Phrontisteries and Front-Loaders
A story about overthinking and laundry 🫧
Writing these essays can be a slog. When the words don’t come, I shuffle around the house hoping a change of location will help. Maybe the porch will unveil what I’m actually trying to say.
Or maybe the couch.
Or maybe the floor.
Or maybe, maybe, maybe.
In my weekly pilgrimage for good ideas, I do laps around the internet, too. I scroll TikTok, read the news, and find other writers on Substack.
I’m forever searching for the place that will bring me the ideas.
You know, the life-changing, become a best-selling novelist, forever immortalized in word type of ideas.
This week I came up empty.
No scenery change or page refresh yielded any inspiration. By Friday, I was panicking. Three years into this blog, there are still moments I think I’m not cut out to do it.
In my time of need, WordDaily offered a safe haven with a term I’d never heard before. Their word for August 25th was “phrontistery.” A place for thinking.
How serendipitous.
Phrontistery stems from the Greek word for “a thinker” — a concept I am overly familiar with.
In fact, there is never a place where I’m not thinking. My brain is filled with a tireless, constant thrumming.
A mosquito mind.
As an only child, I had endless time to think. I would fantasize about life as a pop star, sketch senseless inventions, and write parody songs in my head. My imagination was a major source of company.
I also had time for my thoughts to sour.
I remember nights analyzing playground conversations with my stuffed animals. They always made sure I knew how embarrassing I’d been.
There was a birdbath in our garden that I would dump out after it rained. I was paranoid that the pool would become a hotspot for West Nile virus.
I called my best friend to ask if she would be mad if I bought a pair of Heelys - even though she just bought a pair of Heelys, too.
I spent so much time fretting about inviting friends over to play, that I never called them. Instead, I spent many summer afternoons alone.
Thinking, thinking, thinking.
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As I’ve aged, my over-thinking has gotten more well-rounded. At any given moment there’s a song playing, a to-do list, a self-criticism, and a business plan.
And that’s before I get stressed.
To cope, I keep what I call “compost heaps” around me. They are untitled Word docs, half-filled notebooks, and notes on my phone that catch a random assortment of thoughts. I like to imagine a good idea will eventually sprout out of the hoard.
Considering the entries look like this, it’s hard to imagine anything will:
I live like a chia pet. Each new crop of thoughts spews out of my head and stockpiles in the corner of whatever space I’m in. I make everywhere a place for thinking - whether I want it to be or not.
What is the difference between a space for thinking and a space for thoughts? Can I impose a phrontistery onto any place around me?
By definition, no. The world is mostly meant for establishments like schools and libraries. As if a physical location could start or stop my overthinking. As if four walls could contain my mind.
I recently saw a meme about being multifaceted. It reads: “As someone who contains multitudes its so annoying talking to someone who contains one single tude.”
Not only is this poetic, it’s true.
I genuinely wonder how much quieter it is in other people’s heads. I can’t picture it. Isn’t everyone’s brain like playdough in a fist? Aren’t we all oozing endless thoughts?
I yearn to restrict my thinking to one dedicated place. To be able to close a door and know that I’m leaving with no thoughts, no anxiety, just vibes.
Alas, you can take the girl out of the phrontistery, but you can’t take the phrontistery out of the girl.
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After work on Friday, I was still hitting a wall. One interesting word does not an article make.
How is it possible to have so many thoughts, but none of them be useful?
I puttered around getting increasingly frustrated on my personal phrontistery tour: Maybe I’ll find inspiration in the shower. Or maybe the front yard. Or maybe the coffee shop.
Or, maybe somewhere new.
In a last-ditch effort, I decided to bore myself into submission. If any space could deaden my mind, it’s the laundromat. Watching spinning clothes is a special form of hypnosis — featuring strangers’ underwear.
I hoped the change of scenery would force me to focus. I added my quarters, hit start, and waited for a wave of productivity.
Instead, I refreshed my email on nearly every rotation of the washer.
I convinced myself that walking for thirty minutes would be a better use of my time. People always leave their clothes unattended and I was in desperate need of an idea.
Maybe I would see something useful. Or maybe I’d find a conversation to listen in on. Or maybe, maybe, maybe.
Outside I immediately got caught in my own spin cycle. I paced the block and thought about how idiotic it was to be obsessing over a blog topic, why I was spending my Friday evening here, how dumb my legs looked in my shorts, when I should go back inside…
Only to glance back and spot a stranger rifling through my wet clothes.
I ran back, panicked. We looked at each other as I got to the machine. Her teeth chattered. Her eyes bulged. Her arms were covered in bruises.
My dress was in her hand. For a moment I thought she might rip it apart.
“I was getting started for you,” she said, shakily pointing at the dryer. “My boyfriend told me you needed help.”
I started to protest, and she dropped my dress on the table.
As she ran out, I heard her swearing under her breath: “You’re such an idiot. Why would you do that? That was dumb. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid”
Now that gave me something to think about.
There is no antonym for a phrontistery. Trust me, I googled it.
We’ve never formally developed a space for not thinking, though the Jersey Shore is doing its best.
The closest I get to a quiet mind is when I exercise. When my body is moving, I forget to obsess or self-criticize.
Albeit, only for a moment.
The second I’ve caught my breath, ideas flood my head like they’ve been lying in wait.
It took one killer workout on Saturday morning for the inspiration to finally hit. For all the stress, scenery changes, and almost-stolen laundry, it turns out the solution was the simplest one in the book: Turn it off and turn it back on again.
I was just overthinking.
Tell me your personal phrontisteries in the comments 👇