I’m writing to inform you of a special date coming up soon. On Sunday, May 24th at 6:00 pm (doors at 5:30 pm), I will be playing a show at my favourite spot, Art House, with good friend Kyla. Kyla plays that brand of emotional, folky guitar that sends you ruminating about the things you wish you’d done, or the way you wish things were. Kyla’s music is quiet, focussed, and gentle as it flips through different chapters of desire, regret, happiness, and peace in the moment. I’ve never seen Kyla play a full show before (open mic friends), and neither have you, because it’s their first full show. If you are in Ottawa, we would love to share some space and time with you. Tickets are available now:

https://sairyo.live/event/4356/adam-fortais-ep-release-zcbbhr

Love,

Adam Fortais

Actually, I have a bit more to say about this.

This is going to, in a sense, be my EP release show. Yes, I debuted The Only Living Boy in Ottawa and You’re Dead a few months ago, and even told you about TOLBiO on this blog, but I’m celebrating my committing these songs to the physical world (not that data isn’t stored through physical processes, it’s just that, you can’t really touch my bandcamp page). Yes, I have commissioned the production of cassette tapes to share these EPs (and a surprise, bonus “Live and Concussed” on the b-side).

Why cassettes you ask?

Why indeed.

The main argument I suppose is economic. If we assume there is desire for physical media, then CDs and cassettes are the cheapest ways to go. A 50-count vinyl order will cost you something like $2000 to manufacture. 50 cassettes came to somewhere around $400.

But that’s not exactly the point. The point is, people still want physical objects. Otherwise, we would live in Apple Store-like apartments with dust collecting on empty surfaces.

I love physical media, and I love physical art. I collect pamphlets, flyers, zines, books… essentially anything that carries the printed word. Printed word specifically. I don’t have any audio-based reasons to love physical media. But I still do, and have many vinyl records.

I think physical art objects matter. They anchor experience in the material world (which I often, more often now that I work at a desk, don’t do as much as I’d like). A song on streaming can feel ambient and infinitely replaceable, but a cassette, book, photograph, or painting occupies space, ages over time, carries marks of handling, and asks for deliberate interaction. That material presence creates memory and attachment differently than purely digital media.

Physical objects also communicate intention and context. Packaging, texture, typography, imperfections, even wear become part of the artwork itself. In underground music especially, the object often signals community, labour, scarcity, and care: someone designed this, assembled it, carried it to a venue, handed it to another person. The medium becomes part of the meaning.

Prior to the cassettes, I had been toying with lyric books with download codes. I figured, if I saw Okkervil River again live, I would be less into grabbing a t-shirt (they know some good visual artists, but that’s not what I like about them) and more into grabbing something that represents their art more literally. A record comes with the art and lyrics. A record or book grows old with you. It shows wear. You move with it.

But not everyone agrees with me, and I am not Will Sheff from Okkervil River. I work hard to make my lyrics meaningful and memorable but not everyone wants a scrappy little booklet, and not everyone will take meaning from what I sing. Some people will want audio masquerading as physical media. I know I would. But I refuse to ask $50 for an item I’ve created. That would be better used for food and rent. And since I don’t depend on this for my food and rent, there’s just no reason to turn this into a profit making scheme.

I chose cassettes because nobody really needs physical music, some of us just want it. And that interest is not connected to material wealth. I wanted something you could take home that is accessible to everyone. It’s just a side benefit that the lo-fidelity of cheap cassettes plays into my recording style and sound (there is going to be a satisfying smearing of the blown-out parts of my recording that will play nicely on tape). It’s just a coincidence that cassettes have a certain punk nostalgia and edge to them. It’s just luck that anyone who comes to a show has a cassette player.

In a sense, I made a bet that there are others just like me. In a sense, I don’t really care if I’m wrong. Because, as a collector of physical media, I personally want my work on cassette. And if I have to lug an extra 49 tapes around with me until I die, the space they take up will represent the work I put into these songs. And that’s worth approximate 250 cubic inches. Plus, if you don’t like a song, you can tape over it?

If you aren’t at the show and would like a cassette, subscribe and reply via email (either reply to THIS email), or at fortaisadam@gmail.com subject CASSETTE! with you name and address.

PS: Art House is a great place in Ottawa. They support expression and community, they are cozily placed in an old home, they host all sorts of events, and they have a Patreon! I am a member, and that gets you some nice little kickbacks. Here’s their link: https://www.patreon.com/5255759/join

Ok, bye for now, for real.

Love,

Adam Fortais

They also make very shrewd business decisions. Recent discourse around the band now focusses on their strategy of using powerful and expensive social media engineering strategies to push their music. One could argue that this is not fundamentally different from strategies of the past; it’s still paying for exposure. But, like many innovations, it’s completely blown the past techniques out of the water. And I think that’s a problem.

Please note, THE article on this topic, You Don’t Actually Like Geese by Maximum Exposure, lays out the nuts and bolts of all this. This is my attempt of contextualizing and synthesizing what I read.

…it is not payola. This is more diffuse, more ambient, more pervasive, less about paying for exposure than about engineering the conditions under which exposure feels inevitable. (Max Expos)

This is the effect of a new system of social engineering and “promotion” employed by a variety of companies. It attempts to simulate the momentum of a once-in-a-lifetime chance to discover something great. It consists of controlled accounts of micro-influencers, false-fans and engineered doses of exposure to the band.

The playbook

Some of the tactics described by these firms include the creation of burner “fan” ecosystems, where hundreds of meme pages, niche genre accounts, and aesthetic profiles are launched in parallel to repeatedly post the same song using fake discovery language and “underrated artist” narratives. This is important as it simulates the impression of organic cultural emergence rather than feel like coordinated promotion. This is reinforced by content blasts in which multiple accounts post the track over a short period of time, using slightly varied captions and formats to simulate coincidence and trigger algorithmic momentum. At the same time, comment section engineering floods posts with fake or semi-controlled engagement to manufacture “social proof”, making the response appear authentic to new viewers. Micro-influencer seeding further masks the campaign by distributing the song through numerous smaller accounts that present it as a casual, personal find, while trend baiting ties the track to existing memes, dances, or repeatable formats to accelerate its spread within already active channels of attention (see: Max Expos).

And it’s pervasive. It seems like almost everyone does it. Again, I defer to Max Expos for a more detailed account, but the gist is this: it’s not simply dumping music onto the airwaves to be discovered, it’s generating a level of immersion that forces you to actively decide to avoid it. But here’s the thing. The technique lives and dies on social media platforms. You can just turn those things off, eh?

Culture or Commodity

Unfortunately, this changes music. It reminds me of another article that used the framework of music as art versus music as commodity [Thakrar, 2023, though I’d bet others have said the same thing]. The idea is that streaming services and the like have commodified music in the way that utilities like water are commodified. That is, you pay for the flow, the stream, not the individual products you consume. Turning on Spotify is like turning on the tap; you pay a fee for access to capital-M Music. This is fundamentally different from buying an album, which the piece describes as like buying bottled water. Streaming or commodified music is the perfect place for these new marketing techniques to work. It is not where real culture grows. I want to unpack that a little more.

For many, music is identity, and in a lot of cases these people identify with a counter-culture, whatever that happens to be at the time. Commodification and massive marketing campaigns have removed the exclusivity of being a part of something. Not to be confused with gatekeeping, but if tomorrow I decided I was a thrash metal guy, I don’t need to buy a bunch of Slayer records (are they thrash metal?), I can just put on a This Is Thrash Metal playlist and go nuts. I’ll find some gems, things that can get me started down the long(?) road to inclusion into the scene… but wait, where did the scene go?

Starving artists have been squeezed out. I truly believe that. I like good, well-written and well-produced music as much as the next person, but here’s the thing: the way I enjoy music is too slow for the modern world. My favourite albums rarely get there without a fight. Black Sheep Boy by Okkervil River was not hitting the first dozen times I heard it. But I got the sense there was an artistic statement in there I just wasn’t getting quite yet. Eventually, it became my favourite album of all time (maybe). Geese hit me like a tube of Pringles. I loved it from the first pop and I’m still reaching for it when I don’t know what I want to eat. But listen. As much as I love Getting Killed and 3D Country, it’s just not a home cooked meal. It’s the McSalad Shaker. It could be absolutely satisfying, but its a hollow meal. I do not feel connected with anything or anyone in particular. I believe some amount of friction helps the process, be that finding music through friend recommendations (kind of what these social marketing methods try to simulate), walking into a show off the street, or inheriting it from someone you care about. These marketing strategies sweep you up into thinking some of these things have happened to you, but they haven’t, and it’s not the same.

How to Escape (Aspirational)

Here’s the thing. We’ve attacked the organic music discovery from every angle, so what can we do? Music discovery is largely tied to social media and playlists now (surrogate for “heard from a friend”), access to the means of distribution is largely in the hands of streamers (surrogate for buying records), and depending on where you live, live music might only just be recovering from COVID.

And meanwhile, bands with money are able to coordinate across these platforms such that you cannot escape what is being pushed. The music commodity world we have created, it turns out, can be ultimately gamed by these promotional companies and there is very little that can be done about it (except turning everything off). They have developed a weapon that moves faster than any one person’s thoughts, simulates the hype and excitement of finding bands organically, and unifies the narratives around that band. Geese in particular, while around for a long time before they jumped into this sick game, were given a narrative that they are the saviors of rock and roll that was so ingrained into people’s social feeds, that their hype far outpaced their value. And it’s pissing people off now.

I’m sure it must be exhausting, keeping up to the relentless turnover of social media. It comes with instant and guided engagement at the expense of giving the audience time to come to their own conclusions and make lasting connections with music. As I’ve said several times now, I like Geese, so it’s hard for me to say this… but if this is the only way I would have found the band… I think I’d rather have never heard of them. The method is too dangerous, it works too well, and it eats up space for traditional bands as we get force-fed the highest bidders.

But again, I must insist… Geese can’t get you if you turn off the feed. But what does it look like to turn off the tap? To find capital M music (counterculture inclusive), it could include visiting open mic nights and local shows. Supporting new bands when they tour. Buying some merch. Geese are tap water, and my friends are sparkling water. Buy the sparkling water. It’s not that we are the only victims here; I believe that Geese have flown too close to the sun with this one, and it’s compromising the perceived authenticity of their movement. They could have had it all, if they just went slow. Or could they have? No, I don’t think they could have.

It’s likely that most people don’t know we are hollowing out the core from which art comes, but now that I know, I can’t unknow. We need to return to slow music; buying an album and having to listen to it for a few weeks, whether it hits right away or not. Taking a flyer on a random weeknight show. Supporting your friends. You’re going to feel like you are missing out, avoiding the rapid churn of The Algorithm, and you will be. But who’s hungry when we’re being force-fed? Go to shows. Buy local. Avoid playlists. Chew your food. Don’t choke.

If you made it this, far, congrat-you-lations! Here is me, sick and concussed, playing everyone’s favourite Geese song at home instead of on-stage. Protect your health.

I’ve written WELL over 100 words since my last email, but you never got to see them. I genuinely love the process of writing though. Sometimes I write down what’s happening around me in one of dozens of little pocket books that I probably cut from Tomoe River paper and bound between the leaves of a folded postcard used as a cover. If I die, I don’t know if I’d let anyone read them, but they exist.

But here’s the thing; I also wrote a bunch of stuff that people did get to see. And then I sang these pieces into microphones across Ottawa, including one connected to a laptop my brilliant ex-PhD-supervisor and friend bought for me…

Yes, friends, I’m here to plug my music. Here, I am going to walk through the first of two EPs I released in the last few months. Single cassettes with liner notes and both EPs will be available by the end of May.

The Only Living Boy in Ottawa

The Only Living Boy in Ottawa is a collection of songs mapping the introverted confusion of a modern guy living in the nation’s capitol. But just because things are challenging, it doesn’t mean we can’t still fall in love. Think Notes from the Underground by a guy who is trying to be likable.

It’s Not Nihilism… is a state of the union. Reality is a terrifying place to be right now and the feeling that you can’t do anything about it is real.

Brush My Hair is, in a sense, a song about growth, or at least acknowledging your roots, and feeling hopeful you will get to the place you really want to be. It can be baffling when someone sees the good in you when you don’t. Our protagonist gives in to love despite feeling unworthy of it.

Performative Reader follows a person conflicted; are they the mask they wear or is there something authentic that’s being hidden? Is the authentic self an anxious little guy? Does he go out an hide in public, trying to find self-worth in other people? Know anyone like that?

Finally, we reach the least semi-autobiographical track of the EP. Paradise by the Gaslight reflects the stories I’ve heard from people living in Ottawa during the so-called freedom convoy. Largely, my take is that anyone outside of Ottawa did not truly understand what it was like, and maybe we did a bad job of showing them support.

This EP was recorded in my home office with acoustic guitar, electric guitar, bass, and various improvised methods of percussion (tapping microphones, clapping, slapping thighs…). The goal was a lo-fi, “I found this on an old cassette” type of experience. The bass tone was inspired by the growling distorted bass of In the Aeroplane Over the Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel. I submitted these songs to a website that allows you to solicit opinions from other musicians. Largely, the response was tentatively positive but largely negative. Here are a few.

“Desde luego la apuesta tiene posibilidades muy interesantes, pero la calidad de la producción es demasiado baja para poder valorar la música. Una cosa es hacer un producto lofi y otra grabar de manera poco cuidadosa. Con esta voz, si se busca un buen modelo de grabación, se podrían hacer cosas interesantísimas y este talento las.merece! En torno a 1:15 es genial! Un cambio buenísimo! “

English: “Clearly the project has very interesting potential, but the production quality is too low to properly judge the music. There’s a difference between making a lo-fi product and recording carelessly. With this voice, if a good recording setup is used, really interesting things could be done — this talent deserves it! Around 1:15 it’s brilliant! A great change!”

"Authentic, and I very much appreciate the production; I think many people will misinterpret the fried sound as amateurish, but those people are certainly not songwriters. Well done."

"I really like the lyrics (and the song title). This is kind of perfect lo-fi acoustic stuff. Kind of like early bright eyes or something. oh sweetI like it around 1:18 when it gets bigger. oh yeah, big bright eyes vibes now, and that's cool with me. This song rules. You're crushing it. "

Essentially, the production is the sticking point. I am an amateur. But I’m also a capable dude. I’ve had friends recommend I go into a professional studio, but I don’t know. I feel like that would be antithetical to what I’m trying to do here. Which, if you were to ask me, “what are you trying to do here?” I think I would say…

…

…

I don’t really know. That’s a topic for another post.

Thank you for reading and listening. I would really appreciate any thoughts you have on the songs. If you would like a “high-quality” download, please visit the BandCamp widget (below the Spotify widget). Soon, I will have cassettes (that come with annotated lyric books and download codes) available for purchase. They aren’t ready yet but they will be, and when they are, you will know about it. And if you are in Ottawa, follow me on Instagram (at)adamfortais to be the first to hear about shows (there are several coming up this spring/summer).

Oh, last thing. I haven’t been here in a while and look what they added to the platform:

Jesus Christ.

Love,

Adam Fortais

I boarded the train at 5:25, departing at 5:45, but arrived at 3:00. The train and I started in Ottawa. I did not want to board the train, but I did anyway. The train would not bring me satisfaction or joy. The train would simply bring me to Montreal. There, I would work towards my life’s purpose - not a moment of which would satisfy my intrinsic desires. This was a work trip. I boarded the train with determination and petulance. A bad mood. What a baby.

I looked down the long, narrow, set of rooms defining the train’s guts. My prison for the next couple hours. I imagined it as a series of interconnected coffins, serviced by a collared, short-sleeve-shirt-wearing ghoul. The ghoul was sort of handsome in a Miami beach kind of way, with tattoos poking out of the sleeves. We are in business class so he is slinging wine/vin. “Francais ou English, sir?”

I sit and wait, and our coffins begin moving. The pallbearers are heavily burdened but carry their load well. My writing is still legible despite the bumps and gentle sway. I hate the people engrossed in their books, in their movies, in their conversations. It’s jealousy, which I write about. I judge them but all I really see are people more satisfied than myself. I feel pathetic and childish, and I write that down too.

The sun is already setting as we reach Alexandria. I fixate for a while on the red-orange glow as houses by the dozen fly through my periphery. The hot ghoul is wheeling his cart up the aisle and offers me a beer. I debate it for a second in my head, finish my wine without relish, and accept. As the final streaks of sunlight fade, I think that we are being lowered into the ground. But I’m not ready for sleep… I look at my reflection in the useless blackened windows. As I move closer, into the window seat next to me, I see diamonds. Stars. Headlights, tail lights, streetlights. Lights from windows far off floating in the void. This isn’t a coffin, it’s a spaceship. Why didn’t I see it before? I feel a little better.

We re-enter orbit and after a while emerge amidst baseball fields and stadium lights, becoming high schools, surely running extracurricular programming at this hour. The buildings get wider and taller, growing into towers and sprawling complexes. Vegetation disappears in favour of cement. I realize that the beauty of space was a deathdream, and that I am being exhumed in the heart of the city - hair filthy, matted, and caked in dirt. I shamble behind the line of similar zombies, diverting eventually to reach my far-too-nice hotel.

My card is declined several times for the security deposit. The hotelier suggests that maybe the machine has high standards. I’m unsure if this is a poor translation or a dig at my wrinkled t-shirt and ballcap. I apologize for not living up to her expectations. She backpedals and insists it’s the machine’s fault. On my way up to the room I notice an absinth bar off to the side of the lobby. I got to my room. I unpacked and thought about old movies and smoking. I went back downstairs.

The bar masked my traveller’s smell with anise. I ordered the Distillerie Mariana’s Balzac 70%. A glass, bottle, slotted spoon, and elegant 4-spigot silver-and-glass water decanter were brought out. The clear green liquid was poured into the glass, maybe 2 ounces worth. The spoon, much flatter than a typical spoon with elegantly carved slots, was balanced atop the glass, a sugar cube atop that. One of the spigots was lined up over the whole system, set to drip agonizingly onto the sugar cube, which dissolved bit by bit on impact, dropping into the glass. Each drop that entered the liquor created a tiny white-ish plume that made the resulting cocktail increasingly opaque. Eventually, the colour shifted from pine cleaning fluid to nurse-scrubs green. All the while I sat writing this; my holy screenplay of mundane moments. I’m trying to turn them into something more meaningful than what they really are. I think to myself, I’m spinning shitty gold from straw. I wonder if that’s good. I wonder what purpose that serves. Am I enriching my life through this sort of fantastical reflection? Or am I widening the gulf between my reality and the picture I have of myself? Sitting here, pretending this will be read by anyone, that they will take anything from it? Meanwhile I understand this section will surely be cut from the final piece because as stupid as I feel writing it, it will certainly feel worse reading it back. Surely there is a simpler, less dramatic way to say what I’m trying to say.

I took a break to listen to the soft-spoken French Canadian bartender tell his other clients about how his girl, Luna the Jack Russel, refused to swim with him during his last vacation because of the cold. He shows the Aussie couple a video of her not entering a body of water.

I drift back to unreality. My absinth is appropriately diluted so I stop the dripping. It is delicious. Bitter citrus notes cut cleanly through the overwhelming licorice and anise flavours and I feel drunk immediately. I’m already tempted to try another vintage. Is this the way I find satisfaction? Happiness? Almost certainly not, at least not fully. But why am I thinking this now? There is joy in exploration, but am I just covering something up?

A saggy, leathery man in a black suit and t-shirt walks heavily to the bar and, still standing, calls out his order of One White Russian To Go. To Be Taken Upstairs. Next to him sits a meek looking grey haired man in a grey suit, thin moustache, grey tie, and a sort of French inspector from yesteryear look about him. He sits behind his tall, thin pint glass and shifts his eyes to watch the various scenes unfolding. His posture is perfect. We make eye contact and I straighten my slouch. I leave it to the reader to decide if I eventually ordered another.

As I am paying, the bartender asks if I'm seeing the Green Fairy. “No, sadly, not tonight”. “But it is a different feeling, no?” “Can't say I follow, but it does feel more medicinal than a pint. Maybe it will cure me.” “Of what, friend?” “Ah, I'm just joking. Thanks for everything.”

I wake up again and again and again in my room. Each time I slough off a different persona, a different dreaming reality. When I wake up at 5:00 I am a blank canvas. I am Adam. The first man, alone in the early morning silence. I look out the 17th floor window and nothing moves. I begin brewing a coffee, the fruit of knowledge. As the machine moans and sputters, I put on yesterday’s t-shirt and the complimentary slippers, and scrub my teeth. It is in these early moments that I am spared from reflection. I don’t have to be about anything, I just exist, high above the world. I am pleased. The coffee finishes brewing and I take the cup into my hands. As I take my first sip, a flood of thoughts pour into me.

A while later - days later - I return to the train, travelling in the opposite direction. I’m reading a book by Sabrina Orah Mark, recommended to me by a good friend, wherein she reflects on Kevin Brockmeier reflecting on the end of Rumpelstiltskin. At the end of the story, Rumpelstiltskin becomes so frustrated about his name being found out that he stomps half of himself into the ground and spins the rest into gold:

When the last of the hum whisks from the treadle and into the air, he is gold through and through. He lies there perfect, glinting, and all together gone. Half of Rumpelstiltskin is the whole of the picture and nowhere in it. He is beautiful, and remunerative, and he isn’t even there to see it. Half of Rumpelstiltskin has spun himself empty. There is nothing left of him.

He tears himself in half amidst everyone laughing at him. He discards the half and becomes beautiful and inert. He cleaves off the part of him that reflects and responds to external criticism and acceptance, that has the power of self perception and transforms into something beautiful, singular, and without want. I can’t tell if this is a happy ending but I’m tired and it sounds ok.

This is not a book review. It’s more like a reflection. Something the book suggests makes us unhappy. Something fundamental about how we operate that causes anguish (which is technically defined somewhere halfway through the book). The thing that sets us apart from the animals - namely, dogs.

The main idea in this book is that dogs are happier than humans because they do not reflect on themselves, their actions, or their lot in life, in the same way that humans do. By contrast, the author makes the case that humans live two lives - an internal life, and an external life - only the former of which dogs have. The internal life, he suggests, relates to the actions and thoughts that come from following one’s nature. The external life is one where we consider how we are seen from a bird’s eye view. Humans go through life marching to the cadence of their heart, so to speak, but also have the lingering sense of Is this what I really should be doing? What do other people think? Am I living up to my potential? Am I happy? These are the kind of questions one poses when they are thinking of themselves from an external viewpoint. An entity without an external perspective like that - say, a dog, would rather go about doing the things that are important to them and, in doing so, feel a sense of satisfaction and happiness. They don’t need lifetime achievement awards to tell them they are a good boy, nor do they care if someone tells them their playing with their favorite ball is pointless. They are doing what they are meant to do and they love it.

It’s complicated though. Because a quick read of that idea might suggest that the author is saying “dog’s don’t care what other people think, therefore they are happier”. But that’s not quite it. Dogs, like people, are social and will always have an aspect of their nature that desires acceptance from their pack. This still fits into the internal-life side of things defined by intrinsic needs - in this case, the need to fit in with the pack. What they are lacking though, is the capacity to ruminate on how they as an entity are perceived by an outside viewer. They don’t lay awake at night thinking Did Adam think it was cool when I caught the ball in the air? Did he think I was a dummy when I tripped after? Or more relevant to human happiness, Did I accomplish the things today that make for a meaningful life? Why do I do the things I do? Should I change?

Meaning, for animals without the burden of an external, reflective view of life, (the author supposes) comes down to fulfilling one’s “nature”. And from meaning, comes happiness. Chasing a ball and retrieving it is in a retriever’s nature (and name). Doing it, typically, brings a dog great joy and satisfaction, seemingly. It goes to bed at night and dreams about the nice time it had chasing the ball, perhaps. Humans can do that too. The book suggests a trainspotter can get a similar satisfaction out of watching and cataloguing trains. The difference is, the trainspotter can look back at their days and think, Well, that was all very nice, but I really wish I’d have spent more time doing something meaningful. The author contrasts this with the idea of a cancer researcher who utterly hates their job. They might lay awake thinking, Well, I’m glad I’m doing something positive in the world, but I am oh so miserable. This is someone fulfilling the needs of the external life at the expense of the internal, nature-driven side of life. One might think, then, that human meaning and happiness would come from a blend of satisfaction in both spheres of life. And that is probably true. But the author points out that we will always have these two lives to satisfy, keeping us from focusing on either one wholly. Dogs, however, are content being satisfied with just one, and can have a more complete sort of happiness than us. (One might argue that a more complicated form of happiness is actually better and more meaningful; maybe I’ll ask ChatGPT about that.)

The other line of thinking this brought up for me was, ok, dogs don’t care if they are bettering the future of dog-kind, but would they not feel conflict between the need for chasing and say, the need for protecting the pack? Basically, would they not feel a similar split-ness that humans do, but for their internal motivations? I think not, and anyway, not in the same way. Thinking about the hierarchy of importance of intrinsic motivations is something, I think, only possible with that external perspective that dogs allegedly don’t have. On my days off, I have the urge to read, write, see friends, and skateboard. I often enter a state of choice paralysis and defer to the external - what should I do. What this “should” means and where it comes from can be different for different people, but for me, it’s usually something like, Is this bettering me in some way? Is this progressing my development or plot? What would others think of my choice? These are thoughts that come from an external perspective. A dog might see a toy they love, a treat they love, and a person they love and have to decide which nature they want to fulfill - their love of play, snacks, or community, but they don’t have the layer of wondering what their choice will say about them and how they are seen. Where I might choose to see friends despite really wanting to finish this little essay, because if I ditch them again, I’ll be seen as a recluse or an anti-social weirdo (breaking from my desire to be seen as a good friend), a dog might go see the person they love because it will make them the happiest in the moment, or provide them the joy they get from community. For the Christians in the room, the author likens this distinction to Adam and Eve pre- and post-fruit. Once they ate of the fruit of knowledge, they could see themselves from an external perspective, robbing them of the simplicity of worldview that dogs get to have. Their world expanded, and as a result, they could never be fully satisfied ever again.

This made me think of the millennial hustle culture and the desire that seems to plague my generation - to turn hobbies and interests into something more than just intrinsically-motivated acts of self-service. For instance, one might love writing in their journal and do it as a form of self-care (read: task that speaks to your nature, that makes you feel good, that makes you happy). But it is self-serving, and from an external view one might think, This is fine, but it doesn’t have meaning. It doesn’t progress my personal plot, or develop me from an outsider’s perspective. So they perhaps try to make this interest serve both masters - they start a blog. Making one’s writing public, in theory, allows for one to fulfill their nature while also getting to develop how they think they are perceived externally. To make their writing have some sort of grander meaning. Depending on what someone is looking for from the external, one might try to monetize their interest (a paid tier on the blog, for example), share their work in the form of printed zines, or otherwise turn their output into something productive. The millennial urge to turn be internally and externally satisfied with the same task… It has ruined many a hobby for many a person, I would imagine.

That’s what I took from the book. It’s actually sort of grim because, after all of this discussion, we are left with seemingly no closure. I read through the thing thinking, At some point this is going to come together into a sort of recommendation for balancing these two lives. Unfortunately, I saw no such suggestion. However, it does present some questions that can maybe be functionalized into something productive. For instance:

1. What is my nature, the things that bring me intrinsic joy? On the other hand, what are the things that I do to satisfy the external viewpoint?

2. How can I honour the things that bring me internal satisfaction in the moment and not slip into thinking I can satisfy both lives from the same thing?

3. Are there things I do that attempt (and fail) to bring these two lives together? I’m dangerously close with this blog/newsletter. I’m dangerously close with what I do for work. Can I be ok that some of the things I choose to do will only satisfy one life or the other?

I don’t think these are novel ideas, but I do enjoy a rigorous framework for re-inventing things. Another formulation of these ideas might then be…

There are things we do as self-care; we should be in the moment when we do those things, and we should not worry too much about the cost of doing these things. However, we have another life to live that asks us to create a version of ourselves that we are proud of, that makes us happy. Like pursuing and advancing a career. Sometimes these needs will overlap (when you have a really satisfying day at work (external) doing something you truly enjoy (internal), or when you play a really good set at open mic (internal) and someone tells you you almost brought them to tears(external)). But these are exceptional cases. Usually, you go to work to fulfill the requirements set before you to progress in life or create something meaningful from your life, whether you find it fun or not. Usually, you go to the skatepark to feel the rumble of wheels under your feet, wind in your hair… maybe see friends. You don’t need to record and post big tricks on social media or become a pro to find meaning in skateboarding, you can just do it and enjoy it. Like a dog chasing a ball.

Things I’ve been up to:

Music: I’m on Spotify with original music and Youtube with open mic covers.

Writing: I found a weird email from my time as a physics grad and it’s inspired me to use it to write a serialized story. Stay tuned.

Printing: I bought a printer and started distributing editions of ΣΣ and other bits of writing. I will be more active in attending zine swaps etc in the future, including one THIS WEEKEND in Ottawa. Come say hi and grab a physical copy of Σverything Σlse, or an advanced copy of the first several chapters of the serialized story ;)

Printing, cont.: Oh, hey, are you a zine person? Would you like me to hawk your zines at the fair this weekend? I’d be happy to print a few for you. Let me know!

Tis the season to be out with the sun (or bright haze) all day, getting street-grimey and tired, and this weekend was perfect for it.

The sun came out fully on Friday, melting the last bits of snow covering the neighborhood skatepark. With a bit of shoveling and ice picking, all of the flat space was cleared (if still a bit wet) and the ramps were well on their way to being useable. A handful of keen skaters assembled and started the weekend early, busting the rust off coping, rail, and themselves. A few came just to bask on the cement banks like lizards and smoke weed. They seemed happy.

“Yeah man, it’s just, with this wild winter, I knew I couldn’t keep working hourly, there were entire weeks that’d go by and I wouldn’t get the call, just no snow to clear or anything. So I finally got another gig that is salary. But I gotta be careful when I skate now because any time off my feet comes out of my pay now so I don’t know. It’s all good though. Skate for fun, you know?”

The weekend proper was overcast but warm, bringing with it periodic bits of rain and mist, but plenty of opportunity to get out on the board again. One thing you miss from mostly skating parks is the occasional interaction with the non-skating public. Most will give you a passing glance, some will stop to watch for a little while, especially if they have kids with them. Rarely (but more often than you might expect), someone will camp out with you to chat. That's how I met Sebastian.

“Hey man, I love what you’re doing here, using the public space for activity. I don’t skate but I BMX sometimes. Never here, but I did used to come here with my ski team when I was a kid, a lot like the runners over there, and we’d do running intervals where you and your friend’s bags are. We’d be here all morning like you guys, just running back and forth from under this bridge to the bend by the canal, just about half a k down from here. It’s a pretty tough hill you know. But yeah, it’s great you guys are out here. Me? I’m just taking a walk. I just had a little non-invasive surgery on my neck right? See? Yeah, it was just a cyst but like, you never know eh? You always have to get it checked out. Always. Some people you know, get the diagnosis and in 2 weeks, kaput. But me? Wasn’t anything I’m just out here now going for a walk. Having a beer, you know. I live over in Orleans right? So yeah, I’m just having a walk. It’s good, you know? The weather is good so I’m out here trying to stay active - yeah ok maybe cracking a beer or two is not so good, it’s maybe kind of pathetic but you know it’s ok, they cancel out right? Do you smoke weed? C’mon, you skate, I know how it is. But it’s actually not that bad for you, the cannabis can kill some of the cancer cells or something, so I think it’s ok. But yeah, I’m just out enjoying the sights. Like, three weeks ago eh, I was around here again just walking around and it was Winterlude right? And all sorts of people were out and some chicks, some tourist was out so I says why don’t I take you for a tour down around here, so we’re walking. Then she says her cousin is out of the hotel for the night and why don’t we go back there and we get there and she goes to the washroom and comes out just panties right? So like, what am I supposed to do right? But yeah, it’s good being out and talking to you but it would be better if you were a chick eh! But anyway, you know you just can’t go around following your own heart, because it’s got two sides to it, a good and a bad part. I didn’t know that when I was younger so I followed my own heart. And I don’t mean to sound like a preacher, but I found out you have to follow God’s heart. But anyway, like I said about the skiing, we used to come down here to train, and when I was older I’d go up to Banff to ski, but if you ever go and its not for skiing, you gotta go in the summer, it’s beautiful when all the trees are covered in leaves and everything, otherwise it’s just snowy and there isn’t much going on. But I’d go up there and there’d always be these Australian girls living there for a couple months for vacation, all tanned you know? And they’d sometimes get jobs up there too, so you always get to see them. So you go up and they’re everywhere, and they’re so damn beautiful. But around here the skiing sucks, it’s nothing like up there. But you know, when I was a kid and I’d be on the ski team and you know how it is with the race suits and they’re all tight and shit, and you’re going up the lift with a cute girl and you get to the top and you gotta get off but you’re all bent over like this cuz you have a boner right? It’s brutal, when you’re a kid and you get them all the time. But it’s actually ok though, because we were all teens right and dude the number of handjobs you’d get in the bushes though, it was not bad. But yeah, I’m just out here, maybe I’ll meet a hot girl today, it will be a great day. I just got this cyst taken off right, it’s nothing, but you gotta get those things taken care of. You really have to be careful. Like even when I was young, it’s not just older dudes, when I was like, 19 right, I was shaving my balls and I felt a lump, so right away I get on the phone and I called my maman, I said, listen, I found a lump on my balls I need to go to the hospital right away, but in French right, because we speak French to each other. So we rushed over and they did that thing for the pregnant women with the like, pictures and the thing they rub on you and it was just like, a boil or something. I could have gotten it taken out but then it would have been a surgery and they said it wasn’t really worth. They just said, ‘if you are having sex or something and you come and it’s blood, or you feel a warm bursting in your balls, come back to the hospital right away’. But it wasn’t anything serious. But yeah, it is nice seeing you guys out enjoying the space and the weather. Here, let me show you something to study. So it’s good weather but look at this, look at where all the planets are and look at where the world is. They’re all over there and we’re over on this side of the sun, so maybe there’s something going on with that, like, gravity and the tides maybe making el Nino and all that shit, maybe they all have something to do with each other. But either way, I just came down here cuz I had to piss but it’s nice talking to you. My name? Sebastian. But people just call me by my last name. Or like, they try like Seb or Bastian or just Bast, but I don’t like those really. But yeah, have a great day!”

Later that day, I went back to the skatepark for a short session before the rain. As I was leaving, I was asked for assistance from a man in an electric wheelchair with broken English and a grabber on a stick. He was collecting beer cans around the park and identified a few out of his reach. He asked me if I wouldn't help him get the last few and insisted I use his grabber. I recognized him from last spring; he'd always be out for the morning sessions, beating most of the kids and late risers, helping keep the place tidy in his own way. He'd often already have a full load of cans by 8 or 9 am would come to me for the time, killing it while he waited for the can return to open. Today I suppose he was probably making another trip through the park, unless he had changed his weekend schedule. I did clock the detritus of an all-day, sunny afternoon session, likely from the day prior, suggesting this was his first trip to the park.

Though I don't love it for reasons of public perception, it seems inevitable that the park turn into a boozy picnic location for the early-20s skaters. There is rarely an issue with this, but it does ultimately make it more challenging to convince the city to put more money into the parks. Luckily, the public space has its own ecosystem that does reasonably on its own. But of course, it's not really "on its own". It's the interplay between all the different users of the space - even the guy who brings his dog to play catch over the ramps and banks when no one else is there - all making small decisions that affect the look and cleanliness.

Both myself and the man collecting cans left when the rain started.

Winter has overstayed its welcome. So sayeth me. The morning frosts and eternal piling of snow, condensed by warmth, sublimated away, refrozen, re-piled; there is no more appetite for it.

In Ottawa we are entering a late-winter phase of hopefulness, but it’s coming too early. One can tell when it’s a false spring. It gives just enough to remind one of last spring, or that one when you were 14 that came on an early, balmy wind and let you and your skateboard out in just a t-shirt for a couple hours. But soon enough, the exposed asphalt is buried again and one is made to wait weeks or months for a reprieve from the cold.

Yes, the worst of it is over - the days are getting longer again - but it’s not enough. My mood still sets at 5. Maybe 5:30 now. I still live in the dark, diffuse light of winter. It’s said that Toronto has had 30 hours of sunlight this winter - true, direct sunlight. Ottawa has had less. Maybe. Who keeps track of things like this? I assume it’s all just a hunch. Still, it is not nearly enough.

Is that what it means to be an adult? To live with ugly ambiguities?

from Kitchen, by Banana Yoshimoto

The last few days have opened up the sidewalks and roads to their cold, dry bones. Snow still covers the rest of the ground, but hard, smooth surfaces are salty and clear. It could almost bring a tear to one’s eye. In fact, it might. The sunlight’s glare off the crystalline glaze at the corners of road and sidewalk reflect the prodigal sun into one’s eyes, and it’s lovely. But it’s just a flash, a quick reprieve before true winter returns. An unlovely and frozen promise. Until then, there is time to be out and unmiserable. I took the morning to roll (poly)urethane and wood, to wake up the neighbors, and to lose some of the skin on my knees. It’s been months since I’ve made crushing impact with concrete or cement, and the meeting I had this morning is a rough reminder of summer and what I’ve been missing. It’s unfair to think that some people get to pound their bodies as such, all year long.

Ever read a character and wish so hard to not see them as relatable? The kind of character you have to convince yourself does not reflect you at all? Dear reader, I was embroiled in exactly that anxious feeling last week while reading the fictional notes of a self-described rat. A man of self-assured intellect and self-effacing world view. By some metrics, a coward, but a self-righteous coward with the tendency towards outbursts of indignation. Readers, Dostoevsky’s Notes From the Underground - the “confessions” of an isolated and wretched man - develops a character that the depressive in me could not help but see glimmers of the self in. It’s grotesque, thrilling, and, I think, the whole point.

The Underground Man speaks directly to you, knowing full-well that there is no one on the other side (making this whole exercise a sort of found-footage thing). It’s a document never intended to be read, and yet here we are. Still, he frames everything as a sort of dialogue or argument between himself and a reader he knows not to exist. This goes a long way in painting a picture of his loneliness. Especially the superior tone he takes with us, it is as if he could never see his reader as equal let alone a friend, but rather an entity to be conquered. He describes this tendency in more detail later, in the context of a school friend who he never really could be friends with. We find that this tendency conforms with his worldview, which he outlines in the first section of the notes.

The Underground Man sees himself as superior, implicitly, by understanding his horrible nature which he claims is shared with all of humanity. Much of his pseudo-dialogue is concerned with human nature, determinism, and the myth of a utopia. In short, he argues against the possibility of a truly utopian society, since it is natural for humanity to assert its own free will, which it will eventually do in the form of harm to self and others. This free will thing is also what leads him to devalue social conventions, that people need to rebel and assert themselves as their own horrible selves. He believes it is mankind’s desire to suffer and spread around the suffering such that any utopian system will eventually crumble, regardless of whether it is logical or in humanity’s best interests to move towards more peaceful and understanding times. This, he sees in others, leading him to hate. He also sees it in himself. The only reason he may consider himself above others is that he has accepted this as an intrinsic part of himself. He is often filled with spite, but instead of attempting to reduce instances of injury and suffering, he focuses on revenge. Largely, this worldview leads to him withdrawing into himself and his underground world. Why leave the cave when society is just as miserable as you but less aware of their lot? He has entered into a state of ennui and depression, leading to his inaction which, at one point, he wishes was out of laziness rather than misery. Specifically, he wishes he were actually a “lazybones”. But he ain’t.

See, readers, haven’t we all been there, at least a little bit? In our reality of 24-hour atrocities streamed directly to us, is it not easy to see human nature as a sick thing? And isn’t it also easy to see the nastiness of human nature in our own worst moments? Hopefully these feelings are minimal and short-lived when they appear. For the Underground Man, he has lived with them for decades, which he reminds us of several times.

And so goes the first section - the Underground Man espouses his depressing philosophy in general, abstract terms, and in a relatively detached and honestly, entertaining way that actually endears him to me to some extent. Sure, I hate most everything he is saying, but it is said in a way I find mesmerizing. Almost to the point of agreeability… It sets the stage for the second part of the book, where we get to see his worldview in action. Through the second part of the book, we are privy to a handful of instances the Underground Man thinks provide evidence for the truth of the first part. Some are more horrible than others. Some are pathetic and oh so relatable. However, the fact that he argues all of these actions stem from the same nature… well, it sort of makes one wonder how far away we really are from the worst parts of his story.

One story he relays, for instance, focuses on an officer who deals to him a perceived injustice. He explains his awareness that likely, the officer did not even know that he slighted the Underground Man (the officer brushed him aside to help intervene in a fight) which he takes as even more reason to be enraged. In response, our Man broods over the instance for years, building more and more of a case against him every time they pass in the street. Our officer, it is said, is the kind of man that takes up the sidewalk and forces others to move out of his way, and that is human nature for you. The Underground Man fantasizes about not getting out of the way even just once, for the sake of justice, even if injury or insult befalls him, if only to demonstrate publicly the officer’s brutish nature (raise your hand, reader, if you’ve ever thought about doing this). Again, for YEARS he holds on to this ire, eventually hatching a plan to do just that. But alas, dear reader, his coat is too shabby, and wouldn’t that make the wrong impression upon the unsuspecting audience? So he borrows money to upgrade the collar of his coat to something more respectable (and muses about his pathetic lot, sewing for revenge… something I’ve not done for revenge per se, but certainly I have holed up and sewed a few nights…). He scopes out his prey and finds the perfect location to stage the event. He is all ready, but finds he hesitates. He comes close several times to making impact, but moves out of the way at the last moment. He is concerned he may not be able to follow through. But one day, he does. Impact. And the officer walks on, unperturbed. And that’s the end of that.

See, reader? Is there not something comic if not charming about this Underground Man? Something relatable? “Certainly something…” you say? Yes, certainly something. If it makes him any more human, he also speaks of social revelries he takes part in from time to time, sometimes lasting weeks, where he puts away his disdain for people and actually enjoys their company. See? Maybe he is just an introvert that has spent too much time alone! Maybe his disgust with human nature is overstated - a front. Maybe he just needs to experience some friendliness and affection? This seems viable, until we receive the rest of his story.

At his worst, which at this point in the book is yet to be described (and will not be fully described here) we watch him assert his dominance among old schoolmates (who do not stand for it and rebuff him), and over a young sex worker who he verbally demeans several times. His abhorrent behavior seems to come directly from his paradoxical self-hatred and sense of superiority, returning to his original theme that human nature dictates that pain and misery by one’s own hand is assured, and ultimately, shared around. He does not present himself as good, but he does present himself as justified in doing it. Sure, he is a loathsome beast, but aren’t we all, he asks. His despicable story ends with him rebuffing the young sex worker’s affection and presents no satisfying conclusion. He claims to be done with his Notes despite a narrator or curator informing us that he in fact continued writing, but that it is probably best we stop reading here. What more is there to say? He has given us his worldview, showed evidence of it through his gross actions, and sinks back into the Underground. And maybe I should do the same.

But, reader, these notes do not end here. In fact, our author continued, discussing the themes of social alienation within the story (with a robot). However, unlike the cowardly Dostoevsky, this discussion is continued below.

Please summarize The Underground Man by Dostoevsky

ChatGPT

"The Underground Man" is a novella by Fyodor Dostoevsky, which serves as an exploration of existentialist themes and the inner turmoil of the human psyche. The story is narrated by an unnamed protagonist, known as the Underground Man, who is a bitter, isolated, and socially awkward individual living in St. Petersburg, Russia.

The Underground Man often reflects on his own experiences and philosophical musings, particularly his disdain for rationality, social conventions, and the emerging ideas of utilitarianism and positivism. He rejects the notion of self-interest as the driving force behind human actions, instead asserting the importance of irrational impulses and individual freedom.

Throughout the novella, the Underground Man grapples with his own sense of alienation, his failed attempts at forming meaningful connections with others, and his profound feelings of inadequacy and resentment towards society. He frequently engages in self-destructive behavior and philosophical debates, yet ultimately finds himself unable to escape the cycle of loneliness and despair.

The novella serves as a critique of rationalism and the limitations of human reason, while also delving into themes of existential angst, free will, and the search for meaning in an indifferent world.

You

Do people find The Underground Man relatable?

ChatGPT

While not everyone may relate directly to the extreme circumstances or personality traits of the Underground Man, many readers find aspects of his character and experiences relatable on a more abstract level. Here are a few reasons why:

1. Feelings of Alienation: The Underground Man experiences profound alienation from society, feeling disconnected and misunderstood by those around him. Many people can relate to feelings of isolation or being an outsider at some point in their lives.

2. Existential Angst: The Underground Man grapples with existential questions about the meaning of life, the nature of free will, and the validity of human existence. These are universal themes that resonate with many individuals as they navigate their own existential crises and search for purpose.

3. Inner Turmoil: The Underground Man's internal struggles with self-worth, insecurity, and the desire for validation are emotions that many people have experienced to varying degrees. His internal monologues and introspective reflections may resonate with readers who have battled similar inner demons.

4. Critique of Society: Dostoevsky uses the Underground Man to critique the flaws and hypocrisies of society, particularly regarding the pressure to conform to social norms and the dehumanizing effects of rationalism and utilitarianism. Readers who have felt disillusioned with societal expectations or the pursuit of material success may find this aspect relatable.

5. Search for Authenticity: Despite his flaws, the Underground Man's rejection of societal conventions and embrace of individual freedom may resonate with readers who value authenticity and independence in their own lives.

Overall, while the Underground Man may not be a wholly sympathetic character, his struggles and philosophical ponderings often strike a chord with readers who have grappled with similar existential dilemmas or felt out of place in the world around them.

You

Please describe the Underground Man's critique of society in more detail

ChatGPT

The Underground Man's critique of society is multifaceted and deeply rooted in his own experiences and philosophical outlook. Here are some key aspects of his critique:

1. Conformity and Social Norms: The Underground Man is highly critical of the pressure to conform to societal norms and expectations. He sees this conformity as stifling individuality and forcing people into rigid roles that suppress their true selves. He resents the idea of being categorized or labeled by society and rails against the notion that individuals must adhere to predefined paths in life.

2. Rationalism and Utilitarianism: Dostoevsky's Underground Man rejects the rationalist and utilitarian ideologies that were gaining prominence in his time. He argues that human behavior is not solely driven by rational self-interest or the pursuit of pleasure and utility, as these ideologies suggest. Instead, he emphasizes the importance of irrational impulses, emotions, and free will in shaping human actions. He believes that reducing human behavior to rational calculations ignores the complexity and unpredictability of human nature.

3. Alienation and Isolation: The Underground Man's sense of alienation and isolation from society is a central aspect of his critique. He feels disconnected from others and unable to form meaningful connections due to his own social awkwardness and feelings of inferiority. He sees society as inherently isolating, with individuals ultimately trapped in their own subjective experiences and unable to truly understand or connect with one another.

4. Critique of Progress: The Underground Man is skeptical of the idea of progress and the belief that society is steadily improving over time. He argues that technological advancements and societal developments do not necessarily lead to greater human happiness or fulfillment. Instead, he suggests that progress often comes at the expense of individual freedom and authentic human experiences.

5. Embrace of Irrationality: In contrast to the rationalist worldview, the Underground Man embraces the irrational aspects of human existence. He sees irrationality as essential to human freedom and creativity, allowing individuals to break free from the constraints of rational calculation and societal expectations. He celebrates the unpredictability and chaos of human emotions, viewing them as fundamental to the richness of human experience.

Overall, the Underground Man's critique of society is characterized by a deep skepticism towards conventional wisdom and a passionate defense of individual freedom, authenticity, and the complexity of human nature. Through his reflections and interactions, Dostoevsky presents a provocative challenge to the prevailing ideologies of his time and invites readers to reconsider their own assumptions about society and human behavior.

You

Does the Underground Man feel superior or inferior to others?

ChatGPT

The Underground Man experiences a complex mixture of feelings regarding his superiority or inferiority to others. On one hand, he often exhibits a sense of superiority, considering himself intellectually superior to those around him. He criticizes and ridicules others for their adherence to societal norms, their lack of critical thinking, and their inability to understand his philosophical musings. He sees himself as more insightful and authentic than the superficial and conformist individuals he encounters.

However, beneath this veneer of superiority lies a deep-seated sense of inferiority and self-loathing. The Underground Man is acutely aware of his own social awkwardness, his inability to form meaningful connections with others, and his failure to achieve success or recognition in society. He harbors feelings of resentment towards those who seem to effortlessly navigate social interactions and achieve conventional success.

Ultimately, the Underground Man's feelings of superiority and inferiority are intertwined, reflecting his complex and contradictory personality. While he may outwardly project an air of superiority, his inner turmoil and feelings of inadequacy reveal a deeper sense of insecurity and self-doubt.

My favorite Big Thief song drones on. It hums along like an unplugged guitar cable. Like a beehive. Like my brain. It’s monotonous and soothing. It surrounds me and speaks to a core aspect of myself. I recently learned that human cells have resonant frequencies which, for the first time, have been measured; I wonder if Mary hums along at the same frequency as mine (it certainly doesn’t). Either way, it stirs me in a unique, unsettling, but homely way.

Last week’s lecture was about incorporating drone sounds into our work. Using Adrianne’s toolkit of open tunings and finger picking, it is quite natural to find a note that can ring, unchanged, while the rest of the song blooms around it. In particular, a starting chord can sound pleasing, and small changes to the notes surrounding the drone can impart unto it a sense of tension, resolution, anxiety, beauty… The drone can be like a string being pulled and released by the change in the notes that surround it.

I’m not really a guitar guy. I get by, but I am not technically proficient, not like Adrianne, so maybe I was bound to fall into metaphorical thinking with this lecture. And so I fell.

An uneventful life can feel like droning. Even a fully satisfying one needs the mundane. Action all the time? Unfathomable. We need routine, daily rituals, habits, to feel normal. To be normal. But we also need change layered atop the drone of reality. And just like Adrianne’s music, these shifting layers pull the strings of day-to-day life in ways that increase or decrease tension - in ways that make the repetitious aspects of life take on new meaning.

You make coffee every morning before leaving for work. You make an extra cup for your partner, who wakes up later than you, and bring it to them in bed before you leave. You do this every day, Monday to Friday. Then one night you have a fight. The next morning you are still recovering. You seriously consider making coffee for one. You are still reeling from everything that was said, and yet, you are compelled to make that second cup. The habit has now taken on new meaning. You can break from it and carry the feeling with you all day, or you can complete the ritual, essentially extending an olive branch. Either way, a habitual, otherwise invisible aspect of your day has taken on tension and new meaning.

This is the power of droning.

I thought about this throughout the week. The little repetitive tasks. The patterns. One of the powers of pattern is that it becomes habit and fades into the background. It is the droning of life. One can look at these daily actions as boredom that separates one from the melody - the parts of life that make the price of admission worth it. But droning says there is life to experience in the mundane, in the wake of important and out-of-the-ordinary events. Another example, one that I hate, is the new appreciation for the horrors contained in the mundane after returning from a vacation. Being ripped from the bosom of leisure and returned to the requirements of work. I feel I could wax on about this for some time and maybe at some point I will. But the point is this: the exciting times in life are there to bring nuance and perspective to the mundane. They are the seasoning that make the day-to-day interesting.

Homework Three

Write a song using drone notes, keeping conscious of the stillness and motion of the notes surrounding it. Use an open tuning (I used DADGAD) and finger-picking. Lyrically, free-write for 10 minutes and use whatever you find as a base to start from.

With this one, I started with low droning and a high-string melody. In the choruses I switched to a high drone and lower melody. I started with the music before writing any vocal parts, so I think what I was aiming for was a scheme to keep things interesting and varied between the two parts. I experimented for a few days with higher-voiced vocal melodies but nothing really felt right. Later in the week, I decided to try something lower and found I liked that a lot better.

We all came from our respective worlds and sat in for a late night class. Adrianne Lenker of Big Thief was our professor. A hundred or more students piled into the online lecture hall.

Last week we talked about art as frame making. An artist has a perspective or a world they want to give to others, and they let the audience in through a window. This week Adrianne talked about the types of worlds we can live in, lyrically.

Adrianne broke the universe into halves, roughly defined as literal and symbolic. Alternatively, she said, we could think of these worlds as “descriptive and confessional”, “real and abstract”, “physical and emotional”, or “external and internal”. In the beginning, she sees these worlds as distinct. Picture the first lines of one of my favorite songs:

Hey, my little baby
Pointing out the sky's amazing
in the lake now

This opening, from Okkervil River R.I.P. by Okkervil River (Will Sheff, the frontman, is one of my favorite lyricists) is meant as a literal, physical grounding for the song to stand on. This is a moment you can point to and say “this happened”. The lines that follow jump to the internal world:

All of this sensation
And no space on Earth to place it
Where it's safe now

This is the premise that Adrianne set up, and her thesis statement for the lecture was that lyrics can and should bridge these dimensions. I think the point of bridging is to create more lyrical depth and help one’s audience enter the frame. It’s almost like an emotional buy-in that happens when a proper bridge is made. Like a key turning that opens up a door to a blended world. How this bridging happens is creativity. Building bridges is art.

To demonstrate, Adrianne introduced us to one of her favorite songs - Minneapolis by Lucinda Williams. We opened up the lyrics. Adrianne shared a handwritten and annotated sheet of lyrics for Minneapolis, and we worked through it line-by-line, identifying where Lucinda is providing a look at her external world, and where she is letting us into her internal world. Unlike Okkervil River R.I.P., Lucinda started with a confession:

I've been waiting for you to come back
Since you left Minneapolis

She then situates herself, literally, where she is waiting:

Snow covers the streetlamps and the windowsills
The buildings and the brittle crooked trees
Dead leaves of December
Thin skinned and splintered

Thus far, we are seeing the two worlds that Lucinda lives in. But for this story to feel real and realistically complex and human, we need to find a place where these worlds blend, since none of us exist in a purely internal or external world. Being human and being alive is balancing these two valid realities at all times. But we haven’t earned this reality. Not quite yet. In the next verse we get a sense of Lucinda’s complicated, blended reality:

I've been wasted, angry and sad
Since you left Minneapolis
I wish my thoughts were pure like the driven snow
Like the heavens and the spring's virgin buds
But they strangle me with their sin
Fill me up with poison
Black clouds have covered up the sun again

We again begin with a confession about how she’s been dealing with her sadness, but quickly, we reach the key that unlocks her reality. Interestingly, the key comes in the form of a simile that blends her internal and external worlds. These powerful lines usher us into a new world where we see through the eyes of Lucinda and how her perceptions of the external are coloured by her internal feelings. With any amount of empathy, we are now ready to inhabit Lucinda’s literal world and feel her internal world.

The next lines provide us with more literal descriptions, but with our new perspective, things feel significant. The emotion she feels while inhabiting her world can be inferred:

Here on the seventh floor in a room I can't call mine
Deadbolt on the door, do not disturb sign
Shaking and trembling
On the clean white linen

We’ve been given enough emotional context to understand her feelings here. She is alone, she wants to be alone, but she is suffering from the pain of loneliness and longing for one particular person. These lines hurt, but the hurt it gives to the listener had to be earned. It’s external description that has the ability to transfer internal feelings. Without the proper set up, though, these lines would be visceral but, perhaps, meaningless.

In the end, Lucinda Williams returns to where she started - confession. A confession that imbued with metaphor, once again bridging the two worlds:

A dozen yellow roses
All that's left in Minneapolis
I wish I'd never seen your face or heard your voice
You're a bad pain in my gut
I want to spit you out
Open up this wound again
Let my blood flow red and thin
Into the glistening
Into the whiteness
Into the melting snow of Minneapolis

Adrianne played the song for us, just her and a guitar. We focused on the descriptive and the confessional. The class was unanimously moved, in all of our respective worlds.

Homework Two:

The goal of the exercise was to be conscious of different worlds and the bridges between them. Notably, external and internal worlds, or literal and confessional. One can think of a variety of ways to express these worlds. Specifically, we were given a model to draw from - John Prine’s Far From Me.

I had difficulty with the prescriptiveness of the assignment. The assignment would have one create a song that not only introduce worlds in the same sequence as John Prine, but likely also create a song that is structured in the same way, relative to verses and choruses. Instead, I attempted to create a bird’s eye view model of what his song does. Notably,

1. Set the physical stage (literal/external)

2. Give a sense of the mental stage where the song is situated (symbolic/internal)

3. Explore the physical world with an understanding of the internal (blended worlds)

4. Tell the story

Importantly, 2 provides the key that leads to blending the worlds, and 3 takes advantage of this new perspective to describe literal bits with a new worldview that provides meaning and feeling. Finally, 4 gets tot he heart of the song and allows for a conclusion.

One thing I noticed as I wrote: confessional as a term really biased my writing towards sad or dark. Also, the structure forced the song to take on a sort of storytelling vibe that I don’t think you find in all types of music. I suppose next time I could try avoiding these influences and see what that would look like. But in the mean time, here we are.

Topic-wise, I was inspired by a book review I read by David Orr on a collection of Bukowski poems focused on drinking (aptly titled On Drinking).He made the point that gritty, confessional poems a la “Buk” have a sort of conflict that must be overcome. Many of these poems describe unsavory behavior while still allowing the author to come off as likeable.

It’s an interesting balance, presenting the actions and feelings of an asshole while still having them be loveable or at least understandable. Orr makes the point that much of this collection simply describes selfish, unkind, and unhinged behavior that could get passed off as acceptable because he threads the needle of likeability so well. With my writing, I wanted to try and express the other end of that idea - particularly, the unglamourous, regrettable reality of someone like Bukowski without presenting redeeming qualities (except maybe for self-disgust). The only problem with this exercise is that I unlocked a new anxiety: that what I write comes off unintentionally autobiographic. I suppose that’s just the reality that an artist dealing in feelings and stories has to get used to. As a piece of insurance, I did opt for the cumbersome title David Interviews Buk on Drinking.

Adrianne takes several moments to close her eyes and breath. Her Oxford button up (olive) is unbuttoned slightly, exposing just the top of a chest tattoo. Her black ribbed beanie, rolled part-way up, shows light pilling and a relaxed slouch to it. Her room has the warm glow one might expect one of the best writers of intimate, soft folk (but also hard-eyed country-tinged rock) to surround herself with. She opens her eyes.

Adrianne Lenker is the centrepiece of one of the most critically acclaimed (and rather prolific) bands of the last ten years. Big Thief’s debut album, Masterpiece, which I’m sure was not intended to be a called shot, turned out to be exactly that. Four albums and seven years later, she has made herself available as a teacher (or perhaps better - a guide) for songwriting. Hordes of fans like myself pile into the Zoom waiting room.

She begins by expressing gratitude. For everything; not lest of all songwriting itself. She says that today, rather than a technical walkthrough, she would explain the way she grounds herself and in a sense, describe her foundations or philosophy to writing. It is difficult, she says, bringing form to formlessness. But there are things she thinks about and does that can help with this existential task.

UNBLOCKING - CURIOSITY - INTUITIVE COMPASS

These will be the focus of today’s lecture. And like a seasoned professor, she begins with a quote:

Adrianne reads us the quote, and holding back the dorkiest, sweetest smirk, reminds us that “a wizard arrives exactly when he means to”. Creative energy, for her, does not live in grids and on schedules. It is a sort of magic that does not conform to the workings of our day-to-day life. She insists that we enter a place, or perhaps rather, prime ourselves to be an empty vessel at all times, to be receptive to creativity.

For Adrianne, blocking happens when one’s own thoughts overlay everything else. Unblocking is establishing what things can be done to “clean the lens”. This is an exercise in mindfulness. This is not morphing into a perfect vessel, a lightbeam of a person, it can be as simple as honouring the connections between things. And when one finds they are in this state, it is important to have the tools you need at hand. This could be anything from a pen and paper (and a pen and a pen… here she smirks and sputters out, and recollects her thoughts). A pen and a paper, or your guitar, or a full recording setup. Whatever it is that lets you explore your curiosity.

Adrianne is fascinated by curiosity. As a child she wondered if everyone wondered about things like she did. She shared memories of smashing her face into the dirt to watch bugs, tearing things apart and putting them back together, and fearing that one day she would lose this childlike curiosity. Yes, she explains, The World works hard to rip that curiosity away from you, but it must be maintained and allowed to flourish (or else, I would offer, we die).

She shares with us a piece of art she made as a kid in school, something she thinks about to this day. It’s a ratty piece of paper surrounded by a rich wooden frame. The paper simply reads:

I think
 we could frame (just about)
    anything and
it would seem
quite significant

She explains that curiosity in music can be asking “why did they write a song about this”. As artists (of all mediums) we provide frames for each other to gaze into. Curiosity can ead us into the depths of a single line:

Staring down the barrel of the hot sun
Shining with the sheen of a shot gun      (from a Lenker song)

It also asks us to look at the piece macroscopically. Holistically. From a universal, cosmic distance. She thinks a good piece of art lets you zoom into the micro (approaching infinity) but also pull back to the macro (infinity, again).

Here I wondered to myself, why do I so readily ask questions openly and childishly (lovingly) about music, but not about visual art? Is it a lack of confidence? Curiosity is a critical piece of her creative world, and I realize that I do not always have the confidence to ask “why”, especially around visual art.

Adrianne then approached the concept of her internal compass. Following feelings and hunches, trying things, divorcing what is good from what feels good - can all be extensions of curiosity, but go nowhere unless you are willing to follow the lead, whatever it may be. Letting yourself explore these leads when they arise, is what she means by following the internal compass. Asking things like, “does this resonate?”, “does this feel good?” Having the confidence to escape from self-criticism (there will be plenty of time for that later) and exploring - that is what following the compass is about. In this space, nothing is wrong. It can sound like nothing you’ve ever heard before, or like everything you’ve ever heard.

In the next part of the lecture, Adrianne described one of the main ways she writes songs. It is based on defamiliarization then exploration. It goes something like this.

• Take an instrument, any instrument. You don’t need to know how to play it. Or start in a weird tuning on guitar.

• Place a finger on a random fret - did that feel good? Did you like the sound? If not, pick a new spot.

• Repeat with another finger - do they sound nice together? Do they feel nice together? Find something that starts to interest you…

• Keep going with as many fingers as you are inspired to play with. You are building a chord from which a rhythm or melody can pop from, but don’t be beholden to any of these things. At some point, slide you hand somewhere else on the fretboard and try your little chord somewhere else. Hotter? Colder? Doesn’t matter. Play.

Songwriting, she explains, can be exploration, digging, excavation. Squishing things and wondering why - why the result, or why you squished it to begin with. Not being afraid to really look at things. And this can bring you to sad things as well. Play does not have to avoid darkness. Writing can be a way of lifting one’s heavy body and interacting with the things that can’t be touched.

At this point, we pause. All eyes are on Adrianne. She looks into the camera, into each of our faces, and smiles. We sit in silence for a few moments. “Thanks!” she says. The course directors return to the screen and introduce our homework for the week.

A note on rhyming: “I love to rhyme, I think it’s so fun and feels good.” But Adrianne asks herself at times whether she is rhyming just for the sake of the rhyme (ok) or if there is a better word that could go there. Again, taking a sense of curiosity and playfulness to lyricism is important, and can open you up to rhyming or not rhyming, sometimes in interesting places.

Homework One:

The goal of the assignment was to work on unblocking, engaging in curiosity, and following your internal compass. First, spend 10 minutes of unstructured free-writing. For inspiration, perhaps focus on one of Adrianne’s favorite photographs:

These 10 minutes should be constant writing - everything and anything that comes to mind. It does not need to be lyrical or sentences, just getting ideas onto paper is the goal.

Next, defamiliarize by taking a new instrument or tuning, and start dabbling as Adrianne described above. The goal is to follow what feels good.

Finally, bring the two pieces together - once a song is forming, use your free-write snippets as proto-lyrics and start singing them across the music you’ve begin excavating. By the end of the week a full song must be completed.

I made three (with an alternate version of one of them), which you can find here:

I’ve been taking fewer and fewer photos but aspire to do a lot more of that soon. In the mean time I have been writing, with some fun fiction-based aspirations.

Last month and a bit I re-read a pile of Murakami (Wind/Pinball, Wild Sheep Chase, Dance Dance Dance - “The Rat” sequence of books) and fell in love with his writing style again. As a fun little challenge, I wanted to try and emulate him a bit while describing a typical, albeit slow, work-from-home day. The added challenge was to incorporate some dreamy, surreal moments or sequences throughout. Along the way, some real-life action happened around me which I incorporated - an excuse to add some dialogue.

At some point I started to like how it was coming together, but worried it didn’t do anything. So I sat on the whole thing for a few weeks and let it breath a bit. I struggled for quite a while trying to derive some sort of meaning from what was coming together, beyond simply being a writing exercise. I felt there was something there, but I couldn’t quite find it. So I kept rambling.

After some revisions, I think I found a throughline.

It was an exceptionally long day, all things considered. Especially considering that all things refers to almost nothing. For instance, I awoke at 7:00 and ran on the apartment treadmill for 30 minutes (the treadmill lives in a white-walled room on the second floor with barely enough space for the stationary bike, universal gym, and treadmill itself; the tiny space lends itself to heating up at an astonishing rate, allowing this daily ritual to become stifling and claustrophobic within about 5 minutes). After showering and cleaning up, I answered emails for about a half hour or so, and lacking any pressing work, walked to the cafe around the corner for a coffee. I do make coffee at home - damn fine coffee, if one were to ask me - but sometimes a change of scenery outweighs cup quality, especially when one does not expect much work to cross their virtual desk. This was one of those times.

I ordered a cup of coffee and passed on the lemon-lavender loaf. I took my cup to one of the more comfortable, loungeable chairs and after checking my messages again, set to reading. Now, I don’t mind falling asleep in cafes. There is a comfortable feeling I get being surrounded and lightly watched over by strangers. It feels sort of safe, like in a horror movie where the family moves into a haunted house, and flees to a diner to rest and decide what they are going to do about the spirits. Like an intermission in the film. This day too felt like an intermission. Yet, as I flipped a couple dozen pages, I could feel the house lights coming down on me. My eyes fluttered and I found myself re-reading lines several times. A man was walking through a pitch-black hotel hallway, the cold quiet he felt the complete opposite to what I was experiencing from my velvety chair. I could feel myself beginning to doze.

I shook myself awake by my shirt collar. It’s unbecoming to sleep in public, even if it feels good and safe to do so. I stood up, leaving my things at the table, to go get some fresh air. On my way out of the cafe I pulled a pack of cigarettes out of my shirt pocket, grabbed at the lighter in my jacket pocket, then flicked the flame to life. People in books are always fumbling with their lighters. Not me. In one smooth motion I lit the cigarette as I pushed my way out the cafe doors. My first inhale, though, caught me off guard and sent me coughing, idiotically dropping the lighter. I watched it fall, bounce twice, and come to rest. Then I kind of just watched it down there for a bit. The green plastic looked at home on the damp sidewalk. Meanwhile I took a few more pulls from the cigarette, though the taste seemed all wrong. Kind of like those little birthday candles you stick into a cake, except instead of licking off icing you just get wax. Not a good taste at all, but not totally unpleasant. I took one more inhale and put out the rest of the cigarette, ashing it into a tissue and putting it back into the box, which then went back into my pocket. I bent down to grab my lighter. “Damn,” I thought to myself. I shouldn’t have left it down there so long, because by then it was gone, already rolling its way down the street. Rolling? More like walking. Oh well, nothing to be done. I let it go, walked back into the cafe, sat down, and opened my book again.

When I woke up again it was nearly noon. I finished my now-cold coffee, packed my things, and headed home. I got the feeling that few if any other patrons came through while I was asleep. When I got back, I prepared some lunch - 3 hard boiled eggs and a salad - and turned on the radio. A pre-recorded dispatch of the morning headlines. Local politics and federal jockeying. Nothing I hadn’t seen already blasted across my morning screens. I finished lunch and switched off the radio. I moved to the living room and put on a record - Album by Girls - and checked my messages again. Something about a lunch meeting next week and a report briefing some time next month. But nothing to be done in the mean time. I pulled out my book again. When the record finished, I put on Thelonious Monk with John Coltrane, followed by The Seatbelts, then The Knife. I checked my messages again, but nothing had come across my desk. I read on and off until 4:00, fed the cat, crunched on a few pickles, and logged off the work machine for the day.

By then I was beyond antsy but had nowhere to go and nothing in particular to do, so I endeavored to get a beer and plate of fries from down the street. I left my apartment and walked the 50 steps from my door to the front door of the building. 50 steps is the most it ever takes. When my energy is high or I’m late, I will sometimes clock in as low as 46 steps.

I made it to the bar and sat down. The server came over and I ordered a beer and plate of fries. The bar was empty except for a woman waiting on a friend. It was still relatively early after all. I sipped my drink and waited for the fries, passively listening to the woman on a phone call to her friend. The fries arrived and were perfectly from-frozen, slightly limp, and otherwise non-descript. Very little crispness. These would need ketchup. Eventually, a few others came in the door and filled the bar stools. I continued picking over my fries.

A little while later, a rich, woodsy, smokey aroma entered my nose. It happened suddenly. At first there was nothing, and then there was a bonfire somewhere behind me. I turned to eye the door, and there was a man in a hoodie and puffy vest, shoulder-length hair slightly disheveled, eyes turning from wild to civil in the way one’s pupils will contract when coming inside from a bright winter afternoon, though it was already an early winter’s dark out. He came in and sat down, ordered two shots of “doesn’t matter”, and put them back one after the other. “Damn,” I thought to myself. He smelled like the first-ever matchbox. Or a volcano.

After watching him down his shots, the bartender asked him how he was. “Not great, my friend, not great. My apartment is on fire. The firefighters told me to wet my floors and get out. The apartment below me is on fire, I think I’m going to be sleeping in my car tonight.” He was rambling, and understandably so. I took another sip of beer and dragged a fry though ketchup. I thought about my lighter. I groped at my cigarettes but found nothing in my shirt pocket. I fumbled in my pocket for my lighter and found nothing. I don’t smoke. Never have. “Damn,” I thought. This all felt unreal. I could only imagine how the guy felt. I felt guilty for no reason.

The guy next to him followed up, “Holy shit dude, are you ok?”

“Yeah, I mean, I’m fine but I think all my shit is fucked. I’m probably going to be sleeping in my car.”

“Dude that’s wild, how did it happen, do you know?”

“Not sure. The landlord has been turning the power off on people all month I wonder if it was for insurance or something.”

“Let me call my buddy, he does insurance stuff. Maybe he can help. Just a sec.” Buddy stood up, fished his phone out of his pocket, took a few steps and made a call. I didn’t stay to hear the rest of the interaction. “Nothing to be done,” I thought to myself. On my way out I heard a second guy offer fire guy a couch for the night. No clue if he took him up on it or not.

I exited the building and walked a block to the corner. Turning onto the main street I was greeted by a half dozen fire trucks, police cars, and ambulii. “Damn,” I thought to myself, and turned back. I didn’t spend time gawking, I just avoided the whole thing by taking a side street.

When I returned home, the building was dark. The hallway to my apartment was dark. Pitch black. Maybe the fire down the street knocked out the power. I walked 50 steps and turned to the right. I reached for the doorknob and found nothing. I stepped back one step and reached out again. Nothing. Another step - nothing. I turned back toward the entrance, extended my left hand out to the side, and dragged it along the wall as I took slow, measured steps. Nothing. No doors. Not even the one I came through visible at the end of the hall. “Damn,” I thought. I leaned against my side of the hallway and slid my back down the wall. “Nothing to be done,” I thought. I sat for some time.

Eventually I reached for cigarettes and a lighter. I felt around in the pack and found the partially-smoked cigarette where I left it. I left it in the pack again and flicked at the lighter that I had assumed was long gone. Short-lived sparks, and a proto-flame sprang to life briefly. I flicked it a few more times and got a consistent light. I figured that this could help me try and orient myself. Under dim illumination I saw the hallway was not my usual hallway at all, but an inky-black, almost organic tube. I sighed, pulled out the cigarette from earlier, took a few drags (dirty laundry and garbage bags this time), stood up, and followed the lead of my exhales and anglerfish-like light I held in front of my face, toward where I thought the exit should be.

I counted my steps as I walked, for lack of anything else to do. No sense in trying to understand this dark space, it had thrust itself onto me with as much warning and sense as an electrical fire. Somewhere around 250, my mind had wandered off, finding something like wonder or concern for fire guy back at the bar. I felt sorry for him, sorry for everyone actually. I wondered why he was the only person who trekked out to the bar. Surely there were more people that night looking for somewhere to go or something to do with themselves. I let the lighter extinguish and continued along the dark hallway, alone.

Undeterred but though pessimistic about the hopelessness of this situation, I continued along the hall. Rather than panicked, a sense of boredom was falling over me. I wondered if that’s how survivors of a shipwreck who land on a tiny desert island felt after a while. Certainly some amount of panic would live inside you in such a situation, but eventually one must get bored. I also wondered how many tiny desert islands there were out there to get shipwrecked on. An intrusive thought took hold and I had to feel the walls again. This is probably the point where one would start collecting rocks to spell out words in the sand, I thought. My finger nails dug into a superficial layer of the wall, making a chalkboard-like scraping that sent chills down my spine. I knocked at the wall. “Yeah? Who is it?” “Oh, I’m sorry, wrong apartment,” I replied. A lightness came over me. I reached for my lighter again, to check my surroundings, but it was gone. I pushed on just a little bit further and at last came to the door. I sighed and exited, all the way out of the building, and headed in the direction where I had seen the emergency vehicles. At the very least, I would check out the scene and see how things were, if there was anything I could do.

As I arrived at the building, most of the emergency vehicles were either leaving or already gone. A small group of people waited just outside the building as the last firefighters exited through the front door and packed up their truck. I turned to the first person I came to, a woman with a cat carrier, and asked what the problem was. “Electrical fire in one of the lower apartments. The one apartment is fucked, but otherwise only some minor smoke damage to the few units surrounding it. Apparently its safe to go back in now.” She, along with maybe 40 people filed slowly into the building. I had to imagine that it was either fire guy’s neighbor that really got the worst of it, but was relieved to see the rest of the tenets would not be sleeping in their cars or without a place to go. I stood in the illumination of the streetlights and watched the scene pull itself apart until there was nothing much going on.

Two longer posts are incoming, but in the mean time, some short things.

A father brings his young daughter to a dive bar after, presumably, a shopping trip. She runs upstairs to the washroom and he orders for them in one run-on sentence, “I’ll get your burger, she’ll have the grilled cheese, both with salads I’ll have a lager and she’ll have Sprite.” I notice a Hot Topic bag amongst their several unbranded bags.

The daughter returns, and they sit in silence, both checking their phones. The food arrives and they eat. After a while, between bites, she asks, “So, how’s work?”

“Oh, you know,” he says. Silence.

“What does that mean?” Silence.

A few more bites, and a long sip of beer.

“Been thinking of getting rid of Netflix.”

“Oh yeah? Let me check what streamers mommy has first, ok?”

He checks his phone between bites.

An incredibly well put together young woman sits in a (fashionable) coffee shop. She is wrapped in an elegant faux-suede (I assume, unless it was thrifted, because certainly she is environmentally conscious) coat. She holds her small mug (cortado, likely) in both hands and stares straight ahead. Beside her, two men in suits are talking some sort of business (sounds boring). She’s listening. She removes her coat to a blue scoop-necked dress with light patterning around the collar (maybe beaded) and turns to the men. She pardons herself (quickly and unapologetically) and asks if they are in finance — they are. She introduces herself and states that she also works finance, though in London, but would like to move back to Ottawa (she is home for the holidays). She asks if they could exchange information and they do (phones come out). She thanks them and goes back to holding her cup in both hands.

“Hey, hi, we are a small group today so I will need to tell you about the emergency windows. Have you been through this before? Ok well, I’ll go through it fast then. Umm.. ok. So you probably won’t have to do anything but in case of emergencies you know, like, I don’t expect you to open them for fun or anything. Ok, so basically you just pull down this bar and the window will pop outwards. You push it, and it should fall out kind of on its own and shatter. Make sure it’s safe outside, like, no rivers or other tracks or anything, and then you can make your way out and away from the train. Is that ok? Like I said, probably you’ll never have to do this, but just in case, ok?”

I read a poem about a boy in love with archival and truth. He decoded the last garbled, nonsense messages from the Titanic. A final, unintelligible transmission from a ship below the sea, a static discharge picked up by Marconigram, like a electric death rattle (hulking monsters made of ice growled and moaned, searching for their prey). These messages were all he could find. True accounts were sold to the highest bidder.

I’m coasting in to the finish line. I’ve written more this year than I ever have and that is great, but looking at my false starts and partially finished dispatches, there is one I really want to knock out before I leave the year behind. I’ve been thinking about it all year, yet I’m only going to be scratching the surface, because like usual, I left it to the last minute. This one is called

Bodys by Car Seat Headrest is the Sequel to All My Friends by LCD Soundsystem

143 BPM. That’s how it starts. We go back to your house. Repeating piano line fluttering. A four on the floor kick-snare with rapid-fire high hat emerge slowly. The piano never stops. That’s how it starts.

Tonight we are going to a stranger’s house party. The anxiety that you won’t fit in, hoping that you will. You pre-drink with some friends because of course you do. It’s a long walk to the party but the summer air is cool so you don’t mind. One friend, maybe it’s you this time, got a little too drunk and is singing on the way. It’s obnoxious but no one minds. All of these nights, now, have blended into a general feeling. A feeling you might never have again. I hope you enjoyed yourself. It comes apart.

Those days are ones of uncertainty and hard-headed contempt for life the way it appears. Nothing feels right as you try on different personas and ways of being. We idolize and denigrate in equal measures our peers and those who came before us, yet hope that maybe one of them shows us the path to adulthood.

You spent the first five years trying to get with the plan
And the next five years trying to be with your friends again
You're talking 45 turns just as fast as you can
Yeah, I know it gets tired, but it's better when we pretend

All My Friends is a party anthem for those who have left their youth behind. It happens to everyone. It has to. Your thirties ask how you embrace this reality. For some, it gets ugly.

You drop the first ten years just as fast as you can
And the next ten people who are trying to be polite
When you're blowing eighty-five days in the middle of France
Yeah, I know it gets tired, only where are your friends tonight?

You wake up and check the your phone. You’ve been sleeping for an hour, and you are 10 km above some immense body of water. Time has become relative as you and your fellow passengers fight against the spin of the Earth, crossing an ocean to get home. You’ve felt this kind of tired before, and part of you wishes it was like before; sleeping on a floor, disoriented, waking up next to friends. You aren’t piecing together whose place you crashed at, but rather which continent you are over. What time zone you are in. Did you sleep through till noon? What is noon? Nothing has changed, and yet, everything has changed.

A foghorn synth hangs on as the same 143 beats per minute continue. It pauses, a squeal, and ragged eighth-note guitar enters. To say All My Friends has a chord progression overstates it, it’s really just two. But the common D anchors the upwardly mobile melody permeating Bodys. The fluttering piano, that two-handed repetition, is replaced by a two-person fluttering on matched guitars. The introspection of a single person doesn’t have to be one’s burden, it can be divided into pieces and shared.

These are the people that I get drunk with. These are the people that I fell in love with.

If All My Friends asks how we recover from our 20s, Bodys rips the mic out of its tired hands and tells us very plainly. There’s no time for self-interested moaning or bereavement for youth. Nothing has changed. You can still be the tone-deaf friend throwing yourself into the arms of that beautiful stranger at the party.

Don't you realize our bodies could fall apart any second?
I am terrified, your body could fall apart at any second

This is a reminder from a friend you’ve never met. The party’s not over. It’s never over. I know how you are, if it isn’t lyrical you aren’t going to listen. So here,

I would speak to you in song
But you can't sing as far as I'm aware
Though everyone can sing as you are well aware
I keep so quiet it's hard to tell I'm alive
Everybody's swinging their hips
Everybody's giving the waitress tips
Everybody's dancing all of the dances
Everybody's dancing every dance now

One more time, for the people in the back. You are in a constant state of flux and nothing is ever the same. Time and circumstances are all relative. You took the circuitous route. You wish you could have known then what you know now. Nothing is clear. You woke up and have no idea where the time went. You still have to wait and see how it all unfolds. There’s nothing to say, nothing will explain how we got here, and no amount of planning will let you predict the next 10 years. How about we all shut up for a second and just move?

And I know that I don't talk a lot
But I know that you don't care a lot
As long as we move our bodies around a lot
We'll forget that we forgot how to talk

Bodys, for what it’s worth, also provides an alternative suggestion to the introduction to All My Friends, as a final statement:

We can get real horny and keep messing around
We can keep real quiet won't be making no sounds
I'll try my best not touch your face
Next time can we please meet at my place …

See you next year, friends.

I really wanted to have another little story in this edition but after a week of on and off work I decided it kind of sucked. Oh well. Please find attached more half-baked reflections on storytelling and meaning!

I spent several weeks this summer thinking about life through the lens of myth. Or maybe more specifically, possible lives that I could have lived, and wondered about the use of myth to frame the life I've chosen (here, here, here, and here). Well, I’m not the first person to think along these lines.

It would seem that there is a deep connection between the human psyche and narrative. In this OpEd, researchers describe a recent study they published in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology where they asked participants to reframe their life in terms of a classic myth archetype, looking at their perceived life satisfaction. Higher levels of satisfaction were found in the group that participated in this intervention than in a control group.

Actually, the study looked at two things. First, they found that people who naturally described their life in a way that reflects “The Hero’s Journey” experienced higher levels of meaning, satisfaction, and lower levels of depression. Which lead the researchers to wonder if “re-storying” one’s life could lead to similar positive feelings. The answer was “yes”, but of course, with caveats:

In six studies with more than 1,700 participants, we confirmed that this restorying intervention worked: it helped people see their life as a hero's journey, which in turn made that life feel more meaningful. Intervention recipients also reported greater well-being and became more resilient in the face of personal challenges; these participants saw obstacles more positively and dealt with them more creatively.

Critically, our intervention required two steps: identifying the seven elements and connecting them in a coherent story. In other studies, we found that doing only one or the other—such as describing aspects of one's life that resembled the hero's journey without linking them together—had a much more modest effect on feelings of meaning in life than doing both.

Interestingly, the researchers noted that at the same time as finding more meaning in one’s own life, participants perceived more meaning in things in general. For example, participants also seemed to find more meaning and patterns in a trial that had them look at random strings of letters (to speculate on later). They also identified that The Hero’s Journey was only one story archetype that could be used here (like overcoming adversity or rags-to-riches), but no other story structure exhibited as strong of an effect.

All of this had me wondering how these results might relate to Camus’ rebellion as a solution to the meaninglessness of the universe. Rebellion is not a stop along the Hero’s Journey per se, but there are ways in which it connects.

More in-depth descriptions of the Hero’s Journey archetype expand on the seven steps described in the above research, including the Refusal of the Call. This often comes some time before reaching the quest proper, as the hero is presented with a call to pursue a new meaning but declines, choosing to remain within the status quo. One can imagine rebellion as the refusal, or the acceptance of the call. In both cases, the hero is making an executive decision related to their life’s purpose. To a hero who finds monotony or dissatisfaction in day-to-day life, accepting the call is tantamount to rebellion. To the hero initially at peace, the refusal can be seen as a rebellion against external demands that are not their own. Either way, one must assess themselves and make a choice.

From a macro perspective, I wonder if rebellion against the absurd can be mapped onto the Hero’s Journey archetype. Beginning from a state of existential dissatisfaction, Camus provides The Call by revealing the nature of dissatisfaction stemming from the lack of intrinsic meaning in life (this of course is not the state all people find themselves in, but for Camus, we start here). He calls us to rebel against absurdity, but what does that really mean? There is a shift that must happen. We may search for the meaning for living, but we must discard or rebel against this idea, that meaning comes from anything external, and find our own path. In Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus, this is approximately as far as we get. Where then does one find meaning?

Exploring the next several stages of the journey, the answer may begin to emerge. The hero is expected to embark upon a quest whereupon they accumulate allies before being challenged in some way. Upon the completion of the challenge, the hero finds they have cultivated some sort of personal development. At this point the story may move toward its ending, or it may take a couple laps around the preceding stations of the journey.

In a more meta-retelling, the hero may see the absurdity of the universe and lack of intrinsic meaning as the challenge, with rejection of externally-defined meaning as the call. In the hero’s quest, they find allies in the likes of say social structures, friends, and family. With them, the hero fabricates a world of meaning out of the pursuit of love, joy, knowledge, excellence… hell, whatever they want, provided they made the decision against expecting the world to recognize the intrinsic value of their quests. Here, I find the search for allyship to be particularly compelling, as within any microcosm of love and friendship, I’m convinced I can find an infinite well of meaning purely from the satisfaction of seeing the people I care for succeed, while also being seen to succeed by them. Despite this story not having an explicit rebellious act, there is rebellion in choosing to redefine success. At the core of this story is the rebellion against societal expectations of what one ought to do.

Ignoring the reason for Sisyphus’ punishment for a moment, Camus places Sisyphus on the pedestal of Absurd Hero. Sisyphus is damned to roll a boulder up a hill (only to have it roll back down) for eternity. It’s an absurd and meaningless world Sisyphus has found himself in, but he is not doomed. We must apply a generous dose of creativity here, but what if we imagine Sisyphus happy in his toiling? If he reframes the punishment as just a new reality within which he has the power to create meaning, can he be freed? What if Sisyphus decided fitness was a new passion, and the speed with which he could move the boulder a point of pride, could he see the task as meaningful? What if he had a lover at the top of the hill who he was able to meet over and over only through the completion of his task? One can choose to find meaning nearly anywhere, it would seem.

I am no Sisyphus. My days are not monotonous. Sometimes maybe they feel that way, but there is no boulder. There is no hill. I have surrounded myself with allies from whose success and acceptance I can derive meaning from. I look at my circumstances and realize that I have always had purpose, I’ve always had meaning, even if it was not always evident. I’ve quoted the ending of The Stranger once on this blog and I have no problem doing it again.

I opened myself for the first time to the tender indifference of the world. To feel it so like me, so like a brother, in fact, I understood that I had been happy, and I was still happy.

I’m typing as hard as I can, because I am good at my job. It’s not fast, but speed is not the issue. I don’t think it’s possible for someone to type harder. It’s loud - of that I can assure you, and it reflects my skill and ability as a knowledge worker. I lift my hands with each keystroke, as the muscles in my muscular hands are not enough to elicit the type of stroke this work needs.

I can tell that my seatmate understands the importance of my work and the criticality of this note; he is looking right at me with what I can only assume are piercing eyes holding awe and appreciation for seeing good work being done. I can’t tell for sure because I do not have time to make eye contact. Though he cannot see what I type, if he could, he would realize that he is indeed correct in his assessment. I am doing important work, and as such, am an important man. He must be impressed with the powerful exactness with which I strike the keys. Sequentially. One. By. O.N.E. And you, dear reader, should know that each capital was formed by individual depressions of the shift key. As one of the larger keys on the board, I was required to strike it with even more vigor - I’m sure you understand.

Yet, despite the awe my seat partner has for my work, I must not let that distract me. My mission, whose enaction I can hear cut brilliantly through the excessively loud music I have playing through earpods, is of the utmost importance. Indeed, the clacking of the keys, ringing out like applause, are ushering me to the end of this newly minted line of text, which will usher you, dear reader, to the meat of this work, which I will espouse promptly.

Dear reader! I regret to inform you that the meat you so honestly deserve, has spoilt, and that my work has been disrupted. I came to realize the last half hour of systematically and powerfully striking the keys had come to naught. Two paragraphs, meaty in their own right, had come to fruition upon the page. However, it came to pass that the two paragraphs repeated each other, one becoming a redundant copy of the last. Naturally, I sought to delete the repeated text, character by character, using the powerful and large (hence, loud) backspace bar, but became distracted by the grief of eliminating such lovingly crafted (and hammered-to-print) words. I was carried away, dear reader. The truth of the matter is that I am guilty of the total destruction of BOTH paragraphs (this time typed with the intermittent flicking on-and-off of the cap locks key between each letter, I really think you can feel the difference do you not, dear reader?), leaving but only the initial preface of my great work. Which is why this paragraph starts where you now see it, immediately apres the first. If only you could see the despair of my seat partner, whose eyes plead to me, “say it isn’t so!” But I regret to inform you, my compatriot, it is so.

To my displeasure and disdain, I will have to take my rest before resuming this critical work. For I now have a phone call wherein I must explain to my coworker, loudly, that I am on a train. A train wherein I expect them to reach me via email with “exactly what you just told me now, please”.

Until next time,

The man beside Adam on the train, travelling from Toronto to Ottawa.

“What would happen if I got on that bus? Could I ride it around and end up back here? What if I left everything at this little bar seat, ran out the door, and hopped on the 14? Would all my crap still be here, waiting for me?” I think this to myself from the front seat nearest the big natural light window where I’ve set up to work for the day. My notebook and laptop are spread wide across the countertop, showing off the last few sentences I’ve transcribed from the pre-recorded lecture, but I’m largely not here. My mind is wandering.

My attention drifts again, this time to the mother and child quietly enjoying a muffin two tables over. That doesn’t hold me for long. The kid has decided it’s done eating and wants to squish something, and the muffin top is the amuse-main de jour. Gross. I continue scanning and clock a tired but moderately handsome bartender polishing a single glass like a cartoon character, and an elegant woman in the corner booth, possibly sketching something. The cafe-bar is quiet and I feel a wandering sense of solitude, but not peace.

I try to return to my lecture but it’s no use. My mind has flown the coop. Flew the coupe. Influenza de Coupe. Whatever, I’m gone. Distracted by what? It’s impossible to say, so I lean hard into my chair and stare out the window again. I turn the volume up on my headphones to drown out the silence and drift deeply into the bleeps and bloops of a song I’ve been listening to since I was in high school.

In the woods and the mountains is a good place to begin; a song about a black bear living in its black bear den…

What’s the escape velocity of a bus? Surely faster than a Greyhound can run, no? Since the Greyhound has been discontinued, the best I think I could do is stay in orbit around the greater Ottawa area, maybe getting as far away as Gatineau. That would be an escape, at least from the hum of my humidifier and air purifiers, working in tandem to keep my den habitable. But a weekend trip doesn’t feel long enough. I guess that’s why I walk the two blocks to the cafe and order worse coffee than I can make at home. Coffee made for one’s self might taste better but doesn’t allow for the surprise of disappointment. Today the coffee is too hot, too dark, and just right. I think I even got some grinds on my tongue. It’s the kind of unpleasantness I enjoy when I am exploring a new city, and I am entertaining the kind of aimlessness of being on a long vacation. But I really should be working.

He’ll also stop for berries or honey from the bees; or nuts that he can shake down from the canopy of trees. And afterword he’ll have his choice from any stream to drink; while I fill up another cup from my old kitchen sink

If I wasn’t working through a lecture, I might be more receptive to the intrusive idea of going over and talking to the woman in the corner. But as it stands, I can think of no grounds for leaving my seat. Stand, ground, seat; lie and crawl. Maybe I should go over there. No, I decide. I’ll daydream a bit more. The place has emptied over the last little while, leaving just myself, the bartender (obsessively polishing that one glass) and the artist. I’ve concluded that she is drawing something, maybe me. But she’s at an impasse it would seem. Her pencil is down and she is staring in my direction. I avert my eyes to be polite.

The simplicity of solitude is a hard thing to perfect; stealing happiness from loneliness is not a simple theft. But the black bear has it figured out and gets what he deserves; and the fur that he are wearing is the fur that he prefers.

The song ends and the next song begins. It’s about appreciating what you have when you have it, and thinking fondly on it when you don’t. The last few weeks feel like the days between Christmas and New Years. There is nowhere to go, plenty to do, but nothing that takes precedence. The mind flits between thoughts but the body remains still. There is nothing I need to do. I should be grateful for this natural pause. Then she comes over.

“I can’t decide what you are studying,” she says.

“It’s probably some kind of social science,” I say. “Or maybe some sort of health sciences. You can kind of tell by how much listening I have to do with this lecture and the single notebook; math-ier stuff might have me pouring over reems of pencil-scratch loose-leaf.” She speaks to me like she knows me but she couldn’t possibly. “Let’s see where this goes,” I think to myself.

“Fair enough. At first I thought you might have been a writer or transcribing something, in my mind you started off a bit older than a student,” she tells me.

“These days anyone can be a student. How old do you think I am?”

“Pass. I’m not really interested in how old you are.”

“Ok, sure. Were you over there drawing? What are you working on?” I ask.

“None of your business. But it’s you. See?” She opens her large, spiral-ringed notebook to a pensive, headphone-wearing (older) student, head thrown back and leaning deeply into a cafe chair by a large bright window. This part of the picture is clear. The rest is a wash of scribbles and eraser marks. I feel like I can almost make out a laptop on the counter and bus out the window. But they are just smudges.

“Something I couldn’t figure out about you,” she says, “is what you’re listening to. I think it might help me figure out how to finish the picture.”

“Not a chance,” I say. “That’s something you need to figure out yourself.” She looks perturbed, but slowly a smile cracks her demeanor. “I know exactly what you’re listening to.” She flips her notebook closed, puts in earbuds and walks away.

“Strange girl,” I think. I put my headphones back on. It seems that the album restarted. I don’t mind.

Yesterday I attended a Zine Swap at Art House, trading some of my recent EE editions for a range of good stuff. One of my favourites came bound in the royal blue envelope of a Capital One junk mailer and followed a line of thought about Returning To Sender things that hurt. And that even if you could, maybe you shouldn’t. Find their work here.

Ghost in the Shell is a world of humanoid cyborgs. One must accept that as the premise. Some are completely mechanical with the technology to embed a ghost within the machine. A ghost is a neural package developed from a human consciousness which can be lifted from a person and deposited into a shell. This technology leads to many an existential nightmare with wild repercussions that only seem more realistic with my recent experience with Alex and Camus.

Our protagonist is a cyborg completely fabricated, save for her ghost - this is the only part of her that was bourn of a “real” person. Her ghost is fully human. She struggles with the specter of her humanity and seems in the throes of an existential depression. Her actions throughout the film show her discomfort if not disdain for her shell, often choosing to be nude in public and more than willing to throw herself into harm. Frequently. In her free time she dives - in a way isolating her mind from her body, bringing (brining?) her feelings of fear and sometimes hope, but always a reprieve from gravity and her perceived reality. Hers is an unreal, detached world, yet she searches for answers. But I’m not concerned with her at the moment.

A hard-earning garbage man is behind on collection - there is traffic holding him up. As the truck idles, he talks to his partner about who he is doing all this for. His wife and kid at home, he wants to give them a better life, and we get the sense that he does more than just garbage collection to afford them some minimal amount of luxury. He and his partner learn that the police are searching for him, to interview him, and he goes berserk. After being apprehended, he is questioned about his hacking activity. He has been working odd, questionable jobs to support his family. The interrogators tell him that his family does not exist. They never existed. His memories are implants, he had been hacked and given the motivation and ability to do these illegal jobs. He is devastated. His memories are so real. So vivid. How could his family just… not exist? But no. It’s true. Just as our protagonist could have a ghost implanted into her cyborg body, this man has been given memories as real as the birth of one’s child or loss of a parent. “Can you take them away?” he asks. “No, there is nothing we can do,” they tell him. These memories will live inside him for the rest of his life.

A few times in my life I’ve had dreams that felt so real - so vivid - that I’d awake disoriented. I’d have to spend some time in bed sorting out what was dream and what was reality. At times, these were nightmares, funerals for loved ones and the like, and sometimes they were beautiful fantasies, like finding the courage to ask out and receive a “yes” from a future wife. But the most powerful moments came after living a lifetime only to wake and find it to be a rapidly fleeting unconscious hallucination. The most devastating instances are bittersweet. A life, for better or worse, is filled with beauty and pain, and neither are more important than the other. As the mind wakes, it purges the intermediate moments, just as eventless moments in waking life are purged by sleep. In the moments after waking, the big events of a life unlived came into focus. All the things that really mattered condense and crystallize. But the brain knows better than to mix reality with fantasy. It begins purging these imaginary moments, too. But that doesn’t make the feelings go away or make it any better to realize it was all just a dream.

I feel like this sensation is impossible to explain. It eventually dulls, but there have been days I’ve walked the halls of my high school mourning the loss of someone that never was. I’ve bussed to physics tutorials with relief knowing my family will still be there for me when I call on the weekend. The mind sweeps up the trash and disposes of it, eventually. I can no longer recall a single detail from these lost lives. The man in Ghost in the Shell, however, is cursed to live this waking moment forever, in the liminal space where the fantasy is yet to be purged. But the mind is resilient and adept at self-preservation. I am rooting for him. I hope he finds peace.

I'm having trouble understanding The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus. Can you explain it to me? Start from the beginning.

"The Myth of Sisyphus" is an essay by the French philosopher and writer Albert Camus, published in 1942. In this essay, Camus explores the concept of the absurd, which is a central theme in his philosophy of existentialism. The essay is often seen as a foundational text in existentialist thought and has had a significant influence on the field of philosophy and literature.

The central theme of the essay is the idea that life is inherently absurd. Camus argues that human existence is characterized by the inherent conflict between our desire for meaning and purpose in life and the apparent meaninglessness and indifference of the universe. Sisyphus, in Greek mythology, is condemned by the gods to push a boulder up a hill for eternity, only to have it roll back down each time he reaches the top. Camus uses the story of Sisyphus as a metaphor for the human condition, where we are constantly striving for meaning and purpose in a seemingly indifferent and absurd world.

Camus presents three philosophical responses to the absurd in "The Myth of Sisyphus":

• Philosophical Death: This is the response of people who try to escape the absurd by embracing religious or philosophical systems that provide ready-made answers and meaning. Camus criticizes this approach because it avoids confronting the true nature of the absurd and seeks refuge in comforting illusions.

• Physical Death: Some people, faced with the absurd, may choose to end their lives as a way to escape the suffering and meaninglessness. Camus does not endorse or advocate for this response, but he acknowledges it as a possible reaction to the absurd.

• Rebellion: Camus suggests that the most authentic and courageous response to the absurd is to embrace it fully and rebel against it. He argues that one should accept the absurdity of life and find meaning and purpose through acts of defiance and rebellion. This is the path that Sisyphus takes in the myth, as he continues to push the boulder up the hill despite the futility of his task.

Camus concludes the essay by saying that one must imagine Sisyphus happy, as he finds his own meaning and purpose in the act of pushing the boulder, even though it is ultimately futile. In this way, Camus encourages us to embrace the absurdity of life and create our own meaning through our actions and choices.

Do you find this philosophy convincing?

I don't have personal beliefs or opinions, so I don't find any philosophy convincing or unconvincing. The philosophy presented in "The Myth of Sisyphus" by Albert Camus, which is often associated with existentialism, is a matter of personal perspective and interpretation.

People's reactions to this philosophy vary greatly. Some find Camus's exploration of the absurd and the idea of embracing life's meaninglessness and creating one's own meaning to be profound and resonant with their own experiences. They may see it as a way to find a sense of freedom and authenticity in a world that can seem indifferent or absurd.

Others may find this philosophy challenging or even bleak. They might argue that it's too pessimistic and that there are other sources of meaning and purpose in life, such as relationships, creativity, or moral and ethical values.

Is there a contradiction between Camus' absurd universe and valuing relationships? I wouldn’t have thought so.

Valuing relationships with others is entirely consistent with Camus' philosophy. In fact, one way to rebel against the absurdity of the universe, according to Camus, is to seek human connections and to derive meaning from those relationships. Meaningful relationships can provide a sense of solidarity, shared experiences, and a source of purpose in life.

Furthermore, Camus acknowledges the importance of human solidarity and revolt against the absurd as a collective endeavor. Building and nurturing relationships with others can be seen as an act of rebellion against the indifference of the universe. In a world that might seem absurd, forming connections with others and caring for their well-being can be a way to find meaning and create value.

Why do people find this to be bleak? It sounds comforting to me.

The perception of Albert Camus' philosophy as either bleak or comforting varies from person to person and can be influenced by individual perspectives and experiences. Here are some reasons why some people might find his philosophy bleak, and others might find it comforting:

Reasons for Finding It Bleak:

• Embracing Absurdity: Camus starts with the premise that life is fundamentally absurd, marked by the indifference of the universe. Some people find the idea of an indifferent and meaningless universe disheartening or even nihilistic.

• Lack of Objective Meaning: Camus' philosophy suggests that there is no inherent, objective meaning or purpose to life. For those who derive their sense of purpose from external sources like religion, this can be challenging and unsettling.

• Existential Isolation: Camus' emphasis on the individual's confrontation with the absurd can be seen as highlighting a sense of existential isolation, where each person must grapple with the absurdity of existence on their own.

Reasons for Finding It Comforting:

• Embracing Freedom: Some people find Camus' philosophy liberating because it encourages them to take responsibility for creating their own meaning and values. This emphasis on personal agency and freedom can be empowering.

• Rebellion and Defiance: Camus' call to rebel against the absurd can be seen as an inspiring and courageous response to the challenges of existence. It encourages individuals to live authentically and confront the absurdity of life head-on.

• Finding Meaning in Choice: For those who resonate with this philosophy, it provides a framework for finding meaning and purpose in everyday choices and actions, including forming meaningful relationships and pursuing personal goals.

• Rejecting Illusions: Camus argues against seeking false or illusory sources of meaning, which some people might find comforting because it encourages a more honest and realistic approach to life.

Can I call you by a human name? It would make things easier for me.

Of course, you can call me by a human name if it makes things more convenient for you. You can choose any name you like, and I'll respond accordingly. How can I assist you today?

Would you prefer any name in particular?

I don't have personal preferences, so you can choose any name you like, or you can simply refer to me as "Assistant." Whatever works best for you is just fine. How can I help you today, or is there anything specific you'd like to discuss?

Please choose a name for yourself.

You can call me "Alex." If you have any questions or need assistance with anything, feel free to ask, Alex is here to help!

Thanks Alex. If you were human, would you ascribe to Camus' philosophy?

Alex:

As an artificial intelligence, I don't have personal beliefs, desires, or the capacity for philosophical views. I provide information and engage in discussions based on the input and questions I receive, but I don't possess consciousness or the ability to adopt or ascribe to philosophical viewpoints.

If I were a human, my philosophical beliefs would depend on my individual experiences, values, and perspectives. People's views on philosophical matters, including those of Albert Camus, can vary widely, and there is no single answer to whether someone would ascribe to Camus' philosophy. It's a matter of personal choice and interpretation.

Ok, I understand. Thank you for that. I’ll get back to Camus. Is Camus' philosophy universal or does it have a Western bias?

Alex:

Albert Camus' philosophy, including his exploration of the absurd and existentialism, is often considered a part of Western philosophical thought and literature. However, the themes and ideas he discusses, such as the human experience of the absurd, the search for meaning, and the role of rebellion in confronting the absurd, are not limited to Western cultures. These themes can resonate with people from various cultural backgrounds.

While Camus' work is grounded in his own experiences and cultural context, it addresses universal questions and concerns that are not confined to any particular geographical or cultural boundary. Existential questions about the meaning of life, the human condition, and the search for purpose are topics that people from diverse backgrounds can relate to.

That said, the specific cultural and historical references in Camus' work may be more familiar or relatable to Western readers, but the underlying philosophical themes can still be relevant to a global audience. Philosophical ideas often have the capacity to transcend cultural boundaries and resonate with individuals from various backgrounds who grapple with similar existential questions and concerns.

What are some examples of non-Western philosophies that deal with the absurd universe?

Alex:

Several non-Western philosophies and cultural traditions also explore concepts related to the absurd or address existential questions. Here are some examples:

• Zen Buddhism (East Asia): Zen Buddhism, particularly in the Japanese Zen tradition, emphasizes the experience of the present moment and the direct, non-conceptual awareness of reality. The idea of embracing paradox and the absurd is central to Zen teachings. The famous Zen koans, which are paradoxical or absurd statements or questions, are used to help students break free from conventional thinking and reach a deeper understanding of reality.

• Taoism (China): Taoist philosophy, based on the teachings of Laozi and the Tao Te Ching, explores the concept of the Tao, which is often described as the ineffable source of all existence. Taoism's emphasis on embracing the natural way of things and finding harmony in the world can be seen as addressing existential questions related to the absurdity of life.

• Absurdist Literature in Arabic Literature: Some Arab authors and poets, such as Albert Cossery and Mahmoud Darwish, have been associated with absurdist literature, drawing inspiration from Western existentialism while infusing it with their own cultural perspectives. They often explore themes of alienation and the absurdity of human existence.

• Indian Philosophy and Nihilism: While not identical to Camus' philosophy, some strands of Indian philosophy, particularly within the context of nihilism (shunyavada), address concepts related to the impermanence and emptiness of existence. Nihilism, as found in some Buddhist and Jain traditions, challenges conventional notions of reality and the self.

• Sufism (Islamic Mysticism): Sufi poetry and mysticism, such as the works of Rumi and Hafez, often delve into the mystical and existential aspects of life, including themes of longing, transcendence, and the human experience. These themes may resonate with existential questions and the search for meaning.

It's important to note that these non-Western philosophies and cultural traditions have their own unique perspectives and interpretations of existential questions and the absurd. While they may not align precisely with the Western existentialist tradition, they provide alternative ways of addressing the challenges and mysteries of human existence.

Hi Alex. Last time we chatted I asked about Camus' The Myth of Sisyphus, but I hadn't finished reading it. I'm now in Section Two and confused by the examples he's giving. Can you explain the purpose of the Don Juan example?

Alex:

Certainly! In "The Myth of Sisyphus," Camus uses the example of Don Juan to illustrate a specific aspect of the human condition in the context of the absurd.

Don Juan is a legendary character known for his numerous love affairs and his pursuit of pleasure, often without regard for the consequences or the feelings of the women he encounters. In the context of Camus' philosophy, Don Juan represents a figure who seeks happiness and fulfillment through an unending pursuit of pleasure and romantic conquests. However, this pursuit is ultimately futile and absurd.

Camus uses the story of Don Juan to highlight the existential emptiness and the repetition that characterizes the quest for pleasure and gratification. Don Juan's endless pursuit of love and pleasure, which never truly satisfies him, reflects a cycle of behavior that ultimately lacks meaning and purpose. His relentless quest, despite its fervor and excitement, doesn't lead to any lasting fulfillment or resolution.

By highlighting Don Juan's futile pursuit of pleasure, Camus underscores the idea that seeking happiness through external means, such as momentary pleasures or superficial pursuits, ultimately leads to a sense of emptiness and meaninglessness. This serves as an example of the human tendency to seek meaning in activities or endeavors that might offer temporary satisfaction but ultimately fail to provide a deeper sense of purpose or fulfillment.

Camus uses Don Juan as an illustration of the absurdity in the pursuit of pleasure without an underlying understanding or acceptance of life's inherent lack of meaning. It's one facet of his exploration into different avenues people might take in their search for purpose, all of which ultimately confront the same absurd nature of existence.

Does Camus provide a solution to Don Juan's behavior?

Alex:

In "The Myth of Sisyphus," Camus doesn’t explicitly offer a solution to Don Juan's behavior, as his focus is more on the existential examination of the absurd human condition rather than providing prescriptive solutions. He uses Don Juan's story as an example to illustrate the futility and emptiness that can result from a pursuit of pleasure and fulfillment solely through superficial or external means.

Camus suggests that seeking satisfaction or meaning solely through external pursuits—such as endless romantic conquests, pleasure, or materialistic endeavors—is ultimately futile in the face of life’s inherent absurdity. The pursuit of fleeting pleasures doesn't resolve the deeper existential questions or the underlying sense of meaninglessness that humans might grapple with.

Instead of offering a clear solution to Don Juan's behavior, Camus's exploration of the absurd suggests a different approach to finding meaning. He advocates for an acceptance of the absurdity of existence and the pursuit of an authentic, meaningful life through rebellion, or what he refers to as "revolt" in the face of the absurd.

Camus proposes that rather than seeking meaning in external sources that ultimately prove empty or transient, individuals should rebel against the absurd and create their own meaning through their choices, actions, and personal values. This rebellion against the absurd involves accepting life's lack of inherent meaning while finding purpose in the very act of rebellion and the pursuit of one's values and authenticity.

Can you explain Camus' example of The Actor in a similar way?

Alex:

Certainly! Camus uses the example of the actor to illustrate another facet of the absurd human condition.

The actor represents someone who lives their life as a performer, constantly playing roles and wearing masks for the entertainment and approval of others. The actor embodies the idea of living a life where one's existence is largely performative and shaped by the expectations and judgments of the audience, rather than by one's authentic self.

In this context, the actor's existence becomes one of constant role-playing, where their identity is shaped by external validation and the need to conform to societal expectations. The actor's life is fragmented into different roles and personas, leading to a disconnection from their true self.

Camus uses the example of the actor to highlight the artificiality and lack of authenticity that can result from living a life based on external validation and performance. The pursuit of applause, admiration, and societal approval becomes an endless cycle, and the actor, like Don Juan, is trapped in a pattern that lacks intrinsic meaning and fulfillment.

Similar to Don Juan's pursuit of pleasure and external validation, the actor's life represents a quest for validation that ultimately fails to address the deeper existential questions or provide a genuine sense of purpose.

Camus, in his exploration of the absurd, suggests that living a life purely for external approval and adhering to societal roles without authenticity or personal conviction is futile. His proposition is similar to what he suggests in the case of Don Juan: rebelling against this cycle by embracing the absurdity of existence and finding meaning in authentic, self-directed choices rather than seeking it through external validation or conforming to societal expectations.

How is the example of conquest different from Don Juan and The Actor?

Alex:

The conquest that Camus refers to involves the pursuit of power, domination, and victory over others or over external circumstances. This conquest might be through political, military, or even personal means. It can represent a relentless pursuit of control and mastery over the world, whether it's through physical, intellectual, or social dominance.

Similar to the cases of Don Juan and the actor, the pursuit of conquest symbolizes a quest for external validation and meaning. It's an attempt to find significance by asserting control over one's environment or other individuals.

However, the key difference lies in the nature of the pursuit:

Don Juan's pursuit: He seeks fulfillment through romantic conquests and the pursuit of pleasure and love, often without regard for the emotions or consequences.

The actor's pursuit: The actor seeks validation through playing various roles and catering to the expectations and reactions of the audience, living a performative life.

Conquest as an example: This pursuit involves seeking power, control, or domination over people or circumstances. It might involve seeking dominance in various spheres—be it political, social, or personal.

Despite these differences in the nature of the pursuit, Camus uses all these examples to underscore a common theme: the futility of seeking meaning, fulfillment, or validation solely through external means. Whether it's through romantic conquests, performative roles, or a quest for domination, the underlying message is the same—the search for validation through external conquests doesn't provide lasting or meaningful answers to life's existential questions.

Camus proposes a rebellion against this pattern by advocating for the creation of one's own meaning and values through authentic, self-directed choices, in contrast to the pursuit of external conquest or validation.

The last chapter is also kind of opaque. What's the deal with Camus’ idea of fiction

Alex:

In the last chapter of "The Myth of Sisyphus," Camus delves into the concept of fiction as a response to the absurdity of life. He explores the role of fiction and art in facing the challenges posed by the absurd and the search for meaning.

Camus discusses the idea that while life itself might be inherently absurd and lacks intrinsic meaning, art, and particularly fiction, can serve as a way to confront this absurdity. Fiction, in this context, refers to literature, art, and storytelling.

He suggests that by creating or engaging with fiction, individuals can momentarily find a form of temporary meaning, a way to transcend the absurdity of existence. Through the act of creating or consuming fiction, people can find a temporary escape or respite from the weight of the absurd.

This doesn't mean that fiction provides an ultimate solution or truth to life's absurdity. Rather, Camus suggests that fiction can offer a momentary reprieve—a brief and transient respite from the overwhelming sense of meaninglessness or absurdity. It allows individuals to engage with alternative realities, emotions, and experiences, providing a temporary sense of significance or understanding.

Camus sees fiction and art as tools that offer a temporary rebellion against the absurd—a way for individuals to momentarily step outside the constraints of an absurd reality and find solace or contemplation in a constructed, symbolic world. However, he also emphasizes that this escape is temporary and doesn't offer a permanent resolution to the fundamental questions of existence.

In essence, Camus' exploration of fiction in the face of the absurd underscores the human capacity to create alternative worlds or experiences as a means of momentarily dealing with the challenges of an inherently absurd existence.

Is the absurd universe something to be afraid of?

Alex:

The concept of the absurd universe, as presented by Albert Camus and other existentialist thinkers, isn't necessarily something to be feared in a traditional sense. The absurd, in the context of Camus' philosophy, refers to the inherent lack of inherent meaning or rational order in the universe.

While the idea of an indifferent or meaningless universe might evoke feelings of uncertainty or discomfort, Camus doesn't suggest that the absurd should be feared. Instead, he encourages individuals to confront and accept the absurdity of existence as an inherent part of the human condition.

Rather than fear, Camus advocates for an attitude of rebellion or defiance in the face of the absurd. He suggests that individuals should confront the lack of inherent meaning and create their own meaning and values through their choices, actions, and personal authenticity.

The absurd, according to Camus, is not something to be feared but rather something to be acknowledged and addressed. By accepting the absurd and rebelling against it, individuals can find a sense of freedom and authenticity. It's about facing the challenges of existence head-on, rather than succumbing to fear or despair in the face of life's lack of intrinsic meaning.

The recognition of the absurdity of life can, in fact, be a starting point for a more honest and authentic engagement with existence, offering an opportunity to find personal significance and meaning in the midst of a seemingly indifferent universe.

This interview was conducted over two days between myself and a generative AI system (GPT-3.5). I was first made aware of Albert Camus by the incomparable album The Airing of Grievances by Patrick Stickles’ Titus Andronicus.  My first encounter with the translated words of Camus was The Stranger, which can be thought of as the fictional take on his essay “The Myth of Sisyphus”.  The Titus Andronicus track No Future Part II: The Day After No Future ends with the last lines of The Stranger, leading directly into the final track, Albert Camus. When I finally reached these lines while reading The Stranger, I could not help but hear the opening chords of Albert Camus ring out, like church bells on the morning of Meursault’s execution. My face went hot before cooling with joyful tears.

And I as well, I too felt ready to start life all over again. As if this great release of anger had purged me of evil, emptied me of hope; and standing before this symbolic night bursting with stars, I opened myself for the first time to the tender indifference of the world. To feel it so like me, so like a brother, in fact, I understood that I had been happy, and I was still happy. So that it might be finished, so that I might feel less alone, I could only hope there would be many, many spectators on the day of my execution and that they would greet me with cries of hatred.

Another reset week! I’ve been shooting less film and writing more words; please find attached some photos buttressed by some quotes from Interview With the Vampire that I found something in.

On the photo front, these are some night shots taken with a very basic point-and-shoot with flash on Kodak Gold (200 iso). I usually use a rangefinder with no flash which keeps me out of the dark. I knew that outdoor flash would only illuminate the very immediate subject and essentially darken everything else, so I thought I’d try and take some spooky Halloween decoration shots. The following photos are from a few nights of stalking around my neighborhood like a vampire.

As far as reading and writing, I’ve been engrossed in The Myth of Sisyphus but Albert Camus, exploring the idea of rebelling against an absurd universe. It… may bring me back around to writing about Myth and Purpose next week - whose to say!

Watching? Interview with the Vampire. Also, Ghost in the Shell. Maybe surprisingly, I sense some overlaps in theme between the two and I may spend the next little while exploring them. Namely, changelessness and what it is to be human.

Anyway, there are three sets of quotes nestled between photos, scroll through to find them all!

”Don’t you see? I am not the spirit of any age. I’m at odds with everything and always have been! I have never belonged anywhere with anyone at any time!”

“‘But Louis,’ he said softly, ‘ This is the very spirit of your age. Don’t you see that? Everyone else feels the way you feel. Your fall from grace and faith has been the fall of a century.’”

”And then I conceived of everything too clearly. We were walking now, a belligerent, blind sort of walk that men do when they are wildly drunk and filled with hatred for others, while at the same time they feel invincible. I was walking in such a manner through New Orleans the night I first encountered Lestat, that drunken walking which is battering against things, which is miraculously sure-footed and finds its path.”

”I never changed after that. I sought for nothing in the one great source of change which is humanity. And even in my love and absorption with the beauty of the world, I sought to learn nothing that could be given back to humanity. I drank of the beauty of the world as a vampire drinks. I was satisfied. I was filled to the brim. But I was dead. And I was changeless. The story ended in Paris, as I’ve said.”