Frank abruptly walked headlong into a grimy wall. His mind wishing for the beautiful side of the city had tried to take a right turn, but he was on a rounded road. He tapped his pocket again, for comfort, to remind himself of his dreams, to remind himself what the city had promised him, what the city had baited him with. He pulled the postcard out of his pocket. It was lined and greasy, the creases were chipped, he could barely make out the beauty he had once found so heart achingly perfect. He was too late. His toes had hit the steps of a factory.
Amelia slowly stepped out of the elevator. The sounds of the crowds reached her first, then the bright flashes of cameras. Her new world was set to be bright. She was designed for the city. The city was designed for her. She stepped out the doors, the cameras followed her, she turned to the monoliths, she understood: Harborside knew the world and the world knew Harborside, within Harborside was the world. She turned to the sea, there laid the cradle of life, status, money; it flooded into her the meaning of value, the true meaning: money.
As she walked the city doors opened to her. She was Amelia, the city was hers. She would never be lost to the crowd, the city would never bowl over her, time would not forget her, Frank was already fading.
She wandered the city all day, the crowd only grew around her, but as she strayed closer and closer to the borders of her postcard the crowds grew restless. Space seemed to shift. Where she walked she owned, the postcard was empty space with blank people, but where she walked new hope, new futures sprang up like daisies in her wake. But as she neared the last corner, the last wide boulevard, her daisies seemed to fight for sunlight. Her unique ownership was being pushed back by the ownership of the many, the workers no longer singular but one full moving entity, lost to the mindless grind of the crowd, the fingers became a hand.
She had reached the end of the immunization ring, the end of the filigree border on the postcard of Harborside and standing on the other side of the glass was Frank.
Before Amelia, who was the crux of the city, eyes of the future, was Frank, whose hands bled from his first shifts in the factories, who was beginning to smudge around the edges.
Before Frank, the disenchanted dreamer, a man of ideals and cities past, was Amelia, a small mechanical girl with holographic eyes and the entire modern world and future in her circuit board chest.
It was dingy as hell, not recognizable as the city everyone saw in the postcards: moss and algae crept down the walls; the side streets were lined with open sewers; the factories ran all hours of the day, belching out waste and haze. Soot streaked down the faces of the workers whose hands were cracked and brown with exposure. What little they had they called home, whether roof or coat, they took what they could. They struggled through narrow congested streets, seemingly stuck in the past — a bygone era, that had long since been passed by the rest of the city — an open sore without medicine.
On these congested streets lived all manner of discard: tech no longer current, factory waste, dreams of fame and fortune, the relics of the country people once left, heirlooms of cultures long swallowed. But as the streets turned oceanside they widened and lightened, the haze of smog dropping away the closer one moved to the harbor, the mecca of trade, the jewel of the city, the picture perfect postcard. Harborside was a world of glass and gold that rose high enough that those with bloodshot eyes and wasted dreams believed that maybe it reached heaven.
The city of Harborside was rich, modern, urban, cultured, and only surface deep. Every man, woman, and child that lived in the skyward reaching world was a dreamer, a planner, a story. Their streets were lined with rare plants and their roads paved with exotic shell. Every home was its own, sitting pretty at the height of progress. They would want for nothing and everything.
Such severance was there in the city of Harborside that it was as if a blight, a disease, had been stretching out from the landward outskirts of the city but had abruptly hit a vaccine three quarters of the way toward the harbor. It was as if an immunization had been injected into the sea and had spread to the seafront but had been content to protect the few.
Life was bobbing at a sea-sickening rate as Frank finally found the city. He had taken every form of transport available to him: car, bus, train, plane, his own two aching feet, bicycle, and finally boat. As the city rose over the bow of the leaky, decades-old fishing boat, the tug behind his gut seemed to loosen. The folded postcard in his breast pocket was a molten brand of hope and childlike optimism on his heart.
Life had ground to an overly warm stagnate existence for Amelia. Trapped above the cloud level – in a glass box – Amelia had the entire world at her fingertips. She was at the height of modern technology, she was as mapped out as the best planned city. There was no one like her, there never had been another like her, nor would there ever be one like her. She was a road map. She was not her own. She was caught, ensnared. Made and unmade.
In an interview done by Fox News, Teen Vogue writer Lauren Duca’s authorial legitimacy was questioned. She was asked to be interviewed after writing a piece on Donald Trump back in December 2016. So, as one would assume, she thought they would ask her about the article. Instead, they went on for ten minutes about how, as a fashion writer, she was unable to accurately write about politics.
This kind of blatant sexism is found in many places in journalism and is becoming commonplace with female journalists. The fact that a respected news organization like Fox News could let an interview like that air is beyond me. This incident didn’t just spark unrest for Miss Duca, but for journalists like her. Why is it that because a woman writes about fashion, makeup, or hair, she is incapable of writing about more serious things like politics or other current events?
This false predisposition is just what Teen Vogue sought to disprove in the newest edition of their magazine. Wrapped in a tall collectible format, hundreds of ideas were displayed to their many, avid readers. From the profound significance of the Academy-Award winning movie, Moonlight, to one man’s relationship with makeup, this magazine tackles a wide variety of ideas.
After reading this volume on my flight back to Los Angeles, I was blown away by the passion some of these authors wrote with in their articles and the stereotypes of a “teen magazine” that were totally disregarded. I read interviews of celebrities, such as Troye Sivan and Lena Dunham, done by people close to them. They were laced with a feeling of comfort, something you couldn’t find with a typical interview. I learned of the uplifting story of a Syrian girl finding a new life and love after fleeing her war-stricken country. I read stories of all different kinds of love: sisterly love, pet-owner love, love of fashion, and self-love. This volume talked about consent, masturbation, sexuality, and other essential lessons not always found in the sex-ed taught in high schools. The photoshoots showed candid smiles, unique fashion, and people of all races and sexualities.
In the future, it is my hope that more magazines will follow suit. Continuing to write about fashion and makeup, but also about things that matter outside of that realm, will further enrich the knowledge of many. It is important to hear voices from many walks of life, as representation is the first step to feeling empowered.
Recently, one of the top meat producers in the U.S. invested in a new vegan meat producer, Beyond Meat.
It would seem that there is a new wave of vegetarianism, and I must say that I am in favor. It’s not only the thought of sweet, innocent animals that makes me happy to hear about this, but also my knowledge of the effects of the meat industry on the planet.
And aside from that, who can argue with more (delicious) options in the freezer aisle? I, personally, love food.
Last night I was on Facebook, just cruising as I do and I see a link shared by my Dad’s company.
The caption of this video was this, “Very interesting idea. Would you adopt this phone technology? // #phoneblocks”
I was like, “well this might be interesting.”
I have had an iPhone for 5 years. I got the iPhone 3 on my 13th birthday, and from there I haven’t thought about having any other phone.
Droids have come out and the iPhone still seems better. The Galaxy series came out, and still the iPhone seems better, but this Blok phone is the 1st phone that I have thought about actually switching to.
This phone isn’t out yet, but the concept is great.
Electronic waste is an ever-growing thing in this world, and our phones are contributing to this issue greatly.
Our phones aren’t made to last, they are made to last until a new one comes out and then suddenly stuff starts to break.
This block concept eliminates the phasing out of the entire phone.
There is a block for every component of the phone, so if one breaks, you just replace that block.
It allows the user the ability to customize their phone. Photographers can upgrade to a bigger camera, old people can go simple so they know what the hell they are doing and don’t have to ask me how to press a button that says “phone” to use the phone.
(Love you mom).
This idea needs funding, and it needs to be spread across to all of the executives across the country so people know about it.
On October 29 they will send a blast out to all major companies to try to get the process rolling.
They need our help to get the word out.
Go to phonebloks.com and join the Thunderclap so that they can get enough people to make their dream a reality.
Not only could this introduce a brand new, very cool phone to the market, but it could cut down on waste and help the general well-being of the world we live in.