resetting
“I'm walking on the streets of what looks like a California suburb. Very Spielberg-like. People are standing outside on their porches, hundreds of them, looking up at these gigantic roiling clouds. There's lightning and a low-level roar. We're waiting to see what unfolds, until it suddenly becomes clear: this is an atomic explosion, in slow-motion. I tell myself it's far enough, that we're safe, but I'm not sure. I can't be. A flash of light bursts from the base of the cloud as the tell-tale shape begins to grow. We all stare, unable to look away.”
That was one hell of a dream last night. I can still see it too, none of it has faded.
I can't change reality. I also can't spend the next four years (fingers crossed) in a state of perpetual outrage, hitting the keyboard after every tumble further down this bottomless slide. It's not only that I fear turning people—you people—off. It's not only that I'm ultimately adding to the rampant toxicity poisoning the air we breathe. With every post, with every writing session spent decrying the-end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it, I'm hurting myself. Mentally, and physically. In this vain attempt to regain control through words, I end up contributing to the miasma. I become part of my personal doomscrolling.
Fuck that.
No amount of handwringing will prevent whatever's coming—only actions will make a difference. For us, in Canada, it means moving away from American products and services, whenever possible. Cancelling trips to the US. Small retaliations meant to accumulate and send a message to our own leaders: stand tall. Don't bow. Organize. Find new partners. It’s surreal but that’s where we are.
I had a book on pre-order from Amazon, from several months back. There were bonuses from the author associated with it (some I'd already received), so I didn't want to cancel it. It didn't seem fair. But a few days before its release I checked the Kobo store and, sure enough, it was offered there as well: I canceled Amazon, pre-ordered from Kobo, and then sent an email to the author to let them know I hadn't just bailed out. I got a very nice thank you, and the remaining bonuses.
Tiny, tiny actions. That's what counts.
Ryan Holiday wrote about his plan for the next four years, and this "resolution" gave me pause:
“I’m not letting the sonsofbitches turn me into a sonuvabitch. This might be the hardest task in the world right now—to not let assholes turn you into an asshole. To not let cruelty harden you, to not let stupidity make you bitter, to not let outrage pull you down to its level. ”
Resistance through words matters—especially if your voice is heard and recognized. But I'm not a columnist, and in today's polarized echo chambers, words are quick to be distorted, repurposed, and weaponized. It's also hard, when faced with the contempt of others, to avoid being dragged down to the same level. Disrespect begets disrespect. Anger fuels anger. It never ends, and that mindset eventually takes a toll. You become the poison you aim to cure. The asshole.
I don't plan on sticking my head in the sand. If troops start amassing at our border I'll probably ring the alarm. But I'm done wallowing in an ongoing, sinister and reactionary, narrative. It's not my job.
Resistance through action, and resistance through art—signals all of us can ignite without being swallowed by the bile of an algorithmic feed.
This is the promise. This is the reset.
More sunlight.
