#or a literary freedom you have worked on for years…. it’s not free real estate

[ruskayas]

above all things, yelena is strictly malleable & easily influenced by most things/people/events. if you think she is set on herself and strong-willed, or unchangeable by the environment and its influences, your guess would be faulty. her self-image is incredibly distorted and unstable & her paranoia ubiquitous. i cannot stress enough how her condition drives every aspect of her life & how wrong you’d be in assuming how she’s going to act in threads. it is her experience, and she does not need to fit your own patriarchal standards.

[margridarnauds]

shooting star and wild card for the OC ask 🌠🃏

shooting star: if your OC(s) could have one wish what would it be?

Eleanor - Peace. She wants her kingdom to be safe and secure, along with the people in it, she wants her niece to grow up happier than she did, she wants to be able to retire to live by the sea with the guy she's been in love with for actual decades, she wants to be with her family without being afraid that that'll be used against her. Freedom is a big draw for her as well, but peace and freedom are kind of intertwined with her (having the freedom to have peace.)

Berenice - Power. She wants to be a queen with the power to do anything she wants, she wants to be worshipped like the pharaohs before her, and she wants to never be in a position where she has to give it up again. She and Eleanor are both alike in that horrific things have happened to both of them, but in Eleanor's case, it caused her to have a massive distrust of the world around her, along with a desire to escape it, while, in Berenice's case, it gave her the desire to dominate it so that she'll never be in that situation again.

Atria- Unlimited knowledge. (Though, personally, I think she'd miss not having the chase.)

Alistair - Honestly, quite similar to Eleanor, wants a simple life where he could be a good husband and father. His family life's been chaotic, he doesn't want to replicate that, he doesn't like power, he just wants to live in some loch with Eleanor. (If and when they marry, they'll switch between the sea and the loch every other year or so.)

Marcus - Unlike Atria, who is very content without knowing who their parents are (especially because, even though she won't admit it, she knows that having parents would mean being under patria potestas and losing the autonomy she's fought so hard for), I feel like Marcus never quite resigned himself to not knowing. He's a proper Roman man, he'll never be fully happy just being the son of no one, so I think he'd want to know who their parents are.(I don't think he'd be HAPPY with the results, but that's the thing with a wish -- you never know if you'll actually be happy with it, but it's what you want.) Either that or position. Not necessarily riches or power like what Berenice wants, but respect. He can retire and start a farm like a Proper Retired Roman Man™, so long as people are still circulating his letters.

Ochtriallach (yes, he's a medieval Irish literary figure, yes, he's also free real estate): Rúadán back. He's never been alright since Rúadán died, he's always carried that guilt with him, and he won't be happy until he finds some way of getting him back. Is it healthy? NOPE, but...no one expected the 3000 year old sei∂r-wielding Norse king with daddy issues to be the model of healthy attachments. He doesn't care about power, riches, or security, he just wants Rúadán back. (Though...like with Marcus, I've always kind of thought that, if he got Rúadán back...I'm enough of a romantic to want them to work through things, but I think there'd be a big gap between Rúadán-As-A-Person VS the Rúadán that's lived in Ochtriallach's memory for the last few thousand years, along with the gap between Ochtriallach-As-Rúadán-Remembers-Him VS Ochtriallach as he is now, he's been forced to become colder and more pragmatic over the years.)

Bran - I'll be honest: I'm not sure even Bran knows what he wants. He's been a rebel without a cause for so long, running from one place to another, taking his anger and grief out on the world. He wants money, he wants power, and he does want to be with Berenice (and, honestly...they're perfect for one another), but I think, at the end of the day, he's just lonely. And it's the type of loneliness that's self-imposed as well, because he's learned to snap at the first sign of someone trying to get him to open up. I think...he would want Rúadán back, like Ochtriallach, but, as Rúadán's brother, not his partner, he'd be more realistic about it. Though there would also be a problem with that because...Bran's gotten used to being the oldest son in the family, and that's put a lot of pressure on him to be the strongest one, especially since he inherited his family's enemies, but it also means that he has this defined place. I still think that he loves his brother enough to want him back, but I think that he's more aware of the issues involved than Ochtriallach.

wild card: talk about any OC! anything you want!

Atria and Marcus grew up on the streets of Rome as foundlings, running away when they were children. The actual lore, that would actually break Atria's heart if she found out, was that, of the two of them, she had been the only one they'd intended to abandon, as one more girl in the family would be too much of a liability, but Marcus refused to let her go, and so both twins were left to the streets. Atria was chronically sick as a child, Marcus often being left in charge of her while her entire body was racked with coughs.

When they saved a young Berenice's life, they were taken into her household, and both went on to specialize in different things: Marcus focused on becoming an orator, eventually, in the reign of Hadrian, realizing that he wasn't up for the politics and becoming a oratory teacher. Despite being considered to be quite attractive and eloquent and therefore having quite a fanbase, he's never married, finding the entire idea rather disgusting.

Atria studied at the Library of Alexandria to become a doctor, which earned her both unprecedented respect when she was appointed Berenice's personal physician and unprecedented derision for doing so as a woman (often being accused of, for example, performing vivsections, committing blasphemy like Asclepius before her, for attending orgies, for poisoning her rivals, for performing abortions...only the last of which is true.) Because of her desire to reform the system (and being very straightforward about it), there have been numerous attempts to poison her, none of which have been remotely successful. She's a firm dogmatist, believing in fully understanding all parts of the human body in order to cure illnesses, which hasn't helped the vivisection rumors (dissection, yes, not vivisection), her ex husband being an empiricist who ultimately divorced her for infertility. (In reality, she was glad to see him go because he was trying to pressure her to leave her profession.) Unlike her brother, despite her disastrous marriage, she has no issues with the notion of romance in general, though she's generally married to the job, and she's deeply in love with Ada, who she helped save when Ada was on the run for alleged treason.

[victoriagloverstuff]

The Patron Saints of Pessimism: A Writer's Pantheon

If all is for naught, then why bother writing it down? Caught in a vicious circle, ensnared in the logical absurdities of awkward self-awareness. It seems there are one of two options: either speak to this situation, or remain silent. The writer’s failure is that they know they should choose the latter, but cannot help attempting the former. Writers (and readers . . . when there are readers . . . ) console themselves by naming this failure: an apology, a confession, a testimony, a treatise, a history, a biography, a life. But the continual accumulation of that-which-cannot-be-put-into-words always points back to this one basic realization—that, when it comes to human beings, silence is the most adequate form of expression. There are, then, two paths. Ultimately writers dream of taking neither path, leaving all paths for the forest. But it’s just a dream.

The patron saints of pessimism watch over our suffering. Laconic and sullen, they never seem to do a good job at protecting, interceding, or advocating for those who suffer. Perhaps they need us more than we need them. There are patron saints of philosophy, but their stories are not happy ones.

Even in cases where the entire corpus of an author is pessimistic, the project always seems incomplete, as if there was still one more thing to say, one last indictment . . . from Goethe’s sorrowful Werther, to Dostoevsky’s burrowing creature, to Pessoa’s disquiet scribbler; Baudelaire’s spleen and ennui; the mystical pessimism of Huysmans and Strindberg; the stark and unhuman lyricism of Meng Jiao, Georg Trakl, Xavier Villarrutia; the frenetic obfuscations of Sakutaro Hagiwara, Ladislav Klíma, Fyodor Sologub; the haunted and scintillating prose of Mário de Sá-Carneiro, Izumi Kyōka, Clarice Lispector; the misanthropic rigor of Lautréamont’s Maldoror or of Bonaventura’s Nightwatches; the crumbling of reason in Artaud’s The Umbilicus of Limbo or Unica Zürn’s The House of Illnesses. Grumpy old Beckett.

The list quickly expands, soon encompassing the entirety of literature itself, and beyond ( . . . even the great pessimist stand-up comedians). In the end it’s overwhelming; all of literature becomes a candidate. All that remains are singular, anomalous statements, a litany of quotes and citations crammed into arborous fortune cookies read by no one. So I confine myself, somewhat arbitrarily, to pessimist “philosophers,” dubious though this distinction is. But a cursory look at the history of philosophy reveals something quite different. Philosophers that stumble and trip over their own feet. Philosophers that curse themselves. Philosophers that laugh at themselves. Philosophers that abandon philosophy, but still remain “philosophers.”

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Emil Cioran

Cioran’s fragments are themselves so fragmented, so shattered (and shattering), that they sometimes seem less than a fragment: more a particle, a speck of dust, the debris of thought.

Cioran published De l’inconvénient d’être né (translated as The Trouble with Being Born) in 1973. It was a time of loss and refusals. A few years before, Cioran’s mother and sister had died. Cioran’s close friend, the playwright Arthur Adamov, committed suicide. The year also saw the death of another close friend, the existentialist philosopher Gabriel Marcel. A year later, the poet Paul Celan, who had translated Cioran’s work into German, also committed suicide. It was a period of refusals. Cioran proudly spurned several gestures of monetary support, as well as numerous literary prizes, many of them financially significant (there is an anecdote of Beckett  lending Cioran money while chiding him for refusing such prizes). All the while Cioran continued to live modestly in his rented apartment, working at his compact and cluttered desk, writing in his multi-colored notebooks, taking his frequent walks. In The Trouble with Being Born Cioran grapples with an age-old philosophical dilemma—the problem with being here, in this moment, thrown into an existence that one has neither asked for nor desired, in a world that we have difficulty whole-heartedly accepting or rejecting.

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Philipp Mainländer

On the evening of the first of April, 1876, 34-year-old Philipp Batz gathered together copies of his book Die Philosophie der Erlösung (The Philosophy of Redemption), which had just arrived from the publisher. He had worked in the finance and banking sectors for nearly a decade, before quitting his job in disgust. He had been discharged from his military service due to exhaustion and fatigue. He had written several poems and literary works which remained unpublished. And, from the time he was a teenager, he had enthusiastically read Schopenhauer, in addition to Leopardi, Dante, and Heraclitus. In his Offenbach apartment, Batz gathered together the copies of his 900-page book, but with how much premeditation it is impossible to know. The book, published under the pen name of Philipp Mainländer, talks of a pervasive “Will-to-Die” that indifferently drives everything that exists, to exist—to exist in order to be extinguished. Batz arranged the copies of his book on the fl oor into a single pile. He stepped up on top of his books, and hung himself from the ceiling beam of the room.

At the core of Mainländer’s philosophy is the idea that everything that exists, exists in order to not exist—not for some imagined and fantastical afterlife, and not in order to re-enter the cycle of birth, suffering, and death, but for pure annihilation—a “mortification of energy.” Everything that exists, driven by a blind “Will-to-Death,” exists only to achieve its own nullification. Mainländer calls this “redemption.”

Michel de Montaigne

Aristocrat, statesman, businessman, diplomat, humanist, socialite, melancholic, tourist, bibliophile, translator, and essayist—Michel de Montaigne was by all standards a worldly person. Born near the Bordeaux region to a wealthy merchant family, he had been reared according to the highest standards of humanist education. As a young man he served in the Bordeaux Parliament, and then at the court of Charles IX. As an adult Montaigne would also become a wine-grower, editor and translator, and would serve as Mayor of Bordeaux. As a statesman he was often pulled into the national negotiations surrounding the religious and political conflicts of his time. He travelled extensively across the continent, sometimes making spiritual pilgrimages, sometimes seeking convalescence for health problems, sometimes out of curiosity. It is perhaps strange, then, that, at the age of 38, Montaigne would decide to refuse the world. He shut himself in his library in order to write. So decisive is this refusal that Montaigne christens it with an inscription made on the wall of his library:

In the year of Christ 1571, at the age of 38, on the last day of February, anniversary of his birth, Michel de Montaigne, long weary of the servitude of the court and of public employments, while still entire, retired to the bosom of the learned Virgins, where in calm and freedom from all cares he will spend what little remains of his life now more than half run out. If the fates permit he will complete this abode, this sweet ancestral retreat; and he has consecrated it to his freedom, tranquility, and leisure.

What does he write? As any reader of his Essays can attest, Montaigne seems to have written about everything—over a hundred essays in three books, covering everything from the art of conversation to cannibalism, much of it written in the first eight years spent in his retreat from the world. However, what is noteworthy among the pages and pages of observations is Montaigne’s often unfavorable view towards life—human life in particular. The diplomat so enamored of conversation now writes: “We are nothing but ceremony; ceremony carries us away, and we leave the substance of things; we hang on to the branches and abandon the trunk and body.”

It would seem that owning an estate and castle would be more than a sufficient means of shutting out the world. But the Château d e Montaigne was still too “worldly” for Montaigne. What is needed, as he notes, is an arrière-boutique, a kind of room-within-a-room, where one can recede from the governance of daily life: “We must reserve a back shop all our own, entirely free, in which to establish our real liberty and our principal retreat and solitude.” Montaigne himself decides to spend most of his time in “the Tower,” a small circular abode located at the southern tip of the castle. It is comprised of a central tower and an adjoining smaller tower that serves as a staircase.

It appears that Montaigne’s bibliophilia extended to the physical space of his library as well. On 46 of the 48 ceiling beams of the library Montaigne had inscribed almost 70 quotations in Latin or Greek, mostly from classical authors or the Bible. Among them one finds stark statements such as this, from Pliny the Elder: “Only one thing is certain—that nothing is certain. And nothing is more wretched or arrogant than man.” And then there are an abundance of lines from Greek Skeptics, foremost among them Sextus Empiricus: “I decide nothing.” “I understand nothing.” “It is possible, it is not possible.”

This peculiar form of graffiti had a more practical purpose. Montaigne notes how he often paces around his library, occasionally glancing up at the beams for inspiration. His refuge is less a place of work, and more a space of wandering, in which the space of the library becomes the hollowed-out listlessness of the skull: “When at home, I turn aside a little more often to my library . . . There I leaf through now one book, now another, without order and without plan, by disconnected fragments. One moment I muse, another moment I set down or dictate, walking back and forth, these fancies of mine that you see here.”

Friedrich Nietzsche

Though he is commonly regarded as a philosopher, Nietzsche himself was not so sure. With its mania for constructing elaborate systems, philosophy was perhaps too well-formed for Nietzsche. Perhaps what he sought was a philosophy with less integrity. An oft-repeated aphorism reads: “I mistrust all systematizers and I avoid them. The will to a system is a lack of integrity.” And yet, Nietzsche continued to write, up until he could no longer—or would no longer—write. A fragment from Human, All Too Human lauds the “incomplete thought”:

Just as it is not only adulthood but youth and childhood too that possess value in themselves and not merely as bridges and thoroughfares, so incomplete thoughts also have their value. That is why one must not torment a poet with subtle exegesis but content oneself with the uncertainty of his horizon, as though the way to many thoughts still lay open. Let one stand on the threshold; let one wait as at the excavation of a treasure: it is as though a lucky find of profound import were about to be made. The poet anticipates something of the joy of the thinker at the discovery of a vital idea and makes us desire it, so that we snatch at it; he, however, flutters by past our heads, displaying the loveliest butterfly-wings—and yet he eludes us.

Paul Deussen, a friend during Nietzsche’s boarding school days at Pforta, and who would later, as a scholar, translate the Upanishads into German, once described Nietzsche’s dwelling in Sils-Maria in 1887 as a “cramped and dingy cave,” littered with “coffee cups, egg shells, manuscripts and toilet articles thrown together in confusion,” set off  against a perpetually unmade bed.

__________________________________

Good read found on the Lithub

[johnrgordon]

Writing a historical novel #6 – research is intimidating (but has to be done) pt 4 of 4 – breakthrough

(image: ’Black Angels’ by George Barnard)

For the past ten years I have been working on a historical novel, Drapetomania, Or, The Narrative of Cyrus Tyler and Abednego Tyler, lovers, set in slavery times in the American Deep South, and telling of the passionate love between two men, Cyrus and Abednego, and their bid for freedom from bondage – out now! As I worked on a final edit of the 183,000 word manuscript, I began reflecting on the process. These are some of my thoughts.

Plowing through 1700pp of slavery narratives, alongside historical accounts, contextualizing information and contemporary fictions (including, belatedly, Huckleberry Finn, which I realised I had never read, and is, it turns out, a post civil war tale of pre-war slavery times and thus a curious, paradoxical exercise in recent nostalgia), was ultimately liberating, and in several ways, some obvious, some less so.

The most basic change was simply this: I had moved from knowing nothing (much) to knowing a great deal about historical representations of slavery experiences and the context in which they arose. Funny how one can internalize ‘not knowing’ as an identity, but I realised that for half a decade I had done so.

While modern history is extremely useful in framing the past, there’s nothing like reading contemporary material to give you a feel for the idiom, for the aesthetic and therefore mental landscape of a period; and allowing some sense of that to enter your writing fairly much automatically creates an authenticity of tone without a need to overdo quaint dialogue or overwork period terms or references (which is very tempting): sometimes a mule cart can just be a mule cart and need not be a barouche or phaeton, and so on.

Behind that commonsense evocation of another time is an interesting – and in its way somewhat liberating – philosophical point: what makes a historical novel feel real to any (non-academic) reader is how far it seems to embody the tone and timbre of novels that were written at the time in which it is set. Yet those novels – that is, those fictions – were and are themselves cultural constructs, informed by the personalities and perceptions, quirks and kinks of their authors, as well as by what was generally permitted at their time of writing. Did real people ever talk as Dickens’ characters talk? Or Jane Austen’s? Probably not. Or maybe yes, kind of. Did they also say shit or cunt? We can’t penetrate very far beyond that essentially literary limit of possible knowledge – we literally cannot know, as there are no other records of direct speech, (beyond court testimonials, themselves generally ‘written up’ by officials who sometimes added literary flourishes of their own, and would have at the least redacted swearing and blasphemy), how people really spoke back then – and so (I believe) the modern writer is free to permit him/herself to improvise around general impressions without being too weighed down by forensic fears about historical accuracy of register once obvious anachronisms have been tidied away.

A further level of literary reflexivity arises in consideration of slave narratives, which, being as they tend to be billed as ‘the true account of’, it’s natural for us to approach initially as if they are simple primary sources. This is to ignore the attention those who escaped slavery paid to ensuring that their autobiographies conformed both to the existing novelistic conventions of the time, and (soon enough) to the evolving (oftentimes best-selling) new genre of The Slave Narrative itself. So these historical artifacts are not simply ‘true’ – they too are literary constructs; and indeed, reading them I was struck by how often they cleaved to conventions of romance novels such as Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre – this is perhaps most strongly evident in the narrative of Harriet Jacobs (Linda Brent), one of the few women to write her story (& she was proprietorial about it too). Ironically, to a modern reader, the flourishes – the ‘Picture if you can, dear reader’ asides – that would have drawn in a nineteenth century reader are somewhat off-putting nowadays: we hope for the unvarnished truth of experience, or a truth that seems unvarnished, anyway.

Helpfully for the fiction writer, the narratives reveal that slaves endured wildly differing conditions synchronically as well as diachronically, and that plantations differed hugely in how they were run, what those enslaved could hope to get away with, what freedoms were allowed or curtailed in terms of movement, what punishments imposed; even such grimly basic matters as whether shoes were available. So as a non-academic I could write my story without too much anxiety that I was failing to capture some single, singular, detailedly true and therefore authentic monolithic account of things only accessible to scholars. There were many experiences, and those we have are only those recorded: other experiences were possible.

Another point to note as far as using slavery narratives as a resource is that the published tales – some ‘as told to’ and therefore mediated to unknown extents by their white amanuenses – were intended to be read by a white audience. Therefore there is behind them of necessity a hidden, largely unspoken version that just occasionally breaks the waterline: the account that might have been written for a black readership, had such a thing then been imaginable. This sense of things unsaid, of things left out, was liberating to me from the point of view of presuming to create a fictional tale: the realization that there was something beyond a greater level of explicitness about the facts of life that might legitimately be added to both historical records and autobiographical writing, something beyond my simple initial impulse to realistically render passionate same-sex love in such a time and place.

While the slave narratives are moving, disturbing and full of insights, they often lack contextualizing detail for the modern reader of 150-200 years later. Writing about my own life now I might say something today like, ‘I topped up my Oyster and got the tube to town’ – perfectly comprehensible to any reader in C21st London. However, in 200 years’ time every element of that statement might be wholly obscure, (‘perhaps he means he ate a heavy meal of shellfish before setting out?’) and it’s certainly lacking in evocative detail – use of money or a payment card, yellow disc on ticket machine, automatic barriers, escalators, sliding doors of carriages, name of tube line etcetera. All this kind of information tends to be absent from primary sources, the more so as their intent was campaigning and therefore contemporary in focus.

Unexpectedly liberating in this regard was the British abolitionist MP J.S. Buckingham’s 1839 Journey through the Southern Slave States. While in many ways a dry read, precisely because he was a tourist (& one critical of slavery, which the British had finally abolished in 1833, to white southern consternation) Buckingham records many details a local would omit, including potted summaries of the economic workings of many of the towns and villages and estates he passed through; competition and lack of competition in stagecoach lines; quality of rooms and food in inns and so on. This – finally – gave me greater confidence in sending my protagonist out into a wider world beyond the plantation’s bounds.

As settings fell into place, the internet was invaluable as an adjunct, of course. What type of pistols were used in 1850; what carriages ridden in; what hats worn? One academic website has assembled advertisements for runaway slaves decade by decade, and you can study the way the phrasing altered over time, and the amounts offered for recapture; and so, without ever stating the year, (because ultimately I felt it would never mean anything to my protagonists), I could embed the tale ever more densely in its period.

All this meant that Cyrus could now leave the wilderness into which he had first run, into which he had been pursued by dogs, and from which he had emerged following a sort of psychic rebirth, and find himself once more among people. And so a break in the writing that lasted nearly five years was ended, and I accelerated forwards.

Buy Drapetomania here (US) & here (UK)

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[gplewis]

a few failed beginnings

Why one writes: to unload one’s neuroses without having to explain what every little thing means. it’s a place to talk without being analyzed; perhaps there’s no skin in the game or it’s post-skin somehow; it’s a vortex with comfy clothes

Luckily I’ll never be as obsessed about the perfection of these pages than I was when I was desperate for progress in those critical formative years of 26, 27, 28, 29 and 30. Yes, I’m a bit self-righteous about my age and experience now. I am a new narrator. 

“Once written, the text becomes fixed.” —Ismail Kadare https://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/1105/ismail-kadare-the-art-of-fiction-no-153-ismail-kadare

thank God I failed at fame

-

I’m an enthusiastic innovator OK with failure; I like the brotherhood of the workday, I make a job a way to satisfaction and participation in the economy a form of play and spirituality; money is value and time is a fresh canvas to blow into and try to be heard by the system in the language it speaks; yes, systems and analytics need their preachers. It’s fun to know what to do and stay focused on the people.

I still want to play piano, sing, play tennis and soccer and baseball, have the choice always to turn to reading or listening (Chopin, Liszt, Rachmaninoff)

—

the book is a record of the person I was, and I feel pride in the young person who was able to write it all down https://theparisreview.org/interviews/6312/henri-cole-the-art-of-poetry-no-98-henri-cole ^ him at 40

another Saturday morning washed up on the shore of the in-between, another new before

comets fly days hum making a song

since women I adored have gone away; it’s OK, I emigrate like a bird to the blinking cursor, Notes track where and how I grew up,

http://www.narrativemagazine.com/issues/poems-week-2011-2012/poem-week/dress-rehearsal-apocalypse-tomas-q-morin like Lazarus he rose from the darkest beds taking the splinter where he broke and carved castles from jagged beds he took time to make

-

My language of obviousness has hollowed out like a hole in a tree and is filling with water; the structure of the Notes is irrelevant in ways - I am not going to publish a memoir about my life experience from 25 to 30; it's good that I have it and I'm proud of the young man who wrote it but I can't see my enthusiasm ever matching up to the action of suggesting someone else read what I have written

writing was a way out of the hell of not knowing myself or what to do

it’s a record of thrashing you’re reading now; thanks

But why throw your Notes at them when you can be nice instead? It’s not like I’m far away. If you ask me for my number I’ll give it to you and we’ll text. We can relate.

—

a tweetstorm I read that mattered https://twitter.com/jonst0kes/status/890970472774602752

life is work. also, love.

ivy climbing around poles, flowers popping out of tractor grates, nature fighting through and against and amid human insistence on place and stillness - nature exerting that time is fluid, everything is burning, things don't remain unbroken; time rusts all

The thing about the moment is it isn't going anywhere; we're gonna be here for the rest of our lives “what I was doing” is never rare; I need not hunt for anecdote https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2018/feb/17/elena-ferrante-im-tired-of-fiction-i-no-longer-see-a-reason-to-go-hunting-for-anecdotes

I have the record of what I was; so much data of two years ago and I edit it; I clean it up, make the trail from birth to hear traversable but we have to live today, bear the burden of survival every hour eat hydrate meditate pray the verbs that keep us together the best thing to do is to be something—use your body, use your day, use your manner of speaking to get a life that’s worth being seen and thought about—so far so good: connive your way to a safe career that finances your creative, spiritual efforts like typing thoughts, reading articles, playing piano, singing, having weekends, taking pictures; of course don’t be a public figure; twentysomethings who haven’t done therapy are going to stay up all day and night clutching their image on screen; you have an ambivalence that is rare and valuable but you have no patience for impressing any media elite

so write and grow to make the truth bearable hit notes well: sing, play, write, message, talk with a backdrop of defensible business career and healthy habits (diet, exercise, water, sleep) live into the years when you know how to write fiction because you have a fuller sense of the human condition - you know no one can save you; you know a profound solitude, a caring, nurturing, generative, restorative relationship with yourself alone at night, in the morning, over lunchtime, standing at a red light—that’s where the joy is

-

looking forward to seeing her was nice

a man typing to make himself feel better about his losses

Andante - walking pace Allegro ma non troppo - fast but without tripping

-

fuck literary elites: no one has a monopoly on what is nice to read, how solitude and disappointment draws eyes down and hearts open, seeking a like-minded soul with whom to bond, whose brave existence can make you feel seen, can give you reason to go on yet another day

one media source is insignificant because everything else is just as available

-

take my lovely worm out of the bag show you what I wrote

[years of sitting with the blinking cursor]

-

drugs, love, money, art, death, freedom, time, social media, banality and justice are all still of interest; they're the only things left to do once you’ve won career

Vanity, fear, desire, competition

thinking, feeling, living my life with access to a keyboard and the endless internet occupying this political and personal moment in time as my body accelerates toward certain demise

-

typing, my voice is all I’m left with here at the edge of late capitalism, Saturday, overcast a plane flies overhead

I have no plans except and love shall stomp a new era

a rainforest glistening with possibilities a house on the coast, working from home so many lives I could explain which could be self-sustaining I have many two-year stints left to luxuriate in

and words will fill the pages of my days because a keyboard is where my soul is home

the people I love are out there people who love are out there

we all want the same thing: a safe home, a supportive community, education, time to pursue our curiosity, to contribute meaningfully

I know who I am now

I’m here for the collapse of capitalism

I’m ready for a role in the world as it and I will be

I fear no fate

I love life, I trust life, I am a fucking miracle

I think people will get what they deserve Good people find each other and

Bad people get found out.

the lame crown-pieces at the tops of traditional hierarchies who don’t do anything difficult or admirable are gonna come crashing down

systems of government based on blockchain technology, i.e. transparency

get the rich people at the top out of power—distribute wealth down for education, health care, housing, food, infrastructure, community projects

why is this money sitting in bank accounts? 2017 is the light shone on all dark corners of American reality and the 99% are not going quietly to their desk jobs

millennials are killing everything wasteful and actually think about consequences and interconnectivity

I was made for the future I am just as opinionated and demanding as I was at 26 at the height of burning intensity

Now I've gotten therapy and found a safe career and I'm 100% logged on

and we know that connection is the electric pursuit so

edit something in public and realize it doesn’t need to be there!

working on your front door is good work to do because everyone walks through

06. Connection is the electric pursuit reread and skimmed 10/10 10:11am (21 pages)

As my aging MacBook circles the drain, I wonder: have I overestimated my computing needs? https://motherboard.vice.com/en_us/article/wj9bdm/i-tried-to-replace-my-laptop-with-my-phone-and-a-dollar20-bluetooth-keyboard how much footprint do I really need? I will have to learn how little I have to control (as far as images stored and available and my habits well-worn, i.e. I know the click and search path to getting any particular image I can remember - always honing my library - perhaps that’s the fate of man who’s transcended hourly rate and execution for others’ profit-making schemes

https://www.technologyreview.com/s/511276/free-speech-in-the-era-of-its-technological-amplification/

late nights engaged in conversations on Usenet https://medium.com/s/trustissues/the-messy-fourth-estate-a42c1586b657

to be imaginatively drawn into the sticky world of some nearby human being’s home life https://www.technologyreview.com/s/410623/i-just-called-to-say-i-love-you/

The numbers keep getting worse: the true energy costs of AI, connected devices, and cryptocurrency https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2017/dec/11/tsunami-of-data-could-consume-fifth-global-electricity-by-2025 written by a beautiful woman ripe with life https://genius.com/Talib-kweli-joy-lyrics

The numbers keep getting worse: a memoir of a civilization before its collapse

tsunami of data will consume all Human Resources https://twitter.com/katecrawford/status/1046766828939341824?s=21 giving to the void of send, to the possibly seen the atomization of my desire to be real that’s what will take up electricity for the rest of days

our endless desire for connection is what kills us in the end!
 OR we become part of the worldwide effort to save humanity in heroic fashion by therapy for everyone, a collective Kumbaya, a come-to-Jesus moment where we actually come to [have?] a savior and worship, love and people are loved and adored instead of fear and money but we love images and the devices that serve we are comfortable holding an abstraction of the world in our hands and we can operate our piece in it and yes, then we sit down to dinner and realize our body is just the container of our situation...our body is an emissary of the struggle for survival and love we are in this year this month

The craving for that single stranger-filled neighborhood would not stop with the telegraph. Over the next hundred years, radio, television, and even the telephone all dramatically increased the number of daily interactions people have with information. https://medium.com/@Marinaccio/the-telegraph-changed-how-you-spend-your-time-9a691d860e11