The kettlebell, a centuries-old device with Soviet associations, is wildly popular in modern Western gyms; since the pandemic began, it has been so coveted for home workouts that suppliers have barely been able to keep it in stock. More than a practical piece of equipment, it has become a talisman of strength and wellness, and it represents the duality at the center of “working out” as peddled by bourgeois fitness culture: the residue of militarism, of training for something, and hyper-individualism, of optimizing one’s own body in the face of general precariousness without any reliable collective mechanism for solving the problems we face.

Binural beats work by sending two slightly different frequencies to each ear, so that the listener hears a beat that is not actually occurring. Some claim this can “retune” the brain to a different frequency, a low-stakes experiment in self-hacking. But it is also demonstrates that much of what we do for self-improvement relies on tricks and illusions, on insisting on hearing something that isn’t there.

The thing people always say about podcasts is that they feel so intimate. The beautiful thing about intimacy is that, by letting other people in, we are reminded that our lives are porous, that the difference between humans is arbitrary and surmountable. Of course, that’s the horrifying thing about intimacy, too.

My habits and tendencies are witnessed by algorithms that uses them to reconstitute me as a consumer. Allowing a human being access to that same material feels more uncomfortably intimate, even if I know it’s less harmful. When someone touches my phone or computer, I feel a frantic impulse to explain: I’m more willing to be exploited than I am to be judged.