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J.Crew

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J.Crew

Article

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.

Metadata

  • Category: Brands
  • Mention count: 2
  • Issue count: 2
  • First seen: August 28, 2025
  • Last seen: October 06, 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.

Arrowhead expert
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

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