Two ways to spend six minutes, episode 1

First, I go online. Then, I go to the sea.

[I open my laptop and start clicking around.]

A girl I went to school with uploaded eight photos of herself giving the finger. The fakest person I know is becoming an authenticity coach. Jordan Peterson retweeted an image of men being milked in a sex dungeon, blaming communism.

Should college be more like prison? Will the vibe shift make you an earth angel or unhinged? Is the new Republican bill a gateway to genocide?

Know the weather in three places you’re not. Take this quiz to see if your job is safe from AI. Download 1000+ Ultimate ChatGPT Prompts. Celebrate a stranger’s work anniversary.

Allow cookies. Disable AdBlock. Update software. Reset password. Pay to keep reading.

Gaddafi’s superyacht is going green. Pregnant Russians are flocking to Argentina. Tory Burch is selling empowerment. With 3 Words, Microsoft's CEO Showed That You Can Lay Off 10,000 People With Empathy.

Drag queens are coming for your kids. A big, dumb cube is coming to Saudi Arabia. Tom Cruise is not coming to the Oscars.

Someone is disappointed to read the word ‘obese’. Someone wants to know if you remember them from Sisyphos. “What it do, Genghis Khan?” someone comments on a photo of Tristan Thompson with his son.

Chisel your jaw in 30 days. Save money by skipping breakfast. Join this new running community. And this one.

“Highsnobiety.”

Open the Notes app. Hit the keys. Sometimes being on here feels like an insult to life itself.

---

I shut my laptop and look up. A low streak of clouds hangs on the horizon, giving the sea and the sky the look of a Canadian tuxedo with a white belt. The air is a fine perfume—pineapple juice and freshly extinguished matches.

I feel my shirt snag on the salt of my skin as the little hooks perish with each pull of the fabric. I lift it over my head, then kick off my Birkenstocks. I follow a short, rocky staircase to the edge of the sea. Here, a deep breath means something. I take one, and then another.

I look at my feet. Shore crabs dabble in the rock pools. My head fills with the rush of water—a car speeding through a wet and windy night. I reverse down a sea ladder, release my hands, and recline as if into a La-Z-Boy.

Slowly, I swim into the shimmer of the sea. I hold my breath and submerge my face. My mind is clear of recognizable thought. I rest my limbs, assuming the posture of a drowned corpse, and tumble in the tide. I am stillness in motion.

Back on shore, I take up a ceremonial pose. I look out over the water and let the loveliness wash over me. This is plenty, I think. This is more than enough. Yves Klein could not have done with orange what he did with blue.