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Blueland

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Blueland

Article

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.

Metadata

  • Category: Brands
  • Mention count: 2
  • Issue count: 2
  • First seen: October 13, 2025
  • Last seen: November 05, 2025

Appears In

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.

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
Fever Dreams
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

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