DAZE
THE NEW YORK ISSUE
contents
Sunrise Morning Midday Sunset Evening Night Sunrise
contributors Every morning I drink some type of tea. I probably have five different types in my cupboard at any given time. I lived in Argentina for five months and they suck down mate as if it were a drug. - Nicolette DiDia
Before I start my day I use Aqua Net hairspray. Total Dirty Jerz retro move. - Christina Sauerborn I never leave home without checking the news, sports, and weather. - Brandon Goldstein
I just started taking anti-anxiety pills this month, so the first thing I do every morning is swallow my little yellow pills with a cup of cold jasmine tea. - Lizzy Bristow
I like to listen to music in the mornings, specifically Bruce Springsteen or meditation music. Both help me clear my thoughts. - Puja Patel
I use my espresso maker so much that the plastic handle has started to melt. Now it looks like dripping candle wax-but I’m too attached to buy a new one. - Waverly Herbert
Daze is
A flowing narrative Exploring the time between Sunrise to sunrise The imagery of life in the city The Poetic progression of a day Atmospheric, ephemeral, glowing, and fading Both content and color scheme evoke
Moods, cycles, light You, me, The City, and our days It is e x p e r i e n c e .
W A K E
Open eyes. Nuzzle back into the indent left in my pillow: it’s calling my name. Stretch legs. Reach towards windowsill to find phone. What time is it? Peer through blinds to check the weather and look for people walking on the street. Is it really time to get up yet? Blink. Yawn. Lay back down. Attempt to recapture the last few minutes of my dream. Can’t seem to sink back in. Isn’t it weird that in a dream you can be somewhere you know exists in real life, yet in this altered state it looks so completely different? Trippy. Turn over. Pull covers off and adjust my body to the edge of my bed. Feet hit the cold wood floor. Stand up. Trudge forward, barefoot. Pause. One long second of comfort. Push forward through two French doors and move straight towards the kitchen. Fill kettle with water, turn stove on. Tea or coffee: only time will tell. Walk into bathroom, stare in mirror. Splash face. Examine face. Repeat. Open laptop. Open iTunes. Select first song of the day - this is a big decision.
Hide Away A place to pause my thoughts, take a breath and savor the city…
As a loyal resident of Manhattan, I must admit that I sometimes yearn to take exile from this great island of ours. The monolithic skyscrapers, concrete roads and hoards of people can transform an otherwise beautiful city into a cold, malicious place, binding me in a straight jacket of sorts. This morning, I contemplate the possible solutions to my temporary claustrophobia. Option one: Hop on the LIRR or NJ Transit to a faraway beach, quiet woods or vast open field. I don’t have the time or money. Option two: Explore the other four boroughs Manhattan shares its New York City title with. Unfortunately, they all radiate that same urban scent I look to abandon. Then my roommate suggests a place she calls “Manhattan Suburbia.” A quick 20-minute subway ride takes me to a place that feels miles and miles away from the city. Upon first entering Roosevelt Island, I am surrounded by the one thing I have longed for: fresh air. The air is crisp. Grassy fields are not just limited to parks. There are as many trees as there are people lining the quiet streets. A single road runs down the small island, and all the shops are locally owned. It is as though life is running at a new, slower pace. There is no honking, rushing or yelling. Upon entering his shop, a restaurant owner asks me how my day was, as if my business is secondary to his customer’s well being. My world has transformed for these short few hours into a place where I can
feel the wind, the sunshine, and my own breath. This is my suburban hideaway. The populace of Roosevelt Island is a blend of young and old, rich and poor, black and white and everything in between. Unlike the highly segregated Manhattan, Roosevelt breeds of mix of different backgrounds, creating one single, hybrid identity. Only a handful of feet separate the lower-class apartments from the luxury ones. The school playground is full of children from different races, making any racial boundaries invisible. The island is breaking the racial and income divides that Manhattan often takes credit for. But it is not about recognition for the Rooseveltians. They are all just trying to get along. Strolling along the East River, I become nostalgic for the Manhattan I had previously hoped to escape. Now, I am grateful of the hidden beauty and warmth that the city provides me. Oftentimes, I find the best remedy for negative energy is meditation - a momentary escape from one’s physical reality. Today Roosevelt Island works as my cleansing meditative fix. Removing myself from all of the negative energy spewing from Manhattan, I am able to remember the moments of joy, love and adventure I’ve experienced in a city I call home.
LOVE
you can feel it in the
FASHION
I fell in love for the first time the summer before I left for college. Twice. I fell in love with my boyfriend Seany and, on only our second date, he introduced me to another Sean––the rapper Sean Daly, a member of the hip-hop group Atmosphere. His lyrics instantly permeated me. The only way I know how to describe it is that he spoke me, us, fluently. His words gushed through the speakers––every woman looks better in a sundress––to the backseat where Seany was pullin’ on my bra beneath his favorite sundress of mine, and I was tugging on his drawstring. After only a couple of weeks, Seany was defining my existence. And for both of us, our love became i n s e p a r a b l e f r o m A t m o s p h e r e . Instead of, I love you, it was: it ain’t nothing for me to come swing from your tree...Our love ebbed and flowed, but Atmosphere always knew what to say. The music mumbled our beginning before I even knew it existed––before I knew Seany was waiting for me. Atmosphere chronicled our relationship through its initial bliss, its death, and its aftermath, and finally, my recovery. To this day, I cannot express our love, and ultimately the terrible loss of that love, in any other words but his. This piece is a fashion anecdote about a cycle of love narrated by the lyrics of Atmosphere, from sunshine to sunshine.
She'd probably call the cops and get a restraining order… Now lean in and taste me (kiss)
“Summer Song”
The sun is shining but I’m in the shadow of my smirk I keep my breathin’ under my breath And when she leaves to make trek towards the bus stop My love erupts POPS, nd tiny blood clots thousa a Damn I wish that she was mine but time and time over the discretion On my right shoulder whispers to my ear Advising me to admire from way over here, play the rear And struggle for the view to clear And if she only knew, how long I’ve waited for her How her smile’s enough my winter warmer make to If she knew the way she walks could take away my storm She’d probably call the cops and get a restraining order…
Now lean in and taste me (kiss)
dress, vintage Chanel; shoes, Keds; hat, model’s own; bag, Zara; necklace, vintage
“Don’t Ever Fucking Question That”
Enough to hold you to the brightest of lights, to place you dangerously close to that sun, enough to acknowledge the flaws you can’t ignore and recognize the cause of what’s done is done, more than enough to put my name behind my ideals, and neglect my logic twice daily. Enough to keep me looking for my Lucy in the sky with gems, when I remember how you used to call me baby, enough to look in my mirror with detest for every tear you shed regardless of why you wept, enough to curse any man who can’t appreciate the depth of the ocean I swam till I ran out of breath. I love you, don’t ever fucking question that, that’s why we’ll probably never get along. if I was better at finding the right words to say, I wouldn’t need to write these mother fucking songs.
I love you.
I love you.
blazer, Alexander Wang; watch, model’s own; earrings, vintage YSL
“Yesterday”
I’m shook, I know, I pushed when I shoulda’ pulled Took it all back if I could, I put that on my soul Sittin’ here, wishin’ we could kick it Give me your opinions, I do miss the criticisms But who am I jokin’ wit’? There’s no way that you and I will ever get to re-open it. It doesn’t matter, this is more than love And maybe if I’m lucky, get to see you out the corner of Yesterday Was that you? Looked just like you Strange things my imagination might do Take a breath, reflect on what we been through Or am I just goin’ crazy ‘cause I miss you
“The Woman w
ith the Tattooed
Hands”
It’s not that she was n’t attractive, she w as beautiful but it’s the way that she interacted she was aggressively passi ve to the point where she would have intimidated any mitt that ever tried to catch her… a glimpse of religion a piece of coming closer to understanding more about what intr igues me most
I didn’t get turned on I just got turned I wasn’t as aroused as I was concerned for each one of ‘em I’ve hurt and every time I’ve been burned
I’ve got a lot to teach but even more to learn so now I keep my eyes open hoping to take in all I can about Woman taking in all she can… There’s good and evil in each individual fire identifies needs and feeds our desires as long as we keep our spirit inspired she can bite her bottom lip all she wants
jacket, vintage ape cape; skirt, model’s own; shoes, Céline; beanie, army surplus store. Opposite: t-shirt, Maison Martin Margiela; underwear, Hanes.
“Sunshine” At a standstill with how bad I feel I think I need to smell fresh hair So I stepped out the back door and fell down the stairs The sunlight hit me dead in the eye Like it’s mad I gave half the day to last night All of a sudden, I realize something The weather is amazing, even the birds are bumpin’ If I could I would keep this feeling in a plastic jar Bust it out whenever someone’s actin’ hard Every day that gets to pass is a success Every woman looks better in a sun dress The sunshine’s an excuse to shoot hoops, get juice Show improve their moves and let loose I hear voices, I see smiles to match ‘em Good times and you can feel it in the fashion Take it all in, the day started off all wrong Somehow now that hangover is all gone Ain’t nothing like the sound of the leaves When the breeze penetrates these southside trees Leanin’ up against one, watchin’ the vibe Forgettin’ all about the stress, thanking God I’m alive Sunshine, sunshine, it’s fine I feel it in my skin, warming up my mind, Sometimes you gotta give in to wind, I love the days when it shines, whoa let it shine…
dress, vintage; sunglasses, In God We Trust; necklace, vintage.
The Golden Hour
There are few words to describe the Golden Hour - a time when sidewalks sparkle, shadows extend and halos glow from treetops and skyscrapers. There is the unmistakable warmth of sun on exposed skin. It is a moment of suspension, a graceful pause, an interlude of luxurious laziness. During its last breaths, the sun reaches out and hugs you tightly as if to say goodbye before dipping below the horizon line.
The
In New York City, the time after sunset and before bed has no routine and no norms, entirely elastic. In any order (or disorder), New Yorkers eat, drink, explore, rendez-vous with friends, chat with strangers, smile, scowl, wait for subways, cabs, and walksigns, drink, dance, have sex, see a show, fall in love, go. All or none, it’s up to you and your night. These are hours of rebellion against the demands of day. It’s the time for free and endless letting loose.
Elastic Hours
Now navigate your way through the nocturnal city.
It’s 4AM. It’s gray. You feel the light coming but don’t see
it yet. The only lights are those on top of empty cabs. They drive like they’re in a rush but have nowhere to go. People say this city doesn’t sleep. I disagree. New York City and quiet are in no way synonymous – except for now. There are times when you hear nothing. Nothing at all. Then you listen for something, for anything. You hear your own footsteps. In this busy city you never hear them. At first they are completely unfamiliar and unrecognizable. It’s typical to feel lonely as millions of people pass you by uncaringly in this bustling city. No eye contact, faces void of emotion. It’s a whole new feeling of loneliness when the millions disappear. Did you ever think about how many people you must see in one day in NYC? I wonder what that number really is. Somebody count and let me know. It’s just me. And long stretches of empty sidewalks. And rats. Not as many as you’d expect – guess they’re asleep too. And the homeless guy. He too has faded into unconsciousness. Can only earn a dime in the daytime. He looks comfortable. Jaywalking? HA. I walk right along the double yellows on 3rd. No danger. Lie down for a second. How many people can say they have laid down in the middle of a NYC avenue? I can. I pass Lyric Diner on 3rd Ave. If it weren’t for diners everyone would be asleep. Where would people go otherwise? A harbor for late night undesirables indeed. That’s what they’d call us. Probably only because we make too much noise or have too much fun. The old people hate that – where has their desire gone? The things I have to look forward to. It’s not as sketchy as they make it in the movies. There aren’t men in black hoodies following me, watching my every move. That might even be welcome. Another person who shares my paranoia of the dark New York hours because of what we were told about the city before ever being here. He’d probably just end up being a nice guy with the wrong color hoodie for this hour. We could be 4AM friends. I get to my door. What an ugly door. I go into my less ugly apartment. It’s dark and quiet. To be expected. I check the fridge. You have to impulsively check the fridge when you get home at 4AM. Nothing in there - as usual. I should go grocery shopping. I should clean my apartment. I should get a new door. I create a list of things I will do tomorrow. I likely won’t do any of them. Good night.
I move the banana leaf slightly so I can see across the river. Who is that? She’s calling out in a language I’ve never heard, but I know what she’s saying: “Come back! I have something to tell you!” The hot brown river separates us by a mile, but she’s gaining on me. She conjures a bow and shoots a paper airplane right to my feet. Oh, of course. She’d like to tell me something. Through the gaps in the green I see her figure flit behind a tree. I feel my glitter stilettos sinking deep into muck as I bend to pick up and unfold the airplane. A message is scrawled:
Lincoln dreamt his own assassination two weeks before it happened. Prophetic. My shoes have dissolved and now my skin drinks up mud. “And!” she yells wildly, “they think our minds get reality better in dreams than in reality. Really? Really!” She pops from behind the gnarled tree and dives into the river toward me. I run, run, run. Where am I! Suddenly, a rifle appears in one hand, and a dolphin in the other. “Why are you so small?” I ask the dolphin, but I’m running, running, running, too fast to hear his reply. But he’s stretching at the seams – growing bigger. Jumps from my hand to the ground in front of me. I see that he’s still a dolphin, yes, but his eyes reveal that he is really Sigmund Freud. He booms, “She’s wrong! Don’t listen. Dreams are not prophetic. They’re human biases!” Oh, good. Then this won’t come true. Sigmund Freud has nice skin and I want to go swimming with him. Again, she appears beside him, and I realize, she’s my best friend. Oh, hello! And I say in my head, why were you chasing me? Coolly she replies, “To show you what will happen.” They quiet down, stare at me with somber faces and wonder whose opinion I will choose. Dreams as prophecy? Or as play?
dreaming
Fall 2010