First of all, friends, before I dive into this essay, I think we all deserve a big hug. In the past decade (?), century (?), millennium (?), we’ve watched democracy drunk drive itself into a wall, we’ve sand-walked, Dune-style, our way through a pandemic, and we’ve witnessed billionaires in the C-suite crack jokes while gig workers walk picket lines.
It’s been a lot and we’re exhausted. In these trying times, we simply crave a bit of comfort. And that, dear friends, is why God created Nicole Kidman.
Ms. Kidman, that adopted National Treasure, would in the face of unremitting cultural, medical, and political chaos, bravely take on the mantle of Essential Entertainer and, donning all manner of wigs, accents, and amazing clothes, create an endless stream of genius, moving, bonkers, feminist, hilarious content for us. Content that would do more to get us through the years of darkness than any politician ever could.
Viva Nicole. We salute you. Literally, at every AMC theater until they take down your ad.
But Nicole is not the only comfort in this harsh world. In his all-knowing wisdom, God also created the internet.
Now, to be sure, the internet is a richly woven tapestry of ignorance, glibness, and existential horror, but it’s also one of escape. For where else but the internet can we be ushered into the presence of gorgeous, Gen Z Instagram nomads who are living the boho, wanderers’ dream, traveling the land, Golden Doodles and floppy felt hats in tow, via decked-out, shabby chic Airstreams? Through them we get to live vicariously that dream we all have of leaving it all behind, seeing this wide, wide country, and making other people jealous on social media.
Also on God’s own internet, we can waste an entire Sunday cruising Zillow, calculating Zestimates, mentally repainting cabinets, and re-tiling bathrooms. Through this portal we are able to fantasize about quitting that job, ditching the mortgage, escaping the suburbs. Selling up and moving to Vermont, maybe, to open a bookstore / coffee / bar / dog-petting bistro. Or to the Rocky Mountains to run artist retreats featuring fire pits, cowboy pools, and crafted bourbon drinks.
It’s the new American Dream. Don’t like your life? Magna Doodle that shit and start over. At least in your head. Reality’s another thing altogether.
The scene: In your inbox, you’ve discovered an email from a stranger, offering you a sweetheart deal to move down to a small Southern town. A chance to escape your cramped NYC apartment and start over. A chance to get it right.
But you’re no babe in the woods, no sir. Among your spiritual parents you count the unholy trinity of Stephen King, V.C. Andrews, and Shirley Jackson. You are learned in the ways of the Gothic fairy tale. You know what the man or woman who wants too much, who trusts too much, will actually get.
Punished.
You are too savvy to believe that sprawling hotel in Colorado, that lavish estate in Virginia, and that quaint, all-American town square in New England are really great places to live. You know the hotel will drive you crazy, the estate has a staircase that innumerable people will never fail to fall down. And that town square? Very Bad Stuff happens there.
But, sure, my dear, go right ahead. Answer that email…
Yes, that one offering the enormous Victorian Italianate mansion in a bucolic hamlet down in Georgia. I mean, look at the period moldings, the original fireplaces, the cherrywood floors. I also see they’re only asking a mere $100 for the house – a mansion! With acreage! – and it’s fully furnished with gleaming antiques to boot. All you have to do is commit to the town…for life.
Go ahead. Pack up all your stuff – or better yet, sell everything and move your family on down to that little town and get all new stuff. Just keep your wits about you. Watch for the warning signs, the signifiers that you haven’t relocated so much as taken the first step on your journey to hell.
A few “Gateway to Hell” warning signs:
– Any references to an open well on your property that the previous owner forgot to cover (oops) and that your child might fall into should they wander about unsupervised.
– Oh, and that same previous owner slowly lost his mind in your new house. But no worries.
– A strange white powdery substance on every surface in your house that you can never fully clean up.
– What’s that smell?
– Your new business opens to instant success and zero permitting issues. Hm.
– Mealtime prayer that everyone recites sounds vaguely like a curse or maybe one of those strings of trigger words used to activate brainwashed soldiers.
– The mayor, sheriff, and auto mechanic all have the same last name.
– Hallucinatory, recurring nightmares…
– Or chronic insomnia. It’s fine. Totally fine.
– No, the wallpaper didn’t move, silly.
– Cats often turn feral after a move. Just ask the veterinarian…who incidentally has the same name as the mayor, sheriff, and auto mechanic.
– Yes, people in this town have gone missing here and there, but what are you bringing to the potluck?
– Someone said there was an open well on your property? Are you sure you’re remembering that correctly?
– No, really. What is that smell?
And last but not least, the most ominous sign of all. The thing that should send you fleeing in horror:
– There’s no bookstore in town.
You too can live the dream (or nightmare) in Juliana, Georgia. Visit www.gentlejuliana.com for more information.
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