Casca Corner #010

A quick check-in, a change of pace, and a few thoughts held long enough to matter

Technology is a funny thing. I love and hate it, often for the same reasons. For the past few days, my phone has been reminding me that one year ago I was in Puerto Rico. It’s strange how a screen can resurface something that still feels fully dimensional. A place, a version of yourself, a life that no longer quite exists, resurfacing because an algorithm in your pocket decided it was time to remember.

I remember the fifteen-mile day walking around Old San Juan and counting the stray cats. I remember riding a horse for the first time and the colossal monstera plants along the rainforest trail. I remember the rented mask that hurt my face while snorkeling in Rincón and that it didn’t matter because I’d never seen so many fish before. I remember drinking Medalla Light beer on the beach and the smell of the sunscreen. I remember the sound of the coquí frogs at night and how they somehow managed to be deafening and soothing at the same time.

I remember who I was with. I remember who I was. My life looked very different then.

Today I’m standing at my desk at home in Chicago, looking out at half a foot of snow and slush. It’s snowing lightly. I’m writing between work calls because it feels right. I’m reflecting on the past, the present, and whatever comes next because that also feels right. I’m listening to “Not In Love”—originally by Platinum Blonde, but of course it’s the Crystal Castles version remixed by Robert Smith. That’s an ironic coincidence, but I guess that feels right too. You can probably see where I’m going with all of this.

Over the last three months, I’ve written more than I ever have, excluding the time spent on my master’s thesis, I suppose. I’ve enjoyed this platform more than I expected. It’s funny how satisfying it feels to have a hundred of you subscribe to what I have to say. A paltry number compared to my Instagram following, but somehow far more meaningful. There’s something grounding about knowing a hundred people chose to sit with my words for a few minutes, rather than thousands spending three seconds glancing at an outfit photo before scrolling on.

I’m still trying to find focus in what I choose to write about. But if I’m honest, I’ve always used the internet to share whatever I happen to be interested in at the moment. On Instagram, that’s largely taken the form of clothing—and that will probably remain the primary thread here as well. Still, I’m sure I’ll continue to wander whenever I feel like it. Hopefully you don’t mind. At the very least, I hope the common themes hold together well enough that even if you arrive for thoughts on clothes, you’ll find something else worth staying for.

Writing forces me to slow down—to commit to a thought and live with it longer than I otherwise would. This wasn’t a planned project so much as something that emerged because parts of my life began demanding a different pace. I still think of Instagram as documentation, as proof-of-life. This space, by contrast, is interpretation. It’s where I try to understand what that life actually adds up to.

Writing this weekly-ish, generally themeless thing separate from my focused essays has become a way for me to take inventory with some regularity. This space exists so I can think clearly, not loudly. Some people journal and keep those thoughts to themselves. I do that too, but I’ve always been fairly public, and this is just another forum for that. I don’t know exactly what this turns into, but I know I want it to remain a place where I can think in full sentences.

In a lot of ways, that impulse is the common thread running through everything I have written so far here. Whether I’m talking about clothes, taste, music, fly fishing, or whatever else happens to be occupying my attention at the moment, I’m less interested in conclusions than consistency. I don’t really believe in finished wardrobes, finished selves, or finished ideas—only in versions that make sense for now.

A year ago I was reading Call Me By Your Name on a beach in sunny Puerto Rico under a palm tree, a novel whose themes largely explore the lasting impact of memory and heartbreak, which also feels like ironic foreshadowing in hindsight. Today I’m at home in my office in Chicago, snow piled up outside the windows, writing between work calls. The song has shuffled to “I Could Give You All That You Don’t Want” by The Saddest Landscape. It’s probably time to get back to work.

Ultimately, the details and the pace change. The point, I think, is noticing that they have.

So consider this tenth Casca Corner less of a milestone and more of a check-in. A reminder that paying attention still feels worthwhile, even when it’s inefficient. If you’ve been reading along, I appreciate you. And if you stick around, I suspect we’ll continue to circle many of the same ideas, just from slightly different angles, as life keeps shifting underneath them.

RC