At our cabin in Wisconsin there’s a stack of New York Times that has arrived a week late. My dad works his way through these and I’ve come to appreciate the outdatedness of the news. Of course reading the news is depressing—people always say this, but it feels even more depressing these days—but somehow if we’ve made it a few days past the headlines and survived, well that’s not nothing.
I’ve been listening to these incredible E.B. White audiobooks and he used to write the weekly comment in the New Yorker and things were not too hot then either. It’s eerie to hear about the run-up to WWII (he notes that this war didn’t bring anger toward dachshund owners that WWI did—goodness me). White details serious issues with a sort world weariness underlined by his specific stubborn wistfulness.
We’re not hardwired for an endless stream of information. When I’m in the Catskills I go out on the water and am out of reception. This is one of the only times I can’t be reached. But more importantly I can’t reach the fast-moving part of modern life. I’m in the natural world, a better place certainly. When I’m here I’m reminded that my mind is working too fast.