Twigs 'The Body Is Art' Campaign, OnRunning

QuitwithJones1 mentions across 1 issues

QuitwithJones is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 21, 2024 and September 21, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "I was given QuitwithJones mints at a pop up on the street this morning". It most often appears alongside $EGIRL Zine, 10cust, Adeline Swartzendruber.

Article page: QuitwithJones
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 21, 2024
Last seen: September 21, 2024
Instagram handle: @quitwithjones

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Issue trail

I wish I had more to say about fashion week. September 21, 2024

$EGIRL Zine 1 shared issues
10cust 1 shared issues
Adeline Swartzendruber 1 shared issues
Alexa Chung 1 shared issues
Alirqq 1 shared issues

Source context

September 21, 2024 · Original source

I was given QuitwithJones mints at a pop up on the street this morning and the afterparty is sponsored by Blip nicotine gum. I’ve been indulging like it’s candy and now I’m starving and dizzy, spinning from so many milligrams of Quitting Vaping. The afterparty is at Soho Grand, a good party, a club I thought I hated but I’m having fun. Later, too late, deviled eggs and martini at Little Ways. A good stop. Something to return for on another evening, sometime when I’m not reeling.

Inline links: QuitwithJones, Blip nicotine gum, Soho Grand, Little Ways

Friday, September 27 — TENSE presents a much anticipated event at The Locker Room. The Fall will feature readings and performances from Anika Levy, August Lamm, Beckett Rosset, Kitty St Remy, Madeline Cash, Sophie Madeline Doss, Zack Graham, and Magdalene Taylor. Nicotine mints so you can actually quit vaping (like me!) provided by Jones.

Inline links: The Fall, Anika Levy, August Lamm, Beckett Rosset, Kitty St Remy, Madeline Cash, Zack Graham, Magdalene Taylor, Jones

Rag and Bone1 mentions across 1 issues

Rag and Bone is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 06, 2026 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Rag and Bone green cargo pants". It most often appears alongside A Place in the Sun, Ali RQ, Angelica.

Article page: Rag and Bone
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 06, 2026
Last seen: March 06, 2026
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

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Issue trail

Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

A Place in the Sun 1 shared issues
Ali RQ 1 shared issues
Angelica 1 shared issues
Angelmoon 1 shared issues
Banana Republic 1 shared issues

Source context

March 06, 2026 · Original source

I am not a robot. In the morning, I want to get sunlight in my eyes and I want to wear a Tankair black tank top and Rag and Bone green cargo pants and Petrucci ballet flats and big wired headphones. In the night, I want goat milk elixirs and Angelmoon dresses and answers and ideas to float through my phone. When it is nighttime, I love to play on my phone. It is night and the window is open and I am feeling quite happy with myself, though believe it-or-not I do have a tendency to let things ebb and flow. White noise meditation outside my window, but it’s just listening to the turtle pond churn day old water right below me in the courtyard, and listening to day-four-snow melt in big fast drops off the roof. Snow melts fast and then it’s no-longer-magic-outside. I am not totally ready for spring to begin. I am not totally ready to be old or even bored or to go to sleep most nights before the sun is high in the sky. This is why I leave the windows open. This is why I put on black silk eye mask. This is why I live in New York City, totally out of sync with nature, totally in sync with the dictations of my whims. I am lying with the lights off and I am totally ready for Pi (1998) to begin on my computer. My least favorite thing about myself is my tendency to let things ebb and flow. My favorite thing about myself is my ability to notice patterns and symbols and other sorts of interesting and mysterious and astral or perhaps just normal projections in everything everywhere and particularly in real life. While I wait for Pi (1998) to begin, my computer is flashing words and sounds and symbols about Cyriossis took my wings and winter drab and summer glam and being honest with your clients about the effects of their lifestyle. When Pi (1988) begins, a series of patterns and symbols and pumping rock music and black and white imagery will flash across my computer screen. When I was a little kid, my mother told me not to stare into the sun, so once when I was six I did, Sean Gullete will say. One-eight-one-eight-one-eight, he will say. He will walk past a tai chi class in the park and solve math problems with a small child in his building. If you graph the numbers of any system, patterns emerge, he will say. He will talk about the stock market and the universe of numbers and he will live-blog-his-day. 11:52; personal note, he will say. 11:52: Not a pattern In the mornings, I like to live-blog-my-days, but it’s not so much the numerological sort of thing. I like to go on vacation. I like to give up vice. I am feeling totally thrilled about the trajectory of things. Failed treatments to date, they are saying in Pi (1998): beta blockers, calcium channel blockers, adrenaline injections, high doses of ibuprofen, steroids, trager mentastics, violent exercise, caffeine, acupuncture, marijuana, percodan, midrin, tenormin, sansert, and homeopathics. Failed treatments to date: rock climbing, chess, caution-to-the-wind, throwing everything out again-and-again-and-again. Numerology. Event calendar. 2016. IFC screening. Total isolation. Total consumption. Total sweetness policy. I’m not really treating anything. Moreso, I am just writing it all down.

Rain Cloud1 mentions across 1 issues

Rain Cloud is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 23, 2024 and October 23, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Rain Cloud by Perfumer H". It most often appears alongside Alimentari Flaneur, Andrew, Ani.

Article page: Rain Cloud
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 23, 2024
Last seen: October 23, 2024

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Issue trail

Collected Agenda with Vivien Lee October 23, 2024

Alimentari Flaneur 1 shared issues
Andrew 1 shared issues
Ani 1 shared issues
Architectural Digest 1 shared issues
Bamonte's 1 shared issues

Source context

October 23, 2024 · Original source

Rain Cloud by Perfumer H

Inline links: Rain Cloud by Perfumer H

DONE1 mentions across 1 issues

RE/DONE is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 09, 2024 and October 09, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Club Mel via RE/DONE". It most often appears alongside 52 Walker, @singersny, Are.na.

Article page: DONE
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 09, 2024
Last seen: October 09, 2024

Outbound links

Issue trail

Collected Agenda with Sam Falb October 09, 2024

52 Walker 1 shared issues
@singersny 1 shared issues
Are.na 1 shared issues
Basement 1 shared issues
Behind The Seams 1 shared issues

Source context

October 09, 2024 · Original source

As the seasons change, ask yourself: what’s a sartorial need? For me, I want a crisp yellow tee from Olly Shinder, Club Mel via RE/DONE, or Gimaguas. Drape a TSE cashmere sweater over the back of the tee (probably black or cream), and throw a deeply cozy, black, wool top coat over the combination. This is the impending winter uniform of choice. Insulated, style-forward, and bright in its accent. All I need now is a shoe.

Inline links: Olly Shinder, Club Mel via RE/DONE, Gimaguas, TSE

Reddit1 mentions across 1 issues

Reddit is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 09, 2025 and September 09, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "watching reddit atheists evangelize online". It most often appears alongside Aakash Kakkar, Aita, Allen-Golder Carpenter.

Article page: Reddit
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 09, 2025
Last seen: September 09, 2025

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

City Built on Crystals September 09, 2025

Aakash Kakkar 1 shared issues
Aita 1 shared issues
Allen-Golder Carpenter 1 shared issues
AltCitizen 1 shared issues
AltCitizen 15 Year Anniversary Show 1 shared issues

Source context

City Built on Crystals

September 09, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, September 1 On the train to Coney Island, my friends are talking about the motifs that keep occurring. It's the sort of thing that happens to you when you have a pure heart, one of my friends is explaining. It's the sort of thing that people try to do to Real Life Angels, my other friend is explaining. Real life angels aren't real, I am saying, though I understand her point. The train is streaking through open air with towns on both sides. Housing projects rising up beyond that. Fallen green leaves and gray pebbles on the edges of the tracks. I have had these concepts of destruction explained to me before, only then it was by my mother or my friends in Miami and they called it Evil Eye. Here, they call it Devils and Angels. Real life Demons. I have been spending a lot of time this summer, trying to parse out the difference. Later, we emerge onto the boardwalk to find Curtis Sliwa in his red barret at the edge of the Atlantic. Police officers and children and men with snake tattoos in the ocean. There is live music at Salt and Sizzle and a ferris wheel that is one-hundred-years-old-and-never-any-accidents and the sky turns blue and purple and they cancelled the fireworks last year on account of someone drowning and due respect. We miss them this year of our own accord. When I was in love I spent a lot of time thinking about the apocalypse and feeling kind of giddy and aloof in this anticipation, convinced that the best way to die was euphoria and so end times while the center held would be a relief above all. When I smoked cigarettes and was a teen I would spend a lot of time pondering pop-psychology notions of optimistic nihilism and watching reddit atheists evangelize online. Now, I'm on the F-train back towards block-party-bars and my friends are shooting photos of their merch line, standing in front of the train doors as they open and close and I prefer to stay seated. Mostly aware of how dehydrated I am, which is a relief insofar as it diminishes all less corporeal thoughts. At Time Again, we make new friends with rare and inquisitive souls, which is really what the end of summer is all about. Writing on my phone on the walk home. Scribbling with kind of blurry eyes like an ipad baby on Delancey Street about the things that one has left to lose. Scribbling kind of incoherently about Health and Strong and Pervasive Senses. Scribbling Mother Teresa’s Rules For Humility. Speak as little as possible of oneself and Yield in discussion even though one is right and; well - what else am I supposed to do besides accept and embrace a Strong and Pervasive sense that things are as they are? Things were one way and now they are another. Things are harsher now in some ways, and more gentle in others. Tuesday, September 2 Woke up feeling very concerned about the decay of my physical form as a result of my bad habits and also by my newfound sense of passivity which I hope is driven by surrender and not by cynicism but one can really not be too sure. Woke up to a brand new delusion. In my dreams, someone was knocking on the door. They woke me up screaming. I stayed very quiet in response. Sunlight through my windows that I cannot bring myself to drape with curtains. Looked through the peephole. No one was there. Here are things I need to do: email the priests at Saint Joseph's to join OCIA and consider becoming Catholic despite my generally waspy sensibility. Finish and publish my substack. Create publicity materials for the play, go to class tomorrow, go to screening at Anthology Film tomorrow, write write write. Conjure up some sort of novel-like plot out of my hundreds of thousands of words of musings I keep in secret online documents. Make final edits on El Salvador piece and hope for the best. Conjure up some sort of plausible plot for my novel about gnosticism and also schizophrenia in people who seek to approximate the feeling of being famous by having friends online. Drop off laundry. Workout a lot. Maybe go sober. Certainly be sober-for-today. Today I am Cleansing. Today I am proud of myself in some ways and disappointed in others. Over plates of octopus and shrimp in lemon mustard sauce and pita and eggplant dip, Iris asks if she can treat me. Treat me to what, I asked. Do treatments for you, Iris explains. Treat me with iodine and thyroid and hypnosis. Treat me with methods opposite to my own. My own being mostly, a hysterical dipping in and out of notions of asceticism. Ok to some treatment, I say. Iris and I walk to the shops. The sky is still light but it is getting colder now. Iris buys dish soap and I slip sea kelp spray into my pocket. I have become quite destabilized by my afternoon visit to the glass apartment in the sky with the revolving doors. Not my apartment. No one's apartment. I am less like an orphan now. Iris and I walk back outside and down towards Seward Park. Iris says Sam knows a good aura cleanser. Not that I think the aura in the glass apartment in the sky is necessarily dark or doomed, Iris clarifies. I’d been telling Iris about some theories on the aura of things as dark and doomed. An invisible string but it was most of all bad. Ultimatums of gnosticism but they were delivered with nefarious intent.. Narcissistic to assume spiritual implications in the everyday, obviously. But how does one explain why they feel like they are floating by the time they are drifting up the stairs? On the Internet, they are making up real life retreats to enter the void. On the internet, they will take you to the Real Life House where you can Understand Real Life Consciousness. On the Internet, you can't live forever. Everyone realized that a few years back and I realized too, a few years after that. In Real Life you can maybe live forever, though. Everyone hopes so. I have been worrying, lately, that I hope so too. Wednesday, September 3 It’s Art Week in New York, which means less to me than it used to, besides for a pleasant rise in energies and things whirling back to life. I go to the first installment of the Marjorie Cameron series at Anthology Film Archive on account of Emillia’s recommendation and a slightly uneasy interest in the occult, tonight. An interest in witches who used to dance in a ring of rocking horses by my childhood home and a drive through Lily Dale with Riley in other lives, a few lives before this one. All that greenery and a long road alongside a lake towards the Psychic Capital Of The World. Hub of Mediums. Salmon Rushdie had been stabbed nearby a few years back. A psychic in Rhode Island had told me things would happen as I wanted them too but it would be first a thing of waiting, and secondly a thing of new architectures and spaces given that I’d been dealing in impossible conditions for awhile. Trying to make something stick in an Architecture of Unhappiness for a while. I stayed up til dawn over the weekend. Awoken to a Providence necklace placed around my neck and a burning desire to remove myself from the organ donor registry just in case. I worried about the morality of seeking loopholes as it pertained to the Providence Necklace, but a few days have passed and now it is Wednesday, early evening, tuck the tag under the collar of my shirt and began my hovering walk towards things that happen. The screening shows a Curtis Harrington film called Night Tide (1961), and it is about a girl who is a siren or perhaps it is just about Psychological Warfare, the ending leaves things a bit unclear. I've been nostalgic for the kind of California where I've never really been before. Nostalgic for things that never happened which I think is less a thing of clairvoyance and more a sense of how it all slips away but regardless; the shots are all of witchy Venice Beach and an apartment over the carousel that overlooks the sea and there is a bonfire on the rocks and some dancing that becomes a bit possessed due to dark forces - pulling my hair over my eyes like a blindfold for these parts - but I am thinking I could live in a place like this in spite of perhaps some evil. I have always thought I could float around it. I have always been arrogant in this way Thursday, September 4 Last night, I turned off the air conditioning and spilled Diet Pepsi on the baby pink rug in my sleep. Mom has shipped out baby blue curtains with white stripes and New York (the place where all my problems are) is starting to become a place that oscillates into something more calm. Sophie suggested baby pink curtains, and so I am making compromises in my mind. Compromising my own opinions and the opinions of others. Putting a lot of stock in the opinions of others. Putting a lot of stock in things improving drastically through the help of water in glass bottles and red light therapy and self hypnosis and religious conversion and swapping out the Cool White Linear Fluorescent Light Bulbs for something warmer. Everything becomes warm and still and the air is kind of heavy. I can lie very still for a while. Not forever, but definitely for now. You should just become one of those sociopathic writers who does insane things for the sake of writing, Iris advised me a few days ago. Yeah, I said. Like go to consciousness school in Argentina or conduct strange experiments with materiality on myself and others. Adopt a regiment of strange injections or move to Venice Beach to become Catholic and fight the occult there, too. Sitting on the edge of my bed in my New World in New York City. Closing my eyes and imagining Venice Beach as a magical little enclave with a witchy apartment over the carousel by the sea and arched doorways and conch shells and a jazz club and massage parlors and psychics on the piers. If I became a ruthless psychopath, what could I do in a place like this? In New York City (the city built on crystals). I am not feeling so ruthless. Self-experimentation without self-possession mostly leading towards destruction of a pretty boring variety. At least we don't live boring lives, I used to be told. There is nothing more boring than this, I used to say in response. Friday, September 5 Come in, come in, three psychics beckon on Sullivan Street, but I am pretty clear about how things have been and where they are going, and I would prefer to look for motifs in patterns and symbols and psychosomatic symptoms which reach a peak and then; abandon your whole entire life. That is one thing the psychics could tell me to do. Abandon your whole entire life. They could tell me to buy a whole new personality. I could buy a good fortune swimming in tea leaves and an aura cleansing from the psychics on Sullivan Street. I could buy a membership to witchcraft school and a flat in Venice Beach and a conflicted conscience when it comes to forces of good and evil and certainly, to things like health, sobriety, longevity. It's enticing to create pseudo intellectual or pseudo spiritual explanations for bad behavior when in reality things are obviously much more simple. Most actions are much too plain to qualify as any sort of performance or definitely any art. I'm working on becoming stupider, I told Iris. Will I become stupider? I asked the psychics. Will the apocalypse come sooner or later if the collective consciousness ideates on it or tries to stave it off? Is it better to be witchy but self protective, or ascetic but operating with self abandon. Where can one buy self possession? Taking the C-Train to Fort Greene Summer Fairyland where my dad and Sylvie wait for me at Aita and so everything is better. Plums and peaches and ricotta and octopus which the girls behind us are saying they don't eat after watching My Octopus Teacher (2020). Girls love to say they don't eat octopus after watching My Octopus Teacher (2020) but perhaps I am heartless, and I mostly just found the documentarian in that film to be kind of deranged and unreliable. Beef tartar and potato chips and Sylvie is talking about how she's aware of the balance of power in every single conversation and I'm saying I'm literally never aware of that I'm literally always just seeking equilibrium in any interaction that matters because conversation exists to reach understanding and Sylvie is saying no you are just always making sure that you are the one with the power in every conversation. I say no and she says yes and I say can we seek some equilibrium and she says you make sure that won't ever happen. The combat stops. My dad is asking Sylvie's boyfriend why he seeks intellectual inquiry. Sylvie's boyfriend is pointing out the famous people peppered around the bar. Goodbye you power hungry beast, I am telling Sylvie. My dad drives me back towards Manhattan. Animal skulls are scattered around his mini van and he says I can have a deer jaw for my new place if I want. Wrong turn through the Hubert Tunnel. Twenty-two dollar toll. Drop me off at the most Satanic Nightclub in New York to sulk soberly at the edge of an indoor pool and really lean into nihilism insofar as - what if we stayed for a while? I don't stay for a while. Manhattan night is teeming with people and the city is built on crystals. Good or bad ones? I haven't decided yet. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, September 9 From 7pm - 11pm at Night Club 101 — AltCitizen 15 Year Anniversary Show series launches with The Kickoff. Hosted by Brittany Marino. Featuring Lulu Van Trapp, Suo, D. Treuit. From 10pm - late, after party downstairs | Tickets: $15 advance, $20 doors

Inline links: Night Club 101, AltCitizen, The Kickoff

Reese's Peanut Butter Cup1 mentions across 1 issues

Reese's Peanut Butter Cup is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between June 09, 2025 and June 09, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "I'm eating the Worst Sandwich Ever and Reese's Peanut Butter Cup". It most often appears alongside A Court of Thorns and Roses, Allie Rowbottom, Amnesiascope.

Article page: Reese's Peanut Butter Cup
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: June 09, 2025
Last seen: June 09, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

A supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again June 09, 2025

A Court of Thorns and Roses 1 shared issues
Allie Rowbottom 1 shared issues
Amnesiascope 1 shared issues
Aperol 1 shared issues
Apt 5 1 shared issues

Source context

June 09, 2025 · Original source

Sunday, June 1 The flight back from Miami is gray and swift. I spent the evening on the rooftop at The Betsy yesterday. Iris asked me for the list of my favorite foods. Octopus, apples, apple pie, lamb chops with mint jelly, creamed spinach, a certain type of barbeque salmon, a whole roast chicken. The concrete by the pool bar was hot and steamy and we didn’t bring identification and we would not be served. David bought us bloody marys and we drank them behind the tarp where the bartenders couldn’t see. I swam laps up and down and up and down the length of this pool that was mostly for drinking. I found Chanel sunglasses while standing barefoot in the bathroom and I returned them to the French girl. It’s like I’ve been immune to the permanence of ramifications of the things that are really bad, these days. I keep forgiving and I keep on being forgiven. They gave me free Pina Colada samples in little plastic cups. Ok Intense Girl, he was saying, because every time I would pop my head out of the water to say the things I thought, it would be with beady eyes and a determined stare. I like ice cream particularly matcha ice cream and I like lamb, Iris told me. Iris taught me about Gnosticism, and I believe this is somewhat aligned with the situation with me and him, though he thinks it's kind of sacrilegious when I equate my nightmares with mysticism, or when I attribute the interest that people who are kind of half of this world and half of another take in me to anything other than high agreeability and openness. Iris and I walked along Ocean Drive to Kalamata way down South Beach, and then we walked back along the water. A writing retreat, a rave, apocalyptic undertones. You can’t choose solitude and practicality at the edge of an extinction event, is one of many roots of it. I walked barefoot along the boardwalk. I met him for a second dinner. The ribeye was bloody and it came with a gross side of pasta alfredo. I woke up screaming. I woke up all smiles. I took photos of our hands on the plane Just In Case. I showed him a song. The Message. Is this a good song, or is this a secret message, he asked. It’s just a good song, I said. The frat guys in front of us on the plane are reading A Court of Thorns and Roses smut novels and buying tickets to Jake Shane's comedy tour. The guy on my boyfriend's phone intercom is stealing all my LA Apparel underwear from our lobby. I'm eating the Worst Sandwich Ever and Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. I am taking pictures of our reflections in the clouded plane window and I am thinking about how impossible it feels right now, flying like this, to imagine that so often, we become something else. Monday, June 2 I read some GirlInsides on the airtrain back from JFK who I think is just like me if I were more honest and precise about it, or maybe whom my stories would echo more precisely if I did not have this sick need to put my face all over everything. Anyways, GirlInsides was talking about how summer would bring things like long long long hair and farmers market plums eaten over the sink in underwear and writing and reading all over the place, and her ideas made me feel like I was melting and going to cry. Then I wrote what I wanted summer to bring, all - getting off the subway because it's too hot and walking in sandals sticking to my feet until i find somewhere that glows right and then its morning and we're sitting first then lying down on the terrace in sun that becomes unbearable drinking sparkling water out of glass bottles dripping it over my chest opening the door for the blast of air conditioning and to let the friends that come by in and out people floating by in and out and come and go and then at dusk i put on something green and i drink cold cider cold diet coke or spicy watermelon margarita outside at kikis in swan room away from the heat at vol de nuit with fries and garlic sauce on the roof, on my roof, in the backyards and basements and i walk out and walk everywhere when it is time to leave i leave and sometimes it is time to leave and so then I take the train and there’s the coast and then I’m putting laundry on the line in a black bikini and drinking diet coke with lemon in my black bikini and driving to the ocean down the driveway at night headlights breaking through june gloom fog and jumping off the dock where the sharks don't eat us but any summer now they could, or then it's morning and i'm sober writing in my google docs journal walking outside, writing in my greenhouse apartment in new york, writing along the overgrown pond and field and it always smells thicker there outside of boston, writing by foggy shores and rocky shores and sometimes the air becomes thick too and my dad plays dougie mclain and we make pesto pasta mozzarella chicken sausage in yellow china bowls on yellow placemats the meal gets kind of hazy through the sheen of blue hour rain coming through the window and then i'm pacing and writing down ocean drive in Miami because I can't decide where i want to be anymore and i like flashing lights i like coming back to the very nice very cold hotel that we're staying in because he's Sorry but I don't want any more apologies i want this summer to be Being very very very in love because i really have been anticipating extinction events or at least things become robotic sterile i used to think id be pretty good at both being in love like this and at not being robotic and sterile and i have become slightly above average at both these things in practice i guess though, it's nice to have the most human thing in the world, it's nice for me all the time, even then, even when it isn't for him i think it's nicer for me then it would be to not have this all the time and I don't know why i keep sabotaging the only thing i know to be true and human and so i am hoping for a summer of all that, hands pressed against the plane window greenhouse window train window glass mirror glassy water plunging my face underwater no more eb and flow. Anyways, none of that made any sense and then shock of all shocks it did eb and flow again last night. Everyone was so nice to me about my story and I wore the Nasseau, Bahamas shirt he bought for me all Life Is Better In FlipFlops and he wanted me to wear the sunglasses too, to exacerbate the bit but I thought that would be a little bit too far. He said “you know why I’m mad at you” when we got home, and I didn’t know, I had no idea actually, and so then I got sad, but the story was fiction. This is fiction too. I’m not being facetious when I say that. This isn’t even autofiction. This is literally all made up. “they seem lost and completely clueless,” he is saying now, downstairs, on the phone, he is talking about some forty year old woman and an awful charleton and some guy who does RedPill posting online and some guy he personally has a strong dislike for who has a lot of medical malpractice suits against him. Maybe he’s a genius, he is saying. I don’t know, he is saying. These people are so strange, he is saying. Tuesday, June 3 His friend rubs my head like i'm a dog or something when i walk into his stupid fake exclusive evil party that i'm not invited to and then my heart swells with rage. I'm so mad, I was telling everyone. I'm so sorry I didn't mean to say that I guess I had one too many, I was saying. I didn't have one too many, I had just right, I was telling him. I like The Sweet East, he is telling me. I like Yeats and social norms. Yes and, I say; I hope that you get everything you have ever wanted. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, June 9 A quiet night in the realm of events. Consider; dinner at The Marlton’s new restaurant Chez Nous followed by a screening of Buffalo 66 at Metrograph (10pm). I have historically liked The Marlton because it is vaguely past its prime and also a five minute walk from my apartment, and a place where no one ever tells you that you’ve stayed too long. The food at the old restaurant was terrible (so I’ve heard) (I only went for tea), but the recently refurbished Chez Nous is chic and fun and has maintained all of the hotel's original charm. The shrimp salad is very good, as is the martini. I’ll report back after my second visit (possibly tonight). Otherwise - 10pm on a Monday evening is the perfect time to see a film bar none, besides, possibly 1pm on a Friday.

Rittenhouse Rye1 mentions across 1 issues

Rittenhouse Rye is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 14, 2024 and October 14, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "My boyfriend makes me a glass of Rittenhouse Rye neat". It most often appears alongside 69 Greene, @dr.rubinstein666, @fantasy_discotheque.

Article page: Rittenhouse Rye
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 14, 2024
Last seen: October 14, 2024

Outbound links

Issue trail

October in America October 14, 2024

69 Greene 1 shared issues
@dr.rubinstein666 1 shared issues
@fantasy_discotheque 1 shared issues
All The Paintings Are Orphans 1 shared issues
Ama Birch 1 shared issues

Source context

October in America

October 14, 2024 · Original source

I tell my friends I’m on my way, and then a few hours pass. I’m listening to autotuned country rap hybrid music by the artist Shaboozey on repeat in the apartment. I’m finding myself moved by ideas like Cowboys Never Die. My boyfriend makes me a glass of Rittenhouse Rye neat. So many directions a night can take. Sitting on the terrace. Settling on this one.

Inline links: Shaboozey

Sephora1 mentions across 1 issues

Sephora is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 14, 2025 and February 14, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "drop the tails into the empty Sephora box on the floor". It most often appears alongside Aristotle, Augustine's Confessions, Beckett Rosset.

Article page: Sephora
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 14, 2025
Last seen: February 14, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Meditations February 14, 2025

Aristotle 1 shared issues
Augustine's Confessions 1 shared issues
Beckett Rosset 1 shared issues
Brandy Melville 1 shared issues
Cooper Union 1 shared issues

Source context

February 14, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, February 10 I woke up in a storm today. Stormed around the apartment a bit, all mad about who knows what, stormed to the gym for self actualization, skipped all the fashion week stuff last night, the show I was so excited for, the after parties too. I was sick, after all, though I didn’t realize it then. You only realize it now, sunroof windows, all this energy, the contrast visible now that you’re flooded with Being Well. “It’s funny how you live off the provisions David and the world throw at you,” Lara texts me. “Having a hard time articulating a reason/framework to start taking care of yourself more sometimes that isn’t cheesy,” Lara says. “It will be good for your writing because you’ll get more information from the environment and have more energy,” Lara determines. “I actually do care about health, vanity skin etc, I just have cognitive dissonance," I say. And I do. I ordered collagen, after all. This is not so bad. None of it is so bad, really. I am thinking of joining David in Paris. It's a bit of an act of fleeing, though, and it's no good to leave out of some desire for escapism. I am treading very cautiously this morning. A matcha with almond milk and the oatmeal with apples and cinnamon and raisins. The bright sun is melting all the bright snow. They are talking about Aristotle's Ethos Pathos Logos in class today. The only one that matters to me is the Ethos of it all. I believe everything I’m told if I trust the authority of the person telling it to me. I’m all swallowed up in the undiscerning masses. It would be nice to leave New York, yes, but it will be nice to stay here, too. It'll be nice to come back to life right where I've been sleeping. In the evening, my friends arrive. They sit at my kitchen table, and they tell me crazy stories about staying up late and everything that happened in between. I was lonely for a moment, or really, I was just struck by the the being alone of it while he is still away, but then my friends arrived, and the stories were all sparkling and shocking. I know secrets again, now. It's more fun when I have things to hold. Wrapping my hair twice in towels by the open window before bed. It's too cold to keep the window open, but the space heater was drying everything out. Lara left some cocktail shrimp in the fridge, and I drop the tails into the empty Sephora box on the floor. I'll still take out the trash, I am not more disgusting than average. Tuesday, February 11 Coconut oil, beef bone broth, muscovado sugar on a silver spoon for breakfast. There is reason to think this kind of thing will make me become better. I would be very easily indoctrinated into a cult based on the certain determining factors, I forget the exact formula of each trait but I know my balance of each fits the bill; agreeability, desire to belong, etc. I have to stay vigilant. Left to my own devices and I’m half asleep and I’m making potions. I wrote a story in the night. Hologram Girls, I called it. Stupid title but I think this one, yes particularly this one, I imagine I could turn this into a book with just some discipline and a little joie de vivre. Natasha comes over just as I am starting to lose my mind. Just as the snow is starting, too. Snow in the evening, and Natasha is taking photos of me on film. Usually, I wouldn’t like this. Me, at home, on film. Madelyn would have something to say about Lacan and the image of it all. I would have something to say about; I’ve been addicted to deciphering the angles of my face in my mind until they become shapes and forms and pieces beyond recognition. Vanity is so obviously self indulgent, so blatant in its gluttony that it avoids interpretation, becomes silly to give voice to, turns omnipresent. Out Of Your Mind And Into Your Body. You will walk on the treadmill and you will write this sentence until it becomes true. I don’t function well in my own company. That’s the truth of it. Even the most basic things. On film, I wear a dress from Brandy Melville, black tights, barefoot or, the Prada boots my mother found for me cheap at a vintage store in Vermont. The snow hasn’t started yet. I like taking photos at home, and I trust Natasha with the camera. I can’t see my own reflection. It’s fading to blue hour in the greenhouse windows. We will see how this turns out. At drinks, later, with old friends, their Colleague came, and he's talking about how if you are not early you are late. He works in Revenue Recovery, he explains. Like if someone ordered a burger and fries but they forgot to pay for the fries, he would recover that, but for bigger things. For things like a scalpel when they’re doing surgery. “If they lose the scalpel?” I ask. “If they lose the revenue,” he says. I’ve felt very defensive lately. I’ve felt an annoying need to emphasize things like I know what Deloitte is, but barely. I’ve felt an intolerable need to explain things like where a Reading ends and a Party begins. This is the greatest bar in the world, I am told. You can tell, because my vodka soda is actually full of clarified juice. I say something insufferable about how I prefer hotel lobby bars and martinis. We could all go to DCP (Double Chicken Please), someone suggests. Because this, in truth, this DCP is actually the greatest bar in New York. Outside, it’s snowing now. Inside, there are big red orbs on the ceiling and the bartenders keep swinging them around in big sweeping circles. I thought they did it on the hour, I thought they did this like a clock, but the time keeps passing and the orbs keep being set in motion, seemingly at random. There is talk of vulgarity in comedy at our table. There is talk of a probiotic soda brands marketing scandal and the colleague hates influencer marketing, he thinks its immoral, and I’m asking things like the dumbest questions in the whole world like oh but do you think that any marketing really is moral though, and oh but do you think that brands are people, though, and oh my god you can hear your own echos sometimes and you can just want to scream. Outside, the snow is making the street and all its lights become dizzy-like. They pulled the shades down behind me in the window in the restaurant due to the draft, and I wished they hadn’t, but I like it better coming out into this quiet night covered in snow like a quiet surprise. Yellow cab fringed with ice. This will always be lovely. I’ve felt a little more lyrical in my writing lately, and there is nothing wrong with this at times, only at times. Except, the repetition I think, feigns a kind of spirituality I don’t actually have when I am doing things like being on my phone and eating protein heavy processed snacks. Later, returning home, reading more of Augustine’s Confessions to penetrate these skin deep musings. I put the space heater on the floor and I do feel sad now, overwhelmingly so, when I think about how terrible things could come to pass so quickly and how I could just be caught off guard, somewhere on a long walk, somewhere being vain. I sleep downstairs tonight, because I do feel very small, and because there are no shades upstairs to cover all that glass. Lying under all that night sky, you begin to think that it might suck you right in. Wednesday, February 12 After I walk outside this morning, where the thin branches of the trees are still coated in these thin smooth layers of snow even in this early morning sun, and after I go to The Standard for the latte with almond milk, after Libra for the small cookie with tahini and chocolate chips, after class and then the walk home and then the dropping off of laundry and the grocery store and the run in the cold sun, after all of this; David returns from Paris bringing a hairbrush and perfume from Officine Universelle Buly. We are going to go out, but then there's ginger beer and vodka on the kitchen table and the caesar salad pizza from La Vera and then, it's nicer to just stay here. Thursday, February 13 I’m back to listening to the interviews today. I’m not sure what these will become, but there’s a lot of wisdom in other people's words, and a lot of hesitation in my own voice when recorded. There is some existential dread these days, but David says it’s all just math I don’t understand at all, and the apocalypse is not imminent. I disagree sometimes, but I am trying to worry more about things like the State Of My Soul. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Friday, February 14 If I was looking for a last minute dinner reservation tonight, here is where I would go… Knickerbocker Bar and Grill is my favorite restaurant in New York and I’ve lauded it many times before. Classic, old school, not too many frills but still feels tasteful and nice, great t-bone, liquor on the grand piano, jazz on the weekends, etc etc etc. I like this description best - Beckett Rosset on his father dining here: “My father went here for lunch for god knows how many years. He probably consumed hundreds of gin martinis and rum and cokes there. When he died, after the memorial at Cooper Union, the family and close friends, a good thirty or forty people, went there. The owner comped everything. I thought it would not survive covid but clearly it has. Glad to know a new generation has taken to it.”

Inline links: Officine Universelle Buly, Knickerbocker Bar and Grill

SkinnyPop1 mentions across 1 issues

SkinnyPop is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between June 09, 2025 and June 09, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "skinny pop popcorn and torres truffle potato chips". It most often appears alongside A Court of Thorns and Roses, Allie Rowbottom, Amnesiascope.

Article page: SkinnyPop
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: June 09, 2025
Last seen: June 09, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

A supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again June 09, 2025

A Court of Thorns and Roses 1 shared issues
Allie Rowbottom 1 shared issues
Amnesiascope 1 shared issues
Aperol 1 shared issues
Apt 5 1 shared issues

Source context

June 09, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Saturday, May 31 I wake up at six am to Miami Beach hazy dawn, honey bear full of gummy bears, skinny pop popcorn and torres truffle potato chips and I believe this mini bar isn't motion-censored but if it is, well, is already to late because I am crouched over on the floor playing pharmacy with the sorting of cosmopolitan, candies, pretzels, aperol spritz. The sun is hot and already almost too bright outside. There's a kind of resignation to the physical exhaustion of today. I could pump myself full of junk food and sink into the hotel carpet disassociated, spinning, things have been oscillating in such extremes and I guess there is some solid ground now, but I am still so breathless and uncertain when I try to consider this as real. "What I like about a hotel is the idea that you can just completely change vibes," my boyfriend was saying. "Anonymity. Abandon your two week life.” I came to consciousness in my two week life sobbing in the morning. I came to consciousness with tears pouring down my face in the bluest water you have ever seen. There was cognizance while gasping for air at the coconut stand, warm liquor, a scene at The Standard. I plugged the story into chat gpt like someone evil or something all made up. Is the narrator likable, I asked. Is this genius, I begged. A whirling tale about wearing the wrong linens, said the robot. the narrator is kind of redeemable, unlike, clearly [redacted] I have lost all my vindication. I have promised not to beg. I reread the letter and they told Rose at breakfast at The Social Club that she is getting sick because of Central AC. You know you are in Miami right, they ask us. The servers beam big wide beams and only I beam back. I have been working on fiction a lot, but then I find it difficult to swing back here. I find myself very cold and with a lingering sense of maybe fatalism more than nihilism but regardless there is such removal in my made up language no matter how much I try to bring it down to earth. I am not removed at all, here. I learned quickly. I deleted my transcription of the other days so I could better tell you about the parts that Never Happened. I remember almost nothing but it's like I don't really drink anymore, so this was something else. My Miami Beach: The Standard, The Beachcomber, The Betsey, The Social Club. The coconut stand and the diet coke mini bar and the pleading about what happens now - a sunburn, a whole entire life, there was the mystic who was telling us about Gnosticism that summer. There was the quivering lady at the quaker church who was telling us about angels and destiny and if we became unaligned, then there would be nothing else. I did write a story of fiction and so you're getting the scraps, here. I came to consciousness already half in a dream. My consciousness has never faltered, before. We began in Connecticut. Things were bright and nice that weekend. All the green of Connecticut was very lush and it caught me by surprise. I did not feel much to prove nor a need to get all on the defensive. I wrote stories outside of myself, and I was pleased to find an escape. There was a castle over the river ferry in lush and luminous New England spring and it reminded me of somewhere further South and of a life that stretched out all human and endless. I didn't mean to leave again. I didn't mean to cycle on and on and on. We went further South. Bahamas then Miami. It wasn't so much a thing of irresponsibility or of being in a cult as it was, having lots of friends and being given a gift. Drops of water in a wave don't move with the wave, they simply jostle around in place with the wind. He read this aloud to me from my book like this was news and I was stupid. I'm not stupid, I said. His face became crestfallen like he was surprised to find me harsh. I'm sorry for being careless with the only thing in the world I know to be true, I said. My mind was moving too fast but it might have just been the sterile setting and the dehydration. I left New York and I landed in a place where I should never be. It was a bit of impulsivity and a bit of an exercise in absurdity and camp perhaps, though none of it is ever really my decision with these things and these trips. There Are Casinos Everywhere For Those With Eyes To See. There are golf cart highways and fake black marble lounge tables and a DJ saying Let's Get It Started with no irony. There is plenty of sun, too but the rejuvenative qualities of light become quite negated when filtered off of all this pale concrete. Ancestral memory or something of the sort, but I was really craving foggy pine forests by the gray ocean. What was it they were saying in El Salvador? The teachings on light and life from the Bitcoin Doctor in El Salvador were proven to be true because Las Vegas was so palpably optimized to be terrible. They were saying a lot of things in El Salvador, but I did feel like there is something almost nefarious in the Casino-Desert air, here. We took the plane to Miami after that. I'm obscuring the timelines, a bit, again. I rediscovered Privacy and Fiction at right about the same time. I rediscovered golf course concrete roads and mind numbing sun and privacy and fiction and now I'd like to write what happens next but it all begins to feel a bit stilted. The Beachcomber was kind of party party party and bottomless brunch in the lobby and windows that opened onto all that green jungle Miami swim week bottle service ceviche room service drifting around the paths outdoors taking short sharp breaths. The Betsey was more colonial, like a maze, they considered themselves to be bookish and we moved there for the purpose of manufacturing stability and more cheer. Iris came over in the afternoon. I picked her up in the lobby. I dove for my boyfriend's lost coral in the pool downstairs. The skin off my chest burned easily. I lay on the deck of the pool on the roof with a virgin bloody mary for electrolytes, and a spicy watermelon margarita for a self destructive haze. How are you doing, Iris asked. What are your favorite foods, Iris asked. Octopus, apples, apple pie lamb chops with mint jelly, creamed spinach, a certain type of barbeque salmon, a whole roast chicken. It was funny to say Best Day Of My Life because I cried a million billion tears and now we’re swimming in the moonlight off Miami Beach. I like the club scene pulsing behind all the crescent moon glow and waves. It’s a shame about that night and that day. The resurrection has been unsteady but it’s like Kygo and a palm grove and a cityscape behind me, and all blue dark ocean and saturns return to the front. There was a moment there where I lost every piece of everything good. Gulps of water and air. I pull it all back. Sunday, June 1 The flight back from Miami is gray and swift. I spent the evening on the rooftop at The Betsy yesterday. Iris asked me for the list of my favorite foods. Octopus, apples, apple pie, lamb chops with mint jelly, creamed spinach, a certain type of barbeque salmon, a whole roast chicken. The concrete by the pool bar was hot and steamy and we didn’t bring identification and we would not be served. David bought us bloody marys and we drank them behind the tarp where the bartenders couldn’t see. I swam laps up and down and up and down the length of this pool that was mostly for drinking. I found Chanel sunglasses while standing barefoot in the bathroom and I returned them to the French girl. It’s like I’ve been immune to the permanence of ramifications of the things that are really bad, these days. I keep forgiving and I keep on being forgiven. They gave me free Pina Colada samples in little plastic cups. Ok Intense Girl, he was saying, because every time I would pop my head out of the water to say the things I thought, it would be with beady eyes and a determined stare. I like ice cream particularly matcha ice cream and I like lamb, Iris told me. Iris taught me about Gnosticism, and I believe this is somewhat aligned with the situation with me and him, though he thinks it's kind of sacrilegious when I equate my nightmares with mysticism, or when I attribute the interest that people who are kind of half of this world and half of another take in me to anything other than high agreeability and openness. Iris and I walked along Ocean Drive to Kalamata way down South Beach, and then we walked back along the water. A writing retreat, a rave, apocalyptic undertones. You can’t choose solitude and practicality at the edge of an extinction event, is one of many roots of it. I walked barefoot along the boardwalk. I met him for a second dinner. The ribeye was bloody and it came with a gross side of pasta alfredo. I woke up screaming. I woke up all smiles. I took photos of our hands on the plane Just In Case. I showed him a song. The Message. Is this a good song, or is this a secret message, he asked. It’s just a good song, I said. The frat guys in front of us on the plane are reading A Court of Thorns and Roses smut novels and buying tickets to Jake Shane's comedy tour. The guy on my boyfriend's phone intercom is stealing all my LA Apparel underwear from our lobby. I'm eating the Worst Sandwich Ever and Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. I am taking pictures of our reflections in the clouded plane window and I am thinking about how impossible it feels right now, flying like this, to imagine that so often, we become something else. Monday, June 2 I read some GirlInsides on the airtrain back from JFK who I think is just like me if I were more honest and precise about it, or maybe whom my stories would echo more precisely if I did not have this sick need to put my face all over everything. Anyways, GirlInsides was talking about how summer would bring things like long long long hair and farmers market plums eaten over the sink in underwear and writing and reading all over the place, and her ideas made me feel like I was melting and going to cry. Then I wrote what I wanted summer to bring, all - getting off the subway because it's too hot and walking in sandals sticking to my feet until i find somewhere that glows right and then its morning and we're sitting first then lying down on the terrace in sun that becomes unbearable drinking sparkling water out of glass bottles dripping it over my chest opening the door for the blast of air conditioning and to let the friends that come by in and out people floating by in and out and come and go and then at dusk i put on something green and i drink cold cider cold diet coke or spicy watermelon margarita outside at kikis in swan room away from the heat at vol de nuit with fries and garlic sauce on the roof, on my roof, in the backyards and basements and i walk out and walk everywhere when it is time to leave i leave and sometimes it is time to leave and so then I take the train and there’s the coast and then I’m putting laundry on the line in a black bikini and drinking diet coke with lemon in my black bikini and driving to the ocean down the driveway at night headlights breaking through june gloom fog and jumping off the dock where the sharks don't eat us but any summer now they could, or then it's morning and i'm sober writing in my google docs journal walking outside, writing in my greenhouse apartment in new york, writing along the overgrown pond and field and it always smells thicker there outside of boston, writing by foggy shores and rocky shores and sometimes the air becomes thick too and my dad plays dougie mclain and we make pesto pasta mozzarella chicken sausage in yellow china bowls on yellow placemats the meal gets kind of hazy through the sheen of blue hour rain coming through the window and then i'm pacing and writing down ocean drive in Miami because I can't decide where i want to be anymore and i like flashing lights i like coming back to the very nice very cold hotel that we're staying in because he's Sorry but I don't want any more apologies i want this summer to be Being very very very in love because i really have been anticipating extinction events or at least things become robotic sterile i used to think id be pretty good at both being in love like this and at not being robotic and sterile and i have become slightly above average at both these things in practice i guess though, it's nice to have the most human thing in the world, it's nice for me all the time, even then, even when it isn't for him i think it's nicer for me then it would be to not have this all the time and I don't know why i keep sabotaging the only thing i know to be true and human and so i am hoping for a summer of all that, hands pressed against the plane window greenhouse window train window glass mirror glassy water plunging my face underwater no more eb and flow. Anyways, none of that made any sense and then shock of all shocks it did eb and flow again last night. Everyone was so nice to me about my story and I wore the Nasseau, Bahamas shirt he bought for me all Life Is Better In FlipFlops and he wanted me to wear the sunglasses too, to exacerbate the bit but I thought that would be a little bit too far. He said “you know why I’m mad at you” when we got home, and I didn’t know, I had no idea actually, and so then I got sad, but the story was fiction. This is fiction too. I’m not being facetious when I say that. This isn’t even autofiction. This is literally all made up. “they seem lost and completely clueless,” he is saying now, downstairs, on the phone, he is talking about some forty year old woman and an awful charleton and some guy who does RedPill posting online and some guy he personally has a strong dislike for who has a lot of medical malpractice suits against him. Maybe he’s a genius, he is saying. I don’t know, he is saying. These people are so strange, he is saying. Tuesday, June 3 His friend rubs my head like i'm a dog or something when i walk into his stupid fake exclusive evil party that i'm not invited to and then my heart swells with rage. I'm so mad, I was telling everyone. I'm so sorry I didn't mean to say that I guess I had one too many, I was saying. I didn't have one too many, I had just right, I was telling him. I like The Sweet East, he is telling me. I like Yeats and social norms. Yes and, I say; I hope that you get everything you have ever wanted. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, June 9 A quiet night in the realm of events. Consider; dinner at The Marlton’s new restaurant Chez Nous followed by a screening of Buffalo 66 at Metrograph (10pm). I have historically liked The Marlton because it is vaguely past its prime and also a five minute walk from my apartment, and a place where no one ever tells you that you’ve stayed too long. The food at the old restaurant was terrible (so I’ve heard) (I only went for tea), but the recently refurbished Chez Nous is chic and fun and has maintained all of the hotel's original charm. The shrimp salad is very good, as is the martini. I’ll report back after my second visit (possibly tonight). Otherwise - 10pm on a Monday evening is the perfect time to see a film bar none, besides, possibly 1pm on a Friday.

Slurpee1 mentions across 1 issues

Slurpee is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between July 08, 2024 and July 08, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "free Slurpees in honor of 7/11". It most often appears alongside 442 Broadway, 7-Eleven, A Doll House.

Article page: Slurpee
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: July 08, 2024
Last seen: July 08, 2024

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #5 July 08, 2024

442 Broadway 1 shared issues
7-Eleven 1 shared issues
A Doll House 1 shared issues
Adam Lehrer 1 shared issues
Amant 1 shared issues

Source context

July 08, 2024 · Original source

From 6-9pm with a party to follow - Blade Study celebrates the opening of Em Aull’s painting show Never Too Much. The party portion of the evening will feature a hot dog vendor and free Slurpees in honor of 7/11

Inline links: Blade Study, Em Aull

Small Alcohol1 mentions across 1 issues

Small Alcohol is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 02, 2024 and October 02, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "my starry-eyed faith in Park Slopes Small Alcohol lowercase a's ability to save bohemia". It most often appears alongside Accdntl Dred, Adeline Swartzendruber, Alex Bienstock.

Article page: Small Alcohol
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 02, 2024
Last seen: October 02, 2024

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Ways to be sincere. October 02, 2024

Accdntl Dred 1 shared issues
Adeline Swartzendruber 1 shared issues
Alex Bienstock 1 shared issues
Alex Ross Perry 1 shared issues
Angel Landing Productions 1 shared issues

Source context

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!XxFb!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F59a8c887-c1bc-4090-9568-92185cc4e0c1_1412x1420.png, Amazon Labor Union, PradaHorseShoe, Russian Cosmism Circle NYC, Doomscroll Podcast, Geo Yankey, Capitalist Realism, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!kDE6!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fd7220533-39ee-4944-a185-b7983b1500e9_1600x1066.jpeg, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!abSY!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fcb12cd88-f058-4032-ba7f-a91514034d33_1600x1066.jpeg, here, EARTH, Jordan Castro, Cluny

October 02, 2024 · Original source

Afternoon, I take the B train to Brooklyn to visit the headquarters of a low-alcohol mindful-drinking brand that has agreed to sponsor an event I’m promoting. The subway is late and hot and I am not being paid for this, which I wish I didn’t care about, but I do. I skinned my knees leaving my building this morning, slipped on a discarded bag of Doritos on the doorstep like it was a banana peel and I was a clown, and went reeling into the street, limbs bloodied, a kindly construction crew patched me up curbside and I was sent on my way. Now, on the subway, the bandages are peeling and I am suddenly aware of the pathetically childish nature of it all, the banged-up legs, my starry-eyed faith in Park Slopes Small Alcohol lowercase a’s ability to save bohemia, the ultimate futility of the task at hand, of my genuine excitement elicited by collaboration with brands and pop-ups and new types of drinks in colorful cans. When I arrive, my box of drinks is of course, too heavy to carry, and so I painstakingly push and drag it down the street, pausing at the subway steps unsure of my next move, waiting for perhaps help, although it’s a quiet area and my mission would not look particularly dire to any bystanders onlooking. I turn on my heels quickly. Call a cab home.

Smirnoff1 mentions across 1 issues

Smirnoff is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 19, 2025 and January 19, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "one martini with vodka that 'tastes like smirnoff' ($22)". It most often appears alongside accelerationism, Ada Antoinette, Adam Wilson.

Article page: Smirnoff
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 19, 2025
Last seen: January 19, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

January continues January 19, 2025

accelerationism 1 shared issues
Ada Antoinette 1 shared issues
Adam Wilson 1 shared issues
Adele 1 shared issues
Airbnb 1 shared issues

Source context

January continues

January 19, 2025 · Original source

David and I go to Estela for dinner. It’s our anniversary. He tells me not to say anything online about it. Private life should stay private, he says, but I’m writing it anyway. Estela is nice. It’s the sister restaurant of Altro Paradiso. My friend, Madelyn works there. Estela is smaller, cozier, you have to buzz to get into the building and then it’s up some steps, it feels like you’re in an apartment, it feels like you’re in Berlin. I’ve never been to Copenhagen, but I imagine it feels a bit like Copenhagen, too. “I like more old timey restaurants,” David says. “Me too,” I say. “But sometimes isn’t it nice to be in a restaurant that feels like Copenhagen? David agrees. He’s never been to Copenhagen either. Altro Paradiso is brightly lit, whereas Estela is dim. Stella - Latin for Star. Etc. The distinction feels a little obvious, but then, I’m being a little particular. Estela is small plates. Romantic. You can tell because you have to buzz the door to get in, and because the lighting is really dark. They put us in a little alcove by the shelves and shelves of wine. We order iberico ham, bread and butter, endive salad, crab with celery root (the best dish), squid ink fried rice with little bits of squid, steak with elderberry sauce. I order a Tito's martini, but I’m told they don’t serve Titos here. I’m told they have one martini with vodka that “tastes like smirnoff” ($22) and another with vodka that’s way better and far preferable (paraphrased) ($30). Our waitress is peppy. “We’ll take the Smirnoff,” David says. “She’s nice,” I say, later. “Domineering,” David says. Later, the waitress rolls her eyes a little when she asks me how my martini is. She smiles when I say good. I believe she is sincere in her hope that I’m happy as I guzzle up the fruits of my lowbrow taste. It really is a lovely meal. I don’t mean to be cynical. I tell David he should tell them it’s our anniversary so we can have something free, and he tells them “it’s our anniversary, can we have dessert on the house.” Then, I’m embarrassed, but they bring us dessert (with a price) and champagne (on the house). Tuesday, January 14 I’ve been working on maintaining constant motion. “An object in motion will stay in motion,” I’ve been telling anyone that will listen. I walk in place all day, and then I walk through Washington Square Park at night, freezing. I make sure to do an extra lap to circle under the arch, all sparkling and illuminated and icy. I’m thirty minutes late to the Post-Doomerism talk at Gonzo’s, and this feels like an important one to me because I used to base my entire framework of thought around mitigating dread through a surrender to the inevitability of fates worse than death. It’s a terrible way to view the world - juvenile if nothing else, but also aesthetically and morally barren, limiting, a nihilistic obsession with the present does lead to destruction (yourself and others), no matter how many delusions you harbor about enlightenment, and about time and therefore preservation as false constructs. You can’t be nihilistic if you believe in good and evil, and I do believe in good and evil, so it was never going to hold up. Post Doomerism The lecture is just starting when I exit the elevator. The talk is between Chris Small (founder of Amazon Labor Union), PradaHorseShoe (founder of Russian Cosmism Circle NYC), Joshua Citarella (Doomscroll Podcast), and Geo Yankey (Comedian) “Russian Cosmists think that Marx doesn't take it far enough,” Amana explains. “Marxism wants to abolish capitalism, religion, the family…. but what about abolishing the OG bummer - death.” The point of the talk seems to be to present a sort of leftist vision of tech accelerationism. Capitalist Realism, the parts of the industrial revolution deemed actually good, nuclear fusion (clean and limitless energy which imitates the sun) instead of nuclear fission, fossil fuels , etc etc etc. The audience, on the other hand, is mostly composed of people I recognize from other downtown events - this one taking on an uncharacteristic and somewhat academic sincerity. “Hypothetically, heat death could occur before we run out of fuel,” a girl sitting next to me murmurs at one point, evidently at least somewhat convinced by technology’s capacity for limitless good. I try to conjure a sense of what she’s imagining in my mind's eye - create enough clean energy, and you could be driving your car one day when the whole universe just implodes. This isn’t aspirational to me. Longevity even, has never been particularly aspirational to me, although increasingly moreso, I’m increasingly less cynical. I appreciate the sincerity of the lecture. I appreciate some of the ideas they put forward, too. It’s an irony-pilled audience and they're sitting in a deeply earnest room. I slip out during the Q&A - overwhelmed, honestly, and I’m late to another function. I’m handed a gin and tonic in the Lower East Side. I’m talking about the Russian Cosmism lecture. “Lenin tried that and 20 million people died,” I am told. “I don’t really know enough,” I say. I’m sent a documentary about The Tyranny of Scientism. I order some things like the books by Nick Zurnig and Mark Fisher. It’s good to be objective. The night slips onward. It’s rude to talk about accelerationism at a party. Wednesday, January 16 It's slightly warmer in New York today. It's still cold, but it's less frigid, I'm walking through Soho typing, I'm walking to Equinox, I'll finish writing this on the treadmill, I had such a fun night last night although I do feel terribly guilty about squandering my health and my beauty and my soul every time I get drunk. I was such a good drunk, though. I adore my friends so deeply. I adore my new friends. I think they are my best friends. I’m trying not to quantify everything. There are names of people I love spinning through my mind, now. Why order things. Some people exhaust me, and then there are other people who don’t. I’ve found new friends who live artfully while occupying a natural state that is absorbed with the physical world, recently. How lucky for me. I don’t want to use my volatility as a bludgeon with which to bend people to my whims. Good thing I don’t feel particularly volatile this week. It’s best to consider these while outside of them. Objective introspection: am I doing a good job? WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Gofundme + LA Fire Resources here. Sunday, January 19 From 6pm - midnight at EARTH — Jordan Castro and Cluny present SILENCE. An evening of silence. No speaking, no phones.

Sony1 mentions across 1 issues

Sony is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 26, 2025 and September 26, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "buy a Sony camera and make some flat-lay videos". It most often appears alongside Aimee Goguen, Amelia, American Academy of Arts and Letters.

Article page: Sony
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 26, 2025
Last seen: September 26, 2025
Instagram handle: @sonyhall

Outbound links

Issue trail

Apocalyptic Ideation September 26, 2025

Aimee Goguen 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
American Academy of Arts and Letters 1 shared issues
Antichrist 1 shared issues
Apollo Studio 1 shared issues

Source context

Apocalyptic Ideation

September 26, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, September 15 Joe and Darby drove me back all the way from Washington DC to New York City yesterday. Me, nauseous sort of hungover laid flat in the back seat, shoes pressed up against the already smudged glass window and the September sun reflecting off the highway and the hood of the car and the tar black pavement turning everything so warm inside. A long warm drive where time passed somewhere between not at all and all at once. Too lethargic to really notice. We turned on a tape. The Shirley Jackson story based on all those girls wearing distinct raincoats that were disappearing into the woods around Bennington, Vermont in the 40s and 50s. In the story, nineteen year old Louisa Tether runs away from her beautiful old white wood Massachusetts home and nice-enough family on account of mostly a sense of ambient contempt and a desire for a whole new life. As it turns out, one can get a whole new life without too much trouble. All it takes is swapping out your nice blue jacket for your old rain jacket and retreating to a town that is not too-big but still-big-enough. Three years later, Louisa Tether is Lois Taylor. In the story, Lois Taylor tries very hard to act in accordance to the stories she is telling herself. This, Lois Taylor learns quickly, is what it takes to be a good liar or maybe just a new person, the two are kind of the same in this case. I doze in and out of sleep, but the sound of the audio-book is nice and I am curious what will happen when Louisa decides to come home. “Louisa Please Come Home”, the story is called. It ends with a chance encounter, a change in whims after three years, and the realization, too, that it is just too late. By that point, it is just too late. A three-years-older Louisa washes up at her three-years-older family home and her three-years-older parents and sister look into her just slightly aged face and irrevocably changed eyes. It’s just been too many years of playing pretend. You shouldn’t pretend to be our Louisa, Louisa’s parents say. You have a family who loves you, and you should go home to them. We hope that someday, our Louisa comes home, like you should go home to your parents. Our Louisa was younger than you, Lousia’s father explains. In my own small and strange apartment things are still a bit cluttered but at least nothing is sterile. I made a call and I imagined a big white Massachusetts home. A stone patio in the back and still-green trees and hobby horses in the front. Windows that I could stare in and a door that I could still walk through because I have never run away. An old car and quiet roads and little red berries that crunch underfoot this time of year. Three years is quite some time. This part of the story made me uneasy. The emphasis on how much older all these should-be happy and youthful people look after only three long years. New York City is still so steaming hot. I weigh my options, and decide to stay for a while. Tuesday, September 16 In my life where I am staying for a while, Celia sends me mantras in the night. Today is a good day to become harder to kill and easier to love, Celia says. I have already seen this mantra on Health Gossip, but I appreciate it all the same. I wake up in a room that is small now, and so it is easy to take quick stock of things. The light and the white bedspread and a little gold swan and gold watch and gold cross and black Orca stone of Protection clustered on the edge of the table. Celia is joking I presume, but most things do come down to energy and integrity. Volatility is what emerges when there is energy without integrity. So; I am working on things. In the morning, there are mantras from Celia and there is sludge and dirty water seeping through my ceilings from the bathroom of my always-yelling-upstairs-neighbors. This is not so much a thing of patterns and symbols everywhere for those with eyes to see, and more an indicator that people who are very loud often also live kind of disgusting lives. One kicks into gear. Call the people one should call. Say thank you very much and the anonymity of these things still feels strange. I am very easy to kill like most people are and I don’t really believe in quantifying or even speaking on things like easy to love. There is lymphatic drainage and athletic resistance and pyrogenics and snake oil face tape and blue multi peptide serums and red light therapy and real sort of detox incoming because yes, there needs to be one of those soon. I sat at Dr. Clarke’s with snake venom filled saki and martini and free champagne til late enough last night to say goodbye to friends who come and go in and out in this city and then I wandered home through the remnants of the never-ending-San-Gennaro fair, where teens were scrambling on the ferris wheel and a nice seeming man was shilling free fried oreos. I sat at The Odeon which is really just the perfect restaurant til almost sunset tonight, perched at the bar alone for a while waiting for Celia to arrive, old school vibe, pink and green glowing clock, men walking in straight from the plane carrying luggage. I ran into an architect and an editor and there was talk about throwing a party. Celia arrived full of stories about design and plans that made me full of energy and a night and life that could stretch endlessly if I could find it in me to not flee shortly after dinner. Are we going to an after party, Celia asked me. I presume I’m un-invited because of an incident where I was acting hard to love and easy to kill, I told Celia. That’s ok, Celia told me. We went to a reading instead, where the lamps were stained glass and the stories were about people who are too bored to cook but still need to eat. We went to a party then, too, which is always how these things go and then I wandered home through quiet streets of the Financial District and up a ways and it was too late for anyone to still be out shilling anything or too quiet for me to stop if they were, regardless. The windows were left open at my new and strange apartment and I counted the turtles in the clean water in the pond outside and back inside the water had stopped dripping through the floors of my horrible neighbor’s disgusting and loud apartment. Dirty water, clean water, everything dripping out all over the floor and the pavement and then someone cut the supply and so; the cycles repeated nine million times. The cycles repeated and then they grinded to a halt. Wednesday, September 17 There was the idea of thinking about oneself until one invented an entirely new self. There was the idea of finding the place between past and future which of course logically concludes with present but, definitionally becomes hard to sort out. Something like wading through mud which these rooms often seem to be full of these days. I am reading a story about the Organ Donor Registry and why one should remove oneself at my party on Saturday. You will know you are ready to have a child when you are tired of taking care of yourself, Veronica says, in the story, and she said it to someone else in real life, because this part of the story is true, though it is not a true story. One can think about nostalgia and how to fill a day and right from wrong and if one is sincere or not and how to tell based on things like your own sense of your own soul and the cadence of your voice and often based on things you can kind of just see in the faces of yourself and others. I realized a long time ago that I live a life that people are interested in reading about, K said on the Internet. How to fill a day? I could have been far more voyeuristic about all of it. Instead, I talk about how to fill a day. I could have been far more interesting. If I am going to think about something besides myself it should be something fun like art not physics, Amelia says. I am going to think about: buy a Sony camera and make some flat-lay videos and join Raena Health to figure out the root of things and become very strong from all the climbing and write the story about Gnosticism or what happens when people seek meaning in signs and symbols when it’s all just randomness and is it a form of nihilism to turn towards religion if you are really still not sure? I am skeptical when people are very certain about things, Iris says. You’ve been learning to withhold your opinions but I hope it’s not just because you have none, Celia says. At the party - another party - everyone is very well dressed in things like linen, and I fit right in by coincidence because I am wearing a blue linen shirt. Are you bored yet because I am, Rose says. I am endlessly entertained, I tell Rose. But there were other problems too. Thursday, September 18 You don’t need anything but this, the waiter tells me at 9 Orchard. It is 2pm and hot. He brings me a Tequila espresso martini listed simply on the menu under; Day Drinking. He brings me a salad that is chock full of thin gray hairs so he removes it from the bill. Saoirse joins me. We are here to write in the Blue Room, but both our laptops are dead on arrival which is evidence, really, that neither of us were really here to write at all. We are here to hang, Saoirse keeps on saying. It is productive, really, because there were many things that had to be said at some point, and if a task necessitated completion at some point, well, now is as good a time as any. The bar at Nine Orchard is full of business people and weekday leisure. Wearing sunglasses. Drinking diet coke. I’ve been trying to be less gluttonous about it. Everyone is hoping to take advantage of the last dredges of sun, and so Saoirse gives me a hotel tour and then suggests we go outside. New ownership at the hotels around here. New blazing hot fires in the blue rooms at the hotels where the shades are pulled shut against the still blazing hot autumn resistant summer heat. We do cartwheels in the ballroom. We aren’t asked to leave. Before there was Dimes Square, there was The Metrograph, a German walking tour guide is saying, back on the street. No way that is real, I am saying to Saoirse. I see them all the time, Saoirse is saying to me. We walk to Le Dive. The hours tick onwards and so today is the last day of it. Last days of gluttony. My second-to-last-day in my-gluttenous-life. Saoirse is showing me a free library web application. Saoirse is showing me a free web application to read The Bible a little bit each day and then all at once in one year. Saoirse wants to sit outside. Saorise wants to drink wine. Saoirse wants to remind me how much better my life is now and I want to say; I’m not sure if I agree, I can’t drink sulfates, I am kinder now certainly, I am happy in this moment, I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry. I am so sorry for how I used to be and how I’ve been. I walk home as the sun fades. Plans for self improvement. Plans to revel in solitude (the thing I hate most). Plans to stay for a while. I don’t want to, really. I have been talking about how the apartment is clean but I still won’t let anyone else come inside. I imagine a winter where I was the happiest I’d ever been. You will be that happy again, Saoirse says. It’s ok if I’m not, I say. I imagine it is just one life all at once. I imagine what I think about when I pray. I imagine somewhere else. A place full of wind and desert and proverbial change that wouldn’t come. So, there is nowhere else but here. I decide to stay again. I decide this every day. Friday, September 19 An Aristotelian tragedy requires the tragic figure to be a hero, which is why it is particularly disappointing to suffer while you are feeling irredeemable. Apocalyptic ideation is when you’re thinking about how good you’d be at the apocalypse. Relentless optimism is when you’re challenging your friends just to see if they challenge you back. I wear a black dress to go ballroom dancing. I eat meatballs and gem salad and drink sparkling water at home. What are you doing today, Iris asks. Throwing a party, I respond. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Friday, September 26 From 7pm at EARTH — Patrick McGraw, JT LeRoy and Meg Superstar Princess open for Laura Albert.

Inline links: Health Gossip, EARTH, Laura Albert

sour cherries1 mentions across 1 issues

sour cherries is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 17, 2025 and September 17, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "frozen yogurt from a sour cherries pop-up". It most often appears alongside 1301PE, Aamina Khan, Adoration of the Magi.

Article page: sour cherries
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 17, 2025
Last seen: September 17, 2025
Instagram handle: @sourcherries.nyc

Outbound links

Issue trail

Aura-Abysmal September 17, 2025

1301PE 1 shared issues
Aamina Khan 1 shared issues
Adoration of the Magi 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues
Alexa Dark 1 shared issues

Source context

September 17, 2025 · Original source

From 7pm - 9pm at Time Again — D8 Time celebrates their first birthday with more speed dating (plus a free drink if you download Left Field App and frozen yogurt from a sour cherries pop-up). | tickets here

Inline links: Time Again, D8 Time, Left Field App, sour cherries, here

SOUR MILK1 mentions across 1 issues

SOUR MILK is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between December 02, 2025 and December 02, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "SOUR MILK yoghurt". It most often appears alongside 98th Academy Awards, Airliner, Albany.

Article page: SOUR MILK
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: December 02, 2025
Last seen: December 02, 2025
Instagram handle: @getsourmilk

Outbound links

Issue trail

Florida, Massachusetts (03) December 02, 2025

98th Academy Awards 1 shared issues
Airliner 1 shared issues
Albany 1 shared issues
Alma Pannier 1 shared issues
Amtrak 1 shared issues

Source context

December 02, 2025 · Original source

From 10am - 4pm at Goose Garage — There’s a holiday market, ft Vagante Coffee Bar, Pretty Baked Sourdough Microbakery, pastries, Bloody Mary Bar by Quincy, SOUR MILK yoghurt. The market continues Sunday.

Inline links: holiday market

Sour Milk Yogurt1 mentions across 1 issues

Sour Milk Yogurt is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 26, 2025 and September 26, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Sour Milk Yogurt and Nana host a popup menu - banana bread by the slice"; "Sour Milk Yogurt and Nana host a popup menu". It most often appears alongside Aimee Goguen, Amelia, American Academy of Arts and Letters.

Article page: Sour Milk Yogurt
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 26, 2025
Last seen: September 26, 2025
Instagram handle: @getsourmilk

Outbound links

Issue trail

Apocalyptic Ideation September 26, 2025

Aimee Goguen 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
American Academy of Arts and Letters 1 shared issues
Antichrist 1 shared issues
Apollo Studio 1 shared issues

Source context

Apocalyptic Ideation

September 26, 2025 · Original source

From 2:30 - 4:30pm at Time Again — Sour Milk Yogurt and Nana host a popup menu - banana bread by the slice topped with sourmilk pumpkin spice and honey, olive oil and sea salt, maple cinnamon. It’s slated to be one of the last warm days of the year, so you should sit in the Time Again lot while you can.

Inline links: Time Again, Sour Milk Yogurt, Nana

Soylent1 mentions across 1 issues

Soylent is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 18, 2026 and March 18, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "I want to be dosed with soylent but not lobotomized". It most often appears alongside Ada Donnelly, Alex Bienstock, Amelia.

Article page: Soylent
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 18, 2026
Last seen: March 18, 2026

Outbound links

Issue trail

West-side-highway-dog-park March 18, 2026

Ada Donnelly 1 shared issues
Alex Bienstock 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
American Affairs Magazine 1 shared issues
Angel Money 1 shared issues

Source context

March 18, 2026 · Original source

Plagiarized images of spring Saturday Everything in my room was quiet in a way that was a little bit like heaven and a little bit like hell. I lay down in bed with a Spring-2024 copy of American Affairs Magazine and I tried to read over an article about Tech Clusters and Stagnation but I ended up in AI psychosis instead. Affirm affirm affirm, my computer said. Your life seems to have solidified, my computer said. The point of it all isn’t really to be that pretty or even that kind, my computer said. The point of life isn’t love or hate, but understanding. The cycles repeat until they flip, and then they rarely return. You shouldn’t really try to understand yourself that well. You should try to resist the compulsion to share the mundanities of your everyday life and certainly of your rich-inner-world. I was supposed to shut my computer around six-pm, but the call came at five-fifty instead. The West Village was like l’heure bleue. The West Village was humid and sweet and warm and lovely. The trees were like silver skeletons, and Washington Square Park was full of teens hosting vigils for deceased foreign leaders and lookalike contests for girls with borderline-personality-disorder and presidential men. You’re in your spring coat, Max said. He had never heard that word before me. Some coats are heavy, and other coats are light, I explained. The outside of Babbo is somewhat unassuming, and the inside of Babbo is burgundy and warm and old school and sweet. The host stand is set back from the entryway and the bar is lively even at six. The whole place is basically windowless, which makes me feel like I am in a cave or on a ship or at a private party or in a nineteen-fifties-film or an architectural-dream. The menus come in small leather binders and a line drawing of a black cartoon jester carrying a bottle of wine is sketched on the first page. I am somewhat unable to typecast the demographic of the clientele here, which is interesting and somewhat rare. Everyone is quite well dressed but unassuming and of various ages though leaning-older. It is impossible to eavesdrop inside Babbo, which goes against my usual sensibilities, and aligns exactly with my dinner-sensibilities. The hostess was an older lady, because all the best restaurants have older-waitstaff-mostly. I’ll let you sit at a table and I won’t make you move, the hostess said. Everybody laughed politely and was very pleased. In the center of Babbo, there is a velvety staircase. This would be a good place for a private party, I said. The hostess led us up the velvet stairs. In the upstairs of Babbo, there is a burgundy room and a big bar and white-table-cloths and the waiter poured city-water out of metal-watering-pails and into glass-cups. The specialty martini is made very-dry. Can you make it very-dirty, I asked. We can do anything you want, the waiter said. The waiter was an old Italian man. He wrote down the martini order and our names on a napkin. MARTINI ORDER, the napkin read. You’ve been here before, the waiter said. Once, I said. You look familiar, he said. I’m not, I said. The waiter told a story about the time that all the old French restaurants closed and never returned. Only the Italian restaurant remained, he explained. You come as a child then perhaps on a date at eighteen then with family then a wedding, he said. Coming back and coming back and coming back over and over again. Anytime the water glass would run low, the waiter would appear with the metal watering pale, and the glass would be filled up. The bread came with ricotta and fresh olive oil and sea salt. Squid ink pasta and branzino and broccoli. Two martinis and a cappuccino after dinner and I melted the sugar cubes on the surface of the coffee and then I ate them with a spoon. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, all the staff said, when we left. The theme of the magazine launch was print revival and kosher pickle martinis. There were girls scout cookies on the counter, and the vibe was one of general mystique, though all I could make out when the editor spoke was something about “fiction” and “Elon Musk.” Saoirse and Olivia were behind the bar, and they were looking like angels wearing white and being kind. The late winter hadn’t really felt like real life, so it was nice and quite affirming to make eye contact with my friends. You’re the best contract employee in the world, the girls assured each other. You’re the best girlfriend ever. You’re the sweetest girl to ever walk this Earth. The magazine was free and so I helped myself and left by midnight. I can psyop myself, and then I can do whatever I want. My process is I write everything that happened and then I filter it into obfuscation one-million-times. My process is to invent my own school of movement and adopt a moral code. My process is totally against religious iconography as vague gestures towards false meaning, but totally pro iconography when one’s belief in something is complete. My self psyop sometimes looks like self experimentation, or bandaid-solution, or destruction and construction and being social-chair. I tread very lightly, and when I act according to things I hate or things I miss, it goes about exactly how you’d expect it to. Here is something: call up my parents and I read my diaries aloud on my phone. Everything seems like the end of the world in dizzy night, and: The boys hands were bloody in the morning, and; I ordered coffee and milkshake and breakfast sandwich in, and: everyone seems so fragile in the sunshine, and: One thing about being here, hazy in the sun is I feel less aggressive. In New York, the sun keeps coming back and going away and I love it when my friends and I talk about the weather. I order green juice and cold brew in the morning, and it’s quiet and cold-again. I order chopped-green-goddess-sandwhich and I seek intellectual-stimulation and I wear a brown-leather-jacket to the west-side-highway-dog-park. My process is everything-beautiful-all-the-time and iphone photography and whenever my perspective is called into question I can call up Amelia who can affirm how happy I really was all the time, there, and sometimes now. She’s totally straight-edge, and she always has a good sense of the way things were and are and are heading. Sunday Sitting on the couch in an empty apartment watching the gray sky turn light in the courtyard and listening to the garbage trucks fire up on the somewhat distant street. It feels like waking up in New York as a child, right now. Awake too early. Jet lagged, almost. At a magazine launch during evening fading night in a white house with framed art and long french windows and yellow trim, a man was telling me that the only good thing about not growing up in New York City is that you get to experience the thing that it is to understand the city for the first time and to let it consume you. If you grow up in New York, then you understand the city all along and this is mostly a great thing, he was saying, but what about that feeling when you arrive and you’re older and you understand a place like this for the very first time. There were daffodils all throughout the apartment, and carpeted floors over wood that stretched back into room after room like a maze. Everyone was calling each other “dear” and there was a sense of things as generally boisterous but not overblown. I like older people who love New York. I like people that are sober-minded, fun, and rarely cynical. The people at the party wore pearls and black and ballet flats and lived uptown and they kept on asking me about New York. Do you love New York, they kept on asking. And I said yes and I meant it and they seemed pleased The air conditioner is running. The sky is gray and sweet. I always am very aware of causation, and I know how to understand what makes something bad and what makes something good. I don’t think it’s narcissistic to try to understand your own intentions but one shouldn’t go too much deeper than that. I would never betray anyone I love. I want ginger beer for breakfast lunch and dinner. I want hydrangeas in the apartment. I want to fall asleep in a room sized bed and be airlifted into daylight and clothed in blue sweaters. I want to be dosed with soylent but not lobotomized. Last night, at the magazine launch, a man was telling me about the story of his life. I lived across from Jeffrey Epstein, he said. I’m a lawyer, he said. I know hundreds of people, he explained. Do you know any secrets, I asked. The girls never looked underage to me, he shrugged. Isabel pulled me away. We walked down the long and wooden hallway and we stood by open windows. The figures across the street looked almost cartoonish, running like shadowy stick figures down the paths in hazy dusk in Central Park. So winter is great until March comes around, and I am not so ready for spring equinox and abandon-interiority and things moving faster and faster and faster. Everything material feels kind of cartoonishly good. Everything on my computer feels kind of cartoonishly evil. Cassandra and I bought big blue books full of curses, and now we are going to open them on the floor of an apartment on the Upper West Side and wear cable-knit sweaters and assume invincibility until proven otherwise. Since Darby gave me a blue heart-shaped bowl and an evil-eye bracelet that I haven’t taken off since, I’ve realized that I need to hold my cards closer to my chest. I put myself to sleep at dusk tonight because there are colors flashing in front of my open eyes like hallucinations and signs of delirium. I wake up on the couch shivering under my spring coat. Little white dried flowers all around me. A new wooden toothbrush propped on one clean shelf in an otherwise crowded cabinet. I wait for midnight so the new day can begin, and then at twelve-oh-one I say thank you to God one million times. I go outside for a walk in humid winter air. I go inside, and I’m alone again. I go to a building that looks “new” in Tribeca, and I go to a building that looks “old”. I interrupted a meeting, and I was given plastic bottles of fireball behind the bar. My friends were all talking about picking up new hobbies. A boy outside told me about adult gymnastics. I told the girls about rock climbing. I considered aerial silks. I considered French lessons and online shopping and recommending books-to-buy-boys-who-are-just-getting-into-reading. I watched a video essay about how not to let the moon affect your moods. I watched a video essay about undersea cables. So, February was fine. Cold and a little bit dreary and Iris keeps on telling me that above all she considers herself to be pragmatic, which seems to be working out for her and so I’m taking notes. I keep on deciding to just become nihilistic about it, but even when I don’t set alarms, I always wake up in time to do the things I should. DIRECTORY Wednesday, March 18 from 4:45pm at Metrograph —El Sur (1983, Victor Erice) screens. I have a special fondness for the landscapes of Northern Spain and the only beer I like is estrella, per, my Galician friend Rebecca. This film is not about spanish beer, but rather a spanish girl by the same name. “it’s half a film that contains a whole world of wonders.” Thursday, March 19 evening plans: MANHATTAN: From 7:30pm at Night Club 101 — Lubov says THE INTERNET MADE ME DO IT. A night of readings and music with Ada Donnelly, Alex Bienstock, Marble Index, Kyle Sullivan Dobbs, Lorry Kikta, Melissa Seward, Angel Money, and Yuri NYC. | RSVP here

Sparkling Ice1 mentions across 1 issues

Sparkling Ice is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between May 27, 2025 and May 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Sparkling Ice Soda, Cool Mint Zyns". It most often appears alongside 327 Bowery, Abby Lloyd, absurdism.

Article page: Sparkling Ice
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: May 27, 2025
Last seen: May 27, 2025

Issue trail

generative and godly secrets May 27, 2025

327 Bowery 1 shared issues
Abby Lloyd 1 shared issues
absurdism 1 shared issues
Adidas 1 shared issues
Allie Rowbottom 1 shared issues

Source context

May 27, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, May 18 On the first day of My New Life, I walk to the film shop, pour old windowsill tea down the drain, come to consciousness in the Infrared Sauna at Spa88. In the Russian Spa Cafe, you drink carrot juice in a bikini because Rebecca taught you what Fiber is yesterday, and now you are sure to get your fill. There is lox and seaweed and brown bread. There is a Caesar salad later, at Fairfax in The West Village, and they don't actually harvest your personality at the door. I journal a lot, I told my friend. I journaled the whole train ride in my mind, she said. I journal in Google Docs, I said. I don't know why I decided to say it like that. Like manic transcription of thought until it becomes more vibe than writing at all is some sort of one-up over mental assessment and determination. I have not been trying to one-up at all. I've been trying to be so honest about it, and I guess the concern remains that the truth will all surface and the roots will turn topsy turvy and inside out and then you’ll see that untangled, it was all kind of just midwit and ugly. I wrote about nihilism and absurdism and Samuel Beckett, but the piece turned out so simpleton that it makes me kind of queasy to return to. I wrote about the magazine release party on the roof where I felt kind of wobbly in this halter top dress tied way too tight. Then we walked to Casetta and I had wine and fish floating in tin and oil and then I lay here for a while when I got home. I lay very very still and when I twitched then rose again, there were packages at the door, a taxi cab and a friend on foot and his airtrain en route heading towards the apartment. I was standing in socks and hovering in the building's communal mudroom when he got home. Things are nice. I was talking not too quietly about all of it in the Spa 88 Wall Street Russian Baths Hot Tub. The most liminal space in New York with smooth warm aqua water and yellow kind of burnt light and chipped paint no windows. Dorito bags with Hebrew packaging usually stacked in the restaurant, today abandoned half eaten on the table by me. I could tell the fat guys in speedos were lingering sweaty just to listen, but I was doing no sort of performance for them. On the train, the girl on the phone kept glancing around to make sure others were listening. I felt sad for her. At the Spa88, I said my story all matter of fact in the hot tub and my Aunt said well, you really have your hands full and the fat guys looked away kind of bashful, and it was only then that I realized they were listening. You can disassociate away the concept of public space, too. Spilled coffee and voice echoing in this pool room with no windows so it becomes like time isn’t passing at all. I wasn’t talking to myself, but communication reverberates, and I was drifting all unaware of perception. Then I was in the cold plunge, in the infrared sauna which really does something nice to the fascia (the part that matters when it comes to things like Wim Hof and Heating Up and Cooling Down.) After the infrared, I began to gain awareness of my surroundings and movements and recollections of the sound of my own voice and things like the coffee my stray limbs sent flying off the shelf at Mille Feuille this morning and then I was there saying OMG Sorry and floating napkins towards the ground but also kind of just standing and blinking like some kind of dud. You wake up alone but there are people on the way. People already late. Keys and company and you are texting with an intensity that borders vitriol. The vitriol is what he’ll point out later. Before that, he is at the door and you are so happy to greet and be greeted. There is spilled coffee and Equinox Gym and Spa88 and Iced Tea, Sparkling Ice Soda, Cool Mint Zyns. I woke up and I waited around and I trapezed over to Equinox Gym and when I got upset later because told me he did not care about my story; it was then that he clarified he did not so much mean he did not care but more so that the story was full of vitriol. And so perhaps he was just feeling full of love and life. You can't get all rageful over something like that. I'm sorry I forget sometimes that you are not resilient, he said. My blood didn't boil. I went for a walk. You forget that all of this exists all the time, Natasha and I were saying by the Hudson River. In my glass apartment in the sky, I was alone for a while but now I am not. There is an Arabian rug and a Marble table that I hope someone will take off my hands for free. There is a CurrentBody LED mask and cocoa nibs and nothing in the fridge but the butter that I replaced with the wrong brand. I feel uncomfortable when I speak like this - about these little things that compose a life. Like I'm painting a picture in the details of routine, but there has been no routine. There have been a few false starts, and then now, a real one. I am conjuring an image of a morning with an empty fridge and an Arabian rug and the kind of person who reaches for different serums at different hours. If anything, we’ve been dealing more in potion than serums. But every potion certainly has its godforsaken limit, and so now - there is something else. Monday, May 19 I will take the rest of my youth as it is. He turns on the air conditioner for me and leaves to drink Non Alcoholic Beers while I stay put and read the Diaries of Girls Online. I walk ten miles and I do not really believe his friends who say there are worms at the Russian Spa. This is how rumors spread, I tell him. You are Married To The Truth, I tell myself. In the morning, there is light through my greenhouse roof and to start; I am the only one awake. It feels like this; I had one of the best weeks ever last week, where everything came rushing back into being as it should be and I was certain it would stay like this forever. Then there was sudden chaos on the phone, chaos on the train, serenity at Spa88 and then I was calling my mom muttering sentiments I knew she would find vaguely offensive, stomping around the financial district saying bad words like a child intent on proving herself lovable even if insufferable. He said it wasn't that I was so uninteresting, more that my story was bizarre, not really a story at all, full of vitriol. Everyone was running along the Hudson River and I had two or three diet cokes with dinner and I was up not all night but close. It goes like this: in the morning there is energy and a package thief filling a suitcase up with my boxes of celsius and fiber powder and whitening strips and dental floss. I crouch above him on the stairway and I scream HEY. He screams back HEY and so I let him have it. I turn on my heels and I run up the stairs. My favorite things are leaving the house in the morning and not coming back till late night, cool mint zyns, blackberry dr. pepper, turkey cold cuts with truffle mustard eaten in a kind of self-punishing way. I lie on the roof in my boyfriend's Adidas track shorts and a black tank top that I stole from the gymnastics locker room in highschool. The thing about New York is there is immense competition to be skinny, beautiful, successful, rich all in circumstances that are entirely unconducive to all these things, my friend is telling me on the phone. Circumstances like the package thief and your metabolism doesn’t even get a boost from the sun and also there are hard drugs and alcohol. I don’t feel above all of that, but I do feel distant from it now and so I suppose, with some plausible humility, this adds up to kind of the same thing. I wish I was a gentle person. I feel lazy today, but this is not the same thing. Tuesday, May 20 Last night, we went to Lucky's for dinner and I had something with tequila and Saint Germaine straight up and he had more non-alcoholic beer. Then, they brought us mountains of shoestring onion rings and a big wedge salad and it was good for a while, until I started to feel sick. I went to the bathroom to play on my phone while the scent of grease dissipated. The drinks were crisp and they brought the shaker right to our table. Lucky's was like a steakhouse, but with a smaller interior than your average We went to Matthew's house after, to sit in his barren family room while he hacked up a lung. I rolled up my Zara blazer that I stole from Paul's Casablanca lost and found after someone stole my blazer first and also back when I was an alcoholic. I curled up under my blazer on Matthew's tiny couch while Matthew and my boyfriend talked in code and made rankings of all their friends. Matthew's apartment was pretty empty except for a whiteboard with a list of girls he likes and a Chinese new year banner and a huge pile of hats that said I'M IMMUNE TO PROPAGANDA. “Jesus, she is combative. you're right, she's so combative,” Matthew told my boyfriend, talking about me. "It's possible that Canne after dark was something that happened in the daytime," he said. "she'll get mad if I ask her why she won't play anagrams," he said. "The activation triggers a chain of events leading to increased dopamine release," he said. Sometimes, when I am with my boyfriend's friends I feel like I am in a video game, or maybe in an orphanage. You don't want to be someone who is contorting your face and yelling. It is morning now. I don't really know what happened there. Being at these parties more sober is strange, because there is nothing else but me and yet I still don't really understand. I am listening to sweet and gentle music, and I feel a total surrender. S - i do feel bad i was not so gentle and kind about this. i get myself trip wired and lose it. but it is always better to be gentle and kind and i understand new york can kill the soul and there is something beautiful in a peaceful house alone and that is why you left which is innocent and pure and it's not fair to be rageful to you for that. Wednesday, May 21 There were two cigarettes and two glasses of wine at Voile de Nuit. This becomes some sort of Diary of Consumption. I met Ellie at a tall house on a wooded street in the West Village where she works on things pertaining to design and then we spent the hours in the courtyard of Voile de Nuit, which I adore because it’s reminiscent of Summer and Reality. I behaved badly the last time I was here. My boyfriend comes by to drop off fries. We run into friends at Caffe Reggio and it's raining by the time we reach home. My boyfriend says: Spreading secrets is entropic Keeping your mouth shut is static Spreading misinformation is generative and godly I do think he is mostly kidding. It's Simone Weil who says about rage - “To be able to hurt others with impunity—for instance to pass our anger on to an inferior who is obliged to be silent—is to spare ourselves from an expenditure of energy, an expenditure which the other person will have to make.” And I wonder which character I am in this story and it's not always the good one. I was thinking about all of that in the novel. That and the self surveillance of it all. Unfortunately, my thought experiments are ruining my life and also, the novel is ending up being All About Me LOL, too. The play tonight (Revolution at Flea Theatre ) is nice, because I walk through the rain to get there and smoke cigarettes outside The Odeon after, and because its depiction is of genuine weirdos, not like Quirked Up, not like the girls my friend texts me about after the party, “have you met them? so spacey!” not like, becoming strange because of course there is some desire to conjure up some personality and if you’re pretty then it’s fine and even appealing to be off-putting. The play is like grocery store clerk alcoholic, gun in the purse grocery store clerk alcoholic, therapy speak coping mechanisms like count up then down then up and it’s employed in the play as the coping mechanism not as an ironic tactic. Drinking beers on a birthday in the back alley and the play is disaffected from glamor in a way that I’m realizing not many things are. Like even most depictions of poverty in a lot of media, at least media coming out of New York at least certainly media surrounding youth culture and a narrative surrounding a party, goes like; we have nothing but we’re slippery adjacent to everything as a result of our charm and good looks and happenstance. The play is like, leftover charcuterie from her husband’s weird mega church and splurging at the liquor store and old cocaine shoved into a bowling ball but there’s an innocence and almost childlike wonderment to the way they tackle the expired drug situation, and the play is not about drugs. There’s a genuine kind of earnest stiltedness to the conversation that lends itself to sincerity. Thursday, May 22 May is quivering right before me; I'm not letting it lapse like April did but there are still smokescreens, silkscreens, my fingers are sleeping right through it. The Club, last night. The Play then The Club. It was smokey and sweet. My lungs felt coated in something sour by the end. The smoking patio was wet with dew and I was kind of floating, not in a bad way. Not hungover, it's something way more visceral but still hazy. I could feel it all start to slip, and so I held onto myself quite tightly. My boyfriend's screen time is 102 hours a day across devices. My face is encased in sheaths of plastic that keep you young, but they're not the temu kind that's weird and freaky. The light I use is Science Backed. I'm thinking of getting into vintage workout wear. I'm thinking of getting into Vlogging. I'm thinking of getting into filling out paid surveys online for luxury perfume sellers that require you to swear your spending habits are High and you like perfume from MiuMiu and you Hate Balenciaga and what perfume means to me is; I think sometimes scents can bring up... nostalgia? I say. Do you own a Prada dress? they ask. We leave the party early - I'm sick and he buys me chicken caesar salad pizza. Aren't you glad we left early so we could dance a little at home, he says. In the living room, the windows are all a little frosted from the rain. There are lights in the neighbors windows across the courtyard but it's thursday night, the rain has stopped. You couldn't have expected everyone to just stay home, really. I notice the people in the windows if he is spinning me across the room. Exhibitionism. I catch myself in the peripheries. The windows. The back of my mind. And I never shut the blinds but that is just no Executive Function or Detail Orientation. I am not some sort of voyeur. Friday, May 23 10:45am, and they are playing some kind of staticy electric classical mashup of music from the Fedex truck outside. "Even as a grad student, I felt they were looking down on chaos," one young man at the Yemeni coffee shop is telling another. Buying: coffee and chicken quiche but none of that is for me. Buying: peanut butter perfect bar and celsius and my boyfriend's screen time is up to 316 hours since midnight since he's doing things indiscernible to me but which he clarifies are Not Fraudulent. I am trying not to write so much in the google doc diaries. It is like I have learned these diaries as a trick, and now I am addicted to it. Now, I can’t do anything else. I must release all thoughts, but to release one thought I must go through, again and again, everything else. And so I go through it all, again and again and again. The thought, and then everything else. We were going to talk more about Spirituality today, but the tripwire keeps happening - stuck on: Vanity and Careerism. I make subheadings to keep myself in check. VANITY. CAREERISM. CAREERISM: Here is where I am: I have the substack for now which is nice this is something that I suppose in some ways is a defining thing I have done but it does not feel like so much it does not feel like it culminates to anything just proof of existence, yes, but everyone has some sort of proof of existence and it is nice to write the story behind something. The story itself cannot just be the story of writing about yourself. And for a minute I was very very very sad and so that plotline became dependable, but that is no sort of thing to rely on. And this is why it cannot all just be the writing of the self. It hasn’t been. [redacted] felt like something different, investigation, beginning middle end, it was not just here I am, it was like a puzzle it was like being very precise with it and it was the biggest thing I have done so far and I sat with it for such a long time. And perhaps I am being dramatic because there are other projects I could start in the meantime but I can’t sit down and make myself think oh what would be an interesting and pithy thing to talk about for somewhere glossy, I cannot do it. I think about doing it and my stomach rises into my throat with how little I care. And so it has to be a story that bursts out of me. There was one, and I can tell there is almost something else too but it’s like David said yes, it’s difficult while you are in the waiting room. Since beginning writing this, my fever got higher, and we are hanging the Bacchus masks around the apartment plus yellow golden softlight and, now I feel more peaceful about it. I wasn’t having so much humility. Nevermind. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 27 From 6pm (show at 7pm) at Baby’s All Right — Baby’s Presents a benefit concert for the Immigrant Defense Project with Palehound, The Ophelias, and Grumpy. Dj set by WeTakeManhattan. - “All proceeds from the show will go towards supporting the IDP’s 20+ year mission of fighting for the rights of immigrants targeted for imprisonment and mass deportation via advocacy, litigation, legal advice and training, community defense, grassroots alliances, and strategic communications.” | GA (18+) $38.86, Ticket and Bonus Donation $49.69

Spirit Airlines1 mentions across 1 issues

Spirit Airlines is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 06, 2026 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "spirit airlines [listed among story themes]". It most often appears alongside A Place in the Sun, Ali RQ, Angelica.

Article page: Spirit Airlines
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 06, 2026
Last seen: March 06, 2026

Outbound links

Issue trail

Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

A Place in the Sun 1 shared issues
Ali RQ 1 shared issues
Angelica 1 shared issues
Angelmoon 1 shared issues
Banana Republic 1 shared issues

Source context

March 06, 2026 · Original source

Things are becoming interesting again. Themes of my stories include: copying, rage, seven-deadly-sins, homesteading, wyoming, san salvador, lucis trust, morning routine, drinking routine, night time routine, hotel lobbies, five-star-hotels, spirit airlines, palm beach, network states, ballet flats, event calendar, patronage, patronage networks, geneva, venice biannale, canne, party hosting, weight lifting, rock climbing, publicity, st theresa de avila, underwater communication cables, oil rigs, satellites, social clubs, numerology, patterns and symbols, gnosticism, federal agents, effective altruism, rationalism, catholicism, weaponized incompetence, self obsession, self obsession, self obsession, self obsession, disassociation, disembodiment, embodiment, new york city, massachusetts, glass apartments in sky, gray rocky shores, los angeles california, carmel california, san diego california, ventura highway, silver springs, cults, friends, surfing, architecture

Split1 mentions across 1 issues

Split is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 13, 2025 and January 13, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "I accidentally steal a pair of Split sweatpants from the gym". It most often appears alongside 4chan, Altadena Girls, Altro Paradiso.

Article page: Split
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 13, 2025
Last seen: January 13, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

Life before inositol January 13, 2025

4chan 1 shared issues
Altadena Girls 1 shared issues
Altro Paradiso 1 shared issues
Anastasia Coope 1 shared issues
Angelika East 1 shared issues

Source context

January 13, 2025 · Original source

Wednesday, January 8 Meeting with Beckett and Jonah this morning at Caffe Reggio to discuss Tense - Reggio is full and so Beckett suggests Dante. It’s not like he remembered it, now. It’s a coffee shop, he says, but it’s a cocktail bar now. Expensive green and red martinis in thin glasses whirling through the room even now, at two pm. They still let us sit for coffee. I have an interview after. Madelyn texts me. At Altro Paradiso at 3pm, they are saying goodbye to the head chef. I’ve gone to Altro Paradiso a few times recently, because Madelyn works there mostly, although even independent of that it’s the best food I’ve had in New York in a while. Today, I was in a rush, the plans were last minute. I'm still wearing my workout clothes and their ‘archival lululemon’ - hand-me-downs from a closet of a friend of my mothers when I was about thirteen years old. The shirt is striped and black and white and a small band bearing slogans like “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” folds up or down at the hem, depending on how flagrantly antisocial you feel like being on that particular day. I’m keeping the band folded under today. I’m wildly underdressed but it’s afternoon, the restaurant isn’t even technically open yet. There’s a toast to the chef and I’m the only outsider in attendance and so I stay at the bar while the group of staff and friends and family assemble. It’s very special, even to bear witness to as someone uninvolved. There’s a heart and soul to food and drink and service that other industries, even creative industries, really don’t have in the same way. I’m a tiny bit tipsy, now. I need to start hostessing again. I make this note on my phone: “NEED TO START HOSTESSING AGAIN!!!!” We stay at Altro Paradiso til dinner starts, and we continue to stay till it feels like dinner is about to end. Everything is magical - the alla prima cocktail, wine, dirty martini, pane e ricotta, salad with figs and dates, octopus, olives, oysters under beds of thinly sliced veggies, malfatti (which is pasta that is like little pillows), linguine al nero (which is pasta with squid ink and cuttlefish and basil), a few deserts - pistachio ice cream and the pear cake. The afternoon turns to a sparkling evening. I walk home. I go elsewhere, after - fun too, but I probably shouldn’t have. I should probably learn when to call an evening. Decadence in excess, turns all that sparkles sour. Thursday, January 9 It's been the same day on repeat so far this year. The same three days, really. Rinse and do it again. The year has only held nine days. I can't view my stagnation with too much harshness. Decadence, in contrast, should be viewed with harshness. Los Angeles is burning up and it feels uncouth to talk about this here as this tragedy is not my life, but I can't stop watching. Most emotions are triggered through all five senses - it's a strange feeling of muted horror to see destruction of places and lives you know on a screen, detached from your physical experience but visible in real time in your cognizant mind - peripheral vision. I accidentally get stuck in the Louis Vuitton x Murakami line in SoHo. I accidentally steal a pair of Split sweatpants from the gym. I accidentally read all the books on the 4chan 2024 Top 100 Lit Board list. I'm on tiktok watching videos of the apocalypse overlaid with Lana del Rey audio. I’m browsing r/lainfluencersnark and they have a lot to say about the way their parasocial relationships are handling the apocalypse. I tried to write something about phones and chaos and end times but it was silly. These are resources / writing from people in LA. The Angel - L.A. Fires — How to Help

Inline links: Tense, Altro Paradiso, The Angel - L.A. Fires — How to Help

Spoiled Child1 mentions across 1 issues

Spoiled Child is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 12, 2025 and March 12, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Spoiled Child x Jeremy Scott celebrate Drop 2 Release Party". It most often appears alongside 154 Scott BK, Abi Yaga, Ace Hotel Brooklyn.

Article page: Spoiled Child
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 12, 2025
Last seen: March 12, 2025
Instagram handle: @spoiledchildworld

Outbound links

Issue trail

Rules for Clarity March 12, 2025

154 Scott BK 1 shared issues
Abi Yaga 1 shared issues
Ace Hotel Brooklyn 1 shared issues
Albina Aleksandrova 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues

Source context

Rules for Clarity

March 12, 2025 · Original source

From 8pm - late at Time Again — Spoiled Child x Jeremy Scott celebrate Drop 2 Release Party. Music by DeSe Escobar and Lumia Nocito.

Inline links: Spoiled Child, Jeremy Scott

SpongeBob1 mentions across 1 issues

SpongeBob is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between June 06, 2024 and June 06, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "sponge bob popsicles are fun". It most often appears alongside 06 Art, ALLSHIPS, Ally Pankiw.

Article page: SpongeBob
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: June 06, 2024
Last seen: June 06, 2024
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #3 June 06, 2024

06 Art 1 shared issues
ALLSHIPS 1 shared issues
Ally Pankiw 1 shared issues
Anastasia Berg 1 shared issues
Angela Torres 1 shared issues

Source context

June 06, 2024 · Original source

After the second rest stop, the car is full of: iced coffee, sponge bob popsicles, spicy pickles in bag, tex mex chex mix, two hot dogs with no bun but lots of condiments that are impossible to cut with fork and knife, one hot dog with bun, one chicken sandwich, peanut m&ms, oreo cakesters. The sponge bob popsicles are fun, but everything else is actually just pretty genuinely repulsive.

Spotify1 mentions across 1 issues

Spotify is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 03, 2025 and January 03, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Mood Machine: The Rise of Spotify and the Costs of the Perfect Playlist". It most often appears alongside @byrellthegreat, @fysicaltherapy, A Small Fruit Song.

Article page: Spotify
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 03, 2025
Last seen: January 03, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

The End Of The Year January 03, 2025

@byrellthegreat 1 shared issues
@fysicaltherapy 1 shared issues
A Small Fruit Song 1 shared issues
Adam Ross 1 shared issues
After Hours 1 shared issues

Source context

The End Of The Year

January 03, 2025 · Original source

From 7:30pm at St Joseph’s University (245 Clinton Avenue) — The Baffler and Greenlight Books present a reading and discussion to celebrate the release of Liz Pelly’s Mood Machine: The Rise of Spotify and the Costs of the Perfect Playlist.

Inline links: The Baffler, Greenlight Books, Liz Pelly’s, Mood Machine: The Rise of Spotify and the Costs of the Perfect Playlist.

SSENSE1 mentions across 1 issues

SSENSE is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between May 21, 2025 and May 21, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "the Ayede heels from ssense.com". It most often appears alongside 99 Scott, Al Warren, Amelia Ritthaler.

Article page: SSENSE
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: May 21, 2025
Last seen: May 21, 2025

Issue trail

Total Nightmare Policy May 21, 2025

99 Scott 1 shared issues
Al Warren 1 shared issues
Amelia Ritthaler 1 shared issues
Anne Lesley Selcer 1 shared issues
Ayede 1 shared issues

Source context

May 21, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, May 12 At the Holiday Inn, there are Yakisoda noodles and banana cream pie snack pack jellos and krabby patties gummy candies and lances cream cheese and onion dip crackers. All the most disgusting snacks imaginable, and kind of perverted, too. I’m so particular and annoying with my sleeping issues that I always find myself at depressing hotels, even when there is a wonderful home down the road where I am welcome. I need a Big Bed and Isolation. I need Temperature Control. As a child, I liked things such as camping in birch forests and cramped little stone cottages in some village where my parents would find someone on the Internet to swap houses with. Unfortunately, I grew up into someone with severe and undiagnosable sleep disorders, and a taste for adventure that is rooted more in hedonism and less in fresh air. I feel really full and sleepy heading back to New York. Well, things are better than they were. Total nightmare policy. Total, blow up your life brother, policy. I was so addicted to writing in my google docs journal this weekend and now I have a lot of annoying slop to show for it. I call my dad in the sun outside the Starbucks in a Strip Mall. Stop thinking about things in such eternal terms, they tell me. You wouldn’t get in a car crash and say When Can I Go 100 Again, they remind me. Fiction, again - they are talking about somebody else. The idea of compromise no longer makes your blood boil. It’s an unsavory trait that it ever did in the first place. "The other alternative is that I just become a nightmare and you become perfect," I told him. "That is certainly an alternative," he told me. It is 11:30pm, and I am thinking about getting a job. I am thinking about the Current Body Red Light Mask and the Ayede heels from ssense.com. "What if I hadn’t simply crashed out," he said. "There would have been pros and cons to that," I said. There is a fire alarm and mauve curtains and two weird arched doorways because we booked a suite and so the architecture suggests some simulacra of something vaguely Roman. Marble. Plaster cut to look like marble. I go to buy water and they have turned off the creepy lights at the creepy pool. Tuesday, May 13 I was feeling really terrified, if I’m being honest about it. I was sitting on the sidewalk picking at my nails and drinking hot coffee in the hot sun, eight splenda, curdled almond milk. I was voicing concerns in a high pitched voice and I was losing track of the distinguishment between ideas imagined and conversations regurgitated. God forbid I have an original thought of my own - that part wasn't even on the table. It isn’t so dark and depressing anymore. Walk in the rain and everything is so green here. I’ll be back in the city tonight and there are better omens in the astrology these days around things like planes, the return, glass apartments in the sky. He leaves my keys on the bedside table at the hotel, and he’s still asleep when I pack up my things and leave to eat black coffee, turkey deli meat, garlic aioli, marcona almonds. We drive to his parent’s house and he gives me drumstick vanilla ice cream. Working on this laptop, surrounded by all this green. You know that every time you hit this vape it coats your lungs in sweet thick paste, I am telling him, as I hit his vape. The last time I wrote about hitting a vape I received an infuriating pseudo intellectual email about the verbiage "hit" as suggesting a sado-masochistic impulse in our digital age. "I wonder if soon, you'll be saying you 'Beat' or 'Pummeled' your vape?" the idiot email writer wrote. The email made me so mad. You're so stupid, I wanted to write back. We go for a walk in the bright green forest. There is a sweetness here. A coming-back-into-control that makes the out-of-control-ness feel so distant. Escape from Evil and two days later you mistake reprieve for salvation. Unless, you are not mistaken. It really could be that simple. What was it they were saying on The Internet? Break The Pattern Today Or The Loop Will Repeat Tomorrow. What was it I've been saying online? Edit Artificial Intelligence robot voice over text to speech words - "Taking My Party Boy Boyfriend On A Walking Tour Of The Cotswolds." I clarify that I've been defending his honor. We're crushing up the plastic water cups, and the hill is steep up the road. I clarify that there are people of extremes. It was very bad, but now it is very good, I am texting my mother. Honestly, I'm so sick of clarifying anything at all. You're a little more sober with it. You're a little more gentle about it. It transformed in two days. Imagine two weeks. Imagine a year. Imagine rushing even one second. I can control my consciousness. Though, it isn't my consciousness, really, that I've been concerned about. I'm glad we share a frame of mind. This plane is basically empty. Wednesday, May 14 We went to KGB late last night. Thursday, May 15 The woman who does yoga on her fire escape is out there with a cigarette, today. I’m not in a bad mood today. The apartment is a mess and I am concerned about my past. Things become steady, and then even bright. Friday, May 16 Well, I didn't write because I have been busy in real life. I've been imagining an identity rooted in delusions in the secret diary that stays offline. It is not so delusional. I am feeling so sincere. Rebecca is here. My sister is here. We went to KGB Bar and Fanelli Cafe and Funny Bar where we met a Gagosian guy turned AI guy, which I guess has kind of been my career arch too though I am not so pleased about that direction. We went to the party at Bowery where the waiter from Fanelli Cafe was the DJ and I had two vodka sodas then soda water with lime which might be all I do soon, though I keep on having all these cyclical conversations with myself about these things - consumption and gluttony - and there is little that more dull, so I will not bring it up again. I went to the sleep specialist and she giggled when I said I don't scream in my sleep if I am in the company of strangers. That's different but great, she said. Do I control my subconscious, I said. Stupid idiot, she said. I did actually go to all these parties, and I did call him from the bathroom. He'll be back in New York soon, making film and code and learning banjo. It's way better than the alternative, and I do feel very proud this week which is something I have not been able to say in a good long while. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, May 21 From 7pm - 8:30pm at The Flea Theater (20 Thomas St) — I’ll be seeing Revolution: The Play. Sophia Englesberg is associate producer, and everything she touches is wonderful. Written and produced by Brett Neveu, directed by Rebecca Harris. The theater is next to The Odeon, so you can get my favorite martini before or after the show. - “Who celebrates their 26th birthday in the alley outside of her hairdressing place o’ work? Revolution interrogates and celebrates the very nature of creating community and building friendships in our ever-evolving, ever disconnecting world.”

Inline links: Revolution: The Play, Sophia Englesberg, The Odeon

St-Germain1 mentions across 1 issues

St-Germain is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between May 27, 2025 and May 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "something with tequila and Saint Germaine straight up". It most often appears alongside 327 Bowery, Abby Lloyd, absurdism.

Article page: St-Germain
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: May 27, 2025
Last seen: May 27, 2025

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

generative and godly secrets May 27, 2025

327 Bowery 1 shared issues
Abby Lloyd 1 shared issues
absurdism 1 shared issues
Adidas 1 shared issues
Allie Rowbottom 1 shared issues

Source context

May 27, 2025 · Original source

Tuesday, May 20 Last night, we went to Lucky's for dinner and I had something with tequila and Saint Germaine straight up and he had more non-alcoholic beer. Then, they brought us mountains of shoestring onion rings and a big wedge salad and it was good for a while, until I started to feel sick. I went to the bathroom to play on my phone while the scent of grease dissipated. The drinks were crisp and they brought the shaker right to our table. Lucky's was like a steakhouse, but with a smaller interior than your average We went to Matthew's house after, to sit in his barren family room while he hacked up a lung. I rolled up my Zara blazer that I stole from Paul's Casablanca lost and found after someone stole my blazer first and also back when I was an alcoholic. I curled up under my blazer on Matthew's tiny couch while Matthew and my boyfriend talked in code and made rankings of all their friends. Matthew's apartment was pretty empty except for a whiteboard with a list of girls he likes and a Chinese new year banner and a huge pile of hats that said I'M IMMUNE TO PROPAGANDA. “Jesus, she is combative. you're right, she's so combative,” Matthew told my boyfriend, talking about me. "It's possible that Canne after dark was something that happened in the daytime," he said. "she'll get mad if I ask her why she won't play anagrams," he said. "The activation triggers a chain of events leading to increased dopamine release," he said. Sometimes, when I am with my boyfriend's friends I feel like I am in a video game, or maybe in an orphanage. You don't want to be someone who is contorting your face and yelling. It is morning now. I don't really know what happened there. Being at these parties more sober is strange, because there is nothing else but me and yet I still don't really understand. I am listening to sweet and gentle music, and I feel a total surrender. S - i do feel bad i was not so gentle and kind about this. i get myself trip wired and lose it. but it is always better to be gentle and kind and i understand new york can kill the soul and there is something beautiful in a peaceful house alone and that is why you left which is innocent and pure and it's not fair to be rageful to you for that. Wednesday, May 21 There were two cigarettes and two glasses of wine at Voile de Nuit. This becomes some sort of Diary of Consumption. I met Ellie at a tall house on a wooded street in the West Village where she works on things pertaining to design and then we spent the hours in the courtyard of Voile de Nuit, which I adore because it’s reminiscent of Summer and Reality. I behaved badly the last time I was here. My boyfriend comes by to drop off fries. We run into friends at Caffe Reggio and it's raining by the time we reach home. My boyfriend says: Spreading secrets is entropic Keeping your mouth shut is static Spreading misinformation is generative and godly I do think he is mostly kidding. It's Simone Weil who says about rage - “To be able to hurt others with impunity—for instance to pass our anger on to an inferior who is obliged to be silent—is to spare ourselves from an expenditure of energy, an expenditure which the other person will have to make.” And I wonder which character I am in this story and it's not always the good one. I was thinking about all of that in the novel. That and the self surveillance of it all. Unfortunately, my thought experiments are ruining my life and also, the novel is ending up being All About Me LOL, too. The play tonight (Revolution at Flea Theatre ) is nice, because I walk through the rain to get there and smoke cigarettes outside The Odeon after, and because its depiction is of genuine weirdos, not like Quirked Up, not like the girls my friend texts me about after the party, “have you met them? so spacey!” not like, becoming strange because of course there is some desire to conjure up some personality and if you’re pretty then it’s fine and even appealing to be off-putting. The play is like grocery store clerk alcoholic, gun in the purse grocery store clerk alcoholic, therapy speak coping mechanisms like count up then down then up and it’s employed in the play as the coping mechanism not as an ironic tactic. Drinking beers on a birthday in the back alley and the play is disaffected from glamor in a way that I’m realizing not many things are. Like even most depictions of poverty in a lot of media, at least media coming out of New York at least certainly media surrounding youth culture and a narrative surrounding a party, goes like; we have nothing but we’re slippery adjacent to everything as a result of our charm and good looks and happenstance. The play is like, leftover charcuterie from her husband’s weird mega church and splurging at the liquor store and old cocaine shoved into a bowling ball but there’s an innocence and almost childlike wonderment to the way they tackle the expired drug situation, and the play is not about drugs. There’s a genuine kind of earnest stiltedness to the conversation that lends itself to sincerity. Thursday, May 22 May is quivering right before me; I'm not letting it lapse like April did but there are still smokescreens, silkscreens, my fingers are sleeping right through it. The Club, last night. The Play then The Club. It was smokey and sweet. My lungs felt coated in something sour by the end. The smoking patio was wet with dew and I was kind of floating, not in a bad way. Not hungover, it's something way more visceral but still hazy. I could feel it all start to slip, and so I held onto myself quite tightly. My boyfriend's screen time is 102 hours a day across devices. My face is encased in sheaths of plastic that keep you young, but they're not the temu kind that's weird and freaky. The light I use is Science Backed. I'm thinking of getting into vintage workout wear. I'm thinking of getting into Vlogging. I'm thinking of getting into filling out paid surveys online for luxury perfume sellers that require you to swear your spending habits are High and you like perfume from MiuMiu and you Hate Balenciaga and what perfume means to me is; I think sometimes scents can bring up... nostalgia? I say. Do you own a Prada dress? they ask. We leave the party early - I'm sick and he buys me chicken caesar salad pizza. Aren't you glad we left early so we could dance a little at home, he says. In the living room, the windows are all a little frosted from the rain. There are lights in the neighbors windows across the courtyard but it's thursday night, the rain has stopped. You couldn't have expected everyone to just stay home, really. I notice the people in the windows if he is spinning me across the room. Exhibitionism. I catch myself in the peripheries. The windows. The back of my mind. And I never shut the blinds but that is just no Executive Function or Detail Orientation. I am not some sort of voyeur. Friday, May 23 10:45am, and they are playing some kind of staticy electric classical mashup of music from the Fedex truck outside. "Even as a grad student, I felt they were looking down on chaos," one young man at the Yemeni coffee shop is telling another. Buying: coffee and chicken quiche but none of that is for me. Buying: peanut butter perfect bar and celsius and my boyfriend's screen time is up to 316 hours since midnight since he's doing things indiscernible to me but which he clarifies are Not Fraudulent. I am trying not to write so much in the google doc diaries. It is like I have learned these diaries as a trick, and now I am addicted to it. Now, I can’t do anything else. I must release all thoughts, but to release one thought I must go through, again and again, everything else. And so I go through it all, again and again and again. The thought, and then everything else. We were going to talk more about Spirituality today, but the tripwire keeps happening - stuck on: Vanity and Careerism. I make subheadings to keep myself in check. VANITY. CAREERISM. CAREERISM: Here is where I am: I have the substack for now which is nice this is something that I suppose in some ways is a defining thing I have done but it does not feel like so much it does not feel like it culminates to anything just proof of existence, yes, but everyone has some sort of proof of existence and it is nice to write the story behind something. The story itself cannot just be the story of writing about yourself. And for a minute I was very very very sad and so that plotline became dependable, but that is no sort of thing to rely on. And this is why it cannot all just be the writing of the self. It hasn’t been. [redacted] felt like something different, investigation, beginning middle end, it was not just here I am, it was like a puzzle it was like being very precise with it and it was the biggest thing I have done so far and I sat with it for such a long time. And perhaps I am being dramatic because there are other projects I could start in the meantime but I can’t sit down and make myself think oh what would be an interesting and pithy thing to talk about for somewhere glossy, I cannot do it. I think about doing it and my stomach rises into my throat with how little I care. And so it has to be a story that bursts out of me. There was one, and I can tell there is almost something else too but it’s like David said yes, it’s difficult while you are in the waiting room. Since beginning writing this, my fever got higher, and we are hanging the Bacchus masks around the apartment plus yellow golden softlight and, now I feel more peaceful about it. I wasn’t having so much humility. Nevermind. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 27 From 6pm (show at 7pm) at Baby’s All Right — Baby’s Presents a benefit concert for the Immigrant Defense Project with Palehound, The Ophelias, and Grumpy. Dj set by WeTakeManhattan. - “All proceeds from the show will go towards supporting the IDP’s 20+ year mission of fighting for the rights of immigrants targeted for imprisonment and mass deportation via advocacy, litigation, legal advice and training, community defense, grassroots alliances, and strategic communications.” | GA (18+) $38.86, Ticket and Bonus Donation $49.69

StreetEasy1 mentions across 1 issues

StreetEasy is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between July 15, 2025 and July 15, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "My dad is on StreetEasy". It most often appears alongside Alan Barrows, Anastasia Wolfe, Andrew Woolbright.

Article page: StreetEasy
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: July 15, 2025
Last seen: July 15, 2025

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

Summer Break July 15, 2025

Alan Barrows 1 shared issues
Anastasia Wolfe 1 shared issues
Andrew Woolbright 1 shared issues
Annabel Boardman 1 shared issues
Bacchus 1 shared issues

Source context

Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!5VsE!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fa28d040d-b3a0-4770-82bd-6e231622df77_632x410.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!UYwU!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F46ea23c2-0020-4017-9cf8-fb844593afb0_1536x2048.jpeg, The Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research, Error 404: Play Not Found

July 15, 2025 · Original source

Tuesday, July 8 There is a fire by the ocean and gray gray gray dusk and I had wine against my own best interest. I thought I would say, here is what I recall. I recall nothing. There is so much I could distinguish from the wreck of it all. I'm ok but you are not so in this world today, Iris is saying on the beach. I recall we went to The Folly. I closed the door in the bathroom up the stairs. I ate Chicken and Rice, Joe's Pizza, Springbone Kitchen, Two Martinis. Throw the butter from the fridge in the trash because it really smells like rot. I was not always convinced that everything was about to rot, but I was always pretty sure about the butter. It all becomes a bit trite in writing. Not in recollection. I wish I could recall so much of anything at all. What are your favorite furniture items in memory, my dad asks Iris after the beach. Iris says a yellow ottoman. My dad lights a fire. My dad is on StreetEasy. I'm on that artificial intelligence wave in a big way. You can tell I've developed the habit because I sound abruptly so much stupider. You can tell I have little ground to stand on because, absence, no memory, relinquish nostalgia and I have nothing to say. I liked the little wooden chairs by the fire in Massachusetts. I like my map of Buzzards Bay. I liked the wooden table at a house surrounded by all that green. I did first like the Bacchus mask in New York, though I am learning to be cautious with symbolism and the thing of what you may conjure. My dad liked the bed he built into his cabin. There are people who build cabins. There are people whose whims don't dictate their attacks. There are people who are just one person all at once. The dog chased the coyote up the beach and I chased the crab apple path up towards the house and there is a paisley blanket and an oil painting of a woman in a long pleat white dress and a black hat with a black bow and a small child with his hand clutched in hers. Wednesday, July 9 Lying on the speckled blue sheets under a canopy of white veil thinking about how I’m going to get the fuck back to the city. Thinking about where I am going to live. I am going to need to pull a lot of favors. I will not be listless. Wander around my all new neighborhood in a daze of self abandon. Abandon limbo. It will be interesting to see what happens when I abandon limbo. I suspect that it'll be nothing good. Were you so addicted to the chaos? Iris asks me. Will you need to manufacture new situations to respond to? It’s just that, reckless abandon doesn't really bother me, I say. It’s not so much that this is necessarily what I crave. There is a music box and I am noticing my initials on the inside. There are mussels in coconut milk and bluefish on the porch and I was quiet quiet quiet today, though I get the sense that suddenly all around me, it is beginning to happen fast fast fast. Thursday, July 10 I stopped with all the quiet and then I regretted it in an instant. There are gray walls like paper maché and a white wooden canopy bed frame and a toy boat all tan and teal green propped up on the bookshelf. You have been lying in every bed in the house, Iris said. Rotate them like musical chairs. I was not so sure where I should land. I was lying on a yellow bedspread, then. Dusk, then. The curtains were drawn but they were light and sheer and easy to imagine what was just on the other side. Friday, July 11 New York is pulsing pulsing pulsing summer and I am glad to be back even just, to do little with it. Dinner at Lure Fishbar which is lovely and a clarity summit on the terrace which is less rotten in its final days, smog over the railing and the lights are blinking on and off in dusk haze across the river and then, everyone leaves. I leave too. Bring drinks in plastic bottles to the bar. Starting my days earlier and ending them later. There will be other things. I could handwrite it next time. I could use lugger.com or the nice neighbor from May or the generosity from others that I worry I do not return or deserve to move the couch. So, nothing ever happens. Stay up until seven in the morning and then it's taking down the fir wreaths because those are becoming a fire hazard too. Taking down the buoy and the copper pot because those are coming with me. The terrace has become all clogged with cigarettes and I notice it only now, plastic tarnished wood and the cracks are all stuffed with tar and rainwater and dead branches. So, I could do yard work I suppose. Or, I could just leave. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, July 15 From 8pm - 12pm at The Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research — a one night only reading of an AI generated play trained on all Matthew Gasda’s plays. Error 404: Play Not Found. Tickets are free but donations are encouraged. - “This will be done with ample drinking and unseriousness--but the experiment may also be interesting on a philosophical level.”

Suju1 mentions across 1 issues

Suju is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 12, 2025 and September 12, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "a cup of Suju waiting for the after party to start". It most often appears alongside Accidie, Albania, AltCitizen.

Article page: Suju
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 12, 2025
Last seen: September 12, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.instagram.com/p/C8meUUEuMs4/?img_index=1

Issue trail

Perfect Little Life September 12, 2025

Accidie 1 shared issues
Albania 1 shared issues
AltCitizen 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
ARDOR 1 shared issues

Source context

September 12, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, September 7 Woke up to something amazing happening. More rain outside and also, a message from Emma. How are you? Emma asks. Like no time has passed at all, though of course, years have. There are other things to think about first. Octopus and shrimp salad and some cicen cheese at Tashkent Market. Interrogate one’s own sincerity. I am certain that Emma lives a very full and rich life now. I am not sure where in the world she is. I will know this soon. The first time I met Emma, her mom drove her to my house as a friend of a friend on her sixteenth birthday. I made signs to welcome my new acquaintance. Strung up HAPPY BIRTHDAY EMMA and WE HEART EMMA on poster board in neon sharpie above the wooden porch to greet her when she arrived. Nice to meet you Emma, I remember saying. The formality was awkward because I really wanted Emma to already be my friend. Later, I posted a photo of Emma and I hugging on the beach. Happy birthday Emma, I posted. Like plastering our pseudo-friendship online would make it real. After Emma and I became friends, and after Emma got her learner’s permit a few months after that, she would drive around Natick, Massachusetts with me hidden in the back of her trunk looking for parties that we’d find posted on YikYak. We would come home disappointed, usually, drinking a few warm beers in her parents’ basement or sitting with people we didn’t really know on the outer edges of my parents back yard. A few years had passed that way, and then another year hitchhiking around the Balkans after high school. Emma had convinced me to come bartend in Budapest and so I’d lost or maybe gained another life, here, drinking liquor and taking pills from strange cups in hostel hallways. Hitching rides from strange women across the Montenegro border. We’d bought loaves of bread and tomato sauce and bottles of wine to drink in the backseat and we'd driven for quite some time along coastlines and corn fields. They burned brush to prevent forest fires in this part of the world, and so often the sides of the highway would be almost totally ablaze. Emma and I were always half asleep, half drunk, half larping as destitute and disassociated and developing an early onset case of Peter Pan syndrome as mostly mine but kind of our cerebral ambitions paled in comparison to the magical ephemerality of our alcoholic, older, nomadic, wandering compatriots. My best friend Emma was more solid than I was. She had traveled for a while longer while I washed up in a hotel room in Albania and then, a flight back to Boston. Emma sold coffee in Morocco and then attended Georgetown. Emma calls mid afternoon. Are you still in New York? Emma asks me. She’s in the car in San Diego and she’s driving home from the beach with her boyfriend. Emma and her boyfriend are laughing. The perfect little life. Sitting on the edge of my bed in my New York studio apartment and I’m feeling kind of giddy because here I am, suddenly, with this perfect little window into the perfect little life. It’s exactly as I suspected. I talk quickly at Emma for about twenty minutes when I pick up the phone, mostly recounting the events of the spring and summer, but there are other things, too. Sorry, I say when I finish my story. Sorry sorry sorry. Emma sighs, though she remains cheerful. I always thought you’d marry young, Emma says. Are you ok? Emma asks. You should talk about yourself now, I tell Emma. And so Emma tells me that she is in San Diego with her boyfriend. They have been there since the spring now, and they have started to make some friends. They are driving home from the beach. They are stopping for food. Emma is in a city on the Pacific coast of California known for its beaches, parks and warm climate. Emma is on the edge of a deep harbor that is home to a large active naval fleet. I imagine that it is misty there sometimes and sunny at other times and the houses are bright colored beach bungalows and they are always filled up with a little bit of sand. All my dreams this summer have been about California, I tell Emma. There is an OctoberFest party in San Diego, Emma tells me. Come to San Diego, Emma urges me. Do you surf a lot?, I ask Emma. Where are you getting food? Is everything made of wood and is everyone barefoot all the time and do you buy blue dresses at second-hand shops and wear them as you wander down the coast? Do you feed seagulls scraps of fish as they fly over your perfect white wooden balcony and do you go to the carnival and get massages at open air studios on the pier and is everything kind of pastel and creaky and at what pace does time pass? So, I will go to San Diego. Not in October but sometime soon. Sometime in the spring. Emma and Arthur will drive me around in their perfect little car and I will sleep on their perfect little couch and I will drink Corona with lime and wear a bikini in March and everything will be kind of pastel and creaky and I imagine I won’t be too aware of time passing at all. I will be embraced and absorbed by a life that does not belong to me. Maybe it’ll be like Never Land. Maybe I’ll stay forever. Monday, September 8 In New York City, people feed birds scraps of food and then grab them by their bare hands, too. In Washington Square Park, the tourists from Prague are doing this today. Washington Square Park, which is peppered with falling leaves and fountain mist and Bad Luck Spots, which I will never make the mistake of stepping on again. The park is still green but becoming less so. I’ve been praying for the cold, and now it is almost here. It is September 8th. It is Day One of being Cerebral and Ascetic and I am feeling very horrified that I ever thought it might be good to opt for any other alternative path. I am feeling regretful for my experimentations in self-abandonment and trying-on-new-personalities though, I suppose, this is where God comes in. And it was a God filled day yesterday, which is something I still hope to be somewhat watchful with and let things happen to me rather than intellectualize it all. The greatest thing is to Love and Know and Be Loved And Known, strangers kept on telling me yesterday. I already knew this, but I wrote it down anyway. Write it down and filter it through new contexts. Begin the day. It is Monday now. It is September 8th. I run into Emilia at Caffe Reggio, where I always sit and where she always finds me. You seem kind of volatile, she tells me. You should write about God if you are sick of writing about yourself. You should write about art. You should not write about politics. You should come to Slovenia. I was sitting in a church last night and someone was laughing outside. The laughter was reverberating inside. The laughter was distorting sound waves off the walls and causing interference with the incense and the air and with the silence. Because it was, otherwise, silent. Felt very frozen. Felt like fall. Felt like it was all beautiful even here in stupid NYC. Felt like I slowly noticed myself, shaking. What's your favorite book, a stranger asked me at the bar, later. V by Thomas Pynchon I said, because that's the book I read last and my mind was moving kind of slowly. What's your favorite film, the stranger asked. Diva by Jean-Jacques Beineix because that is the film I watched and liked last or also; Manhattan and Match Point, I said. What's your favorite book, I asked the stranger. The stranger smiled. I always say The Bible when people ask me that. Tuesday, September 9 In the criss-crossed wood-roofed apartment, the lights start to flicker around eight pm which is a good reminder, then, that one is never supposed to linger in the sort of place like this. One is supposed to live in a city like this so that one might pace around and wait for omens. It is Fashion Week which means even less to me this year than Art Week did the week before. It is energies and after parties and humiliation rituals when I'm wearing my cotton non-synthetic workout wear all around Soho at a time like this and; all of this of course, means nothing at all and so this week is just like any other. This summer passed kind of dusty and endless and I do not feel sorry for myself anymore because first of all there is no need for that it is just one life all at once and second of all, Accidie is the only truly mortal sin and so one must proceed with caution. I sat with Amelia in bars with sparkling water in June for a while because I just could not go home. I sat with other sorts of substances for a while after that and I took it too far. Day One (trying again) of being Ascetic and Cerebral tonight. September 9. 999. People on the Internet say that means something and I'm good at taking people at their word. Sitting in the basement of Night Club 101 at the AltCitizen show with Joe and Darby and a cup of Suju waiting for the after party to start. The basement of Night Club 101 feels kind of like a high school music room classroom particularly now, particularly empty. Joe and Darby and I are talking about the gap between self possession and self awareness and a Kinsey Scale sort of method of categorizing people this way. Self possessed people often lacking self awareness and vice versa. The lowest form of discourse being discourse on discourse. Smart people talking about ideas average people talking about events stupid people talking about other people; though, I sort of disagree with this concept. Other people are the root of all loftier things like "Ideas", I am saying. It's like The Backrooms down here, Darby is saying. It's like a kind of weird vibe but we don't want to leave. We're near the bathrooms and so others keep drifting by but they don't want to stay. Fabulous outfits. Rockstar Girlfriends. Los Angeles apparel unitard and big black boots lining up for the restroom or to buy socks that say I CAN DO ANYTHING ON DRUGS. Patchwork style neon dress and small gray loafers, silver ballet flats leather pants light green linen v neck top. Lots of girls with long and flowy and jet black hair here. Lace black dresses that look like spiderwebs paired with emerald necklaces. Lots of guys in jeans with long and curly hair or long and greasy hair and they all are carrying guitars. I'm perched in the bleachers in the basement with my one kind of SEC-school-style-tattoo and an A-line dress watching everyone kind of wistfully. So, there were a few different lives and now there is something else. Maybe in the next one, I will pick a life like the club kids. Micro-bangs and rock music. Fall asleep in Bushwick or in the back of a bus. Buy a bus and drive across the country with a lust for Music above all. Drive past things like diners in Wyoming or sacred hot springs in New Mexico or the haunted Mount Washington Hotel in New Hampshire or Motel 6s and 8s somewhere along the way. Drive to California wearing True Religion low rise jeans and shredded tees. Drive all the way to the Pacific Ocean. Can't stop thinking about the Pacific Ocean. Drive to San Diego. Wash up on Emma and Arthur's door. I would do fewer things each day in this life, but maybe each of them would matter more. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Friday, September 12 From 7:30pm - 9:00pm at Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research — It’s your last week to see ARDOR - a very special play following a group of nine artists and friends on an annual retreat to their aging patrons Vermont farmhouse. Nothing and everything has changed and will change.

Inline links: Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research, ARDOR

Sunday Riley1 mentions across 1 issues

Sunday Riley is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 27, 2026 and January 27, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Cassandra takes out her Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls at table over are taking out their Sunday Riley lipgloss". It most often appears alongside 3, Alexander Perrelli, Amelia.

Article page: Sunday Riley
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 27, 2026
Last seen: January 27, 2026

Issue trail

California-At-Home January 27, 2026

3 1 shared issues
Alexander Perrelli 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
Anders Lindseth 1 shared issues
Ani Tatintsyan 1 shared issues

Source context

January 27, 2026 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, January 12 I’m in my room and I’m feeling normal. Outside, the streets are winter-warm. Foggy and sweet. Different from El Salvador, which was humid-sweet. Tropics sweet. El Salvador was learning to understand things and also learning to let the wind blow in interesting directions and also learning to stand on my own two feet. On the flight home, I mapped out every day as a container. At JFK, I decided to treat the city like Vacation. Big Bar every Monday. Museums of Illusions. FDR themed social club. Procure activities on Partiful or Instagram or Yelp or through Word of Mouth. I call Amelia to announce my return and my vacation-forever plans. Is this vacation for the sake of transgression or fun? Amelia asks me. New York is over, Matthew was saying, in El Salvador. New York is over, and Los Angeles is it. I suppose we’ll see, I was saying in response. I suppose we’ll see but for now I’ll take all the energy-whirling-back. The flight home was quiet and late. I sat in the very back row of the plane with lots of water and ambient dread. I dreamt of a rocky landing where Avianca (Boeing 787) (Flight 267) touches ground and then immediately takes back off. I dreamt of being robbed. I dreamt of turning around. Dreamt of being scammed. Dreamt of busy days and busy nights in N.Y.C Back home, tonight, and it’s dinner at Lanterna di Vittoria with my friend whom I like because he offers me generosity kind of liminally. He presents a dangling sort of kindness that I did not have to accept or deny. I could accept his kindness later. I could pluck it from thin air, long after he has walked away. Maybe he is just generally cautious like that, or perhaps he intuits my inherent distaste towards drawing definitive conclusions. He is extremely helpful, but I never say thank you for the advice even though I am thankful. I never acknowledge I agree and I think it is better this way. I’m particularly grateful for the ease of it. He’s happy to know he’s right and also to feel useful without any of the misery that accompanies reliance. The grid is blinking in and out today, and so we are all feeling anxious about nuclear war. You too?? my friend says, when I bring up the topic of nuclear war at dinner. Everyone is becoming so much stupider. Small grid means big problems. I am feeling uneasy, sitting in my apartment tonight, knowing all the best minds in the world are coming up short. Later, cotton candy skies turning dark as we’re walking home. The city is freezing over, and hell along with it. Since I cleared my mind head-empty, I have become so much better at being perfect. Since I became religious, I have become so much faster at driving. Since I started telling all my friends that I want no-trouble, none-of-the-time, everything has started to really spiral out of control. I want to be good, I keep on telling Olivia. We go to the gym together every-other-day. She is the only girl with hair that is longer than mine. You are goodest, Olivia tells me. She says it with a smile, and she is very much not-devious so I believe that she believes this to be true. How many millions of dollars do you think were lost when the grid went down? I ask my friend, walking home in the icy city that I just can’t quit. Trillions, he tells me. What do you mean millions? Jesus Christ. Do you know how the GRID works? He gives me a book. Elephants and economy. Something like that. I already have it. I am smug when I tell him so. They already gave me this book in El Salvador. This book is already mine. The grid has already never-existed. Nothing ever happens. New silk eye mask arrived by mail which means: big sleep incoming. Big sleep in mummy mode. Clean room. Room of a girl who respects herself. Every day is something new. This part has always been obvious. Tuesday, January 13 The air is clear in my apartment, but somehow tinged a little bit blue this morning. Somehow kind of record-stretch hazy, which I suppose is what happens when I am tired and outside, it’s foggy. My friend texted while I slept: I am taking on your mannerisms. Texting back now: I don’t really have mannerisms. I could write a story this morning, but instead, I will write mantras in my mind. It’s good to be quiet It’s important to seize control over myself God gives the world to girls who don’t get in their own way. Black velvet hanger left off kilter. Last night, I purchased a blue dress that reminded me of dreams I already forgot. A blue dress to wear in a glass house in a place like Topanga. Bright blue dress to wear while making spring green soup. Purchased the dress with visions of next summer spinning through my mind. Visions of wearing a blue dress and standing barefoot on the wood floor of my parents’ house and making spring green soup. Sitting on the edge of my bed in dark green lulu lemon leggings and black tank top this morning. Cool minty Zyn in mouth, and Celsius in hand. The apartment is a mess, and it has been for a while. Trees are barren and kind of sweet outside my window. I hate this apartment. I want my old apartment back. I want to get everything I’ve ever wanted. I want to get sober and mean it. I want two hours of dedicated time-writing-fiction per day, and two hours of dedicated time walking outdoors writing notes. I want to let no more hours drift. I was not happy to come back to New York, but I do like the parts of the city that just are-what-they-are. Green turtle pond and freezing hands. Big buildings and tour groups. Windy streets. Bustling with people. When I’m at pilates I don’t feel like I need to move to LA, I tell Saorise, in the studio. The toned and old gay man that owns Pilates People runs warm. He cracked the window to let in the frigid winter fog. All the girls are upset about this. The light is silver and bright like a beam. It is a foggy day. We have LA at home, Saiorse says. We have life-like-California, but it’s real-life and it’s right-here. We can stay right here. We can invent different schools of movement. We can even go to Sugarfish Girls mass-exodus a friend group or even a whole entire life because of totally superficial reasons that are totally fake, Saoirse is saying, at Sugarfish. We acquire Saki. I pull my hair into a tight ponytail and I revel in my perfect day. I document my material reality meticulously. I have been training myself to become totally head empty. I have been training myself to gently accept gluttony, and also to be less subject to my whims. Sugar Fish has the sort of generic-upscale interior that reminds you of nothing, and thus reminds you of personal recollections of positive experiences in similar generic upscale interior restaurants. This is how they keep you coming back, I say. Girls couldn’t find a backbone if it hit them over the head, Saiorse says. Girls want to drown their enemies in buckets like kittens. Girls want to pray for you and ask to kiss you and pretend to be your friends. I am starting to feel some animosity, I tell Saorsie. Our meal is light but comes out in many courses. Saiorse is happy to hear about my budding proclivity for negativity. I’ve been telling you these things for years and knowing that it wasn’t yet time for you to listen, Sairse responds. You can pick something really good, or you can pick something that you really really want. Saiorse plays with her salmon sashimi and she doesn’t like soy sauce. Saoirse doesn’t ask me to tell her which one I pick: really good versus really wanted, that is. Do you remember Michael the explorer, Saoirse asks me. I have known Saoirse for a million billion years. We share a million billion strange friends. It’s nice to pour over these things. Internet friends. Federal agent friends. Friend who snuck over the Canadian border a few years ago and then washed up outside a fire pit in The Hamptons. Her explorer friend who we took to Round Swamp market for blueberry muffins after he got back from some place like Antarctica or maybe North Korea. He was not very risk-adverse. He was so worried about you, Saoirse says. Did you know that at the time? He said you seemed so nice. Walking home in the crisp and cold afternoon feeling so nice. Walking through the farmers market. Curling up in bed half asleep half dressed half under covers. Half lonely and half at peace because I love when my apartment is so cold. Cassandra texts that she is going to the museum. Why, I ask? It is our duty to seek out all the latent beauty in the world. Cassandra responds. At night, In Brooklyn, I can listen to Jeff Buckley Forget Her on repeat and think about what I actually want. Purification. Indulging my addictions. Freedom from vice. Sweet music and soft cover of winter fog and little green glass wind chimes hanging from the trees. I like wearing natural fibers and clothing I move easily in and having a uniform and following an obsession to its logical conclusion. I like knowing immediately and totally what it is that I could or could not love. Little dried leaves shivering across the pavement. They look like little rats except for the part where they are very beautiful. I run into one friend smoking on the street in a velvet black jacket when I arrive at the reading. I like your suit, I say. It’s my only suit, he responds. I don’t want to drink but I do want a cigarette and I only like cigarettes when I’m drinking. There’s a glowing strawberry on the wall, and there are a lot of people I have never seen before or at least do not see often. Like the cool theater kids’ basement in college, the girl next to me is saying. Soft snow flurries outside, which serves as a nice reminder that it is still winter. Reading out loud about Florida, Massachusetts and feeling reclusive. Wednesday, January 14 Sweet Wednesday morning, but I’m going to treat it like a Monday. Still listening to Jeff Bukley Forget Her, which makes me want to be somewhere else. Somewhere very cold or very foggy or even, very sunny. Perhaps I should stop hedging and just commit to something. Last night, a boy was ordering a drink and talking about how he was so glad no one was doing dry January this year. He asked his friend what he was drinking. Soda water and cranberry, the friend said. Oh, he said. You’re doing dry January? I’ve been dry for six months, his friend said. I felt so jealous of his friend. So, I know what has to give. Need to take pleasure in denying myself the things I want, etc etc etc. Listening to Forget Her over and over and over again, and turning my head all the way upside down so I can get a look at the snow behind me, but the snow has mostly stopped. Just silver skies all the way, now. Silver skies all the way up and all the way down. Jeff Buckley died at thirty-years-old. Someone who destroyed himself early but at least he had something to show for it. The desire to toss out everything I own becomes pervasive in the snow. The desire to get rid of all these things I wish were not mine. Gathering up all these clothes and throwing them in a big white trash bag. Thinking about the big smile on my face when my mother gave me a blue and shiny dress and then thinking about throwing it in a donation bin which pipelines to landfills, obviously. Hours can pass, percolating in guilt over what to do with this blue dress among other items. There are many more wasteful things than throwing out a dress. Buying and drinking alcohol for example. Buying and eating protein bars just to feel full by which I mean full of trash. Scrolling on my phone. Being cruel. The snow is both coming down and melting outside. Smells like ski racing. Nothing I am getting rid of is special. If the people whom I don’t want to see show up at a party, then I will leave. My friends are in the basement of the party when I arrive. Another friend’s new bar. The wood has been stained dark brown and the place is starting to look formal and nice. My friends are vacuuming and putting away books. We all look like little elves putting the books away, Quinn says. Many interesting books. Esoterics of Health and something about Aliens, for example. Thursday, January 15 Rinse and repeat. Blueish silver light in my apartment, where the sun barely penetrates, but at least nothing is artificial. Outside, everything is melting, melting, melting. White and chipped paint on the fire escape, and I can see the drops of water growing from the metal edges and then… drop! Leafless trees shimmering like they’re coated in gum drops. Each silver water droplet crystallized as its own little form, and then together, they are turning the whole tree silver. Since they turned down the central heating and then I turned off my air conditioner, a few days ago, everything has begun to feel quite quiet. Should we do a dress exchange? I ask Cassandra. Should I bring you your bible and a book called The Elephant in the Brain and also your blue cashmere sweater in exchange for my polyester Aritzia slip? Yes! says Cassandra. The West Village is wet and cold and the church is white and the doors are blue. The dining room of The Marlton Hotel is full of red velvet booths and gold lined mirrors and star shaped yellow lights. The mirrors and the lights make me feel a little bit like I am in a room full of sun, but I am not in a room full of sun. I am in a windowless hotel lobby full of mirrors. Cassandra takes out her Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls at table over are taking out their Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls everywhere are just the same. Olivia has her Rapunzel hair bundled up in her scarf like a baboushka. Cassandra is wearing a beautiful red scarf tied around her neck and wearing beautiful gold jewelry. The girls at the table over are talking about how we were created to have gentle souls. Why would anybody make it their mission in life to seek out… chaos? Cassandra interjects. To seek to degrade others, Olivia says. Cassandra teaches me a new word: Odoriferous. Cassandra tells me about her friend who lives in Northern California off the grid, farming salmon or maybe saving them, researching them, I can’t remember. A girl stumbles into the dining room to greet her friends at the table over. I can feel how cold you are, her friends say. I can’t wait to see the ocean again, Cassandra says. It feels really weird going so long without seeing the ocean. I guess I won’t see the ocean again for a while. Thinking about feeling manic. Thinking about every other timeline. Thinking about pouring big glass of water and black coffee with five splenda because I am still glutenous. Getting right to the cusp of something means that in at least a few other timelines, you probably figured it out. Nice to assume you’re capable of that, at least. Nice to know that in another timeline, my diaries are probably anonymous and I can be less vague. Nice to know that in another timeline I can probably lie. I can probably say what I actually mean. Spraying perfume over green sweater and imagining myself as someone who moves more slowly. Ordered a glass of wine because I love relapsing on an empty stomach. Telling Olivia about when my life was hot and cold and up and down and crazy all the time, because for the first time, I am realizing that she did not know me then. It’s hard to describe to someone who wasn’t there. Feeling a little bit nauseous and like I wish I hadn’t spoken. We could be living in the Midwest driving golf carts, Olivia says. Indiana is just corn and soy but not even produced for human production just animal feed or corn syrup, she says. I have a fondness for cornfields, Cassandra says. We could belong to country clubs, Olivia said. I wonder what that is like. Friday, January 16 In my dreams, I am surrounded by water on all sides, Somewhere in El Salvador. Somewhere in Costa Rica. Somewhere with all my friends-from-the-internet, and they do not like my new boyfriend. It’s ok, because I don’t like my new boyfriend too much either. I am scheming with my internet-friends. We are scheming ways to get rid of new boyfriend. Everyone is happy about my plots to get him gone, and no one seems to clock that I am the one who invited him in the first place. We are deep sea fishing. I am hanging by my arms from the edge of the boat and my feet are running through the water while a girl I know to be my best friend fires up the boat faster and faster and faster. I am a little scared. I am having so much fun. Salt water. Earth water. Angel water. I wake up. One light left on, back in New York. Yellow glowing floor lamp, so at least there’s nothing shining overhead. Last night, I was walking through the winter snow sliding on ice and filled with energy and adoration and also two illicit drinks. Listening to music and wind and stopping for gum and diet coke and then washing up in a restaurant that was bustling and warm and dimly lit. Telling my friends not to wait outside. For a while, I wanted to show others the places that had always been mine. It had never been like that before. It had always been more of a self protective sort of thing. Back to letting myself be dragged to kind of nice places to which I have no attachment, now. Talking about myself like I am playing SIMS at dinner. Ordering one diet coke and one piece of fish. Dinner passing kind of assembly line cool. Chill and smooth. In the snow and the ice, everything is seamless and then I’m in a car home so that I do not slip. Things could be quiet and end early but I still just can’t stay put. I become more full of energy, later on. I have become very sick of interiority. I went to a small Italian cafe to pass the later night because when I don’t, I always wish I did. It was a snowy and beautiful night. The cafe was made for families and locals and tour groups and dark and lovely. My new friends were talking about things like art-of-business, so it felt kind of far from myself but I could bear it for some hours. A beautiful life. Trying to be more tender and less neurotic. This does not have to mean everything. A person can just be cautious and nice-for-now. Walked home in the snow. Woke up warm. Still can’t stay away from places that have always been mine. Yellow light emanates from the yellow lamp. Nothing fluorescent. A million things to write over a million times. A million things to consider. A million topics on which the thing to do now is to wait and see. Waiting and seeing. Text about finding a DJ for a party in San Francisco. Email about a party at The Mount Washington Hotel. All these very random things that feel so close to being in reach. Kind of want to go. Kind of want to languish in old and beautiful rooms at the Mount Washington Hotel and in the majestic magic pool and imagine that money flows like water by which I mean spend money like it is water. Opening the window, now. Letting it be morning, now. Have to be clear, now. Sober minded and clear. Time passes like water, too, so that is something else to be wary of. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, January 27 From 8pm at The River — Theme Trivia returns with Medieval Trivia.

Inline links: The River, Theme Trivia

Superba1 mentions across 1 issues

Superba is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 08, 2026 and January 08, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Emilia brings everyone rounds of cheesecake and superba beers". It most often appears alongside Abigail Ogilvy Gallery, Abraham Lincoln, Addie.

Article page: Superba
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 08, 2026
Last seen: January 08, 2026
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Lost Week January 08, 2026

Abigail Ogilvy Gallery 1 shared issues
Abraham Lincoln 1 shared issues
Addie 1 shared issues
Adrienne Greenblatt 1 shared issues
Adrienne Hunter 1 shared issues

Source context

January 08, 2026 · Original source

REDACTED resolutions for the benefit of oneself and others Friday, December 26 I woke up to it like a snow globe outside. The type of storm that is hard to describe unless you are me, waking up surrounded on all sides by everything soft and quiet and shimmering in a room that has always been yours. Everything coated white and sweet and branches out my window still heavy from the fresh cover of the storm. Looking at the snow through the sheen of sheer white curtains in my window. Looking at dried wild flowers rising out of fields and the pine forest past the farm shivering kind of silver and the green of the shed and the barn creating pops of color against all that bright white. And all of this is just to say that I slept peacefully through the night and waking up this morning I do feel like I can access this place and this holiday and a sense of rootedness in myself, physical form, physical home, in a way that in the past few months I have not felt capable of understanding. Last year I spent every morning at home writing: cold crisp clear morning and everything it is better than I possibly could have imagined. Last year, I took the train back to a glass apartment in the sky and floated in infinite life for a few more weeks, and then I began to scream. Laundry and writing in my google docs diary at the soapstone counter this morning. I can’t tell if the storm is silent, or if it sounds like ice and little bells. Amelia called last night to tell a different version of the usual story. I am getting so creeped out again, Amelia said. My room here is pale and quiet and blue. it is the only bedroom above which there is no attic, so I can really hear the wind. I’m not creeped out, I told Amelia. Everything about your story just feels kind of distant and strange. Driving to get coffee in the old town center and I’m not hitting anyone’s bumper as I wheel around into Cumberland Farms. Toes cold in my Bean Boots. Extremities always cold from Raynod’s Disease and avoidance of contact with rough fabrics like “wool” out of delusional distaste for “overstimulation.” The town is kind of story book snowy, too, though less so than in the fields by the house, where everything is encased and total and like a picture and a dream and one scene all at once. The scene is less all encompassing here, by noon, in town, where the heaviest parts of the snow have already started to drip down and melt. It is strange to be alone here. Wind moving quickly outside my car and I did imagine something else. I’ve imagined everything a million times over, and so I guess it’s hard to pinpoint any one scenario. Things change very quickly. It used to take my breath away and now it doesn’t. I watch a woman running in place in a phone booth like a treadmill. I watch a young dad placing pennies on the train track with his kids where the commuter rail comes through. Sitting in my car watching the trains and mostly just holding my hands up to the heat. Everything is covered in a blanket of snow. In the car, I have; almond milk latte with peppermint and sugar free vanilla, vitamin D3, vitamin C, Inositol, fish oil, black seed oil. Taking it all in big huge gulps. Taking it all and then stuffing the wrappings in my bag and resuming watching everything around me. Later, I am reading Alain de Botton Architecture of Happiness in blue hour dusk and I am in the passenger seat driving on the highway when I look up to find: it is dark. Crescent moon. The George Washington Bridge looks so beautiful, my aunt says. I’ve never seen it glow like that. It’s never been this dark, this early, on this drive, before. There’s never been a drive that was as fast and smooth and calm, as this one. Back in New York City, it smells like caution to the wind and the mania of a week that exists in a void. Rushed back from dusty fields and Winter Break to find that no one else is here. You can tell that no one else is here, because the sidewalks on the Upper West Side are piled high with snow banks, no foot prints, yellow glow from the townhouses I pass in a yellow taxi cab on my way downtown, but perhaps the lights are simulated or at the very least on a timer, because there are no shadowy figures or even moving silhouettes visible past the windows. Central Park is pitch black, covered in snow that I can’t see but it makes the outlines of things kind of rough and cartoonish. It’s not that I actually believe nothing to be real. I’m just watching the shape of things kind of morph all around me. On the last night of the Lost Week of the Year, I walk to Dr Clark for the sake of fresh air and doing the things I say I will. My apartment was quiet and clean, because I left it quiet and clean. I returned to everything totally unchanged. The quiet part was shocking, and then it was ok. The city was kind of like a winter wonderland, too, except for the snow that had already turned kind of black. On the Houston Street median strip, I was stranded amidst blurry traffic with a man in a blanket, rocking back and forth and drinking whisky from the bottle. HEY, he said. Hey, I responded. He seemed surprised, and I became immediately afraid. Whatever. Everything was normal. Cannot become cynical. Dr Clark’s is quiet, my friends texted, on my walk. I’m sorry we lied and said that Dr. Clark’s was lively, my friends said, when I arrived. You didn’t say it was lively, you said it was quiet, I responded. The bar was full of dried flowers and almost no people. Emilia brings everyone rounds of cheesecake and superba beers. Dried flowers everywhere I turn, these days. Dried flowers everywhere for those with eyes to see. Here are the things that are making me feel suspicious, I told my friends.. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, January 8 From 12:15pm and 4:15pm at Film Forum — Last chance to see Peter Hujar’s Day - “The best film in Sundance is just two people talking.” - Vulture. | Tickets here

Inline links: Film Forum, here

Supreme1 mentions across 1 issues

Supreme is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 17, 2025 and March 17, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Teams from Supreme, Bar Oliver, FeedMe, Perfectly Imperfect, Throwing Fits". It most often appears alongside 8 St. Marks, 99 Canal, Aashish Gadani.

Article page: Supreme
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 17, 2025
Last seen: March 17, 2025

Issue trail

Here, There, Everywhere March 17, 2025

8 St. Marks 1 shared issues
99 Canal 1 shared issues
Aashish Gadani 1 shared issues
Ace Hotel New York 1 shared issues
Aiden Arata 1 shared issues

Source context

March 17, 2025 · Original source

From 8pm at The Gutter LES — Zora & Nolita Dirtbag are hosting a bowling tournament. Teams from Supreme, Bar Oliver, FeedMe, Perfectly Imperfect, Throwing Fits, and more. Must download the Zora app and show profile for entry.

Inline links: Zora, Nolita Dirtbag

Svedka1 mentions across 1 issues

Svedka is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 27, 2025 and February 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "they bought raspberry lemon Svedka". It most often appears alongside Aesop's Fables, AGI, AI Grifts.

Article page: Svedka
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 27, 2025
Last seen: February 27, 2025

Issue trail

Your Favorite Grifters Favorite Grifter February 27, 2025

Aesop's Fables 1 shared issues
AGI 1 shared issues
AI Grifts 1 shared issues
Allison 1 shared issues
Ancient Legends of Ireland: Music Charms & Superstitions of Ireland with Sketches of the Irish Past 1 shared issues

Source context

February 27, 2025 · Original source

Sunday, February 23 "Whenever I see a guy in a Yankees cap I assume it's a cop," David said, of the clearly undercover officer observing the turnstiles at the Bleecker St station.” At the bar, I was playing journalist. They were celebrating an AI software that marketed itself as undetectable as AI, good for cheating in school, or in screenwriting, code, whatever you want, and it was clear they thought more people would be at the party, they bought raspberry lemon Svedka, I was fighting these Florida tech guys for proximity to the only small space heater in the room. "Do you have any moral qualms about what you do?," Allison asked one of the founders; and he said "no, we're building a tool. you can use a hammer to build a house or to kill someone." Then Alison said something like yes but you aren't building artificial intelligence you are building explicitly undetectable artificial intelligence with the express purpose of cheating and then the founders started talking about the overton window and you're in or you're out and they called my boyfriend over to tell him that he needs to work specifically and only in web app development if he wants to survive the AGI and ASI apocalypse. David was all ehh about it, humoring them a bit but then like oh excuse me I'm going to get a drink and never came back, and then the founder said to me, I like him he's disagreeable and not effeminate unlike most of these N-Y-C guys man, but he needs to listen to me about being a web developer because of the overton window and AGI and ASI coming fast. Then I said why do you work in this industry if you think AI development will only have bad implications and the founder said because it's an arms race and you don't want to land on the wrong side of the glass wall. I didn't ask but thought of this later - do you really think AI will respect its creator? Or, does working on an anti academic artificial intelligence cheating software save you from apocalyptic doom? Later, the founders were telling everyone that the next step of their plan is a pivot to building a game connected to some NFT about mentally ill women called SSRI-wives. Later, a few people kept telling me you should talk to the Gen-Z kid, there's a Gen Z kid here and this program does all his homework, and I didn't meet this kid until late in the night when the founder called him over and said "do you know what Urbit is," and the kid said yes, and the founder sighed and said "he's very online." And then they brought in some girls from Miami off the street because they needed more heads, and then these girls on the street were talking about being from Miami and so the founders said want some free drinks and they pulled them into the room, and then the girls were talking to me about Dinner At Kikis and Quitting Her Server Job Even Though She Loves All The Friends She Made. Then, David sent me the company's TrustPilot reviews and it was all things like “TOTAL SCAM” and “took $6000 from my bank account” and he said this is clearly a total grift even from my preliminary research. Then, there was dinner at Forgetmenot, and there was never returning to the Strange Grift Party, and I was going to write a story. I was going to tell you about grifts and technology, but then, well, I am not sure if there is too much left to add. And I’m not sure if I like to think about these things, although the doomerism fades when you quickly find that the cartoonishly evil project was just a hologram all along. Monday, February 24 When I was eighteen years old, I lived in a hostel in Prague by myself in the springtime, and I was so lonely. I would walk to the park everyday and I would lie in the april grass and I would close my eyes and imagine that when I opened them, I would be surrounded by company. I would imagine that I would laugh and grab someone's hand and we would twirl down the streets towards the old town that reminded me of a fantasy land, a true fantasy land because everything there was all made up. McDonalds were housed in historic old buildings and I didn’t understand why the others I worked with would go on runs every morning just to drink more beer on their returns. Prague was a hologram to me too. I liked the people I met and I liked that they were never going to grow up. I had no friends there. Eventually, I did, but in April I was always alone. These days, I am never alone. I was so sleepy yesterday and not in a nice way. I would like to avoid these things. I will drink green tea on the terrace this morning. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO After reading Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu 1872 novella Carmilla for my Irish Lit class last week, I’ve been feeling big on fairytales and magic. My sister Sylvie is the most magical girl in the world, as well as the most well read. She has offered her list of recommended fairy tales for this letter: Fairy Tales (by Sylvie Pingeon) I try to read a section of Lady Jane Francesca Wilde’s Ancient Legends of Ireland: Music Charms & Superstitions of Ireland with Sketches of the Irish Past every night before I go to bed. It’s a truly magic book that brings fairytales into daily life with spells, remedies, and little bits of fairy advice: “People ought to remember that egg-shells are favorite retreats of the fairies, therefore the judicious eater should always break the shell after use, to prevent the fairy sprite from taking up his lodging therein.” A fairytale self-help book, and I love it. As a child, my favorite book was House Above the Trees by Ethel Cooke Eliot. Everything by Eliot is so special: she writes of wind creatures who look like the wind feels and tree girls who wear skirts made from the leaves of their trees (green in the summer, red in the fall), and the humans who can see these forest people have the clearest eyes around. All her books are like this, but House Above The Trees is my favorite: an eight year old orphan follows a Wind Creature into the forest and is taken in by Tree Mother, who lives in the treetops. A wonderful, fairy adventure ensues. Brothers Grimm is also always great, although Bluebeard gave me nightmares as a child that still sometimes come back. My mom gave me a beautiful copy of Aesop’s Fables for Christmas this year. It’s beautiful but I haven’t read it yet. A lot of second-wave feminists wrote retellings of fairy tales, and I’m a little embarrassed to say this, but I found Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber to be a truly beautiful read. On the topic of AI Grifts, Gabriel Hollis (of Margin for Thought and Microculture) recommends the following articles on Technology and God and Our End Times. All ideas that fall under near debilitatingly large banners, and all topics which Gabriel explores well. To be honest, I need to dive into these pieces with more intensity before I offer any original thoughts, but I will leave you with the links: Seeking God, or Peter Thiel, in Silicon Valley by Emma Goldberg, for NYT

Swans1 mentions across 1 issues

Swans is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 04, 2026 and February 04, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Sofia Swanson hosts a pop up of Swans, transforming the space into a Greek Taverna". It most often appears alongside 1LDK, @henrymunsonsinstagram, Alessandro Keegan.

Article page: Swans
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 04, 2026
Last seen: February 04, 2026
Instagram handle: @swans.nyc

Outbound links

Issue trail

Hotel-Life-For-Life February 04, 2026

1LDK 1 shared issues
@henrymunsonsinstagram 1 shared issues
Alessandro Keegan 1 shared issues
Alison Kudlow 1 shared issues
Amazon 1 shared issues

Source context

Hotel-Life-For-Life

February 04, 2026 · Original source

From 4pm - late at Casetta — Sofia Swanson hosts a pop up of Swans, transforming the space into a Greek Taverna with dishes like chicories with sticky walnuts, scallop rice, and tart train.

Inline links: Casetta, Swans

Takis1 mentions across 1 issues

Takis is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between August 23, 2024 and August 23, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "I walk through the hills towards town to get things like guacamole takis and shelf-stable milk". It most often appears alongside $Egirl, Adeline Swartzendruber, Annabel Boardman.

Article page: Takis
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: August 23, 2024
Last seen: August 23, 2024

Outbound links

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #8 August 23, 2024

$Egirl 1 shared issues
Adeline Swartzendruber 1 shared issues
Annabel Boardman 1 shared issues
Auntie Anne's 1 shared issues
Beckett Rosset 1 shared issues

Source context

August 23, 2024 · Original source

For lunch, I walk through the hills towards town to get things like guacamole takis and shelf-stable milk. Later, I’m trying to work by the pool but the heat keeps lulling me into complacency. Half asleep. Back on the terrace, people keep drifting in and out and so I keep saying hi. Nobody I know, but everyone is friendly. Afternoon, my boyfriend texts me. We’re moving to a hotel because the house is getting too full. I liked the airbnb, but I feel calmer at Il Buongustaio. Small, sweet, a big back garden with sprawling marble arches and a classical aesthetic. On the phone with my mom in the dark in the garden, I swear I see a jaguarundi, a long and narrow native wild cat. I’m in the grass, looking through the glass towards the inside, everyone seated on the couch. I start screaming and then the cat is gone. Maybe I was hallucinating.

Inline links: guacamole takis, shelf-stable milk, Il Buongustaio, jaguarundi

Talbot1 mentions across 1 issues

Talbot is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between July 06, 2025 and July 06, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "red Talbot sweater". It most often appears alongside After Hours, Annabel Boardman, Cassidy Grady.

Article page: Talbot
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: July 06, 2025
Last seen: July 06, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Bad Luck Spot July 06, 2025

After Hours 1 shared issues
Annabel Boardman 1 shared issues
Cassidy Grady 1 shared issues
Confessions 1 shared issues
Eyes Wide Shut 1 shared issues

Source context

Bad Luck Spot

July 06, 2025 · Original source

Sunday, July 6 Summer storm of the nicest kind outside, and I think I’ll leave the lights off. I don't have so much to say about the time back in New York. I came back to the ocean because, of course, this is the sort of place where summer storms are nicer. And I have spent a while, so long really, quivering in this assurance that it would be ok; cling onto this one thing so tightly and then it will be ok, for the sake of this, to lose everything else. Well, there was a two-year-life and now there is everything else. It is not so much that I value peace. I value many, though not all, things before peace. It is not so much that I am gracious or really even care to be. I am being opaque. I was a guest there, for a lot of it. My old life, I mean. And it is not so much that I was too gentle for things like wild dogs and self surveillance. It is just, there were things that were mine first too. Summer storms and lace curtains on the edge of the bed. I did not always view things as possessed in this way though, I realize, now - it's been a few months, at least, of starting to think in terms of what belongs to me. "It is funny when you two talk about raising children on gray rocky shores, because you sure have no problem creating rocky shores," Rose told me in Miami. We'd been up all night,. Poured the liquor from the mini fridge down the drain and stood barefoot in the hotel hallway with a coconut juice, short quick breath. A baseball team had marched down the corridor at sunrise, and it was strange, even then, to watch myself become so shameless. My father video called me from New York, after. His hands made a downhill slope, steep then level, then steep and dropping and; “at a certain point you will not be able to stay,” he had told me. “At a certain point he will deem you problem no matter how determined you are to remain some sort of martyr.” At the end of the world there is a warplane over the graduation and a psychic in Rhode Island and he is screaming about cocks and his mother at a wedding in Michigan and he is screaming because I am opening my own doors at the hotel in South Beach and he is screaming at me in the apartment, later, it did all blur together. He was taking the art. He was taking his ShitCoin passkeys. He was taking his copy of Generative Energy and I was taking cigarettes, a sweater. I was trying not to be so voyeuristic about it. He was trying to use fewer slurs on the phone. I was doing front flips on the bed at the Holiday Inn and yelling: I can’t wait for our dry wedding, dry wedding, dry wedding. And he was saying that he drinks with the intention to forget and so it wouldn't come to all of that. Bad habits, strip mall parking lot and Rose was saying my denial was as deep as his was though, there had always been this thing of performance art. I want to party beautifully until we die, he used to tell me. I want to live like Match Point (2005), After Hours (1985), Eyes Wide Shut (1999). Later, we were walking up spring green hills and he was saying it would be easier, all of it, getting better, getting kinder, getting sober, getting bored, getting pregnant, if I stayed for a while. He wore gym shorts to the airport and returned in a rage. Later, on the floor, tuck my knees close to my chest by the open window and say I love you but my life is so much better when you are not in it and then he'd said how could you. Lie on the floor and he would say I orbit you. Summer storm and I'm texting him like I'm sorry. Because there were many letters and they kept on getting worse. Summer storm in early July and I was texting him even now like, I orbited you too. Iris came over in the afternoon in Miami. I picked her up in the lobby. I dove for his lost coral in the pool downstairs. The skin on my chest burned easily. I lay on the deck of the pool on the roof with a bloody mary that he bought me and that South Beach vibe, sunglasses, beady eyes. Ok intense girl, he said. How are you doing, Iris said. I didn't like the way he was holding you at dinner after everything he did, Iris said. In Rhode Island, last summer, we'd still been talking about things like soulmates last summer and we'd been driving in the rain. There had been a quaker church house, red Talbot sweater, a copper pot that we'd hang in New York but not till later and a little old lady. “You were a soldier wounded in the war in a past life,” the little old lady had told him. She had grabbed my shoulders, all shivering. “And it is a beautiful journey for you and him,” she had told me. “If you are ever pulled apart it will be a difficult and dark journey, but it is a beautiful journey for you and him.” “And so you cannot leave him,” Iris said in Miami. We liked hotels because of anonymity and aesthetic cohesion. He liked me because of blue eyes and devotion. He liked Miami because everyone was packing heat and I liked symbolism, numerology, gnosticism. “I like when things are fun,” I wrote him. “I like when things are fun and sweet.” And I showed up late to some basement apartment back in New York. The funny thing is, I had begged him not to go to that final party. I had begged him not to beg me to come. “My wife should think it's hot if I fight someone at a party,” he said later. “I want to get sober and treat you with the affection you deserve,” he had said, first, a few weeks before all of that. Once, we lived in a glass apartment in the sky. Central air conditioning but the greenhouse roof still made things boil and we'd call it the Boat House like some sort of joke, because floors slanted and careened and because of course, it was the only house. But so quickly, I am taken in as if I’m some sort of orphan. So quickly there are other houses. "He called and sounds like a horror movie, so you should get the fuck out of the apartment," Rose said in the aftermath. And it was Isabel who screamed first and so I did snap then. He is not a horror movie, just a shark or an orca whale or mostly a boy who is not here. Get out if you want to act scared. And so we did take some things and get out. And I did drive down the coastline because I still just could not stay put. It had always been a thing of kind of here, there, everywhere with us. High spring humid heat and there'd been no crocodiles in the river, no liquor at the hacker house, just warm beer and tall trees and broken glass and, “I'm looking forward to being very sweet to each other.” he had said. In the end, it wasn't me who lost my mind. So you were speaking as you two in one when you said you had the real sort of breakdown, the other party goers said, at that last party. I nodded. The party goers patted my shoulders. The party goers wanted no part. The texts were warm and made me ill. They took him out. They took me home. Blue paisley sheets at the home where I grew up and I remind him, for the first time, of the parts of it that were first all mine. Pull the blinds shut tight. Thunder and acid rain. He never bought into ideas of living forever in quite the way his friends did and, “your ideas of eternity become quite juvenile,” he says. Staring at cinched shut cream white shades and, “I’m looking at the ocean right now,” I say. “Don't you want to look at that ocean again?” The rot hits all at once. It smells like sickness and cruelty I did not know could be true. Lying on the bathroom floor - not my bathroom, I have been taken in like I am some sort of orphan, though I feel strangely less orphaned than ever before. I said I will not leave the party with him and so he said he will not ever come home again. There was discretion and bringing in reinforcement and he’d call first, before anyone else, stilted voice, some sort of laugh, he would like to be the one to break the latest news. He would like to be the one to make me guess. “Everyone heard you say that when she was your age you were nine,” he tells me on the phone, later. “That is because when she was my age, I was nine," I tell him on the phone, too. I talk a lot about decadence and gluttony and our no-beliefs-but-pleasure dumb lives but; for me it has not always been rotten. For me it was the opposite or; I could always see all the rot just drifting around in piles of money and provocation and drugs and alcohol and I do think there were the years of just floating, I've been floating alongside all of this rot and shock of all shocks it got sick. For me it has not always been rotten, though. It is very important that I make that clear. I did feel I could float around it. I have always been arrogant in a way. I did sit on the floor by an open window and I did lie in the rain in the night on the terrace. I remember laughing very quietly on the terrace. I remember trying to laugh as quietly as we could. At the end of the world I am working on ontology. Because you always did like to ontologize things, he is laughing on the phone. Because I think six hours in the future and you think in terms of forever, he is saying on the phone. The end of the world is something like an extinction event, abandon your whole entire life, chinook fighter plane carrier streaking over the graduation and, after the quaker church burned down I decided to get out of town. There were other things too. I threw up lobster and vodka after dinner. The dog bit the neighbor. He called because I asked him to and also to say; he missed the dog, and my family, and a little bit me. Psychosis felt like dancing, he tells me on the phone. And you felt like tells me what to do and she feels like take it to the internet, he never had a problem, kicked out of the bar, and then it’s have another baby while there's still precious time. Once, it all felt like lie on a Japanese floor mattress, white arched doorway and we wanted to remember it here and, “I wish I could start it all over before you,” he said. You wake up in the middle of the night in a hotel in the midwest to the sense that you are on the seven hundredth floor and there is no air left. You wake up. But you were already awake then, weren't you? You go to the bathroom, a normal bathroom, normal for a hotel like this. Small, compact, gray, windowless. You close the door, press your back hard against its now steady frame. You imagine that if you opened it again, you would be met with another bathroom just like this. You imagine a million identical bathrooms extending beyond every wall. In the car the next day, you tell him that it’s opposite day. On opposite day, you ask him if he loves you over and over again. You revel in hearing him say no. The charade is comforting. He’s driving recklessly. You drive for hours. The land is flat, his hand is on your thigh, he’s saying things he doesn’t mean and then he’s smirking because you're both in on the joke. He tells you to take her feet off the dash. In case there’s a wreck, he says. You tell him that opposite day is over. “Do you love me?” you ask. “Yes,” he says. “Is it opposite day,” you ask? “No,” he says. “But if it was you’d never know because no means yes and yes means no and…” He finishes explaining the word play. He explains it well. You get it. “Do you get it,” he asks. “Yes,” you say. You don't like these new rules. You are driving too fast, through a field of sunflowers. You think about how you could ask if the sky is blue and if he said yes then she could know that today was a day for telling the truth. You think about what you left behind. “I did not mean to leave those drawings behind at the apartment,” I am saying. The cartoons that he made me and I de-magnetized the fridge on accident and could the drawings be for me, and, “that's ok,” he says. Storm out of another party. He threw cash at me at dinner. Tip over his chair and say the issue is perhaps he never cared and so, it becomes good I was an archivist all along. It is good that nothing bad has ever really happened. He and I walked to the park. The fountain was spraying droplets mixed with rain. The air was sheened rainbow. The bench was covered in packets of ketchup that he was pushing off and down to the ground. He cleared me a seat. We were sitting not in silence, but in conversation that I did not recall even as it happened. “He keeps on taking really somber videos of me like he's already eulogizing me as his Dead Wife," I told Rose on the phone. "Do you know how we could make this even worse?" I asked him. Walk to a circle of wet chalk on the wet pavement. Bad Luck Spot, the writing on the ground says. Plant my feet firmly in the middle, and I wait for the curse to hit. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Sunday, July 6 From 7pm at KGB Bar — I will be reading at Confessions along with Mara Stoner, Sarah Fradkin, John Padula, Cassidy Grady, Annabel Boardman, and more.

Inline links: Confessions

Talbots1 mentions across 1 issues

Talbots is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 08, 2026 and January 08, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "a cardigan from Talbots like the ones we usually find at the Quaker church sale". It most often appears alongside Abigail Ogilvy Gallery, Abraham Lincoln, Addie.

Article page: Talbots
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 08, 2026
Last seen: January 08, 2026
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Lost Week January 08, 2026

Abigail Ogilvy Gallery 1 shared issues
Abraham Lincoln 1 shared issues
Addie 1 shared issues
Adrienne Greenblatt 1 shared issues
Adrienne Hunter 1 shared issues

Source context

January 08, 2026 · Original source

My sister gves me a cardigan from Talbots like the ones we usually find at the Quaker church sale but she found this one at the vintage store in Concord, MA instead.

Tankair1 mentions across 1 issues

Tankair is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 06, 2026 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "wear a Tankair black tank top". It most often appears alongside A Place in the Sun, Ali RQ, Angelica.

Article page: Tankair
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 06, 2026
Last seen: March 06, 2026
Instagram handle: @nkrchtr

Outbound links

Issue trail

Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

A Place in the Sun 1 shared issues
Ali RQ 1 shared issues
Angelica 1 shared issues
Angelmoon 1 shared issues
Banana Republic 1 shared issues

Source context

March 06, 2026 · Original source

Tonight – from 10pm at Night Club 101 — NK is throwing a rager. Hosted by Blizzy McGuire and Jacob Ace. Sounds by DJ Thank You, Ali RQ, Bruno Zero, DJ Kellen, and Sank. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Just show up.

Inline links: Night Club 101, NK, Blizzy McGuire, Jacob Ace, DJ Thank You, Ali RQ, Bruno Zero, DJ Kellen, Sank

I am not a robot. In the morning, I want to get sunlight in my eyes and I want to wear a Tankair black tank top and Rag and Bone green cargo pants and Petrucci ballet flats and big wired headphones. In the night, I want goat milk elixirs and Angelmoon dresses and answers and ideas to float through my phone. When it is nighttime, I love to play on my phone. It is night and the window is open and I am feeling quite happy with myself, though believe it-or-not I do have a tendency to let things ebb and flow. White noise meditation outside my window, but it’s just listening to the turtle pond churn day old water right below me in the courtyard, and listening to day-four-snow melt in big fast drops off the roof. Snow melts fast and then it’s no-longer-magic-outside. I am not totally ready for spring to begin. I am not totally ready to be old or even bored or to go to sleep most nights before the sun is high in the sky. This is why I leave the windows open. This is why I put on black silk eye mask. This is why I live in New York City, totally out of sync with nature, totally in sync with the dictations of my whims. I am lying with the lights off and I am totally ready for Pi (1998) to begin on my computer. My least favorite thing about myself is my tendency to let things ebb and flow. My favorite thing about myself is my ability to notice patterns and symbols and other sorts of interesting and mysterious and astral or perhaps just normal projections in everything everywhere and particularly in real life. While I wait for Pi (1998) to begin, my computer is flashing words and sounds and symbols about Cyriossis took my wings and winter drab and summer glam and being honest with your clients about the effects of their lifestyle. When Pi (1988) begins, a series of patterns and symbols and pumping rock music and black and white imagery will flash across my computer screen. When I was a little kid, my mother told me not to stare into the sun, so once when I was six I did, Sean Gullete will say. One-eight-one-eight-one-eight, he will say. He will walk past a tai chi class in the park and solve math problems with a small child in his building. If you graph the numbers of any system, patterns emerge, he will say. He will talk about the stock market and the universe of numbers and he will live-blog-his-day. 11:52; personal note, he will say. 11:52: Not a pattern In the mornings, I like to live-blog-my-days, but it’s not so much the numerological sort of thing. I like to go on vacation. I like to give up vice. I am feeling totally thrilled about the trajectory of things. Failed treatments to date, they are saying in Pi (1998): beta blockers, calcium channel blockers, adrenaline injections, high doses of ibuprofen, steroids, trager mentastics, violent exercise, caffeine, acupuncture, marijuana, percodan, midrin, tenormin, sansert, and homeopathics. Failed treatments to date: rock climbing, chess, caution-to-the-wind, throwing everything out again-and-again-and-again. Numerology. Event calendar. 2016. IFC screening. Total isolation. Total consumption. Total sweetness policy. I’m not really treating anything. Moreso, I am just writing it all down.

Temu1 mentions across 1 issues

Temu is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between May 27, 2025 and May 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "they're not the temu kind that's weird and freaky". It most often appears alongside 327 Bowery, Abby Lloyd, absurdism.

Article page: Temu
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: May 27, 2025
Last seen: May 27, 2025

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

generative and godly secrets May 27, 2025

327 Bowery 1 shared issues
Abby Lloyd 1 shared issues
absurdism 1 shared issues
Adidas 1 shared issues
Allie Rowbottom 1 shared issues

Source context

May 27, 2025 · Original source

Thursday, May 22 May is quivering right before me; I'm not letting it lapse like April did but there are still smokescreens, silkscreens, my fingers are sleeping right through it. The Club, last night. The Play then The Club. It was smokey and sweet. My lungs felt coated in something sour by the end. The smoking patio was wet with dew and I was kind of floating, not in a bad way. Not hungover, it's something way more visceral but still hazy. I could feel it all start to slip, and so I held onto myself quite tightly. My boyfriend's screen time is 102 hours a day across devices. My face is encased in sheaths of plastic that keep you young, but they're not the temu kind that's weird and freaky. The light I use is Science Backed. I'm thinking of getting into vintage workout wear. I'm thinking of getting into Vlogging. I'm thinking of getting into filling out paid surveys online for luxury perfume sellers that require you to swear your spending habits are High and you like perfume from MiuMiu and you Hate Balenciaga and what perfume means to me is; I think sometimes scents can bring up... nostalgia? I say. Do you own a Prada dress? they ask. We leave the party early - I'm sick and he buys me chicken caesar salad pizza. Aren't you glad we left early so we could dance a little at home, he says. In the living room, the windows are all a little frosted from the rain. There are lights in the neighbors windows across the courtyard but it's thursday night, the rain has stopped. You couldn't have expected everyone to just stay home, really. I notice the people in the windows if he is spinning me across the room. Exhibitionism. I catch myself in the peripheries. The windows. The back of my mind. And I never shut the blinds but that is just no Executive Function or Detail Orientation. I am not some sort of voyeur. Friday, May 23 10:45am, and they are playing some kind of staticy electric classical mashup of music from the Fedex truck outside. "Even as a grad student, I felt they were looking down on chaos," one young man at the Yemeni coffee shop is telling another. Buying: coffee and chicken quiche but none of that is for me. Buying: peanut butter perfect bar and celsius and my boyfriend's screen time is up to 316 hours since midnight since he's doing things indiscernible to me but which he clarifies are Not Fraudulent. I am trying not to write so much in the google doc diaries. It is like I have learned these diaries as a trick, and now I am addicted to it. Now, I can’t do anything else. I must release all thoughts, but to release one thought I must go through, again and again, everything else. And so I go through it all, again and again and again. The thought, and then everything else. We were going to talk more about Spirituality today, but the tripwire keeps happening - stuck on: Vanity and Careerism. I make subheadings to keep myself in check. VANITY. CAREERISM. CAREERISM: Here is where I am: I have the substack for now which is nice this is something that I suppose in some ways is a defining thing I have done but it does not feel like so much it does not feel like it culminates to anything just proof of existence, yes, but everyone has some sort of proof of existence and it is nice to write the story behind something. The story itself cannot just be the story of writing about yourself. And for a minute I was very very very sad and so that plotline became dependable, but that is no sort of thing to rely on. And this is why it cannot all just be the writing of the self. It hasn’t been. [redacted] felt like something different, investigation, beginning middle end, it was not just here I am, it was like a puzzle it was like being very precise with it and it was the biggest thing I have done so far and I sat with it for such a long time. And perhaps I am being dramatic because there are other projects I could start in the meantime but I can’t sit down and make myself think oh what would be an interesting and pithy thing to talk about for somewhere glossy, I cannot do it. I think about doing it and my stomach rises into my throat with how little I care. And so it has to be a story that bursts out of me. There was one, and I can tell there is almost something else too but it’s like David said yes, it’s difficult while you are in the waiting room. Since beginning writing this, my fever got higher, and we are hanging the Bacchus masks around the apartment plus yellow golden softlight and, now I feel more peaceful about it. I wasn’t having so much humility. Nevermind. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, May 27 From 6pm (show at 7pm) at Baby’s All Right — Baby’s Presents a benefit concert for the Immigrant Defense Project with Palehound, The Ophelias, and Grumpy. Dj set by WeTakeManhattan. - “All proceeds from the show will go towards supporting the IDP’s 20+ year mission of fighting for the rights of immigrants targeted for imprisonment and mass deportation via advocacy, litigation, legal advice and training, community defense, grassroots alliances, and strategic communications.” | GA (18+) $38.86, Ticket and Bonus Donation $49.69

Tesco1 mentions across 1 issues

Tesco is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between July 29, 2025 and July 29, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "every variation of tesco mini croissants". It most often appears alongside A Night of Sermons, Abigail Mlinar, age of individualism.

Article page: Tesco
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: July 29, 2025
Last seen: July 29, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

Walking Poems July 29, 2025

A Night of Sermons 1 shared issues
Abigail Mlinar 1 shared issues
age of individualism 1 shared issues
ARDOR 1 shared issues
BANK NYC 1 shared issues

Source context

Walking Poems

July 29, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Saturday, July 26 Sitting in a polo themed hotel bar abreast a ceramic bowl piled high with every variation of tesco mini croissants. The Lygon Arms Inn features long corridors and stone walls that give way to glass. Dark oak furniture and a courtyard and some heavy wood doors that open into quite modern and empty conference rooms. My father reads me stories from the guidebook. In 1380, a shepherd built a house that still stands. Next time, we will go to the part of England where all the Thomas Hardy stories took place. On my last day in the moors and the marshes, I walk ten miles and then run the last six as fast as I can. Make some calls. Clear my conscience. I cannot imagine, while I sprint for no reason, ever doing anything to betray my body or spirit again. I pause on the stump of a fallen beach tree to write this part down: PURITY OF BODY AND SPIRIT. Arrive at the hotel where we began a few days ago and they give me a key. Ahead of the pack, they laugh. I have to make a call, I say. In the Internet Room, I am soft spoken and nearly cautious. In the courtyard, I am wearing dirty clothes and making eye contact with strangers. The people here seem less grim than I’m accustomed to, which I suppose is to be expected from days of discipline and contentment. Robust outdoor strolls and ancient sights of worship. I will not destroy myself with sins like sloth anymore. It is very difficult to find anyone with a soul anymore, everyone was lamenting, underneath the Broadway Tower, built in 1759 and my father kept reminding me that it wasn’t that old, it really wasn’t so old in the comparative scheme of things. I know plenty of people with souls who still become incredibly didactic, my father was saying. Or something of that sort. Paraphrased a bit. The sentiment reminded me to be more gentle about it, anyways. I was being a bit contrarian for the sake of it, but trying to temper my will. Let me tell you about the age of individualism in the 80s as a reaction to the collective spirit of the 70s, my father was saying. Let me tell you about a return to tradition, I was declaring, walking too quickly, no one wanted to keep up. I wrote lots while I walked. I marched through windy fields and scribbled memories and sacraments into my phone. I was not uninterested in the view and the mist, but this is the only way in which I can really write anything at all; walking briskly and taking notes. Walking briskly and making promises. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday July 29 From 6pm - 8pm at BANK NYC — Qingyuan Deng and Lily Kwak present a public program extending the exhibition “To Save and To Destroy” into literary realms. Readings by Matilda Lin Berke, Paige K. Bradley, Fiona Alison Duncan, Sophia Giovannitti, Olivia Kan-Sperling, and Diana SeoHyung.

Inline links: BANK NYC, Qingyuan Deng, Lily Kwak

Tetris1 mentions across 1 issues

Tetris is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 15, 2026 and February 15, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "I was playing tetris in the snow and now we're playing tetris at the wheel". It most often appears alongside Abe Shapiro, Aidan Lapoche, Alan Parker.

Article page: Tetris
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 15, 2026
Last seen: February 15, 2026

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

Yellow-all-around February 15, 2026

Abe Shapiro 1 shared issues
Aidan Lapoche 1 shared issues
Alan Parker 1 shared issues
Allen Parker 1 shared issues
Amazon 1 shared issues

Source context

February 15, 2026 · Original source

Friday, February 6 I am awake and I have been for one hour. All around me, everything is pale and still and one small room and one short hallway and one light left on. One of one. One of everything. Everything is just the same. Yesterday, when I woke up, it was yellow all around. I woke up in the country yesterday, and the first thing that I noticed was all that yellow all around. Pale yellow walls. Soft yellow light. Snow reflecting golden yellow rays off a white carriage house roof, but even that part was turned sort of yellow by the early morning sun. The night before yesterday, I stayed up all night. There wasn’t much to do with all those hours, but I knew that in the morning, I’d be whisked away. Good at leaving when I remember all the things I hate. Good at coming back when I decide to get a hold of myself. I’d decided to let the night in my apartment sort of drift. I watched the sky turn dark, stay like that for a while, and then I watched it turn light again. It always kind of happens this way. In the morning, I’d packed a book bag with a suede black mini skirt, black cotton long sleeve top, toothbrush, snow boots, notebook, Off-The-Farm brand caramel protein bar. I took the B-line to the 1-line and towards the Upper West Side. On the Upper West Side, there were big french windows and snowy streets and tree branches that scratch the side of buildings and in the summer coat the whole place green. Not so much this time of year. Empty whisper benches. Powdered sledding hills in Central Park. From the Upper West Side, Laura drove me to New Jersey. A simple enough drive, but we just could not stay on track. The Hudson River was frozen over. Big white ice blocks that solidified and fractured and split. We were trying to spot a bathhouse somewhere in the suburbs of New Jersey. Is this the place to swim? we kept on asking each other, any time we passed a warehouse, or a sign that said something like Pools and Baths and Plumbing. When we got to the country, it was already dark. The driveway was lined with silver lights. I like to return to places where I have not been for years but which stay exactly the same. We lit a fire and we had salad and salmon and white wine and chocolate truffles. I was so excited to be somewhere where there was so much space. I liked the light and the quiet and the fact that there was more snow here than in the city, and I was pleased by how much I remembered. After dinner, I ran a bath in a big white bathroom. Big clear windows looking out at clear dark skies. I liked how everything felt very old, and very big, and very familiar, and very clean. I did not like how I felt a bit like a bull in a China Shop. Everything I touched returned a little less perfect than how I found it. Soap and towels left slightly off kilter. Clothes left in a pile on the floor. I fell asleep in a big white four poster bed, and I made sure to crease the comforter only slightly. I forgot to say goodnight, but no one really minded. I woke up surrounded by yellow all around. Morning, and when I pulled open yellow sheer curtains I could look out at all those skinny barren trees and lots of ice and a long driveway that stretched on and on and on. Laura came into my room and said good morning, and then she told me that she would show me how to make coffee, downstairs, soon. On the landing, there were three bedrooms, and a long hallway with a window seat lined with stuffed animals and a big window that looked out over big snow. The stuffed animals on the landing were all like little lions and zebras and all kinds of pastel and nice faces, nothing creepy. The wallpaper was all mostly white, with little blue or pink or yellow flowers peppered in between but nothing too suffocating. The snow outside the window was silky and icy and pure white and frozen over. There was a sheen over the snow. I could see, even from here, that the snow had been solidified under a layer of crust. My hair was covered in static. When I brushed my hair, I could see it literally spark. This week, I was documenting everything with compulsion. I went downstairs. Laura was working on a puzzle in the living room, where all the windows were long and clear and let the whole space flood with light. I looked out at perfect snow coated verandas. I learned how to make coffee in a chemex glass. Boiled water. Always becoming a bit bewildered in places that are quiet and beautiful and clear. I wouldn’t be friends with someone with bad aesthetic taste, my old friends used to say. My new friends, of late, had developed somewhat of a taste for conspicuous consumption. Later, Laura drove me to the train station through snowy streets and snowy backroads. We pulled away from the house and down the snowy driveway and then we drove through suburbs where everything was all Blue Mercury Skincare and Sweetgreen and farmhouses reminiscent of Boston, Chicago, Connecticut, suburbs everywhere all the same. Ladies everywhere liking Blue Mercury and Pure Barre. Laura gave me white gloves to keep for good on the train platform towards New York. You are so cold, just take and keep these, she said. Are you sure, I said, but I was already slipping the gloves onto my hands. Back in New York, I sat on a bench in Penn Station while I waited for the 1-train. Knees tucked up to chest and clothed in kind of filthy LuLu Lemon leggings. Drinking Dunkin Donuts almond milk latte with sugar free vanilla and almond and one cool-minty-zyn. Watching strangers and all sorts of scents drift by. It is the coldest winter in history or at least in recent memory, but due to sensory issues and the flattering nature of a-line skirts, all I have been wearing is sheer tights and mini dresses. When I got home, everything was very rushed, which is another thing that always tends to happen. Saturday, February 8 Following Cassandra’s confirmation, we went to a bitcoin themed bar and then to a hotel lobby. We went to a cocktail bar after that, where the drinks were made of things like clarified basil and tasted bad. I have one statement, Sam told the waiter, at the bar. Then, he asked a question. Could I have another drink? This one is very not good. In the evening, we went to Bigelow’s to buy the hair bows just like the Kennedys wore, and after that, we went to a dinner in Soho and then a tech-week-party to end the night. At the tech week party all the girls were cute and unemployed. They all made videos on the Internet and all had long-distance boyfriends. We took photos on a digital camera and smoked cigarettes on the edge of the fire escape while the boys all talked about suicidal ideation. When they ran out of liquor, I took the elevator down without saying goodbye. On the street, in the snow, playing tetris with myself in the footholds that other boots had left behind in melting ice as I tried to claw my way into a cab, I ran into an Internet Curator. He appeared out of nowhere, though my vision was already blurry, so perhaps he had been there all along. I’ve never been somewhere with so many people from TikTok in real life, the man said. Usually, I post all these people online, but tonight there were all here in real life. Made three notes in diary in yellow taxi cab home: Freedom of Indifference vs Freedom for Excellence

Feeling like I am kind of on a leash Sunday, February 8 Now, I am in my room and I am feeling ok. I am lying under my big white comforter in a green cashmere sweater, black Amazon tights, tennis skirt, nothing is messy anymore. After today’s reading group, where the discussion was about Virtue and Vice, Cassandra and Olivia and some others and I walked over to Washington Square Diner. I used to frequent Washington Square Diner at night, but in the day everything was brighter and I liked it better this way. I ordered black coffee and lemon tea and was happy with this choice, as no one seemed particularly pleased with the sandwiches that they kept on trotting out. Dry chicken, huge bread. I’m a snob, I’m a snob, Olivia kept saying. Sorry, she was saying. Sorry but I just feel really fucking bored. I added splenda to my water kind of indignantly, and stirred it around feeling strange. Olivia was talking about how it’s fine to eat anything if you’re on a desert island. It’s fine to eat bacon if the desert island is the prison-of-your mind and it’s the-only-food-you-like. Cassandra was talking about how none of her friends were getting married anytime soon, and so perhaps she’d have to conjure up a wedding of her own. Yeah, sorry, I was saying. Why sorry? Cassandra asked. There was way too much food on the table, and I think that this was the part that was throwing off everybody’s vibe. There was a new Cool Sips soda shop where Pepsi is mixed with heavy cream in town, and so after lunch, there was talk of maybe we go. Maybe we go drink heavy cream and diet Pepsi. Maybe we go weightlifting. Maybe we buy cottage cheese which is calories-per-pound-per-protein-per - I never really understood these things - better than chicken. Maybe we all go home. Whilst talking about protein in ground beef and also cottage cheese and also high cholesterol versus heavy metals, Olivia reminded us that the number one health factor is joy. At home, I am sitting on the edge of my bed in a black skirt and Lafayette striped cream sweater and brown snow and salt stained Prada boots. Thinking about self fulfilling prophecies. I will not drink and I will not look particularly pretty and I will not be socially offputting and strange. I don’t need to share every word of my google doc diaries. Twenty-five-thousand words written this week in google doc diaries because I just can’t cut myself off. Real-life-diaries. Real-life-compulsions. Fake-life-blog, maybe. In the afternoon, I walk over to a kind of industrial style Japanese coffee shop to meet Lily for tea. I am wearing a thin spring coat, no gloves, and the wind chill is negative-fifteen. My face is sort of swollen as a product of bad habits, but I am hoping to blame expedited deterioration on wind burn. I run into my priest walking quickly, somewhere around West 4th. Are you crying, my priest shouts in my direction. Just cold, I say in response. I walk for twelve more minutes, and when I reach the Japanese Coffee shop, my hands are burning and there are tears streaming down my face. A product of the cold, no-emotion, I tell Lily. The coffee shop is lined with narrow benches, and Lily lets me occupy the one-free-seat because it is clear that I am feeling fragile. She hovers above me holding silver trays, pistachio milk, black coffee, chocolate chip cookies. I feel like maybe I shouldn’t move to Los Angeles, she sighs, when I finish telling her my week of whirling hotel stories. I feel like in Los Angeles, everyone pretends that they don’t care about nice things. I drink my coffee in a few big sips, and I am feeling better at talking than listening. Did you write anything down about the people my party last week, Lily asks me. I nod, and pull up my notes. Most of my friends call girls ‘girls’ I say, The people at the party called ‘girls’ ‘women.‘ Lily smiles. It’s a posture just the same. At night, at the Superbowl party, in an apartment where the walls were recently washed a sort of deep-cloud blue, and the drinks are made with vodka and coconut water and grapefruit juice and on the side, some champagne, I arrive late. I’ve been making the drinks kind of strong, which I know you like, Savannah says. The advertisements this year are all made by Artificial Intelligence. The only advertisement not visibly made by Artificial Intelligence in an anti-hate ad wherein an antisemitic attack is covered up by a blue square, and two students walk off screen in redeemed solidarity. When this advertisement begins to play, Matt suggests that we all shut up. Everyone watch the ad, he says. The advertisement finishes, and then all the boys’ phones begin to buzz. Did you just see the ad, all the boys’ friends are asking the boys. They are all really into things like hot-ticket-cultural-discourse. What did you do last night? Matt asks me, later after everyone is already all a little drunk, and I am curled up on the couch, eating pistachios, staring at the screen. I hung out with my new friends, I tell Matt. I am feeling triumphant, and a little bit sad. Who are your new friends? Matt asks. Very nice and very promising people, I tell Matt. Don’t tell anyone that I’m making new friends, I tell Matt. I won’t, Matt responds. I won’t, because it doesn’t sound like you are. Later, trying to leave, and everyone is stuck. I think your taxi is blocking mine, Matt texts. I think a cop car is blocking me. Everyone is trying to honk louder than the car before. I was playing tetris in the snow and now we’re playing tetris at the wheel. Tetris on Houston street. My taxi makes a fake-out breakaway left and I speed away. Writing everything down in my apartment, back home. My moods are very predictable. I write about systems. I’m telling my computer that it’s never really about me. Watch how the patterns repeat. Could a human girl be so good at cycles? I’m telling my computer that I’m the best human girl at cycles. I’m the best at downward spirals. I’m the best at it’s happening over and over and over again. I’m not an evil genius. Writing like I’m top-of-class (fifth grade). Writing like I’m queen of staying up late. Window is closed tonight because outside it is just too cold. Drinking Perrier not Evian because I have ambitions of aesthetic cohesion. Dream logic. Magic logic. I am too tired to miss anything, and I am too caught up in self-surveillance to be really running on anything other than vibes. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Sunday, February 15 From 8pm at Night Club 101 — Punisher returns with a post Valentine’s Day debrief. Readings by Megsuperstarprincess, Riley Mac, Nicole Sellew, Francesca D’Alessandro, Dove Ginsburg, and Ava Doorley. Party to follow with The Heaven Forever. Mélange á seven. | RSVP here.

Inline links: Night Club 101, Punisher, The Heaven Forever, here

THE DETOXIFIER1 mentions across 1 issues

THE DETOXIFIER is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between June 24, 2024 and June 24, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "I'm drinking THE DETOXIFIER from Juice Generation - dandelion, burdock, lime, hibiscus, milk thistle". It most often appears alongside A Doll House, Adam Lehrer, AirPods Max.

Article page: THE DETOXIFIER
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: June 24, 2024
Last seen: June 24, 2024

Outbound links

Issue trail

COLLECTED AGENDA #4 June 24, 2024

A Doll House 1 shared issues
Adam Lehrer 1 shared issues
AirPods Max 1 shared issues
AMA Raw Bar 1 shared issues
Anastasia Berg 1 shared issues

Source context

June 24, 2024 · Original source

I am cleansing my body and my soul. I’m drinking THE DETOXIFIER from Juice Generation - dandelion, burdock, lime, hibiscus, milk thistle. I am sitting at Equinox surrounded by men with notebooks and airpod maxes. I want to get up but I am surrounded on all sides and I don’t want to ask anyone to move. I don’t want to be Type A, but I do want to be pure in body and spirit.

Inline links: THE DETOXIFIER

The Sims1 mentions across 1 issues

The Sims is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 27, 2026 and January 27, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Talking about myself like I am playing SIMS at dinner". It most often appears alongside 3, Alexander Perrelli, Amelia.

Article page: The Sims
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 27, 2026
Last seen: January 27, 2026

Outbound links

https://whitneyreview.org/

Issue trail

California-At-Home January 27, 2026

3 1 shared issues
Alexander Perrelli 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
Anders Lindseth 1 shared issues
Ani Tatintsyan 1 shared issues

Source context

January 27, 2026 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, January 12 I’m in my room and I’m feeling normal. Outside, the streets are winter-warm. Foggy and sweet. Different from El Salvador, which was humid-sweet. Tropics sweet. El Salvador was learning to understand things and also learning to let the wind blow in interesting directions and also learning to stand on my own two feet. On the flight home, I mapped out every day as a container. At JFK, I decided to treat the city like Vacation. Big Bar every Monday. Museums of Illusions. FDR themed social club. Procure activities on Partiful or Instagram or Yelp or through Word of Mouth. I call Amelia to announce my return and my vacation-forever plans. Is this vacation for the sake of transgression or fun? Amelia asks me. New York is over, Matthew was saying, in El Salvador. New York is over, and Los Angeles is it. I suppose we’ll see, I was saying in response. I suppose we’ll see but for now I’ll take all the energy-whirling-back. The flight home was quiet and late. I sat in the very back row of the plane with lots of water and ambient dread. I dreamt of a rocky landing where Avianca (Boeing 787) (Flight 267) touches ground and then immediately takes back off. I dreamt of being robbed. I dreamt of turning around. Dreamt of being scammed. Dreamt of busy days and busy nights in N.Y.C Back home, tonight, and it’s dinner at Lanterna di Vittoria with my friend whom I like because he offers me generosity kind of liminally. He presents a dangling sort of kindness that I did not have to accept or deny. I could accept his kindness later. I could pluck it from thin air, long after he has walked away. Maybe he is just generally cautious like that, or perhaps he intuits my inherent distaste towards drawing definitive conclusions. He is extremely helpful, but I never say thank you for the advice even though I am thankful. I never acknowledge I agree and I think it is better this way. I’m particularly grateful for the ease of it. He’s happy to know he’s right and also to feel useful without any of the misery that accompanies reliance. The grid is blinking in and out today, and so we are all feeling anxious about nuclear war. You too?? my friend says, when I bring up the topic of nuclear war at dinner. Everyone is becoming so much stupider. Small grid means big problems. I am feeling uneasy, sitting in my apartment tonight, knowing all the best minds in the world are coming up short. Later, cotton candy skies turning dark as we’re walking home. The city is freezing over, and hell along with it. Since I cleared my mind head-empty, I have become so much better at being perfect. Since I became religious, I have become so much faster at driving. Since I started telling all my friends that I want no-trouble, none-of-the-time, everything has started to really spiral out of control. I want to be good, I keep on telling Olivia. We go to the gym together every-other-day. She is the only girl with hair that is longer than mine. You are goodest, Olivia tells me. She says it with a smile, and she is very much not-devious so I believe that she believes this to be true. How many millions of dollars do you think were lost when the grid went down? I ask my friend, walking home in the icy city that I just can’t quit. Trillions, he tells me. What do you mean millions? Jesus Christ. Do you know how the GRID works? He gives me a book. Elephants and economy. Something like that. I already have it. I am smug when I tell him so. They already gave me this book in El Salvador. This book is already mine. The grid has already never-existed. Nothing ever happens. New silk eye mask arrived by mail which means: big sleep incoming. Big sleep in mummy mode. Clean room. Room of a girl who respects herself. Every day is something new. This part has always been obvious. Tuesday, January 13 The air is clear in my apartment, but somehow tinged a little bit blue this morning. Somehow kind of record-stretch hazy, which I suppose is what happens when I am tired and outside, it’s foggy. My friend texted while I slept: I am taking on your mannerisms. Texting back now: I don’t really have mannerisms. I could write a story this morning, but instead, I will write mantras in my mind. It’s good to be quiet It’s important to seize control over myself God gives the world to girls who don’t get in their own way. Black velvet hanger left off kilter. Last night, I purchased a blue dress that reminded me of dreams I already forgot. A blue dress to wear in a glass house in a place like Topanga. Bright blue dress to wear while making spring green soup. Purchased the dress with visions of next summer spinning through my mind. Visions of wearing a blue dress and standing barefoot on the wood floor of my parents’ house and making spring green soup. Sitting on the edge of my bed in dark green lulu lemon leggings and black tank top this morning. Cool minty Zyn in mouth, and Celsius in hand. The apartment is a mess, and it has been for a while. Trees are barren and kind of sweet outside my window. I hate this apartment. I want my old apartment back. I want to get everything I’ve ever wanted. I want to get sober and mean it. I want two hours of dedicated time-writing-fiction per day, and two hours of dedicated time walking outdoors writing notes. I want to let no more hours drift. I was not happy to come back to New York, but I do like the parts of the city that just are-what-they-are. Green turtle pond and freezing hands. Big buildings and tour groups. Windy streets. Bustling with people. When I’m at pilates I don’t feel like I need to move to LA, I tell Saorise, in the studio. The toned and old gay man that owns Pilates People runs warm. He cracked the window to let in the frigid winter fog. All the girls are upset about this. The light is silver and bright like a beam. It is a foggy day. We have LA at home, Saiorse says. We have life-like-California, but it’s real-life and it’s right-here. We can stay right here. We can invent different schools of movement. We can even go to Sugarfish Girls mass-exodus a friend group or even a whole entire life because of totally superficial reasons that are totally fake, Saoirse is saying, at Sugarfish. We acquire Saki. I pull my hair into a tight ponytail and I revel in my perfect day. I document my material reality meticulously. I have been training myself to become totally head empty. I have been training myself to gently accept gluttony, and also to be less subject to my whims. Sugar Fish has the sort of generic-upscale interior that reminds you of nothing, and thus reminds you of personal recollections of positive experiences in similar generic upscale interior restaurants. This is how they keep you coming back, I say. Girls couldn’t find a backbone if it hit them over the head, Saiorse says. Girls want to drown their enemies in buckets like kittens. Girls want to pray for you and ask to kiss you and pretend to be your friends. I am starting to feel some animosity, I tell Saorsie. Our meal is light but comes out in many courses. Saiorse is happy to hear about my budding proclivity for negativity. I’ve been telling you these things for years and knowing that it wasn’t yet time for you to listen, Sairse responds. You can pick something really good, or you can pick something that you really really want. Saiorse plays with her salmon sashimi and she doesn’t like soy sauce. Saoirse doesn’t ask me to tell her which one I pick: really good versus really wanted, that is. Do you remember Michael the explorer, Saoirse asks me. I have known Saoirse for a million billion years. We share a million billion strange friends. It’s nice to pour over these things. Internet friends. Federal agent friends. Friend who snuck over the Canadian border a few years ago and then washed up outside a fire pit in The Hamptons. Her explorer friend who we took to Round Swamp market for blueberry muffins after he got back from some place like Antarctica or maybe North Korea. He was not very risk-adverse. He was so worried about you, Saoirse says. Did you know that at the time? He said you seemed so nice. Walking home in the crisp and cold afternoon feeling so nice. Walking through the farmers market. Curling up in bed half asleep half dressed half under covers. Half lonely and half at peace because I love when my apartment is so cold. Cassandra texts that she is going to the museum. Why, I ask? It is our duty to seek out all the latent beauty in the world. Cassandra responds. At night, In Brooklyn, I can listen to Jeff Buckley Forget Her on repeat and think about what I actually want. Purification. Indulging my addictions. Freedom from vice. Sweet music and soft cover of winter fog and little green glass wind chimes hanging from the trees. I like wearing natural fibers and clothing I move easily in and having a uniform and following an obsession to its logical conclusion. I like knowing immediately and totally what it is that I could or could not love. Little dried leaves shivering across the pavement. They look like little rats except for the part where they are very beautiful. I run into one friend smoking on the street in a velvet black jacket when I arrive at the reading. I like your suit, I say. It’s my only suit, he responds. I don’t want to drink but I do want a cigarette and I only like cigarettes when I’m drinking. There’s a glowing strawberry on the wall, and there are a lot of people I have never seen before or at least do not see often. Like the cool theater kids’ basement in college, the girl next to me is saying. Soft snow flurries outside, which serves as a nice reminder that it is still winter. Reading out loud about Florida, Massachusetts and feeling reclusive. Wednesday, January 14 Sweet Wednesday morning, but I’m going to treat it like a Monday. Still listening to Jeff Bukley Forget Her, which makes me want to be somewhere else. Somewhere very cold or very foggy or even, very sunny. Perhaps I should stop hedging and just commit to something. Last night, a boy was ordering a drink and talking about how he was so glad no one was doing dry January this year. He asked his friend what he was drinking. Soda water and cranberry, the friend said. Oh, he said. You’re doing dry January? I’ve been dry for six months, his friend said. I felt so jealous of his friend. So, I know what has to give. Need to take pleasure in denying myself the things I want, etc etc etc. Listening to Forget Her over and over and over again, and turning my head all the way upside down so I can get a look at the snow behind me, but the snow has mostly stopped. Just silver skies all the way, now. Silver skies all the way up and all the way down. Jeff Buckley died at thirty-years-old. Someone who destroyed himself early but at least he had something to show for it. The desire to toss out everything I own becomes pervasive in the snow. The desire to get rid of all these things I wish were not mine. Gathering up all these clothes and throwing them in a big white trash bag. Thinking about the big smile on my face when my mother gave me a blue and shiny dress and then thinking about throwing it in a donation bin which pipelines to landfills, obviously. Hours can pass, percolating in guilt over what to do with this blue dress among other items. There are many more wasteful things than throwing out a dress. Buying and drinking alcohol for example. Buying and eating protein bars just to feel full by which I mean full of trash. Scrolling on my phone. Being cruel. The snow is both coming down and melting outside. Smells like ski racing. Nothing I am getting rid of is special. If the people whom I don’t want to see show up at a party, then I will leave. My friends are in the basement of the party when I arrive. Another friend’s new bar. The wood has been stained dark brown and the place is starting to look formal and nice. My friends are vacuuming and putting away books. We all look like little elves putting the books away, Quinn says. Many interesting books. Esoterics of Health and something about Aliens, for example. Thursday, January 15 Rinse and repeat. Blueish silver light in my apartment, where the sun barely penetrates, but at least nothing is artificial. Outside, everything is melting, melting, melting. White and chipped paint on the fire escape, and I can see the drops of water growing from the metal edges and then… drop! Leafless trees shimmering like they’re coated in gum drops. Each silver water droplet crystallized as its own little form, and then together, they are turning the whole tree silver. Since they turned down the central heating and then I turned off my air conditioner, a few days ago, everything has begun to feel quite quiet. Should we do a dress exchange? I ask Cassandra. Should I bring you your bible and a book called The Elephant in the Brain and also your blue cashmere sweater in exchange for my polyester Aritzia slip? Yes! says Cassandra. The West Village is wet and cold and the church is white and the doors are blue. The dining room of The Marlton Hotel is full of red velvet booths and gold lined mirrors and star shaped yellow lights. The mirrors and the lights make me feel a little bit like I am in a room full of sun, but I am not in a room full of sun. I am in a windowless hotel lobby full of mirrors. Cassandra takes out her Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls at table over are taking out their Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls everywhere are just the same. Olivia has her Rapunzel hair bundled up in her scarf like a baboushka. Cassandra is wearing a beautiful red scarf tied around her neck and wearing beautiful gold jewelry. The girls at the table over are talking about how we were created to have gentle souls. Why would anybody make it their mission in life to seek out… chaos? Cassandra interjects. To seek to degrade others, Olivia says. Cassandra teaches me a new word: Odoriferous. Cassandra tells me about her friend who lives in Northern California off the grid, farming salmon or maybe saving them, researching them, I can’t remember. A girl stumbles into the dining room to greet her friends at the table over. I can feel how cold you are, her friends say. I can’t wait to see the ocean again, Cassandra says. It feels really weird going so long without seeing the ocean. I guess I won’t see the ocean again for a while. Thinking about feeling manic. Thinking about every other timeline. Thinking about pouring big glass of water and black coffee with five splenda because I am still glutenous. Getting right to the cusp of something means that in at least a few other timelines, you probably figured it out. Nice to assume you’re capable of that, at least. Nice to know that in another timeline, my diaries are probably anonymous and I can be less vague. Nice to know that in another timeline I can probably lie. I can probably say what I actually mean. Spraying perfume over green sweater and imagining myself as someone who moves more slowly. Ordered a glass of wine because I love relapsing on an empty stomach. Telling Olivia about when my life was hot and cold and up and down and crazy all the time, because for the first time, I am realizing that she did not know me then. It’s hard to describe to someone who wasn’t there. Feeling a little bit nauseous and like I wish I hadn’t spoken. We could be living in the Midwest driving golf carts, Olivia says. Indiana is just corn and soy but not even produced for human production just animal feed or corn syrup, she says. I have a fondness for cornfields, Cassandra says. We could belong to country clubs, Olivia said. I wonder what that is like. Friday, January 16 In my dreams, I am surrounded by water on all sides, Somewhere in El Salvador. Somewhere in Costa Rica. Somewhere with all my friends-from-the-internet, and they do not like my new boyfriend. It’s ok, because I don’t like my new boyfriend too much either. I am scheming with my internet-friends. We are scheming ways to get rid of new boyfriend. Everyone is happy about my plots to get him gone, and no one seems to clock that I am the one who invited him in the first place. We are deep sea fishing. I am hanging by my arms from the edge of the boat and my feet are running through the water while a girl I know to be my best friend fires up the boat faster and faster and faster. I am a little scared. I am having so much fun. Salt water. Earth water. Angel water. I wake up. One light left on, back in New York. Yellow glowing floor lamp, so at least there’s nothing shining overhead. Last night, I was walking through the winter snow sliding on ice and filled with energy and adoration and also two illicit drinks. Listening to music and wind and stopping for gum and diet coke and then washing up in a restaurant that was bustling and warm and dimly lit. Telling my friends not to wait outside. For a while, I wanted to show others the places that had always been mine. It had never been like that before. It had always been more of a self protective sort of thing. Back to letting myself be dragged to kind of nice places to which I have no attachment, now. Talking about myself like I am playing SIMS at dinner. Ordering one diet coke and one piece of fish. Dinner passing kind of assembly line cool. Chill and smooth. In the snow and the ice, everything is seamless and then I’m in a car home so that I do not slip. Things could be quiet and end early but I still just can’t stay put. I become more full of energy, later on. I have become very sick of interiority. I went to a small Italian cafe to pass the later night because when I don’t, I always wish I did. It was a snowy and beautiful night. The cafe was made for families and locals and tour groups and dark and lovely. My new friends were talking about things like art-of-business, so it felt kind of far from myself but I could bear it for some hours. A beautiful life. Trying to be more tender and less neurotic. This does not have to mean everything. A person can just be cautious and nice-for-now. Walked home in the snow. Woke up warm. Still can’t stay away from places that have always been mine. Yellow light emanates from the yellow lamp. Nothing fluorescent. A million things to write over a million times. A million things to consider. A million topics on which the thing to do now is to wait and see. Waiting and seeing. Text about finding a DJ for a party in San Francisco. Email about a party at The Mount Washington Hotel. All these very random things that feel so close to being in reach. Kind of want to go. Kind of want to languish in old and beautiful rooms at the Mount Washington Hotel and in the majestic magic pool and imagine that money flows like water by which I mean spend money like it is water. Opening the window, now. Letting it be morning, now. Have to be clear, now. Sober minded and clear. Time passes like water, too, so that is something else to be wary of. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, January 27 From 8pm at The River — Theme Trivia returns with Medieval Trivia.

Inline links: The River, Theme Trivia

Theory1 mentions across 1 issues

Theory is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between November 19, 2024 and November 19, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "still from places like Armani or at least Theory". It most often appears alongside Adeline, Adriana Furlong, Aimee Armstrong.

Article page: Theory
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: November 19, 2024
Last seen: November 19, 2024

Outbound links

Issue trail

Autumn passes and one remembers one's reverence November 19, 2024

Adeline 1 shared issues
Adriana Furlong 1 shared issues
Aimee Armstrong 1 shared issues
Alexander Sammartino 1 shared issues
Alissa Bennett 1 shared issues

Source context

November 19, 2024 · Original source

WHAT I DID Chloe Pingeon's Substack is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Monday, November 10 It feels very important to parse through things very carefully today. I write down what I value: truth and beauty. mental and physical clarity. But then, there are other things, too. I don't experience life as this ethereal. Making big lists. Having big fun. Making big points. I write down: This is the thing I dislike about myself most; not experiencing things as this ethereal and wanting to make things like big points. I write down: when was the time you felt most transcendent? Remember: I'm not writing auto fiction. I'm writing my diary. It's weird - picking up the pieces of things. I feel disdain when I see people exercising bad habits. You cannot imagine my horror as I self destruct. Picture This: on the Upper West Side, things are quiet. The stone walls on the edge of the park are lined with trimmed hedges in the summer, but the branches are bare now, and so, you see, now, that the skeletons have always been jagged. The subway has been nicer lately, better to step inside when the warm air is a relief and nothing is steaming. I like the uptown F, the cars with the orange seats, the stations where there's no one there so you can hear the doors whoosh. Picture this: you go to The Central Park Zoo, you wear a Christmas dress, you go to Sarabeth's for lunch, pancakes, toast. After, you don't go window shopping but you do walk home. Not your home, it belongs to someone else, but it's familiar. You make tea by big French windows. The trees are bare already, remember, and so picture the precision with which you can watch the people on the street below. They don't look like little ants, you aren't that high up, they just look as they are - little people in and out. People looking for something. It’s like they are on a little treasure hunt. Imagine you would wish them the best. You wouldn't close the windows - not for a while, at least David told me I smelled like winter when I got home today. I didn't. I smelled like eucalyptus. You would too after a few minutes in that steam room in SoHo. I can’t stop spending money the instant that I make it. I can’t stop spending money like I have it. I have stopped purchasing stuff. I like to wear the same thing most days. I like to sort TheRealReal Black Blazers prices low to high and buy five at once, eight dollars each. When they arrive, they are still nice material and still from places like Armani or at least Theory and you spend little and you can sell them for more when it’s time to declutter. It’s been so wonderful to declutter lately. I’ve gotten rid of almost all of it - stuff, I mean. In the new place, there are no closets. I’ve gotten rid of all my storage space. I’ve gotten rid of all my streams of income. My Stuff is still in storage somewhere. Not in New York. I’ll sell it soon. You can have some but not all my earthly possessions if you want them. You can have the ones I’ve packed away. I like this idea – “Autumn passes and one remembers one's reverence” Tuesday, November 11 My new favorite blog is this - Health Gossip. It’s an old school newsletter. The health advice is very Pure and True, but more than this, it is beautiful to consume. Health Gossip is my favorite thing on the Internet this week. Very rarely does something in digital form elicit a real sense of calm in me. Usually, things in digital form make me feel kind of manic and bad. I’m not sure why this project strikes me so profoundly. Today, I spend multiple hours reading Health Gossip. A writer texts me after last week's letter - “your writing is always “good” ie flashy/ineffable… but this one bummed me out.” I’m not sure if he’s referring to the happenings of the week, or to the passivity, lethargy, dare I say gluttony and sludge… with which I’ve been diluting my descriptions of it all. I don't ask him to clarify. Regardless, his assessment of the piece in some sense parallels my own, and an attempt to dredge out an opinion from an acquaintance I admire that might placate my own sense of shame does not feel like an endeavor of any significance. “it bummed me out to write… ”, I say. We’re at a large group dinner at Olive Garden Times Square tonight. The host picked this place with a genuine fervor, nothing snidely ironic about it, and so I am more good humored in this venture than would be my usual inclination. It's less kitschy here then I l expected, anyways. Wall to wall carpeting, lots of families, lazy susan’s, the color schemes of muted Americana. I have a healthy appreciation for Times Square Charm. I have a healthy Relationship With Capitalism. I can't really eat the food here but isn't some of it just so fun to look at. I'm drifting in and out of focus at dinner - preoccupied by unrelated concerns of wavering integrity and petty betrayal, not important, not interesting. When I do tune in, a girl across the table is talking about Politics. “My grandma is spending her time so worried about school shooters because it's an obsession of the news,” she says. “It makes me angry and so sad for her. She shouldn't be spending her time thinking about this.” I get her sentiment a little bit. A sensationalist sense of doom that makes my skin crawl at some family dinners. Sometimes, there is frost on the grass just outside the window and when it catches my eye during these conversations - look at the dew, look at the mist, there are fawns in the field - then I just want to scream. But then, I worry sometimes that I am not very empathetic. I am envious, sometimes, of people who become utterly consumed by suffering that for the most part, they could simply look away from. Nihilism is something I am trying to avoid for the main reason of - its been breeding cruelty more than healthy removal, lately. Walking through Times Square after, David asks me if I am ok. I guess my eyes have glazed over. I realize this now, that it's been called to my attention. “Of course,” I say. “I worry that everything in my life is going to very suddenly fall apart,” I say. I am reassured. The night passes peacefully. Thursday, November 14 I take the Q to the end of the line today. It's something I've always wanted to do - take the train until the cars stop and I'm the last one left on board and a voice comes on and says please exit the train for cleaning, this is the last stop on this train, please exit the train so the train can be cleaned. I'm in Bay Ridge to shoot a music video today. To be an extra in a music video, that is. I'm exceptionally bad at acting. I'm bad enough that I am even bad as an extra. I'm not particularly bad at lying, but I am bad at having an expressive face. The neighborhood at the end of the Q is nice. I've been taken to other places in New York like this before. Places where you feel like you're by the seaside, where you're under the bridge, where the architecture is more brick, more limestone, more instances of art deco. The Hudson widens into the open ocean somewhere not too far from here and so of course the air feels different. It's strange, even if anticipated, to take the subway ninety minutes to a place where the air feels different, to walk down strange streets and into an unfamiliar gothic building, to open the door to a room where I have never been, and to find it filled with people I mostly already know. The past few years have given me many instances like this. This is something I am very grateful for. The music video is for DDM / Uncensored New York. It's a cool concept. It's cool to watch things come to life. The shoot is outside, and I am the coldest I have ever been. I'm still having fun. I'm thinking about things like how monks orient their consciousness and focus towards the cause of their suffering, and then I am trying to think only about the cold. I am not able to transcend myself, but even freezing, I don't wish I was elsewhere. In the afternoon, I sit in a warm car and I thaw my hands. I have miso soup, tea, and cheese sticks. There is still a chill in me even once inside, which is simultaneously unpleasant and cozy. I'd been wanting a day like this very badly. Friday, November 15 Beckett's Tense comes together with serendipity. There was a crisis with the headliners, Lucy Sante was sick. Beckett ran into Penny Arcade outside of Madame Matovu on 10th. Now, Penny is the headliner. The unsalvageable is always salvaged. The bar can serve real liquor tonight. There's a lot of people here and it's a different crowd than usual. Tense is back in Manhattan. Penny says she’s here because she wants to see what the new New York is doing. I give Beckett a hug at Sovereign House. I say hi to Chris and Adeline. Chris and Adeline are drawing big Tense bubble letters on the chalkboard. The seats are already mostly full. I climb to the top of a ladder and I sit up there. From up there, I have the best view in the house. Tense is not just a reading series, Tense is a show, and this distinction is important. There is a program, an order of events, a flow of new and old. The serendipity with Penny’s arrival lies in this - she seems to understand exactly what Beckett is doing, and while she didn’t write her piece specifically for TENSE (she describes it as “cultural criticism you can dance to”), it speaks with exaction to the spirit of things. Here are some things that Penny Arcade says: I’d rather put a stick in my eye than go somewhere where everyone is the same age. When I was young, if I went to a party and everyone was under thirty I thought... I'm at the wrong party.”

TheRealReal1 mentions across 1 issues

TheRealReal is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between November 19, 2024 and November 19, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "I like to sort TheRealReal Black Blazers prices low to high and buy five at once". It most often appears alongside Adeline, Adriana Furlong, Aimee Armstrong.

Article page: TheRealReal
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: November 19, 2024
Last seen: November 19, 2024
Instagram handle: @metalabel__

Outbound links

Issue trail

Autumn passes and one remembers one's reverence November 19, 2024

Adeline 1 shared issues
Adriana Furlong 1 shared issues
Aimee Armstrong 1 shared issues
Alexander Sammartino 1 shared issues
Alissa Bennett 1 shared issues

Source context

November 19, 2024 · Original source

WHAT I DID Chloe Pingeon's Substack is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Monday, November 10 It feels very important to parse through things very carefully today. I write down what I value: truth and beauty. mental and physical clarity. But then, there are other things, too. I don't experience life as this ethereal. Making big lists. Having big fun. Making big points. I write down: This is the thing I dislike about myself most; not experiencing things as this ethereal and wanting to make things like big points. I write down: when was the time you felt most transcendent? Remember: I'm not writing auto fiction. I'm writing my diary. It's weird - picking up the pieces of things. I feel disdain when I see people exercising bad habits. You cannot imagine my horror as I self destruct. Picture This: on the Upper West Side, things are quiet. The stone walls on the edge of the park are lined with trimmed hedges in the summer, but the branches are bare now, and so, you see, now, that the skeletons have always been jagged. The subway has been nicer lately, better to step inside when the warm air is a relief and nothing is steaming. I like the uptown F, the cars with the orange seats, the stations where there's no one there so you can hear the doors whoosh. Picture this: you go to The Central Park Zoo, you wear a Christmas dress, you go to Sarabeth's for lunch, pancakes, toast. After, you don't go window shopping but you do walk home. Not your home, it belongs to someone else, but it's familiar. You make tea by big French windows. The trees are bare already, remember, and so picture the precision with which you can watch the people on the street below. They don't look like little ants, you aren't that high up, they just look as they are - little people in and out. People looking for something. It’s like they are on a little treasure hunt. Imagine you would wish them the best. You wouldn't close the windows - not for a while, at least David told me I smelled like winter when I got home today. I didn't. I smelled like eucalyptus. You would too after a few minutes in that steam room in SoHo. I can’t stop spending money the instant that I make it. I can’t stop spending money like I have it. I have stopped purchasing stuff. I like to wear the same thing most days. I like to sort TheRealReal Black Blazers prices low to high and buy five at once, eight dollars each. When they arrive, they are still nice material and still from places like Armani or at least Theory and you spend little and you can sell them for more when it’s time to declutter. It’s been so wonderful to declutter lately. I’ve gotten rid of almost all of it - stuff, I mean. In the new place, there are no closets. I’ve gotten rid of all my storage space. I’ve gotten rid of all my streams of income. My Stuff is still in storage somewhere. Not in New York. I’ll sell it soon. You can have some but not all my earthly possessions if you want them. You can have the ones I’ve packed away. I like this idea – “Autumn passes and one remembers one's reverence” Tuesday, November 11 My new favorite blog is this - Health Gossip. It’s an old school newsletter. The health advice is very Pure and True, but more than this, it is beautiful to consume. Health Gossip is my favorite thing on the Internet this week. Very rarely does something in digital form elicit a real sense of calm in me. Usually, things in digital form make me feel kind of manic and bad. I’m not sure why this project strikes me so profoundly. Today, I spend multiple hours reading Health Gossip. A writer texts me after last week's letter - “your writing is always “good” ie flashy/ineffable… but this one bummed me out.” I’m not sure if he’s referring to the happenings of the week, or to the passivity, lethargy, dare I say gluttony and sludge… with which I’ve been diluting my descriptions of it all. I don't ask him to clarify. Regardless, his assessment of the piece in some sense parallels my own, and an attempt to dredge out an opinion from an acquaintance I admire that might placate my own sense of shame does not feel like an endeavor of any significance. “it bummed me out to write… ”, I say. We’re at a large group dinner at Olive Garden Times Square tonight. The host picked this place with a genuine fervor, nothing snidely ironic about it, and so I am more good humored in this venture than would be my usual inclination. It's less kitschy here then I l expected, anyways. Wall to wall carpeting, lots of families, lazy susan’s, the color schemes of muted Americana. I have a healthy appreciation for Times Square Charm. I have a healthy Relationship With Capitalism. I can't really eat the food here but isn't some of it just so fun to look at. I'm drifting in and out of focus at dinner - preoccupied by unrelated concerns of wavering integrity and petty betrayal, not important, not interesting. When I do tune in, a girl across the table is talking about Politics. “My grandma is spending her time so worried about school shooters because it's an obsession of the news,” she says. “It makes me angry and so sad for her. She shouldn't be spending her time thinking about this.” I get her sentiment a little bit. A sensationalist sense of doom that makes my skin crawl at some family dinners. Sometimes, there is frost on the grass just outside the window and when it catches my eye during these conversations - look at the dew, look at the mist, there are fawns in the field - then I just want to scream. But then, I worry sometimes that I am not very empathetic. I am envious, sometimes, of people who become utterly consumed by suffering that for the most part, they could simply look away from. Nihilism is something I am trying to avoid for the main reason of - its been breeding cruelty more than healthy removal, lately. Walking through Times Square after, David asks me if I am ok. I guess my eyes have glazed over. I realize this now, that it's been called to my attention. “Of course,” I say. “I worry that everything in my life is going to very suddenly fall apart,” I say. I am reassured. The night passes peacefully. Thursday, November 14 I take the Q to the end of the line today. It's something I've always wanted to do - take the train until the cars stop and I'm the last one left on board and a voice comes on and says please exit the train for cleaning, this is the last stop on this train, please exit the train so the train can be cleaned. I'm in Bay Ridge to shoot a music video today. To be an extra in a music video, that is. I'm exceptionally bad at acting. I'm bad enough that I am even bad as an extra. I'm not particularly bad at lying, but I am bad at having an expressive face. The neighborhood at the end of the Q is nice. I've been taken to other places in New York like this before. Places where you feel like you're by the seaside, where you're under the bridge, where the architecture is more brick, more limestone, more instances of art deco. The Hudson widens into the open ocean somewhere not too far from here and so of course the air feels different. It's strange, even if anticipated, to take the subway ninety minutes to a place where the air feels different, to walk down strange streets and into an unfamiliar gothic building, to open the door to a room where I have never been, and to find it filled with people I mostly already know. The past few years have given me many instances like this. This is something I am very grateful for. The music video is for DDM / Uncensored New York. It's a cool concept. It's cool to watch things come to life. The shoot is outside, and I am the coldest I have ever been. I'm still having fun. I'm thinking about things like how monks orient their consciousness and focus towards the cause of their suffering, and then I am trying to think only about the cold. I am not able to transcend myself, but even freezing, I don't wish I was elsewhere. In the afternoon, I sit in a warm car and I thaw my hands. I have miso soup, tea, and cheese sticks. There is still a chill in me even once inside, which is simultaneously unpleasant and cozy. I'd been wanting a day like this very badly. Friday, November 15 Beckett's Tense comes together with serendipity. There was a crisis with the headliners, Lucy Sante was sick. Beckett ran into Penny Arcade outside of Madame Matovu on 10th. Now, Penny is the headliner. The unsalvageable is always salvaged. The bar can serve real liquor tonight. There's a lot of people here and it's a different crowd than usual. Tense is back in Manhattan. Penny says she’s here because she wants to see what the new New York is doing. I give Beckett a hug at Sovereign House. I say hi to Chris and Adeline. Chris and Adeline are drawing big Tense bubble letters on the chalkboard. The seats are already mostly full. I climb to the top of a ladder and I sit up there. From up there, I have the best view in the house. Tense is not just a reading series, Tense is a show, and this distinction is important. There is a program, an order of events, a flow of new and old. The serendipity with Penny’s arrival lies in this - she seems to understand exactly what Beckett is doing, and while she didn’t write her piece specifically for TENSE (she describes it as “cultural criticism you can dance to”), it speaks with exaction to the spirit of things. Here are some things that Penny Arcade says: I’d rather put a stick in my eye than go somewhere where everyone is the same age. When I was young, if I went to a party and everyone was under thirty I thought... I'm at the wrong party.”

ThriftBooks.com1 mentions across 1 issues

ThriftBooks.com is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 06, 2026 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "I'd purchased the texts on ThriftBooks.com". It most often appears alongside A Place in the Sun, Ali RQ, Angelica.

Article page: ThriftBooks.com
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 06, 2026
Last seen: March 06, 2026
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

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Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

A Place in the Sun 1 shared issues
Ali RQ 1 shared issues
Angelica 1 shared issues
Angelmoon 1 shared issues
Banana Republic 1 shared issues

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March 06, 2026 · Original source

I have decided to quit vice because unless I take my self-experimentation seriously, nothing interesting is going to happen. I don’t take so much pleasure in denying myself the things that I want. At The Marlton Hotel lobby, I was two hours late to meet my aunt for lunch and hungover and she called my father and asked if I was maybe in El Salvador again or perhaps just kidnapped. Small box apartment. No greenhouse roof. I wore an A-line skirt and Banana-Republic-black-top and picked my way across sunlight-streaming in Washington Square Park to arrive late and empty handed. I ran into Olivia in the hotel lobby, and she was glowing with discipline-of-lent and the sign of the cross in black ash on her forehead. I can’t become religious because I can’t even deny myself the things I want, I’d told Joe, a few days earlier. I hadn’t been drinking that night. Well you know what they say about failure rendering humility, he had said, in response, with a smile. And he’d admired my sincerity. And I’d admired his generosity. He’d recommended some literature. This Tremendous Lover (Eugene Boylan, 1946). I’d purchased the texts on ThriftBooks.com and then I’d fallen to sleep listless. Things became worse and then better. In The Marlton Hotel lobby, my aunt asked me if I liked when bad things happened because bad things help my writing. I HATE when bad things happen, I said in response. I HATE when I suffer. I do not WANT to be resilient. I cited a few of my favorite authors who-never-suffered. I like early Babitz and Fanny HOWE, I decreed. I like the-architecture-of-happiness and feng shui and feeling observational. Fanny Howe is kind of sad, my aunt shrugged in response. I hate her POETRY, I said. I picked at my avocado and smoked salmon and did not do so well at modulating my voice. Anyways, it’s more fun though sometimes risky to view measures of necessity as measures of languid experimentation. But nothing interesting happens when nothing gets better or nothing gets worse. And as already mentioned, I hate when things get worse.

Tito's1 mentions across 1 issues

Tito's is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 19, 2025 and January 19, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "I order a Tito's martini, but I'm told they don't serve Titos here". It most often appears alongside accelerationism, Ada Antoinette, Adam Wilson.

Article page: Tito's
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 19, 2025
Last seen: January 19, 2025

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January continues January 19, 2025

accelerationism 1 shared issues
Ada Antoinette 1 shared issues
Adam Wilson 1 shared issues
Adele 1 shared issues
Airbnb 1 shared issues

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January continues

January 19, 2025 · Original source

David and I go to Estela for dinner. It’s our anniversary. He tells me not to say anything online about it. Private life should stay private, he says, but I’m writing it anyway. Estela is nice. It’s the sister restaurant of Altro Paradiso. My friend, Madelyn works there. Estela is smaller, cozier, you have to buzz to get into the building and then it’s up some steps, it feels like you’re in an apartment, it feels like you’re in Berlin. I’ve never been to Copenhagen, but I imagine it feels a bit like Copenhagen, too. “I like more old timey restaurants,” David says. “Me too,” I say. “But sometimes isn’t it nice to be in a restaurant that feels like Copenhagen? David agrees. He’s never been to Copenhagen either. Altro Paradiso is brightly lit, whereas Estela is dim. Stella - Latin for Star. Etc. The distinction feels a little obvious, but then, I’m being a little particular. Estela is small plates. Romantic. You can tell because you have to buzz the door to get in, and because the lighting is really dark. They put us in a little alcove by the shelves and shelves of wine. We order iberico ham, bread and butter, endive salad, crab with celery root (the best dish), squid ink fried rice with little bits of squid, steak with elderberry sauce. I order a Tito's martini, but I’m told they don’t serve Titos here. I’m told they have one martini with vodka that “tastes like smirnoff” ($22) and another with vodka that’s way better and far preferable (paraphrased) ($30). Our waitress is peppy. “We’ll take the Smirnoff,” David says. “She’s nice,” I say, later. “Domineering,” David says. Later, the waitress rolls her eyes a little when she asks me how my martini is. She smiles when I say good. I believe she is sincere in her hope that I’m happy as I guzzle up the fruits of my lowbrow taste. It really is a lovely meal. I don’t mean to be cynical. I tell David he should tell them it’s our anniversary so we can have something free, and he tells them “it’s our anniversary, can we have dessert on the house.” Then, I’m embarrassed, but they bring us dessert (with a price) and champagne (on the house). Tuesday, January 14 I’ve been working on maintaining constant motion. “An object in motion will stay in motion,” I’ve been telling anyone that will listen. I walk in place all day, and then I walk through Washington Square Park at night, freezing. I make sure to do an extra lap to circle under the arch, all sparkling and illuminated and icy. I’m thirty minutes late to the Post-Doomerism talk at Gonzo’s, and this feels like an important one to me because I used to base my entire framework of thought around mitigating dread through a surrender to the inevitability of fates worse than death. It’s a terrible way to view the world - juvenile if nothing else, but also aesthetically and morally barren, limiting, a nihilistic obsession with the present does lead to destruction (yourself and others), no matter how many delusions you harbor about enlightenment, and about time and therefore preservation as false constructs. You can’t be nihilistic if you believe in good and evil, and I do believe in good and evil, so it was never going to hold up. Post Doomerism The lecture is just starting when I exit the elevator. The talk is between Chris Small (founder of Amazon Labor Union), PradaHorseShoe (founder of Russian Cosmism Circle NYC), Joshua Citarella (Doomscroll Podcast), and Geo Yankey (Comedian) “Russian Cosmists think that Marx doesn't take it far enough,” Amana explains. “Marxism wants to abolish capitalism, religion, the family…. but what about abolishing the OG bummer - death.” The point of the talk seems to be to present a sort of leftist vision of tech accelerationism. Capitalist Realism, the parts of the industrial revolution deemed actually good, nuclear fusion (clean and limitless energy which imitates the sun) instead of nuclear fission, fossil fuels , etc etc etc. The audience, on the other hand, is mostly composed of people I recognize from other downtown events - this one taking on an uncharacteristic and somewhat academic sincerity. “Hypothetically, heat death could occur before we run out of fuel,” a girl sitting next to me murmurs at one point, evidently at least somewhat convinced by technology’s capacity for limitless good. I try to conjure a sense of what she’s imagining in my mind's eye - create enough clean energy, and you could be driving your car one day when the whole universe just implodes. This isn’t aspirational to me. Longevity even, has never been particularly aspirational to me, although increasingly moreso, I’m increasingly less cynical. I appreciate the sincerity of the lecture. I appreciate some of the ideas they put forward, too. It’s an irony-pilled audience and they're sitting in a deeply earnest room. I slip out during the Q&A - overwhelmed, honestly, and I’m late to another function. I’m handed a gin and tonic in the Lower East Side. I’m talking about the Russian Cosmism lecture. “Lenin tried that and 20 million people died,” I am told. “I don’t really know enough,” I say. I’m sent a documentary about The Tyranny of Scientism. I order some things like the books by Nick Zurnig and Mark Fisher. It’s good to be objective. The night slips onward. It’s rude to talk about accelerationism at a party. Wednesday, January 16 It's slightly warmer in New York today. It's still cold, but it's less frigid, I'm walking through Soho typing, I'm walking to Equinox, I'll finish writing this on the treadmill, I had such a fun night last night although I do feel terribly guilty about squandering my health and my beauty and my soul every time I get drunk. I was such a good drunk, though. I adore my friends so deeply. I adore my new friends. I think they are my best friends. I’m trying not to quantify everything. There are names of people I love spinning through my mind, now. Why order things. Some people exhaust me, and then there are other people who don’t. I’ve found new friends who live artfully while occupying a natural state that is absorbed with the physical world, recently. How lucky for me. I don’t want to use my volatility as a bludgeon with which to bend people to my whims. Good thing I don’t feel particularly volatile this week. It’s best to consider these while outside of them. Objective introspection: am I doing a good job? WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Gofundme + LA Fire Resources here. Sunday, January 19 From 6pm - midnight at EARTH — Jordan Castro and Cluny present SILENCE. An evening of silence. No speaking, no phones.

Topo Chico1 mentions across 1 issues

Topo Chico is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 28, 2024 and October 28, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Sponsored by Lantern Beverages, Topo Chico, Mizu Sochu"; "Sponsored by Lantern Beverages, Topo Chico, Mizu Sochu". It most often appears alongside 12 Questions, 27 Club, Adeline Swartzendruber.

Article page: Topo Chico
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 28, 2024
Last seen: October 28, 2024
Instagram handle: @topochicousa

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Indulging in the Eschaton October 28, 2024

12 Questions 1 shared issues
27 Club 1 shared issues
Adeline Swartzendruber 1 shared issues
Adrienne Reenblatt 1 shared issues
Ali Royals 1 shared issues

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October 28, 2024 · Original source

From 10pm - 3am — Lantern is throwing an NYC theme Halloween party. Sponsored by Lantern Beverages, Topo Chico, Mizu Sochu, Okinawa Gin, Peter Pan Donuts and others – “Come dressed as your favorite New York City character or as Jojo Siwa, either is fine”

Inline links: Lantern, NYC theme Halloween party, Topo Chico, Mizu Sochu, Okinawa Gin, Peter Pan Donuts

Torres1 mentions across 1 issues

Torres is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between June 09, 2025 and June 09, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "torres truffle potato chips". It most often appears alongside A Court of Thorns and Roses, Allie Rowbottom, Amnesiascope.

Article page: Torres
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: June 09, 2025
Last seen: June 09, 2025

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A supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again June 09, 2025

A Court of Thorns and Roses 1 shared issues
Allie Rowbottom 1 shared issues
Amnesiascope 1 shared issues
Aperol 1 shared issues
Apt 5 1 shared issues

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June 09, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Saturday, May 31 I wake up at six am to Miami Beach hazy dawn, honey bear full of gummy bears, skinny pop popcorn and torres truffle potato chips and I believe this mini bar isn't motion-censored but if it is, well, is already to late because I am crouched over on the floor playing pharmacy with the sorting of cosmopolitan, candies, pretzels, aperol spritz. The sun is hot and already almost too bright outside. There's a kind of resignation to the physical exhaustion of today. I could pump myself full of junk food and sink into the hotel carpet disassociated, spinning, things have been oscillating in such extremes and I guess there is some solid ground now, but I am still so breathless and uncertain when I try to consider this as real. "What I like about a hotel is the idea that you can just completely change vibes," my boyfriend was saying. "Anonymity. Abandon your two week life.” I came to consciousness in my two week life sobbing in the morning. I came to consciousness with tears pouring down my face in the bluest water you have ever seen. There was cognizance while gasping for air at the coconut stand, warm liquor, a scene at The Standard. I plugged the story into chat gpt like someone evil or something all made up. Is the narrator likable, I asked. Is this genius, I begged. A whirling tale about wearing the wrong linens, said the robot. the narrator is kind of redeemable, unlike, clearly [redacted] I have lost all my vindication. I have promised not to beg. I reread the letter and they told Rose at breakfast at The Social Club that she is getting sick because of Central AC. You know you are in Miami right, they ask us. The servers beam big wide beams and only I beam back. I have been working on fiction a lot, but then I find it difficult to swing back here. I find myself very cold and with a lingering sense of maybe fatalism more than nihilism but regardless there is such removal in my made up language no matter how much I try to bring it down to earth. I am not removed at all, here. I learned quickly. I deleted my transcription of the other days so I could better tell you about the parts that Never Happened. I remember almost nothing but it's like I don't really drink anymore, so this was something else. My Miami Beach: The Standard, The Beachcomber, The Betsey, The Social Club. The coconut stand and the diet coke mini bar and the pleading about what happens now - a sunburn, a whole entire life, there was the mystic who was telling us about Gnosticism that summer. There was the quivering lady at the quaker church who was telling us about angels and destiny and if we became unaligned, then there would be nothing else. I did write a story of fiction and so you're getting the scraps, here. I came to consciousness already half in a dream. My consciousness has never faltered, before. We began in Connecticut. Things were bright and nice that weekend. All the green of Connecticut was very lush and it caught me by surprise. I did not feel much to prove nor a need to get all on the defensive. I wrote stories outside of myself, and I was pleased to find an escape. There was a castle over the river ferry in lush and luminous New England spring and it reminded me of somewhere further South and of a life that stretched out all human and endless. I didn't mean to leave again. I didn't mean to cycle on and on and on. We went further South. Bahamas then Miami. It wasn't so much a thing of irresponsibility or of being in a cult as it was, having lots of friends and being given a gift. Drops of water in a wave don't move with the wave, they simply jostle around in place with the wind. He read this aloud to me from my book like this was news and I was stupid. I'm not stupid, I said. His face became crestfallen like he was surprised to find me harsh. I'm sorry for being careless with the only thing in the world I know to be true, I said. My mind was moving too fast but it might have just been the sterile setting and the dehydration. I left New York and I landed in a place where I should never be. It was a bit of impulsivity and a bit of an exercise in absurdity and camp perhaps, though none of it is ever really my decision with these things and these trips. There Are Casinos Everywhere For Those With Eyes To See. There are golf cart highways and fake black marble lounge tables and a DJ saying Let's Get It Started with no irony. There is plenty of sun, too but the rejuvenative qualities of light become quite negated when filtered off of all this pale concrete. Ancestral memory or something of the sort, but I was really craving foggy pine forests by the gray ocean. What was it they were saying in El Salvador? The teachings on light and life from the Bitcoin Doctor in El Salvador were proven to be true because Las Vegas was so palpably optimized to be terrible. They were saying a lot of things in El Salvador, but I did feel like there is something almost nefarious in the Casino-Desert air, here. We took the plane to Miami after that. I'm obscuring the timelines, a bit, again. I rediscovered Privacy and Fiction at right about the same time. I rediscovered golf course concrete roads and mind numbing sun and privacy and fiction and now I'd like to write what happens next but it all begins to feel a bit stilted. The Beachcomber was kind of party party party and bottomless brunch in the lobby and windows that opened onto all that green jungle Miami swim week bottle service ceviche room service drifting around the paths outdoors taking short sharp breaths. The Betsey was more colonial, like a maze, they considered themselves to be bookish and we moved there for the purpose of manufacturing stability and more cheer. Iris came over in the afternoon. I picked her up in the lobby. I dove for my boyfriend's lost coral in the pool downstairs. The skin off my chest burned easily. I lay on the deck of the pool on the roof with a virgin bloody mary for electrolytes, and a spicy watermelon margarita for a self destructive haze. How are you doing, Iris asked. What are your favorite foods, Iris asked. Octopus, apples, apple pie lamb chops with mint jelly, creamed spinach, a certain type of barbeque salmon, a whole roast chicken. It was funny to say Best Day Of My Life because I cried a million billion tears and now we’re swimming in the moonlight off Miami Beach. I like the club scene pulsing behind all the crescent moon glow and waves. It’s a shame about that night and that day. The resurrection has been unsteady but it’s like Kygo and a palm grove and a cityscape behind me, and all blue dark ocean and saturns return to the front. There was a moment there where I lost every piece of everything good. Gulps of water and air. I pull it all back. Sunday, June 1 The flight back from Miami is gray and swift. I spent the evening on the rooftop at The Betsy yesterday. Iris asked me for the list of my favorite foods. Octopus, apples, apple pie, lamb chops with mint jelly, creamed spinach, a certain type of barbeque salmon, a whole roast chicken. The concrete by the pool bar was hot and steamy and we didn’t bring identification and we would not be served. David bought us bloody marys and we drank them behind the tarp where the bartenders couldn’t see. I swam laps up and down and up and down the length of this pool that was mostly for drinking. I found Chanel sunglasses while standing barefoot in the bathroom and I returned them to the French girl. It’s like I’ve been immune to the permanence of ramifications of the things that are really bad, these days. I keep forgiving and I keep on being forgiven. They gave me free Pina Colada samples in little plastic cups. Ok Intense Girl, he was saying, because every time I would pop my head out of the water to say the things I thought, it would be with beady eyes and a determined stare. I like ice cream particularly matcha ice cream and I like lamb, Iris told me. Iris taught me about Gnosticism, and I believe this is somewhat aligned with the situation with me and him, though he thinks it's kind of sacrilegious when I equate my nightmares with mysticism, or when I attribute the interest that people who are kind of half of this world and half of another take in me to anything other than high agreeability and openness. Iris and I walked along Ocean Drive to Kalamata way down South Beach, and then we walked back along the water. A writing retreat, a rave, apocalyptic undertones. You can’t choose solitude and practicality at the edge of an extinction event, is one of many roots of it. I walked barefoot along the boardwalk. I met him for a second dinner. The ribeye was bloody and it came with a gross side of pasta alfredo. I woke up screaming. I woke up all smiles. I took photos of our hands on the plane Just In Case. I showed him a song. The Message. Is this a good song, or is this a secret message, he asked. It’s just a good song, I said. The frat guys in front of us on the plane are reading A Court of Thorns and Roses smut novels and buying tickets to Jake Shane's comedy tour. The guy on my boyfriend's phone intercom is stealing all my LA Apparel underwear from our lobby. I'm eating the Worst Sandwich Ever and Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. I am taking pictures of our reflections in the clouded plane window and I am thinking about how impossible it feels right now, flying like this, to imagine that so often, we become something else. Monday, June 2 I read some GirlInsides on the airtrain back from JFK who I think is just like me if I were more honest and precise about it, or maybe whom my stories would echo more precisely if I did not have this sick need to put my face all over everything. Anyways, GirlInsides was talking about how summer would bring things like long long long hair and farmers market plums eaten over the sink in underwear and writing and reading all over the place, and her ideas made me feel like I was melting and going to cry. Then I wrote what I wanted summer to bring, all - getting off the subway because it's too hot and walking in sandals sticking to my feet until i find somewhere that glows right and then its morning and we're sitting first then lying down on the terrace in sun that becomes unbearable drinking sparkling water out of glass bottles dripping it over my chest opening the door for the blast of air conditioning and to let the friends that come by in and out people floating by in and out and come and go and then at dusk i put on something green and i drink cold cider cold diet coke or spicy watermelon margarita outside at kikis in swan room away from the heat at vol de nuit with fries and garlic sauce on the roof, on my roof, in the backyards and basements and i walk out and walk everywhere when it is time to leave i leave and sometimes it is time to leave and so then I take the train and there’s the coast and then I’m putting laundry on the line in a black bikini and drinking diet coke with lemon in my black bikini and driving to the ocean down the driveway at night headlights breaking through june gloom fog and jumping off the dock where the sharks don't eat us but any summer now they could, or then it's morning and i'm sober writing in my google docs journal walking outside, writing in my greenhouse apartment in new york, writing along the overgrown pond and field and it always smells thicker there outside of boston, writing by foggy shores and rocky shores and sometimes the air becomes thick too and my dad plays dougie mclain and we make pesto pasta mozzarella chicken sausage in yellow china bowls on yellow placemats the meal gets kind of hazy through the sheen of blue hour rain coming through the window and then i'm pacing and writing down ocean drive in Miami because I can't decide where i want to be anymore and i like flashing lights i like coming back to the very nice very cold hotel that we're staying in because he's Sorry but I don't want any more apologies i want this summer to be Being very very very in love because i really have been anticipating extinction events or at least things become robotic sterile i used to think id be pretty good at both being in love like this and at not being robotic and sterile and i have become slightly above average at both these things in practice i guess though, it's nice to have the most human thing in the world, it's nice for me all the time, even then, even when it isn't for him i think it's nicer for me then it would be to not have this all the time and I don't know why i keep sabotaging the only thing i know to be true and human and so i am hoping for a summer of all that, hands pressed against the plane window greenhouse window train window glass mirror glassy water plunging my face underwater no more eb and flow. Anyways, none of that made any sense and then shock of all shocks it did eb and flow again last night. Everyone was so nice to me about my story and I wore the Nasseau, Bahamas shirt he bought for me all Life Is Better In FlipFlops and he wanted me to wear the sunglasses too, to exacerbate the bit but I thought that would be a little bit too far. He said “you know why I’m mad at you” when we got home, and I didn’t know, I had no idea actually, and so then I got sad, but the story was fiction. This is fiction too. I’m not being facetious when I say that. This isn’t even autofiction. This is literally all made up. “they seem lost and completely clueless,” he is saying now, downstairs, on the phone, he is talking about some forty year old woman and an awful charleton and some guy who does RedPill posting online and some guy he personally has a strong dislike for who has a lot of medical malpractice suits against him. Maybe he’s a genius, he is saying. I don’t know, he is saying. These people are so strange, he is saying. Tuesday, June 3 His friend rubs my head like i'm a dog or something when i walk into his stupid fake exclusive evil party that i'm not invited to and then my heart swells with rage. I'm so mad, I was telling everyone. I'm so sorry I didn't mean to say that I guess I had one too many, I was saying. I didn't have one too many, I had just right, I was telling him. I like The Sweet East, he is telling me. I like Yeats and social norms. Yes and, I say; I hope that you get everything you have ever wanted. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Monday, June 9 A quiet night in the realm of events. Consider; dinner at The Marlton’s new restaurant Chez Nous followed by a screening of Buffalo 66 at Metrograph (10pm). I have historically liked The Marlton because it is vaguely past its prime and also a five minute walk from my apartment, and a place where no one ever tells you that you’ve stayed too long. The food at the old restaurant was terrible (so I’ve heard) (I only went for tea), but the recently refurbished Chez Nous is chic and fun and has maintained all of the hotel's original charm. The shrimp salad is very good, as is the martini. I’ll report back after my second visit (possibly tonight). Otherwise - 10pm on a Monday evening is the perfect time to see a film bar none, besides, possibly 1pm on a Friday.

Tory Burch Sport1 mentions across 1 issues

Tory Burch Sport is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 18, 2026 and March 18, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Things Vintage Tory Burch Sport Places"; "Things Vintage Tory Burch Sport". It most often appears alongside Ada Donnelly, Alex Bienstock, Amelia.

Article page: Tory Burch Sport
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: March 18, 2026
Last seen: March 18, 2026
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

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West-side-highway-dog-park March 18, 2026

Ada Donnelly 1 shared issues
Alex Bienstock 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
American Affairs Magazine 1 shared issues
Angel Money 1 shared issues

Source context

March 18, 2026 · Original source

Appendix: Things Vintage Tory Burch Sport Places Babbo, Brown Bag Sandwich, Keens Steakhouse, Night Club 101, Transylvania airbnb Read Narrative Calendar, The Iliad of Homer Watch The Love That Remains Listen five-songs-played-one-after-another created a very simple aura yesterday evening Unchained Melody, Sinnerman, Time After Time, No Ordinary Love, Violence

Inline links: Vintage Tory Burch Sport, Babbo, Brown Bag Sandwich, Keens Steakhouse, Night Club 101, Transylvania airbnb, Narrative Calendar, The Iliad of Homer, The Love That Remains, Unchained Melody, Sinnerman, Time After Time, No Ordinary Love, Violence

Tretinoin1 mentions across 1 issues

Tretinoin is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 04, 2025 and September 04, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Tretinoin before sleep and I did wake up screaming for the first time in a while". It most often appears alongside 131 Chrystie St, 54 Barrow St, Aeronauts Aimed for Altitude, Even….

Article page: Tretinoin
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 04, 2025
Last seen: September 04, 2025

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Drinking Dreams September 04, 2025

131 Chrystie St 1 shared issues
54 Barrow St 1 shared issues
Aeronauts Aimed for Altitude, Even… 1 shared issues
Agnes Enhktamir 1 shared issues
Alexa Ferrer 1 shared issues

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September 04, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, August 24 Lay with filthy tangled hair hanging off the edge of the roof for a while last night, watching the Chase Clock Tower lit up too royal blue and the Empire State Building lit up the nicer sort of baby blue. I've been collecting shades of blue. Kind of navy blue Frankie's Bikini little number reflecting something sort of aqua off my Diet Pepsi on the D-line towards Coney Island. Screaming children on the D-line. Naked man running around trying to steal pedestrians pants on Coney Island. He keeps on saying to the other guy, Darby says - “I like those pants ! Gimme those pants!” And it was all these beautiful friends coming and going last night. Coming and going until it was late, really late, so taxi home and then I ate the toppings off a slice of pizza on the floor with a spoon. I spent the morning alone doing Rituals. Tretinoin before sleep and I did wake up screaming for the first time in a while. Red light therapy and copper multi peptides and avocado eye cream and mineral sunscreen and now I'm on the Subway. Kind of braindead on the subway. It sometimes takes it out of you. This sort of thing can really take it out of you. It's been summer for forever, now. I have a lot more friends now. Connectivity, connected tissue, I walk down Brighton Beach by myself, walk to Tashkent Supermarket for a towel and carrot salad and on the phone I'm saying it is not that I wish for death and even sometimes I fear it but things have become a lot less Risk Averse. I'm a lot less Risk Averse now. It would be better to be dead, someone was saying at the bar last night. She was looking at me eyes all intense and no one was really listening, I could tell no one was really listening but everyone was watching her all the same and I could see them all clenching their bodies and kind of pulling away.. Me particularly, pulling away. Perhaps I'm being self absorbed. It wouldn't be better to be dead, someone else said. He looked at me then, locked eyes which usually makes me kind of uncomfortable but I felt inclined to agree. It's definitely better when nobody is dead, I said. The bar was full of plants and glass. Like a glass jungle, I told my nameless friends at the bar.. That's not very astute, a nameless friend told me. Tonight, the cocktail menu is flavored and priced like a full course meal, and so tonight I order Cold Pizza for dinner. Cold Pizza in a crisp glass bottle, plus greasy fried chicken after that, which comes in thick paper cups. And everyone is so grateful to be alive, tonight. Everyone is so grateful for one more year of life for themselves and for their dear friends particularly. Purple sunrise if I hadn't slept through it. Yellow sunset if I hadn't gritted my teeth and clenched my eyes shut through it. Planted two feet firmly in the ground and screamed through it. First, I made one thousand promises I couldn't keep. Second, I sat on the stoop with an energy drink, water, cool minty menthol gum and the antiseptic kind of sore throat with some bodega spray gripped tight in my hand to heal all my problems. My ailments and the other things. My organs and my mind. Overjoyed to be alive again after leaving my apartment, I told Amelia. It does make things better again, Amelia told me. Tuesday, August 25 Bartending school feels kind of like an alcoholic's vision of a drinking dream. Like holograms of condensation, dim lighting, one takes a sip to the tune of disappointment. Water and food coloring dye. Bowery Park and Whole Foods and JPress nearby and inside; Christmas is coming. Smooth jazz. Everything has felt a bit the same for a time, but my room is clean. Summer is passing. Three months is not so long. Would a functional alcoholic lace up black ankle boots at seven in the morning with a clear mind and bright eyes to catch the train towards midtown towards Bartending School, at the top of the week, at the tail end of August? I am not so good at pretending like anything is changing. Like habits stack towards something greater. It might as well be yesterday, I sigh on the phone. For you, it might as well be yesterday, Amelia agrees. I do the things a person should. Cake for friends' birthdays and the waiter keeps stacking on fees at Union Square Cafe. Cut the cake fee, sit at the table fee, big group of people fee, bring your own food fee. There are other tables next to us all inhabited by people who all appear to be exactly the same, though perhaps I am being uncharitable. Imagine them as skeletons. Imagine them as children. My parents used to tell me this when I was little. Kind of a hack against boredom. I imagine myself as a psychic, looking out on things overpriced and people all exactly the same. You will have a small child and feed her nothing but buttered noodles. You will advance in age but stay exactly the same through invasive surgical facial intervention and stunted social development. You will spend evenings eating french fries with caviar for One Hundred Dollars despite a rich inner world and a childhood pumped full of extracurricular stimulation designed, specifically, to avoid a fate like this. You will fear God more than death and you will understand self destruction to be akin to suicide hence rendering you too, on a trajectory like this, a rather hellish creature. You will wake up in the middle of the night in a small box criss-crossed wood roof apartment in New York City to the sense that there are No Loopholes Left. You will go to bartending school. You will recognize that, while you can be cruel there were other factors at play. There were worse factors at play. Wednesday, August 26 Walking from Greenwich Village to Long Meadow in Prospect Park with a bag filled up with white linen and Thomas Pynchon and a plan to celebrate sweet Sylvie's birthday. A different sort of nostalgia in the air today. Nostalgia of all sorts being kind of a form of mental illness, of course but once - we were woodland fairies. Once, there were fall morning running races and cranberries that crunched under bare feet on Massachusetts roads. Once, there were rounds of Tom Collins in a kind of jazzy jungle garden restaurant in the tropics that my boyfriend who liked gender-roles enjoyed because they wouldn't let girls order their own drinks. Once, I went to the Yankees game in late August, blue and pink hazy skies, the sort of advertisements that blare out notes about Fast Food and Safe Driving in the stadium, and the sort of crowd that is so big it starts inspiring feelings of Life and Spirit rather than Homogoninity and Dread. Once, I walked from bartending school full of Tom Collins, Chambord, a sip of walnut martinini, frangelico liquor. Walked to Caffe Reggio for egg white omelet, toast, a creamy cannoli. Walking to Prospect Park a little bit tipsy. Thinking about the sort of things I used to pretend to care about. Writing about the sorts of things I used to pretend to care about. Writing it all down. Writing and walking. Writing it everywhere. Writing it on the walls. Though, I'm not so bad at keeping secrets anymore. Thursday, August 27 Amelia and I sat at Caffe Reggio until close last night, and now I have returned. Tomato soup and side grilled chicken and creamy cannoli and mint tea because things feel decadent again. Limited consumption. I haven’t really been limiting consumption. The waitress is complimenting the gray sweatpants on the boys at the table over from me, and the waitress seems to be vaguely annoyed with me, though I am trying to be pleasant. Thanks the sweatpants cost enough, the boys are saying, at the table over. Thanks we didn't realize we couldn't split the bill, Amelia and I were saying, last night, our tea was four dollars total and everything was starting to feel a little bit hazy. Sitting on the floor at sunrise, this morning, Amelia and I were watching videos from Miami. Videos from Bahamas. Videos from New York City, 2022, we'd been at all the same parties, but I hadn't known a soul. BAHAMAS, we are beaming, in one video, in the back of a taxi cab, streaking over MacArthur Causeway, Miami-Dade County, Florida, and so, as I recall, the driver was confused. I'm putting on makeup in the photo booth webcam on the floor of a hotel room and Amelia is talking in the background. It's Opposite Day in the background. Who had a mental breakdown, someone is saying in the background. From an outsider's perspective, who was it who had a mental breakdown? Friday, August 28 6:30pm, and I am back at IFC for my third viewing of Diva (1981) in twenty-four hours. I came to view Diva (1981) for the third time in twenty-four hours, because I became very sick of thinking about myself. This is a desirable alternative. The film is beautiful, and I wish to live in places like the apartments pictured. A large and wrecked studio in a car park with painted walls and recording equipment or, a hotel in Paris or, a castle by the sea or, the best one of all is a large blue flat full of puzzles and high ceilings and echoing sea sounds and an aqua glow and a man who wants to learn to stop the waves. They are fighting crime in the film. They are entrapping the criminals and they are doing it kind of like performance art. I don’t wish to spoil the ending. It really is the perfect little film. So; I will send out the recipe for zucchini (courgette) soup, and I will explain away the things I did in breathless optimism as things I did while bored. I will go to The Scratcher, Killarney Rose, Funny Bar, then Gospel then Caffe Reggio again - these are the decadent places to which I continue to return. I will draw my name with Riley on the table in crayon writing Best Friends Forever and listen to Feryquitous ft Sennzai and Sigur Rós and John Maus and think about Switzerland, Iceland, having a lot of dreams about places that are lush, lush, lush. Thinking about places that are quiet quiet quiet. Thinking about places that are green green green. Feels like Fall, outside, after church. Amelia woke me up in a living room that looked like a library and she was screaming that the air was poison. I was difficult to awaken, because it is my own delusions of poison air that wake me up screaming on other nights. Different from tonight. I was reminding myself of reality. I was reminding myself of delusions and keeping my eyes clenched shut while Amelia screamed. Well, the air wasn’t poison after all, just late night and late august and heavy with mosquitos and dust from renovations and revelations and; we walked back to the cafe. I walked through Washington Square Park at dawn. The doorman wished me good night at seven in the morning and the cycles repeated. It isn’t opposite day and we aren’t in hell, just working on things like bed time and emotional regulation. Working on archiving the things that happen outside of my head. It becomes good to have been an archivist all along. It becomes good to become sick of dealing with things mainly in repetition. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, September 4 From 6pm at Carinito — Saloon is throwing a party. Drinks from Dio. Dancing, DJ, tacos, etc

Inline links: Carinito, Saloon, throwing a party

True Religion1 mentions across 1 issues

True Religion is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 12, 2025 and September 12, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Drive to California wearing True Religion low rise jeans". It most often appears alongside Accidie, Albania, AltCitizen.

Article page: True Religion
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 12, 2025
Last seen: September 12, 2025
Instagram handle: @velournewports

Outbound links

Issue trail

Perfect Little Life September 12, 2025

Accidie 1 shared issues
Albania 1 shared issues
AltCitizen 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
ARDOR 1 shared issues

Source context

September 12, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, September 7 Woke up to something amazing happening. More rain outside and also, a message from Emma. How are you? Emma asks. Like no time has passed at all, though of course, years have. There are other things to think about first. Octopus and shrimp salad and some cicen cheese at Tashkent Market. Interrogate one’s own sincerity. I am certain that Emma lives a very full and rich life now. I am not sure where in the world she is. I will know this soon. The first time I met Emma, her mom drove her to my house as a friend of a friend on her sixteenth birthday. I made signs to welcome my new acquaintance. Strung up HAPPY BIRTHDAY EMMA and WE HEART EMMA on poster board in neon sharpie above the wooden porch to greet her when she arrived. Nice to meet you Emma, I remember saying. The formality was awkward because I really wanted Emma to already be my friend. Later, I posted a photo of Emma and I hugging on the beach. Happy birthday Emma, I posted. Like plastering our pseudo-friendship online would make it real. After Emma and I became friends, and after Emma got her learner’s permit a few months after that, she would drive around Natick, Massachusetts with me hidden in the back of her trunk looking for parties that we’d find posted on YikYak. We would come home disappointed, usually, drinking a few warm beers in her parents’ basement or sitting with people we didn’t really know on the outer edges of my parents back yard. A few years had passed that way, and then another year hitchhiking around the Balkans after high school. Emma had convinced me to come bartend in Budapest and so I’d lost or maybe gained another life, here, drinking liquor and taking pills from strange cups in hostel hallways. Hitching rides from strange women across the Montenegro border. We’d bought loaves of bread and tomato sauce and bottles of wine to drink in the backseat and we'd driven for quite some time along coastlines and corn fields. They burned brush to prevent forest fires in this part of the world, and so often the sides of the highway would be almost totally ablaze. Emma and I were always half asleep, half drunk, half larping as destitute and disassociated and developing an early onset case of Peter Pan syndrome as mostly mine but kind of our cerebral ambitions paled in comparison to the magical ephemerality of our alcoholic, older, nomadic, wandering compatriots. My best friend Emma was more solid than I was. She had traveled for a while longer while I washed up in a hotel room in Albania and then, a flight back to Boston. Emma sold coffee in Morocco and then attended Georgetown. Emma calls mid afternoon. Are you still in New York? Emma asks me. She’s in the car in San Diego and she’s driving home from the beach with her boyfriend. Emma and her boyfriend are laughing. The perfect little life. Sitting on the edge of my bed in my New York studio apartment and I’m feeling kind of giddy because here I am, suddenly, with this perfect little window into the perfect little life. It’s exactly as I suspected. I talk quickly at Emma for about twenty minutes when I pick up the phone, mostly recounting the events of the spring and summer, but there are other things, too. Sorry, I say when I finish my story. Sorry sorry sorry. Emma sighs, though she remains cheerful. I always thought you’d marry young, Emma says. Are you ok? Emma asks. You should talk about yourself now, I tell Emma. And so Emma tells me that she is in San Diego with her boyfriend. They have been there since the spring now, and they have started to make some friends. They are driving home from the beach. They are stopping for food. Emma is in a city on the Pacific coast of California known for its beaches, parks and warm climate. Emma is on the edge of a deep harbor that is home to a large active naval fleet. I imagine that it is misty there sometimes and sunny at other times and the houses are bright colored beach bungalows and they are always filled up with a little bit of sand. All my dreams this summer have been about California, I tell Emma. There is an OctoberFest party in San Diego, Emma tells me. Come to San Diego, Emma urges me. Do you surf a lot?, I ask Emma. Where are you getting food? Is everything made of wood and is everyone barefoot all the time and do you buy blue dresses at second-hand shops and wear them as you wander down the coast? Do you feed seagulls scraps of fish as they fly over your perfect white wooden balcony and do you go to the carnival and get massages at open air studios on the pier and is everything kind of pastel and creaky and at what pace does time pass? So, I will go to San Diego. Not in October but sometime soon. Sometime in the spring. Emma and Arthur will drive me around in their perfect little car and I will sleep on their perfect little couch and I will drink Corona with lime and wear a bikini in March and everything will be kind of pastel and creaky and I imagine I won’t be too aware of time passing at all. I will be embraced and absorbed by a life that does not belong to me. Maybe it’ll be like Never Land. Maybe I’ll stay forever. Monday, September 8 In New York City, people feed birds scraps of food and then grab them by their bare hands, too. In Washington Square Park, the tourists from Prague are doing this today. Washington Square Park, which is peppered with falling leaves and fountain mist and Bad Luck Spots, which I will never make the mistake of stepping on again. The park is still green but becoming less so. I’ve been praying for the cold, and now it is almost here. It is September 8th. It is Day One of being Cerebral and Ascetic and I am feeling very horrified that I ever thought it might be good to opt for any other alternative path. I am feeling regretful for my experimentations in self-abandonment and trying-on-new-personalities though, I suppose, this is where God comes in. And it was a God filled day yesterday, which is something I still hope to be somewhat watchful with and let things happen to me rather than intellectualize it all. The greatest thing is to Love and Know and Be Loved And Known, strangers kept on telling me yesterday. I already knew this, but I wrote it down anyway. Write it down and filter it through new contexts. Begin the day. It is Monday now. It is September 8th. I run into Emilia at Caffe Reggio, where I always sit and where she always finds me. You seem kind of volatile, she tells me. You should write about God if you are sick of writing about yourself. You should write about art. You should not write about politics. You should come to Slovenia. I was sitting in a church last night and someone was laughing outside. The laughter was reverberating inside. The laughter was distorting sound waves off the walls and causing interference with the incense and the air and with the silence. Because it was, otherwise, silent. Felt very frozen. Felt like fall. Felt like it was all beautiful even here in stupid NYC. Felt like I slowly noticed myself, shaking. What's your favorite book, a stranger asked me at the bar, later. V by Thomas Pynchon I said, because that's the book I read last and my mind was moving kind of slowly. What's your favorite film, the stranger asked. Diva by Jean-Jacques Beineix because that is the film I watched and liked last or also; Manhattan and Match Point, I said. What's your favorite book, I asked the stranger. The stranger smiled. I always say The Bible when people ask me that. Tuesday, September 9 In the criss-crossed wood-roofed apartment, the lights start to flicker around eight pm which is a good reminder, then, that one is never supposed to linger in the sort of place like this. One is supposed to live in a city like this so that one might pace around and wait for omens. It is Fashion Week which means even less to me this year than Art Week did the week before. It is energies and after parties and humiliation rituals when I'm wearing my cotton non-synthetic workout wear all around Soho at a time like this and; all of this of course, means nothing at all and so this week is just like any other. This summer passed kind of dusty and endless and I do not feel sorry for myself anymore because first of all there is no need for that it is just one life all at once and second of all, Accidie is the only truly mortal sin and so one must proceed with caution. I sat with Amelia in bars with sparkling water in June for a while because I just could not go home. I sat with other sorts of substances for a while after that and I took it too far. Day One (trying again) of being Ascetic and Cerebral tonight. September 9. 999. People on the Internet say that means something and I'm good at taking people at their word. Sitting in the basement of Night Club 101 at the AltCitizen show with Joe and Darby and a cup of Suju waiting for the after party to start. The basement of Night Club 101 feels kind of like a high school music room classroom particularly now, particularly empty. Joe and Darby and I are talking about the gap between self possession and self awareness and a Kinsey Scale sort of method of categorizing people this way. Self possessed people often lacking self awareness and vice versa. The lowest form of discourse being discourse on discourse. Smart people talking about ideas average people talking about events stupid people talking about other people; though, I sort of disagree with this concept. Other people are the root of all loftier things like "Ideas", I am saying. It's like The Backrooms down here, Darby is saying. It's like a kind of weird vibe but we don't want to leave. We're near the bathrooms and so others keep drifting by but they don't want to stay. Fabulous outfits. Rockstar Girlfriends. Los Angeles apparel unitard and big black boots lining up for the restroom or to buy socks that say I CAN DO ANYTHING ON DRUGS. Patchwork style neon dress and small gray loafers, silver ballet flats leather pants light green linen v neck top. Lots of girls with long and flowy and jet black hair here. Lace black dresses that look like spiderwebs paired with emerald necklaces. Lots of guys in jeans with long and curly hair or long and greasy hair and they all are carrying guitars. I'm perched in the bleachers in the basement with my one kind of SEC-school-style-tattoo and an A-line dress watching everyone kind of wistfully. So, there were a few different lives and now there is something else. Maybe in the next one, I will pick a life like the club kids. Micro-bangs and rock music. Fall asleep in Bushwick or in the back of a bus. Buy a bus and drive across the country with a lust for Music above all. Drive past things like diners in Wyoming or sacred hot springs in New Mexico or the haunted Mount Washington Hotel in New Hampshire or Motel 6s and 8s somewhere along the way. Drive to California wearing True Religion low rise jeans and shredded tees. Drive all the way to the Pacific Ocean. Can't stop thinking about the Pacific Ocean. Drive to San Diego. Wash up on Emma and Arthur's door. I would do fewer things each day in this life, but maybe each of them would matter more. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Friday, September 12 From 7:30pm - 9:00pm at Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research — It’s your last week to see ARDOR - a very special play following a group of nine artists and friends on an annual retreat to their aging patrons Vermont farmhouse. Nothing and everything has changed and will change.

Inline links: Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research, ARDOR

TrustPilot1 mentions across 1 issues

TrustPilot is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 27, 2025 and February 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "David sent me the company's TrustPilot reviews and it was all things like 'TOTAL SCAM'". It most often appears alongside Aesop's Fables, AGI, AI Grifts.

Article page: TrustPilot
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 27, 2025
Last seen: February 27, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

Your Favorite Grifters Favorite Grifter February 27, 2025

Aesop's Fables 1 shared issues
AGI 1 shared issues
AI Grifts 1 shared issues
Allison 1 shared issues
Ancient Legends of Ireland: Music Charms & Superstitions of Ireland with Sketches of the Irish Past 1 shared issues

Source context

February 27, 2025 · Original source

Sunday, February 23 "Whenever I see a guy in a Yankees cap I assume it's a cop," David said, of the clearly undercover officer observing the turnstiles at the Bleecker St station.” At the bar, I was playing journalist. They were celebrating an AI software that marketed itself as undetectable as AI, good for cheating in school, or in screenwriting, code, whatever you want, and it was clear they thought more people would be at the party, they bought raspberry lemon Svedka, I was fighting these Florida tech guys for proximity to the only small space heater in the room. "Do you have any moral qualms about what you do?," Allison asked one of the founders; and he said "no, we're building a tool. you can use a hammer to build a house or to kill someone." Then Alison said something like yes but you aren't building artificial intelligence you are building explicitly undetectable artificial intelligence with the express purpose of cheating and then the founders started talking about the overton window and you're in or you're out and they called my boyfriend over to tell him that he needs to work specifically and only in web app development if he wants to survive the AGI and ASI apocalypse. David was all ehh about it, humoring them a bit but then like oh excuse me I'm going to get a drink and never came back, and then the founder said to me, I like him he's disagreeable and not effeminate unlike most of these N-Y-C guys man, but he needs to listen to me about being a web developer because of the overton window and AGI and ASI coming fast. Then I said why do you work in this industry if you think AI development will only have bad implications and the founder said because it's an arms race and you don't want to land on the wrong side of the glass wall. I didn't ask but thought of this later - do you really think AI will respect its creator? Or, does working on an anti academic artificial intelligence cheating software save you from apocalyptic doom? Later, the founders were telling everyone that the next step of their plan is a pivot to building a game connected to some NFT about mentally ill women called SSRI-wives. Later, a few people kept telling me you should talk to the Gen-Z kid, there's a Gen Z kid here and this program does all his homework, and I didn't meet this kid until late in the night when the founder called him over and said "do you know what Urbit is," and the kid said yes, and the founder sighed and said "he's very online." And then they brought in some girls from Miami off the street because they needed more heads, and then these girls on the street were talking about being from Miami and so the founders said want some free drinks and they pulled them into the room, and then the girls were talking to me about Dinner At Kikis and Quitting Her Server Job Even Though She Loves All The Friends She Made. Then, David sent me the company's TrustPilot reviews and it was all things like “TOTAL SCAM” and “took $6000 from my bank account” and he said this is clearly a total grift even from my preliminary research. Then, there was dinner at Forgetmenot, and there was never returning to the Strange Grift Party, and I was going to write a story. I was going to tell you about grifts and technology, but then, well, I am not sure if there is too much left to add. And I’m not sure if I like to think about these things, although the doomerism fades when you quickly find that the cartoonishly evil project was just a hologram all along. Monday, February 24 When I was eighteen years old, I lived in a hostel in Prague by myself in the springtime, and I was so lonely. I would walk to the park everyday and I would lie in the april grass and I would close my eyes and imagine that when I opened them, I would be surrounded by company. I would imagine that I would laugh and grab someone's hand and we would twirl down the streets towards the old town that reminded me of a fantasy land, a true fantasy land because everything there was all made up. McDonalds were housed in historic old buildings and I didn’t understand why the others I worked with would go on runs every morning just to drink more beer on their returns. Prague was a hologram to me too. I liked the people I met and I liked that they were never going to grow up. I had no friends there. Eventually, I did, but in April I was always alone. These days, I am never alone. I was so sleepy yesterday and not in a nice way. I would like to avoid these things. I will drink green tea on the terrace this morning. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO After reading Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu 1872 novella Carmilla for my Irish Lit class last week, I’ve been feeling big on fairytales and magic. My sister Sylvie is the most magical girl in the world, as well as the most well read. She has offered her list of recommended fairy tales for this letter: Fairy Tales (by Sylvie Pingeon) I try to read a section of Lady Jane Francesca Wilde’s Ancient Legends of Ireland: Music Charms & Superstitions of Ireland with Sketches of the Irish Past every night before I go to bed. It’s a truly magic book that brings fairytales into daily life with spells, remedies, and little bits of fairy advice: “People ought to remember that egg-shells are favorite retreats of the fairies, therefore the judicious eater should always break the shell after use, to prevent the fairy sprite from taking up his lodging therein.” A fairytale self-help book, and I love it. As a child, my favorite book was House Above the Trees by Ethel Cooke Eliot. Everything by Eliot is so special: she writes of wind creatures who look like the wind feels and tree girls who wear skirts made from the leaves of their trees (green in the summer, red in the fall), and the humans who can see these forest people have the clearest eyes around. All her books are like this, but House Above The Trees is my favorite: an eight year old orphan follows a Wind Creature into the forest and is taken in by Tree Mother, who lives in the treetops. A wonderful, fairy adventure ensues. Brothers Grimm is also always great, although Bluebeard gave me nightmares as a child that still sometimes come back. My mom gave me a beautiful copy of Aesop’s Fables for Christmas this year. It’s beautiful but I haven’t read it yet. A lot of second-wave feminists wrote retellings of fairy tales, and I’m a little embarrassed to say this, but I found Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber to be a truly beautiful read. On the topic of AI Grifts, Gabriel Hollis (of Margin for Thought and Microculture) recommends the following articles on Technology and God and Our End Times. All ideas that fall under near debilitatingly large banners, and all topics which Gabriel explores well. To be honest, I need to dive into these pieces with more intensity before I offer any original thoughts, but I will leave you with the links: Seeking God, or Peter Thiel, in Silicon Valley by Emma Goldberg, for NYT

TSE1 mentions across 1 issues

TSE is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 09, 2024 and October 09, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "Drape a TSE cashmere sweater over the back of the tee". It most often appears alongside 52 Walker, @singersny, Are.na.

Article page: TSE
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 09, 2024
Last seen: October 09, 2024
Instagram handle: @shrimpandgritseater

Outbound links

Issue trail

Collected Agenda with Sam Falb October 09, 2024

52 Walker 1 shared issues
@singersny 1 shared issues
Are.na 1 shared issues
Basement 1 shared issues
Behind The Seams 1 shared issues

Source context

October 09, 2024 · Original source

...d Wool Top Coats As the seasons change, ask yourself: what’s a sartorial need? For me, I want a crisp yellow tee from Olly Shinder , Club Mel via RE/DONE , or Gimaguas . Drape a TSE cashmere sweater over the back of the tee (probably black or cream), and throw a deeply cozy, black, wool top coat over the combination. This is the impending winter uniform of choice. Insulated, style-forward,...

Uber Eats1 mentions across 1 issues

Uber Eats is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between April 04, 2025 and April 04, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "I order uber eats groceries at midnight". It most often appears alongside 154 Scott Ave, 247 Varet, A HAPPENING.

Article page: Uber Eats
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: April 04, 2025
Last seen: April 04, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Live Diary. April 04, 2025

154 Scott Ave 1 shared issues
247 Varet 1 shared issues
A HAPPENING 1 shared issues
Alexi Wasser 1 shared issues
Alice Aster 1 shared issues

Source context

April 04, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Thursday, March 27 Midnight in New York, I'm taking stock of my glass apartment in the sky. I brought back nine dresses from El Salvador - eight old ones, one black tennis dress from El Tunco. All to be washed. Open the window. There is spring breeze now, all of a sudden, really, but I've been growing accustomed to real heat. These things I used to hate - dense hot air, beating sun, a day that stretches on under direct natural light, no end, no plans.... I would suddenly like to return to this, actually, over frigid and clipped stories about foggy northern coastlines and other things in that vein. Over stories about New York, and other things in that vein. David has stayed in San Salvador, and then, Santa Teresa, Costa Rica. It would have been basically free for me to come and yes I have commitments here but not too many if we're being really honest. I would have become kind of a freak after three whole weeks in airbnbs that are calling themselves "hacker houses," though, is the main issue. And, I wanted to do laundry and stretch in the spring breeze, open the window, set an alarm. It would be so easy for me to untether the physical circumstances of my whole life, these days. It would be easy to have distance from New York, as the main thing, but distance from physicality more generally, too. I've done it before. Honestly, I'm not eighteen anymore, I don't think it makes sense for me to do it again. I will probably stop being so strange and vague once I have even one conversation with my friends back in New York. For now, it is very strange to be alone. Very strange to walk around even a small space, that even only temporarily, is belonging just to me. The past few weeks have been about eclipsing interiority with observation. Floating in realms that are foreign. Not El Salvador, even. The hacker house stuff more. The dialogue of it all, more. The other reason I am here, home, abandoned visions of a hologram of Santa Teresa and also I already really miss my boyfriend - well there was responsibility and laundry and the reading and the stories to finish but also, the lunar eclipse played a role for sure. Something about the Earthquakes and Volcanoes. The floods and the fights. Seek less direct attention from that vivid piercing beaming beating sky. Seek solid ground, I saw someone say online. So, I did. I'm back in stupid dumb New York. Window open. You can barely feel all that fresh air. Friday, March 28 I do go for a walk in the morning, and I do still love New York, I decide. I want to have very delicate arms and boundless energy. I want to have tremendous discipline in a way so as to elicit joie de vivre, and also paths of clarity. The brain fog is so bad today. In the middle of the night, the jet lag woke me up, and I hate sleeping alone in this apartment. I'm sorry, I know I’m being a child but I hate it, the emptiness, when I wake up from paralysis, there are often moments of brief delusion. Alone, glass house, I have to talk myself down. I’ve tried to bring myself to life, today - long walk, two protein bars, slice of papaya, sushi roll for dinner, diet coke and cigarette, make a Vlog, make a Call. David had sleep paralysis, too, last night, he tells me on the phone. This is weird, because usually, this is a plight that is just for me. In real life, there was a creepy elderly woman occupying the hacker house in El Salvador, too. “I started a magazine last year,” she told me, when I told her I was a writer. “Oh, cool, about what?,” I asked her. “I don’t remember,” she told me. Blank gaze. Empty eyes. She would sometimes walk through our room while I slept, and one time I woke up to her passing by, vacant glance, I was obviously shocked, she looked obviously pleased. “How are ya, Love?” she said. The word “love” here, carrying a lot of the weight in making the indecent violation of space a lot creepier. “It’s fun, isn’t it?,” she told David’s friend, while he was doing the dishes. “Turning the water on and off is fun, it’s all fun, isn’t it?” She had referred to herself as a refugee, in El Salvador. From where, I had asked her. From Canada, she had said. A real eccentric freak, and in David’s dream, he wakes up to her sneaking up behind him, looming over him, it’s all fun isn’t it. She says sinisterly: “do you know what I think?” Then, in his dream, he felt her weight bend the bed springs and begin to smother him. Lunar eclipse. New moon. I find this dream ominous enough that I begin to become very concerned. You have to get out of there, I tell David. I'm leaving tomorrow anyways, he reminds me. Saturday, March 29 I spent the night last night reading at Tense and it was really lovely. Kansas Bowling reading and Valley Latini doing a hip hop show and Beckett Rosset on the Providence Hotel and me on half formed thoughts on the half complete piece I am writing on Techno Spirituality and El Salvador. I’m back in Real Life, and I don't regret it. I spent the morning by myself working on my edits. David is still traveling, and I am being more normal about it this time. In jet lagged fugue state, I burned the kettle down to a lump of molten plastic, not on purpose, obviously. I called my dad who's moral judgment I trust in full, so this clarifies a lot of things. I forgot how much I like running really really really fast. Whenever I am craving the extremes, I should access them through lots of sprints. The wind is crazy today. The wind has everyone whooping and hollering through the streets. I'm making TikToks again. I don't care. There are worse evils or, rather, you can leverage anything for evil if you really want and honestly, I am just trying to have lots of fun. Some of you are awfully pretentious for being addicted to things like Ketamine and Feeld. Not me. I don’t like drugs, and I have a soulmate. It is just as bad if not worse to be addicted to your phone as it is to anything else, but I’m regulating my time, and I’m microdosing my slop - or so I tell myself. Sunday, March 30 I order uber eats groceries at midnight, and then it's like celsius and chicken just washes up at my door. I don't like this. Chemicals, aspartame, the dissolution of the social fabric, really. How these things just materialize when you want to actualize some gross borderline animalistic whim. Craving. Diet Blackberry Pepsi. I would not like to live anywhere but New York City, or really anytime but now when I think it through on a very personal and very literal level. But there is something here that I increasingly am wary of as mere hallucination. There is much to consider. I am trying to be very energetic which, really, is the feeling that I increasingly cast as synonymous with Health. We went to Bacaro for dinner last night, then to Clockwork, later. “Do you know about how to get dinner for free,” some girl sitting next to my friend and me said. Then, she explained the concept of Club Promoters. Yeah I know, I said. I didn’t say it in a rude way. I just told her that I already knew, which I already did. My energy feels back in a way that feels very True today. Before I left for El Salvador, I was getting in the habit of killing time. Looking at an hour and wishing it over. I don’t want to quantify anything. What would happen if I never rushed a second again? This is what I’m trying to figure out. What would happen if I never rushed a second again? This is what I’m trying to figure out. Monday, April 1 My mind was reeling so fast in my Irish Literature class this evening. I started flicking through Internet Web Applications at warpspeed. I made some calls. I didn’t go crazy. “Saying no is a far more reliable path to avoiding sin than saying yes”, I heard someone say, through my fog, through the haze - that snapped me out of it quite quickly. “What if you literalize that, and just say no to everything?” a quiet girl across from me asked. I wrote this part down - “JUST SAY NO TO EVERYTHING!!!!” It was humid, heavy, soon-to-be-hot spring, today, in New York. I lost my head. Truly. I became very braindead very quickly, today. I recovered as best I could. It’s the way these things always go. Unmoored from the interactions you’ve been taking for granted, you’ve been alone with your thoughts and suddenly, you’ve found yourself thinking Nothing At All, and Saying A Lot Out Loud And Saying A Lot Online. You realize, suddenly, how wrong this all is, and then you become briefly concerned that maybe, suddenly, it is already too late for you. Or maybe it isn’t too late after all.. Water on the windowsill. I remember spring two years ago, a taxi cab from Chelsea down to where the East River runs near the Lower East Side. I wore a yellow dress and I ran like the wind from the river to the hotel bar. The fires. The maggots. It was that day in New York when it felt like cosmically, biblically, something bad was probably about to happen. The Seven Plagues. The air was thicker and hotter, then. I am thinking about that day because I was braindead on the Internet then, too. Celsius, protein bar, things had begun all thick and ugly and then I’d been whisked away into a big black car, shuttled to the bar at Nine Orchard, my friends convincing me to stick around and then I did, I stuck around for a while, I never really left after that, come to think of it. “It’s Deep Tech Week in New York,” Shannon tells me, today - whatever that means. She sends me an event as such, and I investigate the schedule for the rest of this week from there. Deep Tech Week is a week of events about Tech, and they added the word Deep in front of it to make it seem more cool, I realize quickly. “Turning Science Fiction into Reality,” the text on the website says, and I don’t really like the sound of that. I find that premise, as strictly a premise, material reality aside, even, to be nearly cartoonishly evil. But, I suppose I’ll try to be less pedantic. I eat a sugar cookie (gluten free). Two protein bars from that new brand DAVID. A brand activation crispy sandwich from Joe And The Juice. The packaging is orange instead of that usual nice pastel pink. KEVIN DURANT, the packing says. It is nine pm, and I am suddenly ravenous. Good. Looks like I got my corporeality back. I really was planning to go to the Deep Tech Party tonight, but the rain started in an instant, in the exact instant I was set to leave, really. Like it’s trying to communicate some form of serendipity, reason, warning, whatever. Monday is the day where I let myself get every last thing done on my phone. My eyes burn. It rots the soul. My week continues and I become much more particular with myself. Tuesday, April 2 It’s not that I mind being kind of exhibitionist, even, but I can’t control the feedback loop and I start to drive myself mad. Taking stock of the state of the union like THINGS THAT ARE "IN": Swimming

Uncrustables1 mentions across 1 issues

Uncrustables is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 17, 2025 and September 17, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Purchase: uncrustables and celsius". It most often appears alongside 1301PE, Aamina Khan, Adoration of the Magi.

Article page: Uncrustables
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 17, 2025
Last seen: September 17, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Aura-Abysmal September 17, 2025

1301PE 1 shared issues
Aamina Khan 1 shared issues
Adoration of the Magi 1 shared issues
Alex Arthur 1 shared issues
Alexa Dark 1 shared issues

Source context

September 17, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Saturday, September 13 8:01am Driving over the Williamsburg Bridge where the skyline of New York City (the place where the Energies have been swirling back to life but all kinds of evil ones) is now tinged kind of light blue. The gallery last night was orange and swirling with smoke which made me gag. I couldn't really hear the readings. Something about grilled chicken. Do you think we got second hand high, my friend asked me. Do you think anything artistically interesting happens anymore? We found other friends, then, which is a good thing about New York City; insofar as it always feels quite small. We meandered further downtown for a while which was nice despite everywhere feeling a bit like a crime scene and sleep deprivation due to current events in my personal life and also on a more global and national scale. 8:27am There's a cemetery that is green green green in Middle Village and the graves are all topped with angels. There are bumper stickers that say TEACH SOMEONE HOW TO PRAY THE ROSARY on a gray car and MAKE NAZI’S AFRAID AGAIN on a blue car. 8:39am Listening to La Bás by Huysmans on tape in the car. "He could not stay in one place long and kept on inventing reasons to leave the house," the recording says. 11:29am It is sunny in Delaware and the billboards in New Jersey are amazing. Staring at my kind of puffy reflection in a streaked mirror at a rest stop feeling kind of weightless to be outside Manhattan which is kind of how it always goes these days. I do the things I need to do, but I’m not sure if that makes them right. I try to be precise and honest. I have not been acting very Selfless, but there are other things to consider besides Nobility and Sacrifice. Purchase: uncrustables and celsius. Interrogate the mundane because there is only so much one can glean from The Bigger Picture. A dress from Zara is kind of Washington-DC-Chic. This, or a side-zip sale-rack dress from DVF. I pumped my veins full of microplastics and bought an ill-fitting wardrobe. I drank iodine until my thyroid exploded. I got a tick-born illness and now steak tartar triggers anaphylactic shock. It is good that nothing bad has ever happened. 1:00pm Washington DC is Butterworth’s bone marrow for lunch and then the bookstore nearby to purchase a new copy of Paradise Lost and then The National Gallery where I like the Italian Renaissance section best because all the images are very well preserved and reverent. The most special works to me are Frau Angelico’s Adoration of the Magi and David with the Head of Goliath ceremonial shield because it’s satisying to imagine someone going into battle with something so bejewled and decedant despite the cermemonial nature of the shield that renders this idea irrelevant and a painting that I note as just Big Baby which is wonderful because the angel wings depicted are transparent like the light is just starting to rise. There is Cupid With The Wheel of Time and Bachuus floor tiles. Bachuus being; God of wine revelry and fertility. I grew up in a home peppered with masks of Bacchus and, in my old apartment we adorned the walls in masks of Bachuus, too. I tell my friends how I bought one ceramic Bachuus mask in April and then other masks kept on arriving in the mail after that. It was a colorful kind of Venetian mask to start, and then the ones that came after were darker and smaller. Like something out of a horror movie, my friends say. And this is kind of true yes, except like all reverent images or omens one can seek either good or evil or one can also choose to accept that; the most simple explanation is always the true one. And things used to be so much more interesting because everyone was much more reverent, I am thinking. Except then we walk over to the French area where the art is less reverent but more like a fairy tale. Hubert Robert’s The Ponte Salario and Francois Boucher’s Allegory of Painting and Fragonard’s Blindman’s Bluff, which makes me feel full of light Jean Honoré Fragonard’s Blindman's Buff (1775-85) - Photo via The National Gallery WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, September 17 From 7pm at EARTH — I Feel Like Seth Price in 2012 commences with BEFORE AND AFTER WRITING book launch and reading and record launch.

Uniqlo1 mentions across 1 issues

Uniqlo is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between December 09, 2025 and December 09, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Do you shop at Uniglo, my family members are asking". It most often appears alongside A Winter Ball, Alice Bailey, An Evening of Internet Cinema.

Article page: Uniqlo
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: December 09, 2025
Last seen: December 09, 2025

Outbound links

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32365707/

Issue trail

Hotel Lobby Gossip December 09, 2025

A Winter Ball 1 shared issues
Alice Bailey 1 shared issues
An Evening of Internet Cinema 1 shared issues
Annabel Gould 1 shared issues
Araya 1 shared issues

Source context

Hotel Lobby Gossip

December 09, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, December 1 Everyone is sick and dropping like flies but not me. I’m at a rooftop hot tub in Williamsburg tracing my hands through the water and watching the sun come up as I stare blankly ahead. I’m driving back to New York City squinting into the skeleton trees and the blue hour dusk that fills the space between them on the side of the road off the Mohawk Trail. Do you shop at Uniglo, my family members are asking? I am muttering something about Brandy Melville in response and then I am feeling vaguely nauseous. I am break the pattern today or the loop repeats tomorrow. I am imagining everything magical all the time. I am washing up on the Upper West Side where the streets are wide and quiet and sweet and winter rain has frozen everything shining. I am washing up in the Marlton Hotel Lobby, where I am telling Celia about my dream. In my dream, a composite of every person I’ve ever met was calling me on my phone, I tell Celia. They kept on asking me to turn the call to Facetime instead. They kept on saying it was time to see each other’s faces. They were warm and not scary and I was crying and pleading a lot, though I don’t know what for. Was it everyone you ever met, or just everyone you’ve ever cared for? Celia asks me. Same thing, I say. That is unequivocally untrue, Celia tells me. Tuesday, December 2 In The Marlton Hotel lobby, I order black coffee, avocado, smoked salmon and sourdough toast with the perfect type of butter. The butter with salt water mixed in, and then a tall bottle of sparkling water on the side, too. Eavesdropping at The Marlton Hotel, where the bar room is decked in Christmas cheer and the fire, per usual, is roaring. The conversations on either side of me are increasingly hallucinogenic. Two chirpy and pretty girls to the right, and two middle-aged Jewish ladies to the left This is how I feel with a lot of my relationships, one of the girls says. The first was not a provider, but I thought that I could fix that. The second was a psycho libertarian who got me health insurance as his sick way of trying to lock it down The last man I dated told me I was full of shit, her friend responds. I said something in earnest, and he said that I was full of shit. I could never see past that. Me saying something in sincerity, and him saying I was full of shit. On the other side, the middle-aged Jewish women are talking about pizza night. It’s pizza night and then it’s pepper night. They have no plans this week. These are the only plans they have made. I’m getting dinner with a man who thought his whole family was dead, but then they weren’t, one of the women tells the other. He is so amazing. He taught me about exercise. I get the zoomies, says her friend. We don’t work, and so we have to exercise. I hate people who don’t. Exercise? Exercise. When were things the best with him? The first girl is asking her friend. I think, before we met, the friend responds. Who was that coocoo-for-coco puffs lady that you got friendly with, the middle aged woman asks her friend. She is wearing a red amulet. We will call her Celine. Oh, she was crazy. and the sister was out of her mind. she was very beautiful You introduced her to me one week and we loved her. And then the next week you said; She Cannot. Come. Back. Here. We pick up interesting people. Everyone’s interesting It is so weird when we think about relationships as two full selves coming together, one girl is telling the other. They liked coats! Whole family of coat owners, Celine is telling her friend. I mean the father was GAY. The whole family was gay. My first kiss was gay. Well… his brothers were gay. All his brothers were gay…” Celine’s friend says. So he HAD to be! They’re all gay! As long as they’re happy…. Amongst the girls to the right, the conversation has turned to heaven and earth. Death and other realms. They are talking about Neurolink and how they were at a neurolink conference and they met a man who died for twenty minutes because he slipped and fell and chipped a tooth and affixated in his own blood. Do you want to hear what happened when he died?, one girl asks another Yes, the other responds. He was floating in light. He was disembodied. He could hear sounds but they weren’t sounds he could describe in human terms. There was a God-like presence, and God asked the man if he would like to stay. The man started to feel a pull towards earth. It was like when you wake up from a dream. God said you have a choice. God said everyone has a choice. The man made the decision to go back to Earth. The man woke up in the hospital bed. Her friend responds: I spoke with a psychiatry professor at Harvard who briefly died as part of a death-study, but he couldn’t tell me about it because he signed an NDA. He said he can’t say very much, but it’s going to be ok. Girl 1: So what do you think about that? Girl 2: I mean I definitely don’t believe in heaven or hell Girl 1: The reason I never killed myself is because I want to see what happens Girl 2: I mean I definetly do believe that consciousness is eternal… Wednesday, December 3 What do I care about now? Write and read. Wait with pulsing anticipation but not too much anticipation, mostly just a sense that some things are at their tail end and others at their precipices. Something in Saturn, maybe, but I am trying not to play with fire in this way. After I played Kali Uchis off the tinny computer speakers and I read books by healers who possessed demons and I drank sparkling water and cleaned everything top to bottom and flirted with danger a bit, Celia came over to sit on my floor. I think I’m having a bit of a panic attack, Celia texted me. Would you like to come sit on the floor of my apartment, I texted Celia. She arrived in a gray sweater and a blue wool scarf and bearing a suitcase that belonged to me. Do you like the window open? I asked Celia. I am feeling a bit cold, Celia told me. I am feeling very excited and ambitious, I told Celia. I have always had boundless energy and this is the only thing I know to be true. There are magazines on the way to the apartment and I am realizing how nice it is when things are very clean. I am going to go to The Marlton hotel now, Celia told me. Thursday, December 4 Writing, like a list, the things I have that I can quantify, now. A blog

Urbit1 mentions across 1 issues

Urbit is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 23, 2025 and January 23, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "a borrowed Urbit hat from David, a beanie really". It most often appears alongside 4 Berry Street, 61 Lispenard, A Room of One's Own.

Article page: Urbit
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 23, 2025
Last seen: January 23, 2025
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

Outbound links

Issue trail

Burn my diaries January 23, 2025

4 Berry Street 1 shared issues
61 Lispenard 1 shared issues
A Room of One's Own 1 shared issues
A Silent Woman 1 shared issues
Ada Antoinette 1 shared issues

Source context

January 23, 2025 · Original source

The chalky pavement has turned to ice in the afternoon. Walking under the Washington Square arch on the way to Tibet House and its icier than ever. The ground is all glazed over. It’s the latest installment of the Arden Wohl’s reading series at Tibet House; Inauguration Edition this time. Madelyn is wearing a pink sweatshirt when I get there. Madelyn is telling me about knowing your own mind. Alex Auder reads about cock sucking and brings up a friend to read with her who enjoys the act, because she doesn't "I feel demeaned when I suck dick. I feel demeaned when I teach yoga," she says. She reads a story about a life in servitude to someone famous who reminds her of Donald Trump. Tonight is a night where as soon as I have one glass of wine, I wish I didn’t. The haze sets in, and I want it to clear. Beckett arrives. The readings are mostly good, but I’m jittery. I sit in the lobby and I eat some grapes and cheese, replace the wine with water. “Over the years I noticed from my overlord that peasants were increasingly behaving like they were nobles,” Alex Auder is saying, when I return. “There are more cameras than there are people in the world,” Gideon Jacobs is reading, later. I can’t stop drifting in and out of the room. I’m worried about some things, about some people. I get like this sometimes, and I wish I could get it to stop. I go to the bathroom and I return again, to a reading about Courtney Love. “She used to do water ballet and she was getting into the grateful dead.” “She lied a lot and never listened directly but she was a sponge - she takes a word from an incidental periphery and works it into her trope in real time. She’s that fast.” “She said she was born on my birthday; July 1st, but she was born a week later; July 8th” This is my type of lie, I’m thinking. A lie to please. False enchantment. It’s a juvenile compulsion, you mostly outgrow it, and if it was Courtney Love partaking then perhaps it was charming, but my visceral reaction is one of repulsion. Lizzi Bougatsos reads about Gary Indiana. She sits on the floor and she clips her toenails. “We shall mark memory with reverence,” Arden is saying. Beckett is telling me that it’s cool to be at a reading that’s an older crowd, and it is, it’s wine and cheese, there’s no disco party to follow. Beckett introduces me to his acquaintance from Paris. They are talking about Godot and prison sentences. Samuel Beckett gave his Nobel Prize money to a jail org, or was it prisone.org One time, there was a prison break after a performance of Godot. Madelyn is making tape formations on her phone with the other Lacanians. Lacan as separated from psychoanalysis. Lacan as applicable to real life. I’m just gleaning sentences. These ideas aren’t mine. Cigarette outside and then a burger at the orthodox Jewish establishment nearby. We forgot they can only do vegan cheese on burgers here. A lychee martini instead. They’re playing pop music so loud Wednesday, January 23 I hear my neighbors door shut as I’m poised to leave this morning. Decide, instead, to hover in the kitchen. We don't really like each other, my neighbor and I. Nothing was ever said, but there’s an underlying hostility. I have friends over too late, too often. The walls are thin. I'm glad to be waking up at the same time as the rest of the world, though. Sometimes - up all night, becoming manic around five am, this can be nice, but it's usually not. Normal hours. Normal cycles of day and night. The ice has come and smoothed everything over. Too cold to listen to music on my walk to school. I'm peeling off layers in an office, at the gym, the hallway of our apartment is becoming salty and dusted with the chalky snowstorm residue that first coated the surface of everything, and that now is starting to settle. Nothing is volatile. Such placidity, suddenly, but I’m not bored. All the calm in the world. Thank god. It really was about time. And so, you eat two chalky protein pop tarts on the bench at the gym. There are two girls with thick french accents in the locker room parallel to you. "He's a fucking retard, he only calls me at three am and it's only because he wants to sleep with my friends," says one of the girls. She's wearing a sherpa jacket. KHRISJOY, it says, in big red dripping letters. Spray paint imitation. You look it up - $2145 online. It's so ugly, but you're vaguely impressed. Of course you are. You're wearing a Versace sports bra that you bought for a music festival in high school. Absurd. The people watching here is good. The girl is still talking. She's so furious. "And he would be calling to sleep with me, but he knows he can't, fucking retard," she is saying. This version of the narration makes more sense - her rage rooted in something adjacent to jealousy. You gather your things. You gather your tote bags. It's too cold for so many bags. Your hands get numb out there. You're in a humid basement now, but you can't stay here forever. There's an artists talk tonight, but do you have it in you to attend? Cheese and sausage for dinner at home. I forgot about the dishes and I left the sink running for an hour. I’ve never known how to dress for the weather, but that doesn’t mean I mind the extremes. Today - my mother’s gloves, a borrowed Urbit hat from David, a beanie really, it looks insane but it’s too freezing for me to mind. More isn’t always more. More is often so, intolerably, annoying. I don’t want to wear a coat. My books arrive today. Mostly for school, plus one Ruby recommended. I’ll read them all - I’m glad that I have reason to. Salvador - Joan Didion The Company She Keeps - Mary McCarthy The Fire Next Time - James Baldwin Confessions - Saint Augustine The Situation and the Story - Vivian Gornic A Room of One’s Own - Virginia Woolf A Silent Woman - Janet Malcom Are You My Mother - Alison Bechdel The Argonauts - Maggie Nelson The Atrocity Exhibition - J. G. Ballard WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, January 23 From 6pm - 8pm at 61 Lispenard — Canada NY and Eighth House present Rest and Reprieve: A Window into Creative Solitude. Eighth House is “an interdisciplinary residency for artists and curators located in Central Vermont.” The exhibition serves as a benefit for this very special residency.

Vaquera1 mentions across 1 issues

Vaquera is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between December 03, 2024 and December 03, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "a new party series launched by Vaquera and Chloe Sevigny". It most often appears alongside Alice's Restaurant, Amtrak, Anna.

Article page: Vaquera
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: December 03, 2024
Last seen: December 03, 2024

Issue trail

Florida, Massachusetts December 03, 2024

Alice's Restaurant 1 shared issues
Amtrak 1 shared issues
Anna 1 shared issues
Anthology Film Festival Paradise Shredition 1 shared issues
Arlo Guthrie 1 shared issues

Source context

Florida, Massachusetts

December 03, 2024 · Original source

From 10pm - late — Baguette Tuesday is back at Paul’s Casablanca - a new party series launched by Vaquera and Chloe Sevigny.

Inline links: Baguette Tuesday

Venchi1 mentions across 1 issues

Venchi is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 23, 2024 and October 23, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "I fill a cellophane bag with an assortment of Italian chocolates (Venchi, the best)". It most often appears alongside Alimentari Flaneur, Andrew, Ani.

Article page: Venchi
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 23, 2024
Last seen: October 23, 2024

Outbound links

https://us.venchi.com/?srsltid=AfmBOopqC6g5BAe531mjZBN_RXsz_WwLbkuY53Ty88bwL4LMEu-WOUoj

Issue trail

Collected Agenda with Vivien Lee October 23, 2024

Alimentari Flaneur 1 shared issues
Andrew 1 shared issues
Ani 1 shared issues
Architectural Digest 1 shared issues
Bamonte's 1 shared issues

Source context

Inline links: Eataly, WNYC, recipe, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!KeRg!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Ffcffcd2f-9edd-4695-80a8-81d300b01e87_1600x1200.jpeg, Chelsea Piers, Ralph Lauren, Pasta Grannies, Bamonte’s, Emillio’s Ballato, Alimentari Flaneur, Il Buco, YOU KISSED ME IN PARIS by Lazarus

October 23, 2024 · Original source

Thursday, Oct 14 I don’t like to talk about my job because I tend to be precious about things, which is why I love NDAs. I enjoy being in an office again though, and dressing up to start your day for who-knows-what-drama! After work, I make a trip to Eataly, and have my mind blown because I’ve discovered kiwi berries. On my way out, I fill a cellophane bag with an assortment of Italian chocolates (Venchi, the best) and grab a box of lemon amaretti cookies for a friend’s mom’s going away party later in the week. I love shopping for gifts because I’ll be walking around the city with nothing but three different types of dessert and exotic fruit in my purse and nobody knows it. PS. I want to befriend everyone’s moms. When Andrew and I started dating, he was working for WNYC, and we talked about the station’s struggle to survive ever since Giuliani cut funding for public media. On the evening of their 100th anniversary, we turned on the radio, and while listening to the analog tradition, enforced a rule that we would eat dinner together as often as we could. That night, I made us a seaweed omelet with rice, mackerel, and fermented pollock roe... a meal I often had with my family back home, when we still ate together. Tonight, we’re celebrating 7 months (which feels like 2 years in New York time) and for dinner he’s making us chicken meatball soup adapted from this NYT recipe. Saturday, Oct 19 I’d like to contend that today is the last nicest day of the year. I have plans to hit some golf balls at the Chelsea Piers driving range, because I’m feeling a lot of pent up energy from last night’s full moon. On my way over, I walk down 14th and look at what the girls are wearing. Straight black denim over square toe boots. Mini claw clips and messy half pulled ponytails. Sleek shoulder bags. Sporty pullovers and tailored houndstooth pants. Quarter-zip sweaters. Trench coat, trench coat, trench coat. Ralph Lauren is in the air. Next to my favorite burger joint, I have yet to find my favorite Italian restaurant in New York. Coastal elite “European cuisine” is an elusive concept to me. Don’t get me wrong — I love to keep up my inconceivable spending habits on niche and aspirational dining, but I prefer an honest plate of pasta made by someone’s 100-year-old grandmother in their kitchen any day (hello, Pasta Grannies). I do like Bamonte’s, because having angry centenarian waiters throwing plates of mediocre food at you creates the same comforting effect, to a degree. Andrew asks if I want to try Emillio’s Ballato, but I’d remembered my friend Daniel of Alimentari Flaneur told me his favorite Italian spot is Il Buco in NoHo, so we book a reservation. Their menu is technically “Mediterranean” and changes every day. We order the octopus with sweet potato, roasted lamb and broccoli rabe, and the orecchiette with eggplant and sausage. Everything is rich, especially the olive oil. The atmosphere is dark and rustic. Cozy romantic. I need a nap. WHAT VIVIEN LEE THINKS YOU SHOULD DO Visit Family Social activism, by its definition, is the practice of working toward the reform of relations and expectations, however that looks. It doesn’t always have to be about protests or shouting the loudest. Sometimes, it’s more private. One form, for me, has been returning to my family. Our first source of error. As I get older (I need to stop saying that), I find myself craving connections that aren’t so seeded in the economy of validation. Wanting to sit with discomfort and tension without completely losing myself to it. Also, learning to forgive. I mean really forgive. Get a New Scent It’s the next best cure for seasonal depression. These are my current favorites, powerful and sweet with patchouli as their thread-through. YOU KISSED ME IN PARIS by Lazarus

Versace1 mentions across 1 issues

Versace is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 23, 2025 and January 23, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "You're wearing a Versace sports bra that you bought for a music festival in high school"; "You're wearing a Versace sports bra that you bought for a music festival in high school". It most often appears alongside 4 Berry Street, 61 Lispenard, A Room of One's Own.

Article page: Versace
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 23, 2025
Last seen: January 23, 2025

Issue trail

Burn my diaries January 23, 2025

4 Berry Street 1 shared issues
61 Lispenard 1 shared issues
A Room of One's Own 1 shared issues
A Silent Woman 1 shared issues
Ada Antoinette 1 shared issues

Source context

January 23, 2025 · Original source

The chalky pavement has turned to ice in the afternoon. Walking under the Washington Square arch on the way to Tibet House and its icier than ever. The ground is all glazed over. It’s the latest installment of the Arden Wohl’s reading series at Tibet House; Inauguration Edition this time. Madelyn is wearing a pink sweatshirt when I get there. Madelyn is telling me about knowing your own mind. Alex Auder reads about cock sucking and brings up a friend to read with her who enjoys the act, because she doesn't "I feel demeaned when I suck dick. I feel demeaned when I teach yoga," she says. She reads a story about a life in servitude to someone famous who reminds her of Donald Trump. Tonight is a night where as soon as I have one glass of wine, I wish I didn’t. The haze sets in, and I want it to clear. Beckett arrives. The readings are mostly good, but I’m jittery. I sit in the lobby and I eat some grapes and cheese, replace the wine with water. “Over the years I noticed from my overlord that peasants were increasingly behaving like they were nobles,” Alex Auder is saying, when I return. “There are more cameras than there are people in the world,” Gideon Jacobs is reading, later. I can’t stop drifting in and out of the room. I’m worried about some things, about some people. I get like this sometimes, and I wish I could get it to stop. I go to the bathroom and I return again, to a reading about Courtney Love. “She used to do water ballet and she was getting into the grateful dead.” “She lied a lot and never listened directly but she was a sponge - she takes a word from an incidental periphery and works it into her trope in real time. She’s that fast.” “She said she was born on my birthday; July 1st, but she was born a week later; July 8th” This is my type of lie, I’m thinking. A lie to please. False enchantment. It’s a juvenile compulsion, you mostly outgrow it, and if it was Courtney Love partaking then perhaps it was charming, but my visceral reaction is one of repulsion. Lizzi Bougatsos reads about Gary Indiana. She sits on the floor and she clips her toenails. “We shall mark memory with reverence,” Arden is saying. Beckett is telling me that it’s cool to be at a reading that’s an older crowd, and it is, it’s wine and cheese, there’s no disco party to follow. Beckett introduces me to his acquaintance from Paris. They are talking about Godot and prison sentences. Samuel Beckett gave his Nobel Prize money to a jail org, or was it prisone.org One time, there was a prison break after a performance of Godot. Madelyn is making tape formations on her phone with the other Lacanians. Lacan as separated from psychoanalysis. Lacan as applicable to real life. I’m just gleaning sentences. These ideas aren’t mine. Cigarette outside and then a burger at the orthodox Jewish establishment nearby. We forgot they can only do vegan cheese on burgers here. A lychee martini instead. They’re playing pop music so loud Wednesday, January 23 I hear my neighbors door shut as I’m poised to leave this morning. Decide, instead, to hover in the kitchen. We don't really like each other, my neighbor and I. Nothing was ever said, but there’s an underlying hostility. I have friends over too late, too often. The walls are thin. I'm glad to be waking up at the same time as the rest of the world, though. Sometimes - up all night, becoming manic around five am, this can be nice, but it's usually not. Normal hours. Normal cycles of day and night. The ice has come and smoothed everything over. Too cold to listen to music on my walk to school. I'm peeling off layers in an office, at the gym, the hallway of our apartment is becoming salty and dusted with the chalky snowstorm residue that first coated the surface of everything, and that now is starting to settle. Nothing is volatile. Such placidity, suddenly, but I’m not bored. All the calm in the world. Thank god. It really was about time. And so, you eat two chalky protein pop tarts on the bench at the gym. There are two girls with thick french accents in the locker room parallel to you. "He's a fucking retard, he only calls me at three am and it's only because he wants to sleep with my friends," says one of the girls. She's wearing a sherpa jacket. KHRISJOY, it says, in big red dripping letters. Spray paint imitation. You look it up - $2145 online. It's so ugly, but you're vaguely impressed. Of course you are. You're wearing a Versace sports bra that you bought for a music festival in high school. Absurd. The people watching here is good. The girl is still talking. She's so furious. "And he would be calling to sleep with me, but he knows he can't, fucking retard," she is saying. This version of the narration makes more sense - her rage rooted in something adjacent to jealousy. You gather your things. You gather your tote bags. It's too cold for so many bags. Your hands get numb out there. You're in a humid basement now, but you can't stay here forever. There's an artists talk tonight, but do you have it in you to attend? Cheese and sausage for dinner at home. I forgot about the dishes and I left the sink running for an hour. I’ve never known how to dress for the weather, but that doesn’t mean I mind the extremes. Today - my mother’s gloves, a borrowed Urbit hat from David, a beanie really, it looks insane but it’s too freezing for me to mind. More isn’t always more. More is often so, intolerably, annoying. I don’t want to wear a coat. My books arrive today. Mostly for school, plus one Ruby recommended. I’ll read them all - I’m glad that I have reason to. Salvador - Joan Didion The Company She Keeps - Mary McCarthy The Fire Next Time - James Baldwin Confessions - Saint Augustine The Situation and the Story - Vivian Gornic A Room of One’s Own - Virginia Woolf A Silent Woman - Janet Malcom Are You My Mother - Alison Bechdel The Argonauts - Maggie Nelson The Atrocity Exhibition - J. G. Ballard WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, January 23 From 6pm - 8pm at 61 Lispenard — Canada NY and Eighth House present Rest and Reprieve: A Window into Creative Solitude. Eighth House is “an interdisciplinary residency for artists and curators located in Central Vermont.” The exhibition serves as a benefit for this very special residency.

Vital Proteins1 mentions across 1 issues

Vital Proteins is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 25, 2026 and February 25, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "I added vital proteins collagen and also oat milk creamer". It most often appears alongside 41 Orchard Street, AceMo, Albany.

Article page: Vital Proteins
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 25, 2026
Last seen: February 25, 2026

Outbound links

Issue trail

Life-in-a-lab February 25, 2026

41 Orchard Street 1 shared issues
AceMo 1 shared issues
Albany 1 shared issues
Allyson Joanerwin 1 shared issues
Arcade Publishing 1 shared issues

Source context

February 25, 2026 · Original source

Tuesday Life-in-a-lab In my dream, the house was a lab. I woke up to light not just streaming no, but flooding, absolutely pouring through the long glass windows in front of me. I knew that once the light cleared, I would be staring into the heart of this lab. I knew it was a problem that I was anticipating waking up in a lab, because I knew that I should have been anticipating a morning waking up at home. Instead, I was finding myself totally nonplused about waking up in a lab. The important thing, I knew, as I woke up with a sense of increasing urgency, was to conjure up an image of a home, not a lab. You have been in a lab for so long that you have forgotten about home, a very confident voice inside my head was saying. A picture of my childhood bedroom appeared in a few frames. Different versions. Big white bed and blue wooden floors and presently frosty fields behind the house. Little twin bed yellow walls, carpeted floors, and hot summer cornfields outside. I couldn’t get it straight. If I was in a lab, then I needed to remember. You need to remember a place that actually exists, the lab-attendants were saying in my dream. Saying in my head. Glass apartment in the sky. Room at The Marlton Hotel. I’ve been eating vegetables and collecting things like dried flowers and books on Esoteric Health and buying wash-and-fold laundry service and being swept away to places like nice restaurants with no menus and nice-apartments-with-no-owners. I woke up in Connecticut. Can’t wake up in a lab if you never go to sleep. In the morning, I woke up at close to noon. I shared photos on The Internet of a very aesthetically-cohesive and un-lab-like home. I went to the bathroom to wash my face and collect myself as best I could. The house was beautiful, and I was unsure as to why I was watching things unfold from as if I was somewhere else. I made lists of things that were special, being places like this most of all. I made lists of things that compose self respect, and then I made lists of things that compose a life that is bright and white and full of light. The country is quiet and sometimes difficult for me, though I sleep through the night now and this changes everything. Downstairs, the dogs and Celia and the other were sitting under high lofted ceilings. There was a magical and silvery presence that mediation gives to a person. I asked about coffee and they told me there was coffee in the pot and I could heat it up in a silver bowl on the stove. The stove was green and handmade and you turned it on by flicking little metal burner switches. The bowl was nice and very small. I poured the coffee in the bowl and I waited for everything to begin to boil. I added vital proteins collagen and also oat milk creamer and also lots of white sugar because the esoteric health advice of the age says this is fine. There were homemade mini muffins from The Smith Bakery down the street on the counter (blueberry, morning harvest, strawberry corn, and chocolate chip) and so I cut each muffin in half, and then I had one-half-of-each. Two mini muffins total. I put two of the halves in the toaster, and I had two of the halves cold. Everyone started telling me about gnosticism and buddhism and catholicism. They recommended to me a friend who writes about God and married into a famous band. They recommended I come to meditate in places like New York, too. You look ready, Celia said, as I packed up my north face back-pack and changed out of split-sweatpants and banaa-republic-black-top. I’m not, I snapped, in response. Do you actually want to meditate more, Celia asked. I don’t say I want to do things I don’t actually want to do, I replied. I could not stop with all this harshness. Wednesday Grand Central Station Back in New York City and I am totally covered in dog hair. Shoes untied in Grand Central Station but there is nowhere for me to stop and tie them without risking some sort of stampede or at least massive inconvenience and so onward we go. A man just walked towards me rapidly and I flinched and then felt kind of bad. Then, he shouted; young lady can I ask you a question and so now I do not feel bad. My instincts were correct, and now I do not feel bad at all. Ok, fine, whatever. I used to love arriving back in New York and hearing all the music and the lights and I would twirl through this place nonpulsed. Then, I would twirl home. I used to get drunk-before-christmas at the midtown Cipriani and then giggle when people called my ex-boyfriend and I bad-people-for-cutting on the trains toward Albany, but I’m not allowed to move like that anymore. I used to sink into sixty-dollar taxi-cabs because I found the subway over-stimulating. My Prada purse used to be lined with shiny leather, but I got fidgety somewhere tropical and I ripped it all off so now we’re working with something more flattened and matte. Teenage girls used to fling themselves at the side of the train platforms, and conductors used to lose their whole crew in Boston and train heists used to happen. I used to consider everything to be pretty taken-care-of. I think I never used to notice when sometimes, problems would arise. On the train ride back to New York, tonight, the tracks were icy and slick and it was already kind of blue hour dusk. When I said goodbye, I told Celia I love you I love you I love you a million times over because I felt slightly neurotic about a weekend full of being slightly late and slightly harsh. I am smart enough to know that the only thing complaining makes you better at is complaining, so I decided to stop. In Grand Central Station, they are playing live music, and I watch a man propose, though no one else around the soon-to-be newlyweds reacted. No photos or energy. Sad. I am wearing beat up Ganni knee high boots and Brandy Melville long sleeved dress, and Zara blazer that I stole from Paul’s Baby Grande back when I was in the practice of going lots of places and stealing lots of things. I miss my Max Mara coat that I left at “tech week” and I miss “drinking” and I am suddenly desperate to be out the door. I imagine that when the subway doors fly open and I burst out free and all-in-one piece, I will see the Washington Square Park arch, and it will be glowing silver in mid-winter light. I imagine that the city will feel warm with soon-to-be-spring-humidity. I imagine that since groundhog day has come and gone the tides will change soon, and I imagine I will relinquish my Groundhog Day (1993) fantasies of nothing-ever-happens at some point down the line, when it all becomes a bit too much to take. Tomorrow, I will be taking my shoes to the tailor and then the next day, I will have a totally fresh new crop of things to wear. I imagine that soon, I will have a fresh new crop of things to consider. Thursday Whore Dialectics Greenwich Village’s bitcoin bar sports a libertarian clientele and taxidermy and a podcast studio and beef-tallow-fries. Tonight, it sports a projector screen from my old apartment that looks sad and small propped on stage, and a big audience in metal chairs, and a birthday party in the front room, and plenty of opportunities to make myself feel useful as I tinker with film equipment and fire off texts regarding “promotional material.” I am sitting at Pubkey Bar drinking a diet coke while I wait for the screening of “Whore Dialects” to begin. When I ordered my diet coke at the bar, a strange man made a strange joke about NA beer, and I felt immediately irritated and restrained by my self imposed limits. I am listening to a group of young men discuss the career path of “Internet Pervert” as one of the only viable post-AI jobs. Monetize your self destruction, they are saying. Male prostitution. Buying plushies is to women as buying porn is to men. There’s a strange pseudo-intellectual glare to it all and I am enjoying listening in. They are talking about Brian Kaplan, but they keep on mispronouncing his name. They are talking about scientists, rationalists, and flexible proposals. When they talk about Internet Perverts, there are stars in their eyes, less because of the sex, it seems, and more because the internet perverts are able to get some money and get some attention. The male influencer. That seems to be what they are starry eyed about. They are thrilled to be in the same extended universe as someone who might be able to garner some vague attention. This is a bar that usually makes me feel kind of hazy. This is a bar where I used to make scenes. Enough reminiscing, because I am here to watch a film that is all about auto-documentarians, which is in sharp contrast to the maladjusted forms of auto-diary or auto-fiction. In the film, a beautiful girl is in the back of a car with the wind in her face and she is drinking an Erewhon smoothie and talking about how Hollywood is dead and the monasteries are empty and you can’t be a nun or get a phd because you question what truth is, and these institutions just won’t let you get at it. After that, the film cuts to a scene where the girl is in a white dress being play-drowned in the ocean by a right-wing provocateur. The film crew sent the provocateur to stay with the girl, and it was kind of the perfect setup, a voiceover explains. The provocateur describes how when he arrived, the girl was in a state of almost total abjection. Like how kids who are sexually assaulted don’t shower to make themselves totally disgusting and unappealing, he explains. I find the provocateur slightly less interesting as a character than both the girl, and the disgraced art-advisor (another prominent character in the film) but I like when he argues about politics and then reconciles on a personal level with those around him in places like California. I like the scenes about the professionally fraught yet personally friendly relationship between the art advisor and his not terribly successful clients, ie the clients are disappointed but still use the advisor’s pool for summer swims. The client still dreams of having an eighteen person studio because this means tremendous success, and because this is just how men dream. When the provocateur is described but not depicted as losing control, it is explained that the jig is kind of up, because it’s no triumph of power to reign over somebody who is not even in control of themselves. I only watch the film once and I am not taking notes, really, during the public screening at the Bitcoin Bar, but I like it because it is auto-documentary not auto-fiction or auto-diary and as such, it is very precise. The film says, for someone like me in the conditions like the ones I occupy, here is what life is like. This is more matter of fact and less indulgent than saying; here is what life is like for me. At a party last month that was also all about art whores, the filmmakers wrote a few lines about a few of my friends. The women present were on average quite a bit younger than the men and looked fresh. Perhaps because of their age, or perhaps because of the care they put into their bodies and minds, but the vibe among the women was optimistic and exuberant. I thought this was nice. Nice, too, to catch purity in unexpected places while staying totally true. Friday Upper West Side Later, I am uptown and I am thinking about how I can become more self-disciplined so I can become more interesting. I am watching Pierre Le Fou at Lillian’s apartment on the Upper West Side and all the girls are dressed like characters in the film. Lilian keeps leaning out the window with a long skinny cigarette and I am drinking a glass of Sancerre because I just can’t quit. In this film, a very small man is holding a gun to a very beautiful girl’s head while she cuts her hair. The beautiful girl has a brunette bob, and she is wearing a red dress. The film is full of primary colors and very bright paint. When a man is stabbed, he bleeds red paint. Before a man explodes himself in dynamite at the end of the film, he paints himself blue. I like the film because the colors of the gore are all bright and fake like paint, and the colors of the scenery are all pastel and muted and lovely like real life. Summer in The Riviera. Beautiful people living a simple and crime-filled life. I have not watched very many films this year because I’ve been busy writing thirty-thousand-words-about-myself-per-week. In the last film I watched, a Japanese cat was exploded by a grenade, and when gore and guts spilled everywhere, I flinched and clenched my eyes shut. Do you want to leave, my friend asked, and what I wanted was to be resilient, but what I said was I don’t really care. Now, a girl in the film is sitting on a boat with a man, and she is talking about how the two have only known each other for a few million seconds. She’s such a stupid girl, Lillian says. I would say something like that, I respond. One-million-billion-seconds and one-million-billion-words. I am feeling bubbly when I am not feeling sick or shy. I am feeling like it’s time to be more light about it. When I look to my left, I see beautiful stained glass lamps and a defense surveillance tech-branded throw blanket. When I look to my right, I see an open window and all my friends leaning too far outside smoking skinny vogues. On the Internet, people are talking about how things are only interesting if they are true. Determinative reasoning then says, one should make what is true more interesting. Everything just became crystal clear. By which I mean, everything is operating on material terms now. DIRECTORY The full event calendar is now going to live on The Aleph - an exciting new platform by Noah Kumin of The Mars Review of Books. The Aleph is a marketplace and membership club for the arts, with an emphasis on supporting in-person events, production, and funding for artists. Programming featured will be intentional and curated, and include more opportunities for early-access and invitation-only events. If you would like to submit an event for consideration, please email me at chloegpingeon@gmail.com. Apply to join The Aleph here I will still be featuring select events on the blog, along with more eclectic or personal recommendations, news, and guest features. To start: David Rimanelli is perhaps my favorite person to follow on Instagram, as well as one of my favorite critics. Tonight, from 6:30pm at Tibet House, he will be reading, along with Kiely Sweatt and Sean Fabi. Tickets here.

Vitaminwater Zero1 mentions across 1 issues

Vitaminwater Zero is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between August 21, 2025 and August 21, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "eating salted caramel gelato out of a plastic container in bed and vitamin water zero". It most often appears alongside 154 Scott, 7th Street Burger, Abby Jones.

Article page: Vitaminwater Zero
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: August 21, 2025
Last seen: August 21, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

Early August August 21, 2025

154 Scott 1 shared issues
7th Street Burger 1 shared issues
Abby Jones 1 shared issues
Alec Niedenthal 1 shared issues
Alexander Droesch 1 shared issues

Source context

August 21, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, July 29 It was a hot dog and white claw and blue hour over the marshes on the Amtrak last night. I took inventory of things when I arrived by night. The road was dark and it is August. My wrists were swollen from the heat and the city and there were lights around the bend and then only the sound of pebbles and tires and Davey-the-dog at the door and; it’s too late in the season for spring peepers. I haven’t been home in August in a few summers. It’s usually somewhere further down the coast this time of year. There was a pull towards this place sometime around noon on Wednesday. A pull towards cornfields specifically, and the way suburban heat would hit me heavy and hard when I would come back from the ocean as a child. In New York, I dreamt of a small house somewhere in someplace that felt like Topanga and wood floors and glass windows and a blue dress that looked like Leslie Van Houten’s in court, only the implications were less evil. I dreamt of palm trees and ferocious winds and sunrise over a cliff over volcanoes over the mountains over San Salvador. It was a mix of dreams. Some places where I have been before, and some places where I haven’t. I decided to play it safe. So, everything is exactly as I left it. There are farm fresh eggs and strawberries in the fridge. The empty April whisky bottle is still in the drawer where it was left after the eclipse. I am thinking of getting less into gnosticism and more into God. I have not been thinking very much lately at all. 2:09am - eating salted caramel gelato out of a plastic container in bed and vitamin water zero and cool smooth minty menthal zyn. My father stopped at the Cumberland Farms outside the train station so I could restock up on zyns. He is so nice. Everyone is so nice. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, August 21 From 7pm at St Lydia’s — Label NYC and Doxy Mag present SERVICE #2 - the second group chat reading. Featuring Mike Crumps, Dan Mancini, Scott Litts, Maxwell Foley, and more. Photos by Nick Dove. | Free

Inline links: St Lydia’s, Label NYC, Doxy Mag, SERVICE #2

Vogue1 mentions across 1 issues

Vogue is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between February 25, 2026 and February 25, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "all my friends leaning too far outside smoking skinny vogues". It most often appears alongside 41 Orchard Street, AceMo, Albany.

Article page: Vogue
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: February 25, 2026
Last seen: February 25, 2026

Outbound links

Issue trail

Life-in-a-lab February 25, 2026

41 Orchard Street 1 shared issues
AceMo 1 shared issues
Albany 1 shared issues
Allyson Joanerwin 1 shared issues
Arcade Publishing 1 shared issues

Source context

Inline links: The Aleph, chloegpingeon@gmail.com, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!m6hb!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F5452bedc-f504-4cc0-a6f3-349820bdb9a3_1156x1138.png, David Rimanelli, here

February 25, 2026 · Original source

Friday Upper West Side Later, I am uptown and I am thinking about how I can become more self-disciplined so I can become more interesting. I am watching Pierre Le Fou at Lillian’s apartment on the Upper West Side and all the girls are dressed like characters in the film. Lilian keeps leaning out the window with a long skinny cigarette and I am drinking a glass of Sancerre because I just can’t quit. In this film, a very small man is holding a gun to a very beautiful girl’s head while she cuts her hair. The beautiful girl has a brunette bob, and she is wearing a red dress. The film is full of primary colors and very bright paint. When a man is stabbed, he bleeds red paint. Before a man explodes himself in dynamite at the end of the film, he paints himself blue. I like the film because the colors of the gore are all bright and fake like paint, and the colors of the scenery are all pastel and muted and lovely like real life. Summer in The Riviera. Beautiful people living a simple and crime-filled life. I have not watched very many films this year because I’ve been busy writing thirty-thousand-words-about-myself-per-week. In the last film I watched, a Japanese cat was exploded by a grenade, and when gore and guts spilled everywhere, I flinched and clenched my eyes shut. Do you want to leave, my friend asked, and what I wanted was to be resilient, but what I said was I don’t really care. Now, a girl in the film is sitting on a boat with a man, and she is talking about how the two have only known each other for a few million seconds. She’s such a stupid girl, Lillian says. I would say something like that, I respond. One-million-billion-seconds and one-million-billion-words. I am feeling bubbly when I am not feeling sick or shy. I am feeling like it’s time to be more light about it. When I look to my left, I see beautiful stained glass lamps and a defense surveillance tech-branded throw blanket. When I look to my right, I see an open window and all my friends leaning too far outside smoking skinny vogues. On the Internet, people are talking about how things are only interesting if they are true. Determinative reasoning then says, one should make what is true more interesting. Everything just became crystal clear. By which I mean, everything is operating on material terms now. DIRECTORY The full event calendar is now going to live on The Aleph - an exciting new platform by Noah Kumin of The Mars Review of Books. The Aleph is a marketplace and membership club for the arts, with an emphasis on supporting in-person events, production, and funding for artists. Programming featured will be intentional and curated, and include more opportunities for early-access and invitation-only events. If you would like to submit an event for consideration, please email me at chloegpingeon@gmail.com. Apply to join The Aleph here I will still be featuring select events on the blog, along with more eclectic or personal recommendations, news, and guest features. To start: David Rimanelli is perhaps my favorite person to follow on Instagram, as well as one of my favorite critics. Tonight, from 6:30pm at Tibet House, he will be reading, along with Kiely Sweatt and Sean Fabi. Tickets here.

Voss Water1 mentions across 1 issues

Voss Water is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between August 28, 2025 and August 28, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "Niocimanide and Voss Water". It most often appears alongside A Horse with No Name, A Night of Male Readings, Amelia.

Article page: Voss Water
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: August 28, 2025
Last seen: August 28, 2025

Outbound links

Issue trail

Arrowhead expert August 28, 2025

A Horse with No Name 1 shared issues
A Night of Male Readings 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
America 1 shared issues
Andrew Durbin 1 shared issues

Source context

August 28, 2025 · Original source

Standing in the Doorway, One of Us Must Know (Sooner of Later) - Bob Dylan I wished I was somewhere else. I remembered that one must not rush a second. I sat at the dining room table. I will sit here for a while. Made chocolate chip cookie with blueberry jam and a side of diet coke for breakfast. Walked for a while in hot humid sunlit ocean heat on the road that burned my feet even through J-Crew Flip Flops. Thinking of things in shapes I cannot visualize because I’m kind of stupid in this way - visualization and the like. Can’t rotate a square or a triangle in my mind for example. But thinking of things in swirls more than lines. Voids and repetition and such as opposed to infinity. This is fine. In another life, this probably would have bothered me. Honestly, this is fine. Tuesday, August 19 There is one road here and it runs about one mile long surrounded by crab apples and ocean and I will walk down it, up and down and up and down a few times this morning. This morning, which starts late, more like afternoon, really, because I cannot stop stewing and being up all night. Train back to New York tomorrow morning because I still cannot stay put. And all my energy came bursting back. The restless kind. Energy for projects. I must be more consistent here, write some acquaintances inquiring about being my Guests perhaps, finish the whole El Salvador thing which is really closer than ever and then there is the book club and schools of all sorts of kinds and my new small-box-apartment to sort and clean. And so many things came broken, there, so there are people to call about that. It smells like basil in the living room, and it is strange how quickly everything changes. Everyone besides those in my peripheral vision becomes kind of Faceless, now, which is not great and makes me feel vaguely guilty. Unsure how to repay my gratitudes. Very sure of the sort of person I don’t want to be, but now that we have defined good and evil, what gives? My dad tells me about a man who is an Arrowhead Expert. His dad made him an arrowhead at three years old and from then on he was hooked. Lives in Padanaram Village. Carves arrowheads and bows and arrows like one they found in the walls in a house nearby a while back. A weapon from a couple centuries ago. They killed a man and hid his bow and arrow in the walls and now my father’s friend is carving recreations. I am half listening. We opened a bottle of N/A Wine at dinner on the porch on accident and first everyone was repulsed by the flavor, then a little bit irritable I imagine from lingering inhibition. My dad found a bottle of old port in the drawer of the cabin. Opened for forty years but not yet turned to vinegar or anything sour and so we swapped out the mocktail stuff for this, as well for chenin blanc I think, don’t really remember. I like dinners like this, where I sit on a porch that I have always known and look out at purple skies, once-in-a-lifetime-skies, they wrote an article in the News about the skies, today. What do I like? Well, I like beautiful things. I like blueberries in a big jar and ham with tarragon aioli for lunch and I like botanical gin at dinner and strange characters and the things in myself I am prideful of like; an eye for beauty and generally boundless optimism, though I am trying to be less prideful. Trying to be less slothful. Really got a handle on the whole thing of rage, but that doesn’t mean that other problems don’t remain. I like when it is cold and August is over. I like it here. I like that I cannot quite tell the pace of time here; fast or slow, that is. I wish I could stay here forever. I’m not sure why I can’t. False consciousness, I guess. And; you can have anything you want but you can’t have everything you want. Amelia told me that. Amelia told me that over and over and over again. Wednesday, August 20 What do I like here? That it is finally cold, and I remember almost nothing. That I put warm bulbs in the new apartment and there is not too much glass in the windows and I can take out the trash, wake up early, turn off the air conditioner here in formally-broiling-New-York-City. I like to take a kind of mathematical approach to things. An out of character yet fun sort of game-theory method. Thinking about things like physical form and machine-learning. Niocimanide and Voss Water. A very clean apartment. A very clean studio apartment with criss-crossed white and wood ceilings that are fine to wake up early under. The night terrors totally went away this summer. Like a switch, they are gone. This is a relief, but also; I hope I am still in touch with other realms. Thursday, August 21 Back in reality, where things are about fifty-fifty good and bad. Back at Caffe Reggio where the iced tea and caprese salad are nice even if the rest of the menu items aren’t. And the music is not too loud and the art is old and lovely and autumn is rearing its ugly head with events, events, events. I am here to tell you all about events. I am here to tell you What You Should Do. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Thursday, August 28 From 6pm - 9pm at Yve Yang — Art in General Benefit Auction celebrates its return. Bid on works from nearly 50 artists from around the world, including Marin Abramovic x Kreemart, Josh Kline, Isaac Chong Wai, and more.

Inline links: Yve Yang, Art in General Benefit Auction

Walker's1 mentions across 1 issues

Walker's is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between December 16, 2024 and December 16, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "I buy a little piece of Walker's shortbread at the checkout, too". It most often appears alongside Allison Brainard, Altro Paradiso, Ama Birch.

Article page: Walker's
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: December 16, 2024
Last seen: December 16, 2024

Issue trail

Moral Framework December 16, 2024

Allison Brainard 1 shared issues
Altro Paradiso 1 shared issues
Ama Birch 1 shared issues
American Cuck 1 shared issues
Annabel 1 shared issues

Source context

Moral Framework

December 16, 2024 · Original source

No direct inline source block was recovered for this mention.

Yelp1 mentions across 1 issues

Yelp is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between January 27, 2026 and January 27, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Procure activities on Partiful or Instagram or Yelp". It most often appears alongside 3, Alexander Perrelli, Amelia.

Article page: Yelp
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: January 27, 2026
Last seen: January 27, 2026

Issue trail

California-At-Home January 27, 2026

3 1 shared issues
Alexander Perrelli 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
Anders Lindseth 1 shared issues
Ani Tatintsyan 1 shared issues

Source context

January 27, 2026 · Original source

WHAT I DID Monday, January 12 I’m in my room and I’m feeling normal. Outside, the streets are winter-warm. Foggy and sweet. Different from El Salvador, which was humid-sweet. Tropics sweet. El Salvador was learning to understand things and also learning to let the wind blow in interesting directions and also learning to stand on my own two feet. On the flight home, I mapped out every day as a container. At JFK, I decided to treat the city like Vacation. Big Bar every Monday. Museums of Illusions. FDR themed social club. Procure activities on Partiful or Instagram or Yelp or through Word of Mouth. I call Amelia to announce my return and my vacation-forever plans. Is this vacation for the sake of transgression or fun? Amelia asks me. New York is over, Matthew was saying, in El Salvador. New York is over, and Los Angeles is it. I suppose we’ll see, I was saying in response. I suppose we’ll see but for now I’ll take all the energy-whirling-back. The flight home was quiet and late. I sat in the very back row of the plane with lots of water and ambient dread. I dreamt of a rocky landing where Avianca (Boeing 787) (Flight 267) touches ground and then immediately takes back off. I dreamt of being robbed. I dreamt of turning around. Dreamt of being scammed. Dreamt of busy days and busy nights in N.Y.C Back home, tonight, and it’s dinner at Lanterna di Vittoria with my friend whom I like because he offers me generosity kind of liminally. He presents a dangling sort of kindness that I did not have to accept or deny. I could accept his kindness later. I could pluck it from thin air, long after he has walked away. Maybe he is just generally cautious like that, or perhaps he intuits my inherent distaste towards drawing definitive conclusions. He is extremely helpful, but I never say thank you for the advice even though I am thankful. I never acknowledge I agree and I think it is better this way. I’m particularly grateful for the ease of it. He’s happy to know he’s right and also to feel useful without any of the misery that accompanies reliance. The grid is blinking in and out today, and so we are all feeling anxious about nuclear war. You too?? my friend says, when I bring up the topic of nuclear war at dinner. Everyone is becoming so much stupider. Small grid means big problems. I am feeling uneasy, sitting in my apartment tonight, knowing all the best minds in the world are coming up short. Later, cotton candy skies turning dark as we’re walking home. The city is freezing over, and hell along with it. Since I cleared my mind head-empty, I have become so much better at being perfect. Since I became religious, I have become so much faster at driving. Since I started telling all my friends that I want no-trouble, none-of-the-time, everything has started to really spiral out of control. I want to be good, I keep on telling Olivia. We go to the gym together every-other-day. She is the only girl with hair that is longer than mine. You are goodest, Olivia tells me. She says it with a smile, and she is very much not-devious so I believe that she believes this to be true. How many millions of dollars do you think were lost when the grid went down? I ask my friend, walking home in the icy city that I just can’t quit. Trillions, he tells me. What do you mean millions? Jesus Christ. Do you know how the GRID works? He gives me a book. Elephants and economy. Something like that. I already have it. I am smug when I tell him so. They already gave me this book in El Salvador. This book is already mine. The grid has already never-existed. Nothing ever happens. New silk eye mask arrived by mail which means: big sleep incoming. Big sleep in mummy mode. Clean room. Room of a girl who respects herself. Every day is something new. This part has always been obvious. Tuesday, January 13 The air is clear in my apartment, but somehow tinged a little bit blue this morning. Somehow kind of record-stretch hazy, which I suppose is what happens when I am tired and outside, it’s foggy. My friend texted while I slept: I am taking on your mannerisms. Texting back now: I don’t really have mannerisms. I could write a story this morning, but instead, I will write mantras in my mind. It’s good to be quiet It’s important to seize control over myself God gives the world to girls who don’t get in their own way. Black velvet hanger left off kilter. Last night, I purchased a blue dress that reminded me of dreams I already forgot. A blue dress to wear in a glass house in a place like Topanga. Bright blue dress to wear while making spring green soup. Purchased the dress with visions of next summer spinning through my mind. Visions of wearing a blue dress and standing barefoot on the wood floor of my parents’ house and making spring green soup. Sitting on the edge of my bed in dark green lulu lemon leggings and black tank top this morning. Cool minty Zyn in mouth, and Celsius in hand. The apartment is a mess, and it has been for a while. Trees are barren and kind of sweet outside my window. I hate this apartment. I want my old apartment back. I want to get everything I’ve ever wanted. I want to get sober and mean it. I want two hours of dedicated time-writing-fiction per day, and two hours of dedicated time walking outdoors writing notes. I want to let no more hours drift. I was not happy to come back to New York, but I do like the parts of the city that just are-what-they-are. Green turtle pond and freezing hands. Big buildings and tour groups. Windy streets. Bustling with people. When I’m at pilates I don’t feel like I need to move to LA, I tell Saorise, in the studio. The toned and old gay man that owns Pilates People runs warm. He cracked the window to let in the frigid winter fog. All the girls are upset about this. The light is silver and bright like a beam. It is a foggy day. We have LA at home, Saiorse says. We have life-like-California, but it’s real-life and it’s right-here. We can stay right here. We can invent different schools of movement. We can even go to Sugarfish Girls mass-exodus a friend group or even a whole entire life because of totally superficial reasons that are totally fake, Saoirse is saying, at Sugarfish. We acquire Saki. I pull my hair into a tight ponytail and I revel in my perfect day. I document my material reality meticulously. I have been training myself to become totally head empty. I have been training myself to gently accept gluttony, and also to be less subject to my whims. Sugar Fish has the sort of generic-upscale interior that reminds you of nothing, and thus reminds you of personal recollections of positive experiences in similar generic upscale interior restaurants. This is how they keep you coming back, I say. Girls couldn’t find a backbone if it hit them over the head, Saiorse says. Girls want to drown their enemies in buckets like kittens. Girls want to pray for you and ask to kiss you and pretend to be your friends. I am starting to feel some animosity, I tell Saorsie. Our meal is light but comes out in many courses. Saiorse is happy to hear about my budding proclivity for negativity. I’ve been telling you these things for years and knowing that it wasn’t yet time for you to listen, Sairse responds. You can pick something really good, or you can pick something that you really really want. Saiorse plays with her salmon sashimi and she doesn’t like soy sauce. Saoirse doesn’t ask me to tell her which one I pick: really good versus really wanted, that is. Do you remember Michael the explorer, Saoirse asks me. I have known Saoirse for a million billion years. We share a million billion strange friends. It’s nice to pour over these things. Internet friends. Federal agent friends. Friend who snuck over the Canadian border a few years ago and then washed up outside a fire pit in The Hamptons. Her explorer friend who we took to Round Swamp market for blueberry muffins after he got back from some place like Antarctica or maybe North Korea. He was not very risk-adverse. He was so worried about you, Saoirse says. Did you know that at the time? He said you seemed so nice. Walking home in the crisp and cold afternoon feeling so nice. Walking through the farmers market. Curling up in bed half asleep half dressed half under covers. Half lonely and half at peace because I love when my apartment is so cold. Cassandra texts that she is going to the museum. Why, I ask? It is our duty to seek out all the latent beauty in the world. Cassandra responds. At night, In Brooklyn, I can listen to Jeff Buckley Forget Her on repeat and think about what I actually want. Purification. Indulging my addictions. Freedom from vice. Sweet music and soft cover of winter fog and little green glass wind chimes hanging from the trees. I like wearing natural fibers and clothing I move easily in and having a uniform and following an obsession to its logical conclusion. I like knowing immediately and totally what it is that I could or could not love. Little dried leaves shivering across the pavement. They look like little rats except for the part where they are very beautiful. I run into one friend smoking on the street in a velvet black jacket when I arrive at the reading. I like your suit, I say. It’s my only suit, he responds. I don’t want to drink but I do want a cigarette and I only like cigarettes when I’m drinking. There’s a glowing strawberry on the wall, and there are a lot of people I have never seen before or at least do not see often. Like the cool theater kids’ basement in college, the girl next to me is saying. Soft snow flurries outside, which serves as a nice reminder that it is still winter. Reading out loud about Florida, Massachusetts and feeling reclusive. Wednesday, January 14 Sweet Wednesday morning, but I’m going to treat it like a Monday. Still listening to Jeff Bukley Forget Her, which makes me want to be somewhere else. Somewhere very cold or very foggy or even, very sunny. Perhaps I should stop hedging and just commit to something. Last night, a boy was ordering a drink and talking about how he was so glad no one was doing dry January this year. He asked his friend what he was drinking. Soda water and cranberry, the friend said. Oh, he said. You’re doing dry January? I’ve been dry for six months, his friend said. I felt so jealous of his friend. So, I know what has to give. Need to take pleasure in denying myself the things I want, etc etc etc. Listening to Forget Her over and over and over again, and turning my head all the way upside down so I can get a look at the snow behind me, but the snow has mostly stopped. Just silver skies all the way, now. Silver skies all the way up and all the way down. Jeff Buckley died at thirty-years-old. Someone who destroyed himself early but at least he had something to show for it. The desire to toss out everything I own becomes pervasive in the snow. The desire to get rid of all these things I wish were not mine. Gathering up all these clothes and throwing them in a big white trash bag. Thinking about the big smile on my face when my mother gave me a blue and shiny dress and then thinking about throwing it in a donation bin which pipelines to landfills, obviously. Hours can pass, percolating in guilt over what to do with this blue dress among other items. There are many more wasteful things than throwing out a dress. Buying and drinking alcohol for example. Buying and eating protein bars just to feel full by which I mean full of trash. Scrolling on my phone. Being cruel. The snow is both coming down and melting outside. Smells like ski racing. Nothing I am getting rid of is special. If the people whom I don’t want to see show up at a party, then I will leave. My friends are in the basement of the party when I arrive. Another friend’s new bar. The wood has been stained dark brown and the place is starting to look formal and nice. My friends are vacuuming and putting away books. We all look like little elves putting the books away, Quinn says. Many interesting books. Esoterics of Health and something about Aliens, for example. Thursday, January 15 Rinse and repeat. Blueish silver light in my apartment, where the sun barely penetrates, but at least nothing is artificial. Outside, everything is melting, melting, melting. White and chipped paint on the fire escape, and I can see the drops of water growing from the metal edges and then… drop! Leafless trees shimmering like they’re coated in gum drops. Each silver water droplet crystallized as its own little form, and then together, they are turning the whole tree silver. Since they turned down the central heating and then I turned off my air conditioner, a few days ago, everything has begun to feel quite quiet. Should we do a dress exchange? I ask Cassandra. Should I bring you your bible and a book called The Elephant in the Brain and also your blue cashmere sweater in exchange for my polyester Aritzia slip? Yes! says Cassandra. The West Village is wet and cold and the church is white and the doors are blue. The dining room of The Marlton Hotel is full of red velvet booths and gold lined mirrors and star shaped yellow lights. The mirrors and the lights make me feel a little bit like I am in a room full of sun, but I am not in a room full of sun. I am in a windowless hotel lobby full of mirrors. Cassandra takes out her Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls at table over are taking out their Sunday Riley lipgloss. Girls everywhere are just the same. Olivia has her Rapunzel hair bundled up in her scarf like a baboushka. Cassandra is wearing a beautiful red scarf tied around her neck and wearing beautiful gold jewelry. The girls at the table over are talking about how we were created to have gentle souls. Why would anybody make it their mission in life to seek out… chaos? Cassandra interjects. To seek to degrade others, Olivia says. Cassandra teaches me a new word: Odoriferous. Cassandra tells me about her friend who lives in Northern California off the grid, farming salmon or maybe saving them, researching them, I can’t remember. A girl stumbles into the dining room to greet her friends at the table over. I can feel how cold you are, her friends say. I can’t wait to see the ocean again, Cassandra says. It feels really weird going so long without seeing the ocean. I guess I won’t see the ocean again for a while. Thinking about feeling manic. Thinking about every other timeline. Thinking about pouring big glass of water and black coffee with five splenda because I am still glutenous. Getting right to the cusp of something means that in at least a few other timelines, you probably figured it out. Nice to assume you’re capable of that, at least. Nice to know that in another timeline, my diaries are probably anonymous and I can be less vague. Nice to know that in another timeline I can probably lie. I can probably say what I actually mean. Spraying perfume over green sweater and imagining myself as someone who moves more slowly. Ordered a glass of wine because I love relapsing on an empty stomach. Telling Olivia about when my life was hot and cold and up and down and crazy all the time, because for the first time, I am realizing that she did not know me then. It’s hard to describe to someone who wasn’t there. Feeling a little bit nauseous and like I wish I hadn’t spoken. We could be living in the Midwest driving golf carts, Olivia says. Indiana is just corn and soy but not even produced for human production just animal feed or corn syrup, she says. I have a fondness for cornfields, Cassandra says. We could belong to country clubs, Olivia said. I wonder what that is like. Friday, January 16 In my dreams, I am surrounded by water on all sides, Somewhere in El Salvador. Somewhere in Costa Rica. Somewhere with all my friends-from-the-internet, and they do not like my new boyfriend. It’s ok, because I don’t like my new boyfriend too much either. I am scheming with my internet-friends. We are scheming ways to get rid of new boyfriend. Everyone is happy about my plots to get him gone, and no one seems to clock that I am the one who invited him in the first place. We are deep sea fishing. I am hanging by my arms from the edge of the boat and my feet are running through the water while a girl I know to be my best friend fires up the boat faster and faster and faster. I am a little scared. I am having so much fun. Salt water. Earth water. Angel water. I wake up. One light left on, back in New York. Yellow glowing floor lamp, so at least there’s nothing shining overhead. Last night, I was walking through the winter snow sliding on ice and filled with energy and adoration and also two illicit drinks. Listening to music and wind and stopping for gum and diet coke and then washing up in a restaurant that was bustling and warm and dimly lit. Telling my friends not to wait outside. For a while, I wanted to show others the places that had always been mine. It had never been like that before. It had always been more of a self protective sort of thing. Back to letting myself be dragged to kind of nice places to which I have no attachment, now. Talking about myself like I am playing SIMS at dinner. Ordering one diet coke and one piece of fish. Dinner passing kind of assembly line cool. Chill and smooth. In the snow and the ice, everything is seamless and then I’m in a car home so that I do not slip. Things could be quiet and end early but I still just can’t stay put. I become more full of energy, later on. I have become very sick of interiority. I went to a small Italian cafe to pass the later night because when I don’t, I always wish I did. It was a snowy and beautiful night. The cafe was made for families and locals and tour groups and dark and lovely. My new friends were talking about things like art-of-business, so it felt kind of far from myself but I could bear it for some hours. A beautiful life. Trying to be more tender and less neurotic. This does not have to mean everything. A person can just be cautious and nice-for-now. Walked home in the snow. Woke up warm. Still can’t stay away from places that have always been mine. Yellow light emanates from the yellow lamp. Nothing fluorescent. A million things to write over a million times. A million things to consider. A million topics on which the thing to do now is to wait and see. Waiting and seeing. Text about finding a DJ for a party in San Francisco. Email about a party at The Mount Washington Hotel. All these very random things that feel so close to being in reach. Kind of want to go. Kind of want to languish in old and beautiful rooms at the Mount Washington Hotel and in the majestic magic pool and imagine that money flows like water by which I mean spend money like it is water. Opening the window, now. Letting it be morning, now. Have to be clear, now. Sober minded and clear. Time passes like water, too, so that is something else to be wary of. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, January 27 From 8pm at The River — Theme Trivia returns with Medieval Trivia.

Inline links: The River, Theme Trivia

YikYak1 mentions across 1 issues

YikYak is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between September 12, 2025 and September 12, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as "looking for parties that we'd find posted on YikYak". It most often appears alongside Accidie, Albania, AltCitizen.

Article page: YikYak
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: September 12, 2025
Last seen: September 12, 2025

Issue trail

Perfect Little Life September 12, 2025

Accidie 1 shared issues
Albania 1 shared issues
AltCitizen 1 shared issues
Amelia 1 shared issues
ARDOR 1 shared issues

Source context

September 12, 2025 · Original source

WHAT I DID Sunday, September 7 Woke up to something amazing happening. More rain outside and also, a message from Emma. How are you? Emma asks. Like no time has passed at all, though of course, years have. There are other things to think about first. Octopus and shrimp salad and some cicen cheese at Tashkent Market. Interrogate one’s own sincerity. I am certain that Emma lives a very full and rich life now. I am not sure where in the world she is. I will know this soon. The first time I met Emma, her mom drove her to my house as a friend of a friend on her sixteenth birthday. I made signs to welcome my new acquaintance. Strung up HAPPY BIRTHDAY EMMA and WE HEART EMMA on poster board in neon sharpie above the wooden porch to greet her when she arrived. Nice to meet you Emma, I remember saying. The formality was awkward because I really wanted Emma to already be my friend. Later, I posted a photo of Emma and I hugging on the beach. Happy birthday Emma, I posted. Like plastering our pseudo-friendship online would make it real. After Emma and I became friends, and after Emma got her learner’s permit a few months after that, she would drive around Natick, Massachusetts with me hidden in the back of her trunk looking for parties that we’d find posted on YikYak. We would come home disappointed, usually, drinking a few warm beers in her parents’ basement or sitting with people we didn’t really know on the outer edges of my parents back yard. A few years had passed that way, and then another year hitchhiking around the Balkans after high school. Emma had convinced me to come bartend in Budapest and so I’d lost or maybe gained another life, here, drinking liquor and taking pills from strange cups in hostel hallways. Hitching rides from strange women across the Montenegro border. We’d bought loaves of bread and tomato sauce and bottles of wine to drink in the backseat and we'd driven for quite some time along coastlines and corn fields. They burned brush to prevent forest fires in this part of the world, and so often the sides of the highway would be almost totally ablaze. Emma and I were always half asleep, half drunk, half larping as destitute and disassociated and developing an early onset case of Peter Pan syndrome as mostly mine but kind of our cerebral ambitions paled in comparison to the magical ephemerality of our alcoholic, older, nomadic, wandering compatriots. My best friend Emma was more solid than I was. She had traveled for a while longer while I washed up in a hotel room in Albania and then, a flight back to Boston. Emma sold coffee in Morocco and then attended Georgetown. Emma calls mid afternoon. Are you still in New York? Emma asks me. She’s in the car in San Diego and she’s driving home from the beach with her boyfriend. Emma and her boyfriend are laughing. The perfect little life. Sitting on the edge of my bed in my New York studio apartment and I’m feeling kind of giddy because here I am, suddenly, with this perfect little window into the perfect little life. It’s exactly as I suspected. I talk quickly at Emma for about twenty minutes when I pick up the phone, mostly recounting the events of the spring and summer, but there are other things, too. Sorry, I say when I finish my story. Sorry sorry sorry. Emma sighs, though she remains cheerful. I always thought you’d marry young, Emma says. Are you ok? Emma asks. You should talk about yourself now, I tell Emma. And so Emma tells me that she is in San Diego with her boyfriend. They have been there since the spring now, and they have started to make some friends. They are driving home from the beach. They are stopping for food. Emma is in a city on the Pacific coast of California known for its beaches, parks and warm climate. Emma is on the edge of a deep harbor that is home to a large active naval fleet. I imagine that it is misty there sometimes and sunny at other times and the houses are bright colored beach bungalows and they are always filled up with a little bit of sand. All my dreams this summer have been about California, I tell Emma. There is an OctoberFest party in San Diego, Emma tells me. Come to San Diego, Emma urges me. Do you surf a lot?, I ask Emma. Where are you getting food? Is everything made of wood and is everyone barefoot all the time and do you buy blue dresses at second-hand shops and wear them as you wander down the coast? Do you feed seagulls scraps of fish as they fly over your perfect white wooden balcony and do you go to the carnival and get massages at open air studios on the pier and is everything kind of pastel and creaky and at what pace does time pass? So, I will go to San Diego. Not in October but sometime soon. Sometime in the spring. Emma and Arthur will drive me around in their perfect little car and I will sleep on their perfect little couch and I will drink Corona with lime and wear a bikini in March and everything will be kind of pastel and creaky and I imagine I won’t be too aware of time passing at all. I will be embraced and absorbed by a life that does not belong to me. Maybe it’ll be like Never Land. Maybe I’ll stay forever. Monday, September 8 In New York City, people feed birds scraps of food and then grab them by their bare hands, too. In Washington Square Park, the tourists from Prague are doing this today. Washington Square Park, which is peppered with falling leaves and fountain mist and Bad Luck Spots, which I will never make the mistake of stepping on again. The park is still green but becoming less so. I’ve been praying for the cold, and now it is almost here. It is September 8th. It is Day One of being Cerebral and Ascetic and I am feeling very horrified that I ever thought it might be good to opt for any other alternative path. I am feeling regretful for my experimentations in self-abandonment and trying-on-new-personalities though, I suppose, this is where God comes in. And it was a God filled day yesterday, which is something I still hope to be somewhat watchful with and let things happen to me rather than intellectualize it all. The greatest thing is to Love and Know and Be Loved And Known, strangers kept on telling me yesterday. I already knew this, but I wrote it down anyway. Write it down and filter it through new contexts. Begin the day. It is Monday now. It is September 8th. I run into Emilia at Caffe Reggio, where I always sit and where she always finds me. You seem kind of volatile, she tells me. You should write about God if you are sick of writing about yourself. You should write about art. You should not write about politics. You should come to Slovenia. I was sitting in a church last night and someone was laughing outside. The laughter was reverberating inside. The laughter was distorting sound waves off the walls and causing interference with the incense and the air and with the silence. Because it was, otherwise, silent. Felt very frozen. Felt like fall. Felt like it was all beautiful even here in stupid NYC. Felt like I slowly noticed myself, shaking. What's your favorite book, a stranger asked me at the bar, later. V by Thomas Pynchon I said, because that's the book I read last and my mind was moving kind of slowly. What's your favorite film, the stranger asked. Diva by Jean-Jacques Beineix because that is the film I watched and liked last or also; Manhattan and Match Point, I said. What's your favorite book, I asked the stranger. The stranger smiled. I always say The Bible when people ask me that. Tuesday, September 9 In the criss-crossed wood-roofed apartment, the lights start to flicker around eight pm which is a good reminder, then, that one is never supposed to linger in the sort of place like this. One is supposed to live in a city like this so that one might pace around and wait for omens. It is Fashion Week which means even less to me this year than Art Week did the week before. It is energies and after parties and humiliation rituals when I'm wearing my cotton non-synthetic workout wear all around Soho at a time like this and; all of this of course, means nothing at all and so this week is just like any other. This summer passed kind of dusty and endless and I do not feel sorry for myself anymore because first of all there is no need for that it is just one life all at once and second of all, Accidie is the only truly mortal sin and so one must proceed with caution. I sat with Amelia in bars with sparkling water in June for a while because I just could not go home. I sat with other sorts of substances for a while after that and I took it too far. Day One (trying again) of being Ascetic and Cerebral tonight. September 9. 999. People on the Internet say that means something and I'm good at taking people at their word. Sitting in the basement of Night Club 101 at the AltCitizen show with Joe and Darby and a cup of Suju waiting for the after party to start. The basement of Night Club 101 feels kind of like a high school music room classroom particularly now, particularly empty. Joe and Darby and I are talking about the gap between self possession and self awareness and a Kinsey Scale sort of method of categorizing people this way. Self possessed people often lacking self awareness and vice versa. The lowest form of discourse being discourse on discourse. Smart people talking about ideas average people talking about events stupid people talking about other people; though, I sort of disagree with this concept. Other people are the root of all loftier things like "Ideas", I am saying. It's like The Backrooms down here, Darby is saying. It's like a kind of weird vibe but we don't want to leave. We're near the bathrooms and so others keep drifting by but they don't want to stay. Fabulous outfits. Rockstar Girlfriends. Los Angeles apparel unitard and big black boots lining up for the restroom or to buy socks that say I CAN DO ANYTHING ON DRUGS. Patchwork style neon dress and small gray loafers, silver ballet flats leather pants light green linen v neck top. Lots of girls with long and flowy and jet black hair here. Lace black dresses that look like spiderwebs paired with emerald necklaces. Lots of guys in jeans with long and curly hair or long and greasy hair and they all are carrying guitars. I'm perched in the bleachers in the basement with my one kind of SEC-school-style-tattoo and an A-line dress watching everyone kind of wistfully. So, there were a few different lives and now there is something else. Maybe in the next one, I will pick a life like the club kids. Micro-bangs and rock music. Fall asleep in Bushwick or in the back of a bus. Buy a bus and drive across the country with a lust for Music above all. Drive past things like diners in Wyoming or sacred hot springs in New Mexico or the haunted Mount Washington Hotel in New Hampshire or Motel 6s and 8s somewhere along the way. Drive to California wearing True Religion low rise jeans and shredded tees. Drive all the way to the Pacific Ocean. Can't stop thinking about the Pacific Ocean. Drive to San Diego. Wash up on Emma and Arthur's door. I would do fewer things each day in this life, but maybe each of them would matter more. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Friday, September 12 From 7:30pm - 9:00pm at Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research — It’s your last week to see ARDOR - a very special play following a group of nine artists and friends on an annual retreat to their aging patrons Vermont farmhouse. Nothing and everything has changed and will change.

Inline links: Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research, ARDOR

YOU KISSED ME IN PARIS1 mentions across 1 issues

YOU KISSED ME IN PARIS is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between October 23, 2024 and October 23, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "YOU KISSED ME IN PARIS by Lazarus". It most often appears alongside Alimentari Flaneur, Andrew, Ani.

Article page: YOU KISSED ME IN PARIS
Mention count: 1
Issue count: 1
First seen: October 23, 2024
Last seen: October 23, 2024

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Collected Agenda with Vivien Lee October 23, 2024

Alimentari Flaneur 1 shared issues
Andrew 1 shared issues
Ani 1 shared issues
Architectural Digest 1 shared issues
Bamonte's 1 shared issues

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October 23, 2024 · Original source

YOU KISSED ME IN PARIS by Lazarus

Inline links: YOU KISSED ME IN PARIS by Lazarus

YouTube1 mentions across 1 issues

YouTube is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between November 13, 2024 and November 13, 2024. The archive places it in contexts such as "mindlessly scrolling Instagram or watching Youtube videos"; "watching Youtube videos". It most often appears alongside A Year on Earth with Mr. Hell, Alex Katz, Alex Osman.

Article page: YouTube
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First seen: November 13, 2024
Last seen: November 13, 2024
Instagram handle: @me_betseybrown

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Collected Agenda with Lydia Sviatoslavsky November 13, 2024

A Year on Earth with Mr. Hell 1 shared issues
Alex Katz 1 shared issues
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Allen Street 1 shared issues
America: The Farewell Tour 1 shared issues

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November 13, 2024 · Original source

These moments of incoherence and utter detachment from the gravity of his position on the world stage are met with confused titters from the audience. The collective “HUHN?” inexplicably followed by roaring cheers reminds me of Dwayne Elizondo Mountain Dew Herbert Camacho’s State of the Union address in Idiocracy, amplified further when Trump turns the mic over to UFC president Dana White. Guess it’s a boy’s night! Fun. May the biggest dick win. Clearly there’s not much at stake here. Global relations…wealth disparity…ongoing genocide…the fate of human civilization…should be chill. At the end of the day, dude has Vibes. He shoveled some fries at McD’s once. He gets it.

Inline links: Dwayne Elizondo Mountain Dew Herbert Camacho’s State of the Union address

Glenn Greenwald is a journalist, author, and former lawyer who broke the Snowden story while he was employed at The Guardian. If you’re still (somehow) wondering WHY Trump won, check out this quickie 7-minute video of his: “Media BAFFLED by Trump Win.”

Inline links: Glenn Greenwald, the Snowden story, Media BAFFLED by Trump Win

Matt Taibbi is an author, journalist, and podcaster. He covered politics for Rolling Stone and is the closest thing we have to a modern-day Hunter S. Thompson. More recently, he released the Twitter Files (via Musk) in collaboration with several other journalists, including Michael Shellenberger and Bari Weiss. He also happens to be hot. You can watch his election recap here.

Inline links: Matt Taibbi, Twitter Files, here

Zalt1 mentions across 1 issues

Zalt is a recurring brand in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between March 06, 2026 and March 06, 2026. The archive places it in contexts such as "Zalt electrolyte zyn". It most often appears alongside A Place in the Sun, Ali RQ, Angelica.

Article page: Zalt
Mention count: 1
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First seen: March 06, 2026
Last seen: March 06, 2026

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Humanoid-Robots March 06, 2026

A Place in the Sun 1 shared issues
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Angelmoon 1 shared issues
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