Tag: writing

Tossing things aside

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I played a few games of cornhole at a work event this week. I am usually pretty terrible at any casual games like bowling or mini-golf, mostly because I never practise them outside work events. So imagine my surprise when I won a game. Then another one. A lovely American from work then saw it as a challenge and eventually obliterated me but it was fine, I was mostly surprised I did so well to begin with.

Then I realised why – a few years back I was trying to get Riley to play something active and somehow we ended up throwing a little ball into a laundry basket. At the beginning of the game we stood right next to the basket and whenever one of us got the ball into the basket, we would move further away. A super casual game that requires zero prep. We still play it from time to time, except now the twins participate too. I never really cared about winning or getting better at the game, mostly about keeping the kids happy and engaged. We play it every few months max. And yet, somehow it helped to train my throw enough that I can win an unanticipated game of cornhole.

That’s a huge contrast to my usual approach to things: I tend to dive into things. At some point I was sailing 3-4 times a week, offshore racing, reading books about trimming sails. When I started strength training, I was learning the basics with a coach then started reading books about it and advice online; with time I added mobility exercises and some skill work. Even though I often struggle to find time to exercise I definitely give it a lot of headspace: always looking how to improve, to do everything better. And then there are things I really care about, like work and children and their education. And sometimes I wonder if giving all of those things so much consideration and space in my thoughts helps – or just makes me exhausted. Maybe if I just cared a little less or at least let things go when I am not actively involved in doing them, I would be less tired.

There are caveats of course – tossing a bag or a ball requires far less skill or consideration than helping a child get better at writing. And yet it’s such an enticing idea that we can sometimes get better at things just by casually doing them every now and again, without thinking about it at all. In the world that keeps telling us that the most important thing to achieve things in life is discipline it’s pretty counterintuitive to just… do things occasionally, for fun, without planning. I’d like to think of a more lighthearted, more fun version of myself.

Approaching life that way would require lowering the stakes though. Can I care about work less when it’s not just about my ego and to a certain extent my identity but also about paying off a mortgage and taking care of my family? Can I care less about my children’s emotional health and their education? It doesn’t seem possible – so I don’t seem to be able to toss them out of my head the way I forget about a game of cornhole. And yet, when I do have a little time, I will try to remind myself then I can also let go of some things and tread lightly, with no obligation to achieve any results whatsoever. Now how do I not overthink this whole not-overthinking thing…

Numbness and being alive

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What do you do when you struggle to find enjoyment in anything? When every day feels like a never ending stream of chores to be followed by another day of chores, with responsibilities and other people’s expectations shaping up your every day?

I tend to numb myself when not working: listening to audiobooks, cleaning, ticking off other chores, staring at social media, not allowing myself to pause to avoid being overwhelmed by wondering why is this life that I built for myself – in fact worked very hard to build – can feel so miserable, like there is no space for myself in it. But that numbness only makes it worse, I feel like I disappear into nothing and lose all sense of myself as a person, my inner light completely lost as I retreat, dull eyed, after a moment of joy with one of the girls. I sleep dreaming of being abandoned over and over or being stuck in a place I cannot leave – that’s my brain’s revenge for not giving it any breathing space to chew on that question.

This happens to me from time to time, especially when the weather is miserable and I don’t have enough sleep. I remember a couple of years ago I took a single day off work to revel in reading, having a slow, lazy lunch and walking along the beach. Three hours into it I got a call that one of the twins was sick and that I had to go home and look after her. That feeling of utter defeat – I don’t know how you avoid it. No matter how many times you tell yourself to be grateful (and I am truly grateful for so many things in my life), not having any control of your life for even one day can be soul crushing.

I do eventually snap out of that feeling of being completely depleted. One morning I wake up and feel warmth in myself; I don’t rush to look at my phone, I suddenly feel enjoyment in my cup of tea, my comfortable seat on the couch. I start writing again. Suddenly, I don’t just notice the cuteness of my girls in an abstract, remote way, I notice how they react to me as I tickle them and breathe in their smells. I see warmth in my husband’s eyes. I return to myself and wonder how I can treasure my little humans so much but never seem to apply the same love and acceptance to myself. But I can never arrive at that moment by sheer willpower. You can understand certain things intellectually and yet it does not help you to feel better at all.

Where does that numbness, that grim feeling of overwhelm comes from to begin with? It’s tempting to blame it all on the stress of modern lives, with ridiculous property prices and expectations of being able to work as if we don’t have kids and parent as if we don’t have jobs. I know for me it’s much more than that, it’s the perpetual feeling of being unseen when I lose connection with the outside world and myself.

I am fortunate enough to have friends who I connect with on a deeper level, despite all of us having hectic, overwhelming lives. We might not see each other often but being able to be completely open with each other is priceless. I remember talking to a friend while eating chilli crab in Singapore. We hadn’t seen each other for several years, she moved countries, we both had more children and many other changes and some setbacks in life – and yet we felt so close in that conversation, no need to guard ourselves from being misinterpreted and misunderstood.

That’s not going to happen with every single person in our lives, I understand it intellectually; yet I try sometimes and then that openness makes me vulnerable. Being open turns into exposing weakness to someone who will not reciprocate. I cringe at how uncool it is to try to be friends who is always guarded against you.

Yet the best things in my life came from risk – risk of leaping into unknown and risk of opening up instead of keeping up appearances. I shudder to think what my life would be like if I contorted myself into a cooler version of myself who pretends to always be in control, who isolates different parts of her life completely. That version would be much less me – and I want to be more me and stop losing the sense of myself when I am overwhelmed and doubt everything. Eventually I find my own way back to myself – that’s when enjoyment creeps slowly back into my life, even when there is still way too much to do.

The Road Not Taken

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I was watching surfers last night. We had epic surf on Good Friday to the point there was practically no beach left at Avoca where we are spending the long weekend. It settled a bit on Saturday, waves came in clear sets and there was an occasional gleam of green in contrast to the day before when the wave tops were immediately blown off to churn white all the way to the beach. Surfers were everywhere. They get so close to the rocks it seems way too dangerous. Then one of them pops up on a wave and takes off, down the wave then up and no matter how many times I see it, I never get tired of it and it never stops being, well, magic. Witchery.

I grew up in Siberia and apart from doing ballet as a 6 year old, cross country skiing in the forest across the road from our apartment block and mandatory PE in school, I was not an athletic child. I wore glasses and I always had a book to read, long before it was known that distracting yourself from the world around you is unhealthy (but I was doing it with books not devices so I guess it was ok). And yet when I first got access to satellite TV I was mesmerised by the channel that was showing skateboarding and surfing. The persistence and skill required to do those things seemed way cooler than anything that I could do (a sad poem, anyone?). If I could transport my conscience into someone else’s body for an hour I’d choose an experienced surfer on a good surfing day, for the experience of that high of mastery over your own body and the ocean that can so easily kill you.

I did try surfing after I moved to Australia. It was way before I got into sailing and I took many lessons with a community college and got to know a few people, mostly surfing instructors. I lacked the upper body strength but my balance was fine. I had tremendous fun even in white water and I did manage to catch a few waves, mostly with the instructor’s help. It was pretty clear though that I’d have to basically live on the beach and practice every day, not once a week if I wanted to get serious about it. I would also need to either keep paying an instructor or somehow find someone who’d be ok to at least go surfing with me which seemed impossible with all the other things happening in my life.

I haven’t surfed in ages.

It’s interesting to think what could have been though if I made different choices in life and surfing is one of them. And if I was born in Australia to someone who sent me to nippers, would I be a completely different person, ripping down and up the waves, would that be something so natural and easy for me that I’d take it for granted? What would that life feel like? Somehow I am convinced I’d still find a way to be anxious and questioning my choices. There would be different worries (my friend circle? Source of income? A very vague feeling that I could’ve learned to write better? Maybe they wouldn’t be all that different after all) but I doubt I’d escape unscathed. It is a fun exercise to indulge in right before your birthday though, considering all the lives you could’ve had.

Life with three kids can be intense and sometimes James and I joke about what our lives could be like if we remained childfree (lots of spare cash, probably a seaside apartment instead of a house, much travel and delicious food and should I mention loads of uninterrupted sleep) but ultimately we both agree that it would’ve come with a sense of loss even if we didn’t exactly know what that loss was about. I’m sure there are people who don’t long for children but I struggle to imagine being one of them. It’s one of those choices in life I can’t imagine not making and it seems inevitable, just like moving from my hometown to St Petersburg and then to Australia, maybe because I imagine the kind of regret I’d have had very clearly.

And then there are choices in life that seem a bit less clear cut. Choosing one job over another (I nearly went to Ireland instead of Australia). Choosing sailing over surfing. Ending or continuing a friendship. While some of them seem more important than the other, do we really know which ones are true bifurcation points?

I am still fairly sure I’d arrive at some version of me that might be physically slightly different but fundamentally the same. Somehow I cannot imagine a version of me who doesn’t overthink or who is more confident than sensitive. I’d probably be tortured by different things. I might fight joy in different things, too. Yet it appears to me that through any circumstances my own self would inevitably crystallise and if all those versions of me ever met they would all enjoy a conversation about what it means to be me, just like I’m enjoying writing this post right now.

Then again, it wouldn’t be me if I didn’t add that I could be completely wrong about all of it.

Enchantment, enshittification and our future

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Many years ago, when Google already existed but wasn’t a verb yet, I wrote a research paper for uni about online media. I wish I had that paper and especially the sources I used (academic articles in English that I translated into Russian). Unfortunately, they are all long gone but I do remember the gist of them surprisingly well.

Two particular ideas are stuck in my memory: 1. How texts (will) change when published online. 2. The influence of gatekeepers on how information is filtered and spread online.

There was a lot of speculation back then about how articles posted online would transform due to the differences of online media. Hyperlinks would change texts, they would enrich each other and present new demands on the reader’s attention. Imagine a network of articles, creating a three dimensional narrative through linked texts, possibly written by various authors. How different would it be from a traditional book or a magazine, both in execution and perception. What a wonderful new world.

If you ever get lost on TVTropes.org, you might taste a little of that vision. Overall though, that prediction now seems like a dream of someone completely removed from the realities of human’s attention and perception. What actually happened is that – in general – texts became shorter, headlines are manipulated to produce maximum outrage, people are attacking each other in the comments over the headline not the article (and those are not just Daily Mail’s readers). Texts disappear overnight to be replaced by something new and seemingly everyone is bemoaning our inability to read longer texts. Navigating through a maze of hyperlinks is the least of our issues these days.

Then again, Substack seems to be doing alright, even if it’s not quite a garden of links creating a united complex narrative.  

The idea of gatekeepers who determine which information we consume back then was attached to Internet directories, something incredibly common before search became more reliable, and personal blogs – influencers, in other words even if that word didn’t exist back then. Overall it wasn’t a prediction that feels completely wrong now: we do, after all, have social media that makes it possible for a piece of content to go viral. There are groups of people who reinforce their convictions through posting links to content that confirms their beliefs. And while it’s rare in the West for access to information online to be restricted (apart from paywalls), it turns out people often just don’t want to read or watch something that contradicts what they are already thinking. It once again feels like the reality of what we are seeing today – the abundance of misinformation and attempts to control the narrative – is not so much interesting as depressing.

I wonder what the authors of those papers could be thinking now? Did they shake their heads at their early works about online media, wondering at their naiveté? Or did they gradually changed their opinions and completely forgot that there was an age when the Internet seemed like a blessing, when all of us were enchanted by it and it wasn’t all so complicated?

Although of course it’s not complicated at all to a lot of people now either – it’s just that if the Internet and technology in general used to be seen as majorly good, it is now seen as predominantly evil. According to many people, it’s the technology that is destroying democracy and our ability to pay attention and think critically.

There’s another article that I read ages ago and to my delight it still exists online – here. When I re-read it now, 13 years later, I am struck by the optimism of it as the author discusses economic impact of free content and new economic models related to it. How different it is from the view of today, of “enshittification” which is tightly tied to monetisation and economic growth at all costs.

I do miss the sense of enchantment with technology and with life in general. It might be that my own social circle is different now; I work in tech and it’s far less of a happy place now that interest rates went up and money became expensive. I am tired of listening to stories of doom and gloom though; I find that it’s not hard to be pessimistic. It’s easy to predict that the Internet will die or become useless due to abundance of AI slop. It’s also a low hanging fruit these days to write about everything that is wrong with technology and how our attachment to mobile devices destroys our attention span and our will to live and connect with other people.

What I take comfort in is that most predictions don’t seem to come true, even when – and maybe especially – when they seem obvious. The general mood of the era seem to affect the predictions more than anything else and right now we seem to be in an era of profound pessimism. We take it for granted that it’s easy to do a lot of things now, like pay bills or buy a book, to the point that we start doubting that it’s actually good for us – but I don’t think that it’s the technology that makes things easier for us that is the problem. It’s what we do our time that we could be spending in a queue to pay a bill. It’s up to us how we use the technology. We have agency. And the future is still up in the air and not known by anyone.

Oh to be seen

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I stumbled upon “Fleabag” by accident last year, late to the party, and I was stunned by how good it was. How had I not heard of it before? It’s expertly written and acted; it’s tragic, subtle and incredibly funny. If you haven’t seen it, I recommend you do (make sure there are no children around you if you do. It would probably be very awkward to watch it with your parents, too).

The unnamed main character has a habit of breaking the fourth wall, looking directly at the camera and telling us her thoughts. It works very well in the context of the show but clearly nobody does that in real life. What I personally do instead is I pretend to write it down in my head as if someone is going to read it. It’s the same idea of an invisible friend who would be interested in everything that happens to us, every smart arse comment, every semi-formed insight we might have. A friend who does not actually exist.

And yet in season 2 Fleabag meets a person who really sees her – a priest. He sees how she disappears into her thoughts and he tries to understand her.

Phoebe Waller-Bridge, the creator of Fleabag, has a speech about why the priest has become known as “hot priest” and why a lot of women seems to have lost their minds longing after him. “It’s because he does this one thing… he listens.” It’s funny and pithy and there’s undoubtedly truth to it, even if there’s inevitably more to it than that: he’s handsome, funny, not afraid to be vulnerable, he’s unavailable as a partner. And yet.

If you ever struggled with small talk (like I used to) and consciously tried to become better at conversations in general, you would’ve inevitably come across advice to listen to other people and to be genuinely interested in them. Almost everyone loves talking about themselves and people will love you for listening. In the context of small talk most people won’t go very deep and it’s a bit weird to be that person who goes “But really, tell me how you REALLY feel”. Trust builds over time and so does intimacy, not of the sexual kind but of the kind that allows you to talk about something deeper than how you spent your weekend. I do like trying to nudge people along a little while not coming across as a total creep. It makes for a much more interesting conversation but also I am genuinely interested in many people and the stories in their heads. It’s not just listening – it’s trying to understand.

Do all people want to be understood? Not just on a surface level but on a level where they most likely don’t even understand ourselves? I think a lot of the time they – we – don’t. It makes us feel vulnerable, especially when we are not ready for it. Fleabag in the show cannot bring herself to open up to the priest about her friend – too painful – and she tell us, the audience, when he tries to understand, “He’s a bit annoying, actually”. I’ve been the annoying friend before and it’s painful to be shut down, too, so people often don’t even try to ask the questions that can be interpreted as prying.

And yet, when it works, it’s like magic. And when it’s reciprocal – which is even more rare – there’s nothing like it. People sometimes avoid it because it feels dangerous, inappropriate (even if it doesn’t end up in forbidden Catholic priest sex). More often though, we just don’t know if it’s even an option, to be understood on a deep level – and accepted for who we are. Not for our social roles or appearances but as complex human beings with our inhibitions and fears and contradictory thoughts. I think we sometimes crave it without realising what it is we want. That desire is easy to mock; it sounds like vapid teenager angst, “Nobody really understands me!” But I think the raw desire for intimacy and understanding expressed in that statement is much better than many layers of self protection we learn to wear every day.

Riding in the rain

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It was supposed to rain all day yesterday but it cleared up in the afternoon. On Saturdays we have fish and chips for lunch then I walk around the lake talking to my mother on the phone. Lately I started including R in these walks – she rides her bike while I run along (sometimes) or walk behind (more often). She decided to come with me yesterday too.

Since it rained a lot in the morning, the parking lot was nearly empty. We were off to a good start. R didn’t want to wear her rain coat despite the stiff breeze so I was carrying it myself. I knew it would be muddy in parts of the track but didn’t have the heart to tell R that her pretty new cardigan, t-shirt and her jeans would probably get mud on them once she blitzed over a few puddles. She rode off past one playground, the water sports shed then another playground and I smiled thinking how much more confident on her bike she got over the last few months.

I called Mum and we were chatting about the weather in Siberia (hot) and our updates for the week. All that time R was far ahead, stopping from time to time to let me catch up. Finally, we got to a muddier area.

“Too many puddles,” R said when I walked up to her.

“You can do it, just go faster,” I said, interrupting my conversation with my Mum, then pushed R a little to help her over a puddle.

R grumbled and groaned but went over a few muddy tracks. I kept talking to my mother until it became clear that R needed a better motivational speech than I was providing. I said good bye to Mum then turned my full attention to R. She was by then moaning that she’s not enjoying riding the bike through the mud. The back of her cardigan was now speckled with mud.

We bought the bike more than two years ago and R rode it a handful of times with training wheels. At the end of last year I decided that it wasn’t right that R still couldn’t ride it without training wheels – she had no problems on her balance bike when she was three but we spent less and less time walking around after having twins. We’d drive to a playground and there would be no time or space for R’s bike. I was hoping my parents who were visiting for Christmas holidays would take R out and teach her but after one or two times my Dad admitted defeat – he had no desire to run after a kid’s bike, even if the kid in question was his beloved granddaughter. Understandable when you’re almost 70. So one day I decided that James and I would both go to the park with R without the twins and make sure she learns. The night before she cried to me that she would never learn to ride it without training wheels. On the day she sat on the bike, started pedalling and ever since then the training wheels were a thing of the past.

I wanted R to enjoy her bike. Part of it is my own great memories of riding a bike everywhere. My bike was heavy (and was technically my sister’s) and the first time I rode it by myself I went over some dried up mud, fell down and sliced my leg open with a sharp part – I still have a scar to show for it. It didn’t deter me. I rode with a friend who lived nearby and by myself a lot. I was a little older than R and when I wasn’t reading I was riding the bike everywhere. I wanted R to have at least some of that experience even if I can’t imagine letting her go off by herself.

It started drizzling and R’s complaints intensified. I helped her put the raincoat on but her bell bottom jeans were wet and muddy up to her knees. I kept telling R that it was an adventure while considering putting my own raincoat on.

Then it started raining a bit harder.

You’d think we’d turn around but by then going back would’ve taken longer than pushing ahead – besides, I didn’t want to turn back. I wanted R to push through the mud and the rain and find if not pleasure then satisfaction in that ride. Something I felt many times while sitting on the rail of a sailing boat in the rain; dreaming of hot tea and bagels yet somehow also finding something compelling in that experience. Perhaps people climbing mountains while experiencing lack of oxygen feel it to a larger extent. While I don’t expect R to seek out uncomfortable experiences, I do want her to go through some to gain more confidence.

In other words, while my main parenting tool is cuddles, I have some of Calvin’s Dad in me (from “Calvin and Hobbes”) who always insisted that doing hard things builds character.

When it started raining harder, R was borderline crying. I started running next to her while telling her she’s brave and strong and capable. After a while she started arguing with me. “No, I can’t ride a bicycle as well as boys! I can’t do this anymore!” Unfortunately, by that stage there was no alternative. We had to keep pushing on to get back to the car. So I kept running next to R but instead of coming up with a somewhat intelligent speech I turned her semi-cry into a full-on scream, the excited kind. It seemed to work to an extent, at least R started pedalling much harder to keep up with me until we were out of the park and on to the footpath – a final stretch to the car.

I found uplifting speeches and books that teach behaviour completely ineffective as R’s parent (the twins are somewhat different). In movies a well formulated monologue always seems to help at least a little. R was always skeptical. And she could always feel an agenda in a book a mile off (when I tried to wean her and read her books about weaning she learned to hide the books very quickly). But running next to her and screaming into the void seemed to be effective.

Just when we thought we were in the clear, it started pouring down. “Go fast R”, I said without trying to teach anything anymore. “Go to the car as fast as you can, I’m right behind you.” By then we were both soaked and I gave up trying to avoid puddles as my socks and shoes were completely drenched. R got into the car and I loaded the bike in.

“I want to take off my pants, they are so wet,” R said.

“Don’t you want to go to Woolies? I’ll buy you any lollies you want”.

So we got lollies and a yoghurt for each of us, then R took off her soaked jeans off and I drove home. By then the rain completely stopped.

At home, we sneaked upstairs for a hot bath. When we were finished, the bath was covered in mud.

“Well that was an adventure,” I said.

“Yeah, I even liked the start of it,” R said.

We went downstairs where I told James and the twins how brave and strong and capable R was while she plopped on the couch to watch cartoons.