Sunday Edition: What is rotting, if not rest?
An anatomy of the modern rot
The Sunday Edition is Tuesday’s little sister—off-the-cuff updates I’d bring up over a coffee catch-up with a friend.
Sometimes, I slip into a mental state I call “idling.” It happens when my toddler’s nearby but playing on her own, meaning I only need to pay her half of my attention. It’s an important half, obviously, but since I’m not a monk, it’s not enough. I must admit, idling accounts for some of the most relaxing moments of my day. They’re not joyful, nor are they ultimately restful (I’m reading Twitter after all, and I’m still tired afterward, often moreso), but there’s something about the combination of knowing she’s near me, safe and happy, while putting my brain in suspension mode that hits like a sedative. When I say “on my phone” I of course mean the feed. The feed is perfect for idling because it provides constantly renewing entertainment so I don’t have time to think about what else I might be doing (calling my doctor, making a grocery list, texting everyone back) and also because the experience isn’t at all diminished if I look up from it every 10 seconds. In fact, it’s designed for that.
I use the word idling to suggest the stubborn heft of a car pulled over—not driving, not switched off, just sitting there, humming in place, going nowhere while imperceptibly poisoning the air. The pleasure of this depraved human state lies, I think, in the contradiction: Resting in the literal physical sense, persisting in the toxic spiritual one. It’s a state that suggests a low tolerance for understimulation, a common modern condition.
Last month, when I read that both Netflix and Spotify had started creating in-house content designed to be ignored, I thought of idling right away. Empty background TV and direct-to-consumer muzak: these are babbling babies as mass media. The appeal of a show you only want to half-watch might not make sense on paper, but the problem is actually in the TV shows you do want to watch, because unless they’re truly exceptional, they still only take about 90% of your attention. Better to watch something mediocre that takes up only 50% so you can fill the other 50% with something else, thereby maxing yourself out, not a drop of attention to spare for yourself or your life or the nature of reality. Even a depressed mind feels less perilous when it’s filled to the brim with entertainment packing peanuts. A 90% show just can’t offer that kind of insulation.
This is idling taken a step further, no remaining traces of responsibility. The engine’s off now, but instead of being at rest we’re in accessory mode, draining the battery this time. (I’ve overdone the metaphor.) The online crowd has a better term: rotting. To rot is to lie down and evade true consciousness through mind-numbing stimuli. Culture reporters forced to cover this kind of thing have defined rotting by its duration, as in, you stay in bed and “rot for days.” But I think that mistakes the decay as physical, like a banana left too long in a bowl, when in fact the decay is spiritual, and can take effect in as little as 30 minutes. Rotting may have a particular posture, but I think what separates it from other activities that involve horizontal entertainment is its catalyst: avoidance—the avoidance of responsibility, pressure, uncertainty, anxiety, thoughts. Rotting shares this quality with idling, but offers a more comprehensive escape, thus taking on a more sinister edge.
Last week, while zeroing in on the distinction between these two states, I realized I needed a better definition for their more respectable counterpart: rest. What did rest look like, exactly, if not rotting? Lying by a pool? Reading by candlelight? Meditating? Surely it didn’t need to be so precious and moralizing. When I opened Jenny Odell’s latest book, Saving Time, I found an answer in her exploration of something similar: leisure. Distinct from merely “time off,” Odell posits that true leisure exists outside the binary of working or not-working, and instead concerns “an attitude of mind” and a “condition of the soul,” which is to say it doesn’t automatically spring from circumstances. You can put on a face mask and get in the bath and continue to be anxious in the bath. The task doesn’t define the mood; it’s the other way around. This is why, sometimes, dinner with a friend can feel restful, while cancelling to rot can leave you feeling more drained than you were before. This also explains why, sometimes, rotting actually does the trick, in which case maybe it’s not rotting at all, but lying down.
True avoidant rotting keeps us trapped in the push and pull of should and shouldn’t, never transcending it. If avoidance is the litmus test for rotting, it follows that tolerance is the litmus test for rest. Tolerance for responsibility, pressure, uncertainty, anxiety, thoughts—and especially the stillness that brings these things to the fore, asking us to contend with them. If we were more patient, more tolerant of quiet moments, or had the mental fortitude to reject cultural injunctions that we be hyper-productive uber-independent machines, maybe a TV show that held 90% of our attention would be enough. Maybe even something that held 50% would be—and I could learn to watch my child play for sustained periods without twitching for my phone. Amazing to think, I might even find this restful.
The irony of the phone as the siren song for the restless is that it feeds and starves us both. Scrolling shortens our attention spans, which lowers our tolerance for stillness, which inspires us to scroll more. It also makes us feel guilty, which makes us more avoidant, and more likely to seek out rotting when we need a breather. It’s no surprise that when I reflect on my most satisfying experiences of rest, they all concern recovering from intense physical or social activity: eating lunch after a long hike, getting home after a busy day, “recharging” in a hotel between activities on a trip (heaven). Distinct from the overstimulation of digital brain drain, rest in these cases feels earned. I don’t avoid it because, finally, I feel worthy of it. In reality, I’m worthy of it far more often than my conscience suggests. But also, I probably need to get out more.
In recent months I’ve seen more people use the term rot affectionately. I love to rot on the weekend or the thing I miss most about my pre-kid life is rotting. Technically I relate, and miss it too. But it helps me to remember that rotting hits the hardest when I’m trapped in a prison of my own judgement, desperate for escape, and that its avoidant pleasures are only ever immediate, never transcendent, rarely sustained. Sometimes that’s enough, to be clear. But if it’s restfulness we want, we’ll have to find other routes.
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