Things we look at together
Looking For It In The Fridge Again
For as long as anyone can remember we have been rummaging around for something bigger than rent, groceries and a decent Wi-Fi signal. We call it truth, or reality, or “the thing I can't name but definitely want.” Then the news happens, the group chat happens, and we ask: is this genuinely the whole menu? When no answer arrives by courier, we subscribe to a saviour, a system, or an infographic with confident fonts. The old plan is to start at the outside and squeeze inwards: discipline, rituals, renunciation, a personal best in emotional gymnastics. We hope that if we suffer stylishly enough we'll finally sprout. Mostly we just get tired and slightly smug. Alternative plan: stop shopping. Stop asking the shopkeeper what enlightenment tastes like. There's a difference between the individual — postcode, playlist, list of grudges — and the human being, who is tangled up in absolutely everyone. If the whole thing has a cold, your bit isn't thriving either. Which is the awkward part: the state of the world isn't somebody else's chore.
The trouble is that the searching itself is comfortable. It gives us somewhere to be on a Sunday, a vocabulary, a tote bag. But a mind that is looking for an answer has already decided what shape the answer should be, which is a bit like hunting for your glasses while wearing them. What if nobody is coming — no teacher, no method, no five-step framework with a friendly logo? That sounds bleak for about four seconds and then it is enormously freeing, because it puts the whole thing back in your hands, right where you are, unqualified and unsupervised.
Looking For It In The Fridge Again
For as long as anyone can remember we have been rummaging around for something bigger than rent, groceries and a decent Wi-Fi signal. We call it truth, or reality, or “the thing I can't name but definitely want.” Then the news happens, the group chat happens, and we ask: is this genuinely the whole menu? When no answer arrives by courier, we subscribe to a saviour, a system, or an infographic with confident fonts. The old plan is to start at the outside and squeeze inwards: discipline, rituals, renunciation, a personal best in emotional gymnastics. We hope that if we suffer stylishly enough we'll finally sprout. Mostly we just get tired and slightly smug. Alternative plan: stop shopping. Stop asking the shopkeeper what enlightenment tastes like. There's a difference between the individual — postcode, playlist, list of grudges — and the human being, who is tangled up in absolutely everyone. If the whole thing has a cold, your bit isn't thriving either. Which is the awkward part: the state of the world isn't somebody else's chore.
The trouble is that the searching itself is comfortable. It gives us somewhere to be on a Sunday, a vocabulary, a tote bag. But a mind that is looking for an answer has already decided what shape the answer should be, which is a bit like hunting for your glasses while wearing them. What if nobody is coming — no teacher, no method, no five-step framework with a friendly logo? That sounds bleak for about four seconds and then it is enormously freeing, because it puts the whole thing back in your hands, right where you are, unqualified and unsupervised.
We also meet on Zoom, because apparently honest conversation now requires a decent internet connection.
No robes. No chanting. No breakout room of doom. Just a handful of people staring at their own face in the corner while talking about the stuff that usually gets talked about in books we are pretending not to have read.
Camera on is optional. Pajamas are welcome. Pretending to be on a work call is encouraged.