Who Doesn't Want to Escape the Doom-Scrolling That is Our Waking Hours?
I sure do.
Am I the only one who wants to run away from the world? Anyone tired of waking every day to a new horror, fight, plague, or an agent orange of a former president stomping his petulant little feet because he wants to play? Will someone come out and play with me? More like: will someone come out and hate with me? Daily, I balance wanting to be an informed human while not succumbing to the void that threatens to swallow us whole. Notice how we cleave to kittens on Instagram getting a new lease on life or clips of a toddler waddling with their pittie pup because we want to imagine a world where everything is beautiful, and nothing hurts.
Even when we know these images are a reprieve, a band-aid over a breaking dam.
Years ago, when my former agent was pitching my second book to editors, many of them commented on the subject matter, the “relentless dark” of the material, and now I laugh (translation: scream-cry into pillows) because a book about a serial killer is quaint compared to our everyday.
Perhaps if I had children, I’d be stronger. I’d be invested in a future that wasn’t burning. I’d pick up my armaments to battle the impending doom. But I don’t have children, never wanted them, never considered them, and most days I weigh war with crawling under pillows in a sound-proof room. Most days, voting is all I can muster. Most days, I want to escape to a farm somewhere in the world that doesn’t have WIFI, and I can churn my own butter. I think of my pop, somewhere out in Long Island with his girlfriend and his Jack Russel named Lily, and I imagine the beauty of his life. The simplicity.
Sometimes, I secretly hate him because he has what I’ve forever fought to have but fail to get. And he doesn’t even see it. He takes it for granted.
The world is louder than I want it to be, and I can hear it more than most. I used to think it was my depression that rendered me sensitive to loud sounds, bright lights, crowds, and too-tight hugs. I used to think it was my impatience that reacted violently to interruptions, people stepping into my private space. I used to think it was my personality that recoiled whenever anyone presented some semblance to love. I physically get ill when someone tells me they want to hug me. I want to snap, bark, and bite back: I’m not your pittie pup or waddling toddler.
But with my new therapist, I’m learning it’s something more. I’m learning some people are equipped to handle the world better than others. Their armaments are built within and all the tools they acquire along the way help while mine are meant for immediate survival. I’m learning it’s perfectly fine to admit being overwhelmed by the world, feeling as if you’re barely breathing above water. Because life is hard enough without the constant threat of the planet aflame, a fascist government, a recession that can render any of us homeless under the right conditions, being murdered in broad daylight, etc., etc.
This is all to say that while I’m planning my new book, I’m also struggling with where and how to be. I love Southern California, but it feels temporal and I a wandering tourist. And while it’s quieter than New York and doesn’t hold all its rotten history, it’s still too much. There are still too many people, horns blaring too loud, helicopters forever chopping air overhead. While I enjoy the work I do and the fact that it exceeds most agency output, the hustling, networking, pitching is exhausting. I prefer reselling clothing online because it’s solitary and partially in my control though it’s too volatile to make a full-time pursuit. So, I feel stuck in the betweenness, unable to commit to a home or a life. And this is unlike me because I am decisive, I always have a plan.
Part of me wants to rewind the tape back to 1999 when I lived with my pop in Long Island, in an apartment above a barn, and the world I once conceived of complex was, in retrospect, laughably simple. But there is no going back. No videotape.
But I’m learning the noise of the world has a way of disrupting, wanting to play. It has a way of stalling us, freezing us, making us feel helpless because the sheer amount of information and hurt we carry is far too much. We weren’t built for this. It takes time to adapt, and time is the one thing we don’t have in our favor.
We must decide now. We must act now. Or risk being left behind, swooped up by the tsunami that is our waking hours or the social media newsreel that makes even the hottest stars dim and irrelevant within moments.
So, isn’t it funny that diagramming a short story about a serial killer prosecutor, who’s a mother of two, or watching Ti West’s Pearl or spraying fancy perfume in my face in hopes I’ll smell like a snack, is more calming than watching the news. Making a decision. Living your life. Asking where I’ll live, what I’ll be, how I’ll live, or how will we survive, how will we endure, and on and on it goes.
In other news, I watched the mess that is Don’t Worry, Darling (so much potential, such cringe execution—I could see Jordan Peele tackling this material), and asked the sort of questions that inspired today’s newsletter. Clap and share the post if you love it. Although I rarely give into conspiracy theories, I’m convinced Medium is shadow-banning my work because I’ve been openly critical of the platform. But I have zero evidence of this, so it’s conjecture.
Short stories are so tough to write, so I’m returning to many of the masters in its execution. Namely, I’m re-reading Mary Gaitskill’s Bad Behavior and Because They Wanted To. And I’m realizing I want to do a lot of what Ling Ma does in her latest story collection (highly recommended).
Ti West’s Pearl is recommended, but I loved X so much more. I can’t wait for Maxxine. I also loved Joel Edgerton in The Stranger. I could watch this guy read the phone book he’s so compelling. I’ve also been watching old episodes of In Living Color, and while I realize a lot of it wouldn’t work in today’s culture, the Wayans (as well as Jamie Fox and David Allan Grier) were really fucking funny.
It's great to see you're over here. I deleted my Medium account but I missed your writing Felicia!
Similar, but with kids.