happy valentine's day <3

on love, writing, and growing up

Holly Warburton’s “the old aquarium,” which looks like the essence of love bottled up to me.

Happy Valentine’s Day! I think it’s pretty fitting for this to be my first Substack post, given my near over-obsession with romances and pastel pink and all things heart-shaped. This piece (can I even call it a piece if it’s really just my rambling?) serves both as an introduction to my Substack and as a celebration of one of my favorite holidays of all time.  

I suppose I’ll apologize in advance for how scattered this will be. Without sounding self-deprecating, I don’t have the patience for well-thought-out, elegant prose nor the vocabulary for sharp, eloquent media analysis. When I sat down to start writing this post, I tried to do both–and ended up with 30 wasted minutes and a blank google document (going down a rabbit hole looking for perfectly picked quotes was just not working..). But I didn’t intend to do either–when I first started coming up with ideas to write about, they all centered around personal experiences and not more abstract, overarching themes. My thoughts on food as an expression of love, my fears of growing up and out of my childhood, my love for the dawn of spring that’s already arrived in California (this weekend we hit 80 degrees Fahrenheit!). I guess that’s my way of saying that that’s exactly what my writing will be–personal. 

I’ve been struggling a lot with the idea of permanence lately. Is it shallow of me to want the heart shaped balloons, the chocolates, the flowers, even though I know they’re not what truly defines love in a relationship? Should I be taking pictures of every memory I make during my last semester of high school, or is my focus on recording everything distracting me from making those memories in the first place? Is it the idea that matters, or the visible impact that it makes? Do you have to see to believe? I’ve reached a liminal space in my life, and I’m terrified of what comes beyond that threshold. 

We’ve been learning about modern art movements in my Art History class. As my teacher waved her laser pointer over the projected image of Duchamp’s “Fountain” on her whiteboard, she challenged us, “who are we to say what is art and what isn’t?” Art isn’t made to be beautiful, it’s made to exist. To evoke emotion.

Duchamp’s “Fountain,” or a rotated urinal. Whichever you prefer.

I don’t have to wrap my emotions up into a pretty package of semicolons and em-dashes and pretentious overcompensation for them to be justified, but I can if that helps me process them. I don’t need the giant teddy bears and red roses and romantic whirlwind date to know that I’m loved, but it’s not unreasonable for me to want them. Pictures will never truly replace my actual experiences, but I’m not missing out on anything for wanting to take a few seconds to document some of the happiest moments of my life. 

This Valentine’s Day, I’m spending it making heart shaped cookies alone in my kitchen and singing along to breakup songs I listened to in middle school while my boyfriend is halfway across the country. I’m learning to step over the threshold.