What is desire, even?
plus a tornado warning in Chicago
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Dear friend —
Does time feel different to you, compared to pre-pandemic days?
For me, time feels more plentiful, and more pliable too. Before I felt I was constantly rushing but still running behind; these days I feel I not only get done the things I need to get done but can chill out and take my time doing them too, for the most part.
How did this happen? Switching to working remotely full time helped, a lot. No more commute — and more importantly, no more of the time-consuming subtasks required by a commute: getting dressed, doing my hair, packing lunch, readying my purse....
But my state of mind has changed too. I let go of my goals — some of which used to have strict timelines and due dates, others which were more nebulous, like looking nice when I went out.
With no set exercise regimen, no diet to shop for and adhere to, no word count to hit, time started to stretch luxuriously, like taffy.
Recently, I listened to a podcast about happiness and learned a new term: time affluence. This refers simply to the feeling that you have enough time to do the things you want — the feeling of not being strapped for time. Turns out, a sense of time affluence is strongly tied to a sense of happiness. The sense you can do things leisurely — that, apparently, is the feeling to aim for, if you want to love your life.
In a way, the nomad life encourages time affluence. I realize this depends on your travel style — if you pack too many to dos into your itinerary, your time won’t feel so luxe. But I think for many of us, travel provides a break from the myriad of time-consuming goals we set for ourselves — what we generally refer to as “real life.” When you’re a nomad, there’s little to no pressure to, say, remodel your dining room and throw cool dinner parties in it. Or get into a serious relationship. Or meet the 30-day challenge at the barre studio. Or learn to play the guitar. Instead, the travel in and of itself becomes the goal.
It’s strange, how so many of the goals that I believed were crucial to achieve to be happy have fallen by the wayside. Things I believed to be the essential point of life, desired so badly, lusted after, nearly killed myself for — most of these, I no longer care much about.
Which makes me wonder: Why did I ever want these things? What even is desire — where does it come from, and where does it go?
About a month ago I discovered a newsletter about mimetic desire, which posits this: Most of the things we desire, we don’t actually desire innately — we just think we desire them because we see other people who also seem to desire them. Basically, we don’t so much desire as mimic other people’s desires. We come to believe Bella Hadid has the most desirable eyebrows because all the YouTubers are shaping their own brows to match. We decide the guy we previously didn’t notice is actually quite handsome because other people seem to find him attractive.
Outside of mimetic desire, what do we really even want? Do I want to own a home or am I just following everyone else onto Zillow? Do I want to be in a romantic relationship — or do I just live in a culture that extols that over all other connections? Do I want to write a book — or have I simply immersed myself in a community in which bookwriting is highly fetishized? Do I really want to travel — or have I been overinfluenced by #digitalnomad and #vanlife Instagram posts?
Last week I was in Chicago, a town I’ve been to many times but feels different each time. The first time I visited the windy city was during a cold, cold February. So cold, in fact, that when my local friend gave me the choice of two nearby bars, I picked the one half a block away over the one three-quarters of a block away. We got really drunk and sang karaoke with strangers! Another time was in the middle of summer, for a conference. The weather was balmy and beautiful — I have a memory of my friend Britt and I on a boat, happy, our hair blowing in the breeze.
This time, Chicago rained — a lot. I met up with my college friend Carrie just as a tornado warning made everyone’s phones go off. Dutifully, we moved inside. Carrie told me she’s enjoyed Chicago, but that there’d been a “mass exodus” of her friends, who married, moved to the suburbs, had kids, disappeared. Her own desires were different: She was creating online versions of her stretching classes — with the goal of gaining the flexibility to travel, like me.
I think all my life I’ve looked curiously at people who seem perfectly content with a stereotypical life in the suburbs — the kind defined pretty much entirely by the house, the job, the kids. What motivates them? What gets them out of bed in the mornings, if they’re not working toward anything beyond, say, a somewhat bigger house? Even now, without firm writing goals, I identify strongly as a writer — and I really wonder what I would do with my time if I didn’t write, and relatedly, read. The average American reads about four books a year, while I read over 100. If I stopped writing, and reading — all that time I would gain! But what would I do with all that time? And what would life even mean then?
The rain refused to stop in Chicago. The forecast showed a row of dripping clouds, spiked with lightning bolts. So I left the town early, heading west —
This love note is extra loose — and I guess that’s how I’ve been feeling right now. Nonetheless, I feel qualified to dole out life advice. Do you have any travel-related questions — about the logistics of being a nomad, the emotional shape of it, or anything else? Ask me in the comments — or fill out this form if you’d like to keep things confidential — and I’ll answer them in a future love note.
In the meantime, stay safe from tornados —
Love,
Siel
Three links you might love:
Chinese millennials are checking out of consumer culture. A countercultural movement dubbed “lying flat” has inspired some to eschew demanding jobs, marriages, and kids — and the government is freaking out.
L.A. is embracing the co-living phenomenon. A profile of Treehouse, where people choose to share a house with other people — with communal spaces but soundproofed private bedrooms and bathrooms. Is the single-family home ill-suited to modern life?
Should we set goals and deadlines for ourselves — or not? Rachel Syme looks at the pros and cons.
I relate to this so much! Time has felt stretchy and flow-y this summer, which makes the super goal-oriented side of me uncomfortable. But a deeper look shows that I'm actually really enjoying it! All of those self-imposed, impossible-to-meet deadlines/goals usually just create a sense of discontent. It makes sense that a lot of those "goals" come from mimetic desire. Thanks for shedding light on that concept, Siel!
The pandemic has definitely shifted the way I think and feel about goals. How can one set goals for the future when the present is so unstable?