Fragments for a Future
It seems silly, and useless, to pretend that anything else might have occupied our attention this week the way the American elections have. All the way in Singapore, my group chats obsessively track each twist and turn, making daring predictions about the future and occasionally breaking off into passionate rants over the behavior of certain U.S. politicians, which to us, is incomprehensible.
This incomprehensibility has marked much of the last few years. Even before I moved to the States, we would read the news flowing from that side of the world to ours, look at each other, and ask: “How can this be… how can that happen?” These cries of how can, how can have become ever more frequent in recent months. The truth is, it can all happen, it is all happening already, the only difference being that we can no longer turn away. In the past, much could be skipped by quickly flipping the newspaper forward a few pages, but today, it’s hard to ignore what is picked up, rapidly retweeted, and amplified across the internet, blooming in our inboxes and across social news feeds. It demands a reaction, and whether that reaction manifests in monologue, debate, or comedy is up to each individual.
But what is new that can be said about the elections, that hasn’t already been said by those far smarter, wittier, and well-informed? I am not the sort of person who can react to the moment with intelligent learnings; I am easily stunned, knocked breathless by the unfolding of events, and it is only much later that I can gather my thoughts and build a house in my head, in which the order and reason of each event might lay itself out. Often, when I go online, a half-formulated response in my mind meets with a think-piece much further down the thought development line, and I pack mine away quietly, content to let others take the conversational helm. It is true that my life, my writing, might be improved by time away from the Internet, yet it has also been so deeply enriched by the opportunity to witness the rapid-fire exchange of opinions and arguments online. And I draw so much excitement from the flashes of brilliance shown by those of completely different backgrounds and ideals from myself, that the true onus is on me to manage my relationship to the Internet, not cut it off entirely.
So in lieu of hot takes and smart responses, I react to the moment with animal instincts: I gasp, laugh, cry, nod. And I take notes. My reaction to the elections has been full-bodied and primal. My skin turns sticky even in air-conditioning; I acquire an insatiable sweet tooth — which is an interesting development, as I haven’t felt compelled towards sugar in almost eight years. As a result, I cannot sleep, the sugar courses in my blood and raises all stakes, I try to combat it with caffeine, an idea which is disproportionately large in its stupidity, now I really cannot sleep. Twenty, twenty five, thirty hours go by as I refresh election news in between chapters of War and Peace, I don’t know if I’m sweating due to Natasha’s cavorting with Anatole, or due to the states flipping like pancakes. My body bloats with gas, I burp and burp and burp. I leave the house, pace up and down under the disgusting Singaporean sun while tracking the results, round and round, my shirt soaking through, at the end of it my watch informs me I’ve walked ten thousand steps and congratulates me on making progress towards a better, more active life. I get an election-stress pimple and continue eating candy. Millionaire bars, matcha blondies, alcohol-filled bonbons. Someone forwards me fake news about the elections being called, and my eyes fill with tears, before a quick fact check interrupts my emotional swell. I can’t stop burping, I make a mental note of it and file it away under “possible character quirks; nerves?” All of these things: the sugar, the gas, the sweat, the sleep, I note down carefully in my journal. In my present state, none of it makes sense to me yet, but when I am ready, it will be waiting for me.
Still, I cannot help but turn the situation this way and that, try to make premature sense of it. I am addicted to the news — everyone is, especially now. But perhaps everyone is not burping and sweating too? By day three of the prolonged vote counting, communal obsessiveness has abated somewhat; other newsworthy topics have cropped up locally, the tides of interest diverge. Yet I still reach for my phone compulsively, refresh election news. My American group chats are the only ones still pinging every hour with updates and dissections. Too long has gone by without sleep. I succumb to a sleeping pill, worried that this prolonged insomnia will have serious repercussions down the road. As it melts on my tongue, I text a girlfriend in America. I don’t understand why I’m so occupied by the elections, it’s not even my country.
It’s not not your country, she replies, as I feel myself fading.
Sometimes a place, a person, a fragment, lodges inside you and won’t go away. It is like a free floating jigsaw piece without a full puzzle; you may not understand why this attachment exists outside the rules of geography and citizenship, you may feel tempted to dismiss it as a burst of irrationality. But our lives aren’t lived inside clearly structured lines either; it’s silly, and useless, to pretend otherwise. Better to hold on to it, till something in you clicks, and you’re ready to grapple with why. In the meanwhile, it seems best to settle down, look around attentively, and note the things that strike you, even if only in some small way. Like this, when the right circumstance arrives, you can fit your fragments into the whole, take a step back, and go, a-ha, so this was what the situation was, all along.
ADDENDUM, 7 NOV
PS. JOY!
