Spring is a fashion too

The tree outside my window has just started blooming: tight little bunches of white flowers, each with a speck of pink at the center. It's an extraordinary sight. Spring, it says. This week, I've already spent much time lingering in its arrival. I've walked to school more slowly, pretended to read on the benches that line Locust Walk, and passed whole hours of the afternoon on the green of Rittenhouse Park. I am, for the first time this semester, purposely shirking my schoolwork.

Last night, Sara and I attended this season's "Diesel party," a sort of open-house at Diesel's Philadelphia store. There was wine, really terrible sushi, and poci (does anyone out there know how to spell this?) for dessert. The festivities were rather tame, and - unlike the last party - I knew almost no one there save the employees. The crowd was not what I had expected: conservative-looking young women (all blonde) with their boyfriends, a few Philadelphia hipsters (who spent the entire evening clumped together by the door), a small contingent of Asian women, and a couple token gay guys. I'm not sure where Sara and I fit into these - no doubt unfair - categorizations, but I suppose that's the point. At least, the point I'd like to establish.

But the real point should be what the purpose is of the tremendous amounts of money I spend at that store (Matt and Jen used to call it my "Diesel addiction"). Three years ago, I wouldn't set foot in the store; now the people that work there know me by name and send me personalized postcards multiple times a month. Last summer they even sent me free clothes in the mail, "to add to the collection." There's a pleasure in all this that I'm not describing here, but there's also a question regarding this pleasure's purpose, which seems to remain largely unavowed - and, frankly, somewhat unfathomable.

In lieu of a superficial and highly cliched psychological analysis here, I offer instead the following problem, a problem (of course) related to my novel. And that is this: What does Stephen wear? I've grappled with this for weeks now and can't get anywhere with it. Square's "costume" is both well-plotted and central to his character (it's been mentioned in The Library's Grain too many times to cite here): spiked hair, occasional eyeliner, and a continuously changing wardrobe that runs from suits-and-ties to torn t-shirts and boots. He is, in short, the punk who plays with fashion. He's also, unlike Stephen, a gym-goer, intent on gaining muscle and willing to ingest the extra protein to secure it (see The Library's Grain #99). But who, in these terms, is Stephen? I picture him in black, a turn-of-the-centry Raskolnikov, a lugubrious poet in ill-fitting collared shirt. Except there is simply no way a contemporary young man (even taking into account his eccentricities) would dress that way. The question, in slightly different terms, might be: How would Stephen Daedalus dress, were he young and alive today?

Any and all reading out there, I'd love to hear your thoughts - if not on this question, then some other, real or imagined.