vortex

“The vortex effect”, a term which has never crossed my path in my twenty-something years of living, has suddenly appeared twice within the span of the past hour. First, while watching a TikTok edit of a penguin, taken from a documentary, refusing to return to his colony or feeding grounds and instead heading alone on a long journey towards the mountains. Despite the edit’s lack of information, several comments hinted at the penguin’s inevitable death and one comment, which I can no longer find, referenced the vortex effect.

Admittedly, this particular comment sparked some curiosity in me, but not enough to switch apps to properly research the term. Instead, I scrolled through a few more videos, then through an array of online shopping sites, before arriving at the realization that the small things, which used to bring me so much joy, no longer do. This point, unfortunately, became increasingly prevalent recently, and was only heightened by a less than stellar trip to the club last night.

Maybe instant gratification no longer brings me joy. Maybe I need something that requires a little more work. I opened The Year of Magical Thinking, a book on its second loan from the library because, like so many borrowed books, I failed to finish it on time.

“45% complete, due in 1 day,” Libby stared back at me. It’s only 266 pages, I can finish, I naively believed hours ago.

The book opened cleanly to chapter 10, a rarity given that I have no issues closing a book mid-sentence. “I had first noticed what I came to know as “the vortex effect” in January, when I was watching the ice floes form on the East River from a window at Beth Israel North,” Didion writes. It is January, but I’m grateful to say I’ve steered clear of any long-term hospital visits and cold weather for quite some time now.

As the chapter begins Didion is visiting her ill daughter, Quintana, in the hospital. To keep her mind off things she focuses on other things: her time of Vogue, an old book she wrote, and oddly, abortion as the key that connects the two. Then, “I had been writing that book when Quintana was three.” There it is, the vortex.

As it turns out, the term didn’t require a proper depiction, because it’s a universally recognized feeling. A feeling that, despite having a name, often goes unnamed. The issue here being that there is no issue. There is no imminent vortex affecting my life, just as there is no singularly unfortunate thing for me to blame my recent change in mood on. Is the universe warning me? Or is the lack of something significant the very vortex that’s pulling me down?