Day in the Life

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I got a little sentimental thinking about how I’ve been writing this blog for two years now. To salute this milestone, subscriptions will be 22.2% off—the button below will only work for the next seven days:

Good mooorniiiing

Last night, I fell asleep in a robe and so when I ripped off my eye mask this morning, I found myself vertically exposed the way gutted fish look on their bed of ice at the supermarket. The morning light exposed the white negative image of sandals patterned against my tanned feet, red pedicure looking like drops of blood against white sheets.

I sat at my bistro table and ate an economically halved Honeycrisp while sipping a glass of lukewarm water with a slice of lemon in a whiskey crystal. A pair of chopsticks hangs over the sink, evidence of when I got up in the early antemeridian hours to eat kimchi from the jar.

Then, I tried very hard to recall parts of last night’s dream, but the more I tried, the more it slipped away, so that when I did conclude on what to remember, I was left with one poorly developed Polaroid of something weird and Freudian.

I take my first walk before 10AM:

The ritual: Go for a walk. Get a coffee and a croissant.

“Source?” My undefeated intuition. It came to me in a dream. It was revealed to me on my walk. I heard it whispered in the wind.

I live in a neighborhood where Tom Buchanans find their Myrtle Wilsons.

In Yorkville, Toronto, the men have bellies and the women have theirs sucked out and reinjected into their butts. The Escalades are tinted, the people are opportunistic, their noses are reconstructed, and their dogs don’t bark—they yap. Not old money, not new money, but a secret third thing (OnlyFans money).

I see the same folks on my morning walk: the valet boy with clear plastic glasses and both arms covered in dragon tattoos, the anorexic girl who wears a puffer in August to walk her miniature dachshund, and the man who looks like Santa if Santa worked in real estate.

Sometimes, I see Drake on the Hazelton patio, but it’s nowhere near as exciting as running into

Shaiyan Khan

whom I recognize three out of four times depending on how much beard he has that day and how locked in I am.

Getting a coffee (cortado or cappuccino) and a croissant (usually plain, but occasionally almond or chocolate) is a ritual. And rituals are essential; anyone who has a particular skincare routine or preferred bathroom understands this.

The fact that Mariah Carey makes $3 million every Christmas from that one song is a case study of our instinct for ritual. That tune is more than just annual routine, it’s a sacred tradition. It’s a form of social communion. It’s culturally meaningful, and we’re devotional about it.

My most frequently asked question is, “What is your mindfulness practice (as it relates to writing)”, and the answer is: I walk. Long walks are the midwife of good ideas. Nietzsche, who wrote The Wanderer and His Shadow almost entirely en route (and used up six notebooks), said, “Sit as little as possible; do not believe any idea that was not born in the open air and of free movement.”

I don’t walk I ✨ wander ✨

The essentials: music + food + clothes

I am blessed with a fantastic metabolism, which I take full advantage of.

The difference between a good day and a bad day is how much you think you deserve to have a good day. I’m not someone who saves candles or dresses or perfumes or cakes for special occasion. You can only enjoy the best things when there is moderation, and moderation doesn’t feel like restriction when you allow yourself to have the best things. Decadence in small portions.

I am also a music omnivore. Spotify tells me that my top three artists from 2023 were, in order, Future, Mozart, and Bach (this is probably the most surprising thing about me). I enjoy a Liszt cadenza as much as I enjoy a Lil Yachty freestyle. Something historical, something industrial, something techno, something groovy, something Byzantine, something Sinatra, something Horowitz, something Bellini, something Gospel. But I don’t like pop or country (with the exception of T-Pain’s Tennessee Whiskey).

Listening to music, enjoying food, and getting dressed are my three favorite things to do every day, and they add texture and vitality to the mundane.

When I stroll through Philosopher’s Walk, the crispness of the green air refreshes me. When I walk by a pho restaurant, the smell of star anise and beef bones comforts me. Midriff-snatching leggings puts a pep in my step compared to soft yarn sweatpants. My favorite colors are red and black; I feel most comfortable and most like myself wearing these colors. My most worn shoes right now are my New Balance 574s, and if I’m going anywhere after 7PM, I’m in heels.

Ideas are allowed to be abstract, but food, music, and clothes should never be. They occupy the real world, and they should enhance life on the material front. Music either sounds good or doesn’t; food either tastes good or doesn’t; clothes either feel good or don’t.

Food, music, and clothes should be enjoyed and loved, not picked apart by highbrow academia.

5 rules I write by

Rely on the sudden erection of your small dorsal hairs. All the rest depends on personal talent.

—Nabokov (my favorite writer of all time)

I don’t have a Murakamian writing routine, but I’ve got commandments: