The Hopping Dog on Fremont

It’s beginning to look like groundhogs day in Lincoln Park, or in other words, home. Once this lease is up I’ll have lived here just under five years. That’s a long time to live any place, let alone a place that remains constant in the face of the city’s ever-changing weather.

From my back porch, three stories above the ground, I look out onto a street called Fremont. In the course of a day I’ll see runners, walkers, bikers, dogs and the occasional construction worker. It’s a quiet street that leaves little to the imagination. Sitting outside, I let my mind make sense of it all.

What got me writing today was a woman walking her miniature dog that hops instead of walks. There was something in the dogs hop that made me write. It was the most peculiar looking little dog. White hair, with a patch of black hair around one eye. I’d imagine if my sight were any better, this dog would have a missing eye or some type of deformity. There’s simply no way the dog just hops like that without some form of setback.

The dog gave me an internal laugh and though it might not sound as though I sympathize with him or her, I’m entirely grateful for seeing it today. I’ve seen the dog before. It maintains a steady hop, assertive stance and confident attitude. This dog happens to be one of the few things in this town that I can stand being reminded of.

Spotlight on Joan

Though the contents of this blog merely brush the depths of my mind, there is perhaps one piece of literature that sums up what I have felt, and will continue to feel for some time. In the below piece, I hoped to communicate a sense of change and growth in myself. I read it now and sense the urgency of those words. I remember the moments frustration. Feeling as though the only way I could understand the change happening in myself would be through writing. We collectively take pride in independence. We like to think that we have the answers, that we don’t need anybody to lean on. Perhaps none of my readers think this way. Perhaps none of my readers will read this. But to disagree with me is to miss the point entirely. Today I continue on the path of growth, this time not independently. The one piece of literature that’s keeping me up at night, and keeping me moving throughout the day, comes in the form of one Joan Didion. The piece is, “Self-respect: Its Source, Its Power,” first published in Vogue in 1961, later in Slouching Towards Bethlehem. Of course I have my own interpretation of this story, and how I can apply it to my life, but for the readers who choose to read this, allow it to consume your mind. More importantly, allow it to influence your life.

“Self-respect: Its source, Its Power” in Vogue

Once, in a dry season, I wrote in large letters across two pages of a notebook that innocence ends when one is stripped of the delusion that one likes oneself. Although now, some years later, I marvel that a mind on the outs with itself should have nonetheless made painstaking record of its every tremor, I recall with embarrassing clarity the flavor of those particular ashes. It was a matter of misplaced self-respect.

I had not been elected to Phi Beta Kappa. This failure could scarcely have been more predictable or less ambiguous (I simply did not have the grades), but I was unnerved by it; I had somehow thought myself a kind of academic Raskolnikov, curiously exempt from the cause-effect relationships which hampered others. Although even the humorless nineteen-year-old that I was must have recognized that the situation lacked real tragic stature, the day that I did not make Phi Beta Kappa nonetheless marked the end of something, and innocence may well be the word for it. I lost the conviction that lights would always turn green for me, the pleasant certainty that those rather passive virtues which had won me approval as a child automatically guaranteed me not only Phi Beta Kappa keys but happiness, honor, and the love of a good man; lost a certain touching faith in the totem power of good manners, clean hair, and proved competence on the Stanford-Binet scale. To such doubtful amulets had my self-respect been pinned, and I faced myself that day with the nonplussed apprehension of someone who has come across a vampire and has no crucifix at hand.

Although to be driven back upon oneself is an uneasy affair at best, rather like trying to cross a border with borrowed credentials, it seems to me now the one condition necessary to the beginnings of real self-respect. Most of our platitudes notwithstanding, self-deception remains the most difficult deception. The tricks that work on others count for nothing in that well-lit back alley where one keeps assignations with oneself; no winning smiles will do here, no prettily drawn lists of good intentions. One shuffles flashily but in vain through ones’ marked cards the kindness done for the wrong reason, the apparent triumph which involved no real effort, the seemingly heroic act into which one had been shamed. The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others – who we are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation, which, as Rhett Butler told Scarlett O’Hara, is something people with courage can do without.

To do without self-respect, on the other hand, is to be an unwilling audience of one to an interminable documentary that deals one’s failings, both real and imagined, with fresh footage spliced in for every screening. There’s the glass you broke in anger, there’s the hurt on X’s face; watch now, this next scene, the night Y came back from Houston, see how you muff this one. To live without self-respect is to lie awake some night, beyond the reach of warm milk, the Phenobarbital, and the sleeping hand on the coverlet, counting up the sins of commissions and omission, the trusts betrayed, the promises subtly broken, the gifts irrevocably wasted through sloth or cowardice, or carelessness. However long we postpone it, we eventually lie down alone in that notoriously uncomfortable bed, the one we make ourselves. Whether or not we sleep in it depends, of course, on whether or not we respect ourselves.

To protest that some fairly improbably people, some people who could not possibly respect themselves, seem to sleep easily enough is to miss the point entirely, as surely as those people miss it who think that self-respect has necessarily to do with not having safety pins in one’s underwear. There is a common superstition that “self-respect” is a kind of charm against snakes, something that keeps those who have it locked in some unblighted Eden, out of strange beds, ambivalent conversations, and trouble in general. It does not at all. It has nothing to do with the face of things, but concerns instead a separate peace, a private reconciliation. Although the careless, suicidal Julian English in Appointment in Samara and the careless, incurably dishonest Jordan Baker in The Great Gatsby seem equally improbably candidates for self-respect, Jordan Baker had it, Julian English did not. With that genius for accommodation more often seen in women than men, Jordan took her own measure, made her own peace, avoided threats to that peace: “I hate careless people,” she told Nick Carraway. “It takes two to make an accident.”

Like Jordan Baker, people with self-respect have the courage of their mistakes. They know the price of things. If they choose to commit adultery, they do not then go running, in an access of bad conscience, to receive absolution from the wronged parties; nor do they complain unduly of the unfairness, the undeserved embarrassment, of being named co-respondent. In brief, people with self-respect exhibit a certain toughness, a kind of mortal nerve; they display what was once called character, a quality which, although approved in the abstract, sometimes loses ground to other, more instantly negotiable virtues. The measure of its slipping prestige is that one tends to think of it only in connection with homely children and United States senators who have been defeated, preferably in the primary, for reelection. Nonetheless, character – the willingness to accept responsibility for one’s own life – is the source from which self- respect springs.

Self-respect is something that our grandparents, whether or not they had it, knew all about. They had instilled in them, young, a certain discipline, the sense that one lives by doing things one does not particularly want to do, by putting fears and doubts to one side, by weighing immediate comforts against the possibility of larger, even intangible, comforts. It seemed to the nineteenth century admirable, but not remarkable, that Chinese Gordon put on a clean white suit and held Khartoum against the Mahdi; it did not seem unjust that the way to free land in California involved death and difficulty and dirt. In a diary kept during the winter of 1846, an emigrating twelve-yaer-old named Narcissa Cornwall noted coolly: “Father was busy reading and did not notice that the house was being filled with strange Indians until Mother spoke out about it.” Even lacking any clue as to what Mother said, one can scarcely fail to be impressed by the entire incident: the father reading, the Indians filing in, the mother choosing the words that would not alarm, the child duly recording the event and noting further that those particular Indians were not, “fortunately for us,” hostile. Indians were simply part of the donnee.

In one guise or another, Indians always are. Again, it is a question of recognizing that anything worth having has its price. People who respect themselves are willing to accept the risk that the Indians will be hostile, that the venture will go bankrupt, that the liaison may not turn out to be one in which every day is a holiday because you’re married to me. They are willing to invest something of themselves; they may not play at all, but when they do play, they know the odds.

That kind of self-respect is a discipline, a habit of mind that can never be faked but can be developed, trained, coaxed forth. It was once suggested to me that, as an antidote to crying, I put my head in a paper bag. As it happens, there is a sound physiological reason, something to do with oxygen, for doing exactly that, but the psychological effect alone is incalculable: it is difficult bin the extreme to continue fancying oneself Cathy in Wuthering Heights with ones head in a Food Fair bag. There is a similar case for all the small disciplines, unimportant in themselves; imagine maintaining any kind of swoon, commiserative or carnal, in a cold shower.

But those small disciplines are valuable only insofar as they represent larger ones. To say that Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton is not to say that Napoleon might have been saved by a crash program in cricket; to give formal dinners in the rain forest would be pointless did not the candlelight flickering on the liana call forth deeper, stronger disciplines, values instilled long before. It is a kind of ritual, helping us to remember who and what we are. In order to remember it, one must have known it.

To have that sense of one’s intrinsic worth which constitutes self-respect is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love and to remain indifferent. To lack it is to be locked within oneself, paradoxically incapable of either love or indifference. If we do not respect ourselves, we are the one hand forced to despise those who have so few resources as to consort with us, so little perception as to remain blind to our fatal weaknesses. On the other, we are peculiarly in thrall to everyone we see, curiously determined to live out – since our self-image is untenable – their false notion of us. We flatter ourselves by thinking this compulsion to please others an attractive trait: a gist for imaginative empathy, evidence of our willingness to give. Of course I will play Francesca to your Paolo, Helen Keller to anyone’s Annie Sullivan; no expectation is too misplaced, no role too ludicrous. At the mercy of those we cannot but hold in contempt, we play roles doomed to failure before they are begun, each defeat generating fresh despair at the urgency of divining and meeting the next demand made upon us.

It is the phenomenon sometimes called “alienation from self.” In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game. Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the specter of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that answering it becomes out of the question. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves – there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.

The Pit

The single boldest thing you can do in life is become uncomfortable, which is to say change directions. This feeling of sandpaper rubbing against your skull, thinking it will last forever. This feeling that it is you and only you in the world. That nobody sees you or hears you. We loathe these feelings. We do everything in our power to avoid them. We tiptoe around the edges of uncomfortability as if it were a pit of fire, because it is. This pit is set aflame by every opportunity lost, the future we wish never to imagine, let alone come true. As we tiptoe around the edges of the pit, we find a warm blanket and a kiss on the cheek from a lover. The flames subside as we engage in the comfortable. Before we know it, the flames are gone, the unfamiliar is far. In this very act we lose ourselves to an experience we were fed to feed on. We never bothered to look beyond the flames because they exposed a naked you and I. Fickle, shivering from fear. I am in the pit, with what seems like a million hands reaching toward me, trying to pull me in the direction of identifiable. As time goes by, these flames that surround me lessen, my flesh unscathed. My mind now filled with excitement. I watch as the tiptoers above me fade into comfort. They no longer reach down to me. I no longer seek the warm blanket.

Train Conductor

I am waiting in Union Station for a westbound train. It is December 13. Christmas is near and I can feel it in the fibre of this building. It was not until now that I internalized the experience of Union Station. I never realized how immense it is, or the meticulous architecture. It reminds me that one can spend a lifetime in a place without ever truly knowing it. I find myself in this vast waiting room. The ceiling is dome like, providing light to shine down on the waiters. I am one of the few in this space. A man stares menacingly from across the room. This is less of a room and more of an auditorium. The floor is white marble that has been stained, presumably from the waiter’s feet. I would imagine that this auditorium is full during the holiday season. I look to my left and see a plaque hanging from gold chains attached to the ceiling. It reads, “Founders Room.” I have never been in the founder’s room, but my guess is that it is exclusive to founder’s. What is so special about the founder’s room that it deserves its own walls and plaque attached to gold? A giant Christmas tree is placed in the center of this auditorium. The proportions of this space are quite grandiose. The design is passively bourgeoise. I am about to transition from waiter to passenger, as I have that westbound train to catch.

I prefer sitting in the front of the train as opposed to the caboose because although it takes longer to walk up here, I feel a sense of freedom being close to the driver. In my experience, you can tell a great deal about someone based on their location within a train. For example, suppose a person decides to sit in the last car on the train. My guess is that this person is not much into exercise, or any movement for that matter, as they have chosen the closest car. Furthermore, this person probably values convenience over quality. This is not to say that sitting in the back of the train is of less quality than the front, however, it is my belief that the quality of persons differentiates throughout each car.

I have yet to depart from Union Station. It occurred to me as soon as I sat down, that I might have seen an old friend. With masks on, it is hard to decipher one blonde haired girl to another, or any person really. So, I just kept on walking. Maybe one day I will find enjoyment in small conversations and talk of high school but today is not the day.

To be a train conductor, is to have a deep and commanding voice. I have yet to meet a train conductor with a high voice. They all seem to walk into the car as if they own the place, only ever saying, “Tickets, tickets please.” They love to hold that S in tickets. They are almost singers. I am under the notion that a job is a job. I think any time you are being paid, there is little room to complain. But my notions of train conductors only go so far. I cannot imagine that they are very well liked among the passenger community. To the passenger of a train, “tickets, tickets please,” might as well be, “you’ve been played, you’ve been played,” with emphasis on the D.

The setting has changed. I now pass-through Chicago’s West Side at fast intervals. We come to these abrupt stops, then go 100 miles per hour, then stop, and so on. This has nothing to do with the conductor, however, when he sees the nauseated college student with a hand covering his mouth, do not blame human nature. I am three cars from the front of the train, trying to conjure up the antonym for caboose. It is a middle-aged woman and me. She strikes me as sensible, quiet and audacious at the same time. I am not judgmental, I am analytical.

A Love Letter To Chicago

As I ran northbound on Lakeshore Drive tonight, I found myself caught up in not just the pace in which my body moved, but of my body in relation to the cars on the highway. The lights of the city and cars illuminated the navy night, and all of its darkness became visible. I was filled with overstimulation. My brain attempted to register all that was happening around me. I became curious of the city and its speed. For no possible pace I ran could measure up to the city’s innate bustle. My brain fogged up, and to my surprise came an uninvited thought. The first being that a city has the ability to break you down without the slightest bit of discrimination. The city is not concerned with your vanity so much as it is you being a piece to the puzzle. An infinite puzzle that knows no bounds. The second thought was that I am a piece to this puzzle. For all my bewilderment and search for meaning does not go unnoticed by the steel beams piercing the sky. The traffic built up beside me on the highway. The lights became dull as I passed by impatient drivers. The city and the world have a funny way of letting themselves be known. The moon rose over the lake. An immense ball of orange contrasted by splotches of grey. I came to a halt just as the cars beside me had. Bikers and runners passed me, all with their heads in a singular direction— forward. Was I the only one seeing this? The moon continued to rise, creating a caramel beam of light, all the way from the horizon to the shoreline, where there was me. I stood with hands on my hips and a head that tilted. It moved above the lake at the pace of a city’s cab, at the time it takes for a yellow light to turn red on State street. It rose until it became less of a spectacle, and more of a reason to stare singularly forward, incurious of the city, the world, and all their offerings. My head tilted the other way, still gazing at the moon. It was then that my face curled and tightened in the center. My bottom lip twitched, and tears rolled out. For no reason besides for the appreciation of beauty, and being able to call a spade a spade among all this chaos and speed. Runners and bikers continued to pass by, singularly, incurious. None of it mattered. The moon saw me, and the city saw me. They saw me for all my confliction and all my pain. They saw me for all my dreams and all my curiosities. They said nothing because I didn’t want, nor need anything in that moment, but to be seen. Nothing but to be considered as a piece to the infinite puzzle. It’s been said that you are not truly part of a city until you’ve cried in it, publicly. Chicago, I belong to you, and you to me, body and soul.

Confliction

To set the scene of a modern me, is to explain to the best of my ability, confliction. This level of confliction has a hint of direction, and in the deepest depths of my confliction is hope. It’s cold and raw outside the window of my dining room. Illinois has turned grey. The only thing to catch my eyes in the dull abyss that is suburbia, is the fire hydrant directly across from my house. It is among the few things that’s maintained its integrity throughout the last few months. The fire hydrant is burgundy in a field of dehydrated green. Directly behind the hydrant is a sycamore tree, which is several feet taller than the hydrant, as if to say it wants to be seen. As my gaze meets the sycamore, it occurs to me how closely the tree and I resemble one another. When I say modern me, I speak only only of what means to be in my skin and my mind, today. I find myself unimaginative in the clothes wrapping my structure. There is an abundance of grey and black on me. Whether this is calculated or unconscious in unbeknownst to me. I have hopes of wearing other things, reds and greens, like the colors I pick out in the landscape. This lets me know that my confliction is accompanied with hope. I struggle to maintain routine, deciphering just what that means, and what it looks like for me. I wonder if staring out the window and seeing the hydrant for all its color comes from a place of introspection or boredom. I spend my morning writing and heating a pot of water with ginger and lemon, reminding me that this concoction can only benefit me. My confliction comes in at the end of the first act, as the curtains close for intermission and I’m then left with questions as to why I’m doing what I’m doing and where it’s taking me. My greatest ally and most devious opponent are the ways in which my mind determines right from wrong, in this monochromatic November morning on the brink of a dark winter. As the curtain closes in preparation of the second act, I can take a moment to catch my breath, and await what I hope to be a standing ovation.

What's Good

It’s exceptionally loud in my living room and, becoming increasingly hard to focus. This is a writing exercise of sorts. Rich The Kid dropped an album yesterday so naturally it’s being put to good use. In the midst of this chaos, where I am hearing about Bentley trucks and blue hundreds, I’m filled with gratitude. I don’t have a Bentley truck or blue hundreds, but I am however taking a humbler approach to my current worldview. For instance, today I’m wearing vintage Levi’s, which my father wore in the 70’s. The natural creases in them, the blemishes, the rips, tell a story, which isn’t my own, but nevertheless a story. I’m grateful for this pair of jeans. Although cliché, I’m grateful for my health today. Being a self-diagnosed hypochondriac makes COVID a slippery slope. I’m grateful that I’ve limited my social media intake. I’ve recently been mindful of the reasons and rhymes to why I sense an urge to post on social media platforms. It’s all very fascinating to me, seeing something interesting and deciding to share it with the world. I’m grateful for friends coming home next week. To Christian, who more than likely is not reading this, nor ever seeing this. To Anna, who I couldn’t visit in Georgetown. To Boss man, you know who you are and, you know I will eventually make it to Cleveland. I’m grateful that the trees outside my apartment have shed their leaves enough for me to see the city’s skyline from my living room. There’s much to be thankful for right now. I’m thankful for this mindset. Allow me to disappear into the rest of this album.

P.s. thankful for The Crown season 4 and Emma Corrin

A Mindless Sunday

A few weeks ago, I declared to change the course of my lifestyle. There was no particular reason to do so. There was no meltdown under the smoky CTA subway. It was as underwhelming as it sounds, if not more. Essentially, I woke up and told myself to change. It wasn’t even verbally stated or actualized until things started happening. I went grocery shopping and the first items wielded in my freshly sanitized Whole Foods cart came from the produce section. I yanked kale, spinach, chard, mushrooms and sprouts. As I approached the seafood section, I noticed a pattern, which was plant-based.

I’d given the idea of a plant-based diet some thought in the past, but never exceeded a passing thought. Here I was, staring blankly into my cart of plants as the butcher asks, “What can I do for you?” In a daze I picked my head up and simply said, “Nothing.” I continued my escapade, picking up coconut milk, hemp seeds and other substances I’m still learning to pronounce, one of them being spirulina. I still don’t know what it is, but I hold the conviction that it must be good for me. This grocery trip was the first of changes.

Before I knew it, I’d reached the two-week point in my plant-based diet. Things were changing, for certain. I’ll keep retreating to the word change, because it seems to be the crux of my existence right now. With a new diet I began thinking differently, feeling differently. Vegan fanatics claim that you will have this newfound energy, glowing skin and overall wellness. I’ve yet to find any of those things. But changes are happening, nonetheless.

Something as incremental, or immense as a dietary change (depends on the person), made me do an autopsy on myself. It made me tap into my life, what I felt needed to change. It also made me realize that if I was able to change my diet, I could deploy agency in other areas of my life. I kept this perpetual autopsy going, really investigating a vision of myself that would not only be beneficial for me, but for others. I thought about the Fall and Winter months. I thought about my struggles with anxiety during these months. What could I do to change this?

It led to meditation. Now, this was, and continues to be a struggle for me. As someone who sits in a chair similar to that of a five-year-old, legs kicking and all that, I didn’t know how to assess my breathing, or note thoughts. Nevertheless, I’ve stuck with it. This in itself is change. Understanding that nothing comes immediately and, to be gentle on yourself in the process.

Meditation led to an interest in at-home-workouts. It seemed beneficial to friends and family, especially in lockdown. The thought of googling and searching for a class online would’ve been daunting before, whereas now it’s status quo. Somehow, some way, I am looking at once complex concepts to me and simply making them elementary. I like to start my days with Joe Holder’s mobility/gratitude routine.

Change has been happening in droves. It was uninvited, completely subconscious. I’ve been thinking a great deal about this word and its relation to me now. In a recent conversation with a friend they told me they have time to “figure it out.” I couldn’t agree more with this statement, but what followed came as a surprise.

“Why change?”

My response was a laugh accompanied by a shrug, because I’m not witty, and furthermore, I didn’t have an answer. All I can say for now is, change happened to me when I least expected it. I suppose you have to feel something deep in your bones or have enough bad days to look yourself in the mirror and want better. What I have to remind myself of, is that change does not mean happiness. Quite the opposite. It means process, and willingness to look unknown in the eyes and say, “let’s get after it.”

Books, books and more books

Yesterday I read a Man Repeller story that focused on Vivek Shraya, a creative “multihyphenate,” who described her writing process in quarantine. It made me reflect on my own writing process, or perhaps my nonexistent writing process within the last six months. Ironically, this story that touched so much on embracing a period of not writing and, accepting the mundanity of life in quarantine, inspired me to type away.

But the main focus of this dispatch is reading. It was the second week of March when I took the leap of faith and bought a book. One might think somebody who considers themselves a writer, would be a reader, but until six months ago this was not the case for me. I held the notion that all great writers must be great readers as a cliché. Suffice it to say there has been growth during quarantine.

The book was by one Gerard Reve, called The Evenings. I will admit that I had no knowledge, nor consideration of the contents of this book before purchasing it. All that mattered was the cover.

Suffice to say there has been growth during quarantine.

Upon finishing this book, I was underwhelmed. This led me to do some research about it. I found that The Evenings was considered by some critics as an early masterpiece of modern European literature. And here I was, considering it a book without a bass drop.

I am however grateful for the reaction I had to the book, because it led me to find more, interestingly enough. I discovered Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman, then Joan Didion, Charles Baldwin, Nelson Algren and as a matter of fact, 20 more authors. In six months, I have managed to read 26 books. I say this not to boast, but to actualize the whole thing, make it more concrete for myself. I really did not think I had it in me.

All of this reading has supplied me with escapism. Whereas I used to watch movies, I can genuinely say that the picture you create in your mind when reading a book, is far better than anything you could view on a screen. The words on the page somehow become yours. The narrative belongs to you, in your head. Not only has reading supplied me with escapism, but it has fueled my creativity unlike anything else. After reading Charles Baldwins Going to Meet the Man, I was most struck by the eloquence of his words. So much to the point I took to writing poetry.

Among all this reading I could not help but notice the effect it had on my mental health. I found myself less distracted and more inspired. I found myself running more and, yearning for a version of myself that I could be proud of. Just take five seconds to Google, “reading and mental health.” You will find scientific backing to the benefits of all this.

Above anything else, reading during quarantine has opened me up to a whole new world. One that is not suffering, or perhaps if I am reading Charles Bukowski, the world is suffering. But more often than not, reading takes me to a place of serenity. So, for all two of you who are reading this, go beyond here. Go to a bookstore and find something, then another. It will pay off in droves.

A Stance On Athleisure

I recently read a story headlined, “Athleisure Has Finally Gone High Fashion,” by GQ’s associate style editor, Sam Hine. My main takeaway from this piece is that it’s now fashionable to be sweaty, wearing brands like Lululemon, Nike x Matthew Williams, Veilance and Satisfy. To be clear, I couldn’t be more in favor of this trend if I tried (which I have, I run and sometimes lift weights…sometimes).

I appreciate Hines giving short synopsis of each of these brands and the impact they’re making on the fashion world. Besides Lululemon and Matthew Williams collaboration with Nike, I had no prior knowledge to Veilance and Satisfy.

Satisfy in particular caught my attention because it looked grungy and didn’t fit the mold of what runners typically wear. As Hines puts it,

If you ever wondered what would happen if a former skateboarder who is obsessed with Dries Van Noten suddenly caught the running bug and decided to start an athletic lifestyle brand, well, congrats on having such a specific question, because Paris-based Satisfy is your answer.

While this brand has beautiful pieces such as post-run sweatpants and screenprinted tank tops for runners, it’s a bit out of my price range at the moment.

If you google search the term “athleisure” you will get a wikipedia definition stating, “Athleisure is a fabricated style of clothing typically worn during athletic activities and in other settings, such as at the workplace, at school, or at other casual or social occasions.” Allow me to reiterate, I can get behind this.

My first memory of approaching the realm of athliesure came the night I graduated high school. For graduation I wore a navy Hugo Boss suit, complimented poorly by a hazel knit tie from J. Crew. I got home after all the pictures we’re taken and the diploma was secured. I wanted nothing more than to be comfortable after the festivies so I threw on my Lululemon pacebreaker shorts which cut nicely above my knee. I complimented that outfit with a hawaiin shirt from Tommy Bahama (don’t ask).

Although this outfit wasn’t purely athleisure, it was on the outskirts. It was comfortable with a hint of flare. I didn’t know it at the time, but that outfit would be the bases of my “summer look” for years to come. A more reserved top, maybe a polo or short sleeved button up, with Lululemon shorts.

It’s now 2019 and I’m three years into this adoption of athleisure. Nowadays it’s purely athliesure. I had a minor addiction to Lululemon this summer, as it was just a block from my apartment. I walked in one weekend back in June and saw the workers, dressed head to toe in things like windbreakers, joggers and headbands. They were sophisticated and confident. This was appealing to me. I thought, “maybe I can pull that look off too.”

So I did.

I spent more money at Lululemon this summer than I’m willing to admit. I don’t regret a thing. Friends of mine can vouch that I lost most of the denim. I lost the flannels and outgrew the Hugo Boss suit. My uniform is Lululemon’s surge jogger, with their metal vent tech shirts and— my personal favorite—Lululemon lab’s diffract jacket.

This semi new trend of athliesure rising to high fashion has put me outside my comfort zone. It’s made me dress practically for the first time in ages. I’m someone who runs every day, sometimes twice. I try and get to the gym at least four to five times a week. Dressing in athleisure has made me a more confident man. Weights and miles aside, the simplicity of joggers, the comfort of a polyester shirt and the modern James Dean jacket that is Lululemon’s diffract, culminate into a future of less athleisure and just the norm.

The Modern Day Man: A Style Report By Jack McGann

Coco Chanel once said, “Fashion fades, only style remains the same.” This quote applies to nothing I’m about to say, but it felt right to begin with.

Today, as most other days, I found myself hyperanalyzing style on the street. As I walked into starbucks I was flabergasted by the sight before my eyes. It’s worth noting that starbucks is quite possibly the worst place to look for anything pertaining to style.

I shouldn’t say that.

I love what the baristas at my nearby starbucks wear, because you can only be so creative with a uniform. What I meant was, more often than not the people that inhabit starbucks are unimagninative when it comes to putting together an outfit. This can’t be the case for every starbucks, or they’d go out of business, but the one I frequent…well, it’s in need of work.

You’re probably thinking to yourself, “but jack if the people at this starbucks don’t have style, wouldn’t that mean you don’t have style?”

Let’s move on.

I walk into starbucks this morning in the best of spirits. The seasons changing and the clocks have struck back an hour. My optimism was quickly stripped as I approached the underwhelming line, where two guys stood waiting to order.

These are $415…

The image presented here is what awaited me at starbucks. Not one pair, but two. The two gentleman in front of me had an ever so unconventional style. White Common Projects, black skinny jeans and black north face puffer jackets. I was flabergasted. Naturally I had to get more infortmation before I made my final judgement. Are they twins? because twins often times dress the same. Are their socks at least green? Blue? Red?

Does anything about this getup make me look twice? Unfortunately no. They were not twins, they did not have interesting socks on and I was left with more questions than I had originally planned.

Prior to this monstrosity I only contemplated if I should get a tall coffee or a grande. I got more than I bargained for. This tangent and more importantly this sighting sparked a creative endeavor for me. Let me write about the modern day man (generally speaking).

This has been brewing in my mind for sometime now. Just what is the modern day man wearing? What is his style? Does he give thought to the clothes he’s presenting to the world? These are only a few things I’ve conjured up to discuss in this piece.

Let’s begin with what I consider to be the modern day man. Although this man might seem unimaginative on the outside, by displaying shoes like common projects, or skinny jeans and a puffer jacket. I’m willing to bet there’s more to the modern man, it just hasn’t come out yet.

Maybe they’ve been chewed out one too many times by their family, as their off to a date. Maybe one of their boys has harped on them about their audacious sense of socks. Situations like this can destroy the modern mans sense of self, but more importanly, the modern mans sense of style.

I truly believe with every fibre of my being, that every man in this day and age possesses style. The way the modern day man dresses is unimaginative and dull. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth. For those of us who follow style/fashion, you want nothing more than to ask them, “why’d you do that?” But I put it to you, hold back. Have empathy.

There was a point in time, where we all dressed like shit. Pardon my frankness, but it’s true. I remember in sixth grade I wore nothing but the same pair of jeans and copious layers for shirts. The most horrific thing about this look was that I had to match everything. If I was wearing a green long sleeve, I’d throw a green short sleeve on top. Who was that man? Where was the imagination? You see I have no problem giving myself smoke, so don’t hold back in the comment section.

The modern man, as vanilla and reserved as the clothes on his back may seem, is simply waiting on a situation, a circumstance, that makes him look at himself in the mirror and simply say, “I don’t give a fuck.”

Gentleman we all possess it. We all have style and we all have imagination. I’m not picking on you if you wear white sneakers every day, or skinny jeans with a puffer jacket. Style is forever changing. It is a living breathing thing that’s constantly evolving.

To the modern men I saw in Starbucks this morning, I can’t wait for your situation to come about.

Summer of 18

It's just about that time again. Summer is right around the corner. Everyone seems to be back home in their respective towns. People are walking with livelier steps. The city has a new pulse. It's a beautiful thing to see. I always wonder what each summer will bring. Will it be better than the last, or worse? Maybe neither. One things for certain though, it will be different than the last. That's the thing about summer, it's always different than the last in one way or another. 

I was sitting down with a friend the other day and just thinking about the coming months. We were recollecting past summers and all the memories that were made. While many of my closest friends live back in my old town, I try to go back as little as possible now that I'm older. Going back home and seeing everyone and reinventing nights that once were seems to have a bad effect on me. What I mean is, it keeps me in a permanent mindset of never wanting to grow up. You know that feeling when you see your friends for the first time in a long time, and you're in a place that you haven't been in a long time and all these memories come pouring back into your mind. For me, it's almost overwhelming. It makes me realize that growing up is a fact. It's something you can't escape no matter how hard you try. Memories are just that, memories. 

My best friend here in the city told me recently, we'll never be able to truly go back to those days of July, where nobody had jobs, where nobody had a single worry in the world other than making it home by 11:30. No, those days are long gone and only a distant memory now. It's both a tremendous thought and a terrifying one. 

Growing up and doing things on your own is rewarding thing. Whether it be cashing a check on your own or riding the train for the first time, you feel a sense of aliveness and self worth. This is what I love about growing up. Thankfully i'm perpetually optimistic and look at most things in a positive manner. Growing up is terrifying but once you tell yourself there's no escaping it, and that there's a beautiful future out there waiting to be found, you can find hope. 

Something I have to remind myself in this chapter of my life is that people come and go. It's not necessarily voluntary, but there's thing thing called life going on, remember? People meet new people, and people change. For better or for worse. One of the most beautiful things about growing up is seeing people stick around. Those people that were around in July of 2015, the people who said good luck at school and see you soon. The people who you get a text or phone call from asking how you're doing and what's been going on. That's one of my favorite things in this chapter of life.

In this generation of "I can't text them first that's weird." Or, " Well they didn't text or call me so I won't either," allow me to pass on some advice. We're all on the same boat here. Lost or found, in this vast ocean of growing up. Sometimes, leave your pride in high school, and reach out to your friends and family. Ask them how they're doing. Check up on them. Talk extensively or briefly about what's good and bad in their lives currently. Trust me when I say that it will mean the entire world to them. 

Now, go forth and do something great this summer. Do things that scare the hell out of you. Try and neglect what people may think of you. You'll find yourself much happier. Here's to the summer of 2018. 

New York

I'm not even going to begin to explain my inactivity on the blog, however I am going to tell you what's been up the past two months. I finished my first quarter of sophomore year and then had (quite possibly) the best experience of my life--NEW YORK CITY. 

So my college has an unusually long winter break since we're on trimesters. I had six weeks of stress free living and a five day trip to New York. To be completely honest with you I didn't spend my time off school as wisely as I would've liked to. My New York trip took place within the last two weeks of break, and I pretty much sat around waiting for my flight the first four weeks. 

The wait was worth it.

December 15th rolled around and I didn't sleep at all before my 6AM flight. Yes, I booked a 6AM flight because I wasn't about to waste a day there. The flight seemed quick, but that's probably because I was writing in this tiny notebook I carry around. First I wrote about all the places I wanted to see, then I just began writing my expectations. 

"I like your bag man, are you going to Sneaker Con?" The man sitting next to me said. 

"No just visiting a friend, it's my first time here."

"Aw man well have fun."

"Thanks, do you live here?" I asked.

"No, I come through every month though."

My immediate thought was, wow, I want to do that. I hadn't even seen the city yet, but I knew I'd love it. When I walked into LaGuardia I was a bit overwhelmed. It seemed like a tight fitting airport and there was tons of people running, speed walking, just moving fast. That was my first observation, the tempo was high, which I like. 

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I took a cab ride to NYU's campus, where my friend Christian goes. The ride from LaGuardia to Manhattan was surreal, it was something out of a movie. I was driving through Manhattan around the morning rush hour. Which leads me to my next observation.

THE PEOPLE OF NEW YORK. I LOVE YOU. DEEPLY. PASSIONATELY. 

But seriously the people of New York are amazing and probably the biggest reason I loved it so much. The way they dress, the way they walk, the way they carry themselves. They provide the electricity to that amazing city. 

Christian had class that morning so I dropped my stuff off in his dorm room, and began my solo adventure. The dorm overlooked Washington Square Park, I knew that much. I walked all around SoHo and then Midtown. By then I had made my mind up that I'm moving to New York after college (maybe sooner). 

Parker and Will (two friends of mine from home) landed at LaGuardia a few hours after me and we met up in Greenwich Village. It was a crazy thing meeting up with those guys in a completely new city. It was just a very cool feeling. 

I know I'm dragging this story on, which I have a tendency to do when talking about my time in New York. There's so many amazing things to talk about, but I'll sum up the highlights. 

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212 Hisae's

I would say 212 Hisae's isn't so much of a place as it is a feeling. Christian assured us that this place was a good spot so we went. I knew it lived up to it's hype when we pulled up and there was a line almost halfway down the block, full of college kids just waiting to get in. Waiting wasn't so bad because everyone was talking to everyone and it was just an overall great experience. This is the ideal prelude to a night out, low-key enough where you can just sit down and talk with friends but also high key enough where you can dance to migos, which contradicts the whole vibe of the place but I did it anyway. 

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The people

OK I really can't stress this enough. Within the five days I was there I met some of the coolest people ever. Even the people I didn't have the chance to meet were amazing! Everyone was so lively and eager to DO stuff. The people I met were all unique in their own way, one kid could've been really into film and the next was a future stockbroker. It's little things like this that made it so hard to leave New York City. 

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SoHo

For those of you reading my blog that know me well, SoHo is obviously one of my favorite spots in all of Manhattan. SoHo offers an array of coffee shops and copious shopping opportunities. Although I didn't go in places like Saint Laurent, Louis Vuitton or Balmain, I certainly enjoyed looking through their windows and pondering the possibility of one day being able to afford their products. But seriously, SoHo is much more than shopping and coffee, the architecture was amazing. Another little thing I enjoyed about New York City was the fire escapes in front of the apartments. We don't see a lot of those here in Chicago so it was a nice change of scenery. 

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Central Park

I'd only seen Central Park in black and white films so to finally go there was huge. We walked around a decent amount, then we decided to have a huge snow fight for about an hour. Pretty sure we ruined a marriage proposal too...

So that's just a few things I wanted to share from my first visit to New York. I'll be back for fashion week next month so stay tuned. 

Tay on State Street

Tay is an artist I met on State Street yesterday. I've passed him plenty of times before, and he'd always be drawing under the Marshall Field and Company plaque. I wanted to know more about him and why he's always drawing, so I asked.

"Did you draw all of these?"

"Yeah, are you an artist?" he asked. 

"No not really, just a photographer."

"Eh, same thing."

Tay was a relaxed person, he never seemed to be annoyed by the honking cars, or the people that would gaze at us intently as we talked. I suppose we really connected through talking about each others "art." Throughout our conversation that lasted about 20 minutes, only one person  stopped to buy a drawing. The lady that stopped wanted to buy the drawing that Tay was working on which was Batman. It wasn't anywhere near finished, and she didn't have change for it so she said she'd be back. 

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As soon as the woman left, Tay said that people are always buying the same drawings, but the ones that he enjoys drawing the most never sell. He said that Batman always sells, but wasn't exactly sure why. I could tell that Tay didn't enjoy drawing the skyline constantly, I could see it in his eyes when he talked that these drawings weren't his true passion. 

Tay told me that he spent some time at Columbia College Chicago but couldn't afford it long term. He said that if he could he would be doing more anime. That's his favorite. 

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We talked about his creative process, and how many of his best ideas come late at night. 

"It's weird like I just want to make stuff throughout the night, and sleep during the day, you know?"  

I began to notice how similar Tay and I were. We come from two separate backgrounds, and live two completely different lifestyles, yet there's things that connect us. For example our love for art and conversation. 

"Sorry I've never stopped and said hello before, but I pass by here often. You wouldn't mind if I said hello from now on would you?"

"Not at all," Tay said. 

Jose

Today I met Jose who works a hot dog stand at Oz Park. Never before have I approached a stranger and asked if I can photograph them until today. I was passing the stand on my way home from the lakefront and I saw this man on his hands and knees chalking up some form of art on the ground next to his stand. 

I approached Jose and asked what it was he was drawing. He told me he was drawing emoji's because he thought they were trending and I agreed. I was glad that Jose was willing to talk to me even though we didn't know each other. I figured I'd ask another question. "Is this your stand?" He said it wasn't his but that he'd been working there for many summers now. 

I found it fascinating that he took the time to draw emoji's on the sidewalk. "Every week I draw something new on the sidewalk," he said. That struck me. On top of working this hot dog stand he draws (quite well I must say). 

I didn't have much time to chat with Jose unfortunately, since there was people in line waiting to order. After our small conversation I asked Jose if I could take his picture, which he kindly obliged to. Jose never stopped smiling. 

I left Jose and have thought about our small conversation since. Why does he draw on the sidewalk? Why is he working there? Where is he from? Luckily Jose said that he'd be working the stand as long as weather permits. Hopefully I can hear his story in the near future. 

Invisible Chicago

I'm beginning a project called Invisible Chicago. I've been wanting to do this for a while but it was just a matter of mustering up enough courage to walk up to a complete stranger and take their picture. That's only part of what Invisible Chicago is about. 

This project will be all about the people of Chicago that are often neglected. People such as window washers, street cleaners, garbage men, the homeless, creatives, etc. Often times we pass by these people and fail to realize that everyone has an amazing story to tell. Stories that shape their life and who they are. I will be uncovering these stories. 

All of my life I've enjoyed hearing stories as well as telling them. Invisible Chicago allows me to do exactly that. There has been countless occasions where I'll be walking the streets of Chicago and I'll pass a man power washing on Michigan Avenue at the crack of dawn. I pass by people like this and want to stop and firstly thank them for their work, but I want to hear a story. I want to know what exactly it is that gets them out of bed each day. These people's stories are just as important as anyone else's. 

The feeling of hello

I know i've been away from the blog game too long, but I am back people! (speaking directly to the 3 humans who check this blog out)

Today's topic of discussion is the feeling of saying/receiving a hello. I just got back from the mall because I needed a pair of jeans. A fun fact about me is I haven't worn a pair of jeans since about sixth grade. I found a great pair today, but while in my desperate search, I was greeted by some great people. 

Three STRANGERS said hello to me and asked how I was doing. While this may not seem like a lot of people, it is for me! Usually I never get helped when I'm shopping, and I can never figure out why that is. I consider myself an approachable person, and I think these three strangers did as well. 

It's important to note that these "strangers" worked at the place in which I was shopping. Obviously saying hello to customers is part of the gig, but I think they genuinely wanted to know how I was doing. The first stranger that said hello threw me off because like I said before, I don't usually expect any sort of recognition while shopping. I said hello with a smile, and she asked if I needed any help, I said no and we went on with our day. 

While saying hello seems like such a small gesture, it truly can make someones day. Speaking for myself, it made mine. The other two strangers greeted me similarly, and one of them even told me to have a nice day! How fantastic is that!

Hearing a hello gives me a sort of significant feeling, it makes me realize that some people still value face to face conversation. After hearing a hello, it makes me think about why that person greeted me. Why me and not the other dozen people in the room? Nevertheless, it makes me feel great. 

Knowing how I react to a hello makes me want to say it to others whenever I have the chance. If this simple gesture makes me feel significant, I'd imagine it'd have a similar affect on someone else. 

I put it to you (all three of my regulars on this blog) to reach out to people and say hello more often, not only will it make their day, but yours as well.