Eight years ago, I wrote an editorial for the Calvin student newspaper that began, “I don’t know what to say right now.” I feel the same way today, but something’s different. The world’s different, of course—more frightening, more apocalyptic—but I’m talking about something in my brain, some new resignation to my failing words.
I don’t want to have anything to say.
I’m feeling exhausted by takes. My social media and podcast feeds are full of them: sometimes-smart analyses of where Democrats went wrong or what Republicans got right or how neoliberalism set us up for this disaster decades ago. Everyone’s got a take, and some of them are probably right. Some of them might even be useful.
But I can’t stand any longer the scrolling feed of takes in my head—the way my brain’s been trained to search every situation for some smart observation and then immediately think of the three most likely counter-takes. Then—look! New situation, new takes, new responses. It’s a kind of mental treadmill, a sprint that doesn’t get me anywhere except tired.
The Platform Formally Known as Twitter is certainly one culprit here. Among the lefty academics and politics nerds I follow, takes have been a kind of collective therapy—a way of processing the horrors of Tuesday night in the form of snappy arguments and counterintuitive claims. I rarely post anything other than a silly pun, but I’ve spent way too much time recently searching for comfort in the ping-ponging takes. I’ve found distraction at best and deep anxiety at worst.
But it’s not just Twitter. Academia’s a problem too. Papers and lectures are often nothing more than long-winded takes: self-assured sermons about how nuanced understanding and incisive analysis will save us from fascism. They bounce back and forth just like tweets, but slower—everyone always anticipating the response, the critique, the dreaded debunking. As if we could dull existential threats by sharpening our words.
There certainly are scholars and teachers (and even a precious few tweeters) modeling different, less take-y kinds of thinking. Slower, quieter, more defiant thinking. But these voices are paddling upstream: algorithms and hiring committees alike are drawn to the shiniest objects, not the prettiest, most painstakingly woven tapestries. And my brain feels like it’s following suit.
One thing I want to do in this new world is learn to stop thinking in takes. I want to practice thinking slowly, quietly, defiantly. Sure, I want to scroll Twitter less, but I also want to spend more time staring at tapestries, listening to music, talking with friends, writing and playing and living without an imagined audience of evaluators and responders. I want to absorb the world without dwelling on what I might say about it.
(Sixteen-year-old me could read hundreds of pages and listen to hour-long symphonies without checking my phone. I might have something to learn from him.)
Takes can be useful, sure. But that might be part of the problem. Theologian Marika Rose argues that creation exists not for any particular purpose, but for no reason at all: out of the sheer spontaneous overflowing joy and love of God. When we get too wrapped up in the mechanics of salvation and deliverance (an endless source of questionable takes!), we lose sight of this holy uselessness. Creation is not a take—it is poetry, bread, sunsets, symphonies, wine.
And takes are not the way to resist what’s coming. In her book Emergent Strategy, writer and activist adrienne maree brown echoes Rose’s point: “Perhaps humans’ core function is love. … If the goal was to increase the love, rather than winning or dominating a constant opponent, I think we could actually imagine liberation from constant oppression.”
Not having something to say, then, is not a failure. It’s a break. It’s a chance to breathe, to read a poem, to clean a room, to cry or sleep or walk in the mountains. This isn’t romantic escapism—or maybe it is; that argument is for a Twitter thread somewhere. All I know is it’s what my brain wants right now, and I hope it’s what I need to build the courage and resolve and communal creativity the next few years are going to demand.
This whole post, of course, is just another take. But where takes usually point infinitely inward, bouncing around like lasers in a mirrored room, I hope to follow this one out through the cracks. When I feel again like all the world needs is the right nugget of wisdom, I hope to remember this exhausted speechlessness.
Josh Parks graduated from Calvin in 2018 with majors in English and music, and he is currently a PhD student in religious studies at the University of Virginia. When not writing, he can be found learning the alto recorder, watching obscure Disney movies, and making excruciating puns.
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Thanks for writing this Josh—a potent reminder after a long week.
Seconded.
Agreed—i recently read “the radical pursuit of rest” because i was feeling the same way. I highly recommend, given your “take” on taking a “break”
“…I also want to spend more time staring at tapestries, listening to music, talking with friends, writing and playing and living without an imagined audience of evaluators and responders. I want to absorb the world without dwelling on what I might say about it.” Fantastic.