post- 02/08/24

In This Issue

3

Anonymous

sydney pearson

2

My Memories Keep

Treasure Under Our Feet Eleanor Dushin

5

Sofie Zeruto

Gabi Yuan 4

Resonating With Silence

Do You Remember Me

The Delicacy of Firsts 6

Olivia Cohen 7

Astrology for Hustlers AJ Wu 8

Heart-To-Heart

postCover by Kianna Pan

FEB 8

VOL 33

— ISSUE 1

FEATURE

treasure under our feet rediscovering the joy of walking

by Sydney Pearson Illustrated by Stella Tsogtjargal “I walk, all day, across the heaven-verging field.” -

soft cushion of leaf-strewn trails under my shoes. I love

competitive satisfaction died down, the achievement

Mary Oliver, “Upstream”

the way the wind feels on my face and the smell of cut

meant nothing to me. No joy lingered. I appreciate

***

grass on a warm weekend day. I walk and I watch and

that people are incentivized to move and go outdoors,

Would you believe me if I told you there are

I notice the way a fern hangs low, laden with spores. I

but have we missed the point?

hidden wonders just down the street? Would you

feel the cracks in an old brick retaining wall. I hold a

An incessant desire to feel “productive” has

listen if I said they are free for the taking? Would you

staring contest with a squirrel scrambling up an oak.

warped the experience of walking even more for me.

trust me if I promised they are more valuable than

It is the most inconvenient mode of transportation in

I feel a rush of satisfaction after hitting a particularly

gold? There is only one caveat: The sole way to find

our modern world (most American cities are designed

high step count for the day, believing that I am special

these treasures is to walk.

for cars) but it is, perhaps, the most freeing.

and worthy because I have walked so far. My watch

Before we can run and jump and do the

However, I wonder if these simple beauties

eggs me on, sending affirmations and awards and

occasional cartwheel, we must first learn how to walk.

have become corrupted. The rise of pedometers and

sparkling notifications when I’ve filled in rings. My

The action of placing one foot in front of the other

flashy apps that advertise that you (yes you!) could

unusually quick gait gives me a bubbling pride in my

takes time and monumental effort to master when

get paid to walk has transformed the activity into no

chest as I cut minutes off my commutes to class, head

we are young. Yet we quickly forget the wonder of the

more than a means to an end. Now your watch buzzes,

down, legs pumping. Am I, too, destroying the art of

action, the millions of miracles that allow it to occur.

telling you how close you are to your exercise goals for

the walk?

We walk to class. We walk to the library. We walk

the day. We go outside, but how much of it is driven

This need for productivity has seeped even

home. We take a car if things are too far or too rainy,

by an obsession over a number on a screen rather

into my leisure strolls. Having recently picked up bird-

and never once do we relish our strength.

than a love of the world itself ? I remember once

watching as a hobby, I went to Swan Point Cemetery

Walking, for me, is an escape from the routine

competing on a step-counter app with my family and,

to see which species I could identify. I speed-walked

of everyday life, a way to ease the countless stresses of

to beat my father, I paced back and forth through my

down Blackstone Boulevard, barely acknowledging

being human. I love the solidity of sidewalks and the

house to get to 12,000 steps. After the initial rush of

the greens and yellows of the trees above. Once inside

group has a true knack for calming all the butterflies

astrological sign—okay, I guess that’s not so scary :)

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, I felt a lot scurrying up the stairs to prod tonight: the singe of cigarettes in the air, the two-day-after (overmorrow) tinge of pain in my lower quads, the anticipated Trader Joe’s Chocolatey Coated Chocolate Chip Cookie Dunkers binge as we snack and work. I also felt scared; though I’d had a testrun last semester, this is the first time I’m “running the show,” so to speak.

Despite calling this little backroom of 88 Benevolent my Wednesday (previously Thursday) home for as long as I’ve been at Brown, it definitely felt a little weird having to start the chitter-chatter instead of being able to revel in the amusing crossfire of it all. However, as the night is winding down, I must say that as scary as it was to walk up those stairs a couple hours ago, this

2

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(or should I say moths?).

As shopping period comes to a close and we all

This week, our writers are facing their own fears.

need to face the fears of this impending semester

In Feature, the writer discusses how they use walking

(spring is always better, I swear!), I can think of no

to deal with the weight of the world bearing down on

better way to escape than with our first edition. So take

them. In Narrative, one writer explores the fear and

a moment today and get in the habit of spending your

nostalgic beauty of first experiences while the other

Thursdays with post-! I promise we’ve got an amaz-

writer shares the kind of fears that were previously

ing, wonderful, fantabulous suite of issues coming this

only shared with their diary. Meanwhile, one writer

semester! Can’t wait to share them with you!

in Arts & Culture confronts the distress of separation explored in Past Lives, and the other one works on making the unease of silence a little more easy. Finally, in Lifestyle, we’ve got a Valentine’s themed crossword to help everyone get ready for the festivities (which can be scary, I suppose), and another writer hypothesizes about the best ways to make money based on your

Kicking my feet for the next year of post-

Joe Maffa, Editor-in-Chief

NARRATIVE the sprawling grounds, I tried to navigate a straight

winter grief, I walk once more. The paths are clearer,

route between the grassy plots of gravestones, seeking

and snow lies in patches rather than mountains across

the most efficient way to cover ground and leave

the grass. Still, it is slippery, so I slow my pace. Noticing

quickly before the sun fell. Passing the rows and

a tree of red berries dusted in white, I smile. Perched

rows of names, I craned my neck up and up and up,

in the center, feet tucked into the crystalline mounds,

but I barely saw or heard anything. Where was the

is a robin. As I stand captivated in the middle of the

black-capped chickadee or the dark-eyed junco or the

sidewalk, it suddenly flies to the top of the thin, young

American goldfinch that should have been there? My

tree and settles, its orange breast a sun breaking through

throat constricting and my neck aching, the thought

the branches. I know, at that moment, that everything

of the hour-long walk home made my heart pound.

will be okay.

I did not care to notice the cold tombstones or the

Just keep watching. Just keep walking.

looming statues of angels or the way the sky glinted

***

off the bay behind the trees. I only worried about what

“So the secret is out there. It’s under the leaves on the trail.

I had gained from all of this. What could I add to my

It’s right there on the sidewalk. Spring has sprung. Lace up.” - Andrew McCarthy for The New York Times

mental catalog of achievement?

What is the point of the walk if it cannot

***

satisfy my ambition?

I tend to take walks alone, worried that the activity ***

is unexciting to others. But one day a friend texts,

“But it sometimes happens that I cannot easily shake

asking if I want to go wander in the snow. I agree. We

off the village. The thought of some work will run in my

pass through the wrought iron gates near our dorm,

head and I am not where my body is—I am out of my

down the street, and toward a bookshop to the east. We

senses. In my walks I would fain return to my senses. What

talk and joke, carefully shuffling to avoid slipping on

business have I in the woods, if I am thinking of something

the icy paths. Late afternoon light streaming through

out of the woods?” - Henry David Thoreau, “Walking”

the silver, sleeting sky, I am not focused on spotting

***

birds or reaching our destination. I only want to hold

I was anxious; a looming final made it difficult

onto the peace of being outside and the company of my

to breathe. Unable to concentrate on studying, I left

friend, bottle it up to remember the moment by. There

my room and tried to slow my mind. Reaching a quiet

are so many treasures that can only be found when you

neighborhood street where a flock of birds perched in

go outside and take time to look around. Snowing or

the trees shadowing the road, I listened to their rambling

raining, alone or together, the world has so much to offer

melodies and breathed out the cold air. Yet the final

us.

remained on the horizon. The anxiety soon returned,

To walk, in my opinion, is the closest we will ever

worse than before. So I made my way back to my room,

come to finding that mythical Fountain of Youth,

sat down in front of my computer, and continued to

the closest we will ever be to rowing back against the

work.

currents of time. On a crisp late-November day, I make ***

my way back up College Hill after spending several

“She began to walk forward, crunch-crunch over

hours doing homework in a coffee shop downtown.

the snow and through the wood towards the other light.

Climbing the steep incline, I notice that the sky, still

In about ten minutes she reached it and found it was a

azure, is beginning to streak with golden light along

lamp-post.” - C.S. Lewis, The Lion, The Witch and The

the edges, bringing out the feathers of the cirrus clouds

Wardrobe

above the canal. Slightly over-caffeinated, pumped with ***

endorphins, I skip around, trying to find the best vantage

It is freshman year and every day I feel as though

point of the rapidly blushing sky. At this moment, I am

I am stranded in a whiteout, the world empty save for

a child again, racing from place to place, swallowed by

the roar of the wind and voices too dim to distinguish.

the beauty of the world. I forget the tasks and homework

It’s that particular brand of loneliness exacerbated

I vowed to get done, the worries and doubts I too often

by the cold, and when a blizzard rolls around, heaping

wrap myself in. In this moment, I am alive and my

buildings in mounds of snow and dulling the afternoon

feet alone can carry me from place to place. The world

sun to twilight, what else is there to do but go outside?

is magical and I can experience it and that is all that

So I pull on my hat, boots, and biggest coat, and I walk.

matters. No car or determined speed walk could bring

The sky is white, and the brick buildings look like they

me this joy. No step-counting hike or mental checklist

were carefully arranged inside a photo box. Flakes coat

of birds could lead me to this peace. It is only when we

my crimson hat and I sink into powder along the paths.

slow down, take a breath, and look up that we can find

It is quiet. For a minute, the sadness subsides.

the treasure of who we once were, and perhaps who we

A few weeks later, stifled by the same intangible

Nuts

1. Cashews 2. Donuts 3. Deez.

4. Dark Chocolate–covered Almonds 5. Me when I’m nuts for you 6. Roasted pecans 7. ;) 8. the Egyptian sky goddess 9. & bolts 10. post-... clarity

are meant to be.

my memories keep after Sheila Heti

by anonymous Illustrated by Junyue Ma TW: depression [This is an alphabetized list of things I’ve written in my diary over the last three years about my depression. In other words, this is an experiment.]

A balancing act. A position of the sun. A Venn diagram with interlocking rings. A story alongside amnesia. A tangle of wires, like the limp tentacles of a dead octopus.

Actually, I’m definitely being dramatic. All I want is to feel okay again.

All this time I wished to grow older without realizing my parents would grow older too.

As I close my eyes, I always think if I can’t fall asleep, I’ll at least pretend to, if only to feel someone shake me awake.

At the end of all things, I’m still so grateful to be here.

Before, I couldn’t even put into words how I felt, so maybe this is progress. But I’m still an unfinished meal.

But I’m tired of every conversation turning into me talking about how sad I am.

Circling the drain.

Do you remember when you told me no one would want to be friends with me if I kept acting like this?

Drawing their attention to the very thing you’re trying to hide and expecting them not to see.

Every time I get bored I ask Y to cut my hair, and now I’m worried I’ll be bald by the end of the year. Everything is in my head. Everywhere I go, there are couples in love.

Falling asleep in someone else’s bed is the closest I’ve come in years to being held.

Get through it.

Home is not a place but a feeling.

How can I be the best version of myself and still believe I don’t deserve to be happy? How much longer am I going to live on a dinner plate? How much longer can I survive underwater?

I am watching myself from another person’s body.

I don’t know what the problem is but I’m pretty sure it’s me.

I don’t know why I make it so hard for people to love me.

I leaned over the sink and stared at this face that wasn’t my face. I mean it. I miss you. I miss you. I’ll do anything to make the feeling go away, except call you. I’ll find anyone to blame but myself.

I promise I have nothing to hide. I promise, in the end, it will all be worth it.

“We’re sitting there watching football. I sit criss-cross applesauce and my balls fall out.”

“Now, kindergarteners are where the real money is at.”

February 8, 2024

3

NARRATIVE I read a book about a man who, after being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, flies to Switzerland and kills himself. I rub the memory with my fingers, over and over, until the shine begins to tarnish.

I want to cook myself a meal and not have to share it.

I want to go home.

I wish I could talk about it. I wish I were more than I am.

I’m a scooped-out version of myself. I’m getting high out the window and feeling jealous of the smoke. I’m just dragging myself from room to room and calling it progress. I’m turning my face inside out to see if there’s anything left.

It gets fucking worse every day.

It’s like I’m a 3D image viewed without the right glasses, two identical outlines shifted apart. It’s more than I deserve.

Last weekend I got so high that my body felt like water.

Losing my mind every single day. Losing my mind, deliberately. My brain is a split beehive and the drones are flying out of my nose.

My hair in clumps on Y’s kitchen floor.

My memories keep getting switched around. My mind is the labyrinth and it is the monster and it is the spool of thread all at the same time.

Now I don’t know if he remembers what I said, or if he thinks I meant any of it, or if I said anything at all. Now I’m too afraid to ask.

Obviously I was crying. Of course I was lying. Of course I’m happy, but sometimes I am equally as anxious, and I don’t know why.

Of course there are the trees, green even in the winter. On the beach, I’m building a pyre. On the drive I realized, with more clarity than I’ve ever felt in my entire life, that this will kill me one day.

One of these days I’ll feel grateful just to be alive.

Reaching is another form of love. Refuse to do it.

Right?

Self-sabotage, at least, offers me the illusion of control. So I called the hotline and made a stranger listen to me cry. Speaking in tongues. Swallowing the words like a pill.

Tell me being a burden is just another part of being loved. Tell me one day I will stop walking into rooms as if I am an afterthought. Tell me the truth doesn’t have to be a razor tucked into my palm.

The feeling always fades.

The feeling never goes away.

This my parents see but do not say.

The moment is like swallowing a stone. The sky splits open like a grapefruit.

There’s nowhere I can go where I’m not myself.

To be honest, I’m not sure. Triptych of what?

Twilight, again. Two fish, one with the other in its mouth, four eyes gazing at the surface.

We’ll be fine.

When I ask you to read this, I ask you to see me.

th

l ic acy of f i r s e d e t g periencin one more tim to ex e

by Gabi Yuan Illustrated by Emily Saxl At First Sight It strikes me all at once—the immense, sizable beauty of it. I take in a sudden breath, and I wonder if a day will come when, having walked by this exact place, day after day, I forget the mounting of what has captured my attention so completely.

What do I soak in first? The sound of the leaves, beginning to drift onto the neatly trimmed grass? The waves of students under the gentle August sun shining its warm touch down on sleeping backs? I choose to focus on the mass of it all—the feeling that something so intangible can come together so seamlessly.

The doting breeze that tickles my cheek, the friends along both sides of me, the delighted skip of my Doc Martens on the pavement lead me to laugh fully.

The simplistic feel of nature, resting alongside the trees, makes so many people feel so small, quiet, and inexplicably trivial. The beauty of taking a step back, absorbing the sight of others, allows me to breathe easier as more and more firsts are blooming here on campus.

At First Taste The first sip of coffee, for once, isn’t bitter, but instead almost sweet, tantalizing, touching the edges of my mouth. I’m sitting in a local coffee shop, one leg lazily crossed over the other. Here, I’m balancing the hope of being productive after a restful night in or trying to block out the reminders of flashing lights, bitter drinks, and the feeling of unfamiliar hands around my waist. No matter what happened the night before, the first sip signifies the parting of a new day from an old.

When did coffee begin to taste so delicate, no longer so strong or demanding? It no longer feels like an urge to consume more for the physical, but rather the emotional appeal of it. I guess that’s what happens when you’re finally left to grow on your own—without the rustling of a mother’s footsteps to your room every morning, her gently opening the blinds to let the sun spill in, or the first waft of toasted blueberry waffles waiting for you.

Now, it’s time for the coffee to act as a new caregiver—comforting and awakening us to recognize what is presently in front of us. Even as I continue to take sip after sip of the euphoric balance between the sweet creamer and hot inescapable coffee, the utility does not diminish but instead enhances what is around me.

At First Touch The caress of those fingers, dangerously cautious yet curious, lead me to believe that I am undeniably desired.

How many moments follow the feeling of first love— that subtle mix of fear and pounding rush to experience everything all at once? Lying there, under the moon and stars of my room and the darkness of my backyard, the

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s

existence of two people, I begin to question all the good deeds I’ve done to deserve something so special. The smell of them, toasted and woody, yet citrusy and minty, is so kind and familiar to the back of my mind, leading me to reach for the moments that I first experienced the same sensations.

I close my eyes and, for once, my imagination does not trick me but instead exceeds the moments I have curated in my mind. The restless sensation and giggles that escape my voice, our entangled limbs, our fingers mapped together to create the perfect amount of overlap makes me look up, and then over at you. As I fall asleep, faintly recalling the sound of our synced breaths, do I prompt myself to remember this moment as my first love? I tell myself to never forget the way that your hands feel on my own, the feel of your soft hair against my neck, and finally, the gentle, slow fall of your head against mine, as you fall fast asleep this late night.

At First Smell It’s a Sunday, the festivities and excitement of Friday and Saturday night falling down to a quiet murmur.

I worship this time of day, the looming silence that exists before everyone else starts their day. This is the morning I treasure more than anything because with all the energy brimming around me, only now am I able to appreciate the first scents of the day alone. Stepping out from my dorm, the sun is barely shining through the clouds. It’s better in winter, when I’m awake even before the sun.

On my walk to the gym, I know the sun will move alongside me. The smell of the cold morning air hits me at last, nestling nicely within. The wishful, almost nostalgic scent of morning dew is rewarding; it lasts only until a certain time in the morning, and I, one of the few lucky ones, am here with it.

I smell the beginnings of breakfast brewing, the initial waft of fresh bagels being toasted within the depths of the dining hall. I pass the dorms opposite my own, the clean scent of lavender laundry detergent reaching me. I walk through, taking note of every detail I might have missed rushing to class. From the sudden plainness of the Main Green to the other lost smells of campus, I am awed not by the physical smell, but the scent of rest all at once.

As I continue to observe the things that I once witnessed for the first time, I remind myself of the many things I must not take for granted. I think back to the feelings I felt so fully once: the smells that drifted to my nose, the knots in my stomach I experienced holding hands for the first time, the many tastes I will continue to experience, year by year, week by week, day by day in this life I live.

ARTS & CULTURE

do you remember me? on Past Lives, what-ifs, and the Internet’s mirage

by Sofie Zeruto Illustrated by Kaitlyn Stanton On paper, Celine Song’s Past Lives is a simple movie.

A girl named Na-young has a crush on her classmate and close friend, Hae Sung, until her family decides to immigrate from Korea to Canada and she leaves. The two find each other on social media years later and briefly keep in touch before their adult lives pull them apart once again.

Only years later do Na-young, now married and going by Nora, and Hae Sung reunite in New York.

In those two days of reunion, there is no passionate affair or even a kiss as they explore the city’s famous tourist spots. It is not a question of the classic love triangle trope either—Nora and her husband have a loving relationship built on a strong foundation of trust that almost seems unrealistic. Her husband is aware of Nora and Hae Sung’s deep emotional connection but makes no attempt to persuade her out of spending time alone with him. Squished on a flight between two strangers, my cat shoved under the seat, I cried with Nora at the end of the movie as she said goodbye to Hae Sung. This movie is an exploration of life’s endlessly torturing and hopelessly romantic what-ifs. What if Nora had remained Na-young and never left Korea? What if Nora had never gotten married? What if there are past lives, described in the movie as the Korean concept of inyeon, and our souls are intertwined in over 8,000 other lifetimes? Or what if social media has fundamentally exacerbated our access to these what-ifs, enabling us to connect to anyone from any point in our lives across any corner of the globe? Maybe today the what-ifs are much more difficult to shake.

While the isolated plot of the movie may be sparse in action, the interactions between the two childhood sweethearts from youth to adulthood are real and distinctly captivating without being cheesy. Nora is a fiercely independent playwright living in New York with an ambitious streak, and Hae Sung jokingly asks her in each stage of their lives—childhood, college, and

adulthood—which new prestigious award she is chasing.

Hae Sung is a more humble, stoic, and romantic tragic hero from beginning to end, accepting second place to her in school and flying to New York as an adult just to see her again. Nora claims that the girl version of herself that Hae Sung remembers is gone—she is no longer the crybaby twelve-year-old named Na-young he once knew—yet they retain their same motifs in relation to each other through adulthood. Her husband’s observation that she only speaks Korean in her dreams and her tears at the film’s end demonstrates that we can never fully abandon our younger selves or the connections we make during childhood. Perhaps the title Past Lives can be taken to mean not only the spiritual idea of past lives and alternate realities but also that Nora was wrong, and the past itself, specifically our younger selves, will always live on inside of us.

Yet the concept of our past in and of itself has been completely altered by social media. What is the significance of the past when we can instantaneously access each other on social media with a simple name search? Even if you block somebody, they remain at your disposal to contact at any moment. What if social media did not exist and Hae Sung and Nora had never found each other again after she left Korea? After reconnecting online as young adults, Hae Sung and Nora incessantly Skype each other for a period of time. When Nora realizes that it is unrealistic that they will be able to visit each other anytime soon, she tells Hae Sung they need to stop talking since it is distracting them from their real lives. Hae Sung, devastated, asks her in Korean, “Were we dating or something?” Nora leaves the question unanswered.

Skype was their alternate universe. It proved the theory that their deep connection was still there, and had they been in the same place at the same time, they likely would have been together. But was it real? Yes and no.

Their emotional bond through those calls was real, but the prospect of them being a couple was a fantasy given their firmly rooted lives across the globe. The alternate reality of a life in which they were together slipped through the wormhole of the Internet.

This is the dilemma of the modern love story. We can never fully leave each other behind. Goodbyes are not the end-all-be-all “we-will-probably-never-see-each-otheragain” that they used to be. Even a brief goodbye for a day or two can be ended by texting or calling on our whims.

Distance, while still a factor, is now easily surmounted.

To disconnect from someone today means making a constant, active choice to ignore what is easily accessible, right in front of us. However, psychologically, it is very difficult to toe the line between disconnecting indefinitely from somebody in the real world and disconnecting from somebody in the digital world—especially if the leaving was amicable or due to reasons beyond our control.

Perhaps it is for these reasons that these what-if stories of long-lost love are becoming more and more salient in popular media. From Sally Rooney’s best-selling bookturned-TV show Normal People to Damien Chazelle’s iconic La La Land, Past Lives follows the recent trend of acclaimed stories about seeming soulmates torn apart by circumstance and the hypotheticals that plague us onwards. While Connell and Marianne’s intense email exchanges in Normal People explicitly reference the effects of this relatively new realm of communication on interpersonal relationships, the instant virality of Mia and Sebastian’s shared smile at the end of La La Land indicates our generational connection to the what-if trope in today’s unique, globalized social climate.

While infatuation with what-ifs and the idea of “soulmates” has always existed, never has it been more accessible than today. It is hard to say whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. On one hand, the ability to keep in touch with those from our pasts can be beautiful, allowing us to maintain a connection with the people from childhood who each hold special keys to different versions of ourselves. On the other hand, we must inevitably leave some things, good ones included, behind.

As Nora and Hae Sung discover, the Internet can only take you so far, and real-world connection is irreplaceable. In a moment of revelation in the movie’s final scenes, Hae Sung tells Nora, “You had to leave because you’re you.

And the reason I liked you is because you’re you. And who you are is someone who leaves.” In the end, our present circumstances are our reality, and the Internet alone can only serve as a point of surface-level reconnection between two people. But, as we see again and again, if two souls are connected in past lifetimes, they will always find each other, whether it be as simple as brushing shoulders on a crowded street, or in the audience at a jazz club in Los Angeles, or driving together through the Irish countryside, or as two pixelated faces on Skype, intertwined through 8,000 layers of inyeon.

February 8, 2023

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ARTS & CULTURE

resonating with silence

I constantly need to remind myself that time spent in my own mind, no noise to accompany me, isn’t a shameful lack of productive activity.

It’s time spent cherishing my existence.

But a year later, I still appreciate the silence between my friend’s sentences. Even if he sits for a few seconds only to say “I disagree,” I feel

by Eleanor Dushin comfortable in the silence. I know that he’s Illustrated by Joyce Gao trying to understand me, and I know that he Last spring, I paced around CVS near Last puts genuine thought into our conversations. spring, I paced around CVS near closing time and Silence isn’t lacking with him; it’s a space filled then closing time and then called a guy I barely with care and connection. I’ve often heard people knew to go on a walk. After walking through the say that they want friends with whom they feel sharp cold of the lingering winter, we ended up in comfortable sitting in silence. Sitting silently a lecture hall in 85 Waterman, where we sat in the alongside someone requires trusting that they, front row and got to know each other. Every time too, enjoy your company. It demands a deep he asked me a question, I fixed my eyes on the wall connection independent of verbalized validation. behind him and responded almost immediately, We stuff ourselves with noise and stimulation stalling with “well, like… I think that, um… yeah.” only to find real fulfillment in the quiet.

Every time I said something, though, he paused Recently, I’ve been running from noise. I for a few seconds before responding, letting the want to get away from the hundreds of voices in empty air of the vacant lecture hall sit. It threw my head, none of them my own. I try to convince me off at first, but I started to appreciate the myself that silence exists in moments stuffed silence between sentences. with sound. I stare at anyone with their mouth A napkin sat on the desk in front of me, and closed at a party, telling myself that I can hear he wrote a message to me in blue pen. I took out their silence and that it drowns out the Frank a black one and wrote a message back. We sat Ocean. I hyperfixate on the whirr of my fan as I in silence, writing on the napkin. When we ran sleep, wondering if maybe the soundwaves can out of space, we switched to a piece of notebook align just right and make a special silence; if I paper. A few months later, when he had gone listen a little closer, maybe I can hear it, maybe I from vague acquaintance to close friend, he told can nestle into the troughs. I sit as still as possible me that he had kept the paper, and I told him that on a beanbag chair, trying not to breathe.

I had taped the napkin into my notebook that But even if I find silence, will it be enough to night. help me understand my every thought? Then, can I’ve woven a deep fear of silence into my I stop dwelling on pain? life. I’m terrified of spaces between words. I can Over winter break last year, I quit never let the sounds sit, the paint dry, the bread social media cold turkey, bringing my rise. I always need to get in the way of stillness. screen time down to 15 minutes per I’m losing my life to noise: Whenever I don’t day. When I wasn’t at work, I sat want to think about an issue directly, I listen to cross-legged on my bed, knitting music, subconsciously wading through emotions and refreshing my email until with metaphors and melodies. I fall into a trance 2 a.m. every night, waiting for when I come across videos of glass bottles being friends to email me back, writing rolled down a staircase or a man making a knife out of milk. Screens spawn in front of our eyes, sounds surge in our ears. Auditory and visual noise is an escape through overstimulation. If you shove enough media into your face, you can’t think too hard about your life. You can’t sit in too much pain. You can’t be too human. It doesn’t take much digging to find hundreds of tweets explaining the perils of being “alone with your thoughts.” As distractions grow more available, our culture is shifting to consider thoughts a burden. We choose convenience and surround ourselves with the noise of the everyday instead of listening for silence.

I tend to think of silence as a cavity that could be filled with noise or music or a conversation. As hard as I try to live in the moment, I consider silence to be the time before something else— time I’m wasting. I should be working, applying for another job, applying for another scholarship, doing my readings, re-reading the readings, learning Portuguese, learning Python. Silence is stillness, and stillness isn’t enough if you want to afford rent in two years.

reflections on hearing and hurting and healing

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1,000 words at a time when they did. I didn’t listen to music; I just sat and thought. At the end of it, I felt no different.

In retrospect, it’s because I didn’t think of silence as full. I still thought about it in terms of what wasn’t there. Without perceiving silence as my friend did—as an opportunity to understand and reflect—I stayed still. I waited for issues to resolve themselves. I didn’t do the work necessary to make something change, and I didn’t live any more deeply than I had before. I just stared at the ceiling, unthinking, and I felt the same familiar sense of disconnect. I could feel comfortable in the quiet, but my palms grew clammy during meaningful reflection. I hadn’t gotten over a fear of silence. I had just gotten over a fear of lack.

Healing takes far more than silence. It takes work and focus that, in a culture and economy demanding constant productivity, seems unaffordable. Noise is available, it’s abundant, and most of all, it’s easy. Noise doesn’t force you to dwell on anything other than the noise itself. I don’t search for something to think about while listening to the crunchy static of feeble little horse or Erasmo Carlos’s bouncy basslines. Noise tells me what to do and what to think, indefinitely shoving my own thoughts to the back burner.

Healing demands that we make our thoughts and feelings a priority, including the hurt. It demands that we make space within silence to let negative thoughts ruminate and to work through them. To heal, we hurt, and to hurt, we sit in silence.

I’m trying to put more space between my sentences. I’m trying not to live in fear of silence, to recognize fullness in stillness. I want to look you in the eyes with our mouths closed. I want to live in the quiet.

LIFEST YLE

astrology for hustlers:

how to make money based on your zodiac sign

by Olivia Cohen Illustrated by emilie guan Budgets get tight at the beginning of the calendar year. Holiday shopping and celebrations leave wallets considerably thinner, and many college students make New Year’s resolutions to fix their finances. February in Providence is already bleak—don't make it worse with a boring campus job! If you want a way to make a quick buck that fits your personality, this is the article for you. Here you'll find a hand-curated list of entrepreneurial endeavors, tailored to your zodiac sign.

Aries (March 21–April 19): bet on dogfights You're probably itching for a new adrenaline rush, but trust me, take a break this month from learning new skate tricks and shoplifting.

Instead, channel your competitive energy into something more lucrative: betting on dogfights.

May the hungriest pitbull win.

Taurus (April 20–May 20): become a cuddle buddy When it gets cold, it can be tempting to stay in bed all day, especially for you affectionate, homebody Tauruses. Luckily, you can make some serious coin without even changing out of your sweats! Earn up to $80/hour cuddling a lonely, touch-deprived soul! Don't think about it too hard, just take the money.

Gemini (May 21–June 20): take advantage of your friends Geminis are notoriously two-faced, but also notoriously charming. Use these skills to

your advantage: Next time you go out to dinner downtown, offer to pay for the Uber, charge it to your parents' account, and then Venmo-request your friends. Easiest $15 of your life.

Cancer (June 21–July 22): sell an organ You're used to doing kind things for free— giving advice, carrying emotional baggage, lending pencils you'll never see again—because that's just who you are. This year, consider charging for your generosity by donating a nonessential body part. (One kidney sells for up to $10,000.)

Leo (July 23–August 22): poach endangered animals You've tried being a TikTok influencer. You've tried selling your old clothes on Depop. No luck.

Want to really stand out? Try poaching! Polar bears make for gorgeous rugs—you'd be helping make the world a more stylish place.

Virgo (August 23–September 22): invent something You're the person your friends turn to when they need help killing a bug, solving a math problem, or wording an email, so you don't need my help. Just go invent something! Like a pet translator. Or gum that never loses its flavor. I'll be your first customer.

Libra (September 23–October 22): become a sugar baby You live in your head, which gives you an air of mystery. You're also always dressed like an incognito celebrity. Market these traits and become a young muse for a rich widow or a jaded businessman with a second family.

Scorpio (October 23–November 21): exploit strangers It's easy to make money when you have no moral compass! Just call some elderly folks and phish for their credit card information, then extract $5–7 from their bank account every few days. If that's not enough, you can always rope

your high school friends into a diet pill pyramid scheme.

Sagittarius (November 22–December 21): win a hot dog eating contest Are you interested in self-improvement? Do you strive to be 1% better every day? Well, there are 146 days until July 4. If you hone your craft, you could beat Joey Chestnut's record of 76 hot dogs and buns in ten minutes at the 2024 Nathan's Famous July Fourth hot dog eating contest and win a prize of $10,000.

Capricorn (December 22–January 18): sell family heirlooms You are pragmatic and logical, and you believe sentimentality is a waste of cognitive energy. Why keep Grandpa's old cufflinks around? Nobody wears those anymore. Your great aunt's favorite butterfly brooch? She won't know it's gone. Just sell your family heirlooms on Craigslist—as they say, one man's treasure is another man's $11.

Aquarius (January 21–February 19): start smoking Want to emulate that European je-ne-saisquoi? Want to make some money so that you can buy a secondhand Voltaire novel that you'll carry around but never actually open? Turns out, you can do both at the same time! Just take up smoking cigarettes and then enter a Brown University tobacco study for up to $600 in compensation. Your bank account will thank you; your organs will not.

Pisces (February 20–March 20): write fairy fanfic If you're a Pisces, you probably spend half your time dreaming and the other half of your time daydreaming. But if you've got some extra time on your hands, that wild imagination is a marketable skill! Write some smutty fairy fanfic and watch the money roll in as your teenage readers imagine his wings, beating faster and faster…

February 8, 2024

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LIFEST YLE

heart to heart post- mini crossword

by AJ Wu

2

1

3

4

6

5

7

8

Down

Across

1 Hugs and kisses

1 Heart in Chinese pinyin

5 ____ cute :)

2 Metals in their raw form

Sherlock Holmes Refers to her as "the 6 woman" 7 Like someone who says, "Erm, actually..."

backspace, 3 Uh-oh...backspace, backspace 4 Kylo Ren's love interest

8 Broadway actress Phillipa who played Eliza Schuyler

6 The Greek counterpart to Cupid

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Joe Maffa

“I’m glad someone decided to save those notebooks and glad that, at least, this kind of purposelessness will remain. If anything, we’ve become more compulsive about documenting and compiling our things with no promise that we will ever return to them.”

—Alissa Simon, “Christmas Adventures in OpenAI” 2.17.23

“Despite it all, though, a 60 degree day unlocks the part of my brain that usually slumbers the winter away. My shoulders get a well-earned rest from scrunching up against the cold, my room gets some fresh air rolling in through the window.”

—Kyoko Leaman, “Letter from the Editor” 2.18.22

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Section Editors Emily Tom Ananya Mukerji

FEATURE Managing Editor Klara Davidson-Schmich

LIFESTYLE Managing Editor Tabitha Lynn

Section Editors Addie Marin Elaina Bayard

Section Editors Jack Cobey Daniella Coyle

ARTS & CULTURE Managing Editor Elijah Puente

HEAD ILLUSTRATORS Stella Tsogtjargal Junyue Ma

Section Editors Christine Tsu Emilie Guan

COPY CHIEF Eleanor Peters

NARRATIVE Managing Editor Katheryne Gonzalez

Copy Editors Indigo Mudhbary AJ Wu Gabi Yuan

SOCIAL MEDIA HEAD EDITORS Kelsey Cooper Tabitha Grandolfo LAYOUT CHIEF Gray Martens Layout Designers Amber Zhao Alexa Gay Romilly Thomson STAFF WRITERS Dorrit Corwin Liza Kolbasov Gabi Yuan Elena Jiang Sofie Zeruto Sarah Kim Samiha Kazi

Aalia Jagwani AJ Wu Olivia Cohen Ellie Jurmann Sean Toomey Sarah Frank Emily Tom Evan Gardner Audrey Wijono Jeanine Kim Sydney Pearson Samira Lakhiani Cat Gao Indigo Mudhbary Will Hassett Ayoola Fadahunsi Joyce Gao Eleanor Dushin Malena Colon Alaire Kanes

Want to be involved?

Email: joseph_maffa@brown.edu!