Thread Magazine Spring/Summer 2022

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Phase 5, Recollection, is a period of remembering. After such change and acceleration towards a new future, we must sit back represents the beauty of memories and how they seem to be gone forever.

Seconds. Minutes. Days. Years. Time remains an unfathomable phenomenon that often gets overlooked in the whirlwind of life.

Often, our time is not precious until we are thrown into another perspective. From the stagnancy of the pandemic to fast-paced college life, our perception of time and our journey through it has taken many forms over the past years. From here, our narrative of An Ode to Time originated. This issue explores eras of mankind’s past, present, and future through phases, each representing a spevisualize these narratives through tactile feelings and experiences.

Phase 1, Evolution, plays off of the idea of physical deconstruction to represent the beginning of a new age, a period of decay to allow for future growth. Seplophilia, the fondness for decaying matter, communicates the beauty of giving ourselves over to the natural processes of life, though it may sometimes mean temporary deterioration.

Phase 2, Thaw, depicts a state of vulnerability in which one is left exposed and raw after the decay of one’s previous self. Molysmophilia, the fondness for dirt, invites us to settle back into the primitive nature of our body and soul. Every wear and tear that our body and mind take from navigating the start of a new era is exposed and raw. We open ourselves up. Exposed. Vulnerable. At the end of the day, all we have is our body.

Phase 3, Suspension, captures the intermission in our lives befondness for crossing bridges, can be a tense or shaky experience.

Whether the bridge is one of wood or personal growth, the steps across it signal the commencement of a new direction in life. Suspended in time; suspended in life. Sometimes pauses are needed before we accelerate towards our dreams.

Phase 6, Warp: an era of indulgence and consumption. The conformity to the societal pressure to own new items is encapsulated by kainotophilia, the fondness for newness. Trends and ment – a cage birthed by the consequences of our own actions.

Phase 7, Apocalypse, envisions potential futures for humanity; one in which the cage is broken, and another in which it is not.

Alongside this era is kenophilia, the fondness for voids, which future is one of solitude and isolation. In this world, it is every man for themselves; you must battle to maintain your sense of self in a state of pure survival, but you are free from all societal pressures. In the contrasting future, technology has taken absolute hold over humanity, creating a class of opulent near-cyborgs. How do we balance a sense of humanity with untethered potential for advancement?

Phase 8, Enlightenment, concludes our journey through time with a revitalized understanding of one’s inner landscape. Ablutophilia, the fondness for cleansing, depicts the renewed vitality on a deeper level. As we travel our precious Earth and collect stories and experiences, we enrich our minds and souls, entering a period of tranquility and self-understanding. After a long, arduous journey through time, it is important to make time to nurture We hope that as you travel through time with this issue, you gain a newfound appreciation for the preciousness of every transient period of life.

Phase 4, Flux, is based on the fondness for motion, kinesophilia.

In this state, our bottled-up energy is ready to be released into unknown potentials. This phase portrays a renaissance in which a rebirth of passion and a heightened awareness of one’s surroundings creates movement towards change.

Haley Qin Creative Lead Raquel Coren Creative Lead

If you know me, you probably know Thread Magazine.

Thread has become my baby throughout my years at Cornell, and I’m constantly asking myself how my nervous attendance at one information session my freshman fall spiraled into Thread becoming the community in which I invest most of my time. I’m beyond grateful to play even the smallest role here, because in my time on Thread, I have learned more about myself through the process of creating the stories we’ve told over the last three years.

My cousin once told me that I should look at every image story you have never seen before?’ I haven’t looked at an artistic image in the same way since. And this approach has transformed the way we create our work at Thread.

From the conception of a theme and photoshoot, the creation of the essential Pinterest moodboard (of course), and layout, everyone on Thread hopes to curate an element of a narrative that someone has never seen before.

And that our continual drive to storytell does not lie in the fascination of simply ‘creating pretty pictures,’ but rather in assembling every detail of the direction to ensure that there is intentionality embedded in every creative choice we make.

Our organization is ever-changing. This semester, we nearly doubled the size of our E-Board, planned more community-based events than ever before, relaunched our website, and introduced an entirely new structural approach to achieving our semester goals. These transformations come with mounds of failure, but introduce circumstances where we feel more connected to each other than ever. At the core, these feelings of interconnectedness drive our passion to foster this creative community on Cornell’s campus.

There are countless reasons why Thread means so much to me. I never thought I could see myself fully belonging at Cornell, but Thread completely changed that. I never thought I was skilled enough to work in a community of creatives, but Thread pushed away that narrative. I never thought that I could pursue a creative career, but Thread absolutely erased my doubt. remember feeling mesmerized by the conversations our photoshoot team was having. It’s been three years and the feeling hasn’t changed one bit. I hope that the pages ahead reveal a story within you that you’ve never seen before. And I hope the story that you discover brings the same mesmerization that I feel every second I am with this team.

With love,

“An Ode to Time” is one of the most carefully crafted stories I’ve been lucky enough to witness the production of, from beginning-to-end curation. Our creative leads, Raquel and Haley, put so much passion, warmth, and eagerness into perfecting each phase of time and philia. And as I’m sitting here, writing this letter during our second layout all-nighter, seeing the images and editorial laid out into the magazine is a beautiful experience. The energy of our E-Board Admin, Art Directors, and Creative Leads all in this one room brings a smile to my face just as I think about it. I wish you all could witness the magic of the team we have — it is truly so special.

Aarushi Machavarapu Editor-in-Chief

Editor-in-Chief Aarushi Machavarapu Asst. Editor-in-Chief Maddie Woo VP Internal Helen Li VP External Gabi Estrada Art Director Andrea Cheon Asst. Art Director McKenzie Haynes Digital Graphic Designer Isabel Padilla Budgeting Director Maddie Woo Creative Leads Haley Qin Raquel Coren Editorial Director Erika Yip Asst. Editorial Director Peter Yacoub Director of Photography Audrey Yin Asst. Director of Photography Hannah Davis Beauty Director Amina Khan Asst. Beauty Director Gabrielle Moore

Collaborations Directors Mabel Orhiekhoe Shahad Salman Styling Director Clarke Hicks Asst. Styling Director Georgiana Katsingris Social Media Directors Kiara Taylor Syd Kang Web Director Amanda He Events Director Ramneek Sanghera Asst. Events Director Ellie Altman-Sagan Alumni Relations Director Ann Glazer Modeling + Recruitment Director Kimberly Garcia Sales Directors Courtney Shore Sophie Grippo

Art Team: Salwan, Bridget Lee, Mattie Lee, Daniel Wallace, William Remoundos, Marina Morgan, Isabella Bettencourt, Joseph Yoon, Maggie Meister, Olivia Schwartz, Anjali Pachal, Danielle Fernandes, Tina Lee, Maggie Cui, Samiha Tasnim, Lulu Beauty Team: Ashlyn Lee, Chloe Chavez, Chloe Lam, Donelly Matus, Flora Ding, Jas Khan, Julia Roos, Kristen D Souza, Melissa Chu, Meredith Hu, Princess Odom, Sasha Planinsic, Talia Attar, Tanisha Kore, Tanya Merino, Taylor Brown, Terrey Wang, Valerie Chang, Jiarui Ding Creative Team: Sowmya Venkatachalam, Krupa Sekhar, Claire Schmucker, Kayla Hsu, Jaeyoung Shim, Hope Cross-Jaya, Ella Sperling, Claire Ting, Bianca Cammarano, Aimée Eicher Sara Wanyana-Tyaba, Jarin Rahman, Sam Li, Damian Pulla, Keylin Saldana, Adriana Arce, Alexis Siegel, Ashley Koca, Rachel Shepard, Cassidy Trinh, Rose Davidson, Stacey Roy, Kayla Parida Editorial Team: Jinjee Denner, Rachel VanderVen, Parker Piccolo Hill, Loren Hunt, Triff H’Doubler, Jenna Schwartz, Iggy Estrada Cavero, Jessica Li, Eushin Vitale, Lee Fitzgerald, Eve de Rubertis, Izzy Warren, Kate Liang, Daniela Vaynshtok, Pranathi Adhikari, Ben LaFountain, Priya Phillips Photography Team: Iman Thiam, Louisa Weldy, Jessie Sutton, Emily Christiansen, Jolene Tsang, Shea Kinander, Ashley Liaw, James Spokes, Ketvoravit, Jacqueline Chen, Suzuki Lin, Andy (Seungjoo) Kim, Eva Harris, Pia

Millar, Anabelle Lau, Verna Li

Social Media Team: Cassidy Wang, Avery Carter, Pierce Lukonaitis, Rina Takaoka, Andrew Cheung, Camille Simmons, Sahana Shridhar, John Song, Brook Diamond, Lily Josephson, Amanda Pinto, Jasmine Chang, Yuvaan Ibanez, Alexander Arejian Styling Team: Rani Sheth, Anoushka Aggarwal, Ananthi Jayasundera, Marina Tadrous, Adrian Ramirez, Asara Milton, Ayslin Walker, Lyam Ouattara, Amy Li, Sophie Morgan, Lily Childs, Colette Jarrell, Cynthia de Santiago, Samantha Tsai, Aggie Chan, Julia Cerio, Thara Ahmed-Sule, Marley Levy, Bryn Elliot, Edom Solomon, Diakite, Aggie Chan, Thara AhmedAlassane Dia, Assistant Diakite, Sophie Morgan, Colette Jarrell, Lily Childs, Cynthia De Santiago Collabs: Peter Wenger, Mia Loosmann, Jackson Rajakumar, Race Xiao, Rachel Liu, Sakeef Bah, Isabel Hou, Sadeen Musa

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Directors: Andrea Cheon and McKenzie Haynes Beauty: Taylor Brown, Valerie Chang Creative: Sowmya Venkatachalam, Krupa Sekhar, Claire Schmucker, Kayla Hsu, Akiko Kelley Editorial: Jinjee Denner Photo: Iman Thiam, Allison Park Styling: Rani Sheth, Anoushka Aggarwal, Ananthi Jayasundera Featured Designer: Mia Bachrack, Andrea Cheon

12

SHOOT 1 LIQUIDITY

THREAD MAGAZINE

FALL WINTER 2021

ISSUE 18

THE SPATIAL EXISTENCE ISSUE

THREAD MAGAZINE

THE SPATIAL EXISTENCE ISSUE

SHOOT 1 LIQUIDITY

FALL WINTER 2021

PAGE 15

You remember the sound of a crowd chanting the name of a person you no longer hear me speak about. The clicking noises of your freshly stitched heel following us up the aluminum bleachers still echo when I walk over the suspension bridge.

Far from home now, I’ve brought you, my red cowboy boots, with me.

When I was nine my mom asked me why I liked prancing around the living room in her high heels. I told her: “because they make me feel tall.” Countless rejection letters, months of lockdown, and a splash of an identity crisis later, even though I’ve grown almost a foot, I sometimes feel shorter than I did back then.

The night of running up and down the stairs of a broken-down house, banging on every door for a friend until 4 a.m. is stuck in my memory. The next morning, your heel cracked as I fell to my knees, burying my head in my sweaty palms.

I should’ve stayed until 5.

A year later, I’m under fairy lights. My eyes are locked on a boy whose name I won’t forget as you usher my blistered feet around the room. The leather on your inner sole had worn so thin from nights of spinning in circles that I can feel the grooves on the rotting wood beneath me.

Your welt split from your midsole as he dipped me.

The jagged pavement of Stewart Avenue has ground down your outsole as if it’s sandpaper on slabs of splintering wood. Sometimes I slip on their soft surfaces, but the clicking of your heels calls me like a siren to a sailor, Enthralling me to keep you. through your faded red leather and into my socks, the thumping of your heels sings the familiar soundtrack of my walk, no matter how far I still have left to go. wet from the snow, soles superglued back on, and two other pairs of cowboy boots later,

BECAUSE YOU MAKE ME F!L TA By Jinjee Denner

thaw molysmophilia - the fondness of dirt

20

Directors: Erika Yip and Peter Yacoub Beauty: Chloe Chavez, Donelly Matus, Kristen D’Souza, extra help from Taylor Brown

Styling: Sophie Morgan, Lily Childs, Colette Jarrell, Cynthia de Santiago Models: Katelyn Flaks, Devin Bryant, Emma Mills

the garden’s secret priya phillips

When my aunt leaves the garden crying and drives off, I assume the hydrangeas have been sabotaged— a vicious case of housewife on housewife crime. The summer solstice is tomorrow, which preparing for Judgment Day a.k.a The Midsummer Festival of 1987. Arguably the year’s most important event, Helen’s homemakers will humbly offer up their cooking, decorating, and gardening skills to Helen’s degrading, I keep my mouth shut for my aunt’s sake.

My mom died a couple years ago and recently time consecutive winner of “Helen’s Finest Flowers”.

We don’t have much in common, though she and my mom were twins. Identical even in their laughs, so living with my aunt is a pleasant sort of haunting. But seeing her cry reminded me so much of my mom in her last days. I guess their pain looks the same too. My hatred of that look has me marching into the garden, ready to right any wrong. beds. They’re as unnaturally beautiful as before. But there’s an edge to their beauty that stops me from getting too close. Then a hollow voice in my head whispers, “Dig, girl. Don’t ignore a buried truth.” I and eventually brush across something smooth— I unearth a small, wooden box. It’s plain, boring even, except for the phrase “as above, so below” ornately

“Sweetheart, are you sure you’re ready for this?” I stare hard at her and expect her to transform into something frightening. But the face she shared with my mom is still comforting. I give her a jerky nod and she gives me a soft smile. The wax is removed.

“It’s a sonogram of a baby,” my voice is a hoarse whisper as I choke out, “Was it yours? Is your baby dead?” Aunt Julie starts pouring the red liquid onto “First off, this is pig’s blood, so don’t start thinking I’m leatherface incarnate or somethin’.

Second, yes, that baby is gone, but it wasn’t mine.

Another woman in Helen— she miscarried recently.”

After the last of the blood is spread, Julie gingerly sits next to me and pulls my hands into her lap. She squeezes and continues, “Men in this town are rarely punished. They hurt us to feel strong, because they’re scared of our power. Women can reach past the limits of life. When your mom got real sick and I stayed with to bring some justice to Helen.”

She lets go of me to reassemble the box and returns it to the ground. Somehow, the bloody dirt doesn’t stain her hands. Then, Julie grabs two peaches off the tree and we tear into them together. With our “For the last seven years, men have come to this garden to judge me. They don’t know they’re being judged right back. The bad ones are marked

shiver runs down my spine. Opening the box reveals

is deathly— the stench of sweet rot is haunting. My garden curses bad men, but their violence is what puts them in the ground.”

underside— I’d have to rip it off to know what’s on it.

I don’t realize my aunt is standing behind me until I hear a thud liquid at her feet. I naively hope it’s more wax.

At night, I call my dad and tell him I want to spend every summer in Helen. He says he’s happy Aunt Julie is teaching me what it means to be a woman. I tell him I’m happy too.

a green burial grace myers

The caution tape was broken around her body, beaten down so there was no separation between her and the world. Soiled from the ground she once came, an unnatural guise of preservation clouded her judgment. All the experience gained while living as a human had been lost in the primal deconstruction into a tree; and she was fated to learn this knowledge again, until she was exhaustingly conscious of the world around her.

The humans that visited her in the forest made a spectacle out of her. They carved out their body, breaking branches as they ascended. They needed to leave their mark on her, to boast of how they had reached her crest and ruined the forest’s natural beauty. They were destructive and mean, making remarks about her appearance, unsolicited in their advice– how her bark was peeling and broken halfway up her trunk, and how the greenery she was born with had fallen with her

spirits. They never understood she was like this because of them. And she never understood she deserved better, because this treatment was all she knew. There were days she had had enough of the humans, wanting to leave those who had polluted her. She moved in the wind, trying to run away, but all they saw was an object dancing for their pleasure. She couldn’t scream, she couldn’t move, she could only watch. And watched she did, as the forest slowly withered around her. The other trees kept getting cut down, to be used for the humans’ personal experiments, until she was the last one left. They were gone and she was suffering alone. But, at least she was still standing; her trunk rotting, her body brown and bare; but still standing. So, she stayed quiet; forever swaying in She wished she were dead, but this was the most alive she had ever felt.

My mother and I took a trip to London when I was 10. We went to Madame Tussauds and wandered through the lifelike exhibits, marveling at how realistic

or out of the ordinary. But underneath the perfect stillness, something was amiss.

10 years later, as I stare down at myself, I realize why. I look human enough, despite the obvious lack of life– hence the casket– but that’s all there is. Just a hollow, clammy body laying in an open box. Two eyes, shut. A pair of lips, painted and bones. Every ounce of personality, of soul, shut away and sent up to the sky, to lying below me.

I search for something familiar, some piece of myself still clinging to the embalmed body. I notice the soft smile plastered on my face and start to doubt if anything is left. It’s an expression I’ve never had, one of peace and neutrality. I felt – feel– in The state of my nails proved it: I was truly all gone. They were cut short and painted pale blue, my mother’s signature shade. She never liked my long acrylic nails or the way they tapped on my desk when I lost my patience. She hated the bright graphics and designs I’d adorn them with. “They’re not ladylike,” she’d tell me, and push a bottle of acetone towards me. A grin would stretch across her face as I stripped the paint away, falling into her mold.

Perhaps the most glaring difference between myself and my body was the absence of a tattoo on my left wrist. Being an amateur astronomer, I had a delicate crescent moon needled onto my skin the summer before I died. I loved wearing short sleeves so that I could show it off. My mother, on the other hand, couldn’t stand it. She would tell me, “You’ll never get a job with that thing on you,” and give me thick bracelets and watches to cover it. Today, though, it isn’t even covered by a piece of jewelry. It’s just gone. I wonder how she did it. Was it masked by makeup, or had she arranged for it to be lasered away? What lengths would she go to for my image and hers?

This is not the way that I want to be remembered. That corpse is not me. It’s what the calm, gentle, pristine young woman that she would tell all of her friends about.

and a pair of lips. It’s tattoos and acrylics, a loud mouth and a short temper. My body may not be alive, but now I am not even human. Even in death, I was still not enough for her.

wax figure mel lafountain

SUSPE gephyrophilia

Directors: Maddie Woo and Ramneek Sanghera Art: Marina Morgan, Isabella Bettencourt Beauty: Talia Attar, Melissa Chu Creative: Damian Pulla, Keylin Saldana, Adriana Arce, Alexis Siegel, Ashley Koca Editorial: Jessica Li, Eushin Vitale Photo: Sally Zhang, Millie Ketvoravit, Suzuki Lin Styling: Marley Levy, Bryn Elliott, Edom Solomon Models: Alden Lamp, Sally Yu, Shayna Chacko, Anika Potluri

28

NSION

fondness of crossing bridges

in by jessica li nineteen going on twenty has never looked so good. gliding on every wave with no repercussions as angels look over her, she savors the moments that all begin with twirls in the morning warmth and a cup of cold brew on one hand and a book on the other. she is loved by a number that cannot be tallied by her own hands that always have someone holding onto with twenty and twenty one dragging along where closer to her reverie decorated with knowledge and hope. with maturity and self-discipline, she is living in a fairy tale of her own. one where she does not need to worry about losing love, having regrets, being abandoned, or getting chased by the sharpest blade of relationships. she is well presented, taking one step at a time in the most precise and strategic movements. but why does nineteen bring twenty? why can’t age stay the same or, at least, last for a little longer? as i close my eyes and breathe twenty one times, i am still submerged underwater where the same white heart. i recall promises under my bedsheets and read the letters i wrote as a new seedling to my twenty three year old self where i wished for far more than did not exist and twenty six was just a mere number reminding me of my father. swallowing me until my play pretend falls apart, days and question marks haunt in teams as the last twenty seven nights felt the same as if i was living in a play and hallucinating all along.

play

a

FALL WINTER 2021

THE SPATIAL EXISTENCE ISSUE

ge brid

my attempts at survival are fruitless. i howl and pound on the walls of the cage that this grief has trapped me in, beseeching a god i don’t know if i believe in: how am i to rejoin the land of the living? how the fuck do you expect me to move on from seeing and holding my father’s corpse on

of the thinnest concrete—isolates me from everyone else. i cannot recall the last time i felt genuinely happy, carefree even for a second. yet, no one else notices the wall—i have become good at fooling and playing make-believe, as in-

smile and a yeah i’m okay and no one bothers to look into my cell again.

i seek a haven in the memories with you, i clutch onto them even as they become more and more nebulous each day. i am 14, and i am adjusting my goggles on the starting block, taking one last squint at the bleachers beyond the pool, seeing you mouth “i love you;” i am 7, and you are squeez-

my heart pounding out of my chest; i am 18, a needle is stabbing my arm, and all i want is to tell you that i now have tattoos like you; i am 5, sharing french toast with you at the triple crown diner, syrup dribbling down my chin; i am 17, frozen on the couch as i watch the paramedics attempt to resurrect your cold body, twenty minutes later hearing we tried all we could.

i am in all these places and i am nowhere. grief suspends me in the place between life and death, and i am sprinting

want that to be

Art: Daniel Wallace, Will Remoundos Beauty: Ashlyn Lee, Terrey Wang Creative: Biana Cammarano, Aimée Eicher, Sara Wanyana-Tyaba, Jarin Rahman, Sam Li Editorial: Triff H’Doubler, Ignacio Estrada Cavero, Jenna Schwartz Styling: Amy Li Models: Alexander Eshelman, Lauren Thomas, Mateo Valdillez, Harlie Dultz, Sophie Shadid, Aiden Keck, Andie Chapman, Bradley Bogues, Miles Dhalwala

38

Ignacio Es!rada Cavero

Rage Agains The Machin

tered fabric, monochrome colors, graphic tees, blurry photos, tech instrumentals, and shaggy hair are symbols that have become a sort of religious iconography used to captivate the care-free, unhinged spirit of 90’s skate culture.And while the stylistic culture of the ’90s seems to have returned in a sort of frenzy for skate culture. The prominence of tech rock/pop seems to never have faded away, rather it morphed into something more hyper and limitless to catch up with the madness of an unprecedented fast-paced society. social and political change, rising poverty, and increasing geopolitical tensions. Within music, these sentiments are directly translated into a sort of youthful rage and disdain for all things conventional. OK Computer by Radiohead almost poetically demonstrates this rage through their critical lyrics and political dissatisfaction. Their song “Exit Music (for a er in “Fake Plastic Trees”, the frightening romanticism of environmental degradation foreshadows a possible future in which waste and quotidian life are indistinguishable. Other bands such as Sonic Youth in “Youth against Fascism”, sought to distinguish themselves by directly showing their disapproval of racism and bigotry, political and cultural, something uncommon for many artists at the time. Moreover, with the growing cultural sentiment, musical fanaticism slowly became political fanaticism, and lyrical messages were not lost but promoted through emergent styles of media. Although with

of voice to the new era of youth and rebellion of the 21st century; although its fanaticism is somewhat love or hate, the motivation behind it highlights the struggles of today’s youth. With increasing political stressors, technological advances, and an overall sense of doom for the future- hyper pop takes aim at the contemporary lifestyles of the new generation in this late-stage-capitalism doomsday world. Social media is as tied to hyperpop, as was MTV to skate rock, and the sentiments and messages within the music are exacerbated in the new digital era. Artists are taking advantage of the catchy tunes of hyperpop, to touch on topics such as sexuality, gender, mental health and inequality- things considered taboo prior to the digital era. Although tech-music nowadays is not intensely as political as it was in the 90’s and 80’s , its have made existing in a polarized political society unescapable, we must wait and see what impacts it’ll have on the next generation of music.

st ne

"I busted my hand the other day, shit happens because you're out for like hours then you start trying all this crazy stuff" says Miles, a freshman in the Cornell Skate Club.

"So the longer you're out there, you just start doing riskier things?"

"Yeah, well you get all the old stuff down, so you just try something new." .

Miles and the other skaters at the shoot are rolling across the Triphammer Bridge on a rainy Sunday, racing through the road looking for angles, a drone buzzes overhead, and everyone is doing little dances to keep warm in the early March chill. We're all just killing time

In Flux Triff H'Doubler

Cars honk as they approach the scene in annoyance, unknowingly stoking the frenetic energy. Alex jumps out of the way of one car then hops back on his board to chase it across the bridge. "I just kind of like pissing them off, you know?" he laughs. It's just a game, not a race, and there's no winning or losing. Everyone just has to slow down for a second. Another car pulls up...

Tires screech, sneakers hit the ground, lenses click. Look at that view! For a split second, everything is frozen, except the melted ice surging 50 feet below. They can't hear it from the cars, but we're all just spinning our wheels again, trying to get somewhere that isn't always clear. Life is a blur with a board but even more so without one. Slowing down doesn't stop time, and we have nowhere to be right now, so might as well keep rolling. Isn't it fun?

THE STR#T Jenna Schwartz

Character #1: What is life truly about? Is it the people we STREET meet, the places we go? What makes us THE STREET human? Why are we afraid ofgi theTHE inevitable?

As we lose our childhood and come into new bodies, new voices, new lives, we become lost. There’s no looking back, there’s no return. Only moving forward. But(HEROES what if you don’t where BOWIE to go?

BYknow DAVID STARTS Life moves fast. Too fast sometimes. It’s hard to stop ourselves. But we need moments above the surface to breathe. We keep running and running, chasing after a way of Character #1: life, an existence.

Character #1:

What is life truly about? Is it the people we meet, the What is life truly about? Is it the people places we go? What makes us human? Why are we afraid we meet, the places we go? What makes of the inevitable? As we lose our childhood and come us human? Why are we afraid of the into new bodies, new voices, new lives, we become lost.

There’s no looking back, there’s no return. Only moving forward. But what if you don’t know where to go?

Life moves fast. Too fast sometimes. It’s hard to stop ourselves. But we need moments above the surface to breathe. We keep running and running, chasing after a way of life, an existence.

Character #2: we run away when there’s a challenge? Or stand our ground?

Vulnerability can be a gift and a poison. We open ourselves up to what life brings: love, friendship, adventure.

Fighting for our dreams to come true.

Exit.

Character #3: Hunger. Hunger for what is, what was, what will be. Reality is far too real. We want to live, to laugh, to love. Yeah, we want to seize the day. “Carpe Diem.” We want the good and the bad. That’s life. It’s not perfect, but it’s ours.

Directors: Audrey Yin and Hannah Davis Art: Joseph Yoon, Maggie Meister Beauty: Meredith Hu, Sasha Planinsic, Tanya Merino Creative: Rachel Shepard, Cassidy Trinh, Rose Davidson Editorial: Lee Fitzgerald, Eve de Rubertis Styling: Marina Tadrous, Adrian Ramirez

48

Dear Time, I walked backwards today, trying to remember what it felt like to walk forwards. And I couldn’t. Once I stepped back, I had always stepped back. My eyes had never touched ground not already known by my feet. But when I reversed again and stepped one foot ahead of the other, my feet had always done so. I could change directions as much as I wanted, but every time I did it was like I had never done differently. And it made me think of all the things You take, drivI hold on to what I can, as hard as I can, but eventually, everything that’s mine must soon too be Yours. took it all. And once You take something You never, ever return it, only spit back its shadow. You call it memory. Memory disgusts me on a good day. It is Your version of what was once so intrinsically mine. Wrinkled, weathered, and warped, memories are perversions of the things I held most sacred.

The only thing You cannot take is the Present. Only She is truly as into the past with all the things that were, the Present continues unended into the future with all the things that will be.

Though I adore the Present, supple, lively, and determined as she is, she has no place within me.

I am made up entirely of all the things that have been, my body a cosmic timepiece. Bruises and cavities, age spots and scars cover my body like Xs on a calendar. I am the remnants of your carnage.

If I am to be ravaged, raided, and reaped

by You, then I want it truly so. I don’t want shadows of what I lost hanging from my brow, and I want nothing to be certain but what I can hold within my hand in that very moment. I cannot lose more of what I thought would be mine forever.

So here I propose my plan: I let you at the best and the worst of me. I let you take all the things I don’t want to last forever and all the things that I know are too good to. I don’t want the unending agony of loss; I don’t want the blissful high of lust. I don’t want ecstasy and I don’t want despair. And in turn, I want to keep only the things this body can withstand. I don’t want memories, I don’t want scars: they’ll well and truly kill me. I want only

Time, my most loyal companion, my most wretched foe, let me survive you.

Faithfully, A friend

I’m sorry for all you’ve lost, but I assure you, I’d never keep anything from you. or when things come and go. Instead, everything you’ve lost, so too have I. When you began to walk, I lost your crawls, When you grew, I lost your youth. Everything that is yours is mine too, and everything you lose is then lost to me as well. I wish I could tell you it's all locked away safe and sound somewhere,, where one day you could visit it all again, but I can’t. All I can do is commemorate that loss. I'm sorry to hear Memories haven't been the comfort I’d hoped they would be. I did my best, but I’ll admit, nothing I made for you was as charming as the original. And to respond to your proposal, as I’ve mentioned I have no control over what we lose, but even if I did I wouldn’t grant you what you’ve asked. To lose the best and worst of life is to never allow change. And while change means loss, yes, you are only granted the impermanence and possibility of the Present because you consent to it.

If you truly can’t survive another day of either ecstacy or despair, I suppose then it would be up to you to cease to have no choice but to continue on with you, and moments of change are the only instances when you truly feel me, as I always have and always will, feel you.

With love, Time

Eve de Rubertis

My child, you’ve divided me in two. Past, Present, Future– I hold many names.

Recollection

By Lee Fitzgerald vehemently. I’ve tried to stave it off and ward myself against the forgotten moments that leave empty spaces in my head. But the the better of me.

I always feel the presence of time. It accompanies me to breakfast in the morning, greets me on the street as I daydream about the years to come, and bids me goodnight in the evening as my mind races, awake in bed. Thinking about time is a dangerous game. I can fantasize about the future I might have, the things that await me. Or I can revisit past memories, feel warmed by the thought of a sunny summer day in the winter, or invigorated by the thrill of a place I once visited when I feel stuck at home. But it is always a gamble. Once I push open the gate and welcome time into my head, the path it leads me down is not always a friendly one.

I begin to dread the years to come, picturing my clock ticking, sand begin to fear losing memories of my past, losing the person I was, the things I thought, and the things I felt, am I still the same person I was before? If I am constantly losing aspects of the person that I am, who do I become?

My primary defense is to hoard memories, and my collection has grown expansive. On the bookshelves of my childhood bedroom sit seventeen journals, written over the past ten years. In fourth grade I found myself compelled to write about my day in the most ordered and methodical manner. I wrote consistently and diligently every day until it became almost an obsession with record keeping. print journal from Justice – a Christmas gift. The journals are joined by lists of life events, favorite movies, birthday party themes, and Halloween costumes; ordered and organized in my notes app to make sure that no aspect of my nineteen years of life is lost to the void of time. I am determined to preserve every interaction, every thought, every experience. I must patch together a recollection of myself, sewing the scraps of memory together, building a mosaic of me. For how else can I feel truly complete?

Perhaps people are cyclical. Meant to have a constant exchange and interface with their environment. To absorb and emit. To take our past selves fade. Yet, this metamorphosis makes me question whether I have any permanence at all. Even while I’m still living and breathing, I am losing myself. I am pondering the continuity of self. The ongoing state of having a unique identity and knowing I am myself. Because who am I except a collection of moments? A combination of experiences stitched together in a body. Do I only have a sense of self because I have memories of the person I was a month ago, a year ago? And if I one day lose these threads that constitute me, who will I be?

kainotophilia- the fondness of newness

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Art: Danielle Fernandez, Anjali Panchal and Tina Lee Beauty: Princess Odom, Chloe Lam Editorial: Izzy Warren, Priya Phillips, Kate Liang Styling: Samantha Tsai, Aggie Chan Models: Hallie Bender, Alta Knuff, Shelby Ragin, Deborah Yeboah

THREAD MAGAZINE

ISSUE 18

Latest on the scene: A grand party on tonight’s itinerary, and our favorite Dolls are spending the evening painting nails, doing hair, and gossiping, of course. The Dolls are the coolest girls at ing school known for instructing creative students with more money than they know what to do with. Rivalries and competition take the stage as our Dolls prepare for the event of a lifetime. Everyone has skeletons in their closets here, but prepare for an unboxing from the Dolls’ packaging tonight…

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So much pressure on the dolls to maintain their pristine image but what happens when the porcelain starts to crack? Obsessively surveilling social media is a must when your immaculate online image is at stake. Social media is hard to upkeep, but these dolls keep the feeds alive over everything, even their own sanity.

FALL WINTER 2021

THE SPATIAL EXISTENCE ISSUE

FALL WINTER 2021

THE SPATIAL EXISTENCE ISSUE

A little birdie told me that Lexi, heiress of the Shien empire, has her eyes on Chrissy’s, nepotism baby of a 90s

Everyone who’s everyone will be at the hottest party of the semester, so expect lots of drama within the elite circles tonight. Love lives and social hierarchies intertwine at the event this season. Except terrible and vicious social battles, but some lovely makeup and couture looks.

Stay tuned for the apocalypse after party….

Xoxo, Thread <3

– Izzy Warren

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FALL WINTER 2021

ISSUE 18

THE SPATIAL EXISTENCE ISSUE

Perception of My Body Kate Liang

Quotes sourced anonymously from students at Cornell had compared what I looked with others. Ever since then, I have become growingly self conscious.” body was about my muscles.

Wow, my legs are so muscly now.

But they weren’t.”

“Middle school was when I switched to a new studio, and the director there always told us what she thought of our physical appearances. She would praise girls who got sick and lost weight, and would make it a point to comment in front of everyone if someone had noticeably gained weight. It was not a healthy environment to grow up in. 11 year olds should not be introduced to an environment where disordered eating is normalized.”

“Since [middle school], I stopped being athletic, and my thoughts became more negative, mostly about body fat and hints of cellulite… my body structure in general.”

“I don’t hate myself when I look in the mirror, but I never think This is exactly what I want to look like.

There’s always something I wish was different. I wish I had abs. I wish I had sharper shoulders.”

“A lot of the negativity towards my body stems from femininity. I have aspired to look a certain way because of social media. I, like many others, follow a lot of celebrities that I admire because of their looks, talent, and fashion, and I’ve noticed how celebrities with nicer bodies are often upheld more by society.”

“Body composition is a huge part of fashion especially.”

When I started college, “I didn’t love my body, and I didn’t think I ever would until I changed it entirely.” I “I always felt pressured to have a “good” body, but I also saw how eating disorders sent my friends to the hospital.” exercising more frequently, I learned to value feeling strong and energized over my once goal.” everybody’s body is different and their body is not mine. I’m happy with my current body, and I will continue nourishing and listening to my body.”

“I just want to continue to fuel my body with food I like and grow stronger.”

Backstory Fueled by the human impulse to communicate and large-scale technological advances, rapid expansion of the internet occurred in the late 90’s and another across a variety of platforms, including social media. With the creation of Myspace in 2003 and Facebook in 2005, and their subsequent global rise in popularity, people were thrown into a world of shared information, ideas, personal messages, and other content.

Anonymity featuring John Doe Frat bro John from Idaho decides one day that he really despises Sheila from his math class because she refused to make out with him at a frat party account with the username bigdaddy69.

John’s formula for success: Step 1: Find pictures of a hot man literally anywhere on the internet Step 2: Tactfully post pictures several days apart so as not to trigger any alarms regarding his fabricated character Step 3: Wait until Sheila adds him back Step 4: Cyber bully Sheila Sheila's calculated response: Step 1: Judge bigdaddy69 immensely based on his username

Step 2: Check out bigdaddy69’s posts Step 3: Decide that his hotness outweighs his stange username and that adding another follower will help balance out her followers to following ratio

Once Sheila adds bigdaddy69, John sets out to execute his month long plan of getting Sheila to fall in love with him only to gradually gaslight her into believing that she is unworthy of anyone’s love.

y Va

ok n sh t

Dan i

Sheila: I am. *Although Sheila has grown to distrust men on social media from previous interactions and unsolicited dick pics, she decided that she would respond because, although she doesn’t like to admit it, she craves attention from men.* …

Yea I care sooo much about the environment The destruction of the Amazon is unacceptable *They talked every day for the next three weeks and bigdaddy69 held engaging conversations and sprinkled in his support for climate change because he knew that girls liked to talk about that apparently.* …

I’m free tomorrow if u wanna take me out :) No sorry I can’t I have lacrosse practice all day *Now that I got her hooked I just need to continue leading her on.* …

Hey a cool new restaurant just popped up on my block if u wanna go I def would but I need to be w my grandma cuz she just got into a car accident :/ *I need to keep her interested in a way that doesn’t implicate me as uninterested or a bad person* Are we going to meet up orrr I don’t know right now but I don’t understand why you have to be so insistent *At this point I think she’s too into me to care if I call her clingy* I just wanna meet u in person *Because Sheila has low self esteem from comparing herself to all the instagram hotties,

ela

bigdaddy69: You seem like a fun time

…

You do anything interesting today?

Nah *At this point in time, bigdaddy69 has to carefully go about his plan of action so as to her. Over the next week, bigdaddy69 gradually starts responding to Sheila less and less frequently and keeps his responses kurt. * …

I got a cute new necklace Nice *Over the next week, bigdaddy69 gradually starts responding to Sheila less and less frequently and keeps his responses kurt.* Is something wrong? *Sheila notices this change and starts wondering what she did wrong, overthinking all the things she said during their conversations.* No just found a prettier bitch I don’t understand…

What do u mean??

Helloo?? *Sheila is left distraught and confused as to what went wrong and starts double and triple texting bigdaddy69* …

Can you leave me alone?

I never said that I liked you I can’t be caught slipping hanging with a 4/10 *Hopefully she doesn’t recover from this. This is what she deserves.*

On a serious note, cyberbullying is real and has been proven to be very damaging to one’s mental health, resulting in growing rates of suicides, especially among the youth.

Students that have been cyberbullied have been statistically proven to be twice as likely to commit suicide, so please keep this in mind while reading the piece.

64

kenophila - fondness for voids

In their pursuit of some intrinsic proof of their existence. They had trouble convincing themself that they weren’t just a fragment of their own imagination but a In its pursuit of universally intrinsic truths, society programmed an inquisitorial entity with the ability to rule

Art: Maggie Cui, Samiha Tasnim Beauty: Flora Ding, Princess Odom, Amina Khan, Jas Khan

Chap-Lam Lau Featured Designer: JH Yang, Raquel Coren Models: Rio Chavez, Arno Motulsky, Sinclair Dumont

on matters of opinion. Behind every gospel truth lay an from which it was clandestinely derived.

The run-down world was in a state of havoc, left with no choice but to eliminate the differences that escalated what led to this outcome.

Objectivity stripped away the right to possess individual truths. Judgements on matters of morality, philosophy, or other differences were no longer question remained unanswered remained puzzled by something as plain as their own existence.

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THREAD MAGAZINE

FALL WINTER 2021

ISSUE 18

THE SPATIAL EXISTENCE ISSUE

pranathi adhikari Obsolete opinions dispossessed dispossessing them of their consciousness, and ultimately their individual humanity.

Entering into consciousness Humans were more of a vessel

for compliance than one for the mind. In a world of such felt that the space humans took up was devoid of life, purpose, than that, more powerful than that, even.

contain the mind. Despite this, than any other being that did. humanity falls to its knees, enduring new age of life.

They were so innovative when suits. Everyone wanted one, however, not everyone could.

The sensors in them used technology that cost millions to produce due to its complexity.

When paired with a user’s immersed in the metaverse.

This immersion was so total that it was disorientating. The sun’s bright light often hurt their strained eyes. Many users found themselves spending most of the day in their suits

As she disrobed, Luvinia greeted her happily, “Hello Alerna, this is the body imagining cocoon that will measure your vitals for your suit.” As the cocoon encased her, Luvinia gathered the rest of her materials, her fabric scissors, fabric, and pins.

When the machine was done Alerna stepped out. Luvinia said, “You must love working in MetaWood. I used to act too. But it didn’t work out for me, I guess I wasn’t as talented as you.” Alerna responded,

and only coming out at night.

Considering this, users went to great lengths in order to maintain their tech suits, including getting their suits custom tailored by fashion designers.

One of the most well known tailors was a woman named was the famous actress Alerna Bezos. Alerna was ordering a tech suit in order to attend the the situation was apparent to Luvinia, a former actress herself,

“You’re doing well for yourself though, Luvinia. You’re one of the best designers in the world.” Luvinia was struck by Alerna’s ignorance. She could never afford one of these suits herself. and Alerna had become fast friends, bonding over a love of old music like Drake. As Alerna was taking off her prototype suit she said to Luvinia, “You know what, if you work hard enough you’ll be able to afford one of these suits.” Even though

who gave up her dreams due to a lack of funds. She had wanted to travel for auditions outside of her town but she could not.

Throughout her life Luvinia had been wary of technology consuming people’s lives.

Maybe it was for the better that she wasn’t like Alerna.

When Ms. Annapurna arrived it caused a bit of commotion as she was quickly ushered into a private room. She stepped up onto a small platform in the middle of the room.

Luvinia was well-off she did not have the astronomical levels of wealth that Alerna had. “That’s very generous of you, however I’m not a big fan of tech suits,” said Luvinia as she put the prototype suit away with her sewing kit.

As Luvinia hurried Alerna out of the store she steeled her resolve and quietly stabbed her in the back with her scissors. Alerna of brightly colored fabric.

ben upshaw

His hands burrow through the dirt inseparable. Dark brown licks his palms and stays with him, a drycracking matte.

He pulls his foot free from a tangle of bent root joints and vines and climbs to his feet. His eyes tear through the world around him and he surges through a branchblocked path, pulling it apart. Limb from limb. The trees lean in towards him as he passes through. They stretch to catch pieces of his clothes, and thorny ends grab at exposed skin. A necklace bounces off his chest to the rhythm of his path through the woods. A branchhand hooks itself through. It tugs a moment then breaks against the middle of his throat, falling at his feet into soilembrace.

He stops at the edge of an overhang, crouching low into his knees and looking out at the fallen face of a gray brick building.

Its other walls stand still in conditions of similar ruin. Chords of thick green rope their ways in and out through cracks in the walls, plots of moss grow like blotchy dancing shadows, and the base of a large tree stands cracking through the concrete foundation, its boughs bearing the weight of the limp halfroof hanging over the central space. His eyes stick on the round red gem resting at its foot, fallen not far from the tree.

He crawls down into and through the creek between him and the treetreasure. Dark water welcomes his bare feet.

Mud gums and sharp rock teeth bite down on his ankles and snap at his toes. He is tugged back into the wet streamsaliva. He pulls. He yanks. He screams. He rips his legs out of the creekbed’s grasp and falls again against the earth of the opposite bank. Closer now to the ruined building—to the tree and its fruit. His feet disappear into the dirt along He drags himself up over a lip onto grasscarpet ground. the ruins and he crawls along on his hands and knees. As he moves his shoulders shift slumping and raising side to side beside his drooping head. Breath leaves his mouth in short, warm bursts that moisten the air and cling to his face. A bead of sweat drops from his breathwarm nose.

He slumps his weight against the armthick roots at the down the bark and sticks to the ruby skin of a rotten apple. He takes it in his hands. A smooth, amberglossy outside; healthy. A crater of decay within— His stomach roars in protestdemand. He takes it in.

His applerotten teeth hiss at the sugary mush. It slides scalding down his throat and sits alone in his stomach.

I

am

still

hungry.

falls into a sticky puddle at the base of the tree. He rises. He sprints off away from where he came and disappears into the trees on the other side of the clearing.

duke jarvis

72

Enlightenment Ablutophilia- fondness of cleansing

Beauty: Julia Roos, Tanisha Kore Creative: Hope Cross-Jaya, Ella Sperling, Claire Ting Editorial: Parker Piccolo Hill, Loren Hunt, Rachel VanderVen Photo: Shea Kinander, Louisa Weldy, Jessie Sutton, Jolene Tsang, Emily Christiansen, Helen Li Styling: Asara Milton, Ayslin Walker, Lyam Ouattara Featured Designer: Jackson Kwon Models: Maia Lee, Andrew Talone, Shira Ben Ami, Jesusla Sinfort

ISSUE 18

bubbly abyss. I am surrounded by the dirt of my past and the watery gleam of a fanciful future. The gray area that lurks in the center of my being threatens to corrode all hopes of reinventing myself. I raise the temperature and let the uncertainty melt away.

The Evolved Person’s Guide to Achieving an Enlightening Skin Care Routine STEP 2 – EXFOLIATE: My skin looks like wax; I yearn to mold this physique like a

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-

FALL

scrub. Scrub, scrub, scrub. I close my eyes as I revel in this motion.

I look down and see my skin is the color of strawberries, but not nearly as sweet. It burns, as does this water; they say beauty is pain so I must be on the right track. I feel my natural barriers begrudgingly breaking down as I force them to erase every hint, every reminder of the Old Me’s existence. It has slowly slipped off the surface, and I do not care to catch it.

THE SPATIAL EXISTENCE ISSUE

FALL WINTER

2021

façade I will no longer hide behind. I grab my rose quartz roller and glide it across the darkest crevices of my soul, leaving promises of amour propre in its wake. I bask in the comfort of having a clear path to abyss and I watch the droplets drip down, pretending they are happy tears emanating off my new exterior.

SHOOT 2 BACKPEDAL

THE SPATIAL EXISTENCE ISSUE STEP 3 – MASK & TREAT: I notice a few impurities still lin-

have dried, now like primer. I wish to preserve Present Me’s beautiful canvas. I paint a protective coat all over to trap this feeling of revitalization. My skin glows like dew in the morning, my skin shines like stars in the night sky. I am captured by Vitality, and I dare not escape.

STEP 5 – EYE CARE: I dab a generous amount of anti-aging cream under my eyes. A reminiscent state encourages me to dream of childhood

of shaking outside

THREAD

MAGAZINE

innocence, complementing my newfound youthful appearance. Visions the hands of

my bathroom window and see my calla lilies have blossomed to their fullest height.

Loren Hunt PAGE 77

Rachel Vanderven

It begins where it always does- with someone else.

My sister is over for dinner, and like older sisters love to do, she critiques every little thing I have prepared. The gnocchi are hard, like

Perhaps, she says sympathetically, you should think about hiring some help.

I fume for a day, and then forget about the incident, until a few days later, when I go to get a plate from my cupboard, and there’s nothing there. I eat reheated noodles off a paper towel while I stare at the dishwasher. It rattles slowly in its casing, the dishes from the past month slowly getting submerged in soapy water behind that aluminum door, and I realize there was some truth to what my sister said. soap and sponges, brooms and buckets. When I’m done, and the house sparkles, I feel born anew. my addiction adds to my health. My lungs feel only half full unless the shelves are as clear and open as my airways.

The issue is, I have so much to put in its place. I put an ad out, and the next day, a man with a van shows up at my front door to cart content. I can breathe all the air in the world.

I spend that evening in the grass, on my knees. Scissors in my hands. Carefully, ever so carefully, I clip every strand of the verdant mess to the same height.

It’s okay, because I don’t spend much time in my yard anymore. Instead, I’ve been going to the back yard, which isn’t much of a yard at all, being only a small strip of ratty beach front. Lately, it has been frustrating me. Sand is so uncontrollable… very hard to clean up. If only lightning would strike once, twice, repeatedly in the same spot.

I sit in the sand and observe the passerby. It’s how I pass my time, now that I haven’t been calling into work lately, too occupied with trying to wall out the sand. I haven’t seen my phone in a few days, and I haven’t had any friends over in ages.

Yet, watching people stroll on the beach, I feel assaulted by them. Their laughter, so brash and grating. The food wrappers they drop carelessly to the ground. I can’t help but feel disgusted by how utterly human they are. They don’t seem to care about keeping clean, keeping sane.

Cleaning has made me realize things about life. What others don’t understand is that morality is as fragile as a soap bubble. They are immoral in their treatment of trash and treasure alike. myself under the stream of water and begin to scrub. It feels so good to be clean, to be warm and wet and soapy under the water.

Yet, I still feel unsettled, too close to those people outside. My sponge cannot get into every crevice. I get my wire sponge from the kitchen, a new one straight from the package, one of the few things to survive my purge, and I scrub, going over the same skin again and again.

My skin feels clean, raw and new. I’m humming a shower song when something falls on my feet. It feels like snow. I look down. There’s

It’s leathery and tough, but it feels alive. I’m transported back to a childhood vacation. We swam with dolphins, our hands gripping I stare at the skin a bit longer before turning off the water. The fogged-up mirror clears, along with my head, and I bandage my arm.

I go about my evening, but I can’t stop thinking about the patch on my arm. I itch to itch, to scratch and peel and prod and poke begin to scrape away at my skin. The more I remove, the more unfamiliar this body seems. I don’t think it’s really quite mine anymore, not before.

The more I take off, oddly, the more I feel correct. Secure in my half-form, I walk out the backdoor. The sand attempts to work its way and as I continue making my way towards the water, my legs seem to become more and more immovable.

A few feet from the water now, and I fall forwards. My legs are now something else, something long and immobile, yet I sense if I can only make it to those waves, I will be able to move cleanly again. My arms are shrinking, however, and I push myself those few feet with stubby little things. The water forgives my half-born body its ugliness. The water embraces me, caresses me, baptizes me and I know I am no longer who I was, what I was.

My last human thought, before I sink into the waves sealed into my new form, is of my sister.

I’ve left her with a mantle to dust. She’ll be upset.

itch

Parker Piccolo Hill

today? This is a question used in a vain attempt to signal if my three year old self would really care. She was too busy imagining what her life would be like in elementary, middle, high school to university. And as I sit here on the bittersweet emotions of time moving too quickly yet too slowly. Yet each of the pages in the magazine you are holding will encourage you to remember those small tidbits the most alone and the time you spent sitting in the sun with grass curled around your hands.

An Ode to Time is my interpretation of an attempt to slow down and realize the moments of your life. Each dramatized shoot indicates the phases that we all go through in a centralized piece. Think about what truly speaks to you and how you hope to move forward each day as the uncertainty of each minute is not worth your consideration.

It’s hard to embrace the passing of time so instead look at the big picture. Everybody has their own timeline that has transformed to the individual they are today. The interview question “tell me about yourself” is an inaccurate portrayal of yourself. My answer is always generic, highlighting the brighter accomplishments to seem like I have lived a life case for anybody and the perfect place to start to reorganize your own timeline. What was the most apocalyptic moment for you? When did time seem warped?

Maddie Woo Asst. Editor-in-Chief

It has been a true honor and privilege to be part of Thread.

I have seen people come and go yet with each semester, the one linking Thread between all is the unparalleled passion and creativity to produce a product that represents each of our identities. Each part of the magazine you see has been touched by multiple members with such intentional care to show you the most intimate parts of our life.

Thread has become an integral part of not my college career but my own timeline and to be able to continue to be own eyes. All I know is that we are continually to get better and better but each magazine continues to have that raw integrity that is so unique to any publication or even organization on campus.

I don’t know what is in store for you. All I can tell you is that to accept each day and each unchangeable moment as it is is the best gift you can give yourself. The pain, ambivalence or euphoria you could be experiencing is unique to you and is only part of your own journey through time.

As we write this letter, we're sitting on the Arts Quad, exhausted after a series of all-nighters to format careers. The rain outside is gently falling, and the cherry blossoms are blooming. It's our last springtime in Ithaca, and this issue of the magazine is due in 12 hours. There is still much to be done and miles to go before we sleep, past four years we've spent at Cornell and the three years we've spent as a part of Thread.

It's common to hear that what makes Cornell special is not the place itself, but the people that we have been granted the rare chance to meet. This rings especially true as the weather forecasts snow tomorrow, at the end of April, but all jokes aside, the people that we've been lucky enough to know in our time at Cornell make all the tears, all the eye bags, and all the mental breakdowns worth it at the very end. The love is what makes seniors nostalgic upon graduation season, what makes alumni come back year after year, and this love has been found in abundance through our time in Thread.

As we say goodbye to our time in Thread and our time at Cornell, we're going to be honest-- our time at Cornell has been challenging. But, what has gotten us through the stress, trials, and tribulations, is the people. For all of our cumulative six years of experience in this organization, we could tell you about the countless images we've created and the innumerable themes of the shoots we've directed. Still, these are not the important things, and we don't think you want to hear about that. (After all, you could just look through our wonderful archive on Issuu). What stands out are not the hours spent drying out our eyes staring at Photoshop or Excel spreadsheets, or the mild aneurysms about logistics and tiny dramas, but rather the three years spent at shoots, watching our beautiful friends capturing beautiful moments-- three years of enjoying the pleasure of the company of the most talented, kind, loving, and vibrant people in the world.

During our time at Cornell, a lot has changed.

We've witnessed the complete transformation of the culture of Cornell and Thread. We're no longer the millen-

as we think back to what we once were, it's impossible not to think of all we've gotten through together– having to stop production mid-way through the semester due to and the paper shortage that spiked our cost of production– all we can think of is how proud we are to be a part of an organization that creates art that doesn't gloss over the societal changes but rather is inspired by it. The art we make together is truly a sign of the times. And, as the days rapidly wane, it is clear to us that the ode to our time at Cornell has been Thread– it's in the pages of this magazine grow, and growing through it, has been a highlight of the Cornell experience, and we hope that you enjoyed this issue as much as we have enjoyed making it.

Tits out forever,

Helen Li VP Internal

Gabriella Estrada VP External