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WAVES

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WAVES

Article

WAVES is a recurring book 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 “WAVES, says the next book over”. It most often appears alongside 154 Scott NYC, ALLSHIPS, Alphaville.

Metadata

  • Category: Books
  • Mention count: 1
  • Issue count: 1
  • First seen: July 18, 2025
  • Last seen: July 18, 2025

Appears In

None.

Source Context

Recovered passages from the original issue text. When the raw archive preserved outbound links inside the source passage, they are listed directly under the quote.

Things I do like here
July 18, 2025 · Original source
WHAT I DID Monday, July 14 Dream Reflection - I was buying vintage workout wear and advancing down a very long corridor. Sweet summer heat. It is not too sticky or slow. There is a lot that begins all at once and so I: sleep til the afternoon and I decide that I'll still bear it. About to do something subversive could you call the police if you don’t hear from me in like four hours thanks, Amelia texts, an hour after Very Late Wake Up. Yes of course, I respond. I do follow up but it's the sort of thing where one probably shouldn't. An album a film a story a day and the letters are to my family now and clarity seems like the only thing that will probably become truly essential, though I do feel bored, going on in this way. The books at Sunlife Smoothie Shop do leave me feeling kind of repulsed - Think and Grow RICH and The Forrest Gump of Addiction Stories and, I would like to haul my blue and white and already kind of festering concoction to the street and up the stairs and home only, it's turning to sludge in even the flicker of daylight I've allowed it to meet. Lions main, spiralina, none of these words mean anything. I will remember how to write and read and confess my sins regarding flash floods and apocalyptic ideation, but for now, none of these words mean anything. Amelia comes over and we sit on the couch in mostly silence until it’s dark. Sorry for making you come over and sit in the dark, I tell Re. I used to have a lot of hobbies, Amelia tells me. Tuesday, July 15 Lie on the floor and dream about it. An illness came in the night and then faded by the afternoon. You should still reflect on it more, I was told. You should be less navel-gazing about it, I was told, later, a little bit after that. To recollect a life there is: red light therapy and lymphatic drainage, bone broth and dandelion tea in the morning. There are splotches of solitude in between, and now, I am trying not to fill it all up with slop. I pick up the laundry from the spot where the laundry man is always glowering or all smiles and never anything in between. I buy a water flosser, four gently used white linen dresses, a smoothie bowl that is too big and bright blue and I ponder how anyone could possibly consume the whole thing of something like that and then I finish it all in one go. What I Do In A Day In New York City. I vow to consume nothing ever again. Isabel sends over Life Studies by manic depressive poet Robert Lowell and some other writings by his wife that she thinks might correlate with My Situation. Saunter over to an awful summer show at a gallery that I feel bad to name and anyways my judgement is probably just a result of my messed up spirits. I shower at home now, not in the bright hallways of my weird-and-off-putting gym. I keep it dark inside for the sake of energy conservation and spiritual fortitude. Downtown, Bacaro is packed and the bald man at the table over is reluctant to tell his date his name. We light paper straws on fire at Bar Belly. SUBURBIA, the book above me is called. WAVES, says the next book over. The scene is dead, my friends are saying. Everyone is fat and happy. The subway is flooded. And you shouldn't have to self destruct in order to conjure up something interesting to say, but if you can successfully tow the line, well..... Everyone is smirking. The key of it though, is the towing of the line. So, I will go home and transcribe more platitudes. Your will to create beauty shapes your time. Wednesday, July 16 Air conditioner whirring at two in the morning and I have come to life again for the first time in my five-week-life. Thursday, July 17 They are perched inside the fountain in Washington Square Park painting blue hour landscapes on canvas behind the sheen of the fountain, and so of course the water is speckling the paint. I imagine the damage will settle in a nice sort of way. They are playing wind chimes and wearing micro shorts. Claudette is still closed for the season. They are stringing bungee cords across the street at West 10th. On the phone, I hold my breath. Did you go to the party, I am asked. No. Me neither. Iced mint tea in a hotel lobby that is kind of Scandinavian and cheerful in spirit. Back in the park; Where will I go, I could ask the tarot reader. Hopefully somewhere that is not here, the tarot reader could say. Staring down, embarrassing, out of it, but I still avoid walking into the incoming traffic. There are things I do like here: iced mint tea

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