We walked with zero-fashion sense in half-pyjamas towards the crooked river behind our house. Jumped into the nearly freezing water at 1.11 PM on January 1st. Before you romanticize this scenario; it was cold and drizzling undecided ice/rain. Before we got in, we watched a forwarded video of some influencer showing off his muscles as he was comfortably chilling-out in some idyllic winter-water-land a few hours ahead of us on that very same day. “Think in possibilities not in limitations!” He urged through the screen – after which he edited footage of himself arising from the freezing water like some type of lake deity lifting two neon green dumbbells above his dripping torso. We chuckled.
We looked somewhat less aspirational, homely even, and leapt into the river – screeching – as our flailing limbs moved through a layer of dirt and oil mixed with dead plant material floating around the swimming dock. We emerged half-panic-attack, half-laughing-fit mere seconds later. The water smelled bad. We were surrounded by grey apartment buildings and people in solid winter coats reluctantly walking their dogs in the undecided ice/rain. A red-faced runner ran by and cheered to celebrate our commitment to physicality. On the way back we fantasized about warming up our frozen feet by teleporting to a sauna next to the idyllic lake. My housemate exclaimed, more than anything, he just wanted to be home right now. Luckily we were on our way, flipflops splashing through the geese-turd-infused mud.
These rituals are less romantic than they are wholesome. They amuse and jolt us. Pry us loose from the sedentary static of our domesticated bodies. They widen the scope of possibility. Expanding our threshold for discomfort.
* * *
I take my phone off “do not disturb” to find a wave of disturbing messages from friends and family struggling with the backlash of backwards holiday encounters. The discomfort of discord when you realize your kin has absorbed too many musk-memes; still won’t take accountability for the personality disorder that lead to years of estrangement; joined a cult; might not get the urgent medical help they need this year because of professional negligence; pretends their trainwreck of a marriage is salvaged through a stubborn performance of normalcy; sinks deeper and deeper into narratives spawned by fascist propaganda bots; can’t love you the way you need to be loved. And probably never will.
Happy New Year!
We compulsively transmit through the ether, half-heartedly.
Of course we want it to be happy. We just can’t guarantee much these days. Adjust for warfaring times. Make sure you have water and canned foods stored in your non-existent or ever-flooding basement.
Seek laughter in the dismal corners of universally salient discomfort. Share a meal. Take your friends out for walks, often. Forget endless possibilities for now. Think within the constraints of limitation for a while; bare witness to the force of human creativity that emerges from the pressure cooker of diminishing options.
January exposes the bare bones of reality without the flattery of holiday decorations. A new beginning. Sober, unpretentious. We are standing on the edge of the icy void in flipflops and a towel. Underdressed and unprepared. Come on in, water’s for sure going to fuck you up. But we’re in it together, alive like this.
Metaphysical Mulch 