Burden of Proof

Her vicious typing intrudes into my waning nightmare with a dramatic crescendo, and I awake with a groan. It's 7 A.M, and it's already hot.

I snap her laptop shut, and beg her to at least take a nap. Her eyes are demonically bloodshot, and before she slides down under the sheet, she asks me to do the dishes, three days worth of shared neglect.

The last flickers of my nightmare die out, and then I forget it almost completely. Something to do with unicycles, fedoras, and semi-automatic rifles. For a moment, I'm flooded by the temptation of further sleep and lean slowly into the pillow's magnetic pull. But then her hand shoots out like a severed zombie limb and grabs my wrist. Now I'm awake.

“We're also out of dish soap, but I found a recipe for a homemade one. Sent you the link,” she mumbles, and curls back comfortably into overdue slumber.

I get up, witness the monstrosity in the dish sink, and search through the barrage of waste-reducing solutions, vegan recipes, and pop-science articles she's shared with me during this frenzied all nighter. I obediently produce some earth-loving dish-washing liquid and do all the dishes while downing a fresh cup of 18-hour-steeped cold brew to carry me through the last stretch of 18 hours of fasting. That's how everyone's doing it: eating intermittently, like people without fridges and supermarkets used to do.

---

When she gets up around 1 PM, she grates some unpasteurized Jersey cow cheddar for a grilled cheese sandwich with spicy tomato chutney, and soon afterwards complains that it has a hint of soap.

“Did you add rose water to the chutney?” she asks me.

“Not the tomato chutney, just the apricot one. It's probably the soap I grated,” I tell her.

“For what?”

“DIY laundry soap.”

“I asked you to make dish-washing soap.”

“Yeah, I made both. Similar ingredients. I figured I might as well.”

“Did you wash the grater after?” she asks.

“Of course,” I say.

“With what?”

“The DIY dish-washing soap.”

“Maybe it needs less soap, more washing soda.” She picks up a plate off the dish rack and rubs her fingers against it. “Stuff is still greasy, see?”

“I just followed the recipe,” I say, stoically.

“Yeah, I know. But more washing soda.”

---

Engagement and detachment always come in cycles. A traumatic piece of news or a documentary triggers guilt, which leads to a heightened sense of responsibility. Positive, energetic actions are taken: books are read, lists are drawn, pledges are made, all nighters are pulled, until exhaustion at fighting our own habits and addictions leads to another period of dormancy. It turns out that when we're shooting to kill own bad habits, our aim is not much better than a villain's minions in action flicks: we shoot in the general direction of the hero, as if to justify an effort to kill him, but always miss despite our years of experience in the KGB.

This year, the cycle has been jump-started by a painful confluence of events: a Vegan expo, a documentary film festival, one of the hottest summers in recorded history, and the most severe wildfire season since there were humans around to notice. The city is shrouded in a smoky haze, and there's a cacophony of coughs, sneezes and complaints everywhere you go. All this on top of the perennial anxiety over the Cascadian subduction zone and the massive earthquake that's supposed to kill most of us one day. It's always a minute to doomsday o'clock, even though we're wallowing in the safest times in human history, cushioned by endless streaming content, receiving packages and food straight to our doors, drinking unlimited water from a tap, and having daily hot showers. We're kings with sleepless digital butlers and no obligation to marry our cousins. How could it get any better?

And yet, we feel powerless as the walls of nature close in on us. If ignorance is bliss, they should tell you in kindergarten, not at the end of college, and let us make life decisions accordingly. I would have still chosen the pain. But a lifetime supply of non-addictive painkillers might have been nice.

---

Halfway through the doc fest, we decided to take stock of the ills affecting our lives. So we proceeded to a Stalinist purge of all the evils in our home and souls. We're supposed to be urban hippies at the vanguard of the environmental movement, sprouting our own seeds, eating beans, and riding electric cargo bikes to the farmer's market. And yet, we drive a very fuel-inefficient old car, and we eat Mexican tomatoes in January, while indoor stalactites form by our poorly insulated windows.

Major strides have been made towards specific goals, some of which we've written down and pinned conspicuously onto our main cork board (the brackets only visible to me):

* Adopt endangered animals like pandas and slow lorises from reputable NGOs (especially the ones that send you a token stuffed animal for your contribution, made in an Asian sweatshop by a child who never sees sunshine and who likely eats panda meat for lack of options).

* Reduce waste by half. Don't buy pre-packaged fruit or pastries. Make own granola. (We haven't eaten granola in years!)

* Buy a Vitamix blender with the horsepower of an airplane to turn fruit and vegetables into life-prolonging elixirs. (Drink them even if – especially if – they taste like grass or compost.)

* Look into a trendy electric cargo bike with a storage box big enough for all our grocery needs. (Which we'll never ride during the rainy months of September through May.)

* Eat vegetarian four times a week. (If too difficult, four times a month.)

We agree to cut down on consumption of all sorts of unhealthy things, and substitute them with an arsenal of magical potions.

First, the Inca/Aztec renaissance swelled into full bloom: Quinoa flour, maca, lucuma, camu-camu, açaí, spirulina, and moringa. Then it got real cosmopolitan: argan oil from a female co-op in Morocco, Austrian pumpkin seed oil, Chinese burdock, ginger-turmeric paste. Then, a wave of green materialism: Flip flops made with recycled yoga mats, bamboo straws, collapsible coffee mugs, and an aromatherapy diffuser with a set of different oils. Plastic wrap has given way to bendy beeswax wraps. Toilet paper has largely been replaced by a bidet attachment, or “butt spa” in marketing lingo.

Resisting our weekly Korean Fried Chicken, we got an all-organic stash of farmers' market veggies instead and made a butternut squash stuffed with an eggplant stuffed with a zucchini stuffed with lentils and mushrooms. Basically, a vegan turducken without the guilty pleasure. It was in fact pretty good, but I had two pepperoni sticks for dessert, which I keep stashed away under the bathroom sink, like addicts do, behind all the toilet paper we barely even need.

Toaster waffles, Aunt Jemima, Cheez Whiz, bottled dressings... all went into the new garbage bags, which are compostable, although we're not sure Cheez Whiz itself is.

The booze cabinet, though, was a bone of contention.

“Studies show alcohol is bad for you,” she said.

“Sometimes studies show whatever they've been paid to show,” I retorted. “There is no consistent scientific proof that moderate consumption of alcohol has any negative long-term effects.” I actually don't know if that's true either, but I'm sure Budweiser has sponsored such a result, even if it's a lie, and I'm ready to dig for it if needed.

“There is no proof of any benefit either,” she retaliated, pouring five shots worth of gin down the drain. I let her, because this particular gin is too juniper-heavy anyways.

“You can't just say it's 'bad for you.' Should it not also require proof beyond a reasonable doubt?”

“Stop watching legal shows!”

When she reached for the 5-year-aged Japanese whiskey, I threatened her giant jar of Nutella in an effort to curtail her Prohibitionist raid on my liquor. It's been a hard-learned truth, but when your intellect fails to win you an argument, your best shot is to then hold a woman's chocolate hostage.

---

Over the past few weeks, I've begun to feel more energetic. It's hard to tell if it's due to all the CBD-ing or Ashwaghanda-ing or plain old placebo-ing. A reduction in meat and dairy has greatly improved our acne and digestive problems; the flax seeds in my teeth, apart from the Omega-3 benefits, actually remind me to floss daily; the new local vegan shampoo has given my hair quite a sheen. Overall, we produce less garbage and recyclables which means trips to the garbage room are less frequent. I knew there was an upside to all this effort.

But there's also a downside. It's late August, and temperatures are breaking global records like doped Russian athletes. We face south, with no obstructions from the sun. Unable to sleep in this heat, and purely on survival instinct, I went out and bought a portable air conditioner, out of my own personal savings. It's a miracle I even found one.

To justify my purchase, I introduced a fair amendment to our Constitution of Ecologically Responsibility Practices. It went something like this: When in the course of saving the planet from inevitable destruction, should one's personal quality of life be significantly affected by an avoidable privation, it becomes necessary that the needs of the individual take precedence over the needs of the planet. Thomas Jefferson would probably approve.

“Isn't that logic the same for everyone else though?” she said.

“Yes, but it's just too fucking hot!”

“Then let's move to the Yukon,” she said, unconvincingly.

“I'd rather sign up for Elon's Mars colony,” I retorted with snappy immaturity.

Whenever I urge her to contemplate Pascal's silence of infinite spaces, she looks at the sky, stretching her imagination. I know what's she thinking: they don't have Paris, they don't have sushi, they don't have passion fruit margaritas. They don't have shit out there. They have gases, rocks, dark matter, and a bunch of useless moons. Fuck space.

As I caressed my new favourite appliance, which she eyed with repressed lust, I tried one final legalese argument: “If this is a tool that will prevent the obvious sleep deprivation-insanity-suicide course I'm on and permit me to use all of my mental faculties to then help save the planet, isn't it a means to an end? A small sacrifice? What's so bad about air conditioners anyway? We've got hydro power.”

“It's the hypocrisy that bothers me,” she said.

Without any more chocolate to threaten, I lost the argument. We returned the AC and donated some of the refund money to the wildfire relief fund.

I slept on the deck that night, on an improvised pile of foam, sheets, and towels, not because of the argument, but because it was an enlightened idea. At around 3 A.M., she joined me, exuding an air of regret which she is still ashamed to voice. I know it's there, though, buried under a thick layer of good intentions, and if it's going to help me sleep at night, then by god, I'm gonna get to it.

---

I think I'm the original instigator. Last year, after a rage quit from a toxic job, unable to meditate for even five seconds without being overtaken with anger, resentment, and hopelessness, I signed us up to a psychedelic meditation retreat in a Pacific Northwest forest lodge. Twin Peaks with kale juice and jacuzzis. I don't know why she decided to come along, but the word “detox” had something to do with it.

It was a friend's referral but it might as well have been a suspiciously cheap Groupon deal. We met up with a young surfer shaman who didn't look the part. No beard or ingrown toenails, and an infuriatingly contrived Eastern accent – more a mockery than an homage.

She experienced a blissful, transcendental union with the Universe and Nature. I had visions but no insights, and puked my guts out all night long. The day after, the boy band shaman asked me what my zodiac sign was.

“Capricorn, I said.”

“Ah! That can happen to Capricorns during full moons,” he said, hinting at the possibility of a vomit-less sequel. I'm actually a Virgo, and I'm pretty sure it was a waxing moon, but I always lie when asked about my zodiac sign, because no matter what I choose, my interlocutors think it explains everything.

I explained the sense of lack and alienation that had led me here. A failure to achieve anything I had set my mind to. Perhaps I aimed too high. Don't we all?

“There's nothing too high. You just put the Intent into the Universe,” he said. “That's how Jim Carrey manifested a million dollar cheque he wrote to himself in the future.” I'd heard the story before.

We've tried the same trick, as have millions of people, but sadly, the Universe may have realized the economic consequences of Its generous actions once the secret was out. Imagine the inflation if It just printed all this money on demand without consulting with central banks!

So we were made aware, painfully so, that we are not external to Nature but embedded in it, and that money doesn't grow on trees or on pieces of paper made from trees. That insight, so simple and anodyne, so true and necessary, has stayed with us to this day: We've embraced our poverty of resources and started pursuing a wealth of meaning instead.

But I never meant it to get this far. Who wants to be a Bodhisattva in an active volcano? In this heat, I'd rather be the world's least enlightened man in an air-conditioned hotel room with Egyptian linen sheets.

---

So here we are, eating a grilled cheese sandwich with a massive carbon footprint that tastes like soap. She lounges on the couch in front of the fan, idly leafing through magazines and cross checking things on her computer. I spray myself periodically with ice cold water.

“Let's plan an Amazonian river adventure,” she says out of the blue, looking at a colourful Lonely Planet brochure. She thinks toucans, coconuts, wooden flutes, and hammocks. I think Aguirre, the Wrath of God, yellow fever, and ravenous black caimans. But ultimately, I feel, we might as well see it before it's all gone.

So I say “let's budget for it.”

A few minutes later she yells:

“Holy shit! My Visa bill is three thousand dollars.”

Her heart sinks, as if all our recent efforts have been rendered meaningless by this bill come due. I re-assure her that being part of the solution doesn't come for free, it comes with a series of efforts, sacrifices, and setbacks. These are investments, not expenses.

It all builds up to the inevitable conclusion, the end of the cycle: A lengthy diatribe from someone on Facebook pointing to the negative effects of some of the decisions we had made and shared publicly. The bastard even called us hypocrites, the world's most hurtful word, especially when it might be true.

We thought we were doing our part to try and keep the world a livable place for the children we'll never afford to have, and for the animals clinging by a fingernail over the cliff of extinction. But at the same time, apparently, we were drying out California by drinking almond milk, enriching the Mexican cartels by buying avocados year-round, making quinoa unaffordable for the people who have been having it for thousands of years, and keeping the world's poorest from obtaining clean cooking fuels. It turns out all of these claims are dubious, but the fact remains that we were not aware of all possible consequences of our actions. All of this new information thrust us into a haze of confusion. There is a reason we all tend to cling to ideology: the realm of doubt is a cold hinterland with no maps or roads, and only the bravest explorers can withstand it.

When we fall from the yet wild, untamed low-carbon-footprint high horse, the consequences are catastrophic. We condemn our own failures and suddenly believe we are doomed for the worst scenario in life. Eventually, we will kill our own child by neglect and end up living in a discarded shipping container swallowed by weeds in a statistically rape-friendly suburban park close to a Walmart.

And the earth leeches will continue to thrive, eating wagyu steaks and caviar in air conditioned rooms with Egyptian linens at a Trump Hotel, while fountains of crypto currency flow into their bank accounts. A gift from the Universe.

---

We watch some dumb Adam Sandler rom-com and swap out proper dinner for a smorgasbord of snacks. She eyes the bowl of Doritos with more lust than a Keto would, then says, “I'll just have one.” I pass her the whole bowl.

We let the shame slowly wash away. Failure is not an end state. It's just an obstacle, a downturn. I illustrate it by topping a Dorito with vegan cashew spread and alfalfa sprouts, turning it into a beautiful, ironic modern canapé. It symbolizes the complexity of our modern life, permissive of the occasional indulgence in monosodium glutamate and maltodextrin. We are self-deprecating political creatures, torn between selfish gratification and the painful privations of selfless activism.

We snuggle up in the comfort of our air conditioned bedroom, laughing at ourselves and everyone else, until we fall into a comfortable, sweat-free sleep.

---

We wake up to another sepia sky painted by a forest in flames somewhere out of sight. The city skyline looks beautiful and mystical, and we feel serene. I snap a shot and post it on Instagram without a single mention of the forest fires. Instead I add a large amount of follower-bait hashtags, and I end up getting a record amount of likes. In fact, it's the most liked I've ever been in my life, and I didn't even have to try that hard. I savour this feeling. It is low hanging fruit, but at least it's abundant, and that's why we reach for it. We're animals, and we're hungry. Does the high hanging fruit, the one we may never reach, really taste any different? I truly don't know, but that the ape often beats out the human within us has been proven beyond a reasonable doubt.