R Backslash I'm Still Not Off the Internet

1. It is too early. It is too early because I am at my parents’ house in Idaho and that makes three people (Mom, Dad, Me) and three dogs (Phil, Chaco, Trout), and whenever one person or dog moves, the puppy (Trout) must investigate. And so I am tired because it is early and because I still stay up late doomscrolling on Reddit rather than doing what I should be doing, which is reading for my critical dissertation, or, you know, sleeping. Writing a short story or re-re-revising the novel would be a step in the right direction, but then it is midnight and TunaPanda666 wants to know how you and the rest of the red-eyed doomers of r/Collapse are going to weather the apocalypse. Someone is buying property in Michigan. Someone shows a picture of their cellar stocked with every sauce, jam, and pickle imaginable, all organized in a rainbow gradient beginning with tomato and ending with eggs. This is how I end up in R/Canning. This, I imagine, is how one ends up in a cult.

2. Still, I find an odd comfort in these bleak (and often hyperbolic) forums and not just because of the kindred cynics, or the way that the nested worst-case-scenarios read like a collaborative cli-fi¹, or even because such imaginings can spur real action today, although this is definitely part of it. I think, rather, I am interested in the question of how to live now. What the Western world has deemed apocalyptic is already here, and of course, the ugly side of climate doomscrolling is just imagining that Europe or North America could look like Somalia, for instance. I don’t know. Our enduring belief in borders, capitalism, and American exceptionalism is truly breathtaking. I am not finding much hope these days, and collectively, that might be a dangerous way to live—we might as well pollute our way into hell if it’s all inevitable! But I find myself on the opposite end; I just want to soak up the world as it is. Maybe I’ll start fly fishing, or, idk, get into politics. The world is bleak, but I am not here building a survivalist bunker. Even in the most fiction-making parts of my brain, I have a difficult time imagining, I mean really imagining, fishless oceans, resource wars, cheap lab-grown steaks, or rocketing off to another planet. I think we all do.

3. Questions that interest me now, this morning, three hours after I have woken up: What should I do after I graduate? How should I use my time? Is it too late to go to law school? Culinary school? How can I make my family eat less beef? What should I cook in winter? Is it sustainable? Why can’t carrots taste less like carrots? Should I still be this anxious after two months on Bupropion? Is everyone this anxious? Should I come back for Christmas now that my dog has had an accident on the living room rug? Did he poop there because he was anxious? Does he need Bupropion? Am I on a secret literary mag No-Fly list that ensures I will never publish another short story? Should I shower right now? What is NoPoo and why does it sound like something I should feed my puppy?

4. I still don’t really know what I’m doing with this space, but I promise it won’t be dedicated to so much doom and gloom, unless you’re, like, into that kind of thing.

5. Let’s end on a better note. Some good fucking news: Tess Gunty wins the National Book Award! Tess is gorgeous and just so, so kind. Plus, she can write one hell of an ending. Los Angeles is still the best. These are the best sourdough baguettes.

   Be well, friends!

1. Joy Williams says this is a terrible, fake literary term. To whatever Joy says, I say yes.