#6 — The problem with too much change and missing the old Kanye
I don't know what day it is, but the sun is definitely blaring through the window as if repeating some announcement I've neglected to address. Without moving my butt, I reach my arm over to close the curtains, forming some elongated, gloopy F figure with my body. My index finger dips off the edge of the desk. It's a physically sad rendition, really.
Beside me, my partner's tricked out work from home station is strewn about — spaceship headphones, chargers of all kinds, and a keyboard that lights up like a rainbow reminding me of light shows from raves I went to once upon a time. BLESS.
"Did you send me the text yet?" he asks.
The impatience pouring out of me like spilled milk, I tell him to check WhatsApp. He's trying to help me condense my longer-form blog posts into something that'll work for Instagram, but here we are quipping back and forth about what copy should live in the square post or the caption.
How did I get here?
^ Somewhat related, but we've started to get up super early so here's me waiting for a socially-distanced yoga class in Portuguese at approximately 6:12AM.
It's normal to question who we are - just not quite like this
Within the overwhelming context of a global pandemic, our self-reflection has been riddled not by what's new, but with what's missing — free-floating relationships with baristas and librarians, fleeting moments of expression, maybe even the occasional shoulder pat, with public transit drivers that provide an important cushion to our more deliberate pursuits like family and work. Our existence reduced, flatlined, into scheduled Zoom calls, transactional exchanges with delivery services, FaceTimes with people we already know though feel increasingly distant from every passing day, and the monotonous hollowing of the small circle of those within our "bubble" or who room with. As Mary H.K. Choi so eloquently describes her domestic quarantine experience,
"In these moments, I'd look to my husband with wonder, seized by a thunderbolt of alacrity, and think, Who the fuck even are you?"
2020 was a weird year to move to quit your job, evacuate the industry, join a new one from 8,000km away in a new country where you don't speak the language (okay, a little but still), elope, all whilst continuing to focus, share, and market a creative outlet and in general stay sane, enjoy the day-to-day, and stay connected online to feel some semblance of continuity, maybe even home, or less its imprints.
And yet.
On par with recent trends, I found myself having no idea what to post or share, struggling with this new "grid" thing... The fatigue riddling, either too intense or irrelevant. The social part of social media turned into something suspicious, a space to judge who's doing what, where, and with how many (if any) masks, instead of a repository of reprieve.
It's hard to connect when our world is constrained.
"Can you hear me?"
We try to "find" ourselves in digital spaces as this article my boss shared with me this week discusses. We want to be our authentic selves, even though "The self is a fragile illusion that needs constant reinforcing, and this reinforcement happens most often through the gaze of other people."
Still. I've tried to maintain some old habits, like listening to Tim Ferriss over oat, flaxseed, and banana pancakes, but it doesn't hit the same. Maybe, it occurred to me, I've teetered too far on the "openness" Big 5 scale, which I considered (ironically enough) listening to Tim Ferriss's interview with Jordan Peterson who notes, "You can undo yourself by being open." Maybe in cases such as this, the only way to "know thyself" is to kinda close up shop.
We can only endure so much change, and then it's just a matter of survival.
Because it's basically impossible to not be social online (save I truly obliterate myself into some morning swimming classes, reading, and work) what might otherwise be a question of shared existence becomes a question of time and space: what platforms to use and how often?
Sometimes I think I miss flirty DMs (I think Insta was basically a low-key dating app for me), encouraging emojis, and group chats with memes I get 50% of the time, but not really. I miss the old Insta, filled with people on cobblestone paths or posing beside elephants, clinking champagne glasses, babies in parks all snuggled up with their grandparents, and stadiums and concerts packed with a bloated, sweaty presence.
For now, goodbye Instagram. It's been real. Kinda.
I'll be here, trying to wrap a story around my daily musings as I take a step back from my "online presence" to make sure I'm focusing on what counts — living in real-time (occasionally tweeting about that), being present in my relationships, investing in my creative and commercial writing projects, and sharing/profiling them in a way that spreads in some significant kinda way with minimal effort.
Suffice to say, whether I know you personally or only might recognize your name from my subscriber list (hiiii! nice to meet you!) I miss you in an obviously wrought kinda way.
Thank you for being here.
Until next time — beijos do Rio,
Jodi
“To suffer and to know what it is that you suffer: how can that be measured against its much-prized opposite, the ability to be happy without knowing why?"
- Rachel Cusk in Aftermath -
What I'm Reading (and Loving) Right Now
Bad Feminist: Essays by Roxane Gay
Difficult Women by Roxane Gay
An Untamed State by Roxane Gay
The Liar's Club by Mary Karr
Aftermath: On marriage and separation by Rachel Cusk
Churchill by Andrew Roberts