THREAD
A Day in the Life explores the places and communities in which we find joy and fulfillment in daily routine. The way we spend our days is the way we spend our lives, and in rendering the mundane high fashion, A Day in the Life becomes an editorial tribute to our most intimate relationships and genuine selves.
Cornell University is located on the traditional homelands of the Gayogohó:no’ (the Cayuga Nation).
The Gayogohó:no’ are members of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, an alliance of six sovereign Nations with a historic and contemporary presence on this land. The Confederacy precedes the establishment of Cornell University, New York State, and the United States of America. We acknowledge the painful history of Gayogohó:no’ dispossession, and the honor of ongoing connection of Gayogohó:no’ people, past and present, to these lands and waters.
As Cornell’s premier student-run fashion, art, and culture magazine, Thread aims to create a collaborative environment where Cornellians can learn to express themselves with different forms of mixed media. Thread cultivates and celebrates individuality among its members and models as well as through our partner campus groups and external organizations. We draw inspiration from students of all interests and disciplines to create a bi-annual publication, each showcasing a unique aspect of the human experience. Embedded within are a diverse array of perspectives and content creation we hope will continue to captivate our readers in years to come.
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A DAY THE ISSUE
DAY IN LIFE ISSUE
FOREWORD
“The number of hours we have together is actually not so large. Please linger near the door uncomfortably instead of just leaving. Please forget your scarf in my life and come back later for it.”
—Mikko Harvey
In another life, we have all the time in the world. We foster our relationships without a clock ticking over our shoulder, and sit on the same couch night after night in the same unwavering company. These recent months, especially, have been testament to the way in which daily relationships have been at the forefront of my life. I linger in the living room well past when I should’ve gone to bed to savor one last conversation, study silently across from my friends in the library just to be in each other’s company.
I sought to document a visual memoir reminding us to commemorate our universal experience of the mundane, and chose the theme A Day in the Life as a way to track the progression of a single day. Though we are defined by the events that happen to us, our disposition is reflected in the routines with which we fill our time, and our agency in the way we structure our days. I look to forms of media that relish in the quotidian–stories that intimately follow a single friend group across chapters, memoirs which delve into the rich interior life of its author, street photography that candidly captures a community. I search for truth in these glimpses of the everyday, and seek to find meaning in the interactions that most authentically encapsulate our lives.
This issue aims to create a mirror through which Thread’s readers and contributors can see themselves in the narratives that are captured, cataloged, and held. My vision was the product of
inspiration from many photographers, poets, and artists, and the creative persistence of a wonderful and dedicated team. The essence of Carrie Mae Weems’ “Kitchen Table Series” lies in “Golden Years,” and Hannah La Follette Ryan’s “Subway Hands” photography is manifested in “Crosstown Traffic.” The character of A Day in the Life is analogous to that of a street photographer, rooted in the belief that the practice is witness to our true character and is able to preserve the essence of the everyday that may be forgotten.
The issue concludes with “At the End of the Day,” a testament to the nights we return to ourselves and those who bring warmth to our lives. I hope that you find comfort and camaraderie within the pages of A Day in the Life, and that you find the courage to chronicle the beauty in your own days.
With love, Isabel
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR
When I joined Thread as a freshman, I was unprepared for the role this magazine would play in my life. I was an art team member, aiming to please the Editor-in-Chief, hoping to become Creative Director. I remember sitting in my dorm room and pouring over the “Lust” layout, scanning paper for a visual that would later be scrapped. I remember becoming Art Director and shedding joyful tears over the email. I remember writing my Foreword as Creative Director, my heart swollen with love.
Most notably, I remember becoming Editor-in-Chief and realizing the capability that I possessed, the strength that I derived from the community that pushed me to become a leader. I grappled with what it means to run an organization, to manage a roomful of eager artists, to take responsibility for actualizing the aspirations, artworks, writings, and social lives of my peers.
I won’t lie and say that my time has been devoid of toil; I have spent many nights agonizing over emails, training the tone of my voice, learning to become decisive and confident. But my time wouldn’t be rewarding without the privilege to vent about all the things we have fought to accomplish. Through my roles, I have witnessed this magazine grow and change in a mirror image of my own development. Thread is a part of who I am.
All this to say, my daily life for the past two years has been Thread. Isabel Mina, our fearless Creative Director, chose a theme for this issue that is perfectly apt for my last. I became a part of Thread because I believe in the ways in which fashion, and a fashion magazine, can allow us to embrace the banal. Like Thread itself, fashion is an avenue of expression and can consequently become a projection of our ideals, our opinions, our feelings.
attending my first ever Thread g-body that led me to Pat and Jenna, and it was at a model call that I met Carolyn. Eve and I bonded during a Thread party last Spring.
My fondest memories of Thread involve the people who brought me dinner when I was hunched over the proof, who played music in my room when I did my makeup for launch, who provided me with a space to cry when an event was canceled, who supported me and trusted me.
I think that’s what makes the community that Thread creates so profound. I could not have grown and changed without its members, models, supporters, contributors, and collaborators. These individuals have embraced their creative sensibilities, showcased their talents, shared their vulnerabilities, and, ultimately, created lifelong bonds. Our greatest work is accomplished in a room surrounded by the people we love. Beauty does beget beauty.
xoxo, Alex Editor-in-Chief
The creative direction of this issue not only meditates upon fashion’s role in daily life, but also the people who fill these days with color. It was
Editor-in-Chief
Alexandria Fennell
Managing Editor
Misha Caternor
Senior Print Director
Valerie Chang
Communications Director
Krisha Desai
Creative Director
Isabel Mina
Art Directors
Lillian Casazza
Lilian Cao
Beauty Directors
Alina Chisti
Grace Song
Editorial Directors
Kaelyn Sandifer
Jillian Walker
Sophie Feldman
Fashion Directors
Ianna Banfield
Roan Harvey
Photography Director
Sophie Shadid
Casting Director
Susanna Burr
Collaborations Director
Erin Yoon
Community Director
Laura Twizere
Events Directors
Taylor Brown
Carolyn Dunn
Finance Director
Catherine Pak
Sales Director
Ruth Kim
Social Media Directors
Emma Hogan
Seth Stephenson
Web Director
Brian Sa
EBOARD
Salem Alshamsi
Olivia Bell
Sofia Bonilla
Yen Bui
Paige Burch
Carola Cobo-Aguirre
Julia Cho
Kristen Cho
Maia Cook
Raquel Coren
Stella Crawford
Ruhi Datar
Abigail De Los Santos
SophieAnn DeVito
Jasper Drake
Ayon Dutta
Megan El’Zayyat
Isabella Fang
Pen Fang
Natalie Farber
Jessie Fujii
Jules Gembs
Pia Glaysher
India Guthrie
Sarah Henderson
Kelly Hong
Rebecca Hu
Sam Indermaur
Nikita Khare
Ashley Kim
Anika Kurebayashi
Allison Kwon
STAFF
Grace Huang
Zoey Huang
Keira Huffman
Jackie Jacobson
Joonah Jang
Christy Law
An Le
Adrienne Lee
Vienna Li
Rachel Liang
Rosey Limmer
Mia Loosmann
Mia Lopez
Hannah Luna
Ava Maccaro
Hanae Matsumoto
Bhagirathi Mills
Aiden Montesinos
Liriana Nezaj
Carrie Ng
Ishika Pareek
Ava Perez
Olivia Pham
Parker Piccolo Hill
Meghana Praveen
Rachel Pyeon
Tina Qi
Peter Radzio
Adrita Rahman
Ada Rauber
Beau Reid
Eve Riskind
Isabella Rovetti
Lilly Rubinstein
Kate Sahin
Sofia Saidi
Chloe Sanni
Noor Sattar
Nadia Scharfstein
Sabina Schrynemakers
Pat Sevikul
Tej Shah
Amber Shan
Shreenidhi Shanbhag
Joyce Shen
Alanna Stein
Kate Stiens
David Suarez
Angelina Tang
Remy Teltser
Maëlle Tholomé
Hazel Tjaden
Ivy Tu
Jonah Van der Linden
Ella Wang
Kain Wang
Jenny Williams
Jaden Wolf
Katie Xiao
Alanna Yang
Marcus Ye
Diego Yoonis Romero
Iris Zhou
LOST IN THE SUPERMARKET
Directors: Seth Stephenson, Ruth Kim
Model: Nadirah Afia Vander Linden
Art: Ashley Kim, Kain Wang
Beauty: Alanna Yang
Creative: Julia Cho, Joonah Jang, Shreenidhi Shanbhag, Tina Qi
Editorial: Sam Indermaur, Parker Piccolo Hill
Fashion:
Ruhi Datar, Mia Lopez, Isabella Rovetti
Photography: Pia Glaysher, Rosey Limmer
CROSSTOWN TRAFFIC
Directors: Sophie Feldman, Grace Song
Models: Salem Alshamsi, Natalie Guo, Robert Wallace Sims
Art:
Pen Fang, Adrita Rahman
Beauty: Carrie Ng, Jaden Wolf
Creative: Yen Bui, Isabella Fang, Rachel Pyeon
Editorial: Hazel Tjaden
Fashion: Grace Huang
Photography: Jasper Drake, Joyce Shen, Maëlle Tholomé
FAIR PLAY
Directors: Lillian Casazza, Lilian Cao
Models:
Ethan Drake, Renee Du, Jenna Kafrawi, Mira Lamble, Hannah Mekky, Tristan Oriol, Luk Payne, Andrea Porubcin, Skye Scarlett, Anika Sukumar, Joyce Wang
Art: Carola Cobo-Aguirre, Remy Teltser
Beauty: Ivy Tu
Creative: Keira Huffman, Ava Perez, Tej Shah
Editorial: Stella Crawford, Meghana Praveen
Fashion: Natalie Farber, Jules Gembs, Liriana Nezaj
Photography: Peter Radzio, Noor Sattar
GOLDEN YEARS
Directors: Kaelyn Sandifer, Jillian Walker
Models: Ian Chen, Natalie Guo, Lukman Moyosore, David Suarez, Lilly Rubenstein
Art: Rachel Liang
Beauty: Carrie Ng, Jaden Wolf
Creative: Aiden Montesinos, Ada Rauber, Diego Yoonis Romero
Editorial: Olivia Bell, Jenny Williams
Fashion: Megan El’Zayyat, Kate Sahin
Photography: Salem Alshamsi, Sophie Ann DeVito, Iris Zhou
I’LL BE YOUR MIRROR
Directors: Susanna Burr, Laura Twizere
Assistant Director: Sophie Shadid
Models: Mia Bachrack, Dia Ganjegunte, Ella Wilson
Art: Hanae Matsumoto, Nadia Scharfstein
Beauty: Paige Burch, Sarah Henderson
Creative: Sabina Schrynemakers, Kate Stiens, Kelly Hong
Editorial: Alanna Stein, Eve Riskind
Fashion: Kristen Cho, Hannah Luna, Olivia Pham
Photography: Sofia Bonilla, Vienna Li
Social Media: David Suarez
MIDNIGHT HOUR
Directors: Ianna Banfield, Erin Yoon
Models: Akansha Joshi, Brandon Kim, Grace Myers, PatrickRushford, Jaden Wolf
Art: Raquel Coren
Beauty: Jessie Fujii, Allison Kwon
Creative: India Guthrie, Jackie Jacobson, Anika Kurebayashi, Bhagirathi Mills
Editorial: Nikita Khare, Ella Wang
Fashion: Mia Loosmann, Katie Xiao, Marcus Ye
Photography: An Le, Adrienne Lee, Ishika Pareek
Social Media: Beau Reid
AT THE END OF THE DAY
Directors: Roan Harvey, Emma Hogan
Models: Collins Elumogo, Devon Meenaghan
Art: Ayon Dutta,Rebecca Hu
Beauty: Lilly Rubinstein
Creative: Maia Cook, Sofia Saidi, Amber Shan
Editorial: Angelina Tang, Jonah Van der Linden
Fashion: Ava Maccaro, Chloe Sanni
Photography: Zoey Huang, Pat Sevikul
SUPERMARKET
SUPERMARKET
Everything but...
Parker Piccolo Hill
I found the first door under the kitchen sink.
We’d been having a problem with fruit flies, and I’d read somewhere that vinegar and a little dish soap would cause those fuckers to just up and die. I knew I had a mostlyfull bottle of vinegar somewhere in the kitchen, and I’d already exhausted the usual spots before remembering where containers went to die.
I crouched down, my knees on cold tile. There was a stale breadcrumb pressing into my left knee painfully. I really needed to sweep. I needed to sweep it all. The long curls of hair all over the carpet in the living room had been there for so long that I’d taken to pretending it was part of the pattern.
I started with the usual suspects, the bleach and the wipes and the mopheads and the paper towels. I took them out and settled them on the floor beside me one by one. No vinegar. I continued to dig, getting into the more unusual haunts, the carpet cleaner, the WD-40, the oven cleaner. Still no. I hunched further in, my head bumping against the pipe.
There it was, a large plastic jug. I reached for it but it evaded me, slipping sideways. I was going for it again when the angle of my head shifting let in a shaft of light. A perfectly shiny brass knob gleamed in front of me, large and unavoidable. My attention became captured completely. Forgetting the white vinegar, I grasped the knob. It was cool to the touch, all smooth metal and round curve. Barely a twist and it opened easily.
Gentle light spilled out. The door was large enough for my head and shoulders to fit in easily, so I peered inside. My vision was weirdly foggy, until I got my head through further and realized I was poking my head out of a sink cupboard into a kitchen. Except—no, it was. It was the same sink cupboard. It couldn’t be, but it was. My face was occupying the space where my back half was very much not. I tilted my head awkwardly to peer back behind me. My legs were pressed against the open cupboard door I
had originally opened. I faced forward again and began to slither through. What was this place?
When I’d successfully wriggled through, I straightened my hair and looked around me. The kitchen was the same as the one I’d come from, and somehow entirely different. The quality of the light was different, a soft yellow. The windows didn’t face a gray apartment wall, but looked into the waving arms of a slender birch tree silhouetted against blue sky. The floor tiles were shiny and clean, and not a crumb was to be found. The shitty blender I’d gotten on Facebook Marketplace when I moved into my first apartment years ago was gone, replaced by a spotless teal blue model. It was my kitchen, yes, but the one I dreamt of.
I ran my hands over everything as I moved around, unsure if this was real. It all felt right—the feel of the dish towels was tufted, the crystals of salt from the salt shaker clung to my sweaty hands. I continued around the house, moving from one room to the next. They were all perfect, each room a paroxysm of joy as I saw what I had always known could be true, if only I had the motivation and money to fulfill my ideas.
I circled the whole house before finally making it back to the kitchen. It looked just as perfect as it did before. A place for everything and everything in its place.
Everything exactly in its place, actually. The salt shaker I’d left out on the counter earlier was gone, back in the rack. Odd. Was there someone else here? But no, I’d have heard something. I hadn’t heard anything. Not even the tiniest peep. Even at that moment, the house was oddly still. No humming of the radiator, no fridge whir, nothing.
A thought crossed my mind, a rather silly one, but to test it out, I took the salt shaker back out and placed it on the counter. Then I walked into the hallway and back. Gone. In the rack. Was the house self-cleaning?
I pushed it further. I poured a nice pile of salt on the counter. This time, I turned around. When I turned back, it was gone, both the pile and the shaker. I got out the shaker from the rack again, and this time I tipped it all over. Shook it too, so salt went everywhere. White specks on everything, until, before my very eyes, it all disappeared.
“This place was cursed. I had to leave.”
The world seemed to sway before my eyes, and I admit, the next few moments blurred together. My mind spinning, I blinked in and out of in a red haze. Pots, pans, plates… literally everything but the kitchen sink I threw to the ground. Shards exploded before blinking out of existence, the item reappearing untouched on the counter. I grabbed a knife and stabbed the cabinet, but even as I felt it make contact it slipped away and the wood sealed itself up.
This place was cursed. I had to leave. I ran over to the sink and crawled underneath it. But as I stared in, I saw the sliver of light that came from the open door was gone. What happened? I knew I had left it open. I pushed against the door with one hand, then two, then rammed it with my shoulder. It wouldn’—couldn’t—open. I hammered on it for I don’t know how long before giving up, arms going slack as I collapsed still halfway inside the cabinet.
There was nothing to do. Trapped here, I would starve, cleansed from existence. A sandwich could never be made. Even crackers I ripped open would zip themselves right back into their plastic packaging. And on the other side of the cupboard, I knew, my world was reflecting this perfection in the opposite way. My husband won’t even think to open the cupboard until the fruit flies are so thick in the air each breath sucks in a few more. Maybe I could make it. Maybe I couldn’t. Maybe I’d get lucky, and the sink would magically open on its own. Either way, there was nothing I could do.
I curled up against the rough wood of the cupboard sides and breathed in the smell of lemon scented cleaner. The wait had begun.
LOST THE SUPER MARKET
LOST IN SUPER MARKET
RINSE AND REPEAT
rinse off the day and repeat myself to sleep”
I write this in the middle of the night.
Bitter because I haven’t found the words, I scribble down loose ideas. Too embarrassed by my creative paucity, I shut my eyes. I rinse away the shame with sleep.
Car alarms wake me at 7. Snooze.
Car alarms wake me at 7:09.
I rise, feverish. Irritated by my self-indulgent setback, I cross off ‘wake-up’ from my list of daily to-dos. The litany of reasons to go back to bed unfurls past the page’s margins.
I rise, resentful. Rinsing the drowsiness away with an overpriced latte and 36 milligrams of a focus potion, I mechanize to complete my tasks.
The day is like any other: indistinguishable in its demands.
Exercise, shower, dress, eat, walk, smile, wave, sit, note-take, walk, work, eat, wander, study, rinse dirty dishes, write, sleep.
Frivolous conversations pulled from a grab bag of vacuous questions: do you like this weather? where’d you get your sweater? what’s your plan for the weekend? what’s your plan for post-grad? and while we’re at it, what’s your plan for life? what’ll your epitaph say?
You rinse away the uncertainty with platitudes: I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.
When will you get there?
Repeat
I write this in the middle of the night.
Bitter because I haven’t envisaged the story’s end, I latch the cover of my journal. Too embarrassed by my creative paucity, I shut my eyes. I rinse away the shame with sleep.
Sunshine illuminates my curtains. Roll over.
Sunshine illuminates my bedroom.
I rise, listless. The instruction manual for the hours of daylight writes itself anew.
Rinsing the agitation with acceptance, I automatize to finish my chores.
Lazy Sunday to laborious sundown.
Rinse dishes, empty the garbage, restock the refrigerator. Time-consuming drudgery is rife with tranquility. I find myself unfettered by the circular routine. There is utility in futility.
So I
Rinse and empty and restock and
Repeat
I write this in the middle of the night.
Bitter because I haven’t constructed an escape, I rinse off the day and repeat myself to sleep.
“I
Sam Indermaur
TRAFFIC CROSSTOWN TRAFFIC CROSSTOWN
CROSSTOWN TRAFFIC CROSSTOWN TRAFFIC
Living in the In-Between
“You’re only here for a short visit. Don’t hurry. Don’t worry. And be sure to smell the flowers along the way.”
- Walter Hagen
As the bus pulls up to the stop, a switch flips. The once stagnant and quiet herd begins to bustle with movement. Cards swipe, coins fall, shoes squeak as the group files onto the shuttle. At an adjacent sidewalk, determined students quickly cross the street, hoping to slash their dreaded seven minute trip into a mere five. A rushed cyclist stopped by the moving cluster curses under his breath, knowing he will have to perform the late walk of shame once he gets to class. We tend to blur our journeys, favoring the destinations. With seemingly endless classes, clubs, and events, there is simply not enough time for students to stop and smell the flowers. Liminal spaces—buses to events, walks to libraries, bike rides to classes—are too often overlooked, despite their wealth of simple beauties.
“...celebrate
the love of the journey and those you take it with...”
Take the walk to my first class. No matter how quickly I throw on an outfit and pack up my books, I find myself on the brink of tardiness every morning, and my daily commutes turn into rushed scrambles. In my haste, I miss the sun illuminating the auburn fall leaves and the serenity of a silent stroll. What could be a soothing transition between my grounded morning routine and class becomes a disjointed experience. Instead of going to class, I am getting to class. In the latter case, the destination is the sole recipient of my energy, minimizing a liminal space that is ripe with potential. Shortening our transition periods not only erases the chance to daydream and relish in the gorgeous scenery, but also effectively prevents any chance for a relaxing mental reset.
Daily journeys should take inspiration from road trips. Nostalgic by nature, the road trip is a rare form of transitional state that exists in itself as a main event—a vacation. The purpose of a road trip is to make a wrong turn. To take the scenic route. To stop for those unforeseen moments that could never have occurred without your dad’s faulty navigation or your sister’s sudden craving for gas station pizza. Road trips celebrate the love of the journey and those you take it with—be it family, friends, or just the voice inside your head. It is about appreciating slowing down and embracing the countless small wonders of being on the go. Road trips rebel against the hustle and bustle of daily life and highlight what liminal spaces could be. Why can’t my walk to class embody this same enthusiasm for life? Rather than speeding along, in a disgruntled haze, my transitions should demonstrate observation akin to that which is practiced in a road trip. Liminal spaces can be much more than routes to destinations; they can be meditative resets that cherish the joys of the present. If a liminal space is a physical space of transition, college serves as an intellectual liminal space between youth and adulthood. All of the anxiety we harbor toward daily transitions is comparable to our feelings toward instability—long-term transition periods—in our lives. Just as I rush to class and try to shorten my walk, I rush to shorten the awkward limbo of not knowing what to do with my life. My uncertainty is put at ease by false security created through meticulous planning. Think about how many people you know who focus more on the future than the present—on how they need to do X, Y, Z to pursue a specific future career and eventually attain their dream life. Planning like this reflects an apprehension toward existing in this transition period of life. College should be like a road trip. There have to be twists, turns, and changes of plans along the way. Rather than prematurely skipping to the future, we should just go slow, look out the window, and enjoy the ride.
Hazel Tjaden
Blood Ba nk
Jesse was a fisherman. His father was too, and his father, and his father before him. That’s how it goes for his family– you fish, marry, have a son. Die. Repeat. It was all Jesse wanted, honestly. He wanted to fish, do his job, fade away. That was his purpose, right? Fill his role, follow in his family’s footsteps. There wasn’t much choice in that.
After he brought his catch from that morning to the monger, Jesse wanted a drink. He roamed the closed stalls on the pier, advertising everything he couldn’t have.
Jesse continued down the pier, getting closer to the edge. Getting close to giving in, leaving, in search of his garage fridge at home, where he’d sit under the hum of a fluorescent light to drink his beer. 100 feet, he thought. Just to the end of the pier. And so Jesse roamed onward, and soon stopped short.
There was a bar, weary and tired, but stood strong against the wind. How had he never noticed it? Jesse had roamed this pier hundreds of times.. A child, looking for pennycandy. A teenager, sneaking a beer with his girlfriend. A first time father, scared of home. And now an old man, hair gray and skin thick with time. A lazy sign attached to the last post on the dock reads its name– “Time in a Bottle.” Below, it read, “Try our famous ‘blood bank’ cocktail!”
Jesse pulled open the door and was hit with the smell of stale beer and pineapples. Odd, he thought. It was January.
“Welcome,” a man said from behind the bar. His silver mustache curled on the ends, with horn-rimmed glasses and four rings on each hand. “What can I get you?”
“Sam Adams, please.” Jesse sighed as he put his head in his hands. The bartender slid it over, and Jesse’s hands closed around his bottle.
Something else hit Jesse’s elbow. He raised his head, and reached for the book now next to him. The Bell Jar. Sylvia Plath. He’d never heard of it, but the cover intrigued him. It was a fig tree, each fruit a little different than its neighbor. He thumbed through it, and one page was tabbed. Highlighted in blue, it read, “I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked.” Jesse watched as the narrator traced every life she could’ve lived. A mother, a professor, an explorer, a lover. Engrossed, Jesse didn’t realize as the bartender pulled the book out of his hands, and wiped the old man’s tear off his cheek.
“Sorry, brother. Don’t know what came over me there,” Jesse sort of laughed, sort of sighed. “The moment got the best of me, I guess.”
“Don’t apologize, Jess.” Jesse didn’t recall sharing his name.
“Did you like Plath?”
“She’s got it all figured out, man. So many paths, but there’s no such thing as a fig tree. You have one fruit. It’s just one life. No tree. No branch. One fruit.”
“Can I offer you our afternoon special?” Jesse nodded.
The bartender pulled down a dusty bottle, deep blue in color, like seaglass.
“What’s in it?”
“We give this to every soul who wanders through and goes right for the Plath. She does a number on you fishermen.” Both men laughed, and Jesse didn’t consider that he never told the other man his job.
“Fill me up, then.”
The bartender poured out the remnants of the dusty bottle, which looked unopened. Jesse reached for the drink, deep and red like blood, but the bartender put a hand on his arm, stopping him.
“You have a choice, Jesse. Drink this, and you start over. You won’t be a fisherman, or marry your wife, or have your same children. Or maybe you will, but it’s your choice. Your father isn’t your father, and his father wasn’t his. This time, you won’t be born into a family who tells you what to be, or who you are.”
“Come on, man. I was starting to like you.”
Jesse got up to leave, shaking his head, but he noticed that the door he came in through was gone. He shuddered, and sat back down.
“Believe me now? Have you ever seen this bar before? It shows up when it’s needed. I serve people who need this drink. People who need to slow down.”
“I loved my parents. My mother was a saint, and my father worked hard.”
“Do you only want to be remembered for working hard? Is that a life worth living? There are so many fruits you could become. You could be a writer, a lover, a painter. You’re not a fisherman. That isn’t your fate.”
“Who are you to tell me what my fate is? I have wonderful children, with wonderful children of their own. I’ve lived a fulfilled life.”
“Jesse, if you drink this, you’ll live a thousand fulfilled lives. One as a mother, one as a father. One as the writer, one as the muse. You have every fate available to you, if you drink. Drink, Jesse.”
Jesse shook his head, pulling at the silver tufts of his hair. The moon streamed through the skylight above the two men, landing on the bartender. What a twisted spotlight he was in, Jesse thought. Oddly, the only thing Jesse could remember was a line from a book he’d read to his granddaughter. “Life is only worth living because it ends, kid. Take it from a god.” Wouldn’t that be what he’d become? A god, with infinite lives and chances?
“What would you do?” Jesse asked.
“Blame the alcohol or the full moon, but it’s your choice in the end. I can’t tell you what to do with your life, but you see what I’ve done with mine.”
“I think that a thousand lives defeats the purpose of it all, you know? You live and you love and you age and you run out of time, and you don’t get to do everything, but that’s the point. I have more to see. My life wasn’t significant for you, but I’m proud of it.” With that, Jesse grabbed the book, and highlighted one more passage. “I’m not wasting any more time.” Jesse walked out of the door that was back in its place, and walked home in the moonlight.
Sophie Feldman
FAIR PLAY
Fashioning Masculinity and the Obsession with GORP
Meghana Praveen
The chances of walking down the streets of London or New York without knocking into a self-proclaimed nature dweller adorned in the newest Salomons wearing their Arc’teryx gore-tex shell jacket is probably less than the chances of getting struck by lightning. Did all the men just wake up one day and decide to go back to their manly hunter roots?
GORP-core, as a term, first made its appearance in a CUT article in 2017. This trend ostensibly continues to stick around, but is not as unprecedented as it may seem. There has been a cyclical surge in ‘outdoor fashion’ that has resulted in an increased interest in outdoor activities and a slow creep toward the woods. Although the trend has encouraged newer generations to embrace the great outdoors, with hiking trips and outdoor walking groups growing in popularity post-pandemic, Salomons and Gramicci are more likely to be seen in Brooklyn holding an oat matcha than scaling mountains.
It would be easy to understand the lingering desirability of the trend if it were just about function over form, but tracing the history reveals a different story. From as far back as history allows us to look, men have always used clothing as a means to create a rugged facade. The iconic image of Teddy Roosevelt in his buckskin suit is a prime example of this illusion of masculinity. The narrative created when wearing one, of hunting and shooting a deer, skinning, tanning and then sewing it all together, was false. As Rachel S. Gross explains in Shopping All the Way to the Woods, it was often Native American women who produced these suits. Preceding the synthetic outdoor gear of the present, the ingenuity of Indigenous communities in creating waterproof and heat conserving fabrics was all one had to face the treacherous outdoors. This effort has since been long-forgotten.
On the other side of the Atlantic, clothing makers were creating garments to suit the sporting sensibilities of the Imperial English man. They were distinguished by their physical prowess in the wilderness and on the sporting field, and their self-sufficiency. Much of the new English sports have their foundations in the Colonies of the empire, similar to the foundations of modern masculinity. The idea of masculinity as rooted reaction to crisis originates from the intention to conquer rather than be one with nature. This “new masculinity” became framed by the preparedness to face the great outdoors, resulting in proliferation of Boy Scout programmes in the West. Some places where we can observe this construction of hegemony are the appropriation of a local Indian game played by both sexes.
The British army appropriated this game, now known as polo, as a way for officers to perform masculinity when not on the battlefield. The outdoors remained a platform to perform imperial masculinity even upon the end of the empire. The race to the top of the Himalayas was a point of contention upon the loss of imperial power. It was equated to British-ness with the creation of the official “Mount Everest Committee.” These expeditions often involved the exploitation of local Sherpas in the West’s quest to compete and conquer. Mountaineers would often require the help of Sherpas as guides and mentors, but would tout their “successes” as products of self sufficiency, relegating the role of Sherpas to more feminine tasks in their tales.
In this way, the creation of masculinity in the outdoors came at the expense of colonial subjects. The surge in outdoor activity in the 20th century and the following rise of “Boy Scouts” is thus underscored by the formulation of an imperial masculine hegemony. It is not just the human desire to be one with nature, but also the colonial mindset of conquest that fashioned the love for the outdoors.
When we wear our gore-tex and fleece in our day-to-day urban lifestyles, it is in some ways a result of colonial behaviourism that fashioned this masculinity.
GAME SET MATCH
Many people move to improve their body, but I focus on how it improves my mind.
ESCAPE THE STANDSTILL
Stella Crawford
After constant studying, sitting in lecture halls, and falling stuck into a stand still I need to shock my body. Running free and far brings me back to my childhood when I didn’t have to think about much else. Skipping and jumping around with no one telling me I had to act like an adult. It allows me to escape all of the plans for my future and take a break from the people swimming in my head. I can just be, thinking about how movement makes me feel at that moment. The steadiness of trees and nature surround me and I feel an escape from my phone that can’t stop pulling me towards it.
Many people move to improve their body, but I focus on how it improves my mind. I want to feel in control of my own actions, my own abilities. Running allows me to know I am in control—of my speed, which direction to take, and my attitude while doing it. Once I have control over these aspects, they translate to any facet of my life. Whether in schoolwork, relationships, or moments of facing the unknown.
Pushing myself to physical limits and causing my body to be afraid reminds me that I can face tremendous difficulties and come out stronger. Every time I run free, it is a test. I will never stop letting myself know that I can do it.
We need more movement. Oftentimes we are so encapsulated in our own spaces, we forget to move around and leave our comfort zones. Movement is running free. Running free is getting to the next point and exploring more of what is around us. Besides the physical act of running or moving, we need to make it a habit to move towards each other instead of staying
in the standstill that keeps us boxed in. Playing more games with one another and bringing new people in to participate is empowerment through movement. Separation and fear of the unknown is lonely. Moving fosters connection and compassion. As kids, that’s how we all met each other. In college, it shouldn’t have to be different. We both don’t want it to be different. Let’s play with fewer barriers. Let’s run away from this comfort that keeps us apart.
Golden Years
Salmon for Two
Jenny Williams
my father splitting salmon apart with fork tongs him feeding himself, pressing the salmon pink, smooth against his mouth’s hard palate, with his tongue
there is a difference in how we speak to each other, now. i see how he was raised in his napkin’s placement in his lap, in his curtness with our waiter. and, i see how many miles he has traveled since then and to here. he will bring up the hours he used to drive. the solitude of time spent sitting. his right hip nerve pinched now, from depressing the brakes in stop-start traffic.
i will ask for stories and the alphabet game. he tells me, one road trip, each part of the laser sailboats he learned to sail on. stories of scars on his hands and long-dead pets and humongous fish, of scary midnights on the river and surviving the ocean sucking him down and throwing him back up into the air. a cross scarred on his ankle. men that were larger than him and people i know only from the way he laughs and speaks of them, with commas between each phrase. i soak in his stories and the spaces in between while he talks and we drive and play the alphabet game, and i have yet to win. but in my mind i am the fly on the wall of the life he tells me. i have not grown wiser from his stories, but prefer to draw them in detail on a map across the roads we travel. i revere the history, so i ask to be taken to rye. the last time i was there a tick rested in my scalp.
doctor’s hands tweezed its blood bloated body out it died, no harm done the very last time we were there, i wore a velvet black dress and clear tights. i felt like a pretty girl. my aunt returned to me a ceramic turkey i had given grammommy before she passed. it surprised me, the turkey’s shape unchanged
same glossed wings flew back body both detached and from gramommy’s home
he tells me we cannot go back to rye. there is not another last time. i wonder if he has heard of rye bread. i fight with my tongue to not ask for more story. i would like to know how he became
his fish overcooked wet flesh once breathing moist life, chef scorched it dry there is a difference in how we speak to each other, now. he says i love you in a story, this time an anecdote from a podcast. a psychiatric patient who believed his room to be filling with deadly gas, slowly killing him. to breathe he broke his window and hands, bruised black and blue. older men—they struggle with identity, he tells me. his disposition is calm. sometimes short. he tells me, because his own room has filled with a deadly gas and he bruised and battered and broke a few bones to breathe again. and in his story of the podcast his passionate interest and many commas give the space for me to hear him say: i am not strong, i am rational and when i drive back home before i sleep off this salmon i will beat my hands on the steering wheel and sing in a voice, so unlike mine, in any attempt to stay awake.
I’ll Be Your
Mirror
the Art of Becoming
Stein
Girls take so long to get ready. We hear them say, seemingly
Unaware of how each minute unfolds.
With mascara wands lifted, Highlighter aglow, Laughter separates swipes of gloss—
A chorus of shared secrets and dreams. Skin becomes a canvas, Layering product upon perfect imperfection, Until eyes gleam with possibility And smiles settle, soft and sure.
Alanna
The rhythm is innate— A pulse behind music we barely hear. Our mothers, our sisters, our friends Sing a song we’ll love tonight but forget tomorrow, Telling us: This, too, is a way to know yourself.
We trade space for truth, Lending brushes and borrowed tops, Knowing these moments are woven tight— A tapestry of satin and lace, Stitched with pearls of wisdom, Mended by ancestral hands.
Each choice becomes a signal, Each traded glance, a claim: I am here, and I am ready. But not only for the night, Rather for the world, waiting Just beyond the mirror.
Here, We gain strength in vulnerability, Dressing both our bodies,
And our souls, preparing to step Into a world that waits unseen, Where every layer we wear Is armor of art, Where our stories help To connect from within, And where true beauty lies In revealing ourselves.
the Art of
I shove my face into the mirror to make sure my waterline is exactly how it should be. To my right, a girl is inspecting her makeup, slowly rolling her head side to side. On my left, someone is curling her hair into bouncy waves. Across the room, someone is fiddling with the music, curating the perfect queue for the night. A sequiney blur of blue flies across the room, into the ready hands of someone in just a bra and underwear. All around there is an organized chaos, a flow of energy, a never-ending stream of compliments, encouragement, and excitement. Getting ready is a sacred time and event for those who participate. It’s in these moments that friendships blossom and morph into sisterhood, and here are multiple first hand experiences:
NADI Communication. Friendship is based upon mutual understanding, and if you don’t have clear communication when establishing that, it creates a rift.
SUSANNA Being able to say whatever you want, and have them understand and hear you and support you, having people to confide in, specifically in college to have family away from home.
CAROLYN For me it’s understanding and knowing and feeling like you are more than yourself and you know more than yourself. Even more than empathy, it’s wanting to know. The most important thing about friendship for me is the day to day energy.
What do you think is the most important part of a friendship?
Eve Riskind
Friendship
What is your favorite part of getting ready and why?
NADI Doing my makeup, I can focus on a singular task and it feels very therapeutic.
SUSANNA Just the fun vibe of going out, having fun, there’s something so fun and special about being able to transform yourself, get ready, and put on the best version of yourself
CAROLYN I really like doing my base makeup. It’s so fun and it always makes me feel really good. I play 2 songs over and over.
In what way do you think your friendships have positively impacted your life?
NADI It’s made me look forward to doing things, especially with school. When asked about my favorite thing about Cornell, I always say school is going really great and I’m enjoying it, but the real thing I mean is my friends. My favorite part of the day is seeing my friends.
SUSANNA Friends helping me through tough times, when school is annoying or difficult. Even if I feel happy, they always contribute to my mental wellbeing.
CAROLYN I think that I would not be here if I didn’t have friends… I just think there would be no joy and I would lose my mind, and I just really like having friends and people and having fun.
Do you find that you feel more confident when getting ready with your friends?
NADI Yes, it’s like a group activity. It can be therapeutic to get ready on your own, but when you do it with other people it’s like an activity.
SUSANNA Yes because everyone’s hyping each other up, and a part of friendship is uplifting your friends. friendship is all about loving and supporting each other, so the atmosphere is always positive and uplifting.
CAROLYN Yes, I definitely feel like there’s bad bitch solidarity.
Do you think getting ready can be more fun than going out?
NADI Yes, because you can actually talk with the people you’re present with—the act of going out is different than getting ready and getting ready is just more fun!
SUSANNA Yes because when you go out anything can happen but when you get ready it’s a controlled environment of fun especially when you’re with your inner circle. It’s the most intimate and that’s why it’s so fun.
CAROLYN Yes, because you get to choose your music, you get to do an activity, you can drink and do makeup, and picking your outfit is so fun. Especially with your friends, it’s like a bonding experience, and it’s way more intimate.
What is your favorite memory of getting ready with your friends?
NADI Getting ready for prom was really fun, I saw my friends who I hadn’t seen in a year, it was very circular because I hadn’t seen them in forever but it felt the same. It was fun because we did every step together, doing hair, makeup, trying on clothes…etc.
SUSANNA The communal dialogue of everyone sharing their hopes for the night, showing off their outfits. There’s something so special about womanhood and asking if you can borrow your friend’s stuff.
CAROLYN My friend Delilah and I have nothing in common these days but the two of us love getting ready together. It’s our shared passion, quality time, and bonding experience. Every time we get ready it’s really fun and it’s always just the two of us.
MIDNIGHT HOUR
I try to be good I try to talk to God inside my head because maybe the silence is really just the heater humming on I love Love, I want to be loved so I close my eyes and breathe in the music the mist after the rain the promise of bodies coming clean only to be rewound tighter than before I think I am too much sometimes crawling home so late in the half-born dawn dreaming about fingers fishing for the jewel and vanilla crushed between eager teeth and watercolor motions
I wish I grieved strangers less and talked to my grandparents more I take too long in the shower because the other worlds are too cold
I only tell the truth when I’m drunk or waist-deep in a poem so look me in the face without blinking and feel my words in your soul
I am made of the wanting to be believed, to be crystallized into prayer
I am the one at the end of the tunnel, long way down blind groping for heat in a bathroom stall I wonder if homeland is just a hungry mouth above a heartbeat a room opening inside an animal for another animal
We are all here, packed tight like bullets tawny gold and terrified of growing dust of never breaking the needy flesh of answering the call only to hear our own voice groaning back
HYMN TO THE LES
There is nothing more glorious than being on the run. Friday night, I switch my teeth out for blades, zip my body into something tight, unroll the eons of waiting. Smoke, a hefty illusion, places her soft hands around my neck. Still, I walk feverish into the street. In the corner, up against a wall, men pull their pants down with sighs of relief. They are almost beautiful, if not terrifying. I don’t know what to make of this world, ballooning out before me, miles and miles of starless black sky, and the sound of distant laughter, and the rage that speaks within. The strange neon rooms glowing above, either prison or sanctuary. The thud of bodies on bodies, maybe death or desire. I carry my legs light and wade into the sticky water. I could swallow the disco moon if I wanted to.
Ella Wang
at the end of the day
Poetry was essential to the emotional and spiritual experience of medieval Andalusians, or members of the middle age Islamo-Iberian society of al-Andalus. The writing of Andalusian poets from the end of the first millennium would eventually influence that of European lyrical poets, or troubadours. The emotional vulgarity of Andalusian poems introduced sincere, informal poetry into the mainstream European tradition. al-Andalus offers unique perspectives on the End of the Day, or the space created when the sun goes down.
The end of the day is romantic. Many Andalusian love poems take the setting of an evening party in a botanical courtyard, where darkness and recreational attitudes allow for transgressive pursuits of sex. In these poems, nightfall suggests social disorder; the sun sets, the lights go out, and anything goes. In the 21st century, we return home to private spaces with our partners or spouses, or enter clubs to meet lovers under the obscurity of neon lights. Love flourishes at the end of the day.
Once I went out with her when the shelter of night and her cape let me mingle the fire of my breath with the fire of her flaming cheeks.
(Safwan Ibn Idris)
The end of the day is stillness. Evening allows for self-reflection as we become isolated from the churning distractions of daytime. We can contact parts of ourselves that may be inaccessible in the daylight. In al-Andalus, the stillness of night becomes holy; no longer bound to daytime obligations of work and socialization, nighttime allows for contact with the divine. Silence on earth allows for the greater universe to be heard.
I shall recite a prayer in the night’s darkness… Its chant will rise from my inmost heart. (Ibn ‘Abd Rabbihi, praying for his sick son)
I converse at night with the full moon (Ibn Hazm)
The end of the day is death. To comprehend the cycle of human birth and passing, poets have long since relied upon the constant, unavoidable cycle of day and night. Evening heralds a deathlike cessation of activity and detachment from society. When we sleep, we lose consciousness and control of our body, which we so vigorously and energetically move throughout our waking hours. This intense shift towards isolation and rest parallels the dramatic, impending approach of death.
The sky is saddened when the sun leaves and puts on mourning robes.
(Al-Haitham)
Perhaps most importantly, the end of the day is a reunion. There is someone you have to come home to—if not yourself, it is a pet, a family, a friend.
I feel as if there had been no separation, If afterwards I meet my friends again, As if my eye had not been sleepless in both ‘Trägs, And my eyes had not shed tears of longing.
(Abu ‘Abdillah Muhammad al-Laiti)
The following line was written by Ibn Zaidun, the on-and-off lover of the poet Wallada. He reflects on their tumultuous relationship by reminiscing on shared evenings of the past. With a companion, the end of the day transforms, dark rooms turn light, silence becomes peace. The presence of a loved one at the end of the day can create vitality that overcomes death.
They leave black streaks and land like two limp fish on the floor, caved in and soft. I need a smoke, she thinks, sighing as she drops her leather bag. Only Monday night, and she thinks the sun will never rise again.
Her eyes listlessly fall upon the kitchen window, where a darkening indigo sky overtakes the sun’s last bloody light. As if created from the night, a black silhouette descends like a ghost. A haunting. It lands heavy upon her balcony railing, a rusty steel frame. She hears a rattling on the roof, a dozen more pairs of talons. They are back, dependably—the vultures are home.
Yet there is always only one on the railing—that’s her bird. In the last of daylight, the lead-black eye of her vulture glints, following her shadow. Even as she walks out of sight to the bath, she can still feel its voodoo gaze. It sits and waits.
It watches over her like a mother.
She leans back in the bathtub, her head resting against the edge as her hair pools around her in ripples. She lights a cigarette, tosses the lighter onto the floor, and takes a drag. The smoke rises towards the tile ceiling, obscuring the yellowish light overhead. It’s too bright. Those dirty white squares could go on forever, and she would stay a tiny dot in this bathtub, swallowed up by the patterns and melting embers and the heavy exhaustion of repetition, of being.
The hot water could suck her down, and she wouldn’t have the energy to resist. She could disappear like this, disappear and be happy. Would the vultures eat her if she laid down to sleep on the balcony tonight? She might as well be dead, she is so tired. The thought still puts a shiver down her spine.
It would hurt, being eaten alive.
Yes, she is still living in the end. She lacks conviction. Her heart is on the bathmat in the lighter. Where is her energy, her practiced smile? She accidentally drops her cigarette into the water, curses on her tongue, and throws it over the tub, too— there is her passion, limp on the floor in a fizzled-out Marlboro.
She leans back and dips her face under the surface.
The vulture is still there. It preens itself, utterly relaxed, its outline blurry in the darkness. She leans over a kitchen counter in the dark in a bathrobe, watching it, a candle ringed with bloody wax cupped
between her hands. She nearly envies its composure under the endlessly deep purple sky. The moon has risen, wreathed in smoggish clouds.
Vultures eat the dead. Is she so half alive that this bird has taken pity? She finds a certain solace in this creature. It does not care about her conviction, only her scent, and it seems she reeks of death.
But I am not dead yet, she whispers to the bird through the screen window. You have no need for me.
And yet it stays. It judges her with a mother’s love.
You are my friend. Coming home isn’t so bad when you are here. It seems to hear her, blinking slowly back. Won’t you stay forever?
Won’t you stay?
